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QUABBIN 
 
 THE STORY OF A SMALL TOWN 
 
 WITH 
 
 Outlooks Upon Puritan Life 
 
 O-^ 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCIS H. UNDERV/OOD LL.D. 
 
 FORMERLY U. S. CONSUL AT GLASGOW 
 
 AUTHOR OF "handbooks OF ENGLISH LITERATURE" "BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 
 
 LOWELL, LONGFELLOW, AND WHITTIER " " LORD OF HIMSELF " A NOVEL, ETC. 
 
 " How well in thee appears 
 The constant service of tlie antique world." 
 
 As YoH Like It. 
 
 " Throngh the ages one increasing purpose runs, 
 And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns." 
 
 Locksley Jlall. 
 
 BOSTON 
 LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 
 
 I O MILK STREET 
 1S93 
 
^■1 
 
 Copyright, 1S92, by Lee and Shepard 
 
 All Risrhts Reserved 
 
 QJJ A B B I N 
 
To those, wherever they are, who have inherited the blood 
 and shared the progress of the descendants of Pilgrims and 
 Puritans, this book is respectfully dedicated. 
 
 Of those, comparatively few are now to be found in 
 Massachusetts or in New England : most of them are settled 
 along the belt of migration through Western New York, 
 Ohio, and Michigan, the Mississippi Valley, and across the 
 continent. 
 
 It is by men and women of Puritan lineage, developed 
 by religious tolerance and universal education, that the insti- 
 tutions and the glory of New England are to be preserved, 
 after the homes of their ancestors have been occupied by 
 people of other races and other ideas. 
 
 33S7i:;9 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 i. quabbin 
 
 11. Through the Village 
 
 III. Farms and Farm-Life . 
 
 IV. Settlement .... 
 V. Atmosphere .... 
 
 VI. The First Minister 
 VII. Patient Emily 
 VIII. JuDAisTic Leanings . 
 
 IX. Dress, Manners, and Speech 
 X. How the Poor were cared for 
 — The Widow Carter 
 
 XL Character .... 
 
 XII. The Quiltin' .... 
 XIIL Working the Roads . 
 
 XIV. Village and Country 
 
 XV. Town, Parish, and Church 
 
 XVI. The Second Minister 
 XVII. The Campaign begun . 
 XVIII. Sunday Observances 
 
 XIX. Transition .... 
 
 XX. How the Twig was bent 
 
 XXI. Quabbin loses and gains 
 XXII. Colleges and Ministers 
 
 XXIII. Might have been a Romance 
 
 XXIV. The Cider-Mill 
 
 vii 
 
 Aunt Keziah. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 i8 
 27 
 33 
 39 
 
 49 
 62 
 68 
 
 81 
 
 96 
 
 107 
 
 118 
 
 128 
 
 133 
 141 
 149 
 162 
 176 
 187 
 
 194 
 207 
 219 
 238 
 
viii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXV. An Exit 247 
 
 XXVI. Robert IV 256 
 
 XXVII. Dawn 266 
 
 XXVIII. Miss Wicks's Tea-Party 274 
 
 XXIX. A Talk by the Roadside 287 
 
 XXX. An Arrival 296 
 
 XXXI. An Excursion 308 
 
 XXXII. Another Tea-Party 325 
 
 XXXIII. Literature 343 
 
 XXXIV. The Return of the Native .... 354 
 
 Appendix 1 367 
 
 Appendix II., Civil Liberty 371 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Portrait of Author 
 
 In the Road around Little Quabbin 
 
 Birches on the River Bank 
 
 The Meeting-House 
 
 A Stately House of the Olden Time 
 
 A Part of the Village Common 
 
 A Prosperous Farm and Centennial Elm 
 
 A Farmhouse by the Roadside 
 
 A Typical Farmer 
 
 Crombie's Bridge 
 
 A Coil in the River 
 
 One of the Author's Old Friends 
 
 Playmates by the Haystack 
 
 The pictures are reproduced by John Andrew & Son Company from 
 photographs by Colin Pitblado, Esq., crayon artist, Hartford, Conn. 
 
 The portrait is from a photograph by a lady amateur, taken about four 
 years ago in Glasgow, Scotland. 
 
QUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 QUABBIN 
 
 Among the memories of childhood, — next after the 
 impressions of a mother's brooding love, and of the 
 home wherein the new unit of humanity first becomes 
 conscious of being" the centre of a universe, — the most 
 indelible is the visual line that encircles his birthplace, 
 with the perspectives that stretch out to it. To the 
 Ouabbin boy the boldly marked sky-line on the ridges 
 of hills that shut in the valley under its blue roof was 
 the boundary of the known world. Strangers must 
 have looked upon the little village with compassion ; 
 but for the natives it was cheerful ; they knew no 
 other. In the small houses there was no luxury 
 surely, but no lack of wholesome food or seasonable 
 raiment. There were schools for six months in the 
 year, and sermons twice every Sunday, — Sahbaday 
 it was in the vernacular. 
 
 News brought by the county paper was seldom more 
 than two weeks old ; and authoritative expositions of 
 public affairs were given at the tavern and the post- 
 office by persons who had actually seen New York, and 
 who spoke of Boston with an air of familiarity. 
 
 I 
 
2 QUAE BIN 
 
 The valley and neighborhood have not essentially 
 changed in the hundred and sixty years since their first 
 settlement ; for the natural features are too marked to 
 be affected by the superficial touches of man. Ploughs 
 and axes do not disturb the eternal basis of landscape ; 
 and a few houses more, or a few trees lesg, do not 
 matter. 
 
 The hill that rises south of the village was once cov- 
 ered with great oaks and chestnuts which had sheltered 
 Indian hunters. The red men called the hill Great 
 Ouabbin, and the name belonged to the district as well. 
 Year after year the white settlers waged war upon the 
 venerable trees : instead of being a patriarchal forest 
 to be cherished, it was a piece of stubborn "woods" 
 to be cleared away. By and by lines of fence, like 
 geometric diagrams, were traced on the hill's broad 
 shoulders, enclosing sage-green pastures, sparsely tufted 
 with wood-fern and huckleberry bushes, and known by 
 all boys of the village to be rosy with strawberries 
 every summer. 
 
 It was a Delectable Mountain for children, even after 
 the majestic trees were felled. The ascent was easy; 
 for a primitive road, partly grass-grown, led to the 
 table-land at the summit, where were two small, decay- 
 ing farmhouses, since destroyed. To one looking 
 back when half-way up, the village below, nestling 
 under shade-trees on both sides of the river, had a soft 
 and almost unreal beauty ; but as one climbed, it sank 
 out of sight under the swelling buttress of the hill. 
 The upper region was alpine in its cool serenity, its 
 airy pastures, sparkling brook, and broad horizon. 
 Sixty miles away rose a grand mountain, pyramidal 
 and blue, — a melting vapory blue that one expected 
 
QUABBIN 3 
 
 to see blown away; while in the opposite direction was 
 grouped a confused and retreating mass of hills, seen 
 beyond the golden mist of the Connecticut valley. 
 
 It was a delight to take deep draughts of the exhila- 
 rating air, to watch the thin, spectral wreaths of smoke 
 rising from distant houses, to count afar the many 
 steeples, mere glimmering white lances, and to seek 
 out the purply-gray forms of well-known mountains 
 around. No voices, nor hum of machinery, nor ring of 
 hammer were heard from the valley. The only sounds 
 that broke the stillness were the occasional lowing of 
 cattle, the murmur of brooks, and the light, silvery 
 strokes of the meeting-house clock. The bell had a 
 tender, harmonious tone, full of solemn suggestion, 
 associated with an austere worship and with funerals, 
 but never with weddings or public rejoicings. Earth 
 was beautiful in remoteness, and heaven near. The 
 mountain lifted an imaginative child toward infinity, 
 and he clung to it as if ." conscious of the desperate 
 whirl of the globe through space. 
 
 Opposite, behind the village, rose the lesser northern 
 hill (Ram Mountain), a somewhat irregular but beautiful 
 cone of granite, jagged here and there with projecting 
 edges of rock, and at that time thinly covered with 
 soil. Once there were thick bushes and dwarfish trees 
 on its sides, and plumes of tall pines were set jauntily 
 on its crest ; but it was ravaged and stripped by chop- 
 pers, and left with scarred forehead, and dreary, naked 
 flanks. When clad in green, the hill had been stately 
 and joyous, but in its bereavement was shame-faced 
 and dispirited. Still, it had a placid look for the meet- 
 ing-house at its foot, and its rugged mass made an 
 effective background for the white steeple. 
 
4 QUABBIN 
 
 The hill on the east side of the villag-c, known as 
 Little Quabbin, was rather too far away to have much 
 part in the landscape. However, it did its best in 
 delaying the morning sun, in upholding the north end 
 of summer rainbows, and in sending back reflections 
 from its massy ledges at sunset. 
 
 Ouabbin is at its best in summer, in its rich vesture 
 of green. The numerous springs and the dewy air 
 keep the pastures and meadows fresh, while the shade- 
 trees in streets and gardens, the adjacent forests, and 
 the scattered wild growths (from hazel or alder bushes 
 to vigorous oaks and chestnuts), are so luxuriant and 
 widespread that it is difficult to find a clear vista in 
 any direction. The main roads, it must be confessed, 
 would be dull, if it were not for the outlooks upon hills 
 and farms ; but there are many by-ways, exquisite as 
 the dreamy idyls of Corot. One road by the western 
 side of Ram Mountain, after passing a beautiful slope 
 of farming-land, leads into a young forest where there 
 is a flecked shade even at midday, and a sense of cool- 
 ness, with a fresh, cheery smell, that is partly earthy, 
 and partly leafy. The road meanders under the living 
 arch among countless (and nameless) bushes and wild 
 flowers, and appears to consist of a faintly worn path 
 for a horse, two dim wheel-tracks, and intervening 
 lines of tufted grass, which is often tall enough to 
 brush the axle-trees. After reaching the open " front 
 yard " of a small house two or three miles beyond, it 
 comes to an end. 
 
 Another road, around the northern end of Little 
 Quabbin, passes along the fringe of woods that hangs 
 upon the mountain side ; and the visitor finds himself 
 in a long, winding, arched wa}', dim as a cathedral aisle, 
 
QUABBIN 5 
 
 but with glimpses of warm sunlight reflected from the 
 fertile lands that lie just outside of the screen of white 
 birches on his left. What artist or photographer could 
 give an idea of the strong yet grateful contrast between 
 the green gloom on the one hand, and the flickering 
 splendors that come to him through tender birch leaves 
 and vellum-cased branches on the other ? 
 
 The three hills, standing at different angles, shut in 
 the village, which partly rests on the rounded bases 
 of two of them, while the river, which is the life of 
 the valley, glides in swift curves at their feet. 
 
 The banks of Swift River have been sadly maltreated. 
 Once, near the cove, above the dam, a belt of young 
 pine-trees, uniform, softly rounded, and velvety green, 
 followed the stream and the cove in many a coil ; and, 
 below the dam, there were at intervals thickets of alders, 
 water-maples, shad-bushes, willow clumps, with myriads' 
 of lithe red shoots, wild-grape vines, tangled clematis, 
 and the " swamp pink," parent of the garden azalea. 
 But the meandering belt of pines fell under the axe 
 long ago ; and in its place sprang up white birches, as 
 if to make a fringe on the naked border ; while, little 
 by little, the banks down stream were cleared of the 
 "brush" that yielded no income except to children and 
 poets. Many of the shrubs that crowded the wet 
 margins, such as the blushing, sweet-scented azaleas, 
 and the shad-bushes that wore fresh bridal veils every 
 May, became only memories. Utility had its wav, and 
 this part of the river's edge was for years like an eyelid 
 without lashes. 
 
 There is a pretty reach of still water near the cove, 
 full, black, and lustrous. On one side is a meadow 
 with a few hickory-trees ; on the other, the high bank 
 
6 QUABBIN 
 
 covered with young birches. On a windless afternoon 
 might be seen a boat, with children rowing, its stem 
 silently cutting through reflections of leafy sprays, of 
 slender white trunks, leaning at all angles, and of sunny 
 clouds in distant blue below. 
 
 In early times the whole region was dripping with 
 springs, and shaggy with vegetation ; and even to-day, 
 such is the struggle for existence, there are few trim 
 lawns or meadows of grass free from the intrusion of 
 coarser species. The leafy robes of the hills trailed 
 on the lowlands ; while bushes, briers, ferns, or brakes 
 filled the fence-corners and road-sides, and bordered 
 the water-courses. 
 
 A mile above the centre was the north village, 
 grouped around another dam, and at some distance 
 beyond was a lake, framed in sombre hills. Its margin 
 was surrounded by such trees as burn with richest 
 colors in autumn; so that from the uplands, after the 
 first light frost, the distant sheen of water appeared in 
 a setting of crimson, yellow, gold-brown, and dark red ; 
 and, coming nearer, one would say that the trees were 
 standing in the water's edge and admiring themselves 
 in the mirror. 
 
 There was a good view from a farmhouse on the 
 side of tlie eastern hill (Little Ouabbin), or, better, 
 from the hill-top, looking westward. This view em- 
 braced the cove, the river winding through meadows, 
 the village, tufted with maples and elms, the white 
 spire standing out from the northern hill, and the broad 
 expanse of the southern hill, which dominates the 
 region. The traveller who has seen something of the 
 Old World finds that tlie tranquil beauty of this scene 
 lingers in memory, and will not be overlain. Some- 
 
QUAD BIN 7 
 
 thing must be allowed for early associations, but the 
 image of this landscape remains clear. It needs only 
 to have been celebrated in sonir or famous in storv. 
 Ouabbin is not famous. 
 
 The meeting-house of the village formerly stood side- 
 wise to the road in a green space, flanked by rows of 
 horse-sheds, some of them decrepit, and all unpainted. 
 In its first estate it was of a dingy sulphur color, and 
 without a steeple ; but its oaken frame and trussed roof 
 were made to endure. Later, a steeple was set astride 
 the roof ; the building was painted white, furnished 
 Vv^ith green (outside) blinds, and turned with its end to 
 the street. The vane, of sheet metal, gilded, was cut 
 in form of a man, the head cleaving the wind, and the 
 legs extended for rudder. As it turned with a sharp 
 cry on the rod which pierced its body, it needed but 
 little aid from the ima2:ination of a bov to become the 
 image of some sinner transfixed in air, and held aloft to 
 swing in lingering pain. 
 
 In later days the boys found, in the cob-webbed and 
 dusty space below the belfry, a long-forgotten cask of 
 ball cartridges, which had been kept, according to law, 
 to be ready for an emergency that never happened. 
 The paper covers were rotten, and the powder de- 
 composed; and it was great fun to drop the leaden 
 ounce-balls from the belfry railing, and then find them 
 flattened and hot upon the stone steps below. 
 
 The pulpit within was high, approached by flights of 
 stairs, and above it was hung a sounding-board, in 
 shape like an extinguisher. It was often a matter of 
 v/onder as to what would happen to the minister if the 
 chain should break ; but the boys were assured by the 
 thouL-ht that "The Lord is mindful of his own." 
 
8 QUABBIN 
 
 The pews were square, each family being enclosed as 
 in a pen, all facing inwards. The uncushioncd wooden 
 seats wjre hinged, and were raised as people stood up 
 during prayer, to fall with a multitudinous clatter when 
 the prayer ended. There was a gallery on three sides, 
 the part facing the pulpit being occupied by the choir. 
 
 A century earlier it was the custom in Now England 
 to " scat the meeting ; " that is, to assign seats to the 
 town's people according to their rank, as magistrates, 
 elders, deacons, college-bred men, land-owners, mechan- 
 ics, and laborers. In Ouabbin each head of a family 
 owned the pew he occupied, paying an annual tax 
 thereon to the parish. The best places in the meeting- 
 house belonged to those who had the money to pay for 
 them. 
 
 The sheds adjoining the meeting-house were for the 
 shelter of the ''teams" of the country people ; and in 
 sunimer, when the windows were open, the services 
 were frequently enlivened (for restless boys) by the 
 stamping, whinnying, and squealing of lonesome or fly- 
 pestered horses. The village schoolhouse was next 
 beyond the eastern sheds, and behind them was the 
 hillside burying-ground. 
 
 The boy of Ouabbin who returns to his native town 
 a man of sixty does not walk alone through the street. 
 People of the old time meet and accost him, or nod to 
 him from their wonted places. He knows every figure 
 and face, and the color and cut of their clothes. His 
 youth comes back, and he sees his playfellows become 
 bridegrooms, then fathers of families, then patriarchs, 
 — the same beings jxissing through the successive 
 changes of a lifetime while he looks, — and he, mean- 
 while, able to recall any phase of their career at will. 
 
QUA B BIN 9 
 
 He sees, with the eye of memory, sunburnt and grizzled 
 men in blue frocks leaning at the posts of the black- 
 smith's open door, while within, by the lurid light, 
 sinewy arms turn the glowing horseshoe, and sh6wers 
 of golden fire fly at each strenuous blow. The names 
 of those grizzled men have long been chiselled on tomb- 
 stones, but there they are by the smithy, and the man 
 of sixty, once more a boy, knows them well. Others 
 he sees driving ox-teams with logs for the saw-mill, men 
 and oxen alike calmly chewing the cud, while long 
 whips are waved encouragingly, and ''Haw, Buck!" or 
 ''Gee, Bright! " enlivens the slow procession. 
 
 Another, from a former generation, comes in a heavy 
 wagon, thorough-braced and well spattered with ancient 
 mud. His wife sits by him, in camlet cloak and scoop 
 bonnet, and they are bound for the store. In the box 
 behind the seat they have a basket of eggs, a "four- 
 meal" cheese, and a firkin of butter, to be exchanged for 
 tea, molasses, and other " boughten " goods. Another, 
 younger and livelier, is whirling by in a buggy, show- 
 ing off his trot ting-horse. The animal is not groomed to 
 a satin gloss, and, in fact, is rough in coat, and perhaps 
 tangled in mane and tail ; but his great haunches work 
 powerfully, and his feet appear to be all the time in the 
 air, reaching ahead. He "gets over the ground," and 
 often sends a dash of gravel back at his keen and tricky 
 driver. 
 
 If it is Sunday, our friend of sixty years sees groups 
 of men and youths whom he knew long ago, loitering 
 upon the meeting-house steps, all visibly uncomfortable 
 in holiday clothes, .discussing the affairs of town and 
 church ; the bachelors, with eyes in ambush, demurely 
 watching the in-coming maids. Some of the ungodly 
 
lO (lUAIUUX 
 
 and disreputable are haunting the dilapidated and windy 
 old tavern across the green. He knows these pariahs, 
 though they have long lain in nameless graves. 
 
 As the Quabbin boy of sixty continues his rounds, 
 other faces, long forgotten, are projected in memory's 
 camera. All of them belong to people who were once 
 h"s townsmen. One brilliant man, after many vicissi- 
 tudes, was a banker, and heaped up wealth, whicli his 
 prodigal son in after years was to waste. His brother, 
 the man with studious, meditative countenance, 
 was a physician. That beautiful youth, the banker's 
 nephew, after a successful beginning, and with the 
 haven of love in sight, returned to Quabbin to die ; 
 while his betrothed, white as a lily, drooped under the 
 weeds of eternal widowhood. This gentleman with 
 gold spectacles went from the principal "store" of 
 Quabbin, and set up in Boston an establishment whose 
 name is a household word and a synonyme of honor. 
 That boon companion, whose talk was illustrated with 
 oaths, dissipated an ample fortune, and laughed away 
 with merry curses his friends and reputation. Another, 
 with dazed and vacant look, lost the savings of a life- 
 time by trusting them to a stock operator, who posed 
 as a Christian philanthropist. 
 
 The plainly dressed man, he with devout expres- 
 sion and *' looks commercing with the skies," was a 
 mill-worker, whose soul was so full of the love of God 
 that men felt holier and stronger for the touch of his 
 hand, or the sound of his voice. Neither wealthy nor 
 learned nor elocpicnt, he liad inexhaustible riches, 
 celestial knowledge, and the pentecostal gift of tongues. 
 At least one spot in the bleak hillside is holy ground. 
 
THROUGH THE VHLAGE II 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THROUGH THE VILLAGE 
 
 Time is busy in levelling hills, abrading garden ter- 
 races, flattening grave-mounds, and abasing old families. 
 The gulf between the rich and poor may continue as 
 absolute as that between Dives and Lazarus ; but the 
 traditional prominence of old families, if not already a 
 thing of the past, is departing, along with gracious 
 memories, and with much that used to inspire admira- 
 tion and deference. In a village like Ouabbin there is 
 little at this day to render one old house more vener- 
 able than another, but sixty years ago there were differ- 
 ences not to be explained by value or picturesqueness. 
 More was thought of intangible qualities and associa- 
 tions, such as cluster about the homes of beloved men 
 and scenes of historic interest. A few houses in the 
 village had an indefinable charm for those w^ho remem- 
 bered their former occupants. There is one in a 
 commanding position near the cross-roads which is 
 venerable in slow decay, and out of relations with 
 modern neighbors. Two ancient elms tower over the 
 grounds, and are seen afar. One of the patriots who 
 fought at Bunker's Hill built the house, then con- 
 sidered a mansion. His wife, the descendant of a 
 Huguenot family, had* three sons by a former mar- 
 riage ; and these, in their maturity, were the only per- 
 
12 QUABBIN 
 
 sons in Ouabbin that coultl, in the strict sense, be called 
 gentlemen. The bright old lady long survived her 
 husband, and made a striking picture as she moved 
 about in her wheeled-chair, accompanied by one of 
 her sons, a grave and stately man, who lived with her. 
 Another son built a dwellimr nearer the meetinsr-house. 
 It appeared to be the dream of some inspired carpenter, 
 a dream of wooden pilasters, wreaths, and scrolls, with a 
 fretwork balustrade of wheel patterns upon the eaves, 
 and an arched and decorated gateway, all in glittering 
 white. Hillside terraces at the rear, with flower-beds 
 and fruit-trees, were to youthful eyes like the hanging 
 gardens of Babylon. The owner, with his tropical com- 
 plexion of pale orange, his gold-rimmed spectacles, and 
 his distinguished manners, in which dignity, courtesy, 
 and kindness had equal share, was a wonderful person 
 in Ouabbin sixty years ago. For he had actually sailed 
 around the world ; his cheeks had acquired their rich 
 color in China, where he had been a tea-merchant ; the 
 bronze idols and the great vases that adorned his rooms 
 had come from farthest East. Besides, he knew Euro- 
 pean capitals, and, along with his well-earned wealth, he 
 had brought to the village an aroma from spice-lands, a 
 knowledge of the world, and the grand air that so be- 
 comes a travelled man. 
 
 The third of the brothers, a manufacturer, built a 
 fine house, but with less ornament, on a knoll not far 
 distant. All three could have been presented with 
 credit at any court. They spoke the language of the 
 educated world ; but, along with their somewhat cere- 
 monious manners, they had a sense of what was due to 
 others, especially to humble neighbors ; and as they 
 were public-spirited, just, and generou.s, they were 
 
THROUGH THE VILLAGE 1 3 
 
 respected and loved. No one envied them their good 
 fortune — a rare experience, whether in Ouabbin or 
 elsewhere. 
 
 The sombre old house with its two elms connected 
 the village with the by-gone days of the colony ; and 
 the little^ old lady, while she lived, was a link with the 
 great world, as her family was justly distinguished. 
 But there may not be a living descendant of her three 
 sons, and few of the present inhabitants know even 
 the names of the men who first gave distinction to 
 Ouabbin. 
 
 What views the three original proprietors had in re- 
 gard to religion, letters, schools, or art, it would be diffi- 
 cult now to say. They "went to meeting," apparently 
 as a duty, and they took a modest part in town affairs ; 
 but between them and the town's people there must 
 have been little intimacy. The general dulness in their 
 time must have been impenetrable. They owned the 
 water-power, which was the source of the town's pros- 
 perity and their own, but they sold it to two brothers 
 who were born in one of the old farmhouses which once 
 stood on the top of the southern hill. These hitter 
 were shrewd, able, and honorable men, but were less 
 courtly, and reputed to be less generous, than their 
 predecessors. 
 
 They were for a long time the great men of the town, 
 until a third family, which had long ruled the north 
 village, acquired a paramount interest in the property. 
 
 The principal store of the town is remembered chiefly 
 by its permanent odor, iii which there were suggestions 
 of dried codfish, pickled mackerel, spices, snuff, i^hig 
 tobacco, molasses, and new rum, re-enforced in cold 
 weather by the evaporation of tobacco juice upon a hot 
 
14 QUA B BIN 
 
 stove, and the occasional whiff of a pipe. The store- 
 keeper was quiet and shrewd, and knew the cumulative 
 power of compound interest. A farmer who had fallen 
 behind-hand could get a continuance of supplies, includ- 
 ing the indispensable jug, by giving a mortgage upon his 
 land, — a backward step which was seldom retrieved, — 
 so that in the course of years the storekeeper's roofs 
 might have been measured by acres. He was not in 
 the least dishonest, but he worked frankly for his own 
 interest ; and it must not be forgotten that, in transac- 
 tions with customers who are habitually fuddled and 
 confused, a clear-headed man has all the advantage. 
 Farms were exchanged for rum or cider-brandy, with 
 shabbiness, degradation, and family misery thrown in. 
 As the use of spirits was universal, a dealer incurred 
 no obloquy, nor injury to his social standing. 
 
 There were other storekeepers, although they sold no 
 spirits. One of them did a snug business, though 
 noted for a scrimping nicety in weights and measures, 
 and for a keen lookout after fractions. People were 
 not overjoyed to see a fig torn in halves in case of over 
 weight, — that a fig was bitten in such an emergency 
 was a slander, — nor to pay invariably thirteen cents 
 for twelve and a half; yet the proprietor once, in a 
 glow of virtuous pride, referred to the substantial sum 
 realized in a year from this salutary rule of retaining 
 the half-cents in making; chancfe. 
 
 The perplexities of the currency in olden times were 
 manifold. Though the present decimal coinage had 
 been long established by law, the custom of reckoning 
 by shillings, six to the dollar, was well nigh universal 
 in Massachusetts. At the same time, a large part of 
 the silver coins in use consisted of Mexican dollars. 
 
THROUGH THE VILLAGE 1 5 
 
 halves, quarters, eighths, and sixteenths, all bearing 
 the pillared arms of Spain ; and between these coins 
 and the traditional but imaginary " shillings " there 
 was a rare confusion, demanding a mastery of vulgar 
 fractions which only " Colburn's Mental Arithmetic" 
 could give. A.Mexican eighth was worth 12^ cents, 
 but it was always called a " ninepence," that being its 
 value in the traditional " shilling " of i6;4 cents. A 
 Mexican sixteenth, 6^ cents, was called a "four-pence 
 ha'penny." Prices of goods were marked in shillings ; 
 e. g., " two-and-three-pence " in place of 37^^/^ cents, 
 four shillings in place of ^(y'Yi cents, five shillings for 
 83 >^ cents, etc. The constant multiplication of the 
 fractional tags insensibly drew from the public, and 
 sensibly added to the dealer's till. It was in compara- 
 tively recent times that the Mexican coins were driven 
 out, and that the custom of reckoning by shillings fell 
 into disuse. 
 
 In this store, conducted on such sound financial 
 principles, an Exalted Personage in the government of 
 the United States received his first mercantile training, 
 and beo-an his successful career. In the sketches of 
 his life, published during the campaign prior to his 
 election, it is a matter of regret that the lonely place 
 of his apprenticeship was overlooked. It was a misfor- 
 tune for Ouabbin. 
 
 Some sixty years ago the old tavern opposite the 
 meeting-house having "run down," a new one of three 
 stories was built in the centre, at the cross-roads. 
 There w\as a daily stage-route from the county town 
 to Boston, and a four-horse coach, announced by a 
 far-echoing horn, came thundering down the hill road 
 in the earlv morning, and discharged its passengers at 
 
l6 QUABBIN 
 
 the tavern for breakfast. There were few travellers 
 who put up there, except the stage passengers. The 
 chief revenue was from the bar. The sound of the 
 toddy-stick was often heard, even in the street. It was 
 a rlivtliniical roll, and each bar-keeper prided himself 
 upon his special tattoo. Farmers coming to mill or 
 shop, especially in winter, stopped there with their 
 teams, the shivering animals being often forgotten 
 while they drank hot toddy by the bar-room fire. The 
 stable was haunted by day, and the bar-room by night, 
 bv shady and mysterious creatures, willing drudges for 
 food and drams. To one coming from the fresh air with- 
 out, the breath of that fiery bar-room was overpowering. 
 The odors of the hostlers' boots, redolent of fish-oil 
 and tallow, and of buffalo-robes and horse-blankets, the 
 latter reminiscent of equine ammonia, almost got the 
 better of the all-pervading fumes of spirits and tobacco. 
 Clay pipes for "cut plug" were much in favor, though 
 some reckless spendthrifts, at times, smoked principe 
 cigars at three cents each. 
 
 This was the exchange for rustic wit, the focus of 
 hate for parsons and deacons, and of ridicule for the 
 new-fangled temperance society. The walls were 
 adorned with placards of stage-routes, w^oodcuts of 
 enormous stallions in prancing attitudes, and notices 
 of sheriffs' sales, — the land or the stock of some 
 deceased or ruined farmer to be offered at "public 
 vendue." The country people gave the word nearly 
 the French sound, vandiic. No one then used the 
 term auction. 
 
 The Masonic Hall at the cross-roads was deserted. 
 The lodge never met, and the room was used at times 
 for a private school. J^oys used to set up the Semitic 
 
THROUGH THE VILLAGE 17 
 
 pillars, and to speculate upon the mysteries of the craft. 
 The affair of Morgan, believed to have been murdered 
 "out in York State" for exposing the secret rites, was 
 then recent and blood-curdling. Public opinion was 
 overwhelmingly against the order. 
 
1 8 QUAE DIN 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 
 
 The territory of Ouabbin comprises little more than 
 the winding valley and the various slopes and tribu- 
 taries that lead to it, with the hills already described ; 
 and it will be seen that there could have been but few 
 large spaces for cultivation. Some half-dozen of the 
 farms became long ago rich in grass and grain ; but in 
 spite of the labors of generations in reclaiming bogs 
 and clearing fields of stones, the area of productive land 
 does not appear to have greatly extended. 
 
 Generally a couple of towering elms stood near each 
 farmhouse of the better class, and not far away were 
 apple-trees in squares. Clumps of lilacs grew by the 
 front door and by the edge of the garden ; while along 
 the neighboring road were rows of balloon-topped 
 maples. Each homestead became conspicuous in the 
 landscape, since the American elm has a stately grace 
 that belongs to no other tree in northern latitudes. 
 
 The farms lying without the valley were and still are 
 poor; their plain lands sometimes bore thin crops ^of 
 rye, and then, lying fallow, were overrun with mullein ; ^ 
 their undraincd meadows were cold and wet, and in- 
 
 ' At the pate of wliat had b?cn Cliatcaiibriand's house in Paris, many years 
 ago, there was a large mullein in blossom, evidently regarded with admiration aS a 
 rare plant. 
 
FAT^J/S AND FARM-LIFE 1 9 
 
 fested with '' poison ivy " and skunk cabbage ; their 
 hillsides rough and ston}' ; their pastures gray and 
 brown, or *' run to bushes." The neighborhood roads 
 were crooked, hilly, and stony or sandy. 
 
 The houses of prosperous farmers were neat and 
 comfortable, though invariably plain ; but those of the 
 poorer sort were miserable. They were generally of 
 one story, always of wood, clapboarded, rarely painted, 
 and dusky with weather-stain. Nature's gray is pictur- 
 esque ; so are dirt and rags, in the eyes of artists ; but 
 a dwelling that is gray or dingy with neglect, and rifted 
 or '' chinky " with dilapidation, is no more comfortable 
 for being in harmony with a low-toned landscape. 
 
 In those times the chief feature of every farmhouse 
 was the central chimney, which was large and square, 
 having a fireplace on three of its sides in as many 
 rooms, the largest being in the kitchen, as the common 
 living-room was called. On that face of the chimney 
 also was the opening into the cavernous brick oven, a 
 ''notion" wdiich the Pilgrims may have brought over 
 from Holland. Few such chimneys are now in exist- 
 ence ; and the universal use of stoves, both for warmth 
 and for cooking, has made the brick ovens and the vast 
 fireplaces, with crane, pot-hooks, and trammels, things 
 of the past. 
 
 At bed-time the andirons in the kitchen fireplace 
 were drawn aside, and the brands and coals, having 
 been piled upon the hearth, were covered thickly with 
 ashes. When this was carefully done, enough embers 
 were found in the morning to kindle a new fire ; but if 
 the embers had become extinct, it was necessarv to 
 strike a spark with flint and steel into a box of tinder, 
 and then use a splinter of wood t'j^ped with sulphur to 
 
20 QUADBIN 
 
 start a blaze. When the tinder was used up or damp, 
 as sometimes happened, a boy was sent to a neighbor's, 
 pjrhaps a quarter of a mile, to bring a live coal with a 
 pair of tongs. It was a generation which had not made 
 the enervating discovery of the friction match. 
 
 Besides the table, the chest of drawers, and chairs, 
 the most noticeable objects in the long kitchen were 
 the spinning-wheels, — a small one for flax, getting out 
 of use more than sixty years ago, and a large one for 
 wool, which was often seen down (perhaps) to 1850. 
 
 It is a pity that no artist undertook to represent the 
 attitudes and movements of a well-formed and active 
 damsel in the management of the great spinning-wheel. 
 Such a picture may have been painted, but the writer 
 never chanced to see one. Nothing in spinning de- 
 mands great strength ; but there is requisite a free 
 movement of the arms, an elastic pose, and a long glid- 
 ing step, advancing and retreating. The country people 
 said there was a " knack " in it. Diana took no such 
 fascinating poses in archery. The arms of a harp- 
 player, however graceful, have a limited movement. 
 In lawn-tennis the action is often too violent or con- 
 strained to 1)0 beautiful. Such attitudes and actions 
 have been often enough attempted in art, but they are 
 one and all tame beside the damsel at the great wheel. 
 
 Look at her. She is leaning forward, lightly poised 
 upon the toe of the left foot. With her left hand she 
 picks up by the end a long slender roll of soft wool, 
 and deftly winds the fibres upon the point of the steel 
 spindle before her. Now holding it an instant with 
 thumb and finger, she gives a gentle motion to the 
 wheel with the wooden finger which she holds in her 
 right hand. Meanwhile, with her left hand she seizes 
 
FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 21 
 
 the roll of wool at a little distance from the spindle, 
 measuring with practised eye the length that will be 
 required for one drawing. Tlien, while the hum of the 
 wheel rises to a sound like the echo of wind in a storm, 
 backward she steps, one, two, three, holding high the 
 long yarn as it twists and quivers. Then, suddenly 
 reversing the wheel, she glides forward with a long, 
 even stride, and lets the yarn wind upon the swift 
 spindle. Then another movement, a new pinch of the 
 roll, a new turn of the wdieel, and da capo. 
 
 The backward and forward movement, the left hand 
 controlling the yarn while the right governed the 
 wheel, w^ere as picturesque as any ever made " by 
 nymph, by naiad, or by grace." The muscles of the 
 chest and arms were in free and beautiful play, and the 
 varied movements of the limbs, alert, emphatic, and 
 gliding by turns, suggested enough to have fully em- 
 ployed the genius of Praxiteles, 
 
 There were also here and there among old people 
 ( sixty years ago ), hand-looms with treadles for weaving 
 the cloth for ordinary wear. But most of these had 
 been banished to the lumber-rooms. 
 
 The kitchen was adorned in autumn with festoons of 
 dried apples and of red peppers, bunches of ears of seed- 
 corn, dried bouquets of sage, savory, mint, and other 
 herbs ; and about the fireplace, in racks set against the 
 walls, hung crookneck squashes. A pot of blue dye 
 ( fortunately covered) stood in the corner of the fire- 
 place. Thisdeparted with the spinning-wheels. Adjt)in- 
 ingthe kitchen, and generally in an addition, or lean-to, 
 were the cheese press and tubs, diffusing in mild weather 
 the faintly sour odor of whey. There, too, were shelves, 
 j)n which lay ripening cheeses, turned daily, and polished 
 with butter and red annatto bv diligent hands. 
 
22 QUABBIN 
 
 In ancient times few farmers had regular supplies 
 of fresh meat. Except at the autumnal pig-killing, or 
 at the slaughter of a lamb in the spring, or very rarely 
 in winter of a steer, their tables were furnished with 
 salted beef and pork from their own cellars, and with 
 dried salt fish. To allay the irritation caused by such 
 viands, many vegetables were used ; but the main 
 dependence was pickled peppers and ''cowcumbers," 
 — a dangerous indulgence, one would think, — and 
 apple-sauce. This latter preserve was wholesome and 
 appetizing, but is now seldom seen ; perhaps on account 
 of the scarcity of cleanly made and unfermented cider. 
 The cider was boiled down almost to sirup, and pared 
 and cored apples, with a few quinces for flavor, were 
 slightly cooked in it ; after which the mass was poured 
 into a clean barrel, and kept in a cool place. 
 
 It will be seen that the cellar was one of the most 
 important parts of a farmer's house, as it contained 
 much of the winter's store. In early times a house 
 rarely had stone underpinning,^ and the cellar was 
 protected from frost by banking the lower part of the 
 house with forest leaves, sawdust, or tan-bark. Therein 
 were deposited the salt beef and pork, cabbages, potatoes, 
 and other roots, in bins, a part of the supply of apples, 
 and several barrels of cider in different stasres of 
 development. A mug fresh from the spigot was a 
 provocative for ]:)alate, eyes, and nose ; its fumes 
 attacked the air-passages, and the stomach soon glowed 
 like a chafing-dish. But this genial stimulus was not 
 enough for some hardened throats, and it was a frequent 
 custom to set a mug of the oldest before the fire, with 
 
 1 The upper tier of foundation stones wliich sustained the house above the 
 level of the ground. 
 
FARMS AXD FARM-LIFE 23 
 
 red peppers floating in it, so as to give the cider a 
 sharper prickle, and the jaded stomach a fresh thrill. 
 
 Instead of carpets, the rooms were furnished with 
 party-colored mats, braided of woollen rags. The bed- 
 chambers were often partly or wholly unfinished, being 
 mere divisions of a bare attic. In time of a winter's storm, 
 it was not uncommon for boys to feel the snow falling 
 on their faces as they lay in their scantily draped beds; 
 for it found easy entrance, being sifted through the 
 loosely shingled roof, or blown under the gaping eaves. 
 
 In such chambers on a wintry morning the breath 
 was visibly congealed, and the thickly studded points 
 of shingle-nails were bristling with crystals that gleamed 
 like stars overhead. 
 
 The barn was a sure indication of a farmer's thrift. 
 His house might be unpainted and out of repair without 
 greatly injuring his reputation, but the neglect of his 
 barn was decisive. For the barn and appendages were 
 the storehouse of his crops, the stable and fold for his 
 animals, and the shelter of his wagon, cart, ploughs, and 
 tools. It needed but a "lance to know how affairs were 
 going. 
 
 In some cases the barn was a desolation. If, further, 
 the wagon was unwashed and rickety, the horse rough 
 and lean, the harness clumsily patched, or tied with 
 cords, the ploughs left to rust, the yard untidy and 
 undrained, and fowls allowed to roost on whatever was 
 handiest, it would be a natural inference that the 
 farmer's shiftlessness was abetted by hot-peppered 
 cider or new rum. 
 
 In some farms the wretched management frustrated 
 any kindly intentions of nature ; for the application of 
 science to airriculture was all to come. The aim was 
 
24 QUABBIN 
 
 to get what could be got out of the land with the least 
 outlay ; to live upon the produce as far as possible ; 
 and to provide money for taxes and the few absolute 
 necessities by the sale of whatever could be spared. A 
 fat hog, one or two calves, a few fowls or turkeys, a 
 little butter and cheese, — these would bring the cash 
 required. On a larger farm there could be sold grain, 
 a fat ox, a colt, or firewood. With good health and 
 sobriety, the conditions were not too hard, but in many 
 households life was pinched and sordid. Economy is 
 honorable, and may be gracious, but an enforced niggard- 
 liness is degrading. For those who must struggle with 
 an insoluble equation between outgo and income, books 
 have no charm, genial society is unknown, nature has 
 nothing but frowns, and the future no hope except in 
 final rest from toil. 
 
 On the more prosperous farms, life was fairer, and 
 better worth living. Still, few farmers were educated 
 beyond the three R's, or were in the habit of reading in 
 hours of leisure, excepting the Bible and weekly 
 newspaper. 
 
 During the winter months the ordinary work was ne- 
 cessarily laid by; there was nothing to be done, except 
 taking care of animals and cutting wood. The needs 
 of the house were readily supplied from last winter's cut- 
 ting, thoroughly seasoned ; but' periodically there was an 
 onslaught upon some part of the "wood-lot" for timber. 
 The cutting of trees, when resolved upon, was as 
 thorough as the sweep of postmasters after the coming 
 in of a new president. The scar on the hillside could 
 no more be hidden than a slash on the farmer's cheek 
 in shaving. Wise, conservative forestry was unknown. 
 
 When snow lay on the roads and woodland paths, it 
 
FARMS AND FARM-LIFE 25 
 
 was easy to draw out the great logs and send them to 
 mill on ox-sleds. Under the mighty loads the tracks 
 soon got a crystalline polish, and sleighing-parties and 
 small boys rejoiced. The choppers, though standing all 
 day in snow, did not suffer from cold. In the forest 
 there was no wind, and exercise kept their blood in 
 active circulation. Their hands were cased in buckskin 
 or woollen mittens, their bodies in loose frocks (longish 
 blouses), and their feet in heavy, well-greased boots. 
 Often, with the thermometer at zero, a hearty man 
 would drop his axe to wipe the sweat from his brow. 
 
 The winter, too, was the time for most of the recrea- 
 tions of country life : during the warmer seasons the 
 pressure of work left little leisure. In the winter the 
 stock of provisions was full, and roasted apples, genial 
 cider, and mince-pies, — which never pall upon a 
 Yankee's appetite, — were almost constant luxuries. 
 Then was the time for evening spelling-schools, sing- 
 ing-schools, apple-paring bees, sleigh-rides, fishing 
 through the ice, and other country frolics. Then boys 
 trapped partridges and rabbits. Then skaters went 
 skimming over rivers and ponds, swaying this way and 
 that, like dancers in a minuet. Then was the time for 
 the great slides by moonlight down long, icy hills, — a 
 dozen big sleds, one after the other, careering down at 
 railroad speed, and sometimes overturning, so as to pile 
 half a dozen of both sexes in a mealy drift by the way. 
 Do not talk to a Yankee of " toboir^an " ! The word 
 belongs to Canadians, who are welcome to it. Toboi^g-aji, 
 indeed! As well call aOual)l)in farmer's little, scrimped 
 parlor a "drawing-room." 
 
 Farms were known by their owners' names, at least 
 when occupied long enough to give a notion of perma- 
 
26 QUABBIN 
 
 nency, as "The Estes Place," "The Sherman Place,"' 
 " The Deering Place." There are few names that have 
 not been changed in sixty years ; and only one farm, it 
 is said, remains in the possession of a descendant of 
 the original settler. Each family has furnished emi- 
 grants to newer States, while some son or married 
 daughter has generally kept the homestead for a time. 
 
 In the village changes have been equally frequent. 
 The builders of its houses are dead, their children are 
 scattered, and strangers have taken their places. In a 
 walk of a mile and a half the man of sixty years will 
 not pass a single house that shelters the people whom 
 he once knew. 
 
 But a reminiscent mood has its vagaries like revery. 
 Thoughts, events, and faces, long forgotten, start up in 
 a hap-hazard way, and the mind is filled with flitting 
 images that play like water-beetles in an endless maze. 
 These pictures from memory need a frame, and the 
 course of events should have some order. Perhaps, 
 therefore, it is best to be done with reminiscence, and, 
 like graver historians, begin at the beginning. 
 
SETTLEMENT 2/ 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SETTLEMENT 
 
 It was a long time after the first westward movement 
 from the seacoast that this unpromising region was 
 settled. Not until the rich alluvial lands of the Con- 
 necticut valley were taken up, and the fair hillsides east 
 of the river were covered with farms, was there any 
 thought of occupying this narrow, wet valley, and the 
 rugged knolls that enclosed it. The first white child 
 was born in Ouabbin in 1735, and the grant of the 
 land was made by the General Court in 1736. The 
 settlers were for the most part Scottish Presbyterians 
 from Ulster. Some of these were ''mighty hunters" 
 and wrestlers. Two of them were hatters, who lived 
 and wrought in a place well known in the village. 
 Furs were plenty, but polls were few ; and what are hats 
 without heads } The trade would seem to have been 
 preposterous. Still the long bows twanged, and downy 
 forms were felted in hot water, then shaped and pressed ; 
 and the surplus hats, it is to be hoped, found sale in 
 older settlements. 
 
 But little is known of Quabbin's early progress. The 
 increase was doubtless slow. The few Indians were 
 wanderers, — basket-makers or beggars, or both. After 
 the decline of the French power in Canada there were 
 no settlements of Indians nearer than Stockbridge, 
 
2S QUABBIN 
 
 where Jonathan lulvvards went to preach after leaving 
 Northampton. But Ouabbin had been a favorite resort 
 of red men ; for flint arrow-heads were ploughed up long 
 afterward in the valley lands, and stone bowls, pestles, 
 and hatchets were found on the sites of ancient wig- 
 wams. The Indians who haunted the frontier a hun- 
 dred years ago were vicious and degraded, but not 
 without shrewdness. Said an Indian woman to a village 
 housewife one day, ** Will ee give me little water, or 
 cider.-* — for I be so hungry I dunno where to sleep 
 over night." An old Indian, who had roamed the 
 woods all his life, was asked what was the surest sign 
 of rain. With a flicker in his beady black eyes he 
 answered in his deep guttural tones, '' Ee sure sign o' 
 rain is when ee black all round, an' pourin' down in 'e 
 middle." 
 
 Other settlers came, some with Scottish, but more 
 and more with English names. The latter were largely 
 from the Old Colony and from towns on Cape Cod. 
 Two brothers built a grist-mill at the centre of the 
 village, and both of them, together with a neighbor, 
 served in the Revolutionary army. The first minister, 
 also, was a chaplain under Washington. 
 
 The meeting-house was built in 1787, when the parish 
 was organized; and the minister was settled in 1789, 
 when the French Assembly were beginning their strug- 
 gle with Louis the Unhappy. The site for the meet- 
 ing-house was given by the grandfather of General 
 Joseph Hooker, well known in our civil war. At first 
 the worshippers sat on movable benches; but in 1793 
 the pews formerly described were constructed, and the 
 names of the purchasers, thirty in number, have been 
 preserved. Probably the population of the parish did 
 not exceed two liundrcd. 
 
SETTLEMENT 29 
 
 In 1 8 14 the belfry was built, and a bell was given by 
 an eccentric man, long remembered. Two years later 
 the parish was incorporated as a town. 
 
 This must suffice for history. Dates are wearisome, 
 and the happenings in a small community are in no 
 wise interesting. 
 
 But there is another view. The evolution of the 
 best type of a modern New Englander from the Provin- 
 cial of the last century, if one could compass it, might 
 be a theme worthy of a philosophic historian. And, 
 even if one were not such a master as to be able to 
 educe the philosophy of history, a faithful picture of 
 life and manners, suggesting, it may be vaguely, the 
 moving forces, prejudices, and whims of the old time, 
 must have value. The life of any community is made 
 up of infinite details. One can hardly say that the 
 smallest point in town management, church polity, or 
 domestic economy is absolutely unimportant. Solid 
 growth is never visible in the present tense. Further- 
 more, generalizers are commonly falsifiers, sacrificing 
 verity to epigram. Even truth lies, if she is taken too 
 literally, and without consideration of the viilicu. A 
 bold sketch of the Rise of the New England Town, or 
 of the Literary Awakening, or of the Development of 
 the Seventeenth Century Puritan into the modern 
 Yankee, might be brilliant writing, but would be most 
 untrustworthy unless supported by a multitude of 
 minute and apparently insignificant facts. 
 
 The chansfe that has come has been both in ideas and 
 life. With the beginning of the present century the 
 ideas of provincial Massachusetts were giving way. 
 Theological asperity was softening; a man might vote 
 against the ruling majority witliout being mobbed ; and 
 
30 QUABBIN 
 
 liberty of thought was dimly recognized as something 
 possible. The change was not simply a matter of dress, 
 of speech, or of tone, — there was a growing refinement 
 in these externals, — it was something deeper: no less 
 than an overturning of old habits of thought, a general 
 reform in conduct among the opponents of the state- 
 church, and the establishment of society on fairer terms. 
 The change began in the larger towns, the centres of in- 
 fluence, and was manifested in the decline of drinking 
 customs, in a revived and more tolerant church, in re- 
 constructed schools, and enlightened public spirit. 
 
 The town was the primordial cell, of which the State 
 and nation are aggregations. While the political up- 
 building was going on, an immense development of 
 education was in progress ; the functions of the church 
 and the civil power were disentangled and differentiated ; 
 manufactures were placed on new foundations by dis- 
 coveries in sciences and arts ; railways and telegraphs 
 furnished new arteries and nerves ; the Puritan em- 
 bargo on tlic world's literature was raised ; books mul- 
 tiplied, and newspapers became as necessary as breath ; 
 the horizon of thought and the scope of human interest 
 grew to be as broad as the world ; the bucolic dialect 
 and costume were disappearing. In short, it came to 
 be })ossible, and it would be quite possible to-day, for 
 a resident of Ouabbin to be in touch with the world of 
 science, to exhibit a work of art at the Paris Salon, or 
 to discuss literature and history with the leaders of the 
 time. Tliis claim is potential rather than actual ; but 
 admitted possibilities are something. In recent years 
 Parisian critics have admired the sculpture of a son of 
 Ouabbin ; in the Episcopal churches the music of a 
 Ouabbin composer is justly admired; and among orni- 
 
SETTLEMENT 3 1 
 
 thologists a native collector and observer is widely 
 known. 
 
 From Ouabbin well-trodden roads lead everywhere, — 
 in which respect the proverb as to Rome is reversed, — 
 and thither, from the modern thought of New England, 
 electric lines carry intelligence of all that men achieve, 
 attempt, or admire. A hundred years ago this was 
 notoriously otherwise. Equally notorious was it that 
 in the great centres there was little indigenous litera- 
 ture or philosophy worth transmitting to Ouabbin or 
 elsewhere. What, one may ask, were the influences 
 and the successive steps by which this people has been 
 led out of its dull, benighted, and plodding existence } 
 Ouabbin is, perhaps, an instance as fair as another, 
 since what has gone on in its narrow bounds has been 
 going on throughout the State on a larger scale. The 
 history of Quabbin, then, if one could write it, would 
 be part of a general movement upon which dogmatism 
 would be easy and valueless, and which will be best 
 understood in a free narrative. 
 
 The few events in Ouabbin's annals are naturally 
 grouped under the reigns of its successive ministers. 
 Writers upon literature are in the habit of classifying it 
 under the reigns of sovereigns, few of whom knew or 
 cared about books, and fewer still who gave literary 
 genius any countenance unless that genius happened to 
 be known at court. But it is more appropriate to speak 
 of the age of Shakespeare and Cervantes, of Moliere 
 and Milton, of Goethe, Byron, and Balzac. 
 
 In Quabbin the case is different, for the parish min- 
 isters, from Joshua I. to Robert IV., were men of 
 marked individuality, and liad each an influence, (^f one 
 sort or another, upon the development of the town. 
 
32 QUABBIN 
 
 It will be remembered that about fifty years passed 
 from its settlement to the ordination of the first minis- 
 ter ( 1 736-1 789). It may be added that most of the 
 important changes in society have taken place during 
 the present century. 
 
 The question constantly recurs, how was it that the 
 sombre Puritan became a poet, romancer, inventor, 
 engineer, or scientist ? and how has a people of limited 
 knowledge and narrow views, without worldly ambition, 
 who renounced all things for the sake of the life to 
 come, and were content to toil without hope of enfran- 
 chisement on earth, grown into the marvellously active 
 and versatile society of to-day ? The answers must be 
 inferred from many observations, and, beyond doubt, 
 they will vary with different observers. We may find 
 something to think of in looking at life in country and 
 village homes, at town and church meetings, militia 
 trainings, and popular sports ; in schools, temperance 
 societies, psalmody, and current literature ; and all the 
 changes will be found to be, perhaps, reciprocally causes 
 and results. The movements of society are like the 
 processes of nature. No one ever saw a shovelful of star- 
 dust, yet, we are told, the whole round globe gets an 
 appreciable coating of it every century. Who can enter 
 into the spiritual evolution which began with Mistress 
 Anne Bradstreet, and culminated in her descendant, 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes } — or that from Priscilla Mullen 
 to Longfellow } There are few instances in history of 
 a transformation more complete than has been seen in 
 Massachusetts ; and perhaps a side-light can be thrown 
 upon it from the candlestick set in Quabbin. 
 
ATMOSPHERE ^ 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ATMOSPHERE 
 
 In good old colony times, — say two centuries ago, — 
 opinions upon religion and politics were practically unan- 
 imous. The earlv settlers were homo^-eneous ; for idem 
 seiitire had been the rule of association, and, as Lieut. - 
 Governor Stoughton declared, " God had sifted three 
 kingdoms " to gather them. Dissent from the "ortho- 
 dox" form of Dissent was rigidly kept out of the infant 
 colony ; and in later times, any incipient rebellion was 
 repressed by an overpowering public sentiment. Reli- 
 gious dogma was embodied in the Westminster " Shorter 
 Catechism." 
 
 In colonial politics, the aim was to make a show of 
 respect to the royal authority, while the real power, 
 under the charter, should rest with ''the Great and 
 General Court." But no, not the real power, for behind 
 the magistrates and deputies were the clergy, who were 
 the unquestionable rulers. 
 
 But unanimity in faith and practice cannot be eternal 
 under any form of irovernment, and in the course of 
 the eighteenth century there were cleavages in society 
 past cementing. The French war brought some changes 
 through the increasing prominence of military men, 
 who were more in touch with tlie great world than with 
 the secluded zealots of the church ; but a far deeper 
 
34 QUABBIN 
 
 disturbing force was the long war of the Revolution. 
 In the midst of arms, it is not only law and letters that 
 are silent ; conscience is often dumb. And when peace 
 came, the returning soldiers brought back to their 
 native hamlets new ideas, and often vicious habits as 
 well. In camps and trenches, other topics were more 
 discussed than fate and free will. Beyond doubt, 
 soldiers were more occupied with the theories of Rous- 
 seau, a man they had never heard of, but the essence 
 of whose doctrines was brought to their comprehension 
 by the clear and nervous phrases of the Declaration of 
 Independence. " Freedom is a noble thing," said John 
 Barbour, and it ennobles while it enfranchises. With 
 the prospect of a free republic, there was a broadening 
 of mind, and the gradually enlightened patriot soldier, 
 even if unconscious of any revulsion against old doctrine 
 or custom, could never again be the obedient and 
 contented son of the Puritan Church he had been. 
 
 Many of the soldiers had acquired the habits of dram- 
 drinking and swearing, and in time threw off all restraint. 
 It is obviously unjust to Jefferson to associate such 
 vices with his political views ; l)ut it had happened that 
 tlie people of Massachusetts had followed the lead of 
 John Adams in politics, as they had followed the heads 
 of the Church in religious dogma. A Massachusetts 
 Federalist prior to 1810 was almost certain to be ortho- 
 dox in faith ; a church member was almost certain to be 
 a Federalist. Whenever a man, from conviction, wilful- 
 ness, or bad habits, left the church or the dominant par- 
 ty, no half-way course was possible ; and it was generally 
 the case that a Democrat was a Universalist, a Free- 
 thinker, or in some way one of the ''otherwise minded." 
 The wealthy, respectable, and temperate people were 
 
ATMOSPHERE 35 
 
 Federalists, and supporters, if not members, of the Puri- 
 tan church. Outside were Democrats, hard drinkers, and 
 deists. For more than a generation the line of demar- 
 cation was invariable. The hostile feeling between the 
 classes deepened often to malignant hate, and was felt 
 wherever men came in contact. 
 
 The story is told that, early in the century, at an 
 election in Hadley, after the ballots were counted, an 
 awful rumor spread through the town hall that a 
 Democratic vote had been found in the box. Murmurs 
 were heard, increasing momentarily, until the moderator 
 confirmed the report by announcing so many votes for 
 the Federalist candidates, and one for the Democratic ; 
 and then the uproar became tumultuous. Who could 
 have been the ungodly and abominable creature to 
 cast that ballot .? No one could guess. After the 
 proceedings were over, an old man, poorly dressed, and 
 mounted on a lean and furry horse, having got safely 
 mto the highway, shouted back to the people, "■ It was 
 I that cast that 'ere Dimmercrat vote ! " and then galloped 
 away to escape a shower of stones. 
 
 The feeling against the Democrats became more 
 intense in consequence of the partiality of Jefferson for 
 France. The cause of France was considered the 
 cause of irreligion, and good men felt bound to protest 
 against " opening the flood-gates of infidelity." Obvi- 
 ously, so long as the church as a body took a decided 
 stand in politics, there could be no dispassionate con- 
 sideration of public questions. These had been decided 
 in advance. Something of the same spirit has survived. 
 To a purely economic argument upon the tariff, no 
 matter by whom made, it has been held to be a sufficient 
 answer that Democrats occupied an immoral ground in 
 
36 QUABBIN 
 
 regard to slavery thirty years ago. In some respects 
 it was a misfortune to a man, in the last generation, to 
 have been reared in a family of Democratic proclivities. 
 A Democrat was a man to be distrusted and shunned. 
 Even a man of genius like Hawthorne found himself 
 •' on the wrong side of the hedge." Society in Salem 
 was almost wholly of one way of thinking, and Haw- 
 thorne was made to feel his isolation. His friends were 
 not of the ruling party or sect. However contented he 
 may have been with his beliefs, the reprobation of the 
 ** best people " must have given a deeper tinge of 
 melancholy to his never too sunny nature, and added to 
 the gloom that broods over his otherwise matchless 
 stories. 
 
 It is needless to say there were no Hawthornes in 
 Quabbin, nor, in fact, any Democrats with too delicate 
 susceptibilities ; for ignorance and hard usage had, so 
 to speak, toughened their skins. As the rule of church 
 and society was firm and uncompromising, the opposi- 
 tion was rude and defiant. The existence of this 
 recalcitrant minority was familiar enough, but the first 
 divergence was well begun early in this century, and 
 it is difficult to offer a suggestion as to its origin. 
 Neither of the Revolutionary soldiers from Quabbin had 
 any sympathy with this opposition ; and the influences 
 that reared up Democrats in defiance of public opinion, 
 and unbelievers among people whose life was one act 
 of worship, must have come from some other district •, 
 one might as well expect to see a palm-tree growing 
 on Great Quabbin, or a walrus disporting in the tepid 
 water of the cove. In the course of years neighbor- 
 hoods change by removals, and even sixty years ago 
 some odd people had come to the town. 
 
ATMOSPHERE IJ 
 
 There was a grave and silent man who came now 
 and then to the store and to mill, but never to meeting, 
 and who never sought the least intimacy. One day 
 the mystery of this taciturn being was revealed. Say 
 not "revealed," but whispered with horror. He was a 
 deist, had been a printer in Boston, and had even 
 printed Bibles, 1)ut had been led astray by infidel books. 
 The tone in which the word "deist" was uttered sus:- 
 gested what no epithet could have conveyed. The 
 man was industrious, temperate, and honest ; but the 
 name of deist was a convict's brand. 
 
 Another who never went to meeting, at least never 
 to tJic meeting, was a self-taught mathematician, who 
 was sometimes found stretched on the floor before the 
 fire, working out on a slate the calculations for an eclipse. 
 It was said he voted the Democratic ticket, but he had 
 little to say about religion or politics, and was sobriety 
 itself. He believed in "nater," and thought that to 
 " du as you'd be done by " was a good enough rule of 
 life. 
 
 An old farmer, who called himself " a Dimmercrat 
 and Univarsaller " once tried to tempt a villager into 
 an argument upon fore-ordination. The son of the 
 latter was near by, and heard a few sentences like these : 
 " Eff God ain't the author of evil, an' ain't responsible 
 for the damnation of his critters, that is, ef they air to 
 be damned, I sh'd like to know why ! Ef things is 
 fixed, either he fixed 'em, or he stood by an' let some- 
 body else fix 'em. Ef they ain't fixed, then he don't 
 know what's comin', an' ain't omnishent." When this 
 point was reached, the father observed his boy listening, 
 and discovered that there were " chores " for him to do 
 in the barn. 
 
38 QUA B BIN 
 
 A lawyer, who lived about three miles away, had a 
 great reputation for wit and *' sarse " in tlie justices' 
 and county courts ; and thou£i;h imperfectly educated, 
 he was a man of ability, quite superior to any one in 
 the region. He, too, was a Democrat and Universalist. 
 He had a near relative in Ouabbin, but there was not 
 the least intercourse between them, not even a "bowing 
 acquaintance;" and their relationship was not known 
 by the younger members of the Ouabbin family until 
 both had passed away. Still, there had never been any 
 cause of quarrel, beyond the antipathy between hostile 
 creeds. 
 
 There were, now and then, rifts in the wall that 
 hemmed in Quabbin ; and things to set its young people 
 thinking. 
 
THE FIRST MINISTER 39 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE FIRST MINISTER 
 
 The ambition of the village that was growing up 
 about the gristmill at the foot of Great Quabbin had 
 awakened some interest in the adjacent region ; and 
 there were coarse but not malevolent comments upon 
 its rising pretensions. 
 
 It will be remembered that there were thirty purchas- 
 ers of pews in the meeting-house, and these probably 
 included more than half of the heads of families in the 
 parish ; but the parish boundaries were narrow, and 
 many came to the stores, mill, and meeting, from 
 beyond its limits. This was the case with many excel- 
 lent people, and it was also true of a set of the most 
 depraved and drunken creatures that ever infested a 
 village. 
 
 Quabbin did not become a ''town" until 1816; it 
 was to an outlying "parish" that the minister was 
 called ; but the community was awake and alert, after 
 its deliberate fashion. It had a mill to begin with, and 
 plenty of water-power for more works projected. 
 
 The mother town was, and has always remained, one 
 of the most sluggish of rural communities. It did not 
 appear poverty-stricken, but limp and lifeless. One 
 might have walked the length of its ample common, 
 around which a dozen close-blinded houses were dozing, 
 
40 QUABBIX 
 
 and not have seen a human being abroad. When a 
 team passed along the sandy road it crawled so slowly 
 that you thought the animals and driver asleep, and 
 moving in a dream. Even the old tavern had scarcely 
 an eye open. The only life of the flat landscape was 
 in tlie crows searching for hidden acorns by the road- 
 sides or pulling up replanted corn in the fields. So 
 strong was the impression of this torpor, that to look 
 for any gayety there seemed as impossible as to expect 
 a blossom from a broomstick. Nevertheless, it was 
 averred that a stanza had once been composed there, 
 an actual stanza of four lines of verse. It m-ght have 
 been regarded as a lying legend had it not been for 
 the evidence of the 'Mocal color." This is what the 
 mockers were supposed to have said or sung : — 
 
 " Let us go down to l'uckeito\vn,i 
 And see them raise the steeple ; 
 There we will stay, and hear Josh pray 
 To save his wicked i)eople." 
 
 This effort was exhausting and fatal ; as in the case of 
 the aloe, which dies after its centennial blossoming, the 
 unknown and inglorious poet drooped, and never rhymed 
 again. 
 
 The minister of Ouabbin, who had been a chaplain in 
 the army of the Revolution, was near middle age when 
 settled in 1789. His salary was fixed at seventy pounds, 
 besides which the parish purchased a house and a small 
 farm for him, and agreed to supply him with firewood. 
 He lived to be over four-score, and, in his later years 
 at least, was a picturesque figure, never forgotten by 
 those who had seen him. 
 
 1 " Piickcrtown," i.e. Quabbin. 'Y^o fucker suggests a mincing facial expres- 
 sion, either of vanity or disdain. 
 
THE FIRST MINISTER 4 1 
 
 His white hair, long and slightly waving, fell upon 
 his broad, square shoulders, and the soft folds of his 
 double chin rested upon a white necktie. His full 
 face (clean shaved thrice a week), his shapely, but 
 rather prominent nose, and his steady blue eyes, alto- 
 gether w^ore a look of dignity and benevolence. In 
 form he was short and sturdy, but not in the least 
 unwieldy. On the street he carried a silver-topped 
 cane, and he wore his black silk gown not only in the 
 pulpit but (in summer time) in making pastoral calls. 
 He was the last of Quabbin's ministers to wear it, and 
 much of the stately grace of the olden time went out 
 with its flowing sleeves. It was an impressive visible 
 illustration when he raised these, as if tremblingly, 
 while he repeated the solemn words, " And the smoke 
 of their torment ascendeth up forever and ever.''^ His 
 voice was bland, resonant, and measured, and deep in 
 power rather than in pitch. 
 
 He had a colleague ten years before his death, and 
 as pastor cineidtus did not preach very often in the 
 period covered by the recollections of a man of sixty ; 
 but, in figure, face, manners, and voice, as he appeared 
 at more than four-score, he would have been a good 
 specimen to show of the " degeneracy of Americans." 
 
 He had been fairly well educated for the time, although 
 he had been unable to complete his collegiate course. 
 Judging from his library, his reading must have been 
 mainly professional, in biblical commentaries, church 
 history, and polemics. Neither he nor any clergyman 
 in Western Massachusetts could have regarded the 
 study of general literature as other than a vain pleasure 
 or an idle curiosity ; not absolutely harmful, l)ut wholly 
 
 1 The story is told of Dr Clialmors, bat is true also of this nuiu>tcr. 
 
42 QUA B BIN 
 
 unimportant compared with the "one thing needful." 
 His sermons were plain and vigorous expositions of 
 Scripture, without any pretence of rhetoric, or illustra- 
 tion from nature or science, or the '* sentiment " to 
 which modern ears are accustomed. It was a time 
 when people were nurtured and inspired by the Bible, the 
 *' Pilgrim's Progress," AUeine's " Alarm to the Uncon- 
 verted," and Baxter's "Saints' Rest;" and when the 
 echoes of Jonathan Edwards' thunder had scarcely died 
 out of the air. The first minister's style of speech was 
 not Yankee, as that adjective is understood ; the old 
 British rotund energy had survived in it. He freely used 
 colloquial elisions, such as did/it, hain't, shdnt, etc., 
 just as they are printed in the first editions of Edwards' 
 works, and in many English books of the seventeenth 
 and eisrhteenth centuries, but there was no offensive 
 drawl, nor any debasing of vowel tones. 
 
 In spite of his stern theology he was kindly and 
 Jnmian in his intercourse with his people. He had 
 been an athlete in his youth, and few men were better 
 judges of a foot-race, a tug-of-war, or a jum ping-match. 
 He could fence also, and go through the manual of 
 arms; and in the War of 1 8 12 he had proved to be 
 the only man in the region competent to drill the 
 company of artillery that went from an adjoining town 
 for the defence of Boston. 
 
 It was something to have seen and talked with a man 
 who hatl known Lafayette, and had carried musket and 
 Bible under the command of Washington. The imagi- 
 nation (even of a boy) took fire, and his heart throbbed 
 at the thought. 
 
 When the old man was near his end, the neighbors, 
 old and young, came, according to the primitive cus- 
 
THE FIRST AHXISTER 43 
 
 torn, to see how a Christian could die. They looked 
 with awe upon the slow and laborious heaving of his 
 powerful chest, the vacancy of his fast-dimming eyes, 
 and the fitful tremor of the hands that had often rested 
 on their heads. The scene was painfully protracted ; 
 it was nearly a whole day after he was ( in country 
 phrase) ** struck with death" before his breathing 
 ceased. 
 
 The man still living, whose hand more than once 
 was clasped with that of the first minister of Ouabbin, 
 might well reflect what a stretch is covered by two 
 lives, — the loss of Canada by the French ; the attain- 
 ment of independence by the United States ; the 
 French Revolution ; the meteoric career of Bonaparte, 
 — Marengo, Jena, Austerlitz, Borodino, Waterloo, St. 
 Helena ; the birth of literature and philosophy in Ger- 
 many ; in Great Britain the appearance of Johnson, 
 Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Keats, Wordsworth, 
 Tennyson, and Browning ; a dawning literature in 
 America ; the era of gas, railways, steamships, tele- 
 graphs, evolution, the spectroscope, bacteriology ; the 
 Civil War in the United States, with all that followed ; 
 the sudden military prominence of Germany ; so much, 
 and more, past ail enumeration, in the space of two 
 lives ! 
 
 Men are prone to think their particular experiences 
 unusual, but it would be difficult, probably, to name 
 another period in which the events, discoveries, and 
 movements were so momentous to mankind as that 
 extending from the fall of Quebec to that of Richmond 
 or of JNIetz. Little was heard in Ouabbin sixty years 
 ago of the far-echoing footsteps of T^ite in the Old 
 World. 
 
44 QUABBIISr 
 
 It is necessary to look at the condition of the church 
 and parish tkirinij, this long jKistorate. 
 
 There was no interference with healthful amuse- 
 ments, excejit in certain over-zealous families. Round- 
 ball on the common in summer, and coasting on the 
 hillsides, and skating on the pond in winter, were eagerly 
 followed; but the line was drawn at dancing. The 
 country balls took place at the old-fashioned taverns, 
 ■ — not always free from scandal, — and were attended 
 only bv the Worldly and irreligious. A youth of sixteen 
 in Ouabbin, when he first saw people dancing to the 
 sound of music, thought their capers silly ; but it 
 appeared otherwise later, when he threaded his way 
 through a cotillon, led by a pretty girl. 
 
 As the minister went his rounds, everybody saluted 
 him with respect and good-will ; and children were 
 instructed to draw to one side of the road and make 
 bows or " kerchys " as he passed. In the minds of 
 some of them this ceremony was associated with the 
 approach of a floating silken robe ; and once, when the 
 minister's new colleague came upon a small party 
 engaged in making mud-pies, it appeared to them that 
 as he wore no gown he was not entitled to a salute. 
 One little urchin of four got a tingling reception at 
 home for having refused to ''bow to the minister." It 
 was feared the rebellion might be prophetic. 
 
 The minister lived prudently, reared a family, mostly 
 of boys, and if he did not become rich, was always 
 comfortable and self-respecting. It was not the fashion 
 then to cosset the pastor, — to embroider slippers for 
 him, to give him "donation parties," nor send him to 
 Europe for a summer vacation. 
 
 Exchanges were infrequent, but sometimes there 
 
THE FIRST MINISTER 45 
 
 was a sermon from a veteran in service, or from a 
 professor of the college not far away. D.D.'s were un- 
 common, and it was then supposed that a man had to 
 become a patriarch as old as Abraham before attaining 
 such a diiinitv. 
 
 The minister's calis, though functional in a way, 
 were neighborly and social. The affairs of the church 
 and parish, personal religion, and the training and 
 catechising of the children, were lightly touched upon in 
 presence of the family, — all the members within reach 
 having been summoned to meet the good man in the 
 parlor. Generally the interview was closed with a brief 
 prayer. Then was set out a plate of cake and a decanter 
 of wine or of Santa Cruz rum. The latter was taken 
 with hot water in winter, and cold in summer, and with 
 two lumps of sugar. Then, with a parting word for 
 each, and a gentle touch upon the heads of the chil- 
 dren, the minister rustled out v/ith his silk gown, and 
 went his way. 
 
 In his pastorate of nearly half a century he was 
 never involved in trouble or controversy. A man of 
 keen perceptions and courage, who was given to out- 
 bursts of sympathy and to upliftings of enthusiasm, 
 could not have maintained such serenity in view of 
 the life around him. It is true, the regular worship 
 was never intermitted : the Bible was expounded, and 
 its warnings and promises rehearsed ; but upon the 
 majority of the people these formalities made no real 
 impression, and a large number were besotted, dull, and 
 boorish. There were hoary heads without crowns of 
 honor. There were horses that were accustomed to 
 back out from the tavern shed, and trot soberly home 
 without guidance, when late at night their stupefied 
 
46 QUABBIN 
 
 masters crawled into their wagons. Brave women were 
 striving to cover the family nakedness, and to put a good 
 face upon despair. Modest girls had reason to shrink 
 from young men whose education was acquired at the 
 har of the tavern. The schools barely lifted the chil- 
 dren above illiteracy. Uncleanliness in manners and 
 speech, if not universal, caused little remark. As for 
 literature and science, they were not only unknown, 
 but inconceivable. Did the minister see all this .? Prob- 
 ably he did, but for all shortcomings the only remedy 
 then known was "the stated preaching of the Word," 
 as it had been from the beginning. There were 
 just so many who would refuse the offers of grace ; 
 and so many who would become slaves to appetite, 
 and be content with ignorance, poverty, and degra- 
 dation, as long as the supplies of rum and tobacco held 
 out. 
 
 The minister was prudent, kind, and just, and did his 
 duty according to the light of his time. The era of 
 active and burning sympathy, and of practical philan- 
 thropy, had not dawned upon Ouabbin, nor upon the 
 State. 
 
 Is it an injustice to suggest that the scarcely veiled 
 fatalism, which was then the indispensable doctrine cf 
 Calvinism, had something to do with this state of 
 things.'' Predestination, according to hair-splitting 
 theory, was not admittedly fatalism ; but it appears 
 certain that the doctrine, according to which the num- 
 ber of the ''elect" was foreknown, while the vast re- 
 mainder of the unredeemed were left without hope, 
 must have accustomed the self-contained saints to re- 
 gard as inevitable the sins and woes of their less wise 
 and less fortunate fellow-men. This was before philan- 
 
THE FIRST MINISTER 47 
 
 thropy appeared as an active force, and before volun- 
 tary societies were established to do the work for which, 
 logicallv, the church was all-sufficient. But philan- 
 thropic societies were not organized until the tension of 
 fore-ordination and kindred. doctrines had begun to relax. 
 In this matter a surprising spectacle became visible to 
 the world a few years later: no less than a total change 
 of basis and of method, — a change of spirit, a new-born 
 sympathy, an attempt to realize the brotherhood of 
 men by mutual effort, as well as by the "appointed 
 means" before relied on; while yet the creed re- 
 mained untouched. No heresy was preached in Ouab- 
 bin or its neighborhood. The Shorter Catechism 
 continued in diligent use. There was nothing positive 
 to indicate that Calvin and Jonathan Edwards were net 
 still the pillars of the New England church. But if 
 doctrines in their essence had suffered no change, and 
 if the character of the sermons, and the methods of 
 work among ministers and deacons had remained what 
 they were, the narrow and dull provincial Yankee of 
 sixty years ago would have been a narrow Provincial 
 still. In the tone and temper of theology was the key 
 of the situation. 
 
 So although New England "orthodoxy" is nominally 
 what it was, practically it has been changed from pin- 
 nacle to foundation-stone. The change consists in ig- 
 noring certain doctrines which run counter to the sense 
 of justice and the nobler instincts of mankind. From 
 a lifeless formula, religion has beccMiie a practical force. 
 By co-operation with lay societies, with education, and 
 with schemes for social enlightenment and beneficence, 
 the church regained its ascendency, with a just title to 
 gratitude and reverence. 
 
48 QUABBIN 
 
 Are we to hold the venerable first minister responsi- 
 ble for not establishing in Ouabbin a Total Abstinence 
 Society, an Anti Slavery Society, a model school, or a 
 Society for Foreign Missions? By no means. The 
 time for them had not come. 
 
PATIENT EMILY 49 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PATIENT EMILY 
 
 QuABBiN was not a fertile ground for romance. 
 There were few social inequalities, clandestine mar- 
 riages, or startling events. The rich men were never 
 numerous, and, after the time of the three courtly 
 brothers mentioned in a former chapter, there were 
 few who, if faithfully drawn, would make attractive 
 figures in a story. The general character, to the casual 
 observer, was humdrum, and as void of prominences as 
 a turnip. There was not in the town an author, wit, 
 cynic, or recluse ; nor had there been a murder or a 
 suicide. Such a lapse as the presence of a child unac- 
 counted for did not occur five times in a centurv. A 
 tragic or romantic scene in Ouabbin would have been 
 as improbable as a Spanish bull-fight. But life has both 
 anxiety and charm, even for the most commonplace of 
 men ; and in his own view the trials of each man 
 may be as momentous as those which beset King Lear. 
 Few have the power, like the rustic Yankee, to batten 
 under hatches any revolt of feeling, and to walk the 
 deck with an air of unconcern. The city Yankee (as 
 Dr. Holmes has observed) differs from his country 
 cousin chiefly in flexibility of facial muscles, and capa- 
 city of varying expression. 
 
 George Haskins was habitually ** shut up" like a 
 
50 QUABBIN 
 
 mud-turtle (if a change of figure may be allowed), and 
 the few words that escaped him came grudgingly, like 
 coins from a miser's pocket. George had good height, 
 a robust frame, and a dark complexion tinged with rose, 
 and was sufficiently active in movement ; but either 
 heredity or Puritanic discipline had rendered him silent, 
 and deliberate in action, and had made a mask of a face 
 that might have been mobile and attractive. Seldom 
 was a muscle relaxed about his shaven lips ; so that 
 when, on rare occasions, a fit of laughter seized him, 
 his features were totally upset and unrecognizable. 
 The only constant sign of life was in his wily brown 
 eyes. Sometimes even the eyes were motionless, like 
 still pools ; and again there were slight gleams in them, 
 as if microscopic gold-fish were playing in the aqueous 
 humor. 
 
 He was a well-to-do farmer, and lived in a good old- 
 fashioned house sheltered by a couple of noble elms. 
 His widowed mother had the care of the house and of 
 all domestic affairs. She was above medium height, 
 and, though slender, had the wiry muscles, the bold 
 features, the resolution, and the complexion that belong 
 with the bilious temperament. Nothing escaped her 
 eye. Her cheeses were renowned, and her stamp upon 
 pats of golden butter made them current as coin. Yet, 
 like her son, she had little to say. The purchase or 
 sale of cows or other live-stock was considered and 
 decided between her and George by fragments of 
 phrase, and by looks and nods untranslatable by others. 
 It is not to be supposed, however, that she did not keep 
 up a deal of thinking of a practical sort. 
 
 No persons were more constant at meeting than Mrs. 
 Haskins and her son. They had an old-fashioned 
 
VATIENT EMILY 5 I 
 
 chaise (" shay" they called it) that carried two, and no 
 more, drawn by a sedate animal called a ** colt," but 
 already past middle-age. The colt jogged on with due 
 gravity on " Sahberdays," but could " let out," and 
 throw gravel with the swiftest, when George drove in 
 his wagon to store or mill. 
 
 Mrs. Haskins was firmly grounded in Scripture, and 
 could follow all the texts cited in the longest doctrinal 
 sermon. She held to the views of the first minister, 
 and had but a moderate opinion of his colleague. It 
 was her delight to hear again and again the doctrines 
 of election and reprobation, and she never considered 
 a discourse complete which did not end with a repre- 
 sentation of the endless woe of the finally impenitent. 
 She chewed upon these dogmas, as she chewed her 
 sprigs of caraway ; and her head, overtopped by a 
 high-curved green silk calecJie (calash), moved slowly 
 backward and forward with evident satisfaction at the 
 emphatic points of the sermon. 
 
 One day, when this linked array of doctrines had 
 been brought out with unusual effect, Mrs. Haskins 
 chanced to look up at the gallery, and there saw John 
 Foster, a man who seldom came to meeting, and who 
 was known to be far from orthodox. He was a wool- 
 sorter at the mill, and had time in his solitary work to 
 think. He was a pale man, with a nimbus of light hair, 
 reserved in manner, blameless in life, and not in the 
 least capable of making money. Content with little, 
 he pleased himself with the company of his children, 
 and with his few books. His horoscope for the human 
 race was quite different from that which was announced 
 from the pulpit. On this occasion his eldest daughter, 
 Emily, was beside him in the pew, and drew all eyes 
 
52 QUABBIN 
 
 in the vicinity, especially in the choir, where many 
 lively young fellows sat. 
 
 The service ended, John Foster and his daughter 
 rose to go out. "Em'ly," said he in a firm undertone, 
 " I sh'll never hear thet old man agin, with his gospel 
 o' hate." 
 
 Mrs. Haskins kept her keen eyes on the pair. The 
 daughter's beauty was striking, but the ideas of old 
 people are fixed upon race, stock, family; and nothing 
 good, in her opinion, could be inherited by the girl from 
 an ungodly, freethinking father. 
 
 George, also, was looking ; it had never occurred to 
 him that the school-girl he had so often seen, with clear 
 blue eyes and glossy braids of auburn hair, would blos- 
 som into beauty like that. This may have been the 
 substance of his thought, but not his way of expressing 
 it. He much preferred to look, and say nothing. 
 
 The chances to court a girl in Ouabbin were few, 
 unless the parties were intimate ; it was only at a sing- 
 ing-school or a sleigh-ride that there was an oppor- 
 tunity to break the ice. In approaching such a matter 
 the youths went as 'soft -footed as if shod with Indian 
 moccasins. Now, George knew that a sleigh-ride was 
 in prospect, and he thought that Emily would suit him 
 for a partner, at least on that occasion. How he 
 managed to communicate with her was not known, and 
 it was certain he would never tell. But it was done 
 with due secrecy, and without breach of the proprieties 
 recognized in Ouabbin ; and the father's consent was 
 duly given. 
 
 One may be sure, however, that Mrs. Haskins had 
 not been consulted. George went about in his usual 
 way, silently making preparations, his wily brown 
 
PATIENT EMILY 53 
 
 eyes downcast, so as to reveal nothing of his anticipa- 
 tions to his mother. 
 
 The appointed day came, and the party began to 
 assemble in the broad space between the meeting-house 
 and the new tavern. As the sleighs had no " tops," or 
 hoods, the couples were in full view, and there was no 
 longer any mystery about preferences. Every" youth 
 had the most stunning "team" he could obtain; the 
 horses were groomed to a nicety, and sleighs and 
 harness shone. At last the tale was complete, — some 
 thirty odd, — and the chosen leader took the road, all 
 following in single file. There was snow enough, well- 
 trodden, and not "hubbly." The horses felt the keen, 
 bracing air, and, tossing their heads, went on with 
 emulous strides, excited by the movements of so many 
 competitors. At the sound of the merry sleigh-bells all 
 the villagers rushed to their windows. 
 
 "My! ef thet ain't Marthy Laurence 'long 'o Hi 
 Smith ! " — " An' there's Jerush Stebbins 'ith lame Joe 
 Wheeler!" — "Lands sakes ! what on airth's she 
 wearin' that red feather fer t " — " But dii yeou see that 
 yaller sleigh, an' thet harness all silver.-^" — "George 
 Haskins an' Em'ly Foster, ez trew's Lm alive ! Wonder 
 what his mother'll say naow ! " — " She don't mean ter 
 hev no young missis a comin' inter her haouse, not ef 
 she knows it, she don't ; not 'z long ez sJic lives ! " 
 
 So, with " Du tell!" and "You don't say so!" and 
 many more ejaculations, and with friendly nods and 
 waving handkerchiefs, the jK'ople saw the long proces- 
 sion glide through the village. 
 
 The old-fashioned sleigh-bells were hollow globes of 
 copper, each with a loose piece of metal inside, arranged 
 like a necklace upon a leather strap. They had a deep 
 
54 ' QUABBIN 
 
 sonority, and were chosen so as to give an approach 
 to harmony ; and in sleighing-time every farmer was 
 recognized from afar by a well-known tone. Horses 
 were proud of them, and showed it by the way in which 
 they carried their heads. No such pageant was exhib- 
 ited in Ouabbin as the annual sleigh-ride, — the smart 
 turnouts, the young men with fur caps and white wool- 
 len comforters, the girls in bright hoods and mufflers, 
 the horses generally keeping step, and the multitude of 
 bells making a merry din. The " pairing off " for such 
 an occasion was generally thought prophetic. Every one 
 looked on with pleasure, excepting youths who could 
 not afford the expense of such an outing, and damsels 
 who had not been invited. Something of heartache 
 lingers behind joy, as shadows lurk behind light. 
 
 Emily Foster, without a mother, and with a kind but 
 unprosperoLis father, was for this day demurely, coyly 
 content, and willing to be altogether happy. Her escort 
 gave his attention at first to his horse, and both were 
 absorbed in the exhilarating course over the long 
 winding road. But propinquity has to be reckoned 
 with. Two kindly disposed young people, warmly 
 clad, packed closely in a well-cushioned sleigh, and 
 protected by a buffalo-robe, inevitably become cosey ; 
 then, with the sense of contact, tender, trustful, talka- 
 tive ; and then, perhaps, silent ; for feeling may be 
 beyond speech. It is only among the gifted beings 
 created by the novelist that the "subjective" comes 
 into play. George and Emily would not have attempted 
 to express their "feelin's" except in simple words. 
 Nor, doubtless, did it occur to them to admire the green 
 pines with white background, the few russet leaves 
 shivering upon the oaks, the stretch of snow-covered 
 

 
PATIENT EMILY 55 
 
 fields, or the softly rounded hilltops. Scenery with its 
 phrases, its sentiment, and associations, had not been 
 imported. Nobody in Quabbin had heard of such a 
 thing. A flower was ''pooty," a tree might be " hahn- 
 some," but what was a '' landscape " t 
 
 For a while George's talk turned upon the past 
 harvest, — the yield of corn and rye, and of potatoes, 
 pumpkins, and apples. After a long pause he said, 
 " Ther* ain't nothin' much livelier than a sleigh-ride on 
 a fine day, when ther's good comp'ny an' good teams." 
 
 *' An' the bells ringin' all together," said his partner, 
 "sound sunthin like Miss Grant's planner." 
 
 *' But it's the comp'ny Em'ly ; I go aout in a sleigh 
 'baout every day, but, when I'm alone, I don't mind 
 nothin' 'baout the bells. But naow " — and without 
 finishing the sentence he settled a little nearer, looked 
 at the girl over his shoulder, and said, *' Enjoyin' yer- 
 self, Em'ly t " 
 
 There was a faint affirmative that sounded like a 
 blissful sigh. 
 
 " Hope 'tain't the las' time ! " said George with 
 significant emphasis. 
 
 "I sh'll alius be pleased to go 'ith yer — ef my 
 father an' yeour mother don't object." 
 
 His mother! The word struck him like a dagger, 
 and he relapsed into silence. Apparently a similar 
 thought possessed the girl. How was she to win that 
 woman's good graces.'' Both were lost in conjectures, 
 but George easily persuaded himself there would be 
 time enough to bring things around. Only he was 
 beginning to dread the meeting that must take place 
 ne.xt morning. 
 
 The route of a dozen miles was soon finished, and 
 
56 QUABBLV 
 
 the party alighted at a tavern, where an entertainment 
 had been made ready. Among thirty young men there 
 is sure to be some bumpkin, and when it came the turn 
 of George and Emily at the door, they saw Lije Bates 
 holding a pillow-beer of oats he had brought for his 
 horse, and facing the jeering hostlers. The provident 
 youth was endeavoring to mask his position. 
 
 "Wa\, you see, I don't kaer 'bout one-and-six, or two 
 shillin' for hoss-feed ; that ain't it; but th' ol' man (his 
 father) tol' me I'd better bring 'em, 'cause bosses, some- 
 times away f'm hum git pesky mean fodder, an' 're ap 
 ter git distemper, er broken wind, er sunthin'." De- 
 risive laughter followed him into the house. 
 
 At the table were steaks and broiled chickens, with 
 pumpkin-pies and mince-pies to follow; but \.h.Q pike de 
 resistance^ was a huge dish of stewed oysters. In the 
 days before railroads, to get oysters in prime condition 
 at such a distance from the sea was not easy. From 
 its rarity the flavor was wonderful, transcendent. The 
 oysters were cooked to a nicety, as shown by their 
 daintily curled ruffles, and were seasoned and buttered 
 with judgment. There was abundance for all. And 
 how those healthy young people ate ! Never afterward 
 would anything taste so exquisite. 
 
 The tables were cleared. A self-taught fiddler struck 
 up some dancing-tunes with spirit, and a good number 
 of the merrymakers went through cotillons and contra- 
 dances ; not the majority, however, for most of the 
 girls were under maternal injunction; and not George 
 and Emily, for he did not wish to offend his mother 
 unnecessarily. 
 
 Some fumes of principe cigars came from the bar- 
 room, and there were suspicions of port-wine sangarees 
 
PATIENT EMILY 57 
 
 (wine, hot water, sugar, and spice), but these were in 
 moderation, and confined to a few. 
 
 The sun had gone down, and the moon was beginning 
 to diffuse its mystical light. The teams were brought 
 out, and the jolly procession re-formed, to return home 
 by another route. The sleigh-bells rang loud and 
 clear in the still air. It was a night which conveyed 
 an impression of the illimitable. 
 
 "God makes sech nights, so white an' still, 
 Fer's you can look or listen ; 
 Moonlight an' snow on field an' hill, 
 All silence, an' all glisten." 
 
 The stanza had not been written, but the moon was 
 shining on New England snow-hills, and on lovers, as 
 it will for ages to come. 
 
 Like Zekle, George felt his veins "all crinkly, like 
 curled maple; " but the pretty scene of Lowell's idyl did 
 not follow. He was thinking of his mother. But he 
 pressed closely his plump partner, and she leaned upon 
 his stalwart shoulder. ]\Icre nothings were spoken, in 
 which tone and suggestion were eloquent. A wxll-rea- 
 soned dialogue from a novel would have been absurd. 
 From the weighty hints it was understood that George 
 was to come next Sunday evening, "arter folks was 
 gone to prayer-meetin'." He did not commit himself 
 further; he knew his mother. 
 
 Emily was safely landed at home before midnight, 
 and found her father waiting for her. Half an hour 
 later George reached home, and after putting up his 
 horse, went into the house, where he found a good fire; 
 but his mother had gone to bed. 
 
 At breakfast there was a passably hostile interchange 
 
58 QUAE BIN 
 
 of views, after the manner of Indian warfare that is 
 carried on from behind trunks of trees. The wily 
 brown eves and the steady gray eyes glanced at each 
 other across the table, then turned aside, or looked 
 down ; then blazed again with sudden eloquence. The 
 words of mother and son were few, but their tone was 
 regretful rather than ill-natured. 
 
 "Might a' let yeour mother a' known." 
 
 " 'Tain't nothin' to take a gal to a sleigh-ride/* 
 
 "Folks don't think so." 
 
 "Folks kin mind their business." 
 
 "But fer yeou to go a-courtin' John Foster's darter 's 
 viy business. He don't b'lieve in nothin'." 
 
 "I ain't a-courtin' Jiiiii'' 
 
 "The Scripter says He will visit the iniquity of the 
 fathers upon the children." 
 
 "I ain't argyin' Scripter." 
 
 " Wal, yeou might hev regard fer yeour mother's 
 feelin's." 
 
 "So I hev." 
 
 "We sh'U see." 
 
 It was a mere skirmish, for the combatants did not 
 come to close quarters ; but each had found out where 
 the other stood. 
 
 Some years passed, and all that was noticeable in the 
 conduct of George Haskins was that he neglected the 
 Sunday evening prayer-meetings lamentably. What 
 further interviews he had with his mother, who can 
 say } People of strong will do not talk much : a v/ord 
 and a look are enough. Perhaps there was needed 
 only a little more openness and courage on his part ; 
 perhaps, knowing her convictions, and her desire to 
 remain mistress in the house, the dutiful son or faint- 
 hearted lover forbore to press her. 
 
PATIENT EMILY 59 
 
 She was growing old, four-score at least ; her son 
 was nearing forty, and Emily was no longer as fresh as 
 on the day of the sleigh-ride. '' Hope deferred maketh 
 the heart sick." 
 
 John Foster, who had long been feeble, passed away. 
 He had kept his word, and had gone no more to hear 
 about election and reprobation ; but he had taken rather 
 kindly to the new minister, although he made no move 
 toward uniting with the church. He died as he had 
 lived, a gentle being, without a creed, but fully per- 
 suaded of the mercy of God. Mrs. Haskins evidently 
 wished to talk about his death, but her son always 
 eluded her. 
 
 And so time went on. The house was a miracle of 
 neatness. The dairy was cool and sweet ; the cheeses 
 were golden like harvest-moons. In all that concerned 
 his comfort George had nothing to ask for. But was 
 his conscience at ease } 
 
 Poor Emily Foster! After the death of her father 
 she had the care of a brother and sister. All the girls 
 of her age were married, or had accepted, with such 
 resignation as was possible, the lot of old maids. She 
 was cheerful in her melancholy way, — a late flowering 
 but still lovely rose. Why had not her lover courage.'* 
 Or had he done his utmost in vain t 
 
 Time went on. George's Sunday evening visits were 
 regularly made, but the courtship had become an old 
 story in the village, and people ceased to talk about 
 it. One evening Emily plucked up courage to say 
 something decisive, even if it should bring about a 
 rupture. The great struggle was painfully visible in 
 her face. 
 
 "George," she said, while her eyes brimmed witli 
 
6o QUAE BIN 
 
 tears, ''yeou can't say I hain't ben patient all these 
 years. I've gin up my youth an' every futur' hope fer 
 yeour love. Seems ter me yeou hain't hed the grit ter 
 meet yeour mother ez yeou orter. The Scriptur' says 
 a man sh'll leave his father an' his mother, an' cleave 
 unter his wife. Did yeou ever repeat tu her that verse } " 
 
 "No, — not 'xackly." 
 
 " Hev yeou ever asked her what she hed ag'in me ? 
 I know she didn't like my father, but he ain't in her 
 way any more." 
 
 "No ; she wouldn't never say. She was alius offish." 
 
 " Wal, I've a'most come ter the conclewsion that I'd 
 ruther be alone, an' continner alone, than ter go on this 
 way, neither merried ner single." 
 
 "Don't talk so, Em'ly ; I'll try ag'in. But mother 
 ain't well, an' I hate to cross her. It'll all come aout 
 right." 
 
 " Du yeou mean 't yeou think she ain't goin' ter live } 
 Ef that's what yeou mean by its comin' aout right, it 
 ain't Christian. Much ez I love yer, I don't wanter put 
 my happiness on the chance of any woman's dyin' ; I'd 
 ruther the thing was ended right here." 
 
 " No ; but, Em'ly, jest yeou wait. I'll 'gree ter bring 
 ye mother's consent, or I won't ask ye to merry me." 
 
 " Wal, on that promise I'll wait awhile; though I'm 
 clear wore aout 'ith hopin' an' dreadin'." 
 
 A few weeks later some children were picking 
 berries on Great Ouabbin, when suddenly they heard 
 two strokes from the meeting-house bell. One stroke 
 denoted the death of a man, two of a woman, and three 
 of a child. The bell then began the strokes for the 
 age, and the children counted. It seemed they would 
 never end. Sixty was passed, then seventy, then 
 
PATIENT EMILY 6 1 
 
 eighty ; then one, two, three, four, five ; and there was 
 silence. Eighty-five. 
 
 When the children got home, a boy said, " It must be 
 that the bell was toUin' fer the death of Mrs. Haskins." 
 
 "No," said Aunt Keziah ; "the bell was ringin' fer 
 Em'ly Foster's weddin'." 
 
 George had kept his word. He and his Emily were 
 beside his mother's dying-bed, and they had received 
 her blessing. 
 
 This happened long ago. The patient couple are no 
 more, and their children live under the shadow of the 
 ancestral elms. 
 
62 QUABDhY 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JUDAISTIC LEANINGS 
 
 It is a singular and perhaps unexplained fact in the 
 history of Christianity, that, so long after the lapse of 
 the "old dispensation," there should have re-appeared 
 among the Puritans such a marked preference for the 
 Old Testament Scriptures and names, and such a sym- 
 pathy with the Mosaic jurisprudence and traditions. 
 During the seventeenth century the minds of the Puri- 
 tans, and of most British dissenters, seem to have 
 been less impressed by the divinely simple Gospel 
 narratives than by the dealings of God with the patri- 
 archs, — by the terrible splendors of Sinai, the transla- 
 tion of Enoch, the audible call of Samuel, and Elijah's 
 chariot of fire. Their stern natures sympathized with 
 the grandeur and awe with which the prophets and 
 psalmists enveloped His throne, and with the unchange- 
 able rigidity attributed to His moral government. 
 
 In public worship at Quabbin the Old Testament 
 was drawn upon for texts of sermons, and for reading 
 lessons, far oftcncr than the New. Pravers were elab- 
 oratcly inlaid with the poetical phrases of David, some 
 of which resembled the grovelling addresses of slaves 
 to Eastern despots ; and the phrases were so constantly 
 repeated that every hearer knew their sequence, as he 
 knew the route to his own home. There came a time 
 
JUDAISTIC LEANIXGS 6l 
 
 when the people of Ouabbin heard prayers to God 
 marked by a tripping familiarity that would have been 
 discourteous to a county judge. The unseemly levity 
 and the slavish prostration might have been equally 
 avoided, if care had been taken to follow the precept 
 and example of Jesus : " Thus ought ye to pray." 
 
 In discourses and exhortations, references were con- 
 stantly made to the favor shown by the Creator of all 
 men to "His chosen people." It is not to be supposed 
 that the disciples and apostles were not reverenced, but 
 there was far more heard of Moses, David, and the 
 prophets. The bush that burned and was not con- 
 sumed was as often in mind as the pathetic symbol of 
 Christ's death and man's redemption. The sonorous 
 names of Semitic warriors and kings were familiar to 
 the lips of the early ministers ; the syllables of Ze-rub- 
 ba-bel gurgled like water falling over stones ; Jehoiada, 
 Jeroboam, Ahasuerus, Ahab, Hezekiah and Sennacherib, 
 how well they were known ! But Augustine, Ambrose, 
 Chrysostom, Clement, Ignatius, Irenoeus, and Polycarp, 
 were never mentioned except once a year, in the course 
 of a thundering attack upon the Scarlet Woman of the 
 Apocalypse. 
 
 Baptismal names showed a similar drift. Of course, 
 a few old English names were rej^resented ; but most 
 children wore appellations laboriously sought out from 
 the Bible; and they were often ponderous enough to 
 make the toddling wearers top-heavy. The names 
 were not necessarily Hebrew; they might be Greek or 
 Roman; but they had become hallowed by being im- 
 bedded in a biblical text. Aquila, Epaphras, and The- 
 ophilus flourished, though less frequently than Abijah, 
 Eliphaz, and Ichabod. A father who had been christ- 
 
64 ' QUABBIN 
 
 ened Moses had three sons, Moses, Aaron, and Josiah. 
 In Webster's Dictionary there is a list of Scripture 
 names, and, in running them over, about one hundred 
 and eighty were found that were well knowa in Quabbin 
 and vicinity. Many were beautiful, but more were inhar- 
 monious. Ridiculous associations came to be attached to 
 some that were originally noble. In hearing the names 
 Hosea and Ezekiel, one seldom thinks of the majestic 
 prophets, but of " Hosy " the shrewd and comic hero of 
 the Biglow Papers, and of ** Zekle " of the Yankee idyl. 
 What young lady in modern society would willingly 
 own to the name of Jemima, Jerusha, or Tabitha } There 
 were twin sisters not many miles from Quabbin named 
 Tryphena and Tryphosa. One bright-eyed matron was 
 named Tirzah; another, fair and delicate, had been 
 called Zeruiah. What angelic patience must have been 
 required to bear such burdens for life ! 
 
 In common speech all names were clipped and vul- 
 garized ; and among school-boys and young men the 
 actual designations were "Eph," ''Bije," "Ez," ''Hi," 
 **Rast," *'Josh," "Lije," etc. Poets must find it hard 
 to fit these docked and ill-used names into pastoral 
 verse; and even when the line is made, the reader is 
 apt to be disgusted by some unromantic association. 
 Lowell's ballad of ''The Courtin' " is almost perfect in 
 beauty ; and yet, in some moods, at the mention of 
 "Zekle" and "Huldy " a sense of vulgar comedy comes 
 in to overbear the poetic feeling. 
 
 Oddly enough, there was never a man or boy named 
 Paul in Quabbin, or in the region. Was there some 
 half-conscious sympathy with the Judaistic distrust and 
 dislike of the great apostle to the artistic and lettered 
 world } 
 
JUDAJSriC LEANINGS 65 
 
 The manner of keeping Sunday was Juclaistic; and 
 its sacredness was defended as by the lightnings of 
 Sinai; it being disingenuously claimed that the substi- 
 tution of Sunday for the Jewish Sabbath was made by 
 Divine command. Of the blessedness of reservinof in 
 every week a day of rest for body and mind, and of the 
 propriety and duty of maintaining the beautiful Chris- 
 tian custom of making that day a glad and solemn re- 
 ligious festival, no reflecting man can have any doubt. 
 But when it comes to the question of regarding the 
 gathering of a few sticks on that day as a crime worthy 
 of death, any man of common-sense might well pause. 
 
 Some few persons — not more than two or three fam- 
 ilies — adhered to the literal meaning of the verse in 
 Genesis (mistranslated in King James's version), ''The 
 evening and the morning were the first day." In the 
 revised version it reads, ''And there was evening, and 
 there was morning, one day." Such persons began 
 their preparations in the afternoon of Saturday, and 
 their devotions at sundown. The children regarded 
 this as an encroachment on prescriptive rights, as the 
 "Sahberday" stretched quite beyond twenty-four hours. 
 When thev asked on Sundav at what hour they mii-ht 
 go out to play, the answer was, "When you can see 
 three stars." 
 
 The original purpose of encompassing the first day 
 of the week with the awful denunciations that once 
 guarded the seventh is obvious. It was an indispensa- 
 ble part of the plan for keeping the control of the peo- 
 ple in the hands of the ministers. With this end in 
 view, the express words and the bold example of Ilim 
 who was Lord of the Sabbath were silently disregarded, 
 or ingeniously glossed over. For a specimen of clever 
 
66 QUAE BIN 
 
 juggling with the "niicldle term" of an implied syllo- 
 gism, the reader is referred to the Shorter Catechism, 
 in the part relating to the Fourth Commandment. If a 
 *' worldly " logician should venture upon such a falsifi- 
 cation, what would not be said of him ? 
 
 A few words upon the daily life and occupation of an 
 old gentleman who lived in Quabbin sixty years ago 
 will give a better idea of the prevailing tone of thought 
 than any description. He became incapable of physical 
 labor in middle life, and devoted himself for more than 
 thirty years thereafter to reading and study. As his 
 collection of books was scanty and little varied, and as 
 he knew his Bible by heart, the time often hung heavy 
 on his bands, and he took to writing. Had he thought 
 to have wTitten his memoirs, the book would have been 
 invaluable. He was five years old when the battle of 
 Bunker's Hill was fought, and remembered the hurried 
 ride of the farmer, who, in shirt-sleeves and without a 
 saddle, came to rouse the neighborhood (Woodstock, 
 Conn.) and call for volunteers to go on with General 
 Putnam (''Old Put") to fight the British at Boston. 
 Of course he remembered the events of the Revolu- 
 tionary war, the formation of the Constitution, and the 
 war of 1812. He must have had, also, a store of tradi- 
 tions of the settlement of Quabbin, whither he came in 
 1793. But, instead of setting down these recollections, 
 he wrote scrntons ! They were generally upon Hebrew 
 themes, and were written merely as literary exercises, 
 for he never thought of preaching. Just as if the air 
 were not full of them ! Then he wrote a long rhymed 
 essay upon Melchisedek ! in which he undertook to 
 prove, that as this personage was styled a "priest of the 
 Most High God," and was said to be "without begins- 
 
JUDAISTIC LEAXIXGS. 67 
 
 ning of days or end of time," he could have been no 
 other than the second person of the Trinity, appearing 
 in the flesh on earth in that ancient time, as he did long 
 after in Judea. This old gentleman was the only liter- 
 ary layman in town, and such was the work to which 
 he devoted many years of his life ! He was a keen and 
 quick-witted man, and in a literary atmosphere might 
 have accomplished something. Later he enlisted in the 
 anti-slavery crusade, and his energy found a practical 
 field for exercise. 
 
 The gloom which characterized the life of the Puri- 
 tans and over-shadowed some generations of their 
 descendants, was largely due to the prominence of Old 
 Testament ideas, to the awful traits attributed by 
 Hebrew writers to Jehovah, to the solemnity of their 
 poetry, to the ominous "burdens" of their prophecy, 
 and to their materialistic philosophy, ending in rayless 
 night. While under the influence of such ideas and 
 feelings, one might think Christ had died in vain. In 
 time the clear effulgence of Christianity dispersed these 
 shadows. 
 
 In this chapter have been noticed only such Judaistic 
 tendencies as survived in Ouabbin ; but at the begin- 
 ning of the two colonies on the Bay, the opinions and 
 acts of the rulers in regard to liberty and equality, antl 
 religious toleration, as well as in regard to law, consid- 
 'ered as the basis of society, were broadly Jewish and 
 theocratic. 
 
68 QUABBIA 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 
 
 Many of the early settlers of Quabbin were descend- 
 ants of the Pilgrims, and caftie from the Old Colony of 
 Plymouth. In the time of its first minister there were 
 heard in the outlying districts, and quite commonly in 
 the village, the tones and inflections used long before by 
 Governor Brewster and Captain Miles Standish. The 
 quality of voice, the vowel sounds, the elisions and 
 the accent, now characterized as Yankee, were heard, 
 beyond doubt, though with some variations, in the 
 preaching of Bunyan, the talk of Cromwell's men, and 
 the debates of the Long Parliament. Of course, this 
 statement is conjectural, but the known facts leave 
 little doubt as to its correctness. It is probable, how- 
 ever, that during an age of more ardent faith and deeper 
 emotion there was a prevalent tone of voice which was 
 easily turned to ridicule --as is seen in Hudibras — 
 and which in more worldly times began to disappear. 
 
 The old speech has been imitated by many writers, 
 as in Lowell's ** Biglow Papers," ^ in Mrs. Stowe's '* Old 
 Town Folks," in passages of the "Autocrat of the 
 Breakfast Tal)le," and in stories bv Trowbridge, by 
 Rose Terry Cooke, and Mary E. Wilkins. Undoubt- 
 
 1 In the introduction to the second series of tlie " Biglow Papers" is the most 
 complete treatise extant upon tiiis subject. 
 
DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 69 
 
 edly there have been, and still are, local differences in 
 the dialect, for in none of the books above cited is there 
 a resemblance /;/ all respects to the speech once heard 
 in Ouabbin. In most of the specimens which the world 
 justly admires there has been imported something 
 modern, which makes an impression like that of a 
 knowing city youth masquerading in a farmer's frock. 
 Such is the feeling of a native of Ouabbin who recalls 
 the measured, kindly, and habitually reverent tone and 
 phrase used by the people he knew. It w^as only among 
 the worldly or the openly wicked that one would have 
 observed the biting shrewdness, or the bantering with 
 texts of Scripture and sacred things, which have been 
 attributed to the representative Yankee. Such an 
 expression as 
 
 " An' you'll hev to git up airly 
 Ef you want to take in God " 
 
 would never have been used by a Yankee in Ouabbin, 
 except among the irreligious and profane. Yet the 
 concluding stanzas of the ballad just referred to show 
 that Hosea was animated by a noble and God-fearing 
 spirit. It \vould not have helped the matter — in 
 Quabbin — that St. Augustine, Fuller, and all the 
 divines in the world, had taken similar liberties with 
 the Creator. Those people could not have spoken so ; 
 for the Great Name was never mentioned but with awe. 
 All this may have been different on the seaboard. 
 And it must be admitted that those godly and slow- 
 speaking men, whose ways and speech are a part of the 
 life of all Ouabbin's sons, would not have been half as 
 amusing as the keen fellows who have figured in dialect 
 story and poem. 
 
70 QUABBIN 
 
 An abiding sense of the reality of spiritual things, 
 and of the nearness of the judgment-day, tempered 
 every utterance. Ejaculations and passionate emphasis 
 had no place ; the movement of speech was partly like 
 a ploughman's measured tread, and partly like the flow 
 of a gently murmuring brook. Their archaisms were 
 as " nateral " as buttercups to a meadow. 
 
 A farmer, during the Millerite craze, about 1840, said 
 to the village blacksmith, in a simple, level tone that 
 no tvpes can express, "Why, Cousin Rozzell," mean- 
 ing Roswell, '' they du say the world is nigh about to 
 come 'pon an eend." — "Wal," replied the blacksmith, 
 ** I guess th' airth, an' the housen tu, 'II last out your 
 time an' mine." What was the notion of the end of 
 temporal things, and of the nature of the unseen world, 
 that lay in the mind of that man in the blue frock.? 
 
 Familiar allusions to the powers of nature were 
 regarded as sinful. There had been a tornado that 
 had demolished houses, and cut a swath through a 
 forest of stalwart trees in the Blue Meadow district, 
 a few miles west ; and one of the farmers, whose store 
 of rye had been scattered, coming to the village shortly 
 
 after, said, *' ef I don't think there's a fresh 
 
 hand got a hold of the bellers ! " People laughed, but, on 
 reflection, the speech was considered as blasphemous. 
 The comparison to a pair of bellows was breezy, but 
 the covert intimation touching the power of the breath 
 of the Almighty was deplorable. 
 
 If names of towns in Massachusetts furnish any deci- 
 sive indication, there must have been settlers in the 
 colony from every part of Great Britain. It is known 
 that in a great many instances companies of immigrants 
 bestowed the names of their old homes upon the new 
 
DJ^ESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 71 
 
 towns rising in the wilderness ; and, if this were not 
 always the case, there are other reasons for believing 
 that there was a general representation of the mother 
 country in the colony. The early native population 
 was the result of a fusion of the British people from 
 many districts. Peculiarities from some of the rural 
 counties of England, and, in less measure from Scot- 
 land and Ireland, may be detected in the old colloquial 
 speech, but one never hears from a native New Eng- 
 lander anything resembling the pronounced or obtrusive 
 dialects, as of Yorkshire, Lancashire, or Somerset; still 
 less the Londoner's odious omission or misplacement of 
 // ; although some Yankees drop the final g^ as do the 
 ill-taught upper-class English people. Somerset is rep- 
 resented by the Yankee's double negative, as '' I hain't 
 got no dog." The Yankee's tone is more like that 
 of Yorkshire. It is doubtful if there is any district 
 in England where one would hear a connected sentence 
 wholly in the dialect or tone of Quabbin. The nearest 
 approach to it, in the opinion of the writer, was in the 
 talk of a tram-car driver and some hostlers at Moreton 
 near Oxford, upon a badly-fitting collar that was galling 
 one of the horses. There was, moreover, a tone of con- 
 sideration quite unusual among stablemen ; a decent 
 farmer in Quabbin would have spoken in much the 
 same way. 
 
 The various EnHish dialects brou2:ht to2fether in the 
 colony remained distinct, probably, for one or two gen- 
 erations ; but, after a time, attrition, usage, and svmpa- 
 thetic imitation, produced a new composite, which now 
 appears like an original, albeit with slight local pecu- 
 liarities. 
 
 The nasal tone in New l^ngland, it is said, was caused 
 
72 QUAE BIN 
 
 by the severe climate and the prevalent catarrh ; but 
 those wore not the sole causes. Catarrh debases 
 speech, both in quality of tone and in distinctness of 
 articulation ; but the disease is more prevalent now 
 than formerly, while the general speech is probably 
 less nasal. Australians are said to have nasal voices, 
 and they are not afflicted with catarrh. The New Eng- 
 land drawl and the nasal tone were probably derived 
 originally from the meeting-house and the prayer-meet- 
 ings ; both defects became fixed by habit, and, of course, 
 have been greatly heightened by climatic conditions. 
 
 The virtue constantly insisted upon in the old times 
 by parents and religious teachers was humility, self- 
 abnegation. In repeating passages of Scripture, or of 
 the Catechism, the tone was subdued. The religious 
 spirit was manifested in awe and reverence, seldom in 
 cheerfulness, and never in exaltation — except in such 
 exaltation as was accompanied with moistened eyes 
 and "tears in the voice." It was **a dying world" in 
 which our fathers lived ; the expression of their ideas 
 and feelings would not require the expansive lungs, nor 
 heave the deep chest, of a vigorous and well-developed 
 man. The noise, no less than the manner, of a burly 
 fox-hunter and athlete, would be abhorrent to one 
 whose soul was melted in penitence, and who in his 
 daily devotions intoned in dragging minor intervals 
 the prayers that he dared not address to the Dread 
 Majesty of Heaven with steady eyes and manly voice. 
 There was a good deacon in Ouabbin whose words, 
 when he prayed, were joined, as by a singer's pot'ta- 
 vicnto, with (i/i and rr, and with indescribable sounds, 
 like the final hum of a nasal ;;/ and ;/. The words 
 were hyphenated, and each sentence was a close-linked, 
 
DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 73 
 
 long-drawn chain. Let such usages of speech go on 
 for generations, and the infection will pervade the 
 community. The child will be soothed by a nasal 
 lullaby, and will drawl from the time he leaves his 
 cradle. He will drawl at his lessons, and make ca- 
 tarrhal yells in the playground. As a lover he will 
 drawl to his mistress, and repeat love's litany through 
 the nose. When his duet with her is finished, and his 
 snuffy voice extinct, he will be drawn (slowly) to his 
 grave, to drawl no more. 
 
 It appears to be certain that the nasal and drawling 
 tone is in a larsre measure the result of two and a half 
 
 o 
 
 centuries of Puritan training; just as the peculiarities 
 of language, including local and obsolete terms, half- 
 articulated contractions, and clipping of words, are the 
 result of the fusion of many illiterate British dialects. 
 The bucolic speech is dying out, for school-teachers are 
 uprooting it, as farmers do thistles, but the tone hangs 
 on, like the scent of musk in Hosea Biglows "draw." 
 
 Manners belong equally to mind and body. On the 
 one hand is the friendly or courteous intention, and on 
 the other the spontaneous movement, accompanied by 
 the look of kindness or deference. 
 
 In Ouabbin it was the custom to salute on the high- 
 way or in public places ; to pass even a stranger Vv^ith- 
 out some recognition would have been considered rude ; 
 but the graceful bow and the expressive look were not 
 often at command. Hard-working people are strong 
 but not supple; ease of movement comes from lighter 
 modes of exercise. And as for the friendly look, how 
 could it be worn by a man whose whole life was within, 
 and whose face was habitually drawn to its tour corners } 
 So, when two farmers met, their greeting might seem 
 
74 QUABBIN 
 
 to a stran^2^er gruff or surly, since the facial muscles 
 were so inexpressive, while, in fact, they were on most 
 friendly terms. It was one of the reasons which made 
 city people so disliked in Ouabbin that they never 
 bowed, or "passed the time o' day." 
 
 The chief of the minor virtues, or rules of conduct, 
 was self-command. The faces of the people on the 
 Lord's Day might have been cast in bronze. Except in 
 the rare case of some impulsive brother, whose varying 
 feelings were visible from afar, there was small change 
 in the expression of a godly countenance from the time 
 it was set Zionward until it returned to encounter the 
 Sahber-day pork and beans. The psalms, the Scripture 
 readings, the prayers, and the sermon were all heard 
 with immovable solemnity, tempered, perhaps, with a 
 ** half tone " of mournful penitence. 
 
 Men of firm mould came to acquire this fixity of 
 visage in permanence : it was not only on Sunday and 
 at prayer-meeting, but at the store and the mill, and in 
 the field. In traffic, such as swapping horses or cattle, 
 it was not without its advantage; for the dealer who 
 does not show his thought to a sharp adversary is not 
 taken unaware. It is, of course, an irreverent and most 
 unlikely suggestion ; but if the game of poker had then 
 been known, and one could conceive the enormity of 
 a Puritan playing it, the impassible countenance of a 
 deacon over a ** full hand " or '' four kings " would have 
 puzzled and baffled the most experienced gambler; for 
 poker is not so much a game of cards as of men. 
 
 As before intimated, neiirhbors met each other sol- 
 emnly, but, doubtless, with as much of good will as is 
 felt by the more effusive or more courteous people of 
 larger communities. This constraint was evident in 
 
D/^ESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 75 
 
 the intercourse between the sexes. A steadfast look 
 and a pointed word from a young man meant as much 
 to an observing girl as the most elaborate compliment 
 from a city beau. In such matters, what girl is not 
 observing } The representations of Yankee courtships 
 in popular novels and stories are almost always false, if 
 Ouabbin throws any light on the subject. The words 
 are really few and disconnected, each pointing to sepa- 
 rate vistas of thought, or indicating separate pulses of 
 feeling, and each interpreted by looks, secret pressures, 
 and fond breathings. Set down as they were spoken, 
 they would be as unintelligible to one not ''to the man- 
 ner born " as an Aztec inscription. 
 
 Married couples, whose life-long affection no native 
 could doubt, moved as if in different though dependent 
 orbits, like double stars, and never (in public view) jos- 
 tled into tender familiarity. In the presence of the 
 familv the head of the house spoke of his wife as 
 ''Alarm," or "Mother," or "Your ma;" and to others 
 as " Mis' So-and-so ;" and always in a tone of distance, 
 as if there were some dim mystery in the relationship. 
 Years might pass, and the faithful souls would go on 
 with work and worship, wearing all unconsciously the 
 masks which custom had prescribed ; and the onlookers 
 who did not know the secret might think them cold and 
 indifferent. Strangers and Kiplings could not enter 
 into this. But if there were a sudden accident, as from 
 a runaway horse, a mad bull, or a falling tree ; or if there 
 were a dangerous illness, or the death of a child, or 
 other calamity ; then would break out the long-covered 
 fires ; — then the eloquence of the heart would be heard 
 from tlie stricken father or the bereaved mother, and 
 sobs and tears would show the depth and intensity of 
 
76 QUABBIN 
 
 the love that had fused the family group into one 
 golden ring. 
 
 Lord Macaulay's well-known sketch of the Puritan, 
 in his youthful and glowing essay on Milton, may have 
 been artistically true for the Cromwellian period, but 
 the Puritan of Quabbin (and elsewhere) was less gran- 
 diose and less theatrical. In the course of nearly two 
 centuries the ardors of the church furnace had abated. 
 Among men there was less strain and pose in attitude, 
 less amplitude and fewer figures in speech. Perhaps 
 the men were more common-place, but certainly the 
 spiritual temperature was cooler. 
 
 It is probably a revolving of truisms, but it ought to 
 be clearly understood that the people of Quabbin, as 
 well as Yankees in general, did not wear their hearts 
 upon their sleeves for critical daws to peck at. The 
 springs of their conduct, their beliefs and prejudices, 
 their humors and eccentricities, their homely proverbs 
 and dry witticisms, are rarel)' comprehended by people 
 who have not passed a good part of their lives among 
 them. The " Biglow Papers," except in some minor 
 details, is a complete mirror of Yankee life and charac- 
 ter ; much of its wit is so salient that all the world 
 chuckled over it; but no reader who was not "one of 
 the family " ever really appreciated it. It is much read 
 and quoted in Great Britain ; but the people know noth- 
 ing of it, — no more than Englishmen know of Burns. 
 The customs, the names of common objects, and the 
 subsidiary vocabulary, to say nothing of merry twists 
 and allusions, together form an impenetrable barrier. 
 
 There had been changes in dress since Puritan times, 
 such as the use of trowsers and braces instead of knee- 
 breeches and knit hose, and the disuse of broad linen 
 
DJ^ESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 7/ 
 
 collars and steeple-crowned hats ; but top-coats, cloaks, 
 and capes defied fashion, and apparently outlasted their 
 wearers. The outer garments of most old men were 
 characteristic in form and color, and, like their wives, 
 were taken for better or worse until death parted 
 them. 
 
 In some way there was a distinguishing mark for all 
 the people. It was a double-cape coat of sheep's gray, 
 or one of greenish brown with great horn buttons ; or.. 
 it was a full, wadded, dark-blue camlet cloak, with stand- 
 ing collar, fur-lined, and fastened by a copper chain and 
 clasp ; whatdVer it was, it was peculiar and recogniz- 
 able. Black was seldom worn, except by women, and 
 by those in mourning. Garments were often enough 
 "sad" in color, but were generally indecisive, as if 
 faded and weather-beaten. It is perhaps superfluous 
 to say that the tailor's art was seldom conspicuous ; 
 neither symmetry nor wrinkles were of much conse- 
 quence, provided the garment was easy and comfort- 
 able. Before fashion brought about uniformity, there 
 were strange freaks in costume. A bridegroom in 
 Quabbin once came to meeting wearing a blue coat 
 with brass buttons, buff waistcoat with gilt buttons, 
 and wide trowsers (it was in summer), made from the 
 same material as the bride's dress, — a rather lustrous 
 piece of fawn-colored silk ; and the skirt rustled audibly 
 against the trowsers as the pair, each carrying a flower 
 and shod with kid slippers, walked up the aisle. 
 
 The vagaries in bonnets, " scoops," and calashes were 
 ingenious. There were silks, straws, chips, crapes, 
 navarinos, leghorns, in endless variety. One hat comes 
 to mind, of which the crown stood out straight behind 
 the head, while the front was raised nearly pcrjuMidicu- 
 
78 QUABDIN 
 
 lar, like a misplaced halo, its upper edge nearly a foot 
 above the forehead. The intervening space was cov- 
 ered with smoothly stretched satin of such a vivid red 
 that it burned the eyes like a red pepper to look at it. 
 The damsel's face seemed to be in the heart of a flame, 
 and her features could never be recalled afterward apart 
 from that fiery background. 
 
 There was one grave and silent old man who was a 
 type of a class. He was poverty-stricken but decent ; 
 dingy but clean ; yet what he wore — of what material 
 was his long coat, or what its color — no one could say. 
 The man and his raiment were one ; nothing was more 
 decided in hue than the back of a toad, yet the entity 
 was siii generis^ distinguishable from all others. His 
 features were grotesque in ugliness, yet wore a look of 
 patience, as if fate could do him no further harm. His 
 ways were solitary, and on Sunday he sat by himself in 
 the gallery, his quaint, bushy head — neither gray nor 
 black — resting against a pilaster on the west wall, 
 whereof the white paint kept an enduring impression. 
 
 One day, in sight of all the village folk, he was car- 
 ried away to the county jail, tied with a cord about his 
 wrists and body — a prisoner for debt. The deputy 
 sheriff not unfrequently carried away prisoners, but 
 they were usually drunkards or cheats, while this old 
 man was sober and harmless. There was no unwonted 
 melancholy upon his face — neither anger nor tears — 
 and he said not a word. For a time he was missed 
 fr(jm his joost in the gallery, poor old man ! 
 
 From the beginning of the present century there 
 were improvements in vehicles and tools. The old 
 jolting wagons were relieved by ** thorough braces," 
 leather straps supporting the body, and later by elliptic 
 
DRESS, MANNERS, AND SPEECH 79 
 
 springs of steel. Chaises with bonnet-tops were affected 
 by well-to-do people, as their motion was easy ; but they 
 were back-breaking for horses, and have long since dis- 
 appeared. Ploughs used to be made of wood, cased and 
 pointed with steel, but were supplanted by those of 
 solid iron with steel lips many years ago. 
 
 Dress and vehicles are important so far as they con- 
 cern beauty and comfort, but they are not the life of a 
 people. The connection with the past was in (a some- 
 what softened) religious faith and practice ; in traditions 
 of town and parish government ; in the usages of domes- 
 tic life, and in the old and homely speech. The de- 
 scendants of both Pil2:rims and Puritans adhered sub- 
 stantially to the ways of the fathers as they were from, 
 sa}^ 1620 onward. 
 
 A traveller who, sixty years ago, proposed to alight 
 at a farmhouse in Ouabbin, would have found conditions 
 nearly the same as those which existed among people 
 of the same class in old colony times, and among the 
 rural English of the same period. The domestic con- 
 veniences would have been such as have been described 
 in a former chapter, — the great chimney and open 
 fireplace, the splint-bottomed chairs, the spinning- 
 wheels and loom. He would have been offered a mug 
 of cider or a canakin of rum. At dinner would be 
 seen a boiled leg of salt pork, or boiled ribs of salt beef, 
 with mustard or horse-radish, pickles, and hot vege- 
 tables ; the service of plain delft, with steel knives and 
 forks, and without napkins. Rye-and-Indian bread 
 would be served on a wooden trencher. Pumpkin- or 
 apple-pie, doughnuts, and cheese would follow. 
 
 If he should pass the night, and it were in winter, 
 he would go \\\) to a freezing attic, undress while stand- 
 
8o QUAE BIN 
 
 ing on a braided woollen mat, and get into a feather-bed, 
 which rested on a sack of straw, and that upon cords 
 stretched crosswise in a solid bedstead of maple. Over 
 him would be spread home-made blankets, and a blue 
 woollen coverlet of a rude, checked pattern, that had 
 been woven in the family loom. In the morning he 
 would go down to the " sink " in the lean-to, next to 
 the kitchen, fortunate if he had not to break ice in 
 order to get water to wash his face and hands, or more 
 fortunate if a little warm water was poured into his 
 basin from the kettle swung over the kitchen-fire. 
 After using vigorously the great coarse linen towel 
 that hung upon a roller near by, he would be ready for 
 a preparatory nipper of cider, and then for a substan- 
 tial breakfast. This might be of ham and eggs, or of 
 salt fish prepared with cream, or of bean-porridge (for 
 which a ham-bone furnished the stock), or of cold corned 
 beef, with hot potatoes, and usually hot bread (called 
 ** biscuits") resembling muffins; and with sauces, 
 pickles, and other provocatives in plenty. 
 
HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 8 1 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 
 
 There were not a great many people in Ouabbin 
 who were not poor, as the world considers poverty, but 
 there were seldom any paupers.^ Destitute foreigners 
 in Massachusetts are taken to one of the State alms- 
 houses — deplorable aggregations of humanity. Each 
 town in its corporate capacity is under obligation to 
 support only such paupers as were born within its 
 limits, or have " acquired a settlement " therein. '' Ac- 
 quiring a settlement " is something not easy to explain. 
 As we shall see, a Vv^oman, not being a holder of taxable 
 property, might live in a town half a century and have 
 no legal relation to it ; and it would be the same in the 
 case of a man who had not held public office, or paid 
 taxes for some consecutive years. Instances have been 
 known when wily tov/n officers have silently omitted 
 from the tax-list the names of men, not being natives, 
 v/hom they thought might sometime require public aid. 
 The law is somewhat intricate, and need not be dwelt 
 upon. 
 
 Quabbin, like other towns, had its poor-farm, which 
 
 1 There are very few to-day. The ahnoners, under a bequest for aiding any 
 deserving poor not assisted by tlie town, have some difficulty in conscientiously 
 distributing the annual allowance. One man to whom the bounty was lately 
 offered said he didn't tliink he ought \.o take it : there must be some poorer laniily 
 than his'n. 
 
82 QUABBIX 
 
 was town property, and was managed by some man in 
 ])ursuance of an agreement with the Overseers of the 
 Poor, who w^ere annually chosen by the people. When 
 friendless and destitute persons, legally entitled to sup- 
 port, were, in common parlance, " flung upon the town," 
 the keeper of the poor-farm provided for them in the 
 house he occupied. There were a great many years 
 during which the keeper and his wife had no guests. 
 
 Two stories follow, in which the prevalent ideas upon 
 charity may appear. 
 
 AUNT KEZIAH 
 
 It was Aunt Keziah who said the bells were "ringin' 
 for Em'lv Foster's weddin'." Poor woman ! no wed- 
 ding-bells had rung for Jicr. She was old and com- 
 fortably feeble, and had many strange "feelin's," which 
 she thought it important to detail and illustrate ; but, 
 though she was well past seventy, she was likely still 
 to hold on for a score of years. From her movements 
 one would think that her joints had been badly ad- 
 justed at first, or else had got out of gear by long use. 
 Her lower jaw at times had a sidewise or wabbling 
 motion, like that of some ruminants ; and, when her 
 chin rose and fell, the soft white skin below it seemed 
 to be the flexible envelope of a bundle of cords, 
 stretched and wrinkled by turns. Upon scanning her 
 face attentively, there were evident traces of former 
 good looks, if not of beauty. Her nose was straight, 
 her forehead regular, and her blue eyes, behind a pair 
 of silver-bowed '* specs," had still a fine depth of color, 
 although their forlorn and piteous expression was at 
 first more obvious than their contour and hue. Some 
 effort of imagination would be necessary to bring back 
 
BOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR ^l 
 
 any youthful charm to her shrivelled face and figure, 
 but there was no doubt that half a century before she 
 had been an attractive woman. She was neat and 
 cleanly, except for the browning;- of her lip by snuff. 
 Like all elderly women at that time, she wore a lace 
 or muslin cap ; and hers was generally trimmed with 
 slate-colored or black ribbons. Her dress was plain 
 and poor, and her spare shoulders were covered by a 
 small shawl. Needless to say, she was always accorded 
 a warm corner by the fireplace. 
 
 She was the neighborhood's aunt, everybody's Aunt 
 Keziah ; and much more the aunt of those who were 
 alien to her blood than of her own nephews and nieces. 
 Strangers compassionately gave her shelter, when her 
 kinsfolk had cast her off and appeared not to care what 
 became of her. Probably she would not have been 
 wholly agreeable as a permanent member of a house- 
 hold, for her conversation was not generally cheerful. 
 With her experiences, how could it be t But if her 
 relatives had been considerate people, with a little 
 family pride, she would have been saved from the 
 humiliation v/hich fell upon her. 
 
 Her industry in knitting was remarkable. The play 
 of needles in her poor, stiff-jointed fingers ceased only 
 when at intervals she explored the mysterious folds of 
 her dress for the snuff-box, or wiped her " specs," 
 dimmed by contact with her watery eyes. She inclined 
 little to gossip, for her "subjectivity" was intense; 
 her own past griefs and present ailments were of more 
 importance than the affairs of neighbors. 
 
 One day, having finished a pinch of snuff with unu- 
 sual satisfaction, her face wore a beatific expression 
 quite marvellous to the small boy who stood by her 
 
84 QUAE BIN 
 
 chair. She happened for the moment not to be knit- 
 ting; her hands were partly clasped, and the thumbs 
 were slowly turning over each other. She was almost 
 purring. "Aunt Keziah, what makes you take snuff .^" 
 *' O, sonny, it-m-rests-me." The words had a gliding 
 kind of liaison, and were enveloped in a swelling nasal 
 hum. It seemed fortunate to the boy that the aunt 
 could get rested on such easy terms. 
 
 Aunt Keziah told her story to the carpenter's wife 
 bit by bit. 
 
 '' I was born on the Cape, in Truro, an* lived ther till 
 our fam'ly moved up here, say fifty year ago. When I 
 say 'our fam'ly,' I mean my brothers an' their families, 
 for father an' mother died daown to the Cape, an' was 
 berried ther; an' I hadn't no sister. 
 
 "When I was 'bout nineteen, a young feller came 
 a-courtin' mc, — a sailor, an' a smart feller he was. 
 E'enamost all on 'em daown ther is sea-farin' men. 
 Some goes long v'yages, an' some only aout ter Chaleur, 
 or the Banks, a fishin' in summer. My young man 
 sailed sometimes to Europe, an' sometimes 'way raound 
 to Aashy. When he axed me to merry 'im, I said he 
 must settle daown on land ; fer, ef he kep goin' on them 
 long v'yages, his wife 'ould be same 'z a widder all her 
 days. He tol' mc he'd du 'z I said bimeby, but thet 
 he'd got tu go one more v'yage, 'cause he'd promised, 
 an', bein' fust mate, they couldn't du 'thout 'im. I felt 
 drcffle bad to think of his goin' off agin, for he'd told 
 me 'bout the winds an' waves, an' haow the ship some- 
 times a'most stood on cend, an' sometimes rolled over 
 so fur 't you'd think she wasn't never goin' to come up 
 agin. Every night I dreamt of some offul hurricane, 
 an' I saw Charles — that was his name — in a boat all 
 
HOJV THE POOR WERE CARED EOR 85 
 
 alone on a sea that hadn't no shore ; or else a-clingin' 
 tu a piece of a mast, with sharks a-steerin' raoimd, an' 
 makin' fer to bite 'im in two. I coiddn't stand it no 
 haow, an' when he come agin' we had a talk. 
 
 " Sez I, * Charles,' sez I, ' the Scriptur' says, " What 
 doos et profit a man to gain the hull world an' lose his 
 own soul "i " An' I say, what '11 it profit you er me ef 
 you airn a year's wages, an' lay yer bones on 'tother 
 side o' the world, or at the bottom of the sea .-* Here 
 ye air, on yer feet, on land, an' ef yer go ter sea yer 
 don't know where ye'U be.' 
 
 '* ' Oh,' sez he, ' I've alius got thru', an' I sh'U du it 
 ag'in. 'Twon't be long, an' it's the las' time.' — *0 
 Charles ! ' sez I, ' sunthin' tells me 't yer can't alius 
 count on luck. I've seen ye in my dreams, an' my 
 heart stood still like a stone, 'twas so awful.' 
 
 '' ' Naow don't you be talkin' 'bout dreams,' sez he ; 
 * bad dreams is only f'm eatin' mince-pie.' 
 
 " ' I can't help it,' sez I ; 'ef you go 'way naow, I 
 don't never 'xpcct to see. ye agin. Naow ^/^^ be per- 
 suaded ! ' 
 
 *' He was tender-hearted ez a man, but trew grit ez a 
 sailor. I c'd see that his feelin's pulled him one wav, 
 while his dewty gripped him 'tother. We had a long 
 talk, but 'twas pooty much the same thing over an' over. 
 At last sez he, * The wages fer this v'yage, 'ith what 
 I've got in bank, '11 jest make up enough to pay fer the 
 haouse of the Widder Snow, that's for sale.' 
 
 "' It's a pooty house,' sez I, ' an' I ain't goin' to deny 
 that 't 'ould suit you an' me to a turn ; but I'd rather 
 live 'ith yer under a whale-boat turned up-si-daown on 
 the beach, then to hev yer go on a v'yage for a jxillis.' 
 
 "He just kinder laafed an' kinder smiled, an' looked 
 
S6 OUABBIX 
 
 at me so sweet ! 'Twa'n't no use. While he looked at 
 me so, I coukhi't do but one thing. You know what I 
 done : I hunLC on his neck, an' kissed him a hundred 
 times. I k'n sec this minnit jest how he looked: blue 
 roundabaout, an' duck trowsis, black neck-han'kercher, 
 low shoes, an' flat top cap. Haow his black eyes 
 seemed devourin' me, praoud an' soft by turns ! Ah, 
 he was a man 'ith a look an' a step ; a man fer a woman 
 to look twice at, an' to think abaout ever arter. Our 
 partin' was pullin' heart-strings, an' when he'd gone, I 
 was in a dead faint. 
 
 '' His vessel was baound to Chiny, an' we sh'd nat- 
 erally be 'thout hearin' from him fur nigh a year. But 
 the year went by ; an' then month arter month there 
 was nothin' but waitin' an' dreadin', no news. In two 
 years the owners gin up all hope, an' I wanted ter put 
 on mournin', but the folks wouldn't hear on't. What 
 I suffered in them two years, nobody but God knows ! 
 I wonder I'm alive. 
 
 *' Wal, there was a storekeeper daown thar, a decent 
 enough man, who'd lost his wife, an' he come an' axed 
 me. to be a mother to his little childern. But when I 
 thought o' my Charles, my heart riz right up agin this 
 man. ' Who knows,' thought I, ' ef Charles ain't naow 
 on one o' them cannible islands, livin' on bananas an* 
 cokernuts, or waitin' in some strange corner 'v th' airth 
 for a chance to git hum ! ' I thanked the storekeeper 
 an' sent 'im 'bout his business ; I couldn't be mother 
 to any man's childern but Charley's. 
 
 " I hed another offer, but thet didn't take no time to 
 ahnswer. So father sez to me, sez he, * Keziah, yeou'd 
 better not go mournin' all yeour days. Arter I'm gone 
 yeou'U need somebody to take keer o' ye. Don't throw 
 'way all yeour chances. Good men air skurce.' 
 
HO IV THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 8/ 
 
 *' I ahnswered kinder lightly ; — I was so baound up 
 in Charles that I couldn't think of another man. 
 
 " I might 'a had a hum o' my own to-day, instid o' 
 bein' tossed about from pillar to -post, like a piece 
 o' worn-out furnitur'. I might 'a ben some darlin's 
 mother instid of bein' everybody's aunt. Seems ef 
 God oughtn't let folks come inter the world thet he 
 don't mean to take better keer on. He oughtn't to 've 
 gin me feelin's, jest ter torment me a while, an' then 
 hev 'em dry up, like a last year's hollyhock. 
 
 ^'Howsever, I'd made my bed, an' I hed to lay in 't. 
 I wouldn't merry the men that wanted me, an' bimeby 
 I come ter be so peaked with my sorrers, thet no man 
 wuth lookin' at would 've had me. 
 
 " Fust mother died, then father. He hadn't much 
 money, an' my brothers said, ' Let's go up in the west 
 part o' the State an' buy a farm ; an' you kin live with 
 us.' I let 'em do what they wanted, an' went with 'cm. 
 I didn't much keer fer anythin' in life. 
 
 " They bought land, an' part on't ought ter be mine, 
 but 'taint. They built a couple o' haouses, an' worked 
 hard. An' I worked hard, year arter year, slavin' my- 
 self fust fer Harmon an' his fam'ly, an' then fer Joe, 
 who, 'z yeou know, lived alone. Ez Joe hadn't nothin' 
 better to du, he took to drinkin', an' bimeby he got so 
 bad 't I couldn't even go inter his haouse. Then Har- 
 mon's wife died, an' he got another. Yeou know her. 
 I needn't say what she is. In which of the two haouses 
 there was the most deviltry, I couldn't say. What I 
 onderwent with that wife o' Harmon's I couldn't tell 
 ye in a week ; an' in Joe's haouse there warnt notliiii . 
 He lived like a man who pulls the clabberds off 'm the 
 outside of his haouse ter burn fer ter heat the inside 
 with. 
 
88 QUABBIN 
 
 ''Them forty year! The tiine's like a night-mare 
 when I think on"t. I hope the Lord 'U give me credit 
 for 'em when it comes to my reck'nin'. 
 
 "When I had the rheumatiz, naow 'bove five year 
 ago, an' couldn't do nothin', Harmon's wife put him up 
 ter fling me on the taown, — send me ter the poor-farm. 
 I couldn't walk nor help myself more 'n a child three 
 days old. But Harmon, he packed me inter the wag- 
 gin, an' druv me ter the poor-farm, an' left me thar. 
 
 *' The overseers w^as notified, an' they come, an' sez, 
 *Yeou can't stay here.' 'Wal,' sez I, ' I don't wanter 
 stay here; but, ef I i-//^?;//c/ wanter, I sh'd like to know 
 %vhy I can't.' ' 'Cause yeou haint no settlement in this 
 taown,' sez they. ' Yeou was born daown on the Cape; 
 an' ther yeour father lived an' died, an' ther's yeour 
 settlement. So yeou see, ef yeou're flung on the taown, 
 we sh'll hev to send ter Truro; an' the overseers ther 
 '11 hev ter come ter kerry yeou off, an' take keero' yer.' 
 'But,' sez I, '/don't know anybody daown ter Truro ; 
 it's forty year sence I was ther. I don't wanter go 
 'mong strengers. It's bad enough ter go ter the poor- 
 farm when yeou know the folks.' ' Wal, that's the law,' 
 sez they, an' off they went, an', I 'spose, writ the letter. 
 " Nex' few days I didn't du nothin' but cry. I 
 couldn't eat, though Mis' Tliurstin, the wife of the 
 keeper, got me all the nice things she c'd think on. 
 
 "Then come a strange man a-drivin' up tu the 
 haouse, an' when he come in, sez he, ' I've come fer 
 yeou.' 'Wal, I ain't goin',' sez I. ' Yes, yeou be,' sez 
 he. ' S'p'osin' I won't } ' sez I. ' Then I sh'll make 
 yer,' sez he. Then I gin a yell 't yeou might 'er heerd 
 way over to the Widder Peasoe's place. I oughter ben 
 ashamed, but I couldn't help it. I got the tongs an' 
 
HOH' THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 
 
 89 
 
 the shovle, an' I dared that man to tech me. But my 
 strength didn't hold aout. I was full o' rheumatiz, an' 
 my poor hands let the shovle an' tongs drop. Then I 
 dropped tu, — clean gone. Then Mis' Thurstin, she 
 put me ter bed, an' Mr. Thurstin an' the strange man 
 went tu the village ter git the doctor. When the 
 doctor went back, arter seein' me, I've heered he made 
 some talk 'bout kerryin' off a woman of my age in that 
 way ; an' there w^as considerable stir. The man from 
 Truro finally went off, 'cause Reuf Wadley and Reub 
 Newman 'they said they'd be ahnswerable for any 
 'xpense, an' that the taown o' Truro shouldn't hev any 
 damage on my 'count. 
 
 '* Yeou know how I've lived sence. Some o' the timie 
 I haint lived, but jest ben distriberted in morsils raound 
 the parish. I stay a couple o' weeks 'ith Reuf, — he's 
 a good man even ef he's a leetle flighty, — then a 
 couple with Reub. Then I come here ; then I go to 
 yeour uncle's, an' then to ol' Squire Hobson's, an' so 
 on. All I hope is, the Lord '11 call me afore I wear 
 aout all my welcomes ; fer I ain't a-goin' tu Truro. 
 
 " Ycou don't ketch me a talkin' hard 'bout the way 
 my brothers treated me ; there's enough to du that, 
 'thout me. I'm sorry for 'em. They're gittin' ter be 
 old men. Harmon's older than I be, an' Joe, l^y his 
 drinkin' ways, hez made himself actilly older'n Harmon. 
 " I haint got ter trouble 'em any more, nor any that 
 was willin' to see their flesh and blood carted off ter 
 the poor-farm. I hope none on 'cni will need scch a 
 hum in their ol' days." 
 
 Such was the story of Aunt Keziah. She continued 
 to make her rounds, not like Kdic Ochiltree as a 
 *' sturdy beggar," but as a modest friend and depend- 
 
go QUABBIN 
 
 ent. She knitted, darned, and mended, solaced and 
 ** rested " herself with snuff, and wiped her dim 
 " specs " until her weary eyes ceased from weeping. 
 
 THE WIDOW CARTER 
 
 One frosty afternoon the blacksmith set his two 
 sons and hired man to sawing and splitting firewood. 
 Farmers used to bring wood in lengths of four feet ; 
 and people who used cooking-stoves, then recently 
 introduced, had it cut in lengths of a foot before put- 
 ting it away for use. 
 
 After sundown on this day (one never said sunset) 
 the smith's boys were told to bring out their sleds, and 
 pack them with the neatly prepared wood ; and besides 
 they loaded a pair of sleigh-runners, having a cover of 
 boards (in effect the bottom part of a sleigh) and, 
 between nine and ten o'clock, v/hen the hired man had 
 gone, the father and sons made their way in silence 
 through the village, drawing the three sleds over the 
 polished road. They passed the tavern and stores and 
 came near the common. 
 
 Not even in the fulness of summer nor in many-hucd 
 autumn have the elms and maples of Ouabbin such an 
 effect as when on a still winter's night they stand leaf- 
 less under the moon, and cast their network of shadows 
 upon pure and unbroken snow. The moonlight lends a 
 glory to common objects. Groups of white houses and 
 dark bushes seem like composed pictures ; the steeple 
 becomes a marble shaft, and moving objects are like a 
 succession of instantaneous photographs. 
 
 As the party passed under the great trees, there was 
 not a cloud, nor a breath of wind ; and the shadows of 
 the main and lesser branches, and then of longer boughs 
 
HOPV THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 9 1 
 
 and slender twigs, down to the minutest ramifications 
 were imprinted on the snow as blue laccwork. The 
 beauty of that blue pattern on dazzling white could 
 never be forgotten. 
 
 The boys wondered where they were going, and began 
 to ask questions ; but the father, who could be peremp- 
 tory if occasion required, briefly ordered them to make 
 no talk, but do as they had been told. '* Poorty bright 
 night," he added, "for what we've got ter dew; an' yer 
 mustn't make the least mite o' noise." 
 
 They were near the house of the Widow Carter, and 
 the party stopped to reconnoitre. There were no lights 
 visible in front or rear, and it was probable the inmates 
 had gone to bed. The sleds were drawn into the back- 
 yard without a word being spoken, and were unloaded 
 under the shed without noise. The snow m.uffled their 
 feet, and the pieces of wood were laid down gently. 
 When the last sticks were taken from the old sleis^h 
 bottom, the boys saw a bag of meal or flour, and a few 
 small packages. These were placed near the back door, 
 and then, after a look at the windows, the smith and his 
 sons returned home. 
 
 "Ye see, boys," said the father, while they were on 
 the road, "Widder Carter, ez long's her husband lived, 
 was used ter good livin' an' good company, — 'long o' 
 college folks an' city folks, an' not 'ith workin' men 
 sech ez I be. Arter he died an' left her a widder, 'ith 
 nothin' to live on, she's had to come daown a bit ; an' 
 she's come back here where she lived ez a gal, — she 'n 
 her two darters. They can't airn much a sewin', even 
 ef she alius got it ter dew ; an' Mis' Faben, who's ben 
 there callin', tol' me yistcrdy she's afcard they hain't a 
 mite o' wood nor meal. 
 
92 QUABBIN 
 
 "She puts a good face on metters, the v/idder doos, 
 an' her darters come to meet in' ez spruce ez two pine 
 saphns. She wouldn't hev no cherity, not she ; but 
 I've felt bad all day long, a thinkin' on her. 
 
 ** When she was a gal she used ter be often enough 
 at your gran'thcr's, for he was a master hand to tell 
 stories an' sing ol' songs; an' a nice, bright gal she 
 was. One day he wrote on his slate some vairses 'bout 
 her, — the widder that is naow, Sally Cotton she was 
 then, — an' she larfed, I k'n tell yeou. She called him 
 an ol' beau, an' run on scch a rig that he act illy blushed. 
 A lively gal she was." 
 
 They had reached their own door, and while the 
 smith's hand was on the latch, he stopped, and said in 
 a serious tone, — 
 
 "But she's praoud, y' know, the widder is ; an' she'd 
 feel hurt like all nater ef she sh'd know who gin her 
 that air wood an' meal. Sech wimmin air techy ez net- 
 tles 'bout takin' favors, speshily f'm w^orkin' men. So 
 y' air not ter tell on't, not ter anybody. An' don't ye 
 ever go ter hint in', nuther, nor lookin' knowin', nor 
 wistful, at her darters. When you see 'em to-morrer, 
 or any day, at school, jest you act naterally, an' look ez 
 ef nothin' had happened. Some little chaps k'n tell all 
 they know, an' more tu, 'thout savin' a word." 
 
 Later, they were sitting by the kitchen-fire, the boys 
 eating apples, and the blacksmith with his chin in his 
 grimy and calloused hand; — his "baird" of two days' 
 growth anxious for the razor. Memory was bringing 
 pictures of long-past gayety and bloom that made him 
 forget, present poverty and toil. The sons observed his 
 meditative air, and wondered if the widow was ever 
 half as pretty as her youngest daughter, Sarah. They 
 
HOW THE POOR WERE CARED EOR 93 
 
 thought that if the mother had resembled the favorite 
 of all the village boys, the firewood and their after- 
 noon's work had not been thrown away. 
 
 The secret was kept by all concerned ; by the widow 
 and her daughters from pride ; by the household of the 
 blacksmith from instinctive delicacy. Once, in the 
 course of a spat among the school children, when Sally 
 Carter for a moment lost her temper, and said a spite- 
 ful word, the eldest boy came near "splitting" upon 
 her — which would have been brutal — but he recovered 
 himself, remembered his father's injunction, endured 
 the stinging epithet, and held his tongue. 
 
 This slight story, sad to say, will not have any 
 romantic termination. Whatever may have been the 
 blacksmith's motives or memories, his heart was heart of 
 oak. But it was a case of doing good by stealth under 
 circumstances that were almost pathetic. For of all the 
 men of his class in the village he was least able to do 
 what he did. He worked hard, saved little, and trusted 
 to Providence for the future. There were people who 
 could have helped the widow at her need without feel- 
 ing it ; but it might not have occurred to them to treat 
 her with the chivalric delicacy which seemed so natural 
 to him. 
 
 The Widow Carter, not long after, made a rich mar- 
 riage, at which everybody, including the anxious con- 
 tingent of old maids, heartily rejoiced. She did not 
 need any more sacrifices from the humble friend of her 
 youth. 
 
 On the Sundav after her marriaire she came to meet- 
 ing, of course, with her husband and daughters. The 
 richness of her silks and velvets, though sober in color, 
 was the talk of the women of (Hiabbin for at least 
 
94 QUA BE IN 
 
 half a dozen quilting-bees. Her demeanor was little 
 changed ; since her girlish days she had always been 
 reserved. The daughters were not at all lifted up ; 
 there was no need ; they had always considered them- 
 selves born in the purple. They looked at the black- 
 smith's boys, and bowed with their eyelids. The boys 
 looked at each other, and the thought of a certain 
 moonlit night flitted on the glances between them. 
 
 After service was over, and while the congregation 
 was moving slowly through the vestibule, the black- 
 smith chanced to pass near the newly-married pair. 
 He said simply "■ Good-mornin','' nodding to both, *' I 
 wish ye both joy." The new husband mumbled some- 
 thing indistinctly, drew up the sharp corner of his 
 standing collar, and looked away. The new wife with 
 a painful politeness of manner, said " It is hardly the 
 time, is it, for worldly compliments, just after such a 
 sermon } However, I thank you, and — I wish you 
 well." While she spoke she looked at him as if she 
 would have him remember her altered station, and his 
 own, and then slowly went out, leaning on her hus- 
 band's arm. But she did not fail to hear the reply, 
 that might have had a throb under it : *' Tears then 't 
 our Lord wasn't right when he said 'twas lawful to du 
 good on a Sahberday ! " But the blacksmith's wife 
 pulled his sleeve and the scene ended. His boys 
 thought that if the great lady had o?ily k7iown, she 
 wouldn't have been putting on airs to their " old 
 brick " of a father. 
 
 Sally Carter, the adored of Ouabbin boys, at the age 
 of twelve was round-faced, chubby, and rosy, with soft 
 brown hair, and great, laughing, blue eyes. But after 
 her kittenish days there was no romantic sentiment to 
 
HOW THE POOR WERE CARED FOR 95 
 
 interfere with her practical views of life. She devel- 
 oped in intellect as in physical frame, and became a 
 solid, self-centered woman. Her undeniable beauty 
 and talents were turned to good account in securing a 
 husband and a position. At forty she was a leader in 
 society, plump and stately, and with the aplomb of a 
 duchess. 
 
 It would have been something for her to remember 
 in her days of splendor, if she had chanced to look out 
 of her bedroom window on that moonlit night when 
 the sleds were unloaded. 
 
96 QUAE BIN" 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 CHARACTER 
 
 A FARMER of the better class in Quabbin knew that 
 his farm had been made productive by the labor of 
 generations. His fathers had uprooted stumps, dug 
 out or blasted bowlders, picked off loose stones, cut 
 water-channels, kept down useless " brush," and made 
 more and more lines of stone wall to replace rotting 
 fences ; and he followed in their steps, keeping what 
 they had gained, and adding new conquests to grass or 
 grain fields. He had a big barn and a comfortable 
 house ; he knew the points of cattle, and drove a good 
 horse. Had you asked him, he would have assured 
 you that he held religion to be man's chief concern, 
 and ''eddication " next ; but the truth was he believed 
 in Work first of all, so that every human being should 
 stand in his own shoes, indebted only to his own efforts 
 for his living and his place in the world. 
 ' That was the eternal condition and basis of charac- 
 ter, without which the church, the school, and all 
 other blessings would have been naught. Not that he 
 ever reasoned about it, for the notion was born in him ; 
 it was something as unconsidered as air, yet as vital ; 
 something taken for granted, like gravitation, and, like 
 that, immutable and not to be trifled with ; else, like a 
 wall out of plumb, the man would come to the ground. 
 
CHARACTER 97 
 
 The blessed doctrine of work, it is true, was held in 
 other parts of the world. Where were workers more 
 industrious than in rural France, in England, or in Scot- 
 land ? Yet the New England farmer stood up in his 
 simple dignity as did no other working-man on' earth. 
 Others toiled and saved ; others were godly and 
 brotherly-affectionate ; others saw in the school the 
 hope of their offspring and of the state ; but his spirit 
 had attained a high serenity, and possessed an unol)- 
 trusive force, unknown before. 
 
 If Carlyle in the time of his poverty had accepted 
 the invitation of Emerson, and gone to live in Massa- 
 chusetts, his experience would have changed the Old- 
 Workl doctrines of his books from door-sill to ridge- 
 pole. He would have seen in what way the true dignity 
 of labor was possible, and that in Great Britain, for 
 the overwhelming majority, it was not possible. It 
 was seen long ago by Sir Henry Wotton, when he 
 wrote, — 
 
 " How happy is he born or taught 
 Who seiveth not another's will." 
 
 It was felt by the Puritan leaders, when grants of 
 land were made, of reasonable size, in sevcraltv, and 
 in fee-simple to all freemen ; when there was no lordly 
 estate, no entail, no possessor of a *' feu," no rent- 
 charge, no menial service to render, no one to look up 
 to between the working owner and the blue sky. A 
 man so based can no more be overturned than a 
 pyramid. One needs to have been born under such 
 a system to appreciate its influence on character. l'\'w 
 in Great Britain understand this, because they have 
 been reared under feudal influences, and at present 
 
98 QUAD BIN 
 
 they look more at the economic aspect of the land 
 question. 
 
 The owners of the bulk of the land in the United 
 Kingdom could be assembled in a good-sized concert- 
 hall, an anomaly of more importance than any inequal- 
 ity in the British constitution. In Great Britain the 
 city warehouse and the seaside villa are said to belong 
 to the occupier, but it is not a possession in fee-simple. 
 The nominal owner has built upon land which was not 
 sold to him, and, though he holds it in perpetuity, it is 
 upon condition of a perpetual annual payment, called 
 ground rent in England and feu duty in Scotland. 
 That is a burden from which he can never be free, and 
 which will rest upon the latest of his descendants or 
 representatives. It can seldom be compounded by a 
 lump sum of money, either on account of an entail, or 
 because the proprietor wishes to assure to his heirs an 
 income that will not be affected by vicissitudes in trade, 
 or by fluctuations in the money market. Let com- 
 merce, agriculture, or banking perish, the owner of the 
 feu is untouched. 
 
 British people often say to an American '^ We are 
 as free as you, and in some things more so." But that 
 is not true as to one of the prime conditions of free- 
 dom, the right to own land. That is not within the 
 reach of fifty men in a million. 
 
 A similar inequality prevails in regard to taxation 
 for municipal or local purposes, at least in Scotland. 
 The proportion borne by landed proprietors is ridicu- 
 lously small ; and in cities it is not the "superiors," nor 
 the leading financiers, nor the great merchants, who 
 are burdened by taxes, but the shopkeepers, mechanics, 
 and middle-class people. 
 
CHARACTER 99 
 
 To recount the inequalities of British municipal taxa- 
 tion would appear to be wandering far from the story 
 of Ouabbin ; but, in considering the foundations of 
 character in New England, it is necessary to contrast 
 the condition of other people of our race who are 
 nominally free, but who can never be really so while 
 the eldest son robs his brothers and sisters, and while 
 landowners and farmers are distinct classes by law or 
 heredity. The rent of farms in Great Britain is 
 adjusted according to the product of the soil under 
 good management. The " superior " runs no risk of 
 falling prices, of fires in ricks, or of tempest, flood, or 
 pestilence ; and any one of these calamities may ruin 
 the tenant. The industrious and saving farmer knows 
 that his labor and self-denial are not primarily for him- 
 self, but for his ''superior." He may, by the exercise 
 of patience and other Christian virtues, come to a state 
 of resignation and even of content, but he will never be 
 the man he might be if he toiled on his own land. 
 For the sake of character, better the poorest of farms 
 with independence than the most productive with 
 servility. 
 
 What has been said of farmers in Ouabbin was true, 
 though perhaps in less degree, of mechanics. The 
 smith or the joiner who owned his house and shop was 
 on equal terms with the farmer, his customer, and 
 could hold up his head with the best. The families of 
 mechanics were quite as intelligent, because more 
 given to reading. All these sturdy workers would 
 have been worth the studv of an observer like Carlyle ; 
 for he would have seen that there were attitudes more 
 manly than dependence upon the great ; and that con- 
 sideration and condescension on the part of superiors, 
 
lOO QUABBIN 
 
 so much insisted upon in Past and Present, would be 
 superfluous if there were free dealings in land, and if 
 the effects of feudalism in society could be got rid of. 
 It is not cosseting, nor soup kitchens, nor the encoura- 
 ging smiles of Lady Bountiful, that Hodge needs, so 
 much as to be allowed to stand up. 
 
 " An' that's the old Ainerikin idee, 
 To make a man a Man, an' let him be." 
 
 The fact of personal independence is momentous and 
 far-reachins:. Manhood is the first of values. It does 
 not matter that lands are more profitably worked in 
 Great Britain ; nor would it matter if it were true that 
 tenants realize more from hired farms than they would 
 from land of their own. A man, if he chooses, has a 
 right to earn less; and, whatever he does, he is richer 
 in his poverty, if there is no one over him to whom he 
 must lout. 
 
 The independence of citizens in towns like Quabbin 
 was further assured by having a share in the manage- 
 ment of town and parish affairs. In theory the right 
 of a tenant-farmer in Great Britain may be similar, but 
 in practice it is wholly otherwise. Public business is 
 entirely out of the control of the people, and perhaps 
 wisely so in the present state of things. The men of 
 Quabbin formed a little democracy. In the thought 
 of Daniel Webster (bettered afterward by Theodore 
 Parker, and then repeated by Abraham Lincoln), it was 
 "a government of the people, for the people, and by 
 the people." 
 
 Having seen on what ground these men of Quabbin 
 stood, and what manner of spirit was theirs, we can un- 
 derstand the invincibility of the " embattled farmers " 
 
CHARACTER lOI 
 
 during the war for independence, and appreciate their 
 tenacity of patriotism, and of the undying memories 
 bequeathed from sire to son. We see that Quabbin, 
 and towns like it, have been nurseries of manly virtues, 
 and that, with this basis of character, men's accent and 
 gait are matters of small consequence. We can be 
 patient with a ploughman's walk, and with his drawling 
 equanimity, which a rain of grape-shot coukl not hurry; 
 and we need not mind much the texture and slouch i- 
 ness of a frock, when the wearer is sober, self-respect- 
 ing, and just. The man who makes us smile with his 
 naive look and tone when he ejaculates '' Du tell ! " '' I 
 want ter know!" and " Yeou don't say so!" may be 
 one who governs his house wisely, educates his chil- 
 dren, goes to meeting and enjoys a sermon with 
 "meat" in it, and is a good neighbor, and (according 
 to his light) a public-spirited citizen. 
 
 The immediate descendants of the Puritans were not 
 consciously unsocial, but their serious views, self-denial, 
 and determination made them appear so ; and the iso- 
 lation of families, all bound to unremitting labor by the 
 necessities of an unproductive soil and a rigorous cli- 
 mate, was in marked contrast with tlie friendly famili- 
 arity which prevailed in Virginia and in other colonies, 
 where fox-hunting, racing, and merry-makings enlivened 
 every rural neighborhood. 
 
 In New England the home, the church, the school, 
 and the town-meeting formed the whole of life, with its 
 duties, its training, its pleasures, and its hopes. The 
 head of the family was much alone ; and, while he 
 toiled upon the bleak hillside, or wrought in the work- 
 shop, his thoughts were upon the last sermon, or upon 
 some other grave topic. Although without scholastic 
 
I02 QUABBm 
 
 training, he was generally able to take a firm hold of 
 Calvinistic theology, and with the aid of faith to 
 survey its related doctrines with a certain sense of 
 mastery. 
 
 In geometry the mind is satisfied when the Q. E. D. 
 is understandingly reached ; there is no need to review 
 the steps of reasoning in a proposition that has been 
 fully wrought out ; but the Puritan was never weary of 
 repeated demonstrations of Calvinistic theorems ; they 
 were the objects of daily contemplation, — his meat and 
 drink and solemn joy. 
 
 Some were continually probing themselves, with a 
 restless and almost agonizing anxiety, to know if they 
 could really acquiesce with the Divine decree, and still 
 praise God, if it should happen that by that decree they 
 were included among the damned. 
 
 They did not relish mere exhortations, or vague gen- 
 eralities in sermons ; they hungered for the deep things 
 of God, and loved to ponder upon the awful obscurities 
 of the Divine purposes. They admired the preaching 
 which taxed their faculties to the utmost, and which 
 led them to rest on faith, and to wait for the light of 
 eternity to make clear the problems that confounded 
 human reason. 
 
 So, chief among the elements of character and train- 
 ing, must be reckoned the influence of a stern theology, 
 which, in silence and loneliness, sobered thought, stiff- 
 ened the mental fibre, and set up Duty above every 
 personal advantage. If the sons of New England have 
 any one great heritage, it is this. 
 
 Along with grave qualities there were some which 
 were provincial and parochial, — whimseys that were as 
 firmly rooted as the others ; so that the Quabbin man 
 
CHARACTER 103 
 
 was an odd bundle of high convictions, with grotesque 
 notions and prejudices' 
 
 The Ouabbin man of the better sort believed the 
 Bible to be inspired, in mass and in detail, from Gene- 
 sis to Revelation ; that Unitarianism and Universalism 
 were doctrines of devils ; that Methodists and Baptists 
 were well-meaning people, but blown about by winds of 
 doctrine ; that the cross was a symbol of popery, and 
 Christmas a superstitious observance ; that the Feder- 
 alists inherited the wisdom and virtues of Washington, 
 and that John Adams and his son John Quincy were 
 his worthy successors ; that Jefferson was the father of 
 infidelity, and that, if every Democrat was not a profane 
 rascal, at least every profane rascal was a Democrat ; 
 that Daniel Webster was the greatest orator of any age 
 C' He kin talk, this Daniel Webster ; he kin talk, I tell 
 ycou ; he kin ") ; that Napoleon Bonaparte was ex- 
 pressly pointed out (by a calculation of heads and 
 horns) as a monster of some kind in the Apocalypse ; 
 that Dr. Grandley was the greatest surgeon and physi- 
 cian living ; that in a great city there were few honest 
 men and fewer virtuous women (to say that a woman 
 had ''city ways " was to intimate something greatly to 
 her discredit) ; that any man possessed of more than 
 twenty thousand dollars had come by it dishonestly 
 C It stands to reason that he couldn't 'ev made it by 
 his own hands ; an', ef other folks aimed it, it ain't 
 hisn. Ef he's ben honest, an' gi'n all their deau, he 
 couldn't hev no sech pile o' money ") ; that a bank was 
 a kind of thing he did not understand (" Ef it lends 
 money at six per cent, how du the sheerholders git 
 twelve? that's what I sh'd like terknow"); that the 
 young men to be helped in "gittjn' college larnin' '* 
 
I04 QUABBTN 
 
 were those intending to preach the g'ospol (" Ez fer 
 helpin' on young lawyers, let Satan take care of his 
 own!"); that a lawyer was necessarily a dissembler 
 and cheat ; that " old-fashioned schoolin' " was good 
 enough ; that a man who wore a beard was a Jew, or a 
 dirty fellow, or both ; that kid gloves were worn only 
 by dandies ('* Ef it's cold, a good woollen mitten's good 
 enough fer ;;/r /"); that the tune "China" ("Why do 
 we mourn departing friends ? ") was divinely appointed 
 to be sung at funerals, and that " Coronation " (" All 
 hail the power of Jesus' name ") will be sung in heaven ; 
 that the good old days of samp, hulled corn, bean 
 porridge, barrelled apple-sauce, apprenticeship, honest 
 work, and homespun clothes were gone, never to return. 
 In natural philosophy, the things he did not know, and 
 those he thought he knew, but were "not so," were so 
 many that to set him right would have required an 
 enlarged and annotated edition of Sir Thomas Browne 
 on "Vulgar Errors." It must (regretfully) be added 
 that his necessary economy too frequently trenched upon 
 sordid meanness. 
 
 Two co-existing institutions, the church and the 
 town-meeting, were shaping character and creating the 
 body politic, and were, to some extent, at cross pur- 
 poses. For a long time the church had the upper 
 hand, but, meanwhile, political education was going on 
 by means of the town-meeting. When the authority 
 of the church in civil affairs came to an end, the people 
 were ready to govern themselves. It is freely admitted 
 that theocratic rule put back civilization and an enlight- 
 ened Christianity for more than a century, but the time 
 was not wholly lost. In Great Britain there was no 
 
CHARACTER 105 
 
 Puritan rule, — although Scotland had something very 
 much like it, — but there were no town-meetings, and 
 therefore no general and efficient political education. 
 Will it be pretended that artisans and agricultural 
 laborers in Great Britain are to be compared in any 
 respect with mechanics and farmers in New England ? 
 If Parliament had set up ''Village Councils " two and a 
 half centuries ago, the case might have been dif- 
 ferent. 
 
 The institutions of New England have been often 
 and ably discussed, and it would be quite beyond the 
 purpose of this book to dwell upon their history or de- 
 velopment ; we are looking more at concrete results 
 than abstract theories. And it does not matter o:reatlv, 
 — from Ouabbin's point of view, — wdiether those insti- 
 tutions were developed from British models and ideas, 
 as has been generally held, or wiiether they were 
 brought by the Pilgrims from Holland, as has been 
 recently argued by an able and learned writer.^ The 
 differences between the population of a typical English 
 county and that of a group of Massachusetts towns 
 covering a similar space are striking enough ; whether 
 those differences are mainly the results of evolution 
 under new conditions, or have sprung from the experi- 
 ence gained by our ancestors in another land, is not 
 important in this simple sketch. 
 
 As to the character of the New England people, he 
 who knows its complexities best will be most chary in 
 generalization. It was reserved for a clever story-writer 
 from abroad to give an authoritative exposition after a 
 residence of a few weeks. The subject which had 
 
 1 "The Puritan in Holland, England, and .America,"' by Douglas Campbell, 
 
I06 QUABBIN 
 
 tasked the powers of life-long observers like Haw- 
 thorne, Mrs. Stowe, Lowell, and Holmes, appears to 
 have been a mere trifle to the oracular young man from 
 India. British editors and readers who have exulted in 
 his swift and condign judgment are to be congratu- 
 lated. "- 
 
THE QUILTIN' 10/ 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE QUILTIN' 
 
 Co-operation is a modern word, but the thing is as 
 old as civilization. The benefit of association is at once 
 recognized in a new country, where work has to be done 
 for which the labor of one person, or of a family, would 
 not suffice. In felling trees, co-operation takes the 
 form of log-rolling, in which the neighborhood joins ; 
 and one man's land having been cleared, he in turn 
 assists all who have worked for him. 
 
 The metaphorical use of log-rolling in politics is 
 obvious, but it is often employed in British news- 
 papers with vague knowledge of its meaning.^ 
 
 Co-operation among the women of Ouabbin took the 
 form of an afternoon quilting followed by tea. Before 
 woven white coverlets were introduced, and while 
 woollen blankets were dear, a part of the bed covers 
 were " quilts." 
 
 A quilt was made by placing a layer of soft cotton 
 wadding between two sheets of cloth ; an upper one 
 with designs in color, and an under one as a lining. 
 
 1 So in Great Britain one reads of " Bunkum " instead of " Buncombe," the 
 name of the county in North Carolina where lived the "spread-eagle" orator, for 
 whose flights the term was invented. So, one reads of " jerrymander " instead 
 of " Gerrymander," the editor being ignorant that tlie word was derived from the 
 name of Elbridge Gerry (G hard) whose device for a tricky division of the State 
 into electoral districts has given him an unenviable immortality. But to sju'll his 
 name, and he a governor of Massachusetts, with a littley is r.itlier loo nuich I 
 
I08 QUABBI.X 
 
 The stitching, which went through and attached the 
 two surfaces, was done in an elaborate pattern of 
 needlework. The face of the quilt was composed of 
 pieces of printed cotton (calico) of all colors (ara- 
 besques or flowers, or what not) cut in squares, loz- 
 enges, rhomboids, hexagons, and the like, and arranged 
 and sewed together in a way to make a symmetrical 
 pattern, or group of patterns, as to form, and a regular 
 distribution of colors. 
 
 But artistic perception, and the power of creating 
 pleasing effects with heterogeneous materials, are not 
 given to all ; and some quilts were as tawdry and gro- 
 tesque as the edifices that children build with colored 
 blocks. The choice of materials was generally limited 
 to the skirts of the calico gowns worn by the female 
 members of the family since the last quilting. 
 
 Laying out the plan, and sewing together the pieces, 
 occupied the w^omen and children in odd hours for 
 months. When the patchwork was completed, it was 
 laid upon the destined lining, with sheets of wadding 
 between, and the combined edges were basted. Long 
 bars of wood — the ''quiltin' frame" — were placed at 
 the four sides ; the quilt was attached to the bars by 
 stout thread, and the bars fastened at the corners with 
 listing ; then the whole was raised upon the backs of 
 chairs, one at each corner, to serve as trestles. 
 
 Around the quilt, so stretched out at a convenient 
 height, a dozen (more or less) might be at w^ork, seated 
 at the four sides, all following in their stitching the pat- 
 tern laid down. The pattern was fanciful, — in zig- 
 zags, parallels, octagons, or concentric circles. 
 
 When the width of a foot was completed on any 
 side, so much of the quilt was rolled upon the bar ; 
 
THE QUILTIN' 109 
 
 and as the work went on, the visible part of the quilt 
 diminished, like Balzac's Peau de CJiagrin. 
 
 A more favorable arrangement for a social afternoon 
 could hardly be imagined. The work demanded no 
 thought on the part of those who were familiar with it ; 
 and the women, all facing inward as at a square tabic, 
 and all in best gowns, cambric collars, and lace caps, 
 could gossip to their hearts' content. 
 
 Mrs. Kempton had invited some neighbors to a quilt- 
 ing, and, together, there was an even dozen of them. 
 Mrs. Kempton was tall, slender, and dark, and had fine, 
 expressive eyes. She was quick in speech, sensitive, 
 and at times appeared restless. She was oppressed by 
 the dead weight of the moral atmosphere of Ouabbin. 
 The rule of society was absolute. There were only 
 two sets, — saints and sinners. For a church-member 
 there was an endless number of unwritten laws, not to 
 be transgressed. Mrs. Kempton did not transgress, 
 but seemed always on the verge of doing it. She was 
 lilce a dancer in leaden shoes, a tomboy in a nunnery ; 
 and sometimes she feared she was an intruder in the 
 church, so little sympathy she felt for the unnatural 
 gloom that overshadowed everybody. A better-hearted 
 or more exemplary woman never existed ; but she had 
 lively faculties, a sense of the ridiculous, and longed 
 now and then for a frolic. 
 
 There is a kind of freemasonry between those who 
 find society a tyranny, and a village a prison. Those 
 who wear the invisible ball-and-chain know each other. 
 Three of Mrs, Kempton's friends shared, in different 
 degrees, her qualities and sympathies, — iMrs. Stone, the 
 carpenter's wife ; Mrs. iHale, whose husband owned the 
 saw-mill ; and Almira Marble, spinster. Whenever 
 these women met there was sure to be a merrv time. 
 
I lO QUABBIN 
 
 The quilting-frame so nearly filled the sitting-room 
 that there was little space behind the chairs. The rays 
 of the September sun streamed into the west window, 
 and without the air was filled with reflections of yellow 
 and crimson from the wealth of maple leaves about the 
 house. 
 
 Among the women there had been the usual compli- 
 mentary scrutiny of caps and ribbons, and the exchange 
 of information in regard to measles and whooping- 
 cough ; and, these topics having been exhausted, there 
 was a pause. 
 
 After the needles had gleamed a while in silence, 
 Mrs. Fenton, a stout and dull-looking woman, broke out 
 with : — 
 
 "• Did any o' yeou hear 'bout the bear ? " ^ 
 
 Several, speaking at once, said, " Where ? " *' When 
 was it ? " *' Whose bear t " 
 
 "Why," replied Mrs. Fenton, "'twas a black bear, 
 up'n Cap'n Davis's pastur', on the nor' west hill, week 
 'fore last." 
 
 Said Mrs. Stone, "Why, Mis' Fenton, there ain't ben 
 a bear in nor abaout Ouabbin for forty year! There's 
 bears up'n Vermont, — my mother shot one 't her back 
 door, — but they don't come daown here." 
 
 "The Rickett childern 've seen 'im, just afore dusk," 
 replied Mrs. Fenton. 
 
 ^' Now we kiiozv 'taint trew," said Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 " The Rickett childern can't tell the truth ef they 
 would," said Miss Marble. 
 
 "And their parents wouldn't ef they could," added 
 Mrs. Hale. 
 
 1 Quabbin women, with very few exceptions, spoke in dialect, but one never 
 heard " bear " pronounced " bar." That is a Western usage. 
 
THE QUILTIN' III 
 
 "What was the bear doin' ?" asked Mrs. Stone. 
 
 "They thought he was braowsin' on the berries." 
 
 " Most likely 'twas the minister out a-blueberrin' in 
 his black gown," suggested Mrs. Kempton. 
 
 "Couldn't tell him f'm a bear — in the dark," said 
 Mrs. Stone, laughing. 
 
 " Yeou sh'd be 'shamed ter liken the minister tu a 
 bear," said Mrs. Fenton, while a sudden cloud of solem- 
 nity settled upon her face. 
 
 "P'r'aps 'twas Sat'n a-praowlin' raound," said old Mrs. 
 Aldrich, with a shiver. 
 
 " O pshaw ! " said several voices at once. 
 
 " Wal, yeou may sJiaivs much ez yeou please," said 
 Mrs. Aldrich ; " but my granny told me that when she 
 was a gal in Brookfield, she was a-ridin' hossback over 
 ter the rorth perrish of a dark night, an' she see a bear 
 runnin' long side of her in the road " — 
 
 Here she was interrupted by two voices : — 
 
 " Wsl, there ivcrc bears in that day." 
 
 " Ef 'twas dark, heow did she know 'twan't a dog } " 
 
 "Jest you hark," said Mrs. Aldrich. " She went on, 
 a-whippin' up her boss, an' arter a while she felt rather 
 queer, an' her flesh seemed ter creep and cringe, kinder 
 like goose-flesh ; an' sech a feelin' at the pit o' her 
 stummick ! An' then she looked behind her. She /u^d 
 ter look behind her ; she couldn't help it. An' what 
 d'ye think she saw ? That ere bear or some black 
 critter was on her saddle-cloth, a sittin' up on his hind 
 parts, an' his black nozzle just at her ear." 
 
 "Did he say anything imperlite .-* " asked l\Irs. 
 Kempton with sweet gravity. 
 
 " Naow, yeou're not to poke fun," said Mrs. Aldrich, 
 looking over her spectacles. " Did the bear S(7r any- 
 thing, indeed ! T wonder at veou, I du ! " 
 
112 QUAD BIN 
 
 " Wal, the horse mightn't 've liked it, unless 'twas a 
 very little bear," said Mrs. Hale. 
 
 Mrs. Aldrich paid no attention to the interruption, 
 and went on: ''She jest said the Lord's Prayer, and 
 she felt the eritter tremble ; an' when she come ter the 
 words, 'Deliver us f'm evil,' it jumped off, an' run 
 awav." 
 
 "That ought to be in a Sunday-school book," said 
 Miss Marble. 
 
 " Wal," said Mrs. Thurstin, an ally of Mrs. Aldrich, 
 "there's strange things happen in this world, laaf ez 
 yeou will. Naow, yeou know the tahvern-keeper died 
 arter he was kicked by a boss. Wal, Mis' Shumway, 
 who's a woman o' trewth, tol' vie thet she was ther' 
 washin' an' scrubbin', an' thet an ol' clock that hedn't 
 ben runnin' fer a year suddenly broke out a strikin'. 
 They caoiinted, an' it struck forty-four ! Jest the dyin' 
 man's acre." 
 
 " Was it the clock's strikin' that killed the man .? " 
 asked Mrs. Hale ; " I thought you said the kick of the 
 horse killed him." 
 
 " Wish you c'd a seen Mis' Shumway's eyes when 
 she told me the story," continued I\Irs. Thurstin. 
 " They stuck aout like two moons." 
 
 "No matter 'bout her eyes; they go moonin' easy," 
 said Mrs. Stone. "Somebody who had eyes should a 
 looked arter the clock." 
 
 "Yes," added Miss Marble, "I've heard there was 
 a clock pedler 'bout the tavern at that time, and he 
 may have been playin' a joke." 
 
 " But haow did it strike forty-four, Almiry } Tell me 
 that,'' said Mrs. Aldrich. " A clock ca?it strike more'n 
 twelve times. 'Twas agin nafer for it to strike forty- 
 four." 
 
THE QUILT IN' II3 
 
 " Ef the wheels air wood," said Mrs. Stone, *'a man 
 his only to cut off some of the little teeth or cogs, 
 an 1 then, when it begins strikin', 'twill keep on till it 
 ru.is down." 
 
 "■ 'Pears Dr. Grandley couldn't do the tahvern-kecper 
 no good," said Mrs. Fenton. 
 
 '* 'Twas because bleedin' couldn't do him any good," 
 saiJ Mrs. Stone. ''The doctor's as handy with his 
 lancet ez a butcher. Poor Tirzy Powers ! I sh'U 
 never git over her death. There wasn't nobody like 
 her. To think of her bein' in a pleurisy, an' bled till 
 she couldn't hold up her head nor hand. The last 
 tima he bled her, her eyes set afore he could git the 
 bandage fastened on her arm. There'll be a time when 
 doctors won't dew so. ' The life of the flesh is the 
 blooJ,' so the Bible says, an' it stands ter reason." 
 
 " Aour doctors don't bleed," said Mrs. Pomroy. 
 " Do :tor Thomson savs ef God hed meant to hev blood 
 takei aout o' the veins, he'd a made a hole and 
 stopper." 
 
 *' No, Mis' Pomroy," said Mrs. Kempton, " Thomson- 
 ians don't bleed, but they dose ye with lobelia an' 
 * composition ' tell ye hain't any stomachs left. Jest 
 vou keep on, an' see where yeou an' yeour child'en '11 
 be." 
 
 " O ' Doctor Salmon hed a bad ban' to du up," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Aldrich. " Ye know James Johnson, he 
 that's ben away to sea so long. Wal, Josh Wheldin 
 'ad a sore han', an' he went inter the store t'other day 
 to git sunthin' fer it. ' Show me yer han', says John- 
 son — he was standin' 'hind the caounter, the side nex' 
 the med'cines — so Josh he drawed off his mitt'n an' 
 stuck out his ban' An' then Johnson he reached fer 
 
1 14 QUABBIN 
 
 a bottle, and poured on thet sore han' — what d'ye 
 think? — aqiiy fortis ! Why it smoked, and went burnin' 
 right inter the flesh. They was goin' to take him up, 
 — 'sault and battry they call it, — but he pertended he'd 
 took the wrong bottle by mistake, an' they didn't du 
 nothin' tu him. P'r'aps he did, but he's a mean, bad. 
 natered feller." 
 
 " What could Doctor Salmon du for sech a hand as 
 that .'* " asked a neighbor. 
 
 '' Grease it, I s'pose," said Mrs. Aldrich. 
 
 " He ain't so good's an old woman," said Mrs. Stone. 
 ''The child'n all die where he goes, jest as ef his 
 shadder killed 'em." 
 
 " Wal, this is gettin' grisly," said Mrs. Kempton. 
 " Fust we had bears, then the Evil One, then a clock 
 bewitched, then blood-lettin', and then aqua fortis. 
 Ain't ther' somethin' cheerful } Sometimes I think 
 Ouabbin only needs an iron door to be a tomb." 
 
 "There's the Widder Carter, I mean Mis' Spauld- 
 in'," said Mrs. Hale. " Slie looks smilin' ; an' i\Ir. 
 Spauldin' hez straightened up amazin'." 
 
 " Speakin' of weddin's," said the spinster, '* David 
 Ramsay — the one that calc'lates the eclipse — is goin' 
 to be married, an' Joe Chandler is goin' to lend him his 
 horse an' buggy fer his weddin' tower." 
 
 " Another chance lost fer you, Almiry," said Mrs. 
 Kempton. 
 
 " My chance '11 keep," replied the old maid. " I'm 
 waitin' fer a widower. An' have ye heard that Dr. 
 Northam is makin' up ter one of the Spauldin' girls ? 
 I didn't hear which, but I think it's Prudence." 
 
 "Whichever it is," said Mrs. Stone, "it'll be pru- 
 dence fer him, fer they'll git a heap o' money, each one 
 on cm. 
 
THE QUILTIN' II5 
 
 At this point there was heard without, gradually 
 coming nearer, the long, pei iodic wail of a child that 
 had been crying, and appeared to be tired of it, but 
 did not know whether it were better to stop altogether, 
 or keep on at intervals. 
 
 The women looked from one to another with mute 
 interrogation, but in a moment INIrs. Fenton's agitated 
 face showed that she recognized the wailing voice. 
 She rose and squeezed her bulky person behind the 
 workers' chairs, on her way to the door ; but before 
 she reached it, the little sufferer appeared, and the 
 sight of him was enough to make a sensitive woman 
 qualmish. Mrs. Fenton applied her handkerchief to 
 his nose, but, alas ! that was a trifle ; face, hands, hair, 
 and clothing, made an image of neglect. 
 
 When she found breath she exclaimed, *' Lijah, how 
 come you here .'' Who told you to come here } " The 
 boy's inarticulate blubbering continued; but at length 
 he answered, with many sobs and heavings of the chest, 
 '* Dad sent me out ter play, but ther' wan't anybody to 
 play with." 
 
 " What was your dad doin' thet he didn't let you stay 
 in the haouse } " 
 
 " He's drinkin' pepper 'n cider. Then I went ter 
 gran'ther's, an' Aunt Lucy said I must go 'way home. 
 So I went, an' dad druve me off agin. Then I went 
 ter Mis' Stone's, an' ther' wan't anybody ter hum ; an' 
 so I come here, fer I vuist be somcwJici' '' 
 
 The last phrase was uttered in a loud tone of lamen- 
 tation that produced, on the part of listening mothers, 
 first a titter, then a giggle, and then an honest burst 
 of laughter. They had not read '* La Rochefoucault " 
 in Ouabbin, but it was impossible not to laugh at the 
 
Tl6 QUABBIIV 
 
 sorrows of a lonesome, untidy boy, and especially at 
 the incontestable position he laid down, that he " must 
 be somewhere." 
 
 The hostess tried to make a diversion by proposing to 
 take the boy into the next room, and give him a piece of 
 cake ; but Mrs. Fcnton, a little ruffled by the laughter, 
 said she thoufrht she would take him home. But Mrs. 
 Kempton said that everything was ready, and she 
 would not hear of any one going away before tea. In 
 the end, Mrs. Fenton remained, and the boy as well. 
 
 In the opinion of Ouabbin, Mrs. Kempton's spreads 
 were worthy of all superlatives. The tea, pale in color, 
 but really strong, was served in delicate old china, with 
 flesh-colored figures ; and the fragrance of so many 
 cups filled the room. 
 
 There was bread and butter, hot biscuits (which were 
 not bis cult at all), waffles, peach preserves, apple- 
 and-quince sauce, doughnuts, mince-pie, custard-pie, 
 fruit-cake, sponge-cake, and mellow sage cheese. The 
 tablecloth was like satiny snow. Everything was best 
 and daintiest. The simple folk praised everything. 
 The bread was light and '' clean-tasted ;"■ the bis- 
 cuits were "jest riz enough;" the waffles ''done to a 
 turn 'thout burnin'." As for the pies, — well, 'twas of 
 no use. '^ SccJi a mince-pie! Why it's jest beauti- 
 ful ! " with a strong nasal hum on the first syllable, 
 vibcantifid. 
 
 Whoever has not eaten mince-pie in some generous 
 Yankee house, wherein the tradition is several genera- 
 tions old, has no right to an opinion ; and whoever 
 dares to call it vulgar, mav he live and die unblessed 
 with the incommunicable flavor ! Dyspepsia } Per- 
 haps ; but for a mince-pie such as one remembers, ay, 
 
THE QUILTIN' 11/ 
 
 and for other delectable dainties like those on Mrs. 
 Kempton's table, the fiend miL;ht do his worst. 
 
 The smal Fenton ate his generous slice of cake, 
 then stole to the back of his mother's chair, and from 
 time to time received divers sweet morsels. By and 
 by, what with the original layer of dirt, the channels of 
 tears, and the invasion of mucous fluids, and with the 
 smear of sugary lollipops, the boy's face would have 
 been a model for -^ genre painter. Art might copy, but 
 not surpass. And then he was the author of a pro- 
 found philosophic saying. 
 
 Then Mrs. Aldrich found it was '' gittin' late," and, 
 after some honest compliments, went for her " things." 
 Mrs. Fenton and her son followed, the latter not much 
 regretted. Soon all had departed except the intimates, 
 Mrs. Stone, Mrs. Hale, and Miss ^larble. 
 
 '' Now sit down, girls,'' said ]\Irs. Kempton, with a 
 burst of gay humor. '' Sit down ; we'll have some 
 more tea, some fresh cups, and a good, old-fashioned 
 time." And they did. 
 
Il8 QUAE BIN 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WORKING THE ROADS 
 
 Those who are familiar with the excellent roads in 
 Eastern Massachusetts can have little idea of the 
 conditions of travel sixty years ago in the poorer dis- 
 tricts of the western part of the State. The original 
 settlers generally selected high ground for the centre 
 of a town, to prevent being surprised by Indians, and 
 therefore most of the old routes are hilly. 
 
 Quabbin, a newer town, was built in a valley, but its 
 roads furnished all the facilities for discomfort. There 
 were within its limits no high hills to be crossed, but, 
 to make up for their absence, plenty of sharp "pitches," 
 with sinuosities and angles favorable to overturns, and 
 with projecting points and edges of underlying ledges, 
 so as to sfive a series of shocks to each Vehicle. Other 
 hill-roads were strewn with loose stones of assorted 
 sizes, over which horses stumbled and w^agons rattled. 
 One of these was in the centre of the tow^n ; a short 
 descent, but rough as the moraine of a glacier ; and a 
 man who drove down toward the tavern at a trot was 
 tossed about as if he were in a boat on breakers. 
 Others had a bed of deep clay, into which in rainy 
 weather the wheels sank almost to the hubs. Some of 
 the roads over pine plains and through valleys had a 
 covering of sand, which, while wet, was impacted and 
 
WORKING THE ROADS I 19 
 
 smooth, but in dry weather was in yellowish granules, 
 through which the wagon-wheels squealed in making 
 their furrows. 
 
 To prevent a hill-road from being washed in time of 
 heavy rain, it was the custom to make across it, at in- 
 tervals, a series of barriers or dams that would turn off 
 any sudden current. These dams, built obliquely, gave 
 an emphatic " jounce " and a twist to a wagon descend- 
 ing, — a jounce of which the driver had his share in a 
 jerk that threatened to dislocate his neck. Frcm the 
 involuntary motion of the head in going over these 
 dams, they were popularly known as ''thank'ee ma'ams," 
 although the motion was scarcely conducive to a 
 grateful state of mind. 
 
 To adorn the steep hill-roads with these ingenious 
 obstructions, to clear out the rude gutters, and to 
 cover hollows and rutted places with turf, loose soil, 
 and roots of bushes, dug at random from the bank, so 
 as to make the '' repaired " section like a newly ploughed 
 field, was the total of road-making science in that day. 
 
 County commissioners had paramount authoiity, in 
 regard to long routes (county roads), but made their 
 authority felt less in former times than now. Grading 
 and macadamizing were unknown, and are still rare in 
 Ouabbin and in its region. Neighborhood roads were 
 laid out, repaired, or discontinued by each town within 
 its limits. 
 
 Once or twice a year the whole male populat'on was 
 called out to work the roads. If any one so chose, 
 he commuted the service by a payment in money. 
 Notice was given bv the highway surveyors for the 
 several districts (officers chosen at the annual town 
 meeting), and the people met at the places designated, 
 
I20 QUABBIN 
 
 to work under direction. A poor man took a hoe or 
 shovel, a farmer his oxen, with plough or cart, accord- 
 ing to need. The surveyors adjusted the corvee as best 
 they could, according to the ability of each one liable. 
 The surveyors were not paid, and they labored with the 
 others ; still, the office was sought for, because the 
 man in authority would be able to keep the road near 
 his house in fair condition, and because he would 
 ** have the say " as to when the work was to be done, 
 and could appoint days that would be convenient for 
 hini. In winter, after a heavy fall of snow, the roads 
 were "broken out" by the people, under the direction 
 of the district surveyors. 
 
 Working parties began on the part of the road near- 
 est the centre, and proceeded outward, making repairs 
 as they went, until they reached the boundary. Often 
 they met there a similar party from the adjoining town ; 
 and then at luncheon time there were jumping-matches, 
 back-hugs, pulling the stick, tugs-of-war, and other 
 athletic games, besides the customary banter and chaff. 
 
 One day, by chance, the Ouabbin men, working 
 southward, came in sight of a party belonging to Ware, 
 and, as there were various old scores to be settled be- 
 tween the respective tgwns' champions, the surveyors 
 in charge on either side got very little' more work done 
 that day. The two parties differed little in appearance. 
 Their clothes were mostly of an indescribable neutral 
 tint ; their heaw boots were coated with mud, their 
 hats without shape, and their hair often straggling and 
 untidy. But w^hat was specially characteristic of the 
 people of the time, was a certain sheepish air, and a 
 heavy, awkward gait. It was necessary to see the rus- 
 tic Yankee in action to know that he could be viva- 
 cious and encrcretic. 
 
WORKING THE ROADS 121 
 
 After some preliminaries the distances were paced 
 off, and there were races of one hundred and two hun- 
 dred yards, in which the honors were fairly divided. 
 At the high standing-jump Quabbin won. At the tug- 
 of-war Ware won. At pulling the stick victory came 
 to Quabbin. This was the crucial test of power and 
 endurance. The two antagonists sat on the ground 
 facing each other, their legs extended so that the soles 
 of each were squarely against those of his adversary. 
 A smooth, round stick, some two or three feet in length, 
 held transversely, was grasped by both, and at the 
 word, each endeavored to pull the other enough to lift 
 him from the ground. It was a tremendous struggle, 
 but without visible sign, except in the agonized strain 
 of the muscles of face and neck. Often it was a draw, 
 neither being able to raise the other. Whoever pulled 
 spasmodically was pretty sure to be beaten ; it was the 
 long, steady pull that succeeded. The success of 
 Quabbin was due to the aid of a stalwart young man, 
 six feet at least, and with the breast and shoulders of 
 Hercules, newly arrived from Vermont. No Ware 
 man could hold his seat against him. 
 
 This was before the temperance reform had made 
 much headway, and at the luncheon new rum was 
 freely circulated. There was one who could not be 
 called anything else but a drunkard, but who, in spite 
 of his well-known failing, was regarded with kindness, 
 for he was good-natured, lively, sensible, and often 
 witty. In the early stages of exaltation he was the 
 centre of merriment. He was doing service that dav 
 in place of one Crombie, who had the reputation of 
 being *' closer'n the bark tu a tree." Poor Dick had 
 been furnished with lunclieon by his cmplox'ci", and he 
 
122 QUABBIN 
 
 opene 1 the parcel. There was a doughnut (''nntcake" 
 they called it), a hunch of skim-milk cheese, and a pair 
 of slices of rye-bread and butter. The doughnut was 
 tough, the cheese like horn, and as for butter, one 
 never saw it so thinly spread. " Wal," said Dick, 
 " Mis' Crombie's got ter be talked tu. I k'n munch the 
 nutcake, I guess, an' p'r'aps worry off a bit o' thet 
 chejse-rine, but I wish she wouldn't cut my bread with 
 a greasy knife." ^ 
 
 A Ware man, wishing to hear Dick talk, asked him 
 how Mr. Crombie, his employer, liked being a director 
 of the bank } 
 
 ''Wal," said Dick, "when I went ter school, the dic- 
 tionary said a d'rector is one who d'rects, an' that ain't 
 the case 'ith Bije Crombie. He come home t'other day 
 f'm d'rectors' meetin' ez praoud's a turkey gobbler, but 
 tried to keep it all inside. Ye understand, nobody f'm 
 Ouabbin, that I ever heered on, was a bank d'rector 
 before. I see he wanted me to ask him abaout it, so I 
 said, ' Mr. Crombie, I s'pose yeou see an' handled a lot 
 o' gold an' silver daown ter the bank. Du they keep 
 the coin in piles like grain, an' shovel 'em in an' aout } 
 Or be they packed in bcrrils V — ' No,' said he, ' it's in 
 a vault, a gret square hole in a wall, cased 'raound 'ith 
 iron. They didn't take any on it aout.' — 'Oh,' said I, 
 ' then yeou don't know haow much ther' was V — ' Yis,' 
 said he, ' the cashier gin us the statement.' An' aout he 
 takes a bit o' paper an' reads, so much in gold, so much 
 in silver, so much in bank-notes, and then so much 
 
 1 Giraldiis Canibrcnsis. in an amusing sketch of his travels in Wales, records 
 a similar witticism uttered by a peasant, and, unconscious of his own absurdity, 
 takes the trouble to demonstrate tlie fallacy in the reasoning by gravely citing the 
 rule of logic that is infringed. 
 
WORKING THE ROADS 1 23 
 
 assets. 'What in the name o' natur' is assets? Ther's 
 loans an discounts, with big figgers, that 'pear to be a 
 leetle mixed, — didn't jest know haow they stood ; but 
 assets stumped me ! they did, I vum. Howsever, they 
 gin us a dividend o' ten per cent, an' that's sunthin. 
 Ez I k'n borry all the money I sh'd want at six, I don't 
 see haow they k'n pay us ten. But I'm glad ter git the 
 money.' Naow," continued Dick, " yeou k'n see ef a 
 d'rector is one who d'rects." 
 
 While Dick was talkinsf he took an occasional swisr 
 from his bottle, and as he entered with a keen relish 
 into the account of Mr. Crombie's views of finance, his 
 broad, rosy face was overspread with an oozy perspira- 
 tion, and gilded with a perpetual smile. P'or the time 
 he was happier than the director. 
 
 There was in the neighborhood an old iron cannon 
 which appeared to have no owner, and which had been 
 alternately captured and recaptured by the young 
 fellows of Ware on one side, and those of Quabbin 
 on the other, for many years. It was a six-pounder, 
 bearing on its breech a crown and the letters G. R., and 
 was deeply pitted with rust. It was used for firing 
 salutes on the Fourth of July, and for that purpose 
 was chained upon the axle-tree of a pair of cart-wheels. 
 At the time of this road-party the Ware fellows had it, 
 well hidden away as they believed; and, naturally, the 
 Quabbin boys were trying to ascertain where it was, that 
 they might make a midnight excursion and bring it off. 
 When the new rum had induced confidence, a youth of 
 the Quabbin party said to one of Ware, — 
 
 " Ain't ye 'fraid that ol' cannon '11 bust ? I hear yeou 
 fellers fired it all day las' Fourth o' Jewly. Some of 
 aour folks that was daown tu Bost'n in the last war, an' 
 
124 QCJABBIN 
 
 who was artill'ry men, an' knows 'baout guns, says the 
 ol' thing's jest rotten, an' '11 fly ter pieces some day, 
 liive a mouldy cheese." The youth from Ware looked 
 wary, and made only an inarticulate response. The 
 Quabbin youth went on, — 
 
 "Th' ol' fellers up ter Quabbin says they're glad it's 
 away ; fer ef it busts it's better that it sh'd kill Ware 
 boys than aourn." 
 
 "They are very kind," said the youth of Ware. 
 
 " I was on'y wantin' to give ye a friendly warnin'," 
 said he of Quabbin. 
 
 ** Much obleeged," said young Ware. 
 
 *' Ef yeou folks air so ferce to keep it," said young 
 Quabbin, looking keenly at his companion, " I wonder 
 yeou let it lay in scch an open place as Lyman's ol' 
 kerridge haouse, daown on the Palmer Road." 
 
 ** Who told yeou 'twas there t " was the sudden and 
 unguarded response. 
 
 "I heered it." This was a fib. The attempt at loca- 
 tion was only a bold guess, and proved true. The 
 Quabbin boy looked indifferent, offered his companion 
 a "nutcake," and changed the subject. 
 
 It may be added that not long after the Quabbin 
 boys found the cannon, and drew it home, seven miles. 
 On the next Fourth of July before daylight it was 
 dragged through the thick woods to the top of Ram 
 Mountain, and the slumbering village was roused by 
 the unexpected thunder which echoed along the valley. 
 The following year the Ware boys recovered the gun, 
 but, as had been predicted, it burst, — fortunately with- 
 out loss of life. 
 
 In smaller parties there was talk of courtships, of 
 good places for fishing, of the price of mink and mus- 
 
WORKING THE ROADS 1 25 
 
 quash skins, of the ministers, singing-schools, and 
 other matters of general interest. The marriage of 
 David Ramsay, the mathematician, was the occasion 
 of some amusing talk, as he was over fifty, and his 
 wife no longer young. Dick, who was not vcjy far 
 advanced in inebriation, told of a conversation he heard 
 between the bridegroom on his return from the wed- 
 ding-trip, and Joe Chandler, who had lent him his team. 
 Joe asked a great many questions, to which David made 
 few answers. At last he said, ''Well, now, David, 
 what d'ye think of matrimony.'* And how do you like 
 your new condition?" — ''Wal," said David, "ez to mat- 
 rimony, it depends^ ye see. I don't know nothin' 'bout 
 widders, — but merryin' an' ol' maid's a putterin' job." 
 
 A discussion then arose over the pretensions of the 
 two towns. Odds were offered that the new factory vil- 
 lage in Ware *'was goin' to beat Quabbin all holler." 
 These retorted that land in Ware was so poor that "a 
 rabbit 'd shed tears ef he hed to git his livin' off 'm a 
 ten-acre lot on 't." Ware replied that Quabbin *' didn't 
 raise nothin' but polecats an' skunks' cabbige." 
 
 Then rose an ancient Quabbin man with a merry 
 blue eye, and delivered, off-hand, a few lines of rhyme, 
 albeit with a slight impediment in his speech. 
 
 " Dame Nature once, in makin"' land, 
 Hed refuse left o' stones an"' sand ; 
 She viewed it o^er, then flung it down 
 Between Coy's Hill an' Belchcrtown. 
 Said she, ' Yeou paltry stuff, lie there ! ' 
 An' made a town, an' called it Ware ! " 
 
 All laughed, the Ware men included, and then the 
 rhymer was asked to sing. lie had a good natural 
 
126 QUAE BIN 
 
 voice (wholly uncultivated), abundant feeling", and a 
 surprising memory. It was said that he knew the 
 words and music of above two hundred songs. When 
 he sang, he sang "to the ends of his fingers and toes." 
 He did not say he was hoarse or out of practice, nor 
 wait to be pressed, but in compliance with general de- 
 sire sang "Wolfe's Adieu," a sweet, old-fashioned song. 
 The taking of Quebec was not then so very long ago. 
 In singing, every trace of his impediment disappeared. 
 
 " Too soon, my dearest Sophy, 
 
 Pray take this kind adieu. 
 Ah, Love, thy pains how bitter. 
 
 Thy joys how short, how few ! 
 No more those eyes so killing, 
 
 That tender glance repeat, 
 With bosom gently swelh'ng, 
 
 Where love's soft tumults beat. 
 
 Two passions strongly pleading 
 
 My doleful heart divide ; 
 Lo, there's my country bleeding. 
 
 And here's my weeping bride. 
 But no, thy faithful lover 
 
 Can true to either prove ; 
 W^ar fires my veins all over. 
 
 While every pulse beats love. 
 
 I go where glory leads me. 
 
 And points the dangerous way, 
 Though cowards may upbraid me. 
 
 Yet honor bids obey. 
 But honor's boasting story 
 
 T(jo oft thy swain doth move, 
 And whispers fame with glory. 
 
 Ah, what is that to love ! 
 
WORKING THE ROADS 12/ 
 
 Then think where'er I wander, 
 
 Through parts by sea or land, 
 No distance e'er can sunder 
 
 What mutual love hath joined. 
 Kind heaven, the brave requiting. 
 
 Shall safe thy swain restore, 
 And raptures crown our meeting 
 
 Which love ne'er felt before." ^ 
 
 Hearty applause followed ; and then the singer gave 
 the ever popular "Vicar of Bray" with vigor and 
 humor. 
 
 The surveyors at length induced their parties to 
 separate. The contingent for Ouabbin started home- 
 ward, and, as they went, smoothed with hoe or shovel 
 some of the roughest of the work they had done. It 
 was but a few miles they had to walk, and all got home 
 safely, even poor Dick, who had not always such good 
 luck. 
 
 A working party on the roads was never a just repre- 
 sentation of the people of Ouabbin. Few thriving 
 mechanics, and none of the men of influence, did per- 
 sonal service, because it was better to pay the money 
 than lose a day. The force which a surveyor could 
 muster was largely made up of hirelings, and of those 
 who did not count for much in town or church affairs ; 
 and that accounts for the hilarity, as well as the easy- 
 going way in which the work was done. 
 
 1 The stanzas are written from memory, after sixty years, and there may be 
 some errors. 
 
128 QUAE BIN 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 VILLAGE AND COUNTRY 
 
 The old manners naturally survived longest in dis- 
 tricts remote from the village and its modernizing in- 
 fluences. This fact was conspicuous among the folk 
 on the Great Hill at the north-west, which covered parts 
 of the territory of three towns. It was a region where 
 what was oldest and rudest in English rural counties 
 lived on, but under less favorable conditions ; for the 
 soil was rough and unproductive, markets were dis- 
 tant, and money exceedingly scarce. Probably there 
 could not be seen to-day on the hilly roads a barefooted 
 driver of oxen, or a farmer in blue frock going to mill ; 
 but sixty years ago woollen frocks in winter, and flaxen 
 or tow breeches and bare feet in summer, were common 
 enough. The difference between these people and 
 those in the social centre was like a gulf between cen- 
 turies ; and the rooted antipathy on the part of the hill 
 people toward the better-dressed villagers was almost 
 past belief. There could hardly have been a sharper 
 line of division between Jew and Gentile. The differ- 
 ences had slowly come about from the lack of frequent 
 communication, of good schools, and of a convenient 
 place for united worship. As most of the families on 
 the hill had a common origin, and were nearly all con- 
 nected by marriage, there came to be a known type of 
 
VILLAGE AND COUNTRY 1 29 
 
 countenance among them. Their ways were painfully 
 coarse, but actual illiteracy was uncommon ; that is to 
 say, it was rare to find a man who could not sign his 
 name, and keep what might pass for accounts, to be 
 sharply disputed over at settlement with the store- 
 keeper ; but the general ignorance would have been 
 charming to those who place the Golden Age in the cen- 
 turies before the Reformation. There were few books 
 (probably not half a dozen to a household), almost no 
 newspapers, no hints of science, and no knowledge of 
 the world, literally or figuratively. The people spoke 
 their mother tongue as they had heard it, using words 
 long obsolete, as well as Saxon plurals and termina- 
 tions, wholly unconscious that there was such a thing 
 as grammar. The difference between their speech and 
 that of the village was, however, more in matter than 
 in phrase ; but the universal drawl and twisting of 
 accent were considerably intensified on the hill. Lit- 
 erary English is the product of centuries of learned 
 labor ; chimney-corner English is a common and inde- 
 feasible inheritance, somewhat abused by Yankees, it 
 must be admitted. 
 
 In a religious point of view, the majority in the re- 
 mote districts were not actively, but passively, ungodly, 
 or at least indifferent to the established worship. 
 ]\Ianv were too far from the meetimr-house to attend 
 regularly, even if they had not such a repugnance to 
 the village set ; besides, they and their horses had need 
 of rest ; and when they heard the gospel at all, it was 
 at a district schoolhouse, where some unlettered apostle 
 of an Ishmaelitish church gloried in non-conformity, 
 and poured contempt upon " book-larnin'," "hirelin' 
 priests," and the " praise of God with choirs and 
 
I30 QUABBIN" 
 
 fiddles." Some of these, later, supported the Metho- 
 dist church, and contributed to build for it a small 
 meetino^-house in the centre of Ouabbin. 
 
 The distrust of the village folks which prevailed in 
 the outskirts was assiduously cultivated by neighbor- 
 hood leaders, until it became something like that of a 
 British radical for a Tory peer. In any popular 
 assembly there will be parties ; and local managers, 
 (demagogues they might be called) make them serve 
 their personal ends. From this source came the long 
 and obstinate resistance to the improvement of the 
 public schools, and to the making of needed roads and 
 bridges. Fierce but bloodless battles were fought at 
 the annual town meetings, where any proposition, of 
 what nature soever, if made by an enlightened villager, 
 especially if he happened to be prominent in the 
 church, was at once opposed by all the outdv/ellers and 
 dissidents, these always rising to be counted when the 
 *' otherwise minded " were called by the moderator. 
 
 The drunken and depraved portion of the towns- 
 people naturally sided with the '' otherwise minded '* 
 in opposing the party of the church and parish ; but 
 that portion was not large, and the greater and better 
 part of the opposition were not at all responsible for 
 the conduct of their shameless allies. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that the villagers — " towns- 
 people " they were called in the country — were greatly 
 distinguished for reading or general intelligence, for 
 there were scarcely more than half a dozen fairly well- 
 educated families among them, and, judged by any high 
 standard, not so many ; but the advantage was, that 
 among the less educated villagers there was no bigoted 
 preference for ignorance. If they were not illuminated, 
 their faces were turned toward the light. 
 
VILLAGE AND COUATRY 13I 
 
 The few collections of books were well known, and, 
 excepting that of the second minister and of the 
 lawyer, it is doubtful if any contained so many as a 
 hundred volumes ; few had as many as fifty. It is 
 painful to think of the meagre supply of reading avail- 
 able, excepting religious works. If a boy were looking 
 about for something to read, he would have found 
 Josephus, Rollin's *' Ancient History," the " Pil- 
 grim's Progress," and some religious treatises before 
 mentioned; also, ''Riley's Narrative," a story of cap- 
 tivity among Arabs, Milton, Pollok's " Course of 
 Time," Cowper, a few lives of celebrated preachers, 
 and the like. If there were any complete copies of 
 the works of Shakspeare, Dryden, Pope, Addison, or 
 Johnson, they must have been seldom exhibited and 
 seldom read. The same may be said of Burns, Byron, 
 Coleridge, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Keats. No " pro- 
 fane " author was ever quoted in a discourse ; and every 
 author was profane who did not write upon religious 
 subjects, and on evangelical lines. No instruction was 
 given in literature in the schools ; no English poetry 
 was ever used except to be picked to pieces in parsing 
 lessons. Therefore an intelligent lad might get what 
 education the schools of Quabbin could give him, with- 
 out ever seeing any work of the great British poets 
 (Alilton excepted), or of any great writers of English 
 prOse (Bunyan excepted), and without knowing the 
 character or even the existence of any " profane " 
 author who did not happen to be represented by a 
 specimen in some reading-book. Sometimes a youtli 
 might be favored by a certain generous but ** worldly" 
 old lady, who had preserved in secret books of tales 
 like ''The Arabian Nights," or romances like "The 
 
132 QUABBIN 
 
 Scottish Chiefs," or more recent poems like "The Lady 
 of the Lake." But the youth could not keep such 
 books in safety, except in the barn and under the hay, 
 nor read them, except at intervals and by stealth. 
 
 To ignore all literature except their own was the 
 policy of the religious leaders of Massachusetts. They 
 did not make an Index Expiirgatorius, for notoriety 
 would have defeated their purpose. 
 
 If such was the intellectual conditions of the vil- 
 lage, what must have been the darkness of the outly- 
 ing regions } 
 
TOWN, PARISH, AND CHURCH 133 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 TOWN, PARISH, AND CHURCH 
 
 A "town" in Massachusetts is a small republic, or 
 a corporation erected by statute in certain fixed 
 limits, and exercising powers established and defined 
 by a general law. The existence and functions of 
 towns antedate any legislation. At the beginning, each 
 *' plantation" set up its local government as by intui- 
 tion. ** Township " is not a native term, and, so far as 
 it has any meaning in Massachusetts, refers to the ter- 
 ritory of a town. The town, as we have seen, main- 
 tains within its boundaries roads, bridges, and schools, 
 and supports its poor, if there should be any having a 
 legal settlement. Formerly it was obliged to provide 
 for the military drill and equipment of its able-bodied 
 citizens of legal age. Formerly, also, it elected the 
 minister, voted his salary, and raised the amount by 
 taxation, like other town charges ; for in early time^ 
 the town and parish were one. Later, the notion of 
 the town was that of a corporation for civil purposes, 
 and of the parish, a corporation for religious purposes ; 
 and in many cases both corporations covered the same 
 area. If a town was large and became populous, it 
 might be divided (for religious jKirposes solelv) into two 
 or more parishes. A ''church" means such persons as 
 have made a prescribed profession of faith and expe- 
 rience, and have united under a covenant. \ churcli- 
 
134 QUAE BIN 
 
 member, imlcss non-resident, was necessarily a member 
 of the parish, but the reverse was not necessary. 
 
 Every inhabitant used to be assessed by the author- 
 ities of the town for civil purposes, and of the parish 
 for religious purposes. In earlier times, and while the 
 town and parish were virtually one, there was no excep- 
 tion to this rule; but after a time the law allowed a 
 man to sever his connection with the parish, without 
 changing his residence, if he could show that he was 
 taxed for the support of worship elsewhere. Unbe- 
 lievers and dissidents, sixty years ago, considered the 
 compulsory support of the gospel an oppression ; and 
 there was no end of wrath and profanity about it, until 
 at length the voluntary system was established by law, 
 and the final divorce of church and state accomplished. 
 That, one would think, was the ** Emancipation of 
 Massachusetts." 
 
 Most well-disposed people paid the ''minister tax" 
 whether they went to meeting or not. To withdraw 
 was called "signing-off," — a bull in terms, but a pro- 
 ceeding perfectly understood, — and was considered 
 disreputable, unless prompted by religious conviction. 
 Many members of the parish were not church-mem- 
 bers, although they might regularly attend meeting. 
 When the bi-monthly communion was to be celebrated, 
 non church-members usually left the meeting-house 
 after sermon. 
 
 The parish and church voted separately upon the 
 calling of a minister, and upon the amount of his sal- 
 ary. Differences often occurred, and, even when the 
 two bodies agreed, there was a third power to be con- 
 sulted, namely an ecclesiastical council, composed of 
 ministers and delegates from neighboring churches, 
 
nM. 
 
 i!!^m^v::'''mwm!^?^SK^r'rT'!mr'!^ 
 
 IT. 
 < 
 
 ^^HL^ 
 
TOWN, PARISH, AND CHURCH 1 35 
 
 whose approv^al was considered necessary in later times. 
 A minister's first settlement was an ''ordination;" a 
 subsequent one an *' installation." 
 
 So Ouabbin sixty years ago was a duplex republic ; 
 an organized democracy in civil affairs, and a religious 
 corporation in its other aspect. In the annual town- 
 meeting, and in the parish-meeting, every man had his 
 voice and his vote. There was (and still is) no rank or 
 primacy except from known ability and worth. \\'ith 
 characteristic simplicity the chief ofificers of a town 
 were styled the *' Selectmen," and, with a view of re- 
 straining loquacity and personalities, the chairman, 
 chosen for each occasion, was- termed the ** Moder- 
 ator." There were also chosen each year a School 
 Committee, Overseers of the Poor, Town Clerk, Treas- 
 urer, and Surveyors of Highways. 
 
 The first business in order was the presentation of 
 reports of town officers for the year then ending. 
 These were read, discussed, and acted upon, and their 
 recommendations submitted to vote. Appropriations 
 were then made for the various town charges, after 
 which the officers for the coming year were elected by 
 ballot. In no legislative body was business more intel- 
 ligently done, and out of this long experience there 
 has been made a manual of practice. The moderator 
 ruled upon the admissibility of motions, and the order 
 of precedence, in case more than one was made at the 
 same time. He knew the *'p'ints of order," and 
 promptly decided what question was rightfully before 
 the meeting. Any one aggrieved by his decision 
 might appeal to the meeting, which sustained or re- 
 versed his ruling by a majority vote. Probably there 
 is nowhere a body of men better trained to public 
 
136 QUABBIN 
 
 service than the voters of New England, and of those 
 States that have followed the same methods. There 
 are places in Great Britain in which there is not the 
 least notion of an orderly or parliamentary procedure ; 
 as, for instance, where the chairman of a meeting 
 makes a motion, — which is in itself absurd, — and 
 where such a motion and a hostile amendment are sub- 
 mitted to a vote at one and the same time. An expe- 
 rienced moderator would make short work of the 
 confusion that arises from ignorance or mischief, and 
 promptly show what question is rightfully before the 
 meeting. The usage was not copied from the rules of 
 the State Legislature ; on the contrary, the town was 
 the original unit and model, and the State an aggrega- 
 tion. The experience of a century and a half in these 
 primitive assemblies made the working of the State 
 Legislature under the Constitution an easy matter. 
 
 The state of schools, roads, bridges, and the town 
 accounts, with all that concerns public order and well- 
 being, were discussed by and in presence of those 
 vitally interested. Whoever had anything to say, said 
 it ; and practice made speech pointed and effective. 
 It was face to face and man to man. Facts and wise 
 suggestions had weight ; but, when the business of a 
 year was to be finished in a session of a day, mere talk 
 had small consideration. 
 
 This little annual parliament has some likeness to 
 the village assemblies of our Teutonic ancestors, and 
 to the democratic rule in ancient Athens ; but as a 
 scheme of local administration it is more practical 
 and efficient than any ever devised. It Vv^as and is a 
 means of education of the highest value. 
 
 Something has been said of the effect of political 
 
toivjV, parish, and church 137 
 
 independence upon character, and of the sturdy spirit 
 that came from the individual ownership of farms, and 
 from the extinction of feudal customs. To these must 
 be added the institution of the " town," as one of the 
 influences that have made New England people what 
 they are. 
 
 This simple and automatic machine, with the general 
 education and moral training which then came into 
 being, was the sure foundation of personal liberty and 
 free government. Every voter was in effect a member 
 of a committee of supervision upon all matters which 
 concerned him. By himself, or by a known and ac- 
 cepted proxy, he managed the schools, kept order, 
 repressed evil-doers, and maintained highways. It was 
 to his ow^n nominee that he paid the taxes he had 
 assisted in levying : no stranger came to take his hard- 
 earned money. His trusted neighbor was the justice 
 before whom he could plead his cause. The law was 
 not a distant or distrusted power ; its force was exer- 
 cised for him in so far as he was just. He was at once 
 ruler and subject, a member of the only true and benefi- 
 cent democracy the world has seen. Why should he 
 not cheerfully obey, since the precepts were of his own 
 making, and the instruments of justice named by his 
 own voice t 
 
 Under local control the schools have naturally indi- 
 cated the state of public sentiment. People would have 
 felt less personal interest even in better schools, if they 
 had been directed by some remote or exterior authority. 
 With the general advance of intelligence the schools 
 have been improved, and each neighborhood regards its 
 own with the pride of possession. 
 
 Furthermore, the system of town government has 
 
138 QUAE BIN 
 
 made possible the plan of "local option" as to the sale 
 of intoxicating drinks. A town, by its vote, may per- 
 mit or deny the granting of licenses for the retail sale 
 of spirits, wine, and beer within its borders. In a 
 very great number of small towns such licenses are for- 
 bidden, and the general good order in the villages is 
 believed to be d.ue to this regulation. 
 
 Carlyle, who, if his writings had been speech, would 
 have made more noise than any in his generation, has 
 given way to many outbursts of temper upon talk. 
 And, truly, w^en talkers without knowledge are desir- 
 ous mainly of hearing their own voices, and have not a 
 heartfelt interest in the thing discussed, nor power to 
 follow up opinion by action, talk may be as dreary and 
 profitless as he represents it. But when it is spent 
 upon topics that come home to men's '' business and 
 bosoms," on a fit and necessary occasion, with per- 
 sonal knowledge of the matters to be decided, and 
 with intention to decide them then and there, surely 
 talk is one of the most important and useful of 
 faculties. 
 
 New England has been justly reproached as the 
 country of windy oratory. Almost every eminent 
 scholar and public man in times past felt bound to 
 deliver set '^ orations," and to include them in his 
 published works, but the fashion has had its day. 
 Still, something may be said in favor of a system which 
 enables people to set forth their views on matters of 
 public interest with clearness and force ; especially 
 wlicn they are able to make of thought, fact ; of ideas, 
 institutions ; of resolve, action ; of character, renown. 
 
 There are people who are reasonably intelligent, and 
 yet are unable to listen to opinions and arguments 
 
TOWN, PARISH, /LVD CHURCH 1 39 
 
 which they do not approve. At the appearance of a 
 leader of a party opposed to theirs, and often at the 
 bare mention of his name, they burst forth in impre- 
 cations, hootings, and yells, and endeavor to drown the 
 speaker's voice and break up the meeting. Others 
 still more violent use missiles and clubs, so that band- 
 ages, eye-shades, and sticking-plaster become neces- 
 sities for a candidate's outfit. Such men vvould need 
 some preliminary education before they could take part 
 in the business of a deliberative body. The people of 
 New England have not been without blame in this 
 respect, as all early anti-slavery men well remember ; 
 but in town meetings the decorum observed, even in 
 the sharpest contests, has been remarkable. The self- 
 control acquired in these annual assemblies has done 
 much to preserve the amenities in political gatherings, 
 and has made possible something like dispassionate 
 consideration of public questions. 
 
 Quabbin, like other towns, had its stormy meetings ; 
 sometimes it was the town party, and sometimes the 
 country party that won ; but in the long run justice 
 was generally done. An instance of sharp practice 
 may be mentioned : — 
 
 A wealthy and prominent citizen, who was a leading 
 church-member, and vehemently disliked by the people 
 of the outlying districts, made a motion at one meet- 
 ing that the authorities be instructed to close a certain 
 road which was little used. He said nothing in sup- 
 port of his motion, and preserved an impassible look. 
 A leading man in the country party was quick to see 
 that the mover really wanted the road kept open, as it 
 led to his own land. This man, therefore, promptly 
 seconded the motion, looking round keenly at his sup- 
 
140 QUAE BIN 
 
 porters in tnc rear of tlie hall. They were in full force 
 that day, and the motion was carried by show of hands. 
 The truth was, the mover had found that whatever he 
 proposed was defeated, and, desiring- to have this road 
 maintained for his personal convenience, moved to dis- 
 continue it, and was caught in his own trap. It was a 
 pity he resorted to a trick by which his influence was 
 so much impaired ; for he had been one of the most 
 liberal and enlightened friends of the public schools, 
 and in favor of most projects of reform. 
 
THE SECOND MINISTER 141 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE SECOND MINISTER 
 
 This young man was ordained as colleague, with a 
 salary of five hundred dollars and the use of a good 
 modern house. The use of " pounds " in reckoning 
 had gone by. At the ceremony of ordination there 
 was present a small spectator, who in after years re- 
 called "the laying on of hands." The pulpit seemed 
 to be black with ministers, — swarming with them; 
 and at a certain time the candidate knelt, with his 
 pale face on the puffy crimson cover of the desk, and 
 then ever so many white hands were stretched out, 
 and rested on his head while the ''ordaining i:)rayer" 
 was made. 
 
 The new minister was a slender man, of serious 
 yet pleasant countenance, with soft, engaging, deep-set 
 brown eyes, which could flash upon occasion, and a 
 broad white forehead with full temples that showed 
 a network of throbbing veins. He looked fragile, but 
 was nervous and wiry, and an indefatigable worker. 
 There was enough for him to do. 
 
 The state of religion, viewed as a ceremonv, was 
 much as it had always been ; but the life of religion, 
 which is active piety, with soberness, pur it v, and godly 
 living, had sadly declined. This was seen in every 
 aspect of society, but chiefly in the prevalent habit of 
 
142 QUABBIN 
 
 drinking, in the dull formality of prayer-meetings, and 
 in the wretched state of the schools. The new minis- 
 ter soon came to the conclusion that no "revival" 
 would permanently benefit the church, and that no 
 efforts could raise the standard of education, until the 
 excess of drinking was restrained. But he found out, 
 as Dr. Johnson did long before, that moderation was 
 more difficult than abstinence ; and he set to work to 
 found a total abstinence society, of which a revived 
 church was to be the nucleus. 
 
 The drinking habit had been universal, and though 
 there were not many notorious drunkards, true modera- 
 tion was rare. People who wanted it, got rum at the 
 store, and kept it at home, or in their workshops. As 
 we have seen, it appeared at the pastoral call ; it re- 
 freshed the ecclesiastical council at an ordination ; it 
 was glorious at a house-raising when neighbors came 
 to give a lift, and indispensable at the annual training. 
 When heads were heated, the usual consequences fol- 
 lowed : sometimes the machinist talked foully; or it 
 was the shoemaker who declaimed politics while he 
 slit the upper leather in trimming a shoe ; or it was the 
 butcher who argued upon theology as he bled a calf ; 
 or it was the blacksmith who had grown oblivious of a 
 waiting customer, and let his fire die out on the forge. 
 As has been already stated, the indications of intem- 
 perance among the farms met the eye at the first 
 glance, in dilapidation and ruin. There w-ere carts 
 without wheels, and wheels without carts, and all man- 
 ner of broken tools, cumbering the yards. The grass 
 plots were defiled by geese. Petticoats and old hats 
 were stuffed in broken windows. Fences leaned, gates 
 were off their hinges, and walls were tottering. Lean 
 
THE SECOND MINISTER 1 43 
 
 and discontented cows got into the growing corn. 
 Colts went about with manes and tails full of burrs. 
 Pigs disported in the vegetable garden. Orchards 
 lapsed into wildness, and bristled with useless shoots. 
 Untended pastures were nibbled bare, and dotted with 
 clumps of bushes. Mowing fields were overrun with 
 sorrel and white-weed. 
 
 Meanwhile there were accidents, woes, "■ wounds 
 without cause," falls from wagon or cart, stumbles in 
 ditches, and a sorry show of bleared eyes, cracked 
 hands, and unshaven faces. Voices on such farms were 
 under no control ; men shouted, women screamed, and 
 boys replied : there was one from which the high- 
 p'tched voices were often heard for half a mile. Wives 
 struggled long on the downward slope, striving to keep 
 up an air of respectability, but at length gave way to 
 despair, sank to their husband's level, or lower, and be- 
 came frowsy, loose-haired, and sharp-tongued. Scold- 
 ing only deepened the common misery. By knitting 
 stockings they procured tea or snuff, if they used it, 
 or a bit of calico. The daughters when they wanted 
 gowns or ribbons paid for them by braiding palm-leaf 
 hats. The boys had a hard time to get their school- 
 ing, and were glad to trap muskrats, mink, partridges, 
 or rabbits, and to gather wild nuts or berries, so as to 
 buy hats, boots, and books. 
 
 Oh ! those farms ! what misery did they not witness. 
 Love had flown long before ; self-respect was dead, and 
 comfort a rare visitor. Sordid poverty was in posses- 
 sion, with ignorance, iil-tcmpcr, and l^rutishness. But 
 there was always a supply of hard cider and of rum ; 
 the store-keeper gave liberal credit, on conditions ; and, 
 until the Icncrth of tlie tether was run, the farmer's 
 
144 QUAE BIN 
 
 nose continued to glow like a dull ruby. But the end 
 came sooner or later. The sheriff's officer was no 
 stranger, and sometimes a debtor or trespasser was 
 carried away to the county jail. 
 
 What was political independence, or ownership of 
 land in severalty, or the education of town meetings, 
 or the preaching of the gospel, or any other blessing, 
 to men sunk in such degradation ? 
 
 The minister saw that half measures would not do ; 
 he threw his whole soul into the work of inducins: the 
 church to take a stand upon total abstinence, and at 
 length succeeded. Intemperate brethren were warned, 
 and, if necessary, excommunicated. To be a church- 
 member was to be an abstainer. The next move prom- 
 ised to be more difficult. He turned to the parish and 
 the town, and after a time got the authorities to dis- 
 countenance the excesses that had attended public 
 meetings. He had to wait for a chance to attack the 
 people of the wild and drunken district, but at length 
 one came to him most unexpectedly. 
 
 There was a meeting of the able-bodied men of the 
 military company for drill or display, which was followed 
 by a tragic incident. The like of this village "training" 
 was never seen except in some burlesque on the stage. 
 The men kept time to the sound of fife and drums, but 
 of erect military carriage, of the manual of arms, and 
 of company-formation, they were ludicrously ignorant. 
 Heads moved automatically from side to side, shoulders 
 rose and fell in a distressing rhythm, and awkward feet 
 struck out right and left. Even the boys, who had 
 never seen any well-drilled company parade, laughed 
 and shouted from one end of the common to the 
 other. 
 
THE SECOND MINISTER MS 
 
 The head-gear was in shape like an apothecary's mor- 
 tar ; the material of shining black leather, with a flat 
 brass chain festooned across the front, and a chin- 
 strap ; the whole surmounted by a plume made of small 
 feathers, standing more than a foot high ; the lower 
 part white, and the tip bright crimson. The coat was 
 dark green, closely fitting, with brass buttons, and trans- 
 versely braided on the breast with yellow galloon. The 
 trousers were of white linen. The officers wore red 
 sashes. It was a gay costume. The manoeuvres were 
 simple to childishness. The firing of the flint-lock 
 muskets (with blank cartridges) resembled nothing so 
 much as the hap-hazard clatter of the hinged seats in 
 the meeting-house. 
 
 When the show was over th-e soldiers gathered at the 
 tavern, where rum-punch was consumed by bucketfuls ; 
 and at sundown the scattering of bewildered men for 
 their homes, swaying in rickety wagons, or stagger- 
 ing along on foot, was something never to be for- 
 gotten. 
 
 People had come from far and near to see the train- 
 ing ; and among them was a man from the wild district, 
 who, not content with the punch, had procured a small 
 jug of rum to take home. He was standing near the 
 tavern door, leaning against a pillar of the veranda, 
 and keeping a tight hold of his precious jug. His dis- 
 ordered hair, the spasms of muscular action in his face, 
 the unsteady movements of his knees, which seemed 
 inclined to double under him, and the alternate come 
 and go of light in his foxy eyes, showed that he had 
 long passed the safety line of self-possession, and was 
 heading for some catastrophe. Two men from his 
 neighborhood observed him, and came near. 
 
146 QUAE BIN- 
 
 "Harv," said one, "where yeou goin'? What ye got 
 in thet ere jug ? " 
 
 "i\Iy name ain't Harv," said the drunken man with a 
 vicious assumption of dignity. '' Yeou know tJict ! 
 Wher'm I goin'? I'm goin' hum — when I git ready; 
 an' what I've got in this ere jug ain't nothin' to no- 
 body." 
 
 The friend pursued, — 
 
 " Naow, don't yer git furus fer nothin', Harvey. I 
 was 'feard yeou was goin' ter try walkin' home alone ; 
 an' the road's rough, an' it's goin' ter be dark ez a 
 pocket 'fore yeou git ther." 
 
 "Thet's so," said the other neighbor. ''Don't yeou 
 start alone. Yeou jest go 'long 'ith us." 
 
 '' I k'n walk," said Harvey, **an' I know the road. I 
 c'd f oiler it 'ith my eyes shet, an' my ban's tied behind 
 me. 
 
 '' Naow, Harvey, hear tu reason ! I don't say yer 
 can't walk, an' don't know the road, — on'y 't '11 be 
 safer fer ye ter hev company." 
 
 But Harvey couldn't be "druv," as he said ; and, irri- 
 tated at the imputation of being unfit to take care of 
 himself, he started off, covering a good part of the 
 breadth of the road as he went. It was a long way 
 he had to go, and it was pitch dark when he reached 
 the hiUy region. He called for a moment at the house 
 of an acquaintance, and from there, against all persua- 
 sion, started across-lots upon a path sufficiently difficult 
 for a sober man in daylight. The event happened which 
 was expected. He strayed out of the path, stumbled, 
 and fell over a precipice, and next morning was found 
 dead, his stiffened hand still grasping the handle of the 
 broken jug. 
 
THE SECOND MIXISTER 147 
 
 The new minister went out to attend the funeral. 
 There was a great gathering, especially of the class to 
 which the dead man had belonged. There were far too 
 many for the small and cheerless house to hold ; so, 
 v.hile the family sat in the room with the coffin, the 
 neighbors remained outside, and the minister con- 
 ducted the services in the open air, standing on a 
 log by the wood-pile. When he came to address the 
 mourners, it was said that never a battery with grape- 
 shot threw a crowd into such consternation. He was 
 by nature sympathetic, but he was courageous, and ter- 
 ribly in earnest. He repeated with thrilling emphasis 
 the woes denounced in the Old Testament airainst 
 drunkards ; and never, perhaps, since the days of the 
 prophets, did they appear so dazzling with menace, so 
 mighty in power. The effect was indescribable. Some 
 were so angry that they threatened violence ; but, aside 
 from the respect due to his calling, there was some- 
 thing in the look of the minister that repelled aggression. 
 He told them of their brutal neglect of their wives and 
 children ; he described their homes without comfort, 
 their lives without dignity or respect, witli the poor- 
 house, the jail, and the pauper's grave before them. 
 He told them of their want of manliness, and the need 
 they had of the sustaining power of religion, and warned 
 them of the wrath to come. Then he painted the de- 
 lights of home as it should be, when the master of the 
 house is a man, "clothed and in his right mind." He 
 appealed to the women, of whom many were present, 
 and all the tenderness of his heart broke forth. Before 
 he had done there were sobs and groans. Then he 
 l^-aycd. ]ie}-ond this i)oint it would not be right to 
 lollow him ; but the reader can imagine the fervenc}' of 
 
148 QUABBIN 
 
 that prayer from the simple fact that the children who 
 had heard him pray when he came to visit their school 
 had more than once at the end of his prayer found the 
 seat of the chair by which he had knelt sprinkled with 
 tears. What a glowing heart he had ! It is not often 
 that a strong man weeps ! Precious tears they were, 
 not unnoticed, perhaps, by the All-pitying Eye. 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 1 49 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 
 
 The death of Harvey, and the startling scene at his 
 funeral, made a prodigious talk in Quabbin and in the 
 surrounding towns. The tragedy had furnished the 
 ardent preacher with the opportunity and the text with 
 which to reach the consciences of men who stood in 
 need of warning. Such an audience could have been 
 gathered in no ordinary way ; and up to that time there 
 had been no man ready and able to stand up, with a 
 wood-pile for a pulpit, and set before a set of drunken 
 reprobates a true picture of themselves and their des- 
 tiny. It was a scene upon which one might imagine 
 the angels of light and the powers of darkness to be 
 looking as upon a lifc-and-death struggle ; for the future 
 of Quabbin and of its people was to be decided there. 
 Would this courageous young man, who stood up be- 
 fore that angry crowd, be able to reach their hard 
 hearts, and gain entrance for the Spirit of God ^ Time 
 was to show. 
 
 There was another "warning" which made a dec]D 
 impression, though not in such a dramatic way. The 
 tavern-keeper was injured by a horse, and died within 
 two or three days. He was not intemperate, but not a 
 church-member, and, aside from his business, was uni- 
 versally liked. Personally, he could have had little 
 
150 QUABBIN- 
 
 sympathy with the weak or dissolute people who fre- 
 quented his bar; on the other hand, he could not have 
 had any very warm feeling for the minister and the 
 leading: church-members who were attackin^^ his busi- 
 ness, and arraying the moral forces of the town in a 
 way to push dram-sellers and dram-drinkers into out- 
 lawry. The reader will remember the story of the clock 
 in a former chapter. The minister was not supersti- 
 tious, and perhaps never heard the story ; but he 
 'believed and taught the doctrine of a particular provi- 
 dence, and the sudden death of the tavern-keeper was 
 "improved" with such earnestness that all the town 
 rang with the echo. 
 
 Gradually the church became a body of total ab- 
 stainers ; and the drinkers, even if they were not scan- 
 dalously intemperate, were pushed out of the commun- 
 ion. Before many years there was a great change 
 throughout the town ; the incorrigible were removed 
 by death, and others took warning. The town-meet- 
 ings became more orderly ; the riotous trainings were 
 given up, and an old race-course, two miles down on 
 the river road, was planted with corn. After a time 
 some who had been excommunicated came back, chast- 
 ened and penitent, and lived godly lives ever afterward. 
 
 At these blessed chaneres all Ouabbin smiled with 
 greener fields, and with brighter and purer homes. 
 Even the wild north-west district became peaceable, and 
 the sessions of the justice's court were rare. The 
 dwellers upon the outlying farms, though necessarily 
 poor on account of the sterile soil, and not highly edu- 
 cated then or since, became Sunday worshippers and 
 good citizens. The old savagery was going by. 
 
 This was the work of the second minister, for the 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 151 
 
 impulse came from him, but it was not wholly accom- 
 plished in his day. 
 
 At the beginning he was almost alone, and year 
 after year there were new efforts to be made ; and at 
 each successive reform that was attempted new oppo- 
 sition and new enmities were aroused. The long 
 struggle was wearing to a man of delicate frame and 
 high-strung nerves. 
 
 Among the last to be civilized were the youths from 
 fourteen to eighteen years of age. At the singing- 
 schools, spelling-schools, and other festive occasions, 
 these young savages spoiled the pleasure of all decent 
 people. It was their chief object in life to organize 
 rebellion in the district schools; and where they were 
 numerous it was not uncommon to have a change of 
 masters once or twice in the course of a winter session. 
 They would make the master's life a burden by inces- 
 sant annoyances, such as filling the house with smoke, 
 by putting a cover on the chimney, or they would lock 
 the door and bar the windows ; and sometimes when he 
 attempted to punish them they would set upon him 
 with fists and feet. The masters were commonly young, 
 and often v/ere college students who were compelled 
 by poverty to leave their studies for a term to earn 
 something. The pay was so small that no one would 
 think of making teaching a profession, and there was 
 usually but one session of thirteen weeks in the year. 
 The master of a country school received from seven- 
 teen to twenty-five dollars per month and his board; 
 about the wages of a farmer's hired man. The board 
 was ambulatory, — a week with this family, and a fiw 
 days with that, according to the number of pupils in 
 each. "Boarding around" gave a teacher a lively im- 
 
152 QUAE BIN 
 
 pression of the generosity and meanness of mankind, 
 and of the comforts and discomforts of country life. 
 The temptation to linger where there was good fare 
 and the company of pretty girls was generally irresistible. 
 A night in a fireless bedroom, with the glass below 
 zero; a morning wash in water from a basin crusted 
 with ice ; toiling to subdue a thick shock of hair that 
 crackled with electricity; struggling with buttons while 
 red fingers were stiffened with cold — such were the 
 experiences of many a young teacher. After breakfast 
 he might have to walk, perhaps half a mile, perhaps a 
 mile and a half, through mid-leg depths of new-fallen 
 snow, and would be fortunate if he found the school- 
 room warm. If the fire had not been made, as some- 
 times happened, it would be necessary to cut the wood 
 that was provided, — often green, sappy, and ice-coated, 
 — and wait for a slowly struggling blaze. Then he 
 might have to wedge loose windows to keep out the 
 draughts that cut the faces and necks of those sitting 
 near them as with icy knives. Then pupils were to be 
 given turns near the stove, alternating with banishment 
 to the Arctic corners, where the chattering- of teeth was 
 constant and irrepressible. Until the roaring cast-iron 
 stove became red, and the ice-frescoed windows were 
 thawed, any effective study was impossible. Often the 
 softening process occupied most of the morning hours. 
 It will be believed that the task of the master, and of 
 the pupils, was hard enough when good humor, good 
 order, and obedience reigned. What maddening per- 
 plexity was it when a herd of half-washed fellows, with 
 wild hair, bovine odor, and unpardonable boots, broke 
 every rule, destroyed the indispensable quiet, burned 
 offensive matters upon the stove, expectorated over the 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 153 
 
 floor, " sarsed " the master, delighted in making the tall 
 girls blush, and the small ones cry, and finally precipi- 
 tated a *' row," which made further exercises impossible ! 
 Sometimes, however, they met their match. There 
 was a school from which two masters had been 
 ''bounced," which was nevertheless conquered and 
 held in order by a resolute young woman without the 
 least trouble. 
 
 This teacher had the good sense to begin without 
 laying down any rules, so that she was not obliged to 
 take up a breach of order unless it were worth while. 
 Her demeanor showed that she was courageous, and 
 that, if she were to be overcome, it would have to be 
 done by brute force ; and the boys did not like the 
 idea of laying hands upon a w^oman. She was busy 
 with instruction, instead of lecturing upon order ; and, 
 as she had the gift of making lessons interesting, the 
 pupils had not so much time to meditate upon mis- 
 chief. The very first case of deliberate misbehavior 
 was taken in hand, and the offender soundly punished 
 then and there ; it was not her policy to w^ait, so as to 
 allow of a combination of evil-doers. By firmness and 
 tact the turbulent fellows were guided into studious 
 habits, and any outbreak was checked without a mo- 
 ment's delay. After two days of her rule the behavior 
 of the school was such as to leave little to be desired. 
 
 The summer schools, also of three months, were 
 kept by young women, generally inoffensive and un- 
 burdened by useless learning, and were composed of 
 girls, and of such barefooted boys as were not wanted 
 for hoeing corn or in the haying-field. In such schools 
 no deep problem disturbed the simple course of things. 
 It was a matter of rote in reading and spelling, with a 
 
154 ^ QUAE BIN 
 
 skimming of "joggafry," and some cautious ventures 
 in arithmetic, the teacher taking' care not to get out of 
 soundings. 
 
 There were other conditions in school life of which 
 it is impossible to write, and which cannot be recalled 
 without shame. 
 
 The sweeping was done by pupils in turn, as was 
 the makimj; of a fire. Dustins: was unknown. The 
 desks were profusely and deeply sculptured. The walls 
 were adorned with charcoal sketches, and the ceiling 
 with bosses of papier-macJie, made adhesive by small 
 jaws, and then projected from popguns. For drinking, 
 there was a tin dipper, and a pail containing water 
 brou2:ht from a neic-hbor's house. How nauseous the 
 
 o o 
 
 taste of that warm fluid after standinc: some hours in 
 pine wood ! and what a smell came from the greasy tin 
 dipper ! 
 
 The state of the schools, it is evident, was wretched, 
 and the standard of attainment low. Farmers' sons 
 had practically but three months in the year for their 
 education, after they were old enough to help in field, 
 pasture, or garden ; and the limit of age w^as rarely 
 favorable to the boy. In the centre district, boys at- 
 tended the summer schools as well ; but few of the 
 female teachers were strong in arithmetic, or had the 
 power to give lagging pupils the needful sJiovc ; and 
 the summer tuition was, even for girls, a feeble and 
 profitless thing. The methods of instruction were in- 
 efficient in all the schools, for the teachers generally 
 were qualified neither by knowledge or experience. 
 The range of study was limited, and, with the constant 
 changes, no real progress was possible. Classification, 
 too, was out of the question. Forward boys of eight 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 155 
 
 and ten years of age might be in a class with great 
 hulking fellows of from fourteen to nineteen, — belated 
 scholars who were striving to escape from utter illiter- 
 acy, with but few months in which to accomplish it. 
 A small classmate would prompt them when they came 
 to hard words in reading, and help them with their 
 "sums" in arithmetic. They were untidy, odorous of 
 the stable, coarse, honest, and dull, — void of mathe- 
 matical and literary sense. No other scholars fretted 
 over their tasks as they did, and few to so little pur- 
 pose. In return for help, they protected their small 
 friend from the bullying of boys who were larger and 
 more pugnacious, and now and then brought him a 
 ''broadsword" or a ''signifide" apple. The broad- 
 sword apple tasted like a rich pear, and the other name 
 was a corruption of "seek-no-further." 
 
 The use of the ferule was so common that under 
 some masters the best-intentioned boy could not escape 
 having his hands blistered every few days. 
 
 When a boy's early schooling was under so many 
 different teachers the results were mere shreds and 
 patches, and progress in a right line was out of the 
 question. 
 
 There was never any provision for higher education 
 in the public schools. Grammar was a mechanical 
 exercise without any living links with literary compo- 
 sition, and with small effect on daily speech. The study 
 of geography was limited to a short treatise with wholly 
 inadequate maps. The chief instruction was in arith- 
 metic, especially in C()ll)urn's '* Mental Arithmetic," 
 which was far superior to the books which have suc- 
 ceeded it. 
 
 Those who had aspirations for learning got some 
 
156 QUABBIN 
 
 light now and then from the private '* select schools " 
 opened for a term by needy college students, to which 
 pupils were admitted on payment of a fee. Several 
 masters came to Quabbin sixty years ago, whose memo- 
 ries live in the hearts of grateful youths. In such 
 schools one might begin the Latin grammar, read 
 -^sop's Fables, and study algebra and elementary 
 geometry ; and though the term came to an end all too 
 soon, the good seed was sown which in later years 
 might spring up and bear fruit. 
 
 With suitable books it is seldom difficult for an in- 
 telligent pupil to master a science unaided. What is 
 needed is the impulse, and that generally comes from 
 an intellectual superior. Very little book-knov/ledge 
 is acquired, either in a school or university, which 
 could not be acquired at home ; so that if the purpose 
 of the higher education were merely to store the 
 memory with facts, the' costly machinery might be 
 dispensed with. But the true use of education is to fit 
 a man for action in his chosen sphere, for which 
 special training, readiness, and energy are necessary; 
 and for this it is of the highest importance that the 
 pupil should receive a forward impulse from contact 
 with some great mind. The chief benefit of a univer- 
 sity is that in its staff of teachers and lecturers are 
 included some of the eminent scientific and literary 
 men of the age. More than one naturalist has been 
 determined in his vocation by a current of electric 
 energy from Agassiz. That man's personality was so 
 grand, and such influence radiated from him, that 
 pupils were kindled by his enthusiasm, and ever after- 
 ward looked upon the world of animate nature with 
 anointed eyes. W^hoever had Child or Longfellow or 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN 1 57 
 
 Lowell for guides in literature, acquired keen percep- 
 tion and a taste for the best models. A mathematician 
 or astronomer who in his youth met Benjamin Peirce, 
 owed an incalculable debt to that man's soarinc: ima- 
 gination, no less than to his masterly expositions. A 
 university that has no great men deserves to have no 
 students. Grinding m classics and mathematics can be 
 done anywhere. 
 
 No contact with the immortal energy of genius, it 
 is true, was possible in Ouabbin ; but the masters of 
 the occasional "select schools " brou2:ht somethimr of 
 the light of letters and science into that region ; and 
 though the bearers were young and inexperienced, and 
 the light came in fitful and feeble flashes, it was a 
 brilliant change from immemorial dulness and gloom. 
 Pupils who had once begun with liberal studies could 
 never thereafter be content with the old ideas. The 
 glimpses they got of the world of letters and art drew 
 them on irresistibly. The ''mute, inglorious " masters 
 in Ouabbin and elsewhere probably never knew what a 
 movement they had begun, nor recognized the fact that 
 they were instruments in the hands of Divine Provi- 
 dence in civilizins: a State. 
 
 While a few pupils — a very few — were reaching 
 up toward the light, the great number were settled 
 in half-civilized ignorance, steeped in bucolic thought 
 and manners, and cherishing an immitigable prejudice, 
 verging on hate, toward all youths with superior attain- 
 ments and honorable ambition. 
 
 Any attempts to improve the public schools were 
 stubbornly resisted; first, by those whose instinct is to 
 oppose all improvements, in which class a great many 
 well-meaning persons are included; secondly, by those 
 
158 QUABBIN 
 
 who objected to any increase of taxes. Any talk of 
 new methods of teaching stirred up old-fashioned peo- 
 ple ; and it was obvious that, if schools were main- 
 tained the whole year, a much larger sum of money 
 must be raised. 
 
 The second minister visited the schools in every 
 district ; but inspection, though it may reveal defects, 
 does not always cure them. He, with the leading men 
 of the village, made strenuous efforts to begin the 
 work of reform ; but the country people, aided by the 
 dead weight of the " otherwise minded," were too 
 strong. Nothing of any consequence was done while 
 the second minister and his immediate successor re- 
 mained. It was some years later that Horace Mann, 
 Secretary of the Board of Education, accomplished the 
 work which has immortalized him, — the reorganization 
 of the school system of Massachusetts ; and it was in 
 the reign of the fourth minister of Quabbin that the 
 new influences were felt in town-meetings, and the 
 public schools began to be more worthy of an intelli- 
 gent people. 
 
 The second minister had some disagreeable experi- 
 ences. The knocker of his front door was often vio- 
 lently pulled at night, and when the door was opened 
 no one was found there. One day, being a member 
 of the town committee, he visited the central district 
 scliool. A boy young in years, but precocious in mis- 
 chief, continually disturbed the recitations, and was 
 daring as well as fertile in expedients. The teacher 
 seemed unable to keep the little rebel quiet, and at 
 last the minister was incautious enough to take the 
 matter in hand. " Come here !" he exclaimed, with his 
 eyes fixed on the offender. " Is the examination to be 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN I 59 
 
 interrupted by one bad boy ? " The boy came into the 
 centre of the room, unabashed, and grinning like a Ht- 
 tle fiend. "■ Are you going to be quiet ? " No answer 
 but a defiant blaze in the eyes. '' Will you promise to 
 be quiet ? " The boy was still silent, but glowing with 
 temper. The minister took him by the shoulder, made 
 him crouch upon the floor, and then, taking his chair, 
 put it over the boy so that he was enclosed as in a 
 cage, and sat down in it. The fact that he could be 
 easily put under a chair showed how small the boy was. 
 
 The lessons were resumed, and there was quiet, ex- 
 cept for occasional '' snickers " at the grimaces made 
 by the imprisoned culprit. The minster's hand hung 
 carelessly at his side. Suddenly he started up and ut- 
 tered a cry of pain that rang through the room. The 
 boy had bitten the back of his hand until the teeth met 
 under the skin, and blood was flowing profusely. The 
 hand was bound with a handkerchief, and the minis- 
 ter went on with the examination as if nothins: had 
 happened. 
 
 There was another trait of savagery lingering in the 
 time of the second minister, — the wanton destruction 
 of animal life. 
 
 The brooks were full of spotted trout ; dace played in 
 the swirling water below the dam ; perch and roach 
 swarmed in the pond ; in the deep and dark places were 
 horn-pouts and eels; snouted pickerel lurked under the 
 lily-pads of the cove; and in the West Branch suckers 
 were speared on spring nights by the light of pitch-pine 
 torches. Nothing so exciting or picturesque attends 
 the young fisherman to-day ; the streams are mostly 
 depopulated, and it is sad for the boys. 
 
 Moreover, in the old times, minks antl musquashes 
 
l60 QUABBIN 
 
 frequented the rivers, and were caught in steel traps, 
 baited with sweet apple. Expert sportsmen snared 
 pi2;eons and partridges, and shot foxes, squirrels, rab- 
 bits, and wild ducks. There were still plenty of rac- 
 coons, and there were traditions of wild turkeys, but 
 few, if any, of the latter remained sixty years ago. 
 
 The wanton destruction of life took place in the an- 
 nual "bird-hunt," generally set for Old Election Day. 
 These were matches between sportsmen ("hunters") 
 of adjoining towns, a specified 'number on each side. A 
 day was appointed for the meet, to which each party 
 brousfht a has; of heads of birds and of small wild ani- 
 mals. The creatures might be shot anywhere, but only 
 by members of the company, and on the day or days 
 specified in the agreement. Each large head was 
 counted for so much, according to size and rarity ; the 
 smaller kinds were simply numbered. When the bags 
 had been counted, the losing party entertained the 
 winners at a supper and frolic at the tavern. 
 
 When the bags were opened, and the heaps of sev- 
 ered and bloody heads were spread out, it was a sight 
 to make a compassionate man heart-sick. There were 
 heads of blue] ays, squirrels, song-sparrows, copper- 
 crowns, orioles, minks, scarlet tanagers, woodpeckers, 
 foxes, robins (red-breasted migratory thrushes), yellow 
 birds, swallows, finches, crows, red-winged blackbirds, 
 wood-pigeons, whippoorwills, hawks, kingfishers, wood- 
 chucks, eagles, owls, wagtails, herons, snipe, dippers, 
 woodcoc?ks, wrens, and many more ; every bright eye 
 closed, and the beautiful plumage dabbled and crushed. 
 It was sad for any reflecting person, even a child, to 
 think of the blotting-out of so much beauty, the 
 extinction of gayety and song. And these hundreds 
 
THE CAMPAIGN BEGUN l6l 
 
 of bright creatures, the joy of field, garden, and orch- 
 ard, were blown to pieces with shot, to decide which of 
 two sets of young ruffians should pay for the supper 
 and drink of the other. 
 
 This destruction had gone on for years, and the 
 region for many years after was not peopled with birds 
 as in the early days. Longfellow had not then written 
 "The Birds of Killingworth ;" but the humane spirit of 
 that poem was innate in the heart of the minister, and 
 he was unsparing in his denunciation of the useless 
 cruelty. For once the popular feeling was with him, 
 and the " bird-hunters " found they could not pursue 
 their sport without reprobation. All kindly people, 
 even children, mourned the gay minstrels ; farmers 
 missed their friends, the destroyers of worms and 
 insects in garden and orchard; and most young men in 
 time were ashamed of the slaughter. Nearly all birds 
 in Massachusetts are now protected by law^^hut public 
 sentiment is a still more efficient safeguard ; and in 
 Quabbin public sentiment on this subject was in great 
 part the creation of this tender-hearted parish minister. 
 
1 62 QUAE BIN 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 
 
 Preparations for the day of rest were begun the 
 day previous. Farmers made ready, as far as possible, 
 for the care of their animals, and got a supply of wood 
 into the house. Women baked bread and prepared 
 dishes, and attended to darning and mending, so as to 
 leave a minimum of work for the holy day. In the 
 evening the Bible lessons were studied, and at the 
 close diligent children were allowed roasted apples 
 and fresh^ cider. 
 
 In the morning the household was called betimes, 
 and all underwent an energetic scrubbing ; after which 
 special attention was paid to frizzled hair, and putting 
 on clean clothing. After breakfast came prayers, and 
 then the young people read the Bible or studied the 
 Catechism for an hour. The morning service v/as at 
 half-past ten o'clock, and lasted until noon, or a little 
 later. Afterward came the Sunday-school ; and the 
 lessons, with comments and exhortations, occupied an 
 hour. Then those who lived near enough to the meet- 
 ing-house hurried home for a lunch. This consisted of 
 bread and milk, or bread and butter, with a section 
 (60°) of pie, and some fruit preserves or apple-sauce. 
 Those who lived at a distance brought luncheon bas- 
 kets, and ate (solemnly) sitting in their pews, or, in cold 
 
SUA'DAV OBSERPAXCES 1 63 
 
 weather, by the stoves. The afternoon service began 
 at two o'clock, and lasted an hour and a half. Then 
 there was a dispersion, for there was nothing more to 
 be done at the meeting-house. Not that the observ- 
 ances were finished, by any means. Arriving home, 
 each family sat down between four and five o'clock to 
 a repast, mostly cold, the principal dish having been 
 cooked the day before. At seven o'clock there was a 
 prayer-meeting in a hall illumined by smoky whale-oil 
 lamps ; and this continued according to circumstances, 
 — such as the number and length of the prayers, and 
 the fervor and fluency of exhortation. There was no 
 rule of procedure, and a favorite hymn might be 
 expected at any moment. 
 
 All the intervals between services were occupied by 
 religious reading or study. When night fell at last, it 
 seemed to children that the bell in the meeting-house 
 steeple had been ringing all day ; that services had 
 been going on all day, and that they had read the Bible 
 and Catechism all day. 
 
 Besides the four Sunday services, there was regularly 
 a week-day prayer-meeting, and a monthly concert of 
 prayer for missionaries. At this last there were read 
 extracts from the Missionary Herald, — being experi- 
 ences among the heathen, — and the h}-mn, *' From 
 Greenland's Icy Mountains," was always sung with 
 great enthusiasm. 
 
 The people, old and young, were kept well up to their 
 work. In strict households Sunday was the most fatigu- 
 ing and the most wearisome day of the week. It was 
 not in any sense a day of rest. The constant reading 
 of the Bible b)' young people, as a task, destroyed all 
 sense of its power and beaut)' ; and in committing texts 
 
1 64 QUABBIISr 
 
 to memory the only care was for accuracy ; the mean- 
 ing and the lesson of a passage were scarcely thought 
 of. There was not much relief when children turned 
 fiom the Bible and Catechism to the Sunday-school 
 library, a dreary collection of books kept at the meet- 
 ing-house. The most interesting of them w^ere lives of 
 missionaries, as they sometimes gave a whiff of spicy 
 breezes, and glimpses of the romance of the East. The 
 most odious were biographies of precocious saints, 
 sickly little sages of the nursery, who, because they 
 had v/eak chests and spindling legs, renounced ball and 
 marbles, and all the sports that healthy children love ; 
 who talked of ecstatic experiences and divine mysteries 
 as glibly as if repeating the multiplication-table ; whose 
 consumptive looks indicated a speedy release from a 
 world in which they could never have borne a manly 
 part, and wdio each left behind a lying tombstone and a 
 pretentious memoir for the affliction and disgust of 
 hearty boys. 
 
 Bible lessons were studied in the Old Testament 
 quite as often as in the New. It was a grave error. 
 The calmly indecent stories of Hebrew patriarchs, 
 prophets, and kings were shocking to the moral sense 
 of the young, who had been led to suppose that justice, 
 truth, chastity, and honor were in the past, the present, 
 and future the same. The biblical plainness of speech 
 was revolting. Many things were stumbled upon which 
 were not understood, and in regard to which a suspi- 
 cion was as gross and foul as the fact. A generous- 
 minded youth naturally sympathized with the dusky 
 Hagar and her son, and not at all with the bigamist 
 Abraham and his hoit\-toity Sarah. Like the Quaker 
 boy (Whittier), he could not see why David was a man 
 
SCAD AY OBSERVANCES 165 
 
 after God's own heart, since he was a man of war, and 
 full of treachery also. He could not make it right that 
 the Lord permitted a lying spirit to beguile Ahab to 
 his ruin. In fact, there were no end to the queries, 
 the doubts, the incipient rebellions, and the flushes of 
 secret shame that came to an ingenuous boy who read 
 the old books in course, and never skipped a chapter, 
 verse, or word. 
 
 ]\Iuch is said of the license of speech in the drama, 
 but there are few plays in any language which contain 
 as much that is shocking as certain portions of Scrip- 
 ture. The influence of these narratives, never meant 
 for babes, is especially baneful, because it forms base 
 associations in minds wholly unable to relegate things 
 to their proper places. 
 
 A boy in Ouabbin, some six or eight years old, was 
 being questioned by a spruce country damsel upon the 
 story of Rahab the harlot. " Please, miss," said he, 
 " what is a harlot .'^ " 
 
 There were often brambly experiences also in ques- 
 tions bearing on the Jewish ceremonial law. 
 
 When the first day of the week, instead of being a 
 blessed day of rest, is occupied with hard work, without 
 a moment for a bright thought or memory ; when fancy 
 cannot spread a pinion, and the eyes are forbidden to 
 look for beauty in bird or flower or cloud, that day is 
 the darkest of the seven. The days, on the contrary, 
 that are not " hallowed " are relieved by buoyant spirits, 
 and ''labor meets delight half way." 
 
 It is freely admitted how much the people of New 
 England owe to Bible study and religious training ; the 
 noble result cannot be gainsaid ; on the other hand, 
 many got such a surfeit of Scrii)ture in youth, that it 
 
1 66 QUABBIN 
 
 required years to bring them to a just appreciation of 
 the poetry of the Psahiis, or of the philosophy of Job. 
 A similar distaste was produced by the use in schools 
 of "Paradise Lost" for exercises in parsing. The inspi- 
 ration and splendor of Milton's lines, after they were 
 pulled to thrums in grammatical analysis, departed for- 
 ever. 
 
 It would be easy to make a book of selections from 
 the Old Testament for the use of families. The mate- 
 rial is abundant, and of the highest ethical and literary 
 value. The details of the ceremonial law, and some of 
 the bald narratives, might be left for mature readers. 
 The perusal by children of the entire series of works as 
 they stand is a source of evil for which there can be no 
 compensation. 
 
 In those early days the meeting-house was warmed 
 in winter by two box stoves set under the choir gallery, 
 but the greater part of the interior was as cold as the 
 adjacent graveyard. Those who sat in the pews near 
 the pulpit were almost at freezing-point. The rigor 
 was tempered for women by the use of little foot-stoves, 
 which were square boxes of perforated tinned iron, 
 fitted in wooden frames with wire handles, and contain- 
 ins.' small iron basins filled with live coals bedded in 
 ashes. The foot-stove had not much warmth, but it 
 served as a foot-stool, and kept the feet from freezing. 
 The men disdained such coddling, and boys were sup- 
 posed to be tough ; but on cold days both men and 
 boys found that the sermon had a great many heads. 
 
 In summer the coolness of the audience-room with 
 its window-blinds was grateful, but many hard-working 
 men furtively dozed, suspiciously nodded with sudden, 
 periodic jerks, and sometimes openly snored. To be 
 
SC/^DAV OBSERVAXCES 16/ 
 
 sleepy during sermon-time was the universal failing. 
 It was the custom on warm Sundays to carry sprigs of 
 caraway, or dill, or coriander, to nibble at when the eye- 
 lids inclined to droop. The efforts to ward off slum- 
 ber were frequently amusing. A man would often be 
 seen straightening up with a surprised look when his 
 wife gave his elbow a nudge. One old man had what 
 appeared to be an automatic alarm. The top of his 
 head was bald, and the long, thin hair at the sides was 
 brought up and braided in a central line from crown to 
 forehead, and, along with it, a something that looked 
 like a shoestring. When he nodded, the ends of the 
 string fell in his eyes, whereupon he waked and re- 
 stored the equilibrium. Twenty times in the course of 
 a sermon his head fell, and as often the dangling ends 
 of string restored him to consciousness and propriety. 
 
 One fat old fellow, who looked as if he would dis- 
 solve if he should venture to take a very hot bath, 
 seemed always in luxurious ease, since any part of him 
 would have served for a cushion. His chin ran over 
 in successive folds upon his cravat, and the cravat was 
 pressed down to his broad chest. Meanwhile, his eyes 
 softly closed, then half opened, then closed again, as if 
 controlled by some interior spring independent of his 
 volition. He slept while the choir sang, slept stand- 
 ing while the minister prayed, and seated while he 
 preached. It was not only his soft-lidded eyes that 
 slept ; he slept all over ; and the gospel rain fell uj^on 
 him soothingly, like showers on the roof of Morpheus. 
 It was averred that he had been seen to doze in the 
 slow and closely packed procession that moved down 
 the aisle at the close of service. 
 
 The old fellow with ugly and grotesque features, he 
 
l68 QUABBIN 
 
 whose head rested for so many years against the wliite 
 pilaster in the west gallery, did his share of sleeping. 
 The sharp and grave lawyer sometimes nodded. In 
 fact, there were few, except the deacons and certain 
 alert and sprightly women, who did not occasionally 
 close their eyes after '' sixthly." 
 
 The choir numbered twenty or thirty persons, and 
 was recruited every two or three years from the sing- 
 ing-school. There was a peripatetic master who came 
 at initervals to teach beginners in the science, and to 
 revive the interest and practice of the choir. Like 
 most singing-teachers, he had one of those perfunctory 
 voices which sound equally forced in every part ; but his 
 violin was true and smooth. He brought out fairly 
 good results as to harmony, but of individual culture 
 not much could be said. Soldiers are best drilled in 
 squads ; singers, singly. He had fiery red hair, and 
 the keen enthusiasm which generally goes with it, and 
 for some reason was called ''Colonel." It was his 
 custom in his schools to vary the monotony of psalmody 
 by the occasional singing of English glees, such as 
 "Herein Cool Grot," "Hail, Smiling Morn," and others, 
 dear to many generations. Had one of the choir in 
 Ouabbin been asked to sing a solo, the attack, the 
 tone, or pronunciation, might have caused a smile upon 
 a cultivated audience ; but when the choir was in prac- 
 tice, the solid harmony was not without charm. It was 
 in set hymns, like Dr. Madan's "Before Jehovah's 
 Awful Throne," that the best effects were produced. 
 The choir had its ups and downs ; singers fell off, 
 either from age or removal ; practice was given up, and 
 the style wofully deteriorated ; then would come a new 
 session of the singing-school, and, at the end of it, the 
 
Sl/A'DAV OBSERVANCES 1 69 
 
 colonel would lead the new flock of warblers into the 
 meeting-house, and the people were astonished with 
 the renewed life and energy. 
 
 In remoter times the choir-leader used to give the 
 pitch from his tuning-fork with a brusque " fum, s'la 
 fum-m-m ! " Afterward there were instruments, — a 
 flute, bass-viol, or double bass, and sometimes a grum- 
 bling bassoon or serpent. 
 
 The choir-leader was chosen or approved by the 
 parish committee ; and 'one Sunday when a change had 
 been agreed upon, but, by inadvertence, notice had not 
 been given, both the old leader and the new stood up 
 when the morning psalm was read, and gave out each 
 a different tune, and sounded a different pitch. For a 
 moment it seemed that the frame of the universe had 
 cracked ; but the small boys thought it was great fun. 
 The new leader, however, had the battalion with him, 
 and the voice of the superseded and crestfallen one 
 was speedily drowned. 
 
 Sixty years ago the music of the Bridgewater Col- 
 lection, or Billings and Holden, was in fashion, and 
 there were frequent fugues, noisy and perverted reminis- 
 cences of Handel, or at times the quaint and melan- 
 choly strains of Ravenscroft, or the reverent and 
 tender harmonies of Purcell. After that came the 
 Boston Academy's Collection, consisting of music 
 drawn from all schools and all sources, including gems 
 from operas, symphonies, and sonatas; but all was tem- 
 pered into monotony by cutting out any melodic orna- 
 ments, and by suppressing anything rich or inventive in 
 harmony. It was a joy to sopranos to find melodies 
 without surprises, that would sing of themselves. And 
 the basses, too, all knew what was coming ; their track 
 
1 70 QUABDIN 
 
 was no more intricate than that of a blind horse in a 
 mill. Every chord was of the tonic or dominant, with 
 simple mutations and invariable terminations. Such 
 tunes had a cloying sweetness and even flow. Then, 
 again, the people of Ouabbin had not heard operas ; 
 and melodies from *' The Magic Flute," " Don Gio- 
 vanni," and *' Der Frieschiitz," were for them as sacred 
 as any. Zerlina's '' Batti batti'' became indissolubly 
 linked with the hymn, " Saviour, Source of Every 
 Blessing." As Wesley said, ''It was a pity that the 
 Devil should have all the best music." 
 
 The leading soprano was a broad-chested and buxom 
 young lady, with a clear and powerful voice, and little 
 delicacy in phrasing. She used to run over the high 
 places, especially when she had a line to sing alone, 
 like a kid capering over the rocks. The voice of the 
 leading contralto was as soft and deep as the cooing of a 
 dove, — a rich and velvety voice. When the two women 
 sang a brief duct, — the chorus waiting to pounce in 
 with a roar, — what a silence in the meeting-house! 
 The contralto held her own, without undue self-asser- 
 tion ; the soprano took the lead with a dash, like the 
 enterprising person she was, and the people generally 
 agreed that she was a great singer. 
 
 As time went on, although there was less rudeness in 
 performance, there was a decline in the character of the 
 compositions sung. The old music was not refined and 
 not artistic, but it had spirit and energy ; while the 
 adaptations which followed were frequently vapid and 
 colorless changes rung on few notes, with harmonies so 
 little varied, that the impression made by one tune was 
 just like that of every other. The jerky Zeunerian 
 school had Gway in many places, but never prevailed in 
 Ouabbin. 
 
SUADAV OBSERVANCES lyi 
 
 On the whole, modern church music has had the 
 slenderest relation to art. There are well-defined 
 schools of sacred music, — those of the Catholic and 
 Episcopalian services, and the old German chorals. 
 Each is adapted to the required uses. But the patch- 
 work, hurdy-gurdy school, full of reminiscences of 
 operas, negro-songs, revivalist melodies, and instru- 
 mental gems, with all manner of unsaintly associa- 
 tions, and with no fitness to any devout sentiment, — 
 that '' school " which has long infested New England 
 and Scotland, should now be put under ban. It is not 
 artistic, and it is a libel upon the worship of God. 
 
 While upon the subject of church music, it may be 
 well to mention a memorable concert given in the meet- 
 ing-house during the reign of the third minister, to cele- 
 brate the conclusion of a siuging-school. A large 
 number of new faces appeared in the singers' seats, 
 for the school had been fully attended, and the drill 
 had been long and thorough. The colonel was in great 
 form, and looked proudly over his forces, among which 
 were some half-dozen instrumentalists. 
 
 There were the usual anthems and choruses attacked 
 and carried through with stormy bravery, in which the 
 sopranos and basses (as usual) made the lion's share 
 of noise. There was an instrumental interlude, in 
 which two flutes had the leading part, partly because 
 the hesitation of the other players sometimes left un- 
 certain gaps. And there was an English trio, '' When 
 Time was Entwining the Garland of Years," in which 
 the deep, cooing notes of the contralto were deliglitful. 
 The sensation of the evening, however, was caused by 
 the performances of a double-bass plavcr, imported 
 for the occasion. His legitimate work was excellent, 
 
1/2 QUABBIN 
 
 for he produced firm and smooth tones, but his pride 
 was in showy solos. A space was made for him in 
 the front of the gallery, so that he could be seen by 
 the audience below. Those who remember Bottesini 
 will have an idea of the effects produced. The hero of 
 this concert was not a Bottesini, but he was clever and 
 comic. He covered all the range of expression from 
 the serious to the ridiculous, and he imitated various 
 animals, as well as instruments from a great organ-pipe 
 to a picolo. Now and then would come out a passage 
 of masculine beauty, followed by strange staccato leaps 
 and plunges, or by swift, fantastic, or chromatic scales. 
 
 In action he was a pantomimist ; his body, head, and 
 arms were in violent motion, like those of a jointed 
 manikin in exercise, as he bent far over his huge in- 
 strument, or darted upjvhilc his fingers trip]:)cd along 
 the strings. The muscles of his face were tense, and 
 he plied the stout bow like a fiend. If hearers were 
 moved to admiration at times by a grand strain, they 
 were sure to laugh the next minute at some tripping 
 dance music, or rasping eccentricity, or grotesque imi- 
 tation ; but he always closed with harmonics, round 
 and fine as the highest notes of a violin. Before he 
 finished, he had captivated everybody, and the sense of 
 comedy so overpowered the sacred associations of the 
 place, that there was a universal ripple of laughter. 
 
 A tumultuous chorus, with plentiful hosannas, 
 brought tlie concert to an end. The boys thought 
 the show better tlian a menagerie. 
 
 The minister sat at the communion-table in front of 
 the pulpit, and appeared to be satisfied with himself 
 and the concert. I^ut the deacons were deeply stirred, 
 and they had a shoit conference as they were leaving 
 the meeting-house. Said Deacon Rawson, — 
 
SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 1/3 
 
 *' Fer my part, I feel 'shamed fer hevin' seen an' 
 heered these goin's on, thet I du." 
 
 "An' in the haouse o' God, tii," added Deacon 
 Dodge. 
 
 "It hed a'most orter be new dedicated," suggested 
 Deacon Holyoke. 
 
 " Haow could we look fer a revivle o' trew religion 
 ter foller sech a monkey show?" said Deacon Rawson. 
 
 " An' thet air colonel," said Deacon Dodge, " told 
 us 'twas ter be a pufformance o' sacred mewsic, same 
 ez the singin' on a Sahberday." 
 
 " Ef a soul was called on to give its 'count ter-night, 
 artcr thet foolishness ! " said Deacon Rawson with a 
 solemn sigh. 
 
 Deacon Holyoke observed tentatively, " Them air 
 fleutes played well." 
 
 "But why," asked Deacon Rawson, " sh'd they go a- 
 tweedlin' like two sparrers, flutt'rin' an' tumblin' raound 
 one nuther in the air ? " 
 
 "The beatenest thing," said Deacon Dodge, "was 
 that feller 'ith the big bass-viol." 
 
 " An' ter call thet sacred mewsic ! " said Deacon 
 Rawson. 
 
 " He made it beller like a bull, or squeal like a pig, 
 jest ez he'd a min' tew," said Deacon Holyoke. 
 
 " An' ag'in," added Deacon Dodge, " 'twas like a saw 
 croin' thru a los;." 
 
 " An' then," groaned Deacon Rawson, " it actilly 
 dahnced a jig — in the haouse o' God!" 
 
 " An' he kep' a-wigglin' up ter the top o' the strings, 
 an' then he clipper-clappered all the way daown," ob- 
 served Deacon Holyoke. 
 
 " An' he didn't seem ter hev teched nothin', 'cept ez 
 a fly might a-breshed it," added Deacon Dodge. 
 
174 QUAE BIN 
 
 " An' he kcp' a-bobbin' his head," continued Deacon 
 Holyoke, ** an' reach in' 'way over, an' sawin' away." 
 
 '*An' them noises!" said Deacon Dodge. 
 
 ** Like a pig under a gate," suggested Deacon Hol- 
 yoke. 
 
 *' An' ag'in, like a donkey brayin'," added Deacon 
 Dodge. 
 
 Deacon Rawson was silently looking at his brethren 
 with astonishment. 
 
 Here Deacon Dodge looked furtively at Deacon Hol- 
 yoke, suspending a chuckle meanwhile. The thin lips 
 of Deacon Holyoke showed the twisted corner of a smile. 
 Deacon Dodge with averted face was beginning to grin. 
 When he turned his eyes upon Deacon Holyoke, there 
 was a mutual twinkle, and both laughed gently. 
 
 Said Deacon Rawson, *' Deekin Dodge, be yeou 
 laafijL 'bout this disecration o' God's haouse .'' An' 
 Deekin Holyoke, be yeou ? " 
 
 '' No," answered Deacon Dodge ; ** I was on'y a-la'a- 
 fin' at thinkin' o' that air noise like a pig; 'twas so 
 nateral," and he guffawed again. 
 
 " An' at thet air bray," added Deacon Holyoke. 
 '* 'Twas ez nateral ez yeour voice." And he joined 
 again in the laugh. "Howsever, Deekin Rawsin," 
 he added, " what's done can't be ondonc. An' then, 
 the colonel don't b'long tu aour church, ner the bass- 
 fiddler nuther." 
 
 *'Wal," said Deacon Rawson severely, '^ the colonel 
 orter be talked tu, so 's 't he won't du so next time — in 
 God's haouse ; an' ef nobody else won't du it, I will." 
 
 Meanwhile the colonel, purring like a great yellow 
 cat, was having a pleasant talk with the minister, who 
 appeared to be pleased with everything. Somehow 
 
SUNDAY OBSERVANCES 1 75 
 
 Deacon Rawson let the offender pass without the 
 threatened admonition. 
 
 As Deacon Dodge and Deacon Holyoke were parting, 
 thev looked at each other for a moment, and then 
 Deacon Dodge with a smile said, " Thet pig!" while 
 Deacon Holyoke beatifically replied, " Thet donkey!" 
 and they went their ways. 
 
 Said Deacon Rawson, left alone, " Wal, I ra'aly 
 b'lieve Deekin Dodge an' Deekin Holyoke ain't a mite 
 sorry to hev heered that fiddler in the haouse of God ! 
 Wal, I must say he was funny." 
 
176 OUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 TRANSITION 
 
 The second minister had fought the good fight al- 
 most single-handed, and would have been entitled to 
 adopt as his own the triumphant words of the Apostle 
 Paul. He had accomplished much, and it had cost him 
 dear. The church was awakened from formalism, and 
 was a moral force to be counted upon. Public senti- 
 ment was becoming strong against drunkenness, and 
 the sale of spirits had ceased, except at the tavern 
 bar, — a place to which few respectable men ventured 
 to go for drams. The meeting-house bore witness to 
 the general improvement, shining in fresh paint with- 
 out, and newly decorated within. The advocates of 
 better schools began to take courage, and the. main 
 roads were a trifle less stony. Altogether, Ouabbin 
 was looking up. Of course much remained to be done. 
 It was only the dawn that appeared, not the new day. 
 l^ut as long as Ouabbin exists, those who know its 
 history will do honor to the memory of its brave and 
 devoted second minister. 
 
 The strain had tried his spirit and broken his health; 
 in nine years he was "worn out," and he resigned his 
 charge. It might have been ]:)()etical justice if he 
 could have remained to enjoy the grateful love of a 
 people for whom lie had sacrificed so much. The sal- 
 
TRANSITION 177 
 
 ary could not have been a temptation, as it never 
 exceeded one thousand dollars. And then a man of 
 decided character is always liable to wound the sen- 
 sibilities of some, without being aware of it ; and, 
 besides, he necessarily makes enemies by engaging in 
 contests. Those whom the minister had faced with 
 such intrepidity, and whom he had blistered with 
 denunciation, would never have been heartily recon- 
 ciled to him. No ; after the hard work of the pioneer 
 was done, some milder-mannered and more plausible 
 man, with not one-half of his intellectual and moral 
 worth, would succeed to the territory he had gained, 
 and be far more popular. " Other men have labored, 
 and ye have entered into their labors." 
 
 An incident which occurred early in the following 
 reign (Minister III.) showed that the fire of old enmity 
 was still smouldering and not extinct. There had 
 been prosecutions for the illegal sale of liquors, and 
 for kindred misdemeanors, which were bitterly resented 
 by those implicated ; and there were threats of reprisals 
 which would make the people of Ouabbin "sorry." 
 But no one thought seriously of the menaces, since 
 angry people often bluster without any fixed purpose. 
 
 One Saturday at dusk, a man who was passing the 
 meeting-house observed something unusual, — a small 
 square of darkness in the light-gray foundation. He 
 went nearer, and saw that the end of one of the oblong 
 stones had been pushed in, leaving an opening under 
 the building. A train of thought shot like lightning 
 through his brain, and he went away for a lantern. 
 Upon returning he made an exploration, and found 
 within easy reach a fuse, and beyond it a cask. Keep- 
 ing the lantern well away, he succeeded in pulling out 
 
i;8 QUABBhY 
 
 the cask, and found it contained gunpowder! The 
 horror of the discovery made his good sense forsake 
 him ; instead of leaving the cask, and cutting or wet- 
 ting the fuse, and setting a watch to catch any one who 
 should come to light it, he carried away the evidence 
 of the intended crime ; so that Ouabbin never knew, 
 and we shall never know, if the purpose was to blow 
 up the meeting-house when empty, or to destroy the 
 congregation during worship, or simply to give the 
 people a fright. Charity would favor the latter suppo- 
 sition, but a malicious or even a murderous intention 
 was not wholly improbable. Before that time the tem- 
 per of the evil-minded had been shown by breaking 
 gates, poisoning pet dogs, shaving the tails of horses, 
 and the like ; but putting powder under the meeting- 
 house was such a mixture of murder and sacrilege, that 
 society was agitated to its centre. 
 
 Extraordinary stories flew about, growing bigger by 
 distance. Thus, the meeting-house had been blown 
 up with five barrels of cannon powder ; the steeple 
 had leaped into the air, and fallen point downward into 
 the pond, and remained sticking there; a man had been 
 caught with a lighted torch, creeping toward the cav- 
 ity ; a fuse had been found partially burned, and provi- 
 dentially extinguished ; a well-known criminal had been 
 seen prowling about under the horse-sheds ; and a 
 wagon (presumably for the escape of the Guy Fawkes 
 after the explosion) had been seen waiting in the edge 
 of the village. 
 
 The discoverer was at first extolled for his prompt 
 action, and afterward as much blamed for not having 
 allowed the plot to mature, so that the criminals could 
 have been convicted. 
 
TRANSITIOISr 179 
 
 The minister, as usual, was calm and smiling, as if 
 entirely satisfied with himself, and with the protecting 
 care of Divine Providence. 
 
 This minister (the third) was in early middle-age 
 when he came to Quabbin. He was a man of good 
 stature, agreeable presence, and fluent speech. His 
 voice was high-pitched, musical in quality, and with a 
 touch of sympathy that was very effective. His en- 
 gaging manner and unfailing good-humor won for him 
 universal favor. It is never easy to estimate the depth 
 of religious conviction without knowing the depth of 
 character, but this man's habitual talk was upon divine 
 things ; and in his pastoral visits, as well as in public 
 worship, his sweetly phrased counsels, the tender per- 
 sonal interest shown, and the grace of every utterance, 
 made him appear either the saintliest of courtiers or 
 the courtliest of saints. This is not to intimate con- 
 scious hypocrisy, for, as far as he knew himself, he 
 w^as perfectly sincere. 
 
 The first minister's sermons had been methodical if 
 unpretending, and were carefully composed, and gar- 
 nished with biblical quotation. The second had gen- 
 erally written his discourses, but, as we have seen, he 
 could preach extempore upon a fitting occasion. The 
 third seldom took any notes into the pulpit. He was 
 endowed with such a gift of speech that the love of 
 God and man flowed from his lips in smoothest and 
 finest sentences, and in tones of melody that won most 
 hearts. Some few hearts v/ere not won, because they 
 were associated with hard heads. 
 
 But the first sermon after the installation was highly 
 successful, and almost triumphant. The new minister 
 was the only man heard up to that time in Ouabbin 
 
I So QUABBIJV 
 
 who had the courage to stand up without a scrap of 
 paper, and who could pour out a discourse, without 
 hesitation, in varying modes of warning, entreaty, and 
 ecstasy ; while in exalted moments a fine, tremulous 
 thrill winged his words, giving them a carrying quality, 
 like the notes of a great violoncellist. For some days 
 nothing else was talked about. 
 
 A well-known old grumbler said, " Yis, sartin, 'twas 
 a wonderful power o' words ; they come right 'long, 
 'thout no coaxin'. Fact is, 't he skimmed over his sub- 
 jcc' like a sled goin' daown hill on glair ice. But 
 'pears ez ef he's laid aout a good lot o' work tu du. 
 The sleepy brethren is to be waked up ; the cold ones 
 is to be het, an' the slack an' feeble ones is to be stiff- 
 ened up. Then the prayer-meetin's is to be med lively, 
 an' he's to go f'm haouse ter haouse, lookin' arter the 
 stray lambs o' the flock. An' he's goin' to hev the 
 schools reformed ; jest ez ef readin', writin', and 
 rethemtic wasn't alius the same; jest ez-ef ye c'd 
 reform the multiplication-table, er the A B C's, er the 
 Lord's Prayer! Howsever, we shell see. Ef talk c'd 
 du it, I sh'd think he might, fer he's a master hand thet 
 way. But wut is 't he means 'baout buildin' a railroad 
 to the fix'd stars } The railroad daown yander — I 
 hain't seen it, but they tell me 't 's bolted to the 
 airth. Yer cajit send a injine out 'n the air to a 
 star." 
 
 " That was a figure of speech," suggested the school- 
 master. 
 
 *' Figger o' speech! 'Pears to me 'twas jest foolish- 
 ness, an' no figgers 'baout it. Yer can't figger on a 
 thing thet ain't common-sense. 'Stid o' talkin' 'baout 
 railroadin' ter the stars, I sh'd think he might a gin us 
 
TRANSITION l8l 
 
 more Scripter, an' less pooty talk. I felt jest like one 
 o' my oxen when he hain't hed nuthin' but dry straw 
 to chaw on. He didn't once tech on the decrees, ner 
 the elect, ner the lake o' fire an' brimstun." 
 
 "But," said the schoolmaster, "there isn't time for 
 everything in one sermon." 
 
 " Wal, 'fore I heerd him I sh'd a-said so tu ; but, I'm 
 thinkin', he hed time fer 'baout all he knows." 
 
 This was almost the only discordant note -in the 
 general chorus of praise. The minister's earnestness, 
 his beautiful voice, and unexampled fluency, had made 
 a strong impression. 
 
 In the course of an impassioned appeal, he had, per- 
 haps inadvertently, made use of the boldly figurative 
 language of which the aged grumbler complained. 
 The passage is here given in a somewhat simplified 
 form, for it would be difificult to follow it in all its luxu- 
 riance of phrase. 
 
 " Ah," said he in his high-pitched tenor, " the time 
 will never come in this mortal life when Christians will 
 find nothing to do for the blessed service of their Divine 
 Lord and Master. When the enlightened and reani- 
 mated church shall have gathered into its bosom all the 
 people of this land, and the folds of the stars and stripes 
 shall be mingled with the lilies of the Prince of peace, 
 waving over a regenerated countr\' ; when our foreign 
 missionaries shall have dethroned the man of sin, and 
 carried by assault the strongholds of Mohammedanism 
 and of Paganism ; when the ancient people of God shall 
 have seen the light of the Star of Bethlehem, and looked 
 on him whom they once doomed to a shameful death at 
 the hands of Roman legionaries ; when the isles of the 
 sea shall have been cheered by the sound of sweet Sab- 
 
1 82 QUABBIN 
 
 bath bells, and the dusky Polynesian shall have turned 
 from his revolting banquets of the roasted flesh of the 
 heralds of the cross ; when in all parts of the earth the 
 peace of God shall rest like sunlight gilding a beautiful 
 landscape, — ah, then, my friends, even then, there will be 
 no time to repose and fold the hands ! No ; for then the 
 untirins: servants of God will look for other and wider 
 fields of labor ; and, if possible, they will build a rail- 
 road to the fixed stars" (very high intonation here), ''so 
 as to carry to the remotest bounds of the universe the 
 glad news of redemption by Christ Jesus." 
 
 The minister apparently moved through the Lord's 
 vineyard with a light heart, and cheerfully fulfilled his 
 customary duties. He made calls everywhere, and 
 greatly delighted women by petting their children and 
 complimenting their housekeeping. It soon became 
 known that he was fond of tea, and every matron 
 hastened to make him a cup on his arrival. While he 
 sat balancing a teaspoon, and looking too radiant for a 
 being of flesh and blood, he had a store of sweet sen- 
 tences to utter, assorted sizes and flavors, and left 
 the household to wonder at an eloquence which never 
 ran dry. 
 
 He visited the schools regularly, and was the most 
 agreeable of committee-men. He listened to the les- 
 sons repeated by rote, and never stopped to test the 
 pupils' knowledge. He always had some pleasant story 
 to tell, and his counsels were full of encouragement. 
 He had scarcely need to flatter, since his face and 
 voice were the expression of compliment. Inexperi- 
 enced teachers were entranced, and the boys said his 
 talk was " ez slick ez grease." Some older pupils were 
 dissatisfied with the lack of critical examination ; they 
 
TRANSITION' 1 83 
 
 were, a few of them, anlbitious of undertaking higher 
 studies, and longed for a helping hand, or a suggestion. 
 Some were privately delving in Latin grammar, in 
 algebra or geometry, and imagined that so learned a 
 man as the minister might give them good advice ; but 
 neither they nor any in Quabbin ever knew of what 
 languages or sciences he was master. 
 
 Every day he was abroad, distributing smiles and 
 kind words ; and those who lived near him often won- 
 dered when he found time to study. Among his other 
 gifts was an unfailing memory of persons and names ; 
 and in a little time the families were so well known to 
 him that, upon meeting any man, he could inquire as 
 to all the members of his household without ever mak- 
 ing a mistake. This faculty, besides being serviceable 
 to a public man, is the most insinuating kind of 
 flattery. People are secretly pleased to be promptly 
 remembered. 
 
 The prayer-meetings were more animated, and more 
 entertaining (if the word be allowed), because they were 
 conducted in a smoothly superficial way. There was 
 no "deep ploughing," no searching of consciences with 
 a probe, nothing to make people feel uncomfortable. 
 When the minister asked a brother to 'Mead in prayer," 
 it was in the gracious tone of a monarch addressing a 
 court favorite. His exuberant style had been naturally 
 imitated ; and the extempore prayers and exhortations 
 of the younger brethren became as flowery as Solo- 
 mon's Songs. The deacons, however, were too fully 
 committed to old forms and usages to change. 
 
 After the lapse of some months, the deacons had a 
 conference quite by chance. It is proper to state that 
 the selection of this minister was not so much clue to 
 
1 84 QUABBIN 
 
 them as to certain rich and influential men who had no 
 official relations with the church. 
 
 " Wal," said Deacon Rawson, " the minister's sartin 
 a ready preacher, an' he keeps a-hold o' the congerga- 
 tion pooty wal, so fer ; but haow long he k'n go on 
 'thaout some new idees, thet's what I don't see. A 
 mill don't grind out flaour onless ther's grain fallin' 
 inter the hopper." 
 
 " He hain't never preached any doctrine," said Dea- 
 con Dodge. 
 
 " He hain't raoused th' impenitunt," said Deacon 
 Holyoke. 
 
 *' An' haow could he .? " asked Deacon Rawson ; "it's 
 all one thing over 'n over. It's my 'pinion 't he's a 
 good man ez fer's he knows, — ez fer's he kin be. But 
 I'm afeard he hain't no depth tu him, an' no ra'al feelin'. 
 All them fine words don't signify nothin' ; he k'n reel 
 'em off any time. Ef he was ra'ally teched himself, he 
 might tech other folks. His words don't come aout 
 f'm his h'art, but aout f'm his head, an' ther' ain't no 
 grip to 'em. He don't feel 'em no more'n a pump 
 feels the resh o' water in its inside." 
 
 "Ain't ye a leetle hard on him.''" asked Deacon 
 Dodge. 
 
 " Wal, p'r'aps I be," answered Deacon Rawson. " But 
 I was a-thinkin' 'baout a funeral wher' he wan't a mite 
 o' use, — wher' he'd better ben away. It was Levi 
 Pomeroy, y' know, who struck the axe in his ankle ; an', 
 ez he was full-blooded, the waound mortified. There 
 wan't no savin' him onless they'd a-cut off his leg at 
 fust. 'Twas an occashun when a ra'al minister 'd 've 
 gin some livin , airnest word o' comfort ter the widder, 
 an' some solumn warnin' to th' impenitunt, he bein' 
 
TRANSITION 1 85 
 
 took off so suddin. But the minister, he jest went to 
 spinnin' silk rib'ns ; an' when I looked at the widdcr I 
 c'd see she was jest sick an' tired o' his flaowcry stuff, 
 'thaout a mite o' ra'al feelin' in it, an' her pore h'art 
 achin 'so, — jest a-thustin' a«n' hungerin' fer di\ine 
 comfort." 
 
 *' Wal, naow yeou speak on't," said Deacon Holyoke, 
 *' I felt much abaout so tu the fun'ral o' young Thomp- 
 son. 'Twas a bright, pooty boy, ye know, — his flesh 
 an' bones mangled at the saw-mill, an' he fetched home 
 dead to his mother, an' she a-shriekin' so's ter be 
 heered a mile. Wal, naow, arter sech a shock ez thet, 
 what comfort was't tu his mother at the fun'ral ter hear 
 them strings o' words thet don't mean nothin' } He 
 might 've improved the solumn occashun for her good ; 
 an' he might 've showed he'd a man's heart inside of 
 him. Any man thet knows what a mother feels thet's 
 lost her boy in thet orful way, ef he trusts to na- 
 ter, he'll say sunthin' 'live an' tender an' comfortin'. 
 Seemed 's ef I couldn't set still while he was sayin' 
 them smooth thinp;^." 
 
 '' We ain't gom' ter hev another man soon ag'in like 
 him that's left us," said Deacon Rawson. ''Talk abaout 
 feelin' ! When Jic went tu a fun'ral he was a trew 
 comfort tu the 'flicted ; an' he was a terrer tu evil- 
 dewers tu." 
 
 "No; we didn't know when we was wal off," said 
 Deacon Dodge. ''We hed orter kep' him." 
 
 "Wal," said Deacon Rawson, "I s'pose I've said tu 
 much. I talk tu veou 'cause we've an int'rest in the 
 church too-ether. Them that was the means o' i;"ittin' 
 this minister here '11 naterally stan' by him. It's aour 
 dewtv to wait, an' in dew time the Lord '11 show us his 
 will.'' 
 
1 86 QUAE BIN 
 
 The county newspaper, a few days later, had a report 
 of a " powerful sermon " delivered by the minister of 
 Ouabbin at the county town, where he had appeared by 
 an exchange of pulpits. After the preliminary, the 
 report was in these terms : — 
 
 "It is seldom that the eloquence of the pulpit has received a nobler 
 or more brilliant illustration than in the discourse on last Sabbath morn- 
 ing at the East Church. l"he Rev. Mr. , of Quabbin, preached to a 
 
 crowded and delighted audience from the text, 'Let your light so shine,' 
 etc. After touching lightly upon the various points of Christian duty, 
 the orator (for so we must call him), arrayed the vast fields of enterprise 
 upon which the church is now engaged, and pictured the triumphs that 
 are to follow when the kingdoms of this world are l^ecome the kingdoms 
 of our Lord; when the valiant missionaries of the cross shall have 
 stormed the strongholds of the false prophet and of Paganism ; when the 
 islands of the sea will be wakened on Sabbath mornings by church bells, 
 ar.d the cannibals cease their shocking banquets of human flesh; when 
 wars shall cease, and men shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and 
 their spears into pruning-hooks ; and all men shall be united in the love 
 of God and of each other. 'Then,' asked he with a significant emphasis, 
 'do you think it will be time for the faithful servants of God to fold their 
 hands and enjov their well-earned repose 1 No; they will be looking for 
 new worlds to conquer. They will even try to build a railroad to the 
 fixed stars, so as to carry to the uttermost bounds of creation the news 
 of the unsearchable riches of Christ Jesus our Lord.' 
 
 " We do not pretend to quote this magnificent outburst verbatim ; but 
 the impression was so strong that some of the sentences are a part of 
 memory henceforth and forever. The high note struck by the reverend 
 gentleman at the end of the first clause of the last sentence was abso- 
 lutelv thrilling. The people of Qualjbin are to be congratulated in having 
 set over them as mimster a man of such extraordinary and irresistible 
 eloquence." 
 
HOW THE TWIG WAS BENT 1 8/ 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HOW THE TWIG WAS BENT 
 
 The Puritans laid down rules of conduct for an 
 ideal society of believers. Such a society as they con- 
 ceived of could not have held together for many gener- 
 ations, for some of their precepts and customs were 
 contrary to the primal and ineradicable instincts of 
 human nature. In practice, as has been intimated, 
 they placed work at the head of the Christian virtues. 
 There was some reason for this; and, with occasional 
 rest and amusements, the condition of dailv labor would 
 not have been intolerable. But they imagined play to 
 be foolish, if not sinful, and the longing for recrea- 
 tion on the part of children to be one of the symptoms 
 of that total depravity which infected every son and 
 daughter of Adam. This, in their opinion, was part 
 of the ''foolishness" which was "bound up in the 
 heart of a child," and which only " the rod of correc- 
 tion " could drive away. The model boy was he who 
 toiled from Monday morning to Saturday night, and 
 asked for no diversion. In many families this strict- 
 ness was not observed ; a good many boys had reason- 
 able liberty, and were proficient in sports and games, 
 including ball-playing, swimming, and skating ; but 
 very few were allowed to grow up in idleness. 
 
 As the housewife had cnouiih to do indoors, and 
 
1 88 QUABBIX 
 
 the husband followed his regular work, the odd jobs, 
 called ''chores," fell to the lot of the boys. These 
 were the care of poultry, horses, oxen, cows, sheep, or 
 pigs, weeding the garden, cutting and carrying in fire- 
 wood, doing errands at the store, shovelling paths in 
 the snow, and numberless other things. On farms 
 where animals were numerous, there were usually 
 hired men to attend to the barns, but there were, 
 nevertheless, always tasks for the boys. 
 
 The ultra-pious, who went about sighing, and ex- 
 claiming, ''This is a dying world!" insisted upon chil- 
 dren's renunciation of toys and games, and strove to 
 plant in their minds the sad resolution and endeavor 
 which had guided their own lives. It was not an inten- 
 tional unkindness, but rather an attempt to override or 
 ignore the conditions and needs of immaturity. One 
 would think they would have been instructed by the 
 antics of colts and calves, and by the frolics of puppies 
 and kittens ; but the analogy did not appear to strike 
 them, and they believed they were acting " in the light 
 of eternity" by bringing up serious little old men. 
 
 It is obviously a lasting wrong to a boy's physical 
 and moral nature to deny him a fair share in the amuse- 
 ments suited to his age. Two-thirds and more of the 
 children in Ouabbin had a reasonable time for play; 
 but for the remnant the world was melancholy enough. 
 Look at the life of a boy during week-days under such 
 repression. We have already seen how his Sundavs 
 were spent. His week-days were scarcely less monoto- 
 nous. While some of his school-fellows were at play, 
 the " good boy " was at work in the garden or wood- 
 yard, or was driving the cow to pasture ; and when his 
 chores were done, he was told he might read. And 
 
HO IV THE TWIG WAS BENT 1 89 
 
 such books! He never played marbles, as that was a 
 gambling game. He never had a manageable kite, 
 because a good string cost money, and that was waste- 
 ful. He had a sled, because that could be made use- 
 ful in bringing flour and provisions ; but he was not 
 allowed skates, and so missed the exhilaration of glid- 
 ing over the ice with the joyous crowds that frequented 
 the ponds. From an unwise caution, he was not per- 
 mitted to learn to swim. On some rare occasions he 
 found time to take a part in round ball or four-old-cat ; 
 but, owing to want of practice, he muffed the balls as a 
 catcher, and missed them as a batter. In fact, he never 
 learned any game well enough to play it tolerably ; for 
 he was expected to make a sober and godly use of his 
 time, and was counselled to live every day as he would 
 if he knew that his next waking were to be in the 
 eternal world. He had a little pocket-money, but gen- 
 erally earned it by the hardest penance, and, in place 
 of laying it out for " follies," he was allowed to put it 
 in the box at the missionary prayer-meeting. A boy 
 who cannot take part in the sports of his fellows is 
 cut off from comradeship, and the isolation produces 
 an estrangement on both sides, that ceases only with 
 life. 
 
 The men of Ouabbin showed the effects of uninter- 
 mitted work. Thev were mostly well-jointed, strong, 
 and enduring, but were heavy, awkward, and slouching 
 in movement. They walked like ploughmen, with a 
 slow inclination from side to side. There was no flexi- 
 bility in the arms, no erectness in the spinal column, no 
 easy carriage of the head. Had their work boon varied 
 with some light and agreeable exercise, — dancing, pleas- 
 ure excursions, rowing, or the like, — they might have 
 
IQO QUABBIN 
 
 been equally strong, with a great gain in lightness, 
 grace, and activity. 
 
 In earlier days the sinners had the advantage of the 
 saints in athletics, owing in a great measure to dan- 
 cing, which is a wonderful lubricator of the joints, and 
 the parent of graceful movement. When the sinners 
 mostly came under the sway of the church, and dances 
 and romping games fell into disuse, then the lumber- 
 ing motion became universal ; humility and reverence 
 bowed the head and shoulders, and the feet and legs 
 drawled like the speech. The want of liveliness and 
 of inspiriting exercise was painfully characteristic of 
 Quabbin. A walk that extended beyond the limits of 
 the village was unusual. To go three miles people felt 
 obliged to get a horse from the livery stable. If a man 
 walked five miles he was thought eccentric and preten- 
 tious. Whereas, if men, women, and children in such 
 a village had been compelled to walk from three to five 
 miles a day in all weathers, it would have set heads 
 upright, given spring and elasticity to joints, made 
 biliousness disappear, and brightened theology. 
 
 Strictly religious people forbade their children to 
 strike a blow, whether in retaliation or defence. This 
 was the severest trial ; but boys were assured of two 
 things, namely, that, if they were punished at school, 
 another punishment would follow at home, and that 
 they would be birched if they fought with other boys, 
 even in self-defence. Now, boys have always fought, 
 and always will ; and a '' good boy " who was forbidden 
 to " hit back " was always the first one to be pounced 
 upon, and so became the butt of small scoffers, and the 
 victim of all the malice and mischief not otherwise 
 employed. However non-resistance may have worked 
 
HOW THE TWIG WAS BE XT 1 91 
 
 ''down in Judee," it is scarcely practicable among the 
 Anglo-Saxons of to-day. 
 
 The Puritan enjoined upon his children the duty of 
 being kindly affectioned and helpful. " If any man 
 ask thee to go a mile, go with him twain." A boy so 
 brought up was liable to frequent imposition. One of 
 them met the minister (Number III.) one day, and 
 observed from afar his beaming face. His expansive 
 joy was like the oil that ran down upon the beard, even 
 Aaron's beard, and touched the hem of his garment. 
 The boy was overwhelmed as by an angelic vision. 
 *' Sonny," said the minister, in his mellifluous tone, " I 
 want to send word over to Brother Colman about ex- 
 changing with me next Lord's Day, and am afraid a 
 letter by mail mayn't reach him in season. Now, I have 
 a nice, gentle saddle-horse ; and do?it you want to ride 
 over and take a letter to him .'' That's a good boy ! 
 It will be a pleasant trip for you, and, in a way, you 
 will be doing the Master's work." 
 
 Permission was got from his parents, — who could 
 say "no " to the minister.'* — and for five miles out and 
 five miles back the boy was jounced and pounded on a 
 hard-trotting beast, to oblige a smooth-tongued diplo- 
 matist, who had ample means and leisure to attend to 
 his own affairs. The boy had already all he could do 
 from week's end to week's end, and seldom an hour 
 for play. And what did he gain by the ride that made 
 all his bones ache.'* The reward of an " approving con- 
 science," and a reputation for good nature that would 
 invite further asriiression. 
 
 o o 
 
 To turn the other cheek to the smiter, to be gener- 
 ous and heli)ful to the point of self-denial, to regard 
 work as a duty and blessing, to the exclusion of amuse- 
 
192 QUABBIN 
 
 ments, — these are all doctrines of the gospel. But, 
 according to the same authority, all the lands of a town 
 should be held in common, and all the hoards of money 
 and goods should be divided ; there should be no rich 
 and no poor ; all labor should be equalized, and all 
 dignities abolished ; the lawyer must not be called 
 " Esquire," nor the minister " Reverend." Why were 
 the boys given the ''hard lines," when adults disre- 
 garded the fundamental condition of primitive Chris- 
 tianity .'' , . 
 
 The people in ancient times were said to have been 
 divided into beasts of burden and beasts of prey ; and 
 the classification is not wholly obsolete. There are 
 plenty of burdens ready for patient shoulders, and 
 there will never be any rest for the good natured. 
 Without some firmness, and a little pugnacity in re- 
 serve, and without a reasonable core of selfishness, a 
 man will play a poor part in the w^orld as it is. The 
 domineering and predatory, and the crafty and plausi- 
 ble, are always seeking for victims among the amiable 
 and self-forgetting. It seems altogether ludicrous or 
 absurd to think of preaching the need of combative- 
 ness and self-protection in times like ours; and probably 
 there are few places in the world now-a-days where 
 such preaching would not be out of place. But among 
 primitive Christians in Quabbin, long ago, and doubt- 
 less in* other small rural communities, there were 
 youths who were brought up to be willing pack-horses, 
 and men who were so obliging that they lived and died 
 poor. The majority of the people there, as elsewhere, 
 needed no counsel as to their own interests ; but the 
 gentle-natured who went forth to seek tlieir fortunes 
 learned to stiffen their own fibre, and take juster views 
 of the character of the men thev met in the world. 
 
HOir THE TWIG WAS BE XT 1 93 
 
 With all the care that was taken to strengthen, chil- 
 dren by holy precepts, and to surround them with good 
 examples, it is strange that, in so many instances, they 
 were allowed to com'e within reach of the baser sort of 
 hired men. This was sometimes an influence for evil, 
 both deadly and contagious. In an hour or in a mo- 
 ment an impression or suggestion might be made that 
 would poison a whole life. Errors of opinion can be 
 combated, and many sins can be atoned for and for- 
 saken, but the soil of immodesty, — what shall wash it 
 away "i Can a cheek once kissed be ^///-kissed } or 
 snow once sullied become like ermine again } The 
 youth who has received the hint of sensuality will 
 never again be the pure-hearted youth he was. Those 
 coarse and vicious farm-hands, and strolling journeymen 
 mechanics, were the curse of some families in Quabbin, 
 and the elders seem not to have suspected it. A father 
 should take heed wdiat sort of a man he admits, even 
 for a day, under his roof. 
 
 Few young people know under what severe discipline 
 their fathers were brought up ; and to many this 
 account of the trials of youth in Quabbin long ago \vill 
 appear exaggerated and bitter. But, in fact, it is 
 wholly within the limits of truth. While the recollec- 
 tions of bovhood in the old time include much that is 
 bright and beautiful, there are also impressions of an 
 unreasonable austerity, which are as painful as old 
 wounds. When such impressions are recalled, it is not 
 at the dictate of resentnient, but with a view of con- 
 tributing to the stock of human experience something 
 that may be of service in the education of to-day . 
 
194 QUAE BIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 QUABBIN LOSES AND GAINS 
 
 In the part of the village near the dam there were 
 formerly mills and shops that have mostly disappeared, 
 though some dozed into forgetfulness and became store- 
 houses for rubbish. Few of the present inhabitants 
 remember that there was once a saw-mill near the 
 bridge, and opposite to it a tall cotton-factory whose 
 booming "picker" strove all day to drown the noise of 
 its neighbor, the strident saw ; or that there was a pros- 
 perous (and odorous) tanyard on the river-bank; or that 
 across the bridge there was a linseed-oil mill, whose 
 high stone wheels turned gayly round each other, like a 
 pair of stout and tireless waltzers. All these disap- 
 peared long ago, and left no trace. In a dull yellow 
 building there were, sixty years ago, dozens of bright, 
 clicking machines, complex as watches, which set wire 
 teeth in leather for carding, and acted as if with human 
 intelligence. The card-factory was the foundation of 
 two fortunes ; but the business at last went elsewhere, 
 and the building became as melancholy as the town's 
 poor-house. 
 
 In the North Village also, various small industries 
 were in progress. There was a little shop where pearl 
 buttons were made from oyster shells ; one in wliich 
 shoe-pegs were cut by ingenious machinery from 
 
QUAE BIX LOSES AND GAINS 1 95 
 
 fragrant birch-wood, most odorous of native woods ; 
 also a saw-mill, a machine-shop, and a trip-hammer 
 forge for making hoes. None of these now exist. The 
 rights of the water-power were absorbed by the cotton- 
 factory ; while in the lower village they were divided 
 between the factory and the grist-mill. 
 
 While all these mills and shops were flourishing, the 
 stores were prosperous, new dwellings were built, and 
 new faces appeared on Sunday in the meeting-house. 
 Quabbin appeared to have what in modern times is 
 called a "boom ;" but it was not to endure. 
 
 The town reached its maximum of population, 
 and the height of its prosperity in- business, about 
 the beginning of the third minister's term ; but 
 with its prosperity or decline neither he nor his 
 predecessor had anything to do ; the business and 
 population were affected by circumstances unfore- 
 seen and inevitable. The deterioration began when 
 the State's trunk line of railroad passed a dozen miles 
 on one side. A great many years later a railroad 
 was built through Quabbin, but it was too late ; its 
 business had been tapped and drawn off, never to flow 
 back. Railroads are sometimes feeders and sometimes 
 drains. Other things were co-operating in the decline, 
 and no shrewdness or activity availed. When flax- 
 growing ceased, the pair of great mill-stones had no 
 more seed to waltz over. When the hills had been 
 stripped of the trees of large girth, the saw-mills were 
 no longer profitable. Against the enormous competi- 
 tion of Lowell, Lawrence, and Manchester, a small cot- 
 ton-factory in Quabbin had not the least chance. The 
 making of card-clothing, which had been sucli a source 
 of wealth, could be better managed njar the machinery 
 
196 QUABBIN 
 
 for which it was desisrned. When '^ satinets" sfot out 
 
 o o 
 
 of favor, cotton warps were no longer wanted. One 
 thing fell after another. For a long time the factories 
 were idle ; and it appeared that Ouabbin, possiblv, 
 might some day end where it began, with a grist-mill. 
 But latterly shoddy is made there by Canadian French 
 workmen ; and the Gallic invasion naturally awakens 
 some apprehension among the natives. Shoddy ! 
 Absit omen. 
 
 Perhaps something worth while might have been 
 done with the wasting water-power ; but with un- 
 stable tariffs, just as fatal when too high as too low, 
 and with alien workers, — for Yankees work no more 
 in mills, excepting "opinion mills," — the prospect 
 of manufacturing in such a remote place was not 
 alluring. 
 
 Let us go back for a moment to the old time. Peo- 
 ple never knew how it came about that the three courtly 
 and popular mill-owners, before mentioned, gradually 
 lost their hold upon the property, and began to decline 
 in wealth and influence. 
 
 A couple of young, active, and pushing men succeeded 
 the three elderly, easy-going, kindly gentlemen by dint 
 of superior business qualities. There was a slow rise 
 of one side, corresponding wnth the slow decline of the 
 other. The older party had tlic w^liole boundless (and 
 useless) sympathy of the town's-people, who looked on 
 at the inch-b\'-inch process, and anticipated the end of 
 the drama long before the curtain fell. 
 
 After the death of the venerable mother, the son who 
 had cared for her went away to another State. Another, 
 he who lived upon the knoll, went elsewhere to begin 
 the world anew. The elder and most distinguished, he 
 
QUAE BIN LOSES AND GAINS 1 9/ 
 
 of the orange complexion, whose showy house and Ori- 
 ental treasures were the wonder of the village, with- 
 drew from active business, retaining but a small share 
 in the water-power, and lived upon the lessening rem- 
 nant of his fortune. His death was the mellow sunset 
 of an autumn day. 
 
 A circle of brilliant associations ended for Quabbin 
 when the places of the three brothers knew them no 
 more. Relatives from the county town, and from 
 Boston, used to enliven the village and the country 
 roads in summer, — charming and cultivated ladies, 
 budding clergymen and lawyers, the usual gathering 
 of people of leisure at hospitable country houses. 
 After the end of the old ree'inie thev came no more. 
 Neither the balustraded villa near the meeting-house, 
 nor the ancient, sombre, elm-shaded mansion, ever knew 
 again the gayety of former days. 
 
 About the same time a number of prominent fami- 
 lies in the village were broken up by removal or death, 
 and the village began to lose ground in social qualities. 
 Among the grown-up population there was almost a 
 dead, level of dulness ; for the leading men, though 
 intelligent, were not highly cultivated : they were 
 good citizens, public-spirited, and often benevolent, 
 but their strens-th was in making: moncv. It came 
 about, however, that some of the rich men conferred, 
 indirectly, a great boon upon the community bv hav- 
 ing their daughters taught in distant boarding-schools. 
 There were places in Massachusetts which had largely 
 the start of Quabbin in enlightenment, and it was a 
 great matter that this small town received a share by 
 reflection. When the half-dozen daughters came back 
 with some knowledge of books, and of music, with the 
 
iqS quabbin 
 
 speech 'of the educated world, and with notions of 
 refinement in manners and dress, the usual conse- 
 quences followed. That is to say, every home-keeping 
 damsel declared the talk, the dress and ways of the 
 boarding-school graduates to be ''stuck-up" and ridicu- 
 lous, and then proceeded to copy them to the best of 
 her ability. Some of these educated young ladies 
 were possessed of more than ordinary talents, and 
 were proficient in many studies, including modern lan- 
 guages ; but, for well-known reasons, an acquaintance 
 with English literature was not possible at that time. 
 Unhappily they did not appear to concern themselves 
 with the improvement of society in the village ; they 
 had outgrown it. In the course of time they married, 
 one after the other, and went away ; but while they 
 remained they appeared conspicuous, and were thought 
 to be indifferent to public opinion. Their hats, rib- 
 bons, laces, and gloves, and the fit of their robes, the 
 dressing of their hair, and even their folding of a shawl, 
 were marked by an inimitable elegance. Reserved in 
 their intercourse as they were, their silent example 
 was eloquent. Their rustic neighbors felt convicted of 
 a whole catalogue of social misdemeanors when they 
 learned the necessity of the exclusive use of the fork 
 at table, and of certain proprieties and interdictions 
 in reo-ard to dress and toilet. The school-mistresses 
 were piqued to discover, as they all did in time, that in 
 practice their grammar was habitually shaky, and their 
 pronunciation hopelessly vulgar ; and forthwith they 
 be<ian to exterminate Yankeeisms like ill weeds, and to 
 strive after pure English. 
 
 Meanwhile, the young ladies whose return had made 
 such a stir v/alkcd through the village, and drove about 
 
QUABBIN LOSES AND GAINS I99 
 
 the neighborhood, apparently unconscious of the exist- 
 ence of the people they had known all their lives. 
 The only place of contact was the Sunday-school, in 
 which, upon the earnest entreaty of their parents, they 
 became teachers. The religious instruction they gave, 
 however, was somewhat neutralized by what their pupils 
 thought to be airs of superiority ; for divine grace does 
 not mix well with snubbing or ignoring one's neighbor ; 
 but it was a lesson of value to hear passages of Scrip- 
 ture read with pure tone and correct accent, and to 
 observe how EuGrlish mav be free and idiomatic, with- 
 out ever becoming ungrammatical. It will be inferred 
 that these young, women were cordially hated, or at 
 least regarded with that mixture of awe, envy, and 
 creeping aversion, which is more uncomfortable than 
 downright enmity. But there they were, partly the 
 admiration, partly the reproachful example, of their 
 less-favored town's-folk, vvdio, if they had read Virgil, 
 might have justified their position in learning all they 
 could from '* the enemy." 
 
 The new influence came too late to benefit mature 
 men and women, but it affected, however remotely, 
 every boy and girl in the Sunday-school. It roused a 
 passionate longing in some youths who had been dream- 
 ing of a better training than the schools of Ouabbin 
 afforded. It was an element in the general elevation 
 of the community, which became evident in the next 
 minister's reign. 
 
 One of these young ladies had a pianoforte, the first 
 that was possessed in Ouabbin. It is impossible to 
 exaggerate the sensation that was produced in the vil- 
 lage wlu-n that instrument was first heard. It was a 
 clear, moonlit evening in summer, and the windows 
 
200 QUAE BIN 
 
 were open. Passers-by lingered in the street, and an 
 admiring row of boys appeared to be impaling them- 
 selves on the fence pickets under the poplars, as they 
 leaned forward to listen. With every group of arpeg- 
 gios, and of florid roulades, it seemed to them that 
 diamonds and pearls were flung into the air, or that 
 catharine-wheels were shooting fiery little stars, or that 
 a thousand bobolinks had been let loose, all singing at 
 once ; and that fitful winds came in deep gusts to fur- 
 nish the harmonies. All comparisons, however, are 
 poor and inapt to express the effects of music, and 
 especially of brilliant music with full chords, zvhcn 
 heard for tJie first time. Explain to a man born blind 
 the glories of a rainbow, and then you may give words 
 to the sensations of those boys as they listened to the 
 pianoforte. Many of them in after years were to hear 
 that ill-used instrument drummed by school-girls until 
 they were ready to execrate the inventor ; but hardly 
 would they forget that beautiful night in Ouabbin, 
 when the tones seemed to have come from angelic 
 harps, while the trembling leaves of the poplars in a 
 soft snsurrns told of the delight that spread through 
 the air. 
 
 The society of Ouabbin was at, times enlivened by 
 some bright young schoolmaster, who was working his 
 way through college. The village matrons made much 
 of these ambitious youths, for there were often appeal- 
 ing possibilities in their eager faces ; but the accom- 
 plished young ladies hesitated about wasting time upon 
 young fellows for whom they would have to wait half 
 a dozen years, and, meanwhile, be obliged to forego 
 flirting, and renounce intervening chances. And if 
 one thinks upon it, it was not equitable ; tJiey were at 
 
QUABBiy LOSES AND GAINS 201 
 
 their best, — full-blossomed, diplomaed, ticketed, and 
 ready for the principal event of life, while the student 
 had his course to finish, and then his position to win. 
 
 Then there came occasionally some young doctor 
 who fancied Ouabbin a good place wherein to flesh his 
 maiden lancet, and gain medical experience ?';/ corpoi'i- 
 biis vilis ; and who departed as soon as possible, to use 
 his skill upon richer patients. 
 
 One of these might be dainty and dandified, and, as 
 such, w^ould be useful to young men, by exhibiting late 
 models of tailoring and of neckwear. One might be 
 keen, rough, and amusing, with a turn for local poli- 
 tics. Another might reconnoitre the ground to see if 
 a fortune might be got w'ith a rich man's daughter — 
 not too plain or dowdy. But none of the young doc- 
 tors remained long ; Ouabbin was too small and too 
 conservative. The people did not take to a doctor 
 until, as they said, they had " summered and wintered" 
 him, — wd"iich also might include starving him. 
 
 With a diminishing population, and with no leaders 
 of mark, the town would have been insufferably dull if 
 it had not been for the ''pert minxes " who tried the 
 patience of the old, and who were the envy and the 
 despair of those of their owai age. Every fine day 
 there w^as something new in their proceedings. They 
 made parties to climb the hills, or to row on the river, 
 and always came back with handfuls of water-lilies or 
 wild-flowers, besides those they stuck in their dashing 
 Vandyke hats. They galloped along the country roads, 
 with trailing skirts and flying veils; and their cheery 
 laughter sounded strangely to tlie sober Puritan folk. 
 At meeting they joined in all the familiar hymns, but 
 sat in their pews : they would not go into the singers* 
 
202 QUABB/y 
 
 seats; and yet their voices had such vigor and carr3'ing 
 quality that the sopranos in the gallery were sometimes 
 quite overborne. 
 
 Deacon Rawson's mind was becoming painfully dis- 
 turbed. ]\Irs. Rawson had talked to him about " them 
 gals' goin's on," and at length he thought it his Chris- 
 tian duty to see Brother Grant, the father of two 
 daughters who were reputed to be ringleaders, and 
 endeavor to have some restraint placed upon them. 
 
 When the deacon found an opportunity, it was not 
 easy for him to find phrases. He had fancied himself 
 talking with fluency, like the minister; but Brother 
 Grant was a man of cool self-possession, and his man- 
 ner, though civil, did not invite intimacy, still less 
 intrusion ; and the deacon toiled through his first sen- 
 tences like a horse in a deep clayey road. Said he, — 
 
 *' P'r'aps it's comin' pooty clos', tu talk tu a brother 
 'baout his own folks ; but 'pears like 'tis a dewty — when 
 I see — the need on't. Some o' the brethren, an' more 
 speshily the sisters, is kinder troubled by th' irreg'lar 
 walk an' wuldly conversashin of" — 
 
 *' Whose walk and conversation V asked Mr. Grant 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, it's all in Christyin kindness an' brotherly 
 love," said Deacon Rawson. ''Don't thii^k I'd" — 
 
 " No need o' beatin the bush," interrupted Mr. 
 Grant. " What is't you're drivin' at .-^ " 
 
 "We was a-hopin', " said Deacon Rawson, "thet 
 when yeour darters come back from school they'd set a 
 good example tu the ]:)errish. Ez they've hed more 
 'vantagiz, they'd orter let their light shine, an' be help- 
 ful to the other young folks thet hezn't hed their 
 chalmce. 'Stid of which, they don't seem like wut 
 
QUABBIX LOSES AXD GALXS 203 
 
 they was, nor wiit was 'xpccted. They don't mix ; an' 
 they don't see nobody when they meet 'em. P'r'aps 
 'tain't surprishi', sence they was away tew or three 
 years, an' they might a' forgot." 
 
 " Wal, deacon," said Mr. Grant, " is it a matter of 
 discipline or reproof for vic^ that my daughters don't 
 remember evervbodv ? " 
 
 " 'Tain't on'y thet," said Deacon Rawson. " Folks 
 say they ain't settin' a good example in godly speech an' 
 ways, ner in raiment ; thet is, in furbelows, ribbons, 
 an' frills." 
 
 "And have I to look after women's clothes ?" asked 
 I\Ir. Grant. *' Do you look after Mis' Rawson's .'' 
 That's a little too much." 
 
 ** An' thet pyanner. Brother Grant," continued Dea- 
 con Rawson; "is it right to be a-playin' dahncin' toones 
 in this ere dyin' wuld ? Would yeou be willin' to go 
 to the jedgment-seat right arter hearin' thet clatterin' 
 o' wires, an all thet whirligig mewsic r" 
 
 " I don't know that we can choose what we would be 
 doin' when we're to be called to our last account," re- 
 plied Mr. Grant. " I mightn't wish to go to the bar 
 of God right from a pig-killin' ; but you wouldn't say I 
 should do without pork and sahsidge ? But, Deacon 
 Rawson, you don't know about the piano. Suppose 
 you and Mis' Rawson come over to-morrow in the 
 afternoon .'* P'r'aps you'll find the piano's like a good 
 many other things, — good or bad, accordin' to how it's 
 used." 
 
 After some parley Deacon Rawson said "he'd sec ef 
 he could git his folks to 'gree tu it." It was odd that 
 the term "folks" was often used even Vv'hcn the 
 speaker meant only his wife. 
 
204 QUA B BIN 
 
 At the time appointed Deacon Rawson stepped down 
 from a solid •' thorousih-braced " wa^on at Brother 
 Grant's gate, and helped out his portly spouse. They 
 went in solemnly by the front door, and were received 
 with sim})le and charming cordialitv. The daughters 
 were **on their good behavior," and were tastefully 
 dressed, without anything to offend censorious eyes. 
 The guests presented a sufficient contrast. The dea- 
 con was tall and gaunt, with grizzly hair, small and 
 deep-set eyes, and a long, straight nose, depending 
 from the slenderest attachment at the forehead, and 
 broadening like a trumpet. His legs were thin, and 
 his shoulders were bowed. He looked like a narrow- 
 minded bigot, but much of his expression came from 
 his training and experience. When Mrs. Rawson took 
 off her " calash," of green silk arched with rattan ribs, 
 which looked like an inharmonious elliptical halo, there 
 was displayed a tufted turban of lemon-colored batiste, 
 resting upon folds of plain black hair streaked with 
 gray. This was an ornament so imposing as to sug- 
 gest the head-gear of an Oriental prince. But when 
 she was unswathed from her wraps, the straight lines 
 and sombre color of her robes repelled any association 
 with the affluence of the East. She was round, though 
 not fat ; her cheeks were dusky red, and a film of down 
 rested on various ivory-tinted curves. The popular 
 judgment of her was that she was ''good, but slow." 
 She had no children, but looked motherly and kind. 
 
 Mr. Grant was a bit of a diplomatist, and had 
 arranged his programme in advance. He went and 
 opened the piano, a small " square," with turned legs 
 of mahogany, and said to his daughters, " You know I 
 have invited our friends, the deacon and his wife, to 
 
QUABBIN LOSES AND GAINS 205 
 
 hear some music. Suppose we begin with ' Hamburg.' 
 You have a good voice, Deacon Rawson, and you can 
 carry the bass. The girls will take their two parts, and 
 I can sing the tenor by tiptoeing a little." With slow 
 and even time that noble tune, based upon an ancient 
 choral, was fairly well sung : — 
 
 ''Kingdoms and thrones to God belong, 
 Crown him, ye nations, in your song." 
 
 The close and solemn harmony was well sustained 
 by the piano ; and it was a wholly new sensation to the 
 deacon to feel that solid support, while his voice min- 
 gled with the sweet tones of the young ladies. The 
 moisture in his eyes, and at the tip of his colossal 
 nose, testified to the liveliness of his emotion. Then 
 followed Pleyel's hymn : — 
 
 " To thy pastures fair and large. 
 Heavenly Shepherd, lead thy charge." 
 
 Then the deacon wanted *' Coronation," — 
 
 "All hail the power of Jesus' name." 
 
 This taxed Mr. Grant's "tiptoeing" tenor, but he 
 managed to get through it. As usual, this was sung 
 with a great surge of feeling ; and the deacon's ugly 
 visage became almost beautiful in his ecstasy. " Coro- 
 nation" once roused Yankees to/religious enthusiasm, 
 as the ** Marseillaise " raised Frenchmen to patriotic 
 frenzy. 
 
 One of the young ladies next played a romance with 
 a prominent melody, slow and graceful in movement. 
 Her tasteful fingering seemed absolutely miraculous. 
 After that, one of them sang an air then in vogue, " Oh, 
 
206 QUABBIN 
 
 had I wings like a dove ! " There was no resisting 
 this ; and the deacon was fairly carried off his feet. 
 
 Then the entertainment was continued with marches, 
 andante movements, and variations on familiar themes. 
 Afterward tea was served ; and the deacon and his 
 wife were profuse in thanks and compliments. 
 
 *' Ez yeou said, Brother Grant, it's jest accordin' to 
 th' yeuse thet's made on't. Naow th' ol' colonel plays 
 a violin with the choir tu meetin', an' it's all right ; 
 but ef 'twas off at some tahvern fer dahncin', 'twouldn't 
 be a violin, but a fiddle, an' be all wrong." 
 
 The " pyanner " had triumphed, and the Misses 
 Grant, instead of being elated, were apparently softened 
 and calmed by the victory. 
 
 They inquired of Mrs. Rawson about cheese-making, 
 and promised to go out and see the dairy, the calves, 
 the poultry, and all the delights of the farm. 
 
 On the way home Mrs. Rawson said, ''Them mother- 
 less gals ! Folks calls them high-flyers, an' praoud ; 
 p'r'aps they be, but I don't wan' ter see better-behavin' 
 gals, nor modester dressed than they was this arter- 
 noon." If she could have seen how her vellow turban 
 looked ! 
 
 The deacon was meditating, and made no reply. Mr. 
 Grant, meanwhile, was patting the heads of his daugh- 
 ters, promising them each a new gown. 
 
COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 20/ 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 
 
 OuABBiN never sent many young men to college, 
 probably less than fifteen, and, up to sixty years ago, 
 not more than half a dozen. Within the ancient limits 
 of Newbury, at the mouth of the jMerrimac, there 
 were three hundred graduates of Harvard College be- 
 tween 1642 and 1845. Three men every two years 
 coming fresh from a seat of learning must have brought 
 some quickening influence into the community. Even 
 if, for a long time, the standard of Harvard College 
 was not higher than that of a modern grammar school, 
 the mere contact with learned men, and with the air 
 of libraries, was inspiring and liberalizing. The list of 
 those graduates in Coffin's *' History of Newburv," a 
 unique and valuable book, reads like a muster-roll of 
 the leaders of Massachusetts, instead of the eminent 
 men of a town. No other town of like population 
 makes a better showing ; and the result is instructive. 
 Educated men create public sentiment, and, recipro- 
 cally, public sentiment increases the number of edu- 
 cated men. The full effects of classical culture are 
 not developed at once, nor exhausted in the lifetime 
 of those who receive it. Thev ma\' not all become 
 authors, — Heaven forbid! — but their existence and 
 influence form part of the circumstances in which 
 
208 QUABBIN- 
 
 c:eniiis is born. Leaf-mould fertilizes flowers. The 
 effect of a succession of educated men upon the general 
 intelligence, and, after a time, upon the literary atmos- 
 phere of a town, is always increasing, and in the course 
 of two centuries works a transformation. 
 
 Among the descendants of families in Newbury were 
 the poets Longfellow, Lowell, and Whittier; the Hales, 
 authors and editors ; President C. C. Felton, William 
 Lloyd Garrison ; the lawyers Parsons and Greenleaf; 
 Caleb Gushing, diplomatist; George Lunt, poet; B. A. 
 Gould, astronomer ; Judges Sewall and Lowell, Rev. 
 Leonard Woods, Rev, S. H. Tyng, and many other 
 distinguished men. 
 
 In the course of the rise of Newbury, or of what- 
 ever town has borne great sons, and, in a measure, in 
 poor and remote Ouabbin, there has been a gradual 
 and total change in original ideas and tastes, in views 
 of life, nature, literature, and art ; but in the larger and 
 wealthier places, which are naturally centres of thought 
 and opinion, the change was earlier and more emphatic. 
 
 At the beginning, the eastern part of the State had 
 the pick of the incoming settlers ; and with that advan- 
 tage, aided afterward by commerce and activity in 
 business, it easily kept the lead in population, in poli- 
 tics, in the movements of mind, and in literary produc- 
 tiveness. In a handbook of literature published about 
 twenty years ago, there are credited to Massachusetts 
 seventy-five authors, of whom sixty-four were born or 
 resident in the part of the State east of Worcester, and 
 eleven in the western part. The majority of these 
 seventy-five authors wrote in the early and middle part 
 of the present century ; very few in the centuries 
 preceding. The inference is, that the bulk of the best 
 
COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 209 
 
 literature of the State has been written in the east, and 
 since 1830. 
 
 The population of the State in that productive period 
 \vas fairly homogeneous ; and what in common phrase 
 is called the foreign element is scarcely represented in 
 the literature. It is admitted that the population of 
 the eastern part is far larger, and its superior wealth 
 has given leisure and means for literary work ; but 
 after all due allowances, the west is hopelessly behind 
 in productiveness. Genius may not be subject to any 
 law of averages ; and it always appears unexpectedly, 
 without favoring causes that can be estimated. Why 
 Hawthorne was born in Salem, Emerson in Boston, or 
 Bryant near the Berkshire Hills, might elude inquiry ; 
 but most books, however excellent, are not the work of 
 men of genius ; and the total production of books 
 follows certain laws which can be studied. 
 
 No great historians, and few great poets, have suc- 
 ceeded in Massachusetts without the aid of ample 
 fortunes ; no man who has not inherited or acquired 
 property can spend ten or twenty years in researches, 
 as did Bancroft, Prescott, Motley, and Parkman. Our 
 leading poets, with a single exception, were reared and 
 always lived in comfort. But leading poets and histo- 
 rians are few ; and as for the remaining authors, who 
 miglit have arisen in any part of the State, we ought to 
 know why most of them arose in the east. 
 
 The answer is not far to seek. It was in the cities 
 and large towns of the east that the movement began 
 against the sterner features of Puritan doctrine, and it 
 was there that the people were soonest emancipated 
 from the rigor of a rule under which no general litera- 
 ture was possible. The casting off of that yoke was 
 
2IC QUAE ELY 
 
 followed immediately by a period of illimitable expan- 
 sion, of eager study, of new and joyous impressions of 
 nature, of new and cheerful views of human life, and of 
 new gifts of expression. What is best in tlie literature 
 of Massachusetts belongs to that period of awakening, 
 or directly followed it. 
 
 This is not to say that the credit of cur literature is 
 due to the development of Unitarianism ; it would have 
 been due to whatever svstem had succeeded in loosen- 
 ins: the old bonds. The liberalizins: influence has con- 
 tinned, and is a present moving force in many religious 
 organizations in various parts of the State. For liber- 
 alism is not wholly, not even primarily, a matter either 
 of belief or disbelief, provided we leave out the mon- 
 strous doctrine of endless and hopeless punishment ; 
 it is rather an attitude or condition of the soul in rela- 
 tion to its main points of contact, — God, our fellow- 
 men, and the world of nature. The particular dogmas 
 that are held are mostly unimportant ; the spirit is 
 everything. 
 
 It happened sixty years ago that nearly all the emi- 
 nent authors, except of theological books, were Unita- 
 rians, while to-day they are of many denominations. 
 Tliere are many small towns which the liberalizing 
 movement but slightly touched ; and the western ])art 
 of the State is mostly made up of small towns. The 
 shadow of the seventeenth century still hangs over many 
 small communities, where, with the old rigidity of doc- 
 trine, are found the impress of old customs and narrow 
 ideas, — ignorance of general literature and science; 
 ignorance of biblical criticism, and of the relative 
 place of Judea in history ; ignorance of the tendency 
 of philosophical thought, and of the whole world of 
 ideas with which enlightened men are occupied. 
 
COLLEGES AND MLMSTERS 211 
 
 That Ouabbin and other small towns send few young 
 men to college is partly cause and partly effect, in rela- 
 tion to public sentiment. Not having been moved 
 greatly by the liberalizing spirit, there is not a public 
 sentiment which inspires a desire for higher education ; 
 and there being among the citizens few who have been 
 highly educated, the public sentiment is upon a low 
 level. It is like a vicious circle in reasoning, illus- 
 trated by the biblical aphorism, " The destruction of 
 the poor is their poverty." 
 
 The prevalent belief w^as that a college education, 
 though desirable, was not essential to a physician or a 
 lawyer. "When it comes ter studyin' the Scripters," 
 said Deacon Rawson, "a man wants ter know the iden- 
 ticle words that aour Lord an' his disciples spoke. 
 Some says that's Hebrew, an' some says Greek. 
 Whichever 'tis, it stands tu reason thet a minister's 
 got ter know them air tongues. It's a nawfle 'sponsi- 
 bility, this ere breakin' the bread o' life ; an' he who 
 doos it orter know every grain it's made on." 
 
 It was agreed, then, that a minister was to be edu- 
 cated, and no kind of beneficence was so general and 
 so cheerfully bestowed, even in Ouabbin, as the aid to 
 young men intending to preach. Much was done by 
 societies, but more by individuals to whom worthy 
 candidates were known. The results were generally 
 satisfactory, but there were sad exceptions. A well- 
 constructed machine turns out uniform work year after 
 year, but who can say that a mind will remain as it is 
 moulded .^ In minds of low order there is no danger of 
 change; and some of the noblest are equally stable, 
 because they are so exalted and fervent that they view 
 all things throuLih the medium of a feeling which never 
 
2 12 QUABBIN 
 
 cools. The extremes of intellect in a divinity class set 
 an observer to thinkinc;- ; brilliancy and ardor at one 
 end, and plodding diilness at the other. A reasoning 
 mind, that perceives, compares, and weighs, must, con- 
 sciously or unconsciously, take new attitudes from time 
 to time toward any complex system of doctrines. No- 
 tice the shifting theories of medicine, the constant 
 stretch or reversal of judicial decisions, the evanes- 
 cence of })hi]osophical conceptions, and consider if it 
 is to be supposed that theology is unchangeable ? 
 From the time of Arius and Athanasius the debatable 
 ground has been fought over, inch by inch, and the 
 orthodoxy of one century becomes the heresy of the 
 next. The successive developments of dogma (upward 
 or downward), from Cotton Mather to Channing, have 
 been slowly and painfully accomplished ; and it would 
 require a master in dialectics to state intelligibly the 
 precise intervening stages. 
 
 Theolo2:ical students, as well as others reared under 
 the influence of Calvinism, have sometimes found 
 themselves not masters but slaves of their convictions. 
 In spite of a predetermination to abide in the old way, 
 and in spite of the ardor of a faith that seeks to domi- 
 nate reason, men sometimes find themselves bornu on 
 an irresistible current, and landed on an unwished-for 
 shore. The conviction of an unwelcome truth, or what 
 appears to be truth, comes to an ardent man with a 
 physical pang; and the sudden uprooting of a long- 
 cherished belief is like the wrench of forceps on his 
 jaw. Apostasy is an ugly word, and is generally held 
 to include a wilful sin ; when, in fact, it may be the 
 brave action of one who gives up friends, place, and 
 honor, to follow where truth leads. Where interested 
 
COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 213 
 
 motives do not enter, and the mind conscientiously 
 weighs the evidence, the decision reached, however er- 
 roneous, can never be morally culpable. To speak of 
 a mind as drifting, is to use an inapt metaphor, for the 
 sanest and most sympathetic minds may move in op- 
 posite directions under apparently similar influences. 
 Lowell, the son of a Unitarian clergyman, drifts late in 
 life into the Episcopal Church, and accepts a sequence 
 of dogmas he had been taught to disbelieve. Holmes, 
 the son of an Orthodox clergyman in the same city, 
 drifts into Unitarianism, rejects the Calvinistic scheme 
 of redemption, and anchors his faith on the boundless 
 love of God. 
 
 As in space, outside the solar system, there are no 
 points of compass, so in pure thought, apart from 
 dogma, there is neither height nor depth, right hand 
 nor left ; all movement being equally free and fluid 
 within the limits of the orbit traced by the Creator of 
 intellijrence. 
 
 This was not understood or believed in Ouabbin, and 
 a change of views on the part of one who had been as- 
 sisted in college was considered a sin of the deepest 
 dye. So one young man found to his sorrow. He had 
 taken his academical degree, and then had to tell his 
 benefactor he was not going to study divinity, because 
 he had become a Unitarian. The wickedness and in- 
 gratitude of that man, and his utter shamelcssncss ! 
 And there was no remedy nor punishment ; he had got 
 his Latin and Greek, and it could not be shaken out of 
 liim ; and he could not be made to preach what he did 
 not believe. His apostasy was for some years a dam- 
 per to the enthusiasm for raising up ministers by 
 ** edd icatin' " poor young men. 
 
214 QUABBIISr 
 
 People did not think of the struggle and pain which 
 the change had cost ///;//, of the imputations upon his 
 honor and manliness, of the thrusts at his indigence, 
 of the breaking of old friendships, and the blight upon 
 his future life. Those who knew him saw by his 
 countenance how he had suffered. His clothes, too, 
 were well worn, and his pockets light, when he went 
 away from Ouabbin, never to return. 
 
 Suppose he had taken the other course, and patched 
 up a compromise with his conscience, — and it is prob- 
 able that many have done so, — what a strain would it 
 have been to do what was expected of him ! to be 
 silent before a confiding people as to the composition 
 and modernness of many parts of the sacred canon ; to 
 ignore science and history in expounding Genesis, with 
 regard to the age of our planet, the duration of human 
 life, or the origin and fortunes of the Jewish people ; 
 to be silent upon the dual source of parts of the hexa- 
 teuch, and upon the confounding of two prophets of 
 different eras under the name of Isaiah ! furthermore, 
 to ignore the truth that morals is a progressive science, 
 and that the dealings of God with men are probably as 
 intimate and authoritative now as in any previous age 
 of the world. Most well-read clergymen know the 
 facts established by biblical criticism, and know that 
 they are none the less true because sometimes urged 
 with indecent rancor by scoffers. 
 
 The scientist does not blindly repose upon the theo- 
 ries of Kepler or Newton, but looks for any new light 
 upon celestial mechanics. The physician admits that 
 anatomy and therapeutics have been developed shice 
 Galen and Ambrose Pare ; the lawyer knows that Coke 
 upon Littleton, an excellent treatise once, is mostly ob- 
 
COLLEGES AND MINISTERS 21 S 
 
 solete to-day. Why, alone among learned men, must 
 the preacher be held to defend corrupt texts, mistrans- 
 lations, and false exegesis, and to prove t/iat to be 
 stationary which has never ceased to rise and to ad- 
 vance with the advancing and broadening ideas of 
 mankind ? We are told that such inquiries lead to infi- 
 delity. Do we fear to know the truth in chemistry or 
 in biology ? Do we not sift every new discovery in the 
 laws of nature? And shall we conceal v*'hat is true in 
 regard to the Book on which the hopes of millions rest ? 
 The experiences of those students who accepted 
 help from individuals or societies are worth consider- 
 ing. In spite of all that is said about reciprocal 
 brotherlv love, and of bearino: one another's burdens, 
 there is always some risk of injury to the delicate feel- 
 ings and to the moral fibre of the recipient of alms. 
 When he comes under an obligation, he is no longer 
 his own master. He must be ready to render an ac- 
 count not only of the use he makes of his income, but 
 of his dress, his company, and all his doings. The cut 
 of a coat, the color of a cravat, or a chance visit to the 
 city, may upset him in the mind of his patron. He 
 dares not purchase books, except text-books, though he 
 may be hungering for intellectual food. Then the 
 habit of borrowing in itself does him infinite harm. 
 When an emergency arises, he does not shrink, as he 
 ought, from incurring debt. Getting relief through 
 the pockets of another, like the recourse to the pawn- 
 shop, or the use of opium or stimulants, becomes in 
 time a chronic disease, which may take a lifetime to 
 get rid of. Clergymen, whose income in many par- 
 ishes is partly eleemosynar}', are apt to become habit- 
 ual borrowers. They will pay, but they will alw;iys be 
 
2l6 QUABBIN 
 
 pushing loads of debt before them as upon hand-bar- 
 rows. By the time one loan is paid they are in straits 
 for another, and so they go on, forever behind-hand. 
 Others besides clergymen get into the baneful habit. 
 Trusting and guileless themselves, they are apt to at- 
 tribute the same generous feelings to others, and do 
 not dream that, with every application for temporary 
 assistance, they are lowering themselves before the 
 willino- or unwillins: creditor. 
 
 Bursaries and fellowships are legitimate aids to in- 
 digent students, but, unfortunately, they are attainable 
 by few. 
 
 Character stands for so much more than culture, that 
 it may well be doubted whether a collegiate course paid 
 for by the benevolent is worth what it inevitably costs 
 in moral deterioration. A youth who has made a fair 
 beginning, and has a taste for classical and mathemati- 
 cal studies, will be sure to pursue them, even without a 
 tutor. But, whatever he does, even to the renunciation 
 of his hopes and dreams, will be likely to be better for 
 him in the end than a college degree for which he has 
 run in debt. 
 
 Young men think that upon graduating they will 
 have no difficulty in speedily earning enough to pay 
 back with interest what they have borrowed, but oppor- 
 tunities for lucrative employment are rare, and, with 
 the increasing numbers of educated men, are becoming 
 rarer. The teacher or tutor in our day seldom earns 
 more than enough to support himself reputably ; and 
 after some years the thought ot his college debts be- 
 comes worse to him than a convict's ball and chain. 
 
 Besides, at three or four and twent)^ his feelings as 
 a man, long held under guard, begin to assert them- 
 
COLLEGES AND MLXISTERS 2 1/ 
 
 selves. He meets ladies of his own age, and the voice 
 of nature cannot be always silenced. He may dally 
 and resist ; but the chances are that at some unguarded 
 moment he will speak, and that he will find himself 
 bound in honor to some trustful damsel, long before he 
 has attained a position that will enable him to marry. 
 The whole business is thorny and perplexing, and be- 
 comes all the worse with the increasing requirements in 
 collegiate and professional courses. The Creator could 
 not have intended that all the years of early manhood 
 should be spent in a struggle with celibacy. There 
 should be some way to begin earlier, and to push for- 
 ward faster, the higher education, so as to bring the 
 student into working relations with the world before 
 the bloom of his best years has departed, and his coun- 
 tenance, as well as his spirit, is *' sicklied o'er with the 
 pale cast of thought." This feverish condition of ado- 
 lescence is something to be seriously considered, and 
 the youth who is looking forward to seven years of 
 study and self-restraijit should be sure that he has the 
 will and the power to carry him manfully through to 
 the end. 
 
 One student, a rich man's son, was rather coltish 
 while in college ; but he settled down, and became a 
 staid and respectable man, though always of a jovous 
 nature. He was well liked by all classes, and in later 
 years held important public offices. From him and 
 his family and friends came much of the influence that 
 raised the district schools. A diverting story was told 
 of one of his boyish capers. Whether it was owing to 
 his '* cutting" morning prayers, — the unpardonable 
 sin in those days, — or inattention to studv, or some 
 more signal breach of college rules, he had fcdlcn under 
 
2l8 . QUAE BIN 
 
 reproof, and did not seem to amend. As his marks for 
 lessons and conduct continued to be unsatisfactory, 
 the '* Prex " sent for him and told him he had written 
 to his father to state that, if there were not a speedy 
 improvement, his connection with the college would 
 cease. The young man bowed, retired, and reflected. 
 It was Saturday evening, and the next mail-stage for 
 Ouabbin would leave on Monday morning. That stage 
 carried an unexpected passenger, who, on arrival, got 
 off at the post-ofBce, waited until the mail was sorted, 
 then asked for letters for the family, received the one 
 that had been written by the ^' Prex " to his father, and 
 thereupon returned by stage to college, without troub- 
 ling his family with a call. That pressing danger 
 averted, he did better. The "Prex" doubtless thought 
 the father rather indifferent to the well-being of his 
 son. 
 
 He was probably the only college graduate of his 
 generation in Ouabbin who did not study for the 
 ministry. 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 2ig 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 
 
 Herman Field tauG:ht a select school in the old 
 Masonic Hall in Ouabbin one summer durinsf the reion 
 of the third minister. He was not an ill-looking man 
 even at first sight, but whoever looked at him twice 
 recognized the distinctive marks of character and power. 
 He was of good height, well proportioned, with a large 
 head, prominent features, fair hair, and violet-blue eyes 
 fine enough for a w^oman. It is needless to mention a 
 beard in any description of the time, for everybody, 
 except Jews and foreign fiddlers, was smoothly shaven. 
 For an excellent reason he was not any whit too well 
 dressed ; but whatever he wore was neat, and never in 
 the least shabby. His face could not be called hand- 
 some; but when he talked he seemed to those who met 
 his eyes so truthful, animated, and kind, that he won 
 all hearts. 
 
 He was at the end ot his third year in college, and 
 was on leave of absence for tw^elve weeks. He was 
 born in Northern Vermont, where his father had a small 
 farm. For his education he had had a little assistance 
 from relatives, and had worked a few months each \'car, 
 except the last, as a lumberman on some of the tribu- 
 taries of the St. Lawrence. He was a strong and reso- 
 lute youth, and swung a mighty axe. As he li\-ed and 
 
220 QUABBIN 
 
 dressed with the utmost simplicity, he had been able 
 up to that time to make both ends meet. Hence it was 
 that his hands were rather large, with stout joints and 
 hard palms. With delicate, well-gloved hands, and a 
 nev/er suit, he might have been a noted figure anv- 
 where. His complexion, hair, and eyes were Saxon, 
 and there was a tradition that his mother was the grand- 
 daughter of one of Burgoyne's captured Hessians. 
 
 On his arrival he had called, as a matter of courtesy, 
 upon the minister and Deacon Rawson, both of them 
 members of the school committee, and upon Mr. Grant. 
 Being invited to tea at the house of the latter, he met 
 the daughters, and was dazzled. 
 
 Although Ouabbin was loath to acknowledge it, these 
 young ladies were both beautiful. Venus herself would 
 have been pronounced ill-favored by the damsels at the 
 foot of Olympus or Ida, if they had imagined her super- 
 cilious and ''airy." Eliza Grant, being tall, was spite- 
 fully called the "hay-pole," and Lois, who was short, 
 was known as the " chunk." Eliza, a slender and fair 
 girl, with dark hair and gray eyes, had a gift that is 
 rare with her sex, a natural talent for mathematics. 
 She was never more agreeably occupied than in geom- 
 etry or algebra, and it was said she had made some 
 progress with more abstruse branches. In her reading 
 she preferred the logical works then in vogue, such as 
 Palev's " Evidences," and some of the Bridfrewater Trea- 
 tises. Latin she liked to the extent of reading Livy 
 and Salkist, but she did not care for Virgil. In her 
 opinion ^neas was a poor creature, and Dido a silly 
 widow wlio had not profited as she should have done by 
 one experience. On the side of sentiment she was far 
 from callous : she was intensely feminine and delicate; 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMAXCE 221 
 
 but this side of her nature was seldom exhibited, and 
 scarcely acknowledged to herself. 
 
 Her sister Lois had a taste for languages. Virgil 
 was her favorite author. In French she had followed 
 eagerly the adventures of Telemaque, and had wept 
 over the woes of Corinne. Besides, she had read a few 
 cantos of the " Inferno," a thing almost unknown in that 
 day. In her manner she was open and engaging, ap- 
 parently as playful as a kitten ; but in fact she was dis- 
 posed to flirt, though no one would have guessed it 
 from her innocent brown eyes. 
 
 After the tea, at which Eliza presided, and during 
 the music that followed, Herman Field had time to 
 take account of his impressions. He had never in his 
 life been in a city, and had never before been seated at 
 a table with young ladies like these. It was in vain he 
 said to himself that they were flesh and blood like other 
 people ; for they were quite unlike any women he had 
 met. Such nicety in the results of the toilet ; such 
 style in dress and adornment ; such simple and serene 
 manners, and unconscious ease of movement ; such 
 graceful hands; such musical voices, perfect accent, and 
 easy, unpedantic English, — all these things came to 
 him in a series of surprises, and made a revelation that 
 never comes but to one who is country born. 
 
 Some French books on the table led to conversation, 
 in which it appeared that the visitor had no knowledge 
 of that language except what he had learned from the 
 patois of Canadian raftsmen. He admitted also his 
 ignorance of Italian, but gratified Lois by praising her 
 favorite Virgil. 
 
 Then by inquiry he learned what were Eliza's studios, 
 and what ground she had gone over, and he saw that 
 
222 QUABBIN 
 
 she was quite in advance of him. He began to think 
 that a college course which left out modern languages 
 and applied science, — the chief subjects of living in- 
 terest, — was a mouldy relic of mediaevalism, and that 
 a depree based on such a course was a fetish. Here 
 were two young women who were his equals in most 
 things, and his superiors in many, and had spent fewer 
 years in studv than he had, and they were not spec- 
 tacled nor unsexed nor dried up, but fresh and bloom- 
 ins:. He was humiliated. 
 
 But reflections upon courses of study could not long 
 occupy his mind while he was in such company. For 
 the first time he recognized the power that grace and 
 culture lend, and felt that there was no creature on 
 earth like a woman of beauty and intelligence, with 
 refined manners and speech. It seemed to him, further, 
 that this was a new discovery, made by him for the first 
 time in the world. 
 
 He was prolonging his visit quite beyond the usual 
 limit, but seemed fascinated, and powerless to depart. 
 He persuaded the young ladies to sing again, and then 
 rose to leave. Mr. Grant came in opportunely, and a 
 few words of ordinary courtesy were exchanged. Then 
 Field departed, a heavy-hearted man. The fall in his 
 barometer was caused by a complex idea which came 
 in a flash : — 
 
 One year more in college. 
 
 Three years afterwards at a seminary. 
 
 And tiien? Wliat would happen then? That was the rub. 
 
 For he was two and twenty, full of vigor, with not a 
 fibre lax ; and his whole nature, like some perfectly 
 strung and perfectly attuned instrument, was ready to 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 223 
 
 throb with harmonies if touched or even breathed 
 upon. 
 
 A few days later Field met Miss Lois Grant on the 
 street, and was intending to pass with a bow, but 
 stopped as he saw she was about to speak. After the 
 usual greeting, she said, — 
 
 *' Our cousin Harry Lyman is with us for a few 
 days, and we are thinking of a walk over ' the moun- 
 tain,' as people call our small hill," pointing to the 
 sharp cone behind the meeting-house; "and, as it will 
 be new to you as well as to him, Eliza and I have 
 thought you might like to go with us." 
 
 " I shall be delighted, if " — 
 
 ''If you are at liberty; yes, we thought of that, and 
 have fixed upon to-morrow afternoon, when you have 
 half a holiday." 
 
 " You are very kind. I thank you for thinking of 
 me. I will go with you, with pleasure." 
 
 About three o'clock the next day. Field, with the girls 
 and their cousin Harry Lyman, started up the North 
 Hill. There was scarcely a visible path, and the bushes 
 were thick and scraggy ; but the ascent, though 
 steep and rough, v/as not long, and the crown of the 
 hill was soon reached. There was not a fine tree, or a 
 spring of water, or a wild-flower on the way, — a most 
 uninteresting little hill ; but, as the party went on, 
 the view began to broaden, and in a short time they 
 came to a clearing and a tolerably level path. 
 
 Field had not thought of making choice of a com- 
 panion, preferring to leave everything to chance, and he 
 talked with one or another, as it happened. But after 
 a time Lois, the younger, leaving her sister and cousin 
 to go on before, fell back and walked with Field. It 
 
224 QUAE BIN 
 
 was quite indifferent to him with vv'hich of them he 
 should walk, only he had fancied that he might be more 
 at ease with Eliza, who was less vivacious, and nearer 
 his own age. He was not awkward, but rather shy, 
 and willing to let his companion take the lead. 
 
 "You spoke of Canada the other day," said Lois. '' I 
 should like so much to visit it. Most of the romance 
 of the continent hangs about the old French settle- 
 ments." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "I have often been in Canada; 
 it is not very far from my home ; but there was no room 
 for romance in a lumberman's life. I have been through 
 the Chateaugay, and on the Missisquoi River, and twice 
 I have been to Montreal, though not as a tourist, Miss 
 Grant." 
 
 Lois thought there was a significant emphasis in the 
 last phrase, and, looking at him inquiringly, said, — 
 
 " And if you did not go as a tourist .'* " 
 
 "With a party of men on a lumber raft," said Field 
 simply. "We drifted slowly, and I had plenty of time 
 for the scenery." 
 
 "Then this distinguished-looking man has been a 
 woodchopper," thought Lois; but what she said was, "I 
 suppose Montreal is very beautiful." 
 
 " It is beautifully situated, with a grand mountain 
 behind it, and it has fine churches ; but it has nothing 
 of the boldness or the majesty of Quebec. ■ Upon that 
 high rock, and about its foot, you see what old France 
 was, and what Britain has done with it. But I know 
 Quebec very slightly. I never went there" — 
 
 " Professionally," said the girl with a sly look, as if 
 to help him out. 
 
 "No," said he with a smile, "not 'professionally;' I 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 22^ 
 
 went to Quebec for pleasure, in a steamboat from 
 Montreal." 
 
 Now to hear about Montreal and Quebec was not 
 Lois's object ; she wanted to know about the past life 
 of her companion. So, taking her courage in her two 
 hands, and looking quite demure, she asked, " Do the 
 lumbermen read Greek and Latin ? " 
 
 "Not much," replied P^ield with a laugh. ''A little 
 mathematics, enough to tell how many feet of lumber 
 a log will ' scale,' is more to the purpose. But I see 
 how it is. You wonder how a woodchopper became a 
 student. Confess it now ! " 
 
 Lois only smiled ; there was no need to speak, and 
 Field went on, — 
 
 " Well, I will tell you. I am a farmer's son. By 
 chance I got a Latin grammar and reader, and after I 
 had learned the rudiments I was no longer my own 
 master. I was so possessed by the desire for knowl- 
 edge, that I cared for little else. To go on with my 
 studies it was necessary to leave home, and I was poor. 
 When I was sixteen I took an axe and went into the 
 woods, so as to earn enough to keep me at school. You 
 see it is the reverse of what you thought ; it was the 
 student that became a woodchopper. There were diffi- 
 culties and trials, but not worth speaking about, since 
 they are passed. At school and college I worked as I 
 had done in the woods. It is strange when I think of 
 it. I seem to have moved like a young whirlwind, — but 
 why am I telling you this ! it cannot be interesting, 
 and I beg your pardon." 
 
 *'Yes, Mr. Field, it is deeply interesting. I have 
 never had any obstacles to overcome, and wlien I hear 
 you, I fancy myself strong and brave." 
 
226 QUABBIN 
 
 A briirht flush crimsoned his face as he said, *' It 
 was no bravery ; I couldn't help myself ; it was impos- 
 sible to stop when I had my fate in my own hands, — 
 in the shape of an axe-helve. Twice, since, I have 
 spent some time with my old friends in the woods. 
 This year I thought I would try keeping school for a 
 change." 
 
 '' After you had become interested in your studies, 
 wasn't it hard to go back to a logging-camp } " 
 
 " Yes, something of a shock ; some disconiforts." 
 
 "And nothing to amuse yourself with," 
 
 *'0h, yes; there were sports. We caught pickerel 
 through the ice, and we snared partridges and rabbits. 
 But my main resource was in three thin books." 
 
 " May I ask what they were ? " 
 
 " The New Testament, the Odyssey, and Horace. 
 Pitch-pine knots were plenty." 
 
 '' I really envy you. My cousin — not this one, not 
 Harry — is quite pathetic over his hard study; but he 
 has never earned a dollar, nor needed one. But you 
 know the saying, ^/^/i" coronat opits, and I suppose you 
 have an object in view, something worth your labor 
 and self-denial." Lois was finding her companion's 
 quiet energy inspiring. 
 
 "That is the difficulty," he replied. " I haven't any 
 definite object, except to get the best outfit I can. I 
 hope to find something worth doing." 
 
 " And your parents and relatives } " 
 
 " My relatives are troubled that I don't make a 
 choice, but I think it is better to wait to see what I am 
 fit for." 
 
 " Perhaps they wish you to study for the ministry." 
 
 " They do." 
 
MIGHT HA VE BEEN A ROMANCE 22^] 
 
 " It is a noble profession," she said softly. 
 
 *' Yes, if a man felt that he was called to it," he 
 answered, with something like a sigh. 
 
 *' I should suppose a man was ' called ' to the profes- 
 sion he was best fitted for." 
 
 " I believe that is true ; but some hold that a minis- 
 ter should feel that a personal demand has been made 
 upon him, as upon the infant Samuel. If that is what 
 is meant by a * calling,' I have none." 
 
 ''But you have no doubts, — no trouble about doc- 
 trines .'* There has been lately a painful case here." 
 The young man blushed suddenly to the roots of his 
 blond hair, and after a slight hesitation said, — 
 
 " No, I cannot say I have any serious doubts at 
 present ; but suppose I should have, by and by '^ " 
 
 *' Sufficient for the day " — 
 
 " That proverb may have two faces. My conscience 
 does not trouble me now ; but now I am free. Sup- 
 pose when the doubt came I were not free ; a change 
 of faith then might mean dishonor." 
 
 Just what this usually astute young woman had been 
 aiming at by her leading questions she herself could 
 not have told. Various trains of luminous thouiiht 
 shot through her brain, not consecutively, but com- 
 mingled like the flashings of fire-flies. Now it was 
 that her father might save this brave man from further 
 trial and anxiety. Her father was rich enough ; still 
 she knew he would not do it ; for he was one of those 
 who had aided Graham, — he who had turned Unitarian. 
 Now it was that four years must pass — and here she 
 involuntarily made the addition of that figure to her 
 own age. Now it was that her interest in a stranger 
 was absurd, that her sympath}', perhaps, was of the 
 
228 QUABBIN 
 
 imaginative kind, such as one takes in the hero of an 
 unreal drama. " At all events," she said to herself, 
 "he is a man of mind, of feeling, and character ; and 
 such eyes ! He is to be here twelve weeks more ; no, 
 ten weeks only ; only ten weeks. We shall see." 
 
 They had reached the part of the ridge from which 
 they looked down upon the North Village, immediately 
 under the cliff. At the distance it seemed only a 
 spread of broad maple tops, with here and there a 
 chimney or a bit of a white house showing through the 
 interstices. There was also a factory, whose dull ugli- 
 ness was relieved by the shrubbery on a brambly knoll, 
 and then by a high hill behind it. The view is so 
 unexpected, and so directly dozuJi, that it gives a singu- 
 lar pleasure. 
 
 Turning and looking westward, they saw successive 
 ranges of wooded hills, that rose and receded in distant 
 undulations. 
 
 Field sat down with his companion to enjoy the pros- 
 pect, and neither of them noticed that the other two 
 had begun to descend. After a while he rose, walked 
 a few steps westward, and, looking down, saw Eliza 
 and her cousin far below, getting over the wall into 
 the road that leads around the base of the hill to the 
 village. 
 
 ** Come, Miss Grant," he said, returning to the place 
 where he left her. '* Come ! They have fully half a 
 mile the start of us." 
 
 He offered her his hand, but with a gesture she 
 declined it, and at the same time made a quick move- 
 ment to rise. In a moment her face became white ; 
 she groaned, but onl\- half-audibly, compressed her lips, 
 and then, staggering, sank back upon the turf, and lay 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMAxXCE 229 
 
 unconscious. Field saw that she had fainted, and knew 
 that there was no water or other restorative at hand, 
 and no house within half a mile. He was naturally in 
 a great perplexity. He looked again for Eliza and 
 Harry, and found they had turned the curve of the 
 road, and were out of sight. One of Lois's feet was 
 left exposed, and he saw a hole in her boot, made by 
 the short, sharp stub of a bush near by, on which was 
 a stain of blood. Evidently she had trodden upon this, 
 as upon a spike, and had, probably, also wrenched her 
 ankle. The sudden pain had caused a shock that ren- 
 dered her insensible. There was no time for reflection, 
 nor for dallying. He quickly bound her injured foot 
 and ankle with a handkerchief, and, taking her up care- 
 fully, carried her like a child down the long slope of 
 the pasture to the road. He never knew how he man- 
 aged to get over the wall with his burden. The burden 
 had grown momently more precious, and in all his 
 veins ''the eloquent blood told an ineffable tale." 
 
 He placed the girl upon a grassy bank at the road- 
 side and waited, hoping that some vehicle would pass 
 on its way to the village. None came, and he again 
 took her in his arms and was walking on, when she 
 opened her eyes. They were dazed with surprise, and 
 then wild with terror. '' What has happened } How 
 dare you.-^ Put me down, I say ! " 
 
 "Dear Lois," he said gently, ''you fainted from the 
 injury to your foot and ankle. There was nothing to 
 be done but bring you down the hill." 
 
 "I will walk," she said with wounded dignity. But 
 when he lowered her from his arms she could not put 
 her wounded foot to the ground, and he was obliged to 
 save her from fallimr. 
 
230 QUABBIN 
 
 " You had better sit here on the bank," he said ; 
 *' some one may come with a wagon." 
 
 He assisted her to a comfortable seat, and stood at a 
 respectful distance. Meanwhile the girl wept, — sin- 
 cere, maidenly tears ; and, between physical pain and 
 offended modesty, she sobbed like an infant. 
 
 Before long a wagon came in sight, and the girl, 
 having been lifted into it by Field, was tenderly car- 
 ried home. 
 
 The injury to the foot and ankle, though painful, was 
 not very serious, and it soon yielded to treatment ; but 
 there might be impalpable effects more lasting. 
 
 Eliza was usually amiable and sympathetic, but on 
 this occasion, after the doctor's visit, she was quite 
 acrimonious in her colloquy with her sister. Said 
 she, — 
 
 " The village people will all be talking of your acci- 
 dent, and they won't spare you." 
 
 " What can thev sav ? " 
 
 "They will hint more than they will say. They may 
 intimate that a girl might be willing to sprain her ankle, 
 just a little, to be carried in a vouno^ man's arms." 
 
 *'AVell, sister Eliza, let them say such mean things 
 rather than you." 
 
 ''I suppose," said Eliza, with a little nervous laugh, 
 ** that your hero availed himself of the proximity of a 
 pair of lips." 
 
 "Eliza Grant," said Lois with indignation, ''I 
 shouldn't answer the insinuation, for my part, but it 
 touches a man who would be too proud to defend him- 
 self, however mucli he felt liurt by it. So, let me tell 
 you that a father couldn't have been more tender to 
 his child, nor an an^-el nicer to a nun. I am ashamed 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 23 I 
 
 of you! I know no more of Mr. Field than I have seen 
 to-clay, but I think there are few men like him." 
 
 ''He has a zealous defender." 
 
 '' He needs none." 
 
 ''And why did you possess yourself of him, in place 
 of Cousin Harry } " 
 
 "You have always 'possessed yourself of Cousin 
 Harry before." 
 
 "Yes; but I might have wished to talk with the 
 schoolmaster to-day. What had you to talk about all 
 the afternoon } " 
 
 " He told me something of his past life." 
 
 "And his hopes for the future, perhaps," 
 
 " Not one v/ord." 
 
 "When a man becomes confidential as to his historv, 
 it is generally a prelude." 
 
 " To a declaration, you mean. Well, my kind sister, 
 let me tell you that no word of love, or even of friend- 
 ship, was spoken." 
 
 "Then all your arts were vain." 
 
 " I used no arts." 
 
 " O sister, you are known. You look innocent, 
 but you are sometimes ' spidery,' as I have heard you 
 confess. 
 
 " If I am ever 'spidery,' it is toward foolish creatures 
 who deserve to be caught. Mr Field would make any 
 'spider' forego her instincts, and become a vegetarian. 
 You can try him for yourself when he comes again." 
 
 "Thank you, sister; our ex{)ericnces would not be 
 equal. / wouldn't sprain my ankle, not even to be 
 carried in arms by a father, or — what was it } Oh, )'es, 
 — or an angel." 
 
 Lois turned away her head, too much annoved to 
 
232 QUABBIISr 
 
 continue the conversation. It was unusual for her sis- 
 ter to show such irritation. There was ?i possible cause, 
 but she did not like to assume it. 
 
 After the accident to the ** chunk," tongues were 
 busy and eyes were on the watch ; but Field, who had 
 learned from the doctor that the accident was slight, 
 simply left his card at the house, and then kept aloof, 
 that there might be no ground for gossip. JMr. Grant 
 was not the confidant of either daughter, and he 
 naturally w\as silent. 
 
 There are things that cannot be undone, and the 
 arms that had held Lois Grant would not forget the 
 pressure of the form they had enclosed. They had 
 held heaven for a minute ; the thrilling sensation at- 
 tested that ; whether the heart was engaged w^as another 
 matter. Field was resolute not to put himself again in 
 the way of temptation ; yet some disturbing influence 
 was all the time confusing his points of compass as he 
 walked, as if his way home were not toward his one- 
 story boarding-house, but in another direction. 
 
 Six weeks passed, and he had not called again ; Lois 
 and Eliza had counted the time. Had he been as art- 
 ful as he was guileless, he could not in any other way 
 have awakened so surely their curiosity and interest. 
 I say "their," because Eliza had proposed that when he 
 called she v,^ould looj^ a little closer at the paragon. 
 But he kept away from them, and yet made no calls 
 elsewhere ; so said the gossips, and they knew. 
 
 Three weeks passed, and there remained but one 
 more. He began his farewell calls with the minister, 
 wdio w\as very affable. Learning that his visitor had 
 some thought of studying divinity, he broke out into 
 an eloquent discourse in his finest phrases, upon the 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 233 
 
 duty and delight of serving the Master, and suggested 
 that even when the whole world had been converted, 
 and the souls of all men were kindled with divine love, 
 the enthusiastic Christians would seek for new worlds 
 to conquer, and would even try to build a railroad to 
 the fixed stars, so as to carry to the remotest bounds 
 of the universe the blessed news of Christ's redemption. 
 
 Of any practical suggestion as to the completion of 
 his studies there was not a word. With a charming 
 smile the minister bade him farewell. 
 
 After calling on Deacon Rawson and the young doc- 
 tor, who had, as he said, "• reduced the luxation of the 
 talus " on that fateful day, Field thought he must at 
 least leave a card with the Misses Grant. Much as:i- 
 tated in fact, but outwardly calm, he called, and was 
 shown in. Miss Eliza, as it happened, was out of town, 
 and Lois alone received him. A great joy and a great 
 fear fell upon him together. He seemed to float in air, 
 and words came which he had not sought ; so that his 
 manner was easily confident while his knees were shak- 
 ing, and his phrases were neatly turned while he did 
 not know what he was saying. 
 
 What he had been thinkin2^ about durinji the nine 
 weeks since he had carried that charming girl in his 
 arms he could not have told. But there were indica- 
 tions of a struggle ; his studies had been neglected ; he 
 had been moody and silent ; and his landlady had told 
 a neighbor that he had become ''amazin' differkilt abaout 
 his vittles." But now he thought he was calm. On 
 one point he was immovably determined, and that was 
 not to approach her, but to leave an ample cool space 
 of air between her sphere and his own. Moreover, he 
 would not speak to her except in the ordinary language 
 
234 QUABBIN 
 
 of civility. There was but the slightest reference to 
 the incident that for half an hour brought them so near 
 together. He was nervous, like most persons acting a 
 part, but carried himself fairly well. She had half ex- 
 pected some tender words, and wondered at his indif- 
 ference or sincfular self-command. Their conversation 
 was void of all interest, mere banality ; yet both were 
 giddy with excitement. He saw that the scene was 
 becoming painful, and rose to take leave ; and she, 
 stepping frankly forward, held out her hand. As he 
 took it, their eyes met ; and in an instant — neither 
 could tell how it happened — in an instant her head was 
 against his breast, and his arms were arovmd her neck. 
 The movement was not consciously his. 
 
 Then, with a sudden effort, and with something like 
 the cry of a lost soul, — if souls ever cry audibly, — he 
 seized her hand, kissed it passionately, tore away from 
 her, while a flood of tears came from his eyes, and left 
 the house. 
 
 He was gone ; he had not uttered a word of love, 
 and he had not kissed her lips or cheeks. He was a 
 more inscrutable problem than ever. 
 
 Herman Field should have returned to college, but a 
 new resolution seized him. He packed his trunk to be 
 forwarded, and, with a light hand-bag, set out on foot 
 northward on the very evening of the close of his 
 school. He was, like Bunyan's Pilgrim, in haste to 
 leave the City of Destruction. Nothing could detain 
 him. He walked till midnight, and slept in a barn, 
 then breakfasted at a farmhouse, and went on. So for 
 two or tliree days he pushed forward, until he came 
 upon a route where stage-coaches passed ; and by that 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROM A ATE 235 
 
 line he was carried within a few miles of his father's 
 house. 
 
 How he was received by the family, of which he was 
 the idol and the hope, need not be told. After the 
 embraces and the kindly inquiries that follow long 
 absences, Mrs. Field said, — 
 
 "Herman, we've some ruther bad news. I'm 'feared 
 Uncle Parkman won't help ye no more, 'thout yeou 
 make up yeour mind ter preach the gospel." 
 
 "Why, what's started him in that direction }'' 
 
 "Ther' was a 'vangelist come along, an' got a-hold of 
 him, an' told him thet all his monev b'lons^ed ter the 
 Lord, an' thet he (uncle) was on'y the steward ; an' thet 
 ter help edicate a lawyer or doctor was wastin' the Lord's 
 treasure. The end on't was, he made uncle promise 
 thet ef you didn't 'gree to preach, the money should go 
 ter him (the 'v^angelist) fer some young man he knows." 
 
 *' As well as he knows himself, I suppose. Well, 
 dear mother, don't be troubled ; I've had three years in 
 college, and that I am sure of. If I don't get any 
 more, I must try to do the best with the education I 
 have. W^e won't trouble Uncle Parkman. But I say, 
 mother, where's Susy V 
 
 " Wal, Herman, 30U wasn't to know abaout it, but 
 I s'posc it '11 hev ter come aout. She's ben over to 
 Burlin'ton." 
 
 "In Burlington } What is she there for } " 
 
 " Goin' tu school. She said she couldn't abcar to 
 hev the edication all on one side o' the haouse ; so she 
 went over ther' jest arter you went away. She has 
 come home now an' then, but she's ben tu school most 
 a year." 
 
 " And when is she comincr home .-* " 
 
236 QUABBIN' 
 
 " The school was shct abaout a month ago, but she 
 wanted to stay a Icctle longer fer her music ; an' this 
 last month she's ben doin' nothin' but play the pianner. 
 Her mother's to git one fer her." 
 
 "Mrs. Gilbert buying a piano for Susy! why, it's 
 fairly snowing and hailing wonders ! But you don't 
 say when she is coming." 
 
 "No; wal, it's naow 'baout five o'clock, an' I sh'd 
 think yeour father 'd naterally git here by six." 
 
 " And father has gone for her .''" 
 
 " Yis, with Mis' Gilbert's wag'n, foraourn ain't a very 
 good-goin' concern." 
 
 That was the longest hour Herman Field ever spent. 
 He almost counted the. minutes. 
 
 At length the wagon-wheels were heard ; and he 
 rushed out of the house, hatless, and met the party on 
 the green plat in front. There was a quick "Hullo, 
 dad !" and then Susy was helped, or rather lifted, out. 
 The greeting for the " dad " would keep. He held the 
 rather frightened girl in his arms, she wondering at his 
 impetuosity, and gave her uncounted kisses. Then he 
 held her at arm's length, and looked at her. Then he 
 took her again in his arms and kissed her. 
 
 " I'm fairly 'shamed o' yeou, Herman," said his 
 mother. " Du let the gal git her breath. Yeou tumble 
 her abaout jest 's ef she was a cosset lamb." 
 
 " Absence makes the heart grow fonder," thought 
 Susy, as she shook herself free from her lover's bois- 
 terous caresses. Evidently he had not been flirting 
 with girls down in Massachusetts, but had kept her 
 image always bright in his heart. 
 
 The end of this little romance is reached. Susy Gil- 
 bert had grown up to be one of the brightest and 
 
MIGHT HAVE BEEN A ROMANCE 237 
 
 sweetest of women, even in silent comparison with a 
 nameless person in Quabbin ; and she had developed 
 tastes and aptitudes which were to make her the com- 
 panion and the pride of an educated man. She had 
 been under refining influences at Burlington ; and she 
 was to return for six months or a year to continue her 
 studies. 
 
 Field taught the district school for the ensuing win- 
 ter, and later, having a solid knowledge of mathematics, 
 fitted himself to become a civil engineer. Uncle Park- 
 man's money went off by the hands of the evangelist ; 
 also various earrings, brooches, and finger-rings, con- 
 tributed in a moment of religious frenzy by admirers at 
 a farewell meeting. Mrs. Field said of the evangelist, 
 that "she didn't know rightly about his convarting sin- 
 ners so's ter hev 'em stay convarted, but he was a 
 master hand for preachin' jewlry off'm saints," 
 
 Field continued his membership in the church, but 
 never regretted the choice he had made of a profession, 
 nor his hurried departure from Quabbin. 
 
238 QUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE CIDER-MILL 
 
 Abijah Crombie's cidcr-mill was somewhat off the 
 main road, upon a bank that sloped toward the river. 
 The outlook from the front of the mill in early autumn 
 was delightful to those who can see beauty in simple 
 things. There was a broad meadow with natural ine- 
 qualities, never tormented by cultivation, covered with 
 a second growth of thick, dark grass, flecked with white 
 and golden blossoms, and dotted with tall plants resem- 
 bling spirea, but classed ignominioasly with ''weeds." 
 Along the farther margin was the familiar ragged 
 fringe of alders, through which was seen at intervals 
 the shining blue-black surface of the river, placid at 
 this point, and lazily moving in dim wrinkles and swirls. 
 So inky was the water one could hardly imagine it to 
 be the same stream which whitened over the dam, and 
 played with the brown and yellow stones in the rapids 
 near the village. 
 
 The narrow lane which passed the cider-mill led 
 down to a wooden bridge that spanned the river, — 
 a skeleton bridge made by some carpenter unskilled in 
 geometry, a bridge which confounded lines, whether 
 parallels or perpendiculars, and which appeared to have 
 crouched on all fours, so as to let the cattle cross on its 
 back to the hill pastures opposite, on the side of Great 
 Ouabbin. 
 
THE CIDER-MILL 239 
 
 The lane was bordered by zigzag fences, in the cor- 
 ners of which were brambles, plumes of golden-rod, 
 pink spikes of hardback, burdocks, with leaves like 
 elephant's ears, and all sorts of useless luxuriance. 
 Leaves were beginning to fall, and the lane seemed to 
 have been carpeted with stuffs from Persian looms for 
 the cows to walk over. 
 
 On account of its situation upon the slope, the mill 
 had two stories in front, and one in the rear. Carts were 
 driven in from the lane to unload apples at the upper 
 level, and then taken around to receive barrels of 
 cider at the lower. The mill might have been called 
 a shed without hurting anybody's feelings. Many of 
 the sheathing boards and shingles were split, or warped, 
 or loose ; and little of a burglar's art would have been 
 required to open the rickety doors, fastened by wooden 
 latches and pins. The building had never been painted, 
 and its rough sides had the tone of soft gray, which is 
 so pleasing in pictures, and so melancholy in fact. 
 
 The upper story was a receptacle for apples, from 
 whence they were poured through an inclining trough 
 into the grinding-mill below. The visitor who entered 
 upon the lower level saw a pair of upright wooden 
 cylinders, placed near together, and revolving in oppo- 
 site directions, so as to crush the apples drawn in be- 
 tween them. Teeth upon one cylinder fitted into holes 
 in the other, to facilitate the crushing. The power 
 was supplied by a horse travelling in a small circle, 
 and moving the lever which turned the motor-wheel. 
 The machinery was of the rudest sort, wholly of wood, 
 but easily managed, and efficient. Tlic pomace fell 
 into a large shallow vat (presumably clean), and was 
 scooped out by wooden shovels when a form was made 
 
240 QUABBIN 
 
 up to be pressed. The form was simply arranged. A 
 sheaf of clean straw was spread out evenly upon a 
 platform, which was grooved with channels, and placed 
 directly beneath a large perpendicular screw depending 
 from a solid frame. Upon the layer of straw the 
 pomace was spread like a boy's jam ; that is to say, 
 considerably more jam than bread. Then a second 
 even layer was spread at light angles to the first ; then 
 more pomace and more straw, until the pile reached a 
 height of two or three feet. A coping board was 
 placed upon the top, and blocks were laid upon it. 
 Then the great screw was turned with long wooden 
 levers, and brought down upon the blocks, very gently 
 at first, so that the pile might retain its consistency, 
 then harder, until the last drops of juice had trickled 
 out. 
 
 If the apples were carefully picked over, excluding 
 those that were rotten or wormy ; if all parts of the 
 mill, including cylinders, channels, vats, shovels, and 
 straw, were scrupulously clean ; and if the barrels were 
 well-seasoned and sweet, the cider was certain to be 
 pure and palatable. There were many ifs. 
 
 Two boys, twelve and fourteen years of age respect- 
 ively, who had been fishing at the bridge, and were 
 carrying home a pickerel and a horn pout, lingered at 
 the mill to get a sip of the cider, and to watch the oper- 
 ations. All boys were delighted to suck the running 
 juice with straws. They were not too dainty as to the 
 cleanliness of the process, nor could they often be 
 deterred by mischievous suggestions as to the flavor of 
 wormy fruit. Of course the fluid was not intoxicating, 
 but when taken too freely it was apt to work them woe. 
 
 Mr. Crombie's hired man, known to everybody by 
 
THE CIDER-MILL. 24 1 
 
 the name of Dick, was turning the screw by means of 
 a stout hickory lever ; and his puffy good-humored face, 
 of a uniform pink, was overspread with a gently oozing 
 perspiration. He knew the boys well, and their rela- 
 tions with him were of the most friendly sort. 
 
 *' I thank you very much for the neck-ribbon," said 
 the elder boy to Dick ; " I wore it at the examination, 
 and I shall keep it for Sundays." 
 
 '''Twan't nothinV' said Dick, "but you know I alius 
 liked yeour father, an' I wanted yeou ter look ez 
 smart's any o' the boys. A bit o' black ribbin don't 
 cost much, an' I hev it in my heart ter du a good deal 
 more fer ye, ef I could. Jes' be easy on the cider, 
 'Ratio," addressing the younger lad. "Mr. Crombie 
 don't mind the vally on't, ef he is close, but I don't 
 wanter see ye doubled up, ez ef ye was a worm on a 
 fishhook. Don't take no more'n six or eight leetle 
 sucks, an' then wait a spell, so's ter see ef it ain't goin' 
 to give yeour innards a twist." 
 
 " Why does the minister say folks oughtn't to drink 
 cider .'^ " asked Horatio. "It doesn't make boys cross, 
 nor their noses red." 
 
 "Boys drink it sweet, afore it's worked," answered 
 Dick. "Yeou boys may git a stummick-ache, but, till 
 the cider's worked, it hain't no stingo." 
 
 "What's ' stingo ' .? " 
 
 " Stingo's sperrit ; sunthin' like rum. Arter cider 
 gits old an' hard, it makes folks drunk, an' it makes 
 'em bad-tempered tu." 
 
 " How does apple-juice get spirit in it .^ " asked Eli, 
 the elder boy. 
 
 " Jes' by fermentin' ; it's changed somehaow." 
 
 " Couldn't the fermenting be stopped } " 
 
242 QUABBIN 
 
 ** Not altogether ; but ef ye put a pint o' mustard 
 seed in the barril, an' liang in the buni;--hole a string 
 'ith bits o' isinglass, an' then bung it up tight, 'twill be 
 clear in twenty or thirty days, an' 'twon't hev tu much 
 stingo. But, Eli," continued Dick, ''don't yeou never 
 drink no hard cider, nor nuthin' thet hez sperrit in't. 
 Take warnin' from me. I was 'counted a smart boy, 
 an' I might 'a' been a smart man, an' hed a fam'ly o' 
 my own. An' yeou see what I am naow. Everybody 
 calls me Dick the drunkard. Don't yeou never du's 
 I've done." 
 
 Eli was touched by this sudden outburst, and asked 
 sympathetically, " Couldn't you leave off 1 You are 
 not old, and you might have a chance yet." 
 
 Dick mournfully shook his head, and wiped his eves 
 with his shirt sleeve. '' No, 'tain't no use," he said ; 
 '* I can't du it. I've tried often 'nough. I alius say 
 arter I've hed a spree, thet it's the last one ; but when 
 I'm well over it the thirst comes, an' I can't stan' it. 
 Folks think I've got no feelin's, but /know. I see ye, 
 Eli, when I was ter the butcher's t'other day, and the 
 boys hed put my heel in the hook o' the iron chain, 
 and then wanted ter turn the windlass so's to pull me 
 up like a dead critter, 'ith my hed hangin' daown ; I 
 see ye, Eli, an' yeou wouldn't let 'em pull me up, an' 
 yeou made 'em leave me 'lone in the chair till I hed my 
 sleep. I see ye, an' I hain't forgot it, an' never shell. 
 But don't du ez I've done. Tell your pa what I've told 
 ye. HcW know why I take some int'rest an' pride in 
 his boys." 
 
 Dick went on with his work, shovelling out pomace, 
 building it up in square heaps with layers of straw, and 
 turning the screw with brawny arms. But he said no 
 
THE CIDER-MILL. 243 
 
 more. He looked unutterable things, and wiped his 
 red eyes. 
 
 The two boys took their fish and poles and left him. 
 They stopped at the rear of the mill where many heaps 
 of apples lay on the grass, and then looked in at the 
 upper story to see Mr. Crombie put apples in the 
 trough that led down to the works. 
 
 '' Lemme see," said Mr. Crombie, '^yeou're Eli an' 
 'Ratio, the carpenter's boys, ain't ye.-* Air ye goin' 
 ter skule .'* " 
 
 Eli answered that they had been attending Mr. 
 Field's select school, but that the term was just over. 
 
 " Yeou talk pooty wal ; what hev yeou ben a 
 study in' t " 
 
 "Arithmetic, geography, and Latin grammar." 
 
 " Yeou've ben a-studyin' Latin } What air yeou 
 'xpectin' ter du or ter be } " 
 
 " I don't know. I mean to learn all I can." 
 
 "Wal, it's curus what notions boys takes. Ef 
 yeou're a good boy, yeou '11 help yeour father when 
 yeou're big enough ; an' ef yeou du, yeou won't have 
 any yeuse fer Latin. But I don't want ter discoura^-e 
 any boy : I hain't hed any larnin', an' 'sted o' studvin' 
 books, I mostly study human nater, — an' here ez wal 
 ez anywhere. Li any o' them piles of apples I kin see 
 the nater o' the man thet raised 'em, an' o' his father 
 thet set aout the trees. This one is shif'less an' poor; 
 thet one is forehanded an' stiddy. This one goes ter 
 meetin' an' fears God ; thet one is wicked or keerless." 
 
 " And do vou know, then, whose thcv all are } " 
 
 "Oh, yis ; I could a'most tell 'em by feelin' on 'em 
 'ith my eyes shet." He went on, "Thet air ]:)ilo, ye 
 see, is full o' leaves an' bits o' leetle sticks. An' vc 
 
244 QUABBIN 
 
 see the apples is bruised. Them hev ben knocked off 
 the trees by pesky lazy boys, an' raked up, leaves an' 
 all ; 'stid o' shakin' 'em off properly, an' pickin' up one 
 ter time. They air Josh Aldrich's apples. That's the 
 way he an' his boys du. Them red-streaks is Newman's. 
 They're soft, an' orter a ben picked keerful. They air 
 part bruised an' part rotten. Folks says rotten apples 
 make good cider, but 'tain't so ; the rotten taste goes 
 clean thru it. 
 
 ''Them leetle gnurly ones 'ith o'ny one cheek air 
 Sherman's. 'Pears like they're goin' back ter wild 
 apples. The trees air old, an' air run ter shoots an' 
 suckers. They air tu fer gone ever to bear anythin' 
 decent. But though them leetle, one-sided apples air 
 sour 'nough to make a pig squeal, I'd ruther hev 'em 
 for cider than better apples thet is part rotten. 
 
 ''Them green pippins ther' is Chandler's. He's hed 
 all his trees grafted. They're good, but I shouldn't 
 fancy hevin' all one kind. 
 
 "Thet pooty pile layin' on a blanket is the Widder 
 Howson's. She's nice, she is, an' won't hev no cider 
 thet ain't ez clean ez a cup of her own tea. Them 
 apples is all picked over an' washed an' wiped. Ef she 
 was goin' to make a pie or a puddin', she wouldn't a' 
 taken more pains. When she gits her cider she knows 
 what she's drinkin'. 
 
 " An' look at thet mons'ous big pile, all sorts, yal- 
 ler, green, an' red. Them b'longs ter Lijah Hanks. 
 He'll hev ten or fifteen barrils." 
 
 " P'r'aps he'll sell some," suggested the boy. 
 
 " Not he. It takes a lot o' cider to last him, even ef 
 he doos put red pepper in't." 
 
 " You said that the trees which bore those little 
 
THE CIDER-MILL 245 
 
 apples were top far gone to be good for anything ; now, 
 if the man that raised them should be a steady man 
 and go to the meeting, would his apples be any better? " 
 
 *' Not till he hed better trees. But cf he was the 
 right kind o' man all thru, he'd either hcv new trees, 
 or graff the old ones, or sunthiii ^ 
 
 " Do you charge so much a barrel for making cider 
 of people's apples ? " asked Eli, '' or do you exchange, 
 taking so many bushels for a barrel ? " 
 
 '' Sometimes one way, sometimes t'other ; an' some- 
 times a man pays me so much a day for the use o' the 
 mill. Most folks, wlio wanter know what they're goin' 
 ter git, hev their own apples (which they've gathered 
 an' picked over) made inter cider, arter hevin' the mill 
 washed." 
 
 The ingenuous faces of the boys impressed Mr. 
 Crombie, and he evidently wished to efface the harsh- 
 ness of his comment upon the study of Latin. '' I don't 
 want ve ter think I'm as:' in larnin' ; an' thous^h I can't 
 see the good o' Latin, I'm alius glad ter see boys trvin' 
 ter be well eddicated, an' ter raise 'emselves. On'y, 
 alius remember thet the fear o' the Lord is the begin- 
 nin' o' wisdom ; an' don't ye never let anythin' come 
 at ween yeou an' the faith o' yeour fathers." 
 
 This earnestness touched the boy, quite as much as 
 had the tender words of poor Dick. He had not real- 
 ized how the hearts of right-minded people go out in 
 sympathy with a youth who aims at qualifying himself 
 for some honorable career. He had begun to see a 
 vista opening before him, and looked forward to be- 
 coming a disciple of the great and wise. The influence 
 of Mr. Field had been stimulating and helpful. He 
 was moved by vague presentiments, and there came a 
 
246 QUABBIN 
 
 sense of uplifting by some power not his own. His 
 outward appearance gave little indication of the dreamy, 
 soaring mind. His face was striking only for the large 
 and lustrous eyes, and for the shock of bushy hair. 
 His clothes were poor, and evidently often mended, 
 and his feet were bare. He was healthy and solid, but 
 evidently knew nothing of the requirements of the 
 toilet, nor of the manners of society. He was as simple 
 and natural as a savage. 
 
 He had taken the first step in a road that was to lead 
 him far from the life of Ouabbin. Would he ever for- 
 get how he looked in his patched suit, barefoot, and 
 dangling a couple of fish ? 
 
 " Wait, Horatio," he said to his brother. " Wait a 
 minute." He ran quickly to the lower story where 
 Dick was at work. ** Dick," said he in a gentle tone, 
 " if you're ever in want of anything, come to our house. 
 Mother '11 be good to you ; and you needn't think that 
 nobody cares for you. It made me ache to hear you 
 talk. There are some who care for you, a great deal." 
 
 He did not wait for an answer, but ran back to join 
 his brother. '' I wish that neck-ribbin could a' ben 
 made o' gold an' di'monds," thought Dick. 
 
AN EXIT 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 AN EXIT 
 
 The third minister's orbit was not of great extent. 
 His period near the sun of favor was short, and he 
 soon entered upon the long curve which led through 
 cold and gloom. 
 
 People began to wonder what they had admired in 
 him, or in his preaching. No one was willing to admit 
 that he had actively favored settling him. The general 
 expression was, '' I never was, myself , so much carried 
 away by his elerkence, but ez everybody else seemed ter 
 be pleased, I thought 'twas my dewty to jine in." We 
 have seen what were the deacons' opinions. Mr. Grant 
 did not say much, but behind his gold spectacles there 
 was a deal of thinking, and his manner to the minister 
 was seen to be ** offish." 
 
 Certain young fellows learned the trick of pulpit 
 rhetoric, and used to imitate the minister's 2:litterin2: 
 sentences and high-pitched voice. He was discussed 
 at the counting-room, the post-office, the stores, and the 
 shoemaker's shop. The talk over the lapstone was 
 especially damnatory, llie new doctor took him up, 
 and called him sophomorical ; and as people did not 
 know what that meant, and the doctor was '* a college- 
 larnt man," it was supposed to be something very 
 bad. 
 
24S QUABB/N' 
 
 No one could say that the formah'ties of duty were 
 not observed. The sermons were of ortliodox length, 
 apd earnestly delivered. Fresh texts were brought out 
 ever)' Sunday ; but after a few sentences the discourse 
 somehow fell into old ruts of thought, and observant 
 hearers soon perceived that in any half-dozen Sundays 
 he went over all the solid parts of his repertory. 
 
 " When sh'U we hev any revivle o' religion ? " 
 
 " When 'II come forrard the young to fill aour 
 places ? " 
 
 "When '11 ther be a-movin' 'mong the dry bones o* 
 the church ? '* 
 
 " Ther's sermons thet's all glitter, like a heap of 
 icicles." 
 
 " Ther's talk thet hain't any life-givin' paower in't, 
 more'n a Jinnuary moon 'd hev on a growin' punkin- 
 vme. 
 
 Such were the current comments ; but most people 
 were backward when a movement was proposed. Min- 
 isters were formerly settled for life, and the feeling was 
 still strong that an incumbent had rights which were 
 sacred. In the event of the minister's being dismissed 
 against his will, it was felt that he would be entitled to 
 compensation which might burden the parish. 
 
 One day the whole town was startled by the report 
 that a special meeting had been called to take action in 
 regard to sundering the relation between the parish and 
 the minister. In the village there was a general sense 
 of relief ; but, when the meeting was held, it was found 
 that the " otherwise minded " were out in full force, and 
 were bent on mischief. They cared nothing for the 
 interests of religion ; their only motive was to cross the 
 leaders of the church and parish. 
 
AN EXIT 249 
 
 Deacon Rawson stated the case for the church, and 
 was discreet enough to state it mildly, and without any 
 harsh words about the minister. There was no one 
 among the dissentients who could speak with any effect, 
 but they made plenty of noise in interruptions, and were 
 ready to vote as one man. They seldom came to meet- 
 ing, and their contributions counted very little in the 
 parish treasury. 
 
 After some skirmishing, Mr. Grant got the floor, and, 
 addressing the moderator, said, in substance, — 
 
 "It does me good to be present at this large meeting 
 of the parishioners of Ouabbin. It is a good sign 
 when upon a matter of general concern there is such 
 an unusual turn-out. Our friends from the remote parts 
 of the town have left their farms and their workshops, 
 and have come to give us their counsel in the matter 
 which has called us together. I am glad to see this 
 wide-spread interest, especially on the part of those who 
 come in all weathers to meeting, and pay so liberally 
 for the support of the gospel. You all know who they 
 are. Their zeal and good works are known to all men. 
 They are those who strongly upheld the fearless course 
 of our former minister. Now, if they were laggards in 
 God's service ; if they remained at home, or ran after 
 new lights, or helped the Methodists ; if they had no 
 heart in sustaining this church, and the doctrines and 
 traditions of the fathers ; if they were loose in life, or 
 irreligious at heart, we should consider it a little out of 
 place, r. little indelicate perhaps, to come here to take 
 part in a matter in which the\- could ha\-e no real con- 
 cern : we should say they ought to leave the choice of 
 a minister to those who habitually go to hear one. and 
 not to interfere, for motix'cs which it would be improper 
 
250 QUABBIN 
 
 for me to state In plain words. But as they are known 
 to have a deep interest in this church, we shall be glad 
 to know what they have to say for its good." (Mr. 
 Grant had a slight Yankee accent, but not enough to 
 justify a change in spelling.) 
 
 Said the moderator, ** Is the gentleman thru .'' Sup- 
 posin' that he would conclude his speech with a motion 
 he was 'lowed to go on. Ez he didn't make one, he 
 was aout of order. There is no motion afore the 
 meetin'." 
 
 Deacon Rawson then moved to pass the resolution 
 embodied in the call for the meeting. 
 
 The ironical gibes of Mr. Grant had only the usual 
 effect, namely, to harden the temper of the opposition ; 
 but none of the party could make an effective reply, and 
 they took their punishment in silence. 
 
 One speaker favored the minister because he did not 
 read written sermons; he had no patience with "eler- 
 kence studied out aforehand." He thought that when 
 a preacher's mouth was opened, he would be told by the 
 Holy Ghost what to say. 
 
 Deacon Dodge asked the last speaker if he thought 
 the days of miracles would come back. If so, they 
 might look for the gift of tongues, the healing of the 
 sick, and the raising of the dead ; as none of those 
 things were more supernatural than the power of 
 preaching without study. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Grant and a friend had made a count, 
 and had satisfied themselves that, in spite of the noisy 
 demonstration at the back of tlie hall, the meeting was 
 controlled by the friends of the church. 
 
 Having allowed ample time for all to express their 
 views, Deacon Rawson moved that the main question 
 
AN EXIT 251 
 
 be now put, which was carried. The moderator then 
 stated the question, which was to the effect that the 
 parish officers be authorized and directed to confer with 
 the church and with the minister, witli the view of 
 bringing about an amicable separation ; and he added, 
 *' This meetin' hez ordered thet the main question be 
 naow put, and this isn't open ter 'mendment ner debate. 
 The thing is to vote yea or nay on this ere resolution. 
 Ef the yeas hev it, ther's an end of the business. Ef 
 the nays hev it, then the way is open ter perpose sun- 
 thin' else." 
 
 The yeas were called for, and the hands were eagerly 
 counted ; then the otherwise minded made their show, 
 and were clearly in the minority. 
 
 The church was almost unanimous for the change. 
 At the conference, the minister said that the proposal 
 was an injury to his reputation and to his feelings ; that 
 he had hoped and expected to pass the remainder of 
 his days among brethren who had received him so 
 warmly, and whom he still loved. He enlarged upon 
 his success in preaching, and hinted at the lustre 
 thereby reflected upon the church ; and he wished to 
 know in what he had come short of any just ex- 
 pectation .<* 
 
 Deacon Rawson, speaking for the church, declined 
 to be drawn into a discussion, which was sure to be 
 unpleasant, and could serve no good purpose, and said 
 the case for the church and parish would be laid before 
 the ecclesiastical council. 
 
 Certain churches wbre thereupon invited to send 
 each its pastor and a lay delegate on a day named. 
 When the council assembled, the minister asked to be 
 represented by a brothci in the Lord, the Rev. Dr. 
 
252 QUADBIN 
 
 Windust, who had come a long distance for the purpos^^ 
 of stating his case. 
 
 It was a very unusual proceeding, and was unfair, as 
 the church and parish had no counsel ; but the great 
 name of the reverend doctor overawed the simple- 
 minded brothers. Within an hour Deacon Rawson 
 saw how matters were going, and whispered to Deacon 
 Holyoke, *' We hedn't orter let him in. He's a-goin' 
 to twist the caouncil 'baout his leetle fino^er. He's cfoin' 
 in for big damigcs, and poor ol' Ouabbin 'U hcv to 
 sweat." 
 
 It was even so. The doctor of divinity had a con- 
 summate knowledge of the world, plenty of " cheek," 
 and talent for pushing ; and he shoved this way and 
 that among the innocent people he had to deal with, 
 until he became as supreme as the Pope. 
 
 It was admitted on both sides that the minister raust 
 go, since the breach was irreparable ; the only question 
 was as to compensation. On this point the " brother 
 in the Lord " developed as much ingenuity and force 
 as would have done credit to a leader of the metropoli- 
 tan bar. He flattered the ministers, and put to them 
 the arguuicntiim ad Jiomincm : — as much as to say, 
 " How would you like it yourselves .-^ " He smoothed 
 the lay delegates as if they had been tabbies. He 
 poked fun at the deacons of Ouabbin, and stigmatized 
 that poor village as purse-proud and pretentious. And 
 when he came to tell the minister's story, that gentle- 
 man drew out a great silk handkerchief, blew his nose, 
 and wept. I'he reverend orator went on, momently 
 scaling new rhetorical heights, and likened his friend 
 and client to Cicero, Massillon, Jeremy Taylor, White- 
 field, and other celebrities. He talked long and well, 
 
AA^ EXIT 253 
 
 but his matter was nearly exhausted, when, upon a 
 nudge and a whisper from his heart-broken client, he 
 made a fresh start. He began to tell the council of 
 the minister's wonderful outbursts of eloquence, and 
 said it would be with sincere diffidence that he should 
 repeat even a sentence, as it might be spoiled from 
 want of memory or skill on the part of the humble 
 narrator ; but he would try. And he did try. On 
 account of its novelty the passage is herewith trans- 
 cribed.^ 
 
 *'The future glories of Christianity and the high des- 
 tinies of the human race appeal with gigantic power to 
 the hearts of all enthusiastic disciples. With prophetic 
 eve I see the lono- o'enerations of men of all nations 
 winding over Syrian sands on their pilgrimage to the 
 haunts in Palestine that were hallowed by the feet of 
 the Son of man. The lonsr strife with sin and evil is 
 coming finally to an end. Pope and patriarch throw 
 down their tiaras, cardinals strip off the scarlet livery 
 of the mistress of the seven hills. The Chinese re- 
 nounce Confucius. The Indian hermit arises from the 
 life-long contemplation of the mystery of existence as 
 shown in his ovvn umbilical excision. 
 
 "The Polynesian abstains from human flesh, and 
 breaks bread under a missionary's roof. The crescents 
 of thousands of mosques are made into sickles to reap 
 the harvests of the world ; while sultans emancipate 
 the inmates of their seraglios. Then, when the gospel- 
 car has rolled triumphantly through every land ; when 
 
 i The transcriber obviously shows some disposition to burlesque; but though 
 some passages of the speech may have been tampered with, there will be no doubt 
 of the genuineness of the conclusion. 
 
254 QUABBIN 
 
 every ship carries a white flag at her mast-head, and a 
 Sunday-school in her forecastle ; when the Esquimaux 
 shall have set up chapels, and raised the gospel banner 
 at the North Tolc, — then, my brethren, perhaps you 
 suppose there will be nothing left for Christians to do ! 
 Far from that ! The fiery zeal of the faithful must 
 then have some other outlet ; and they will even try 
 to build a railroad to the fixed stars, so as to carry to 
 the remotest bounds of the universe the glad news of 
 salvation." 
 
 *' Was not that a sublime conception ? " demanded 
 the reverend orator. Here Deacon Rawson tried to 
 say that the people of Ouabbin had heard about noth- 
 ing else but that railroad for some years ; but he was 
 no match for the pertinacious brother in the Lord, and 
 could not get in a word edgewise. 
 
 Doctor Windust concluded by suggesting that the 
 damages be fixed at five thousand dollars. The minis- 
 ter was still weeping, or at least his face was covered 
 by his ample handkerchief. 
 
 Deacon Rawson said the sum named was monstrous ; 
 that ''the perrish couldn't raise no sech pile o' money;" 
 that they "couldn't squeeze blood aout of a turnip." 
 He and his colleague were very earnest, and showed by 
 the tax-lists that the payment of even half that sum 
 would make it difficult to maintain the regular preach- 
 ing for the next two years. 
 
 The parties retired, and the council deliberated. 
 When the doors were opened it was announced that the 
 council recommended the dissolution of the pastoral 
 relation, and that the minister should have a solatium 
 of three thousand dollars. 
 
AN EXIT 255 
 
 Then was seen an affecting tableaii in two parts. 
 I. The minister and the Rev. Doctor embracino; with 
 ears of joy. II. Deacon Rawson and his colleague 
 with countenances expressive of disgust. 
 
 Said the deacon, " I s'pose we sh'll hev to du it. We 
 kin borrer the money, an' p'r'aps we kin pay it up in 
 four or five year." 
 
 And so disappeared the third minister. 
 
256 QUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ROBERT IV 
 
 The fourth minister was one to whom in after times 
 all goodness and graciousness were ascribed. To those 
 who best knew him he was almost an ideal pastor, yet, 
 like many a blessing, he appeared more lustrous in the 
 after-glow of memory. The wonder was how a man of 
 such ability, learning, and character contented himself 
 with the prosaic society and often thankless labor that 
 awaited a minister in Ouabbin. It must have been a 
 high sense of duty that led and kept him there; for he 
 was the equal in intellectual force of the foremost 
 orthodox preachers of his time. 
 
 He was born in New England, the son of a Scotch 
 clergyman. His accent was purely English; his unas- 
 suming manners were those of the best society ; while 
 his firm character, no less than his name, recalled his 
 origin. His countenance and voice were impressive, 
 although a careful description would not require any 
 unusual adjectives ; for what was striking and memora- 
 ble in him was the vague something which eludes de- 
 scription. He was rather alcove medium height, solid 
 but spare in figure, witli a large and finely modelled 
 head; regular features, a dull yellowish (but not un- 
 wholesome) complexion, and steady gray eyes. The 
 shirt collars of that time were high and projecting, 
 
ROBERT IV 257 
 
 and his broad and bluish chin was sunk between, two 
 curving supports of starched linen, while the soft wdiite 
 neckcloth below was a mass of wrinkled folds. 
 
 But when he spoke he touched a sensor ium behind 
 the organs of hearing, and then no one thought of the 
 high-curving collar-points, the much-swathed neck, or 
 the pale, lemon-tinted skin. For there was something 
 in his penetrating yet kindly look, and in the rich tones 
 of his voice, which awakened instant attention, and 
 won the homage of every auditor. At certain times 
 his face became more than beautiful, — since beauty, 
 power, and tenderness were mingled, — drawing the 
 hearts of hearers in sympathy, while at the same time 
 reason and conscience felt the imperious summons to 
 surrender. 
 
 Such effects of soul in the human countenance recall 
 the pictures of legendary saints, wherein the attempts 
 of the masters to portray a spiritual illumination have 
 led to preternatural high lights and emblematic haloes. 
 No one in after years ever thought of that man in the 
 pulpit, with the deep crimson drapery behind him, 
 except with a beam of light touching his noble fore- 
 head, and his features eloquent with divine love. 
 
 The sermons of the good Robert IV. were direct 
 and practical. Necessarily they were doctrinal, for he 
 was wholly a Calvin ist ; but the doctrine was the spirit 
 of the sermons, and seldom their subject. They were 
 never rhetorical, in the sinister sense of the word, but 
 in stvlc they were without fault ; for the minister was 
 a scholar, and wrote with a purit\- and ease that had 
 become instinctive. There was manv a fine touch for 
 an educated ear, but in substance there was nothing 
 above the ordinary comprehension. All classes of 
 
258 QUABBm 
 
 hearers were reached, yet very few knew to what per- 
 fect English they were listening. But as few people 
 anywhere know the rarity of pure, fresh, and idiomatic 
 style, the imperfect perception of the dwellers in Ouab- 
 bin is not a matter of serious reproach. 
 
 The minister was learned in theology, as far as con- 
 cerned the affirmation and defence of the doirmas he 
 held ; but neither he nor any man of his order had, up 
 to that time, made any serious study of doubts or 
 denials. The usual way was to set up an imaginary 
 adversary on an impossible basis, and then easily bowl 
 him down. Modern inquiry had scarcely begun upon 
 the character and history of the sacred books ; and the 
 plenary inspiration of Scripture in every chapter and 
 verse was never questioned. Nor was ''the endless 
 punishment of the finally impenitent " ever doubted, 
 except by Universalists, Unitarians, and other infidels. 
 The upheaval of conscience in the Orthodox Church 
 against that terrible doctrine had not then begun ; so 
 that, although the minister seldom ventured to draw 
 those baleful pictures of the wrath of God with which 
 Jonathan Edwards shocked the Connecticut Valley, yet 
 in every discourse and prayer, the ''fearful looking-for 
 of judgment and fiery indignation " was the thing un- 
 derstood as being the background and alternative. He 
 aimed to j^ersuade, and to lead by tender appeals ; but 
 every soul knew that the " terrors " lurked behind like 
 menacing spectres. 
 
 He had been distinguished in scholarship while at 
 college, and afterward as an instructor ; but it may be 
 doubted whether he esteemed classical studies and 
 English literature as more tlian means of mental train- 
 ing and temporary recreation. If he had felt the 
 
ROBERT IV 259 
 
 abounding joy which fills the heart of an earnest and 
 accomplished scholar, something of it should have 
 overflowed ; and there were youths hungering for 
 knowledge, who followed all his utterances. As, in 
 the feeling of the time, the whole of this mortal life 
 was none too long as a preparation for an endless 
 future existence, all studies and recreations which had 
 no bearing upon *' the one thing needful " were lightly 
 regarded, or thrust aside. 
 
 This minister's reading was broader and more varied 
 than that of the second, — with the third there need be 
 no comparison made upon this or any other subject, — 
 but it would be considered narrow to-day. He doubt- 
 less knew something of Shakespeare, but he would no 
 more have thought of quoting him in the pulpit than 
 of quoting Boccaccio or Rabelais. Gibbon's History 
 was probably interdicted for its too celebrated sixteenth 
 chapter ; Hume's, for his arguments against miracles ; 
 Chaucer and Dryden for immodest license ; Pope for 
 the rationalistic philosophy of the " Essay on Man," 
 and for the filth of the "Dunciad." Swift, Prior, Gay, 
 Herrick, Suckling, and many more were set aside for 
 obvious reasons. In fact, an orthodox clergyman 
 would have but a limited selection if he were to read 
 none but unexceptionable books. The works of Eng- 
 lish divines, with I^acon, Milton, Johnson, Gray, Col- 
 lins, Cowper, and Wordsworth, and the class of religious 
 books mentioned in a former chapter, made up the bulk 
 of his library. 
 
 The reviews which the fourth minister read were 
 " religious," and any discussion of literature in them 
 was incidental, and in the clerical manner. Nor was 
 any purely literary periodical taken in the town. But 
 
26o QUABBIN 
 
 the minister was still strongly inclined to reading and 
 study, and had the habits of a bookish man. Havins: 
 inherited a small fortune, he was free from anxiety, and 
 besides he had no desire for money. He was not in- 
 different to the temporal welfare of his parishioners, 
 but he never cfot tlic least knowledfre of their farming: 
 or trades. Whether turnips grew on trees, or shoe-pegs 
 were thrashed out of oat-sheaves, were matters of no 
 consequence. He was not absolutely ignorant of the 
 world's work, but it did not concern him. A horse was 
 a necessary evil; a garden was a place for penance; if 
 he had to harness the one or spade the other, he would 
 not have accepted either as a gift. He had never been 
 a gymnast, ball-player, or pedestrian. In the use of 
 tools, and in regard to household jobs in general, he 
 rivalled Emerson in helplessness. He lived in his in- 
 tellectual and moral nature. Although pleasant and 
 genial, he had no more points of contact with an ordi- 
 nary man in regard to every-day affairs than a billiard- 
 ball. If Farmer Sherman showed him his mighty 
 oxen, the minister never thought to praise them ; in- 
 stead of that, he might be thinking of the Greek terms 
 for their rolling gait and calm eyes. John Ramsay 
 wondered that he never gave a second glance at his 
 "2.40" IMorgan trotting-horse. It was a magnificent 
 animal, whether at rest or in motion ; but the minister 
 thought chiefly of the disagreeable shaking-up one 
 would get to be driven at such speed, and of the pelt- 
 ing of sand from the flying feet. He felt the beauty 
 of the deep green meadows, starred with the gold of 
 kingcups and cowslips ; but never thought of estimat- 
 ing how many tons of grass they yielded to the acre. 
 Sheep were picturesque as white dots on the hill pas- 
 
ROBERT IV 261 
 
 tures, or when massed under the farm sheds; but he did 
 not know the weight of fleeces or the price of mutton. 
 
 The elders of the church knew his devotion to his 
 work; a few recognized dimly his attainments; all the 
 parish felt the glow of his piety ; yet there were few 
 houses in which he was really at home, and few people 
 who felt him to be near. They loved him and rever- 
 enced him, but on a pedestal ; and, on his part, his 
 senses were so delicate, and his tastes so refined, that 
 the contact of many well-meaning persons was almost 
 painful. Perhaps, also, the relations with his people 
 would have been more intimate if he had not, with 
 others causes for isolation, been childless. He alwavs 
 seemed to have his head in the clouds (figuratively 
 speaking), even when he walked abroad with his rather 
 stately wife ; with a child to lead them, the world would 
 have had a new aspect. In making pastoral calls, when 
 he came where young children were, his manner often 
 became so solemn that the little creatures fancied 
 there was some momently impending trouble, and be- 
 gan to whimper. This forbidding austerity arose solely 
 from his intense anxiety to '' win souls to Christ." 
 
 In regard to the affairs of the parish and the schools, 
 he was a vivifying influence rather than a leader and 
 manager. He made few personal efforts, not because 
 he was lukewarm, but because he was diffident and un- 
 skilful. A word from him had weight, and he was not 
 slow to speak when there was occasion, but he did 
 not know how to use his parishioners like chessmen. 
 The rule of total abstinence was maintained in the 
 church ; but, if he had been in the place of the second 
 minister, he could not have preached that fiery sermon 
 by the woodpile, nor terrified that drunken circle of 
 
262 QUABBIN 
 
 mourners. He had the courage to preach against 
 slavery, and described it as "a cancer eating into the 
 vitals of the nation ; " but his sermon, like the common 
 denunciation of the scribes and pharisees, dead near 
 two thousand years, led to no practical result. One old 
 man in Ouabbin had for many years cast an anti- 
 slavery vote, amid the jeers of politicians and the in- 
 sults of the baser sort. The sermon was a comfort to 
 this solitary voter, but brought him no helpers ; he 
 continued to cast his one vote for years afterward. It 
 was supposed that Garrison and his friends were trying 
 to rend the churches, and to set up women as preach- 
 ers. Besides, the chief industry in the mills was spin- 
 ning cotton ; and, without slaves, how could there be 
 any cotton .'* On that point all the leading men of the 
 villa2:e were as dosimatic as the Chancellor of the Ex- 
 chequer in expounding a budget. 
 
 He was very earnest in his desire to raise the stand- 
 ard of teaching, but he was a favoring influence rather 
 than a moving force. During his time something was 
 done to make the schoolhouses decent and comfortable, 
 to increase the annual appropriation by the town, to ex- 
 tend the school terms, and to secure better teachers 
 by stricter preliminary examinations. 
 
 On the subject of foreign missions the minister had 
 a profound conviction. In his sermons and in his 
 remarks at prayer-meetings, as well as in his pastoral 
 calls, he represented the need of the perishing world, 
 and extolled the courage and self-denying labors of the 
 missionaries ; and he urged that concerted efforts 
 should be made to increase contributions. A system- 
 atic canvass was begun by the deacons and teachers 
 of the Sunday-school. The rich were urged to give, 
 
> » 1*. It' »? 
 
 -^ ^AHu>^^uJi 
 
ROBERT IV 263 
 
 and did give liberally ; but all, without exception, gave 
 something ; even boys were prevailed upon to open 
 their tin boxes and part with their few jingling cents. 
 So thoroughly was the work prosecuted that in one year 
 the collections amounted to more than three thousand 
 dollars ; which was rather more than the annual cost of 
 the public schools, and considerably more than the ex- 
 penses of the parish, including the minister's salary. 
 This was not a mere gathering of superfluous cash ; it 
 came from actual self-denial of comforts, from the renun- 
 ciation of books and amusements, as well as from the 
 breaking up of petty hoards ; it represented endless sew- 
 ing and knitting ; so that the total was not merely money, 
 but a near and dear part of human lives.- This result, 
 which so much rejoiced the minister, and upon whicli he 
 expatiated with just pride, was turned upon him and upon 
 the leaders of the church in an unexpected manner. 
 
 At the next town meeting, when the appropriation 
 for schools was under consideration, the advocates of 
 progress and reform urged the raising of a larger sum 
 by taxation. They dwelt upon the condition of the 
 children who were growing up with such meagre 
 opportunities, and showed what might be done if the 
 committee had the necessary funds. It was getting to 
 be an old story, for the arguments had often been pre- 
 sented in previous years. At last one old farmer, 
 Captain Newcomb, arose and '' freed his mind." 
 
 ** Mr. IVIoderator, I dunno but wut all the gen'leman 
 says is trew " (it was ]\Ir. Grant who had last spoken), 
 "though, fer myself, I don't see thet larnin' would 'a 
 made mv life anv easier. I kin read the Bible an' a 
 newspaper, an' I hain't time to read anv more. All my 
 time's took up tu airn a livin', an' tcr pay my taxes; an', 
 
264 QUABDIN 
 
 ef they was tcr be any higher, I couldn't pay *em, 'thout 
 scrimpin' my vittles an' clothes. I kin reckon the vally 
 of a hog or a fat ox ; an' ef I heel larnin' to cal'late an 
 eclipse I couldn't make the heft o' ary one on 'em a 
 paound more. My boys '11 hev ter foller me, an' the 
 larnin' thet's sarved mo '11 hev tcr du fer them. So fer 
 a blacksmith's son, or a shewmaker's ; they kin make 
 boss shews an' wimmin's shews, ef so be they're willin' 
 ter du wut their fathers hev done, an' grow up stiddy 
 workin'-men. Ef they want ter be lawyers an' doctors 
 an' ministers, thet's another mahter ; an' it stands ter 
 reason thet ther' ain't never room fer but one at a time 
 fer 'em in a taown like this, in a gineration o' men. 
 When a youngster wants ter git up a peg in the world, 
 ther's alius a way, ef he's got the brains an' the grit ; 
 an' I don't see the yeuse o' puttin' all the boys in the 
 way o' gittin' up ter the same peg, ef they hain't the 
 'bilities. The skulc sh'd be fer the evrige, an' not fer 
 one or tew. But even supposin' we was agreed ter hev 
 the skules what the gen'lemen want, I sh'd like ter 
 know ef ther' ain't some way ter du it 'thout piiin' up 
 taxes.'' Some folks in this village, they tell me, make 
 more money in runnin' a factory a day than I kin on 
 my farm in a year. Taxes ain't nothin' ter them ; but 
 they're heavy 'nough fer me naow. 
 
 '' I heered t'other day thet this perrish bed raised 
 more'n three thaousan' dollars fer forrin missions. 
 Three thaousan' dollars in a poor lectle taown, ter 
 keep a set o' well-fed fellers in forrin parts, wher' the 
 people don't want 'em, an' wher' they kin du plaguy 
 leetle good. Thet's more money than all aour skules 
 cost, 'cordin' ter tlic report jest read. Naow, Mr. Mod- 
 erator, they say chcrrity begins ter hum ; an' ef the sit- 
 
ROBERT IV 265 
 
 tiwation of aour boys an' gals is so dreffle bad, an' ef 
 we air, all on us, in danger o' becomin' heathens an' 
 savages fer want o' better skules, it 'pears ter me thet a 
 part o' thet air three thaousan' dollars better be spent 
 here fust ; an' arterwards, ef ther's any left, it kin be 
 gi'n ter the missionaries." 
 
 The hit was felt, in spite of the low tone of the objec- 
 tions to higher education. Many of the country people 
 were in ecstasies, and*even the most devout of church- 
 members smiled. The only reply came from a deacon 
 who said, "'These things ought ye to have done, and 
 not to have left the other undone.' " 
 
 When the vote was taken, there was only a small 
 increase in the appropriation. Progress was slow for 
 many years, against the prevailing sentiment expressed 
 in the first part of the farmer's speech. 
 
 The large contribution was often referred to on other 
 occasions. When an appeal was made for a poor widow, 
 a sick family, or a man in misfortn.me, the answer would 
 come, " Better take sunthin' from that air three 
 thaousan' dollars ye've scraped up fer the heathen." 
 
266 QUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 DAWN 
 
 A CASUAL observer would have noticed but few 
 changes in the village from the time of Joshua I. to 
 that of Robert IV. The new buildings were not many, 
 and not in the least imposing ; although there was a 
 more general air of neatness in houses, dooryards, and 
 gardens, and there were more ornamental trees. Sev- 
 eral disused mills and shops had disappeared, and, after 
 their sites were levelled and turfed, the open spaces 
 were more agreeable than shabby ruins. Business was 
 visibly declining ; but this appeared to affect the in- 
 comes of few, for the general style of living was even 
 more comfortable, and all the appointments of house- 
 holds were in better taste. 
 
 In the country, more of the dwellings were painted 
 and in good repair ; scarcely any were so cheerless as 
 in the old time. On the few good farms barns were 
 built from improved plans. The new barn was often a 
 large structure, surmounted by a showy cupola, bearing 
 a gilded vane in the form of an ox or horse. Imple- 
 ments that used to be exposed to the weather were 
 sheltered in convenient out-houses. The old strag- 
 gling heaps of wood were cut and piled under cover, 
 and yards were raked clear of chips and rub]:>ish. 
 These are prosy details, but they count in life as in 
 landscape. 
 
DA IViV 267 
 
 Among the people an almost insensible change was 
 going on, owing in a great measure to their more tem- 
 perate and cleanly habits. Few visages seen at the 
 mill or the stores had the old fiery glow ; hair had be- 
 come docile ; hats were not prematurely beaten out of 
 shape ; and the razor no longer skipped those edges 
 and ridges of beard which told of bleary eyes and 
 trembling hands. The majority of men were clear- 
 eyed and clean-looking, and wore comfortable, well- 
 mended clothing. Fewer barrels of cider were stored, 
 and more apples sent to market. Oaths were rare, 
 except among the dwindling frequenters of the tavern ; 
 and one could count upon the fingers all the flagrant 
 cases of habitual drunkenness. 
 
 Yet the farmers were hardly so prosperous, for their 
 produce brought lower prices. There was a market for 
 firewood and railroad-ties, and other timber ; animals, 
 poultry, and dairy products were in demand ; but as to 
 grain, it was seen that with the extension of railroads 
 its price must continue to fall. In raising bread- 
 stuffs New England's day was coming to an end. So, 
 throughout the town, young men arriving at maturity 
 were looking abroad for their future, and in time few 
 who were possessed of good abilities were left behind. 
 Destiny had some surprises for the exiles or explorers ; 
 for one, a place as fireman on a locomotive ; for another, 
 a quarter section of prairie land ; for a third, a desk in 
 a merchant's office in Boston ; for a fourth, a seat in 
 the Stock Exchange in New York. One handsome 
 fellow, moderately educated, and with no inheritance, 
 was taken for a husband by a wealthy woman, and car- 
 ried off to her ''brown-stone front" on Fiftli Avenue. 
 
 Women more than men are rooted to the soil, quasi 
 
268 QUABBIN 
 
 adscriptce glcbcB, and, owing to the absence of partners, 
 the number of tlie unmarried increased ; but in one 
 way or another many of them found spouses, and there 
 are few Northern or Western States where there are 
 not daughters of Ouabbin now at the head of families. 
 Although now and then a young man became promi- 
 nent or made a fortune, the influence of the young 
 women was nobler and more pervasive ; for they hap- 
 pened to possess a larger share of mind, culture, and 
 worth. Nearly all who were highly educated married 
 away from home, and some of them attained to posi- 
 tions for which there are no titles, but for which the 
 honors given to eminent men would be inadequate. In 
 the case of a mother of half a dozen vigorous and well- 
 trained children, who is foremost in religious work ; 
 who sets luxury aside, and uses her wealth to do good ; 
 who is the friend of the poor, and comes to be the one 
 person looked up to, reverenced, and loved by a whole 
 town, what rank or honor would be appropriate } Such 
 a woman leaves a memory that is blessed, and God will 
 take care of her reward. 
 
 Gay young women, like Eliza and Lois Grant, when 
 the new wine of youth had done fuming, became excel- 
 lent and notable members of society. Nor was educa- 
 tion confined to the rich. During and after the reign 
 of Robert IV. it happened that a great many bright 
 girls from humble families, after beginning with the 
 transient "select schools," found means to attend some 
 distant academy or boarding-school, with marvellous 
 results. It was wonderful to see some budding girl, 
 who a few years before was a freckled and wild-haired 
 tomboy, come back with the calm eyes of conscious 
 power, and with tlie oquijimcnt and manners to shine 
 
DAWN 269 
 
 in a drawing-room. No leveller like education, for it 
 levels upwards. 
 
 The presence of cultivated young women, even for 
 a few years each, began to tell upon the old dialect. 
 Perhaps the characteristic tone was not so much ameli- 
 orated, but it became rare to hear sentences framed on 
 slovenly models, and rough with contractions. Some 
 of these women became teachers, and were active prop- 
 agandists ; some of them married, and succeeded in 
 toning down the speech of their husbands and relatives. 
 All were active assents in brinirins: about the coming: 
 enlightenment. 
 
 As a result of the departure of the young, the peo- 
 ple of Ouabbin might be likened to a forest which had 
 parted with most of its lusty and growing trees, and 
 consisted largely of old and wind-shaken trunks, with 
 few branches and sparse foliage. Toward the end of 
 the fourth minister's time the conCTesration on a Sun- 
 day was noticeable for the numbers of gray heads. 
 There were a few old couples, but more widowers and 
 widows ; there were the local storekeepers and mechan- 
 ics, the venerable lawyer, the few mill-owners, and 
 others upon whom the frame of things seemed to rest. 
 Besides, there were a few mill-hands, and other " hew- 
 ers of wood and drawers of water," most of them re- 
 cent immigrants ; but there were very few young men 
 and women of the old stock. Those who still remained 
 were either without ambition and courage, or those 
 whom duty and affection retained at home to take care 
 of the old. Now and then would be seen some native 
 wlio had come home on a visit, and his appearance at 
 meeting was the subject of much curiosity. But any 
 one wlio liad known the people could reck(^n the absent 
 
270 QUABBIN 
 
 of both sexes from the vacant spaces in so man\' pews. 
 A deeper melancholy, if that were possible, had settled 
 upon many pinched and grizzled faces. 
 
 This slow exodus began with the completion of the 
 trunk railroad. It was no longer a difficult thing to 
 traverse the State, or even to pay a visit to friends in 
 Illinois. People were no longer rooted to natal soil, 
 but moved about with a light-heartedness or indiffer- 
 ence, strangely in contrast with old custom. In the 
 time of the first minister very few in the village had 
 ever travelled fifty miles, and a visit to Boston was the 
 talk of a lifetime. There were seldom anv removals ; 
 except of the very poor, who had nothing to carry ; — 
 where a man was born, there his lot was cast, and there 
 he toiled until his release came. In one respect this 
 was a wholesome restraint ; honesty abides, while vil- 
 lany if discovered is forced to fly. It was strange, too, 
 to see, after this general movement began, how easily 
 occupations were changed. Before, a youth followed 
 in his father's footsteps ; and to become some day the 
 owner of the farm, or head of the workshop, was the 
 great prize in life ; but when the door was suddenly 
 opened into the great world, the farms and shops of 
 Quabbin, seen over the shoulder, looked mean. A 
 youth when he set forth generally believed that For- 
 tune was waiting for him in some guise, if he could 
 only recognize her ; and until she was revealed to him 
 he did not care to what labor he applied himself. For 
 the time being he was willing to be teamster, porter, 
 clerk, or "utility man." This readiness to adapt one's 
 self to anything was a wholly new symptom ; and if it 
 was attended by some instability or feverish impatience, 
 it was not without good results. The old fixedness 
 
DA WAT 271 
 
 and torpor were gone, and society was full of motion, 
 albeit motion was not always progress. 
 
 There were two stations on the railroad, each about 
 a dozen miles from Ouabbin, with which there was 
 daily communication. The trade of the local stores 
 was speedily reduced to odds and ends, because farmers 
 drove with their produce to the stations and brouglit 
 back their supplies, and because well-to-do people went 
 by rail to the nearest large town for '^ shopping." These 
 frequent excursions served to break the monotony of 
 life in a small village. Then daily newspapers began 
 to appear in the stores and counting-rooms, and in a 
 few residences, and the ideas of Boston and New York, 
 the commercial, political, and literary centres, began to 
 awaken a vivid and continuous interest. This was an 
 epoch. Ouabbin became a part of the great world, 
 and felt the universal pulsations of humanity. It could 
 never be solitary again. Many influences contributed 
 to its enlightenment, but the railroad and the daily 
 newspaper were the chief. Home and foreign news, 
 politics, inventions, and discoveries in arts and science, 
 were brought home to people who had never had any- 
 thing to occupy their minds except neighborhood gos- 
 sip and sermons. The educational power and stimulus 
 effected an entire transformation ; although at first 
 many a reader spelled his way through paragraphs but 
 dimly understood. The appreciation of newspapers 
 rose with the spread of education ; but from the begin- 
 ning there was some notion of the solidaritv of man- 
 kind, and of the inestimable value of knowledge. 
 
 Other changes were in progress. Instead of hcav\', 
 rumbling wagons, there were light buggies moving with- 
 out n(jise. Ckunsv and rust\- harnesses were exchau'^ed 
 
2/2 QUABBIN 
 
 for newer work, with finer lines and tasteful buckles. 
 In former times a man whose clothes were made at 
 home by the ancient tailoress, who went the rounds of 
 the neighborhood, could be easily distinguished at a 
 hundred yards' distance by his slouchy and baggy out- 
 lines. Such a costume was naturally associated with 
 huge, shapeless boots, an old hat with the crown stove 
 in, the nasal drawl of the rustic dialect, and tobacco 
 stains at the corners of the mouth. Such a repulsive 
 outfit was becoming rare, especially in the village ; as 
 all, excepting the very poor, were in the habit of going 
 to some large town for their clothing. 
 
 Especially marked was the change among women, 
 who are always quicker than men to perceive the beauty 
 and advantages of new things. Little by little what 
 used to be stigmatized as " city ways " began to come 
 in without comment, — neater boots and gloves, tasteful 
 scarfs, better *' form " in gait and attitude, a readier 
 and smoother speech, and more composure of manner. 
 
 Most important were the changes in tools and imple- 
 ments. It would be difficult to exaggerate the relief 
 that came to working-men, — and almost everybody 
 worked in Ouabbin, — when the heavy and awkward 
 hoes, shovels, axes, forks, rakes, and scythes were re- 
 placed by new tools, so light, yet so strong, so polished 
 and so perfectly adapted to use, such as are now seen 
 in New England and in the West. They are found 
 nowhere else ; those in Great Britain, where farming 
 and gardening are carried to perfection, are generally 
 twice as heavy, and not so effective. 
 
 The same is true in regard to mechanics' tools. The 
 Yankee makes and uses hammers, saws, files, pincers, 
 screw-cutters, vices, tailors' shears, dental instruments. 
 
DA WiV 273 
 
 and the like, which are fashioned with a precision 
 seldom attained elsewhere. 
 
 The children of Ouabbin that were scattered abroad 
 gave new light upon countless affairs by their letters 
 and visits to the old people. Travellers came and went, 
 and soon the hydrostatic paradox of Doctor Holmes 
 was in some measure exemplified ; that is to say, with 
 free outflow and inflow between the ocean and ever so 
 small a receptacle, the level of the latter can in no wise 
 be depressed. 
 
 Events and the progress of ideas have been grouped 
 under the reigns of successive ministers ; but it is evi- 
 dent that in many instances the ministers, if not pas- 
 sive spectators, were wholly incapable of initiating the 
 changes that took place ; they might as well have the 
 credit of directing the weather. The good Robert IV. 
 duly preached his earnest and faultless sermons, made 
 his conscientious visits, and distributed all the sunshine 
 compatible with his duty of warning sinners. He was 
 as worthy of veneration as Goldsmith's village parson. 
 Yet, had it rested solely with him, the people would 
 have long remained in their provincial isolation. And, 
 further, the time had passed when the intellectual char- 
 acter, opinions, and will of the public could be controlled 
 by any one man. In the days of Joshua I. there were 
 not half a dozen in the town who could be said to have 
 self-based character and reasoned opinions. When, in 
 every quarter, men and women v/ere reading for them- 
 selves, there was a distribution of power. 
 
2/4 QUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 MISS WICKS'S TEA-PARTY 
 
 Miss Wicks was an only daughter, who kept the 
 house of her father, a widower. It was a pleasant old 
 house, standing on the lot where, almost a hundred 
 years before, the primitive hatters had lived. In the 
 rear a garden with terraces extended down to the river. 
 The broad slopes of the Russell farm and a part of the 
 shoulder of Great Ouabbin formed an attractive out- 
 look from the rear windows. There were old-fashioned 
 flowers in the beds below the house, such as roses, 
 pinks, sweet-williams, peonies, balsams, geraniums, 
 lilies, and violets ; and in front a horse-chestnut tree, 
 a feathery larch, and a mountain-ash, with its clusters 
 of pale coral, formed a checkered screen against the 
 western sun. 
 
 Miss Wicks had enjoyed all the advantages of educa- 
 tion then obtainable ; and, though far from beautiful, 
 she was attractive on account of her delicacy of feeling, 
 courtesy, and tact. No one who came to know her ever 
 thought her plain. Upon a memorable evening she had 
 invited the Grant sisters and two gentlemen to tea. 
 Her father did not join the party until late. 
 
 One of the guests was the new doctor, Fletcher by 
 name, who was a bit of a dand}-, and conspicuous for 
 wearing patent-leather straps to hold down his strained 
 
MISS iriCKS'S TEA-PARTY 2/5 
 
 pantaloons. The other was David Wentworth, a stu- 
 dent who was absent from college on leave, engaged in 
 teaching: a select school. The fact that he was so 
 employed*was proof that he was not rich; but he was 
 neatly dressed, and his manners and speech showed 
 him well born and well bred. The contrast between 
 him and the doctor was marked. In the one case you 
 were earnestly regarding the man, in the other you 
 were more attracted by the clothes ; for, besides the 
 innovation of trouser straps, the doctor was finical in 
 regard to linen and ornaments. He had the air of 
 a cultured man, but one who attached importance 
 to externals, and who flattered himself upon his 
 superiority. 
 
 The small party was seated around a large table, for 
 tea was not served in those days on dainty little stands 
 with trays, and there were two vacant places. 
 
 Miss Wicks was askins: her ^uests to admire her old 
 china. "My father," she said, ''bought it in Boston 
 the year after I was born." 
 
 "Now, really," said the doctor, "you can't call that 
 old china ! " 
 
 "Old enough," said Miss Wicks, smiling. "Father 
 drove with mother from here to Boston, and was two 
 days on the road." 
 
 "A delicate and beautiful piece of porcelain," said 
 Wentworth, holding up a cup to the light. " Happy 
 the man who will be served by it." 
 
 The eyes of Eliza and Lois Grant exchanged a faintly 
 perceptible gleam. 
 
 " I thought," said the doctor, " vou were going to toll 
 me it was brought from China \)\ tlie old gentleman 
 opposite, — your relative, is he not .^ lie looks as if he 
 
2/6 QUAE BIN 
 
 might liave been a mandarin of ever so many gold 
 buttons." 
 
 " Our families have some slight relationship," said 
 Miss Wicks, "but the set did not come from him. It 
 is not rare, and I fancy it was made in France. — I was 
 going to ask you, Mr. Wentworth, about your school. 
 I have an interest in the young girls who are coming 
 on. I remember what the schools were a few years 
 ago, and I am glad to know that there are more advan- 
 tages to-day." 
 
 The doctor perceived that he was set aside, and began 
 to give his attention to his neighbor, Lois Grant. They 
 talked of agreeable nothings in a desultory way, but 
 after a while both were drawn to listen to the school- 
 master. 
 
 ''It is grateful to know," said Wentworth, ''that you 
 are interested, for there is need of sympathy. At 
 present it is like lifting a dead weight without lever- 
 age. My pupils learn their lessons, but they lack intel- 
 ligence, or, I should say, they lack general knowledge. 
 I happened the other day to make a reference to geol- 
 ogy, and found they hadn't the least notion of it. For 
 very shame I had to stop and make some explanations 
 upon the structure of the earth's crust. That led to 
 questions upon the time that must have been taken to 
 harden the successive formations ; and, after a few 
 seconds of mental calculation, I was asked if, accord- 
 ing to the Bible, the creation of the world was not just 
 four thousand and four years before Christ 1 I sug- 
 gested that it wasn't necessary to hold strictly to bibli- 
 cal chronology, for that was only a deduction from 
 uncertain data, and the work of fallible men ; wliile the 
 testimony of tlie rocks was evidence which could not be 
 contradicted." 
 
MISS WJCKS'S TEA-PARTY 2// 
 
 The doctor gave an approving nod to the inquiring 
 glances of his neighbors, but Miss Wicks looked 
 troubled. She said she had heard a sermon by Pro- 
 fessor Hitchcock, the great geologist, and thought he 
 showed there was no conflict between Genesis and 
 geology. • 
 
 " On that subject," said Wentworth, '' I say nothing. 
 For the sake of the book, I hope it is so ; science will 
 take care of itself. I was giving that merely as an 
 illustration of the want of knowledge. In literature 
 the condition is worse. I was speaking to the class 
 about Shakespeare, and, to my surprise, saw no 
 responsive light in their faces. On inquiry, I found 
 that not one had ever read a play or poem of his. I 
 said something to show them his place among the 
 world's great poets, and then a girl asked if Shake- 
 speare did not write for the theatre } if the theatre was 
 not immoral, and if it was Christian to read his plays } 
 The questions and the faces of the class showed there 
 had been prevention from some quarter, and I changed 
 the subject." 
 
 " We had selections at our school," said Miss Grant, 
 ''but never plays entire." 
 
 The doctor looked amused. 
 
 '' Our Shakespeare was edited, and with notes for the 
 use of schools," said Miss Wicks. 
 
 "That 'editing' has been a sore subject," said 
 Wentworth. "There has been sad work done in that 
 way by male prudes. The main question is, if men 
 and women can be called 'educated' who grow up in 
 ignorance of the greatest poet of our race, — jxu-haps 
 of any race. If my ]:)upils were asked, I fear they 
 would give that place to Dr. Watts." 
 
2;8 QUAE BIN 
 
 "Doctor Watts !" almost shouted the doctor. ''That 
 is sfood. Methinks I hear the laureate of bread-and- 
 butter misses and short-jacket boys : — 
 
 * Let dogs delight to bark and bite ; ' 
 % ' How doth the little busy bee ; ' and, 
 
 ' Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber ! ' " 
 
 It seemed almost sacrilegious to make fun of the ver- 
 sifier of the Psalms, yet the young ladies smiled a little 
 at the sally. 
 
 " It hurts my feelings," said Wentworth, *' when I 
 find an empty niche in a mind where Shakespeare's 
 image should be ; but, for most people, ignorance of 
 Scott is quite as much to be regretted. Not to have 
 read the * Antiquary,' or ' Quentin Durward ' ! Not to 
 have devoured * Ivanhoe ' ! Not to have loved Flora 
 Maclvor ! I can hardly conceive it ! I hope, Miss 
 Wicks, you were encouraged to read those charming 
 books } " 
 
 *' I have read most of them. My parents did not ap- 
 prove of reading novels, but these were exceptional, 
 for their history and their healthy tone. But I have 
 no copies. I knew father would not like to have them 
 on the shelves ; and I don't think there is a full set in 
 town. What do you say, Eliza .^ " 
 
 *' I do not know of any. While at school we read 
 several of the Waverley novels, not exactly by permis- 
 sion, because the rules were against all novels, but our 
 teacher made no serious objection to our reading a few 
 of the most famous." 
 
 *' Well," said Wentworth, '' I don't sympathize with 
 any man who renounces for himself, or deprives others 
 of, the pleasure of reading Scott." 
 
MISS IVICKS'S TEA-PARTY 279 
 
 "I wish I could read him a dozen times," said the 
 doctor; ''I am sure I should always feel the old thrill." 
 
 *'The dead past," continued Wentworth, "lives in 
 his pages. It is history visible and real. But do you 
 think, Miss Wicks, that your minister objects to the 
 Waverley novels .'* " * 
 
 " I really don't know. I am afraid he does ; not so 
 much for anything in them, you know, but because 
 they absorb the mind, and draw it away from serious 
 thin2:s." 
 
 She was beginning to look solemn. 
 
 ''Does he object to poetry as well.'*" 
 
 '' He dotes on poetry," said Lois Grant. *' He loves 
 Virgil and Milton, and Gray and Wordsworth, and a 
 great many more." 
 
 '' And I heard him read a piece by Mr. Bryant, a re- 
 cent poet," said Eliza Grant. " I can't think of the 
 title, but it was about death, and as beautiful as slow 
 music." 
 
 '' 'Thanatopsis, ' " suggested Miss Wicks. 
 
 ''That view of death is a fine poem for a youth of 
 nineteen to have written," said Wentworth. — "You 
 have heard of Edgar Poe V 
 
 The ladies all shook their heads. He continued, "I 
 think Poe may go far. He has produced few poems, 
 but they have the stamp of genius, — classic from their 
 birth." 
 
 " You seem to lay great stress on novels and poetry," 
 said Miss Wicks. 
 
 "Yes; on noble fiction like Scott's, and on poetry 
 of a high order. I wish to bring them near. I don't 
 want scholars to think of the classic authors as so 
 many statues set u[) in a gallery apart, but as real men, 
 
28o QUAE BIN 
 
 of whom the latest are living to-day ; and that any of 
 these may be put on pedestals in due time. It is a 
 long- stretch from Homer to the poet of your county 
 newspaper, but it is not impossible. But I am preach- 
 ing. Let me only add that I hope my scholars may be 
 led to the affectionate study of works of genius, as well 
 as to matters of every -day use." 
 
 There was a rap at the door, and a moment later the 
 minister appeared, and was duly welcomed. It was 
 evident that he was not wholly unexpected. Address- 
 ing Miss Wicks, he said, — 
 
 " My wife has gone out on a visit ; and, though I am 
 tardy, I concluded to avail myself of your invitation. 
 I am very fond of a cup of your fragrant tea." 
 
 When the usual small talk was ended, Miss Wicks 
 said to the minister, very simply, "We have been talk- 
 ing of fiction and poetry, such as the Waverley novels 
 and Shakespeare's plays ; we should all like to know 
 what you think of them } " 
 
 The minister's face was a study. He paused and 
 looked at all the guests in turn. There was a visible 
 struggle, as if taste and principle were at odds. 
 
 " If I were to speak of merits alone, as an abstract 
 question," said he, '' I should have to frankly commend 
 them. I have read the Waverley novels, most of them, 
 and Scott's romantic poems, and I have felt their charm. 
 And I read Shakespeare while in college, not only with 
 delight but with wonder and awe. And I admit in 
 advance that his occasional grossness may be pardoned 
 on account of the customs of his age. But I am a 
 Christian minister, with souls in charge, for wdiom I 
 must give account ; and I should not think myself 
 justified if I were to favor the reading of romances or 
 
MISS WICKS 'S TEA-PARTY 28 1 
 
 poems, when my people have so little time for reading;, 
 and when there is so much to be done for their eternal 
 welfare. Consider, sir," he said, addressing Wentworth 
 after a moment's pause, " for you are a scholar ; consider 
 in what light St. Paul regarded this matter. He could 
 have read, and probably had read, Homer, yEschylus, 
 Euripides, and Sophocles ; and he may have known 
 enough Latin to have read Virgil. Do you think he 
 counselled his converts and followers to read CEdipus, 
 Prometheus, or the yEneid } He turned his back on 
 that noble literature, and said 'for I determined not to 
 know anything among you except Jesus Christ and him 
 crucified.' " 
 
 "If you put it on the ground of there being no time," 
 replied Wentworth, " I would ask if school-children 
 have not a reasonable expectation of many years 1 If 
 you should carry your principle to its logical conclusion, 
 you would have them spend all their lives in prayer. 
 Don't you think, sir, God intended that men, besides 
 adoring and serving him, should rejoice in this beauti- 
 ful world, and occupy themselves with literature and 
 science, and with cultivating a taste for the fine arts.'^ 
 An all-round man ; one who is learned, accomplished, 
 and cheerful, besides being pious and good ; is he not 
 as pleasing in his sight as a filthy hermit crcnicliing in 
 a cave, or set on a pillar in the Thebaic! ? or as an 
 ignorant fanatic at a camp-meeting.'* I don't mean to 
 be disrespectful. If God is the Founder of the sciences, 
 the Author of beauty and proportion, the Inspirer of 
 genius, the Fashioner of our faculties, how could he 
 wish us to check philosophic inquiry, to re]:)ross the 
 creative instinct, or to dry up the sources of feeling } 
 Even laughter is as natural as crying, and a great deal 
 more wholesome." 
 
282 QUABBIN 
 
 " Your propositions have a broad reach," said the 
 minister, "and I should not like to assent to them with- 
 out consideration. I will say, however, that those who 
 realize their true condition in a dying world, exposed 
 to the wrath of God, will seldom be moved to laughter." 
 
 The phrases grated harshly in Wentworth's ears, 
 but he shrank from touching the question of eternal 
 punishment, and was glad to return to St. Paul. 
 
 "I think," said he, ''there was another obvious reason 
 why Paul did not give more attention to Greek poetry : 
 it was based on the belief in the fabled divinities. 
 What to us are Apollo, Mars, Diana, and Venus ? 
 Meftly brilliant fictions, poetical conceptions ; but as 
 gods or idols they are non-existent. What prevents 
 you and me from looking at an image of Hermes, like 
 that of John of Bologna, with admiration for the artist, 
 and with a clear conscience .-* In Paul's time it would 
 have been an idolatrous symbol. He would be careful 
 not to give countenance to a superstition which had 
 overrun the world, and which was dying so hard." 
 
 "Our ancestors," said the minister, "had some scru- 
 ples about the Greek and Latin classics, on account of 
 their serving to keep alive a familiarity with false 
 gods." 
 
 "I am aware of that," said Wentworth. "It is to be 
 seen in Cotton Mather and others of his time ; but 
 when a man is afraid of being made an idolater by 
 reading the fables of early ages, I should think him in 
 a pitiable state of imbecility." 
 
 "The divine command is still in force," said the 
 minister. 
 
 " True," replied Wentworth ; " but I would ask you if 
 it is not to be interpreted in its sjiirit, and with regard 
 
MISS WICKS'S TEA-PARTY 283 
 
 to the light of to-day? How can we conceive of the 
 Almighty as 'jealous' of an airy nothing, or of an 
 artistic image in marble ? We do not deify the forces 
 of nature, because we have found out the natural laws. 
 We do not dread witches, as poor Cotton Mather did, 
 for we know that occult practices are impossible and 
 ridiculous. Science has swept the earth, sea, and sky 
 clear of divinities and demons, leaving only the uni- 
 verse of matter, and God, its Creator. But we are not 
 considering the question put by Miss Wicks. I was 
 telling her I felt oppressed and hindered by the want 
 of knowledge on the part of my pupils of the com- 
 mon facts of science, and of general ideas of literature. 
 To know the ' three Rs ' may enable people to live, but 
 it is not enough to make them men and women. Don't 
 you think there is need here for a library t for more 
 reading, and on broader lines t'' 
 
 "Yes, and for the grace of God," added the min- 
 ister. 
 
 " But does his grace," asked Wentworth, '' dwell by 
 preference with ignorance and insensibility t It has 
 been said that the church has not looked kindly upon 
 any literature except its own, nor upon science not 
 under its guidance. It seems to me the time has come 
 when neither literature nor science can be fettered. It 
 must be free for masters to teach what is known of the 
 earth, of the people that have lived upon it, and of their 
 ideas and works." 
 
 *' Religion," said the minister, " is not hostile to 
 science when taught by reverent men ; nor to litera- 
 ture, wMth due regard to other necessary instruction, 
 and to the preparation for the world to come." 
 
 " If a man should discover new laws of light," said 
 
284 QUA BE IN 
 
 Doctor Fletcher, ''or a way of utilizing the force of 
 electricity, would you think his discovery less valuable 
 because he happened to be an unbeliever? " 
 
 " No," said the minister; "but suppose he were an 
 atheist trying to show that the universe has no need of 
 God ? " 
 
 *' Like Laplace with his ' La Mecanique Celeste,' " 
 su<r<jested Lliza Grant. 
 
 "That would not be a question in physics, but meta- 
 physics," said Went worth. " In geology, for instance, 
 there is no question either of theism or atheism. The 
 geologist simply says that things are found so, and in 
 such an order. It seems to me there is no science 
 which may not, and should not, be taught with perfect 
 reverence." 
 
 Here Mr. Wicks carpe in, apparently tired and pre- 
 occupied, and the conversation ceased. To judge by 
 countenances, the doctor and Lois Grant had sided 
 with Went worth, wdiile Eliza and Miss Wicks inclined 
 to the minister's way of thinking. 
 
 Soon after leaving the table. Doctor Fletcher and 
 Wentworth took their leave. The face of the latter 
 was still glowing with excitement, and his good-by to 
 Miss Wicks was noticeable for its mingling of ad- 
 miration with respect. Again the sisters exchanged 
 glances. 
 
 The minister's experience was novel and not wholly 
 pleasant. It was the first time that any one in the vil- 
 lage, in which his supremacy was unquestioned, had 
 "withstood him to his face." But he contented him- 
 self with observing that Mr. Wentworth was a most 
 enthusiastic young man. 
 
 "How I should like to have such a teacher," said 
 
MISS WICKS'S TEA-PARTY 285 
 
 Lois Grant. ''What a way he has! Why, he fairly 
 takes you up and carries you along with him." 
 
 ''No," said Eliza, half aside; "it was only Herman 
 Field who could do that." 
 
 Miss Wicks heard the reminder ; and, as she knew 
 the old story of the sprained ankle, there was a mis- 
 chievous laugh between her and Eliza. She said softly 
 to Lois, — 
 
 "You have 2i penchant for schoolmasters." 
 
 The retort came in a twinkling, — 
 
 " There is one, I am sure, who has a pcncJiant for 
 you." 
 
 "I am afraid," said the minister, "he is too much 
 set upon learning. I do not say puffed up by it ; too 
 much concerned with the things of this world. We 
 have not talked of doctrine, but trifles are often signifi- 
 cant. Did vou observe that he said 'Paul,' and not 
 'St. Paul ' .-^ I should not be surprised to find that he 
 is a Unitarian." 
 
 Mr. Wicks was looking at his daughter earnestly. 
 
 Lois Grant plucked up courage to ask, — 
 
 " Did not the saint speak of himself simply as ' Paul, 
 an apostle ' .-^ I don't remember that any one is called 
 'saint' in the New Testament, except in the captions, 
 and I suppose those may be modern." 
 
 "It is a matter of long usage in the church," said the 
 minister, "and is not important except as an indication. 
 Ah ! " he continued, as he crossed his legs and tossed 
 one foot, in a fit of abstraction, " these high-mettled 
 youths ! They mistake their exuberant spirits for a 
 divine afflatus ; their ecstasies upon tlie beauties of 
 nature for worship ; their instinctive sympathy for 
 Chi'istian benevolence, and the vague yearnings of an 
 
2S6 QUABBIN 
 
 imaginative soul for communion with God. All things 
 in earth are beautiful to them, when we know that sin 
 and death have entered into the world ; that there is no 
 one good, not one, and that the heart is deceitful above 
 all things, and desperately wicked. Of all the insidious 
 forms of infidelity, none has wrought more evil than 
 this new worship of nature, — as if it were anything more 
 than the garment of a sinful world, soon to be destroyed 
 by fire, — unless it be the twin delusion of glorifying 
 human nature, which is corruption." After a pause he 
 went on, — 
 
 *' The plausible phrases of the modern enemies of 
 Christ have seduced many. It is the latest invention 
 of the great enemy of souls. And to think that the 
 college founded by our pious forefathers for the pur- 
 pose of training up laborers for the Lord's vineyard, 
 the college whose motto was Christo et Ecclesia, should 
 have fallen into the hands of those who dethrone Christ 
 and undermine the foundations of his church ! Ah, my 
 dear young friends," he continued, looking solemnly at 
 their attentive faces, ** better to have the heart right 
 toward God, than to shine in intellect, or to glow with 
 an unchastened enthusiasm. If I were to advise a 
 young lady upon her choice of a partner for life, I 
 would say that a farmer or blacksmith who fears God 
 is more worthy of love and honor than the most brilliant 
 of the irraduates of a Christless college." 
 
 Mr. Wicks's looks seemed to his daughter to say, 
 ''Did I not tell you so?" 
 
A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 28/ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 
 
 One Saturday afternoon David Wentworth set out 
 for a walk, intending to climb the eastern hill and de- 
 scend into the valley beyond. He passed the semi- 
 circle of the cove, starred with lilies ; crossed the thin 
 fallow lands that were cultivated only once in two or 
 three years ; then ascended the hillside pasture, bristling 
 here and there w^ith patches of sturdy huckleberry 
 bushes, and soon gained the ridge. There were chop- 
 pers at work felling tall trees ; and, as he saw one that 
 appeared to be ready to fall, he waited. Blow after 
 blow was struck into the heart of the trunk, while the 
 chopper cast frequent glances at the quivering upper 
 boughs. Soon he stepped aside, for there was a deeper 
 thrill. Then came a wavering motion, an awful lean- 
 ing, a breathless interval, a gathering rush, and a thun- 
 dering downfall upon the leafy ground, while the 
 rebounding branches and twigs were violently agitated, 
 like the limbs of a giant in the last agony. To Went- 
 worth the sensation was like seeing the fall of an ox 
 under the blow of a butcher. But tlie chopper did not 
 appear to be one who would be touched by sentiment, 
 and the schoolmaster merely bowed and walked on. 
 Along his path were piles of corded wood, heaps of 
 chopped twigs, and the tracks made by the logs as they 
 
288 QUAE BIN 
 
 were hauled away. The clearing was thorough, and 
 the hill was soon to have a bald head. 
 
 In the road below was a farmer taking the dimensions 
 of a number of logs with a rule. Wentworth thought 
 his face engaging, in spite of the stern lines at the 
 corners of his mouth. Salutes were always exchanged 
 in Ouabbin, and it was considered courteous to say a 
 friendly word in passing. Wentworth asked, — 
 
 ** Is it your woodland that I have just crossed — up 
 there where they are cutting down trees } " 
 
 "I s'pose 'tis," said the farmer. "Be yeou f'm 
 Quabbin } " 
 
 *' Yes; I am teaching school there." 
 
 "Yeou be, be yer .-* Haow come ye ter climb the 
 hill } Didn't ye know ye could git raound at ary eend 
 on't.?" 
 
 " I like to climb a hill ; I need exercise. But I don't 
 much like to see a fine big tree cut down." 
 
 " Nor I nuther." 
 
 " Why do you have them cut V 
 
 "Got ter live somehaow. Raisin' grain don't pay. 
 'Less we sold milk, or killed a critter naow an' then, we 
 sh'd starve. Ye see, when we country folks run be- 
 hindhan', we hain't no chahnce to make it up by spec'- 
 lation. Ef we try spec'lation, we air sure ter git took 
 in. Ther' ain't nothin' for us but hard work an' elbow 
 grease. Some years ago we had a leetle flurry here, 
 an' every man an' boy thought he was goin' ter be rich 
 by raisin' Morns mnlticaulis. I don't know many 
 larned names, but we all come ter know tJict. Haow 
 the d'lusion o^ot started I never 'xacklv knew. 'Twa'n't 
 reason nor common-sense; for mulberry-trees ain't 
 good for nothin', 'ceptin' to raise silkwums ; an' every- 
 
A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 289 
 
 body orter know this ain't the climate to raise 'em. 
 People said somebody way off was goin' to want the 
 trees — jest ez though they couldn't be raised better 
 where they was wanted. But the fever was up. Folks 
 paid fifty cents a-piece for trees not so big ez yer leetle 
 finger, and not more'n so high. They used these to 
 make cuttin's of, and put 'em to sprout under glass. 
 Some used ol' cowcum'er frames, and some built hot- 
 haouses, an' kep' the steam up days an' nights an' Sun- 
 days. Some o' the fust ones made, 'cause they sold 
 trees an' cuttin's tu others thet was startin' in. But 
 by an' by the thing fell ez flat ez a cold slap-jack. 
 Yer couldn't give away a tree. Some was bit pooty 
 bad. Even sech a smart man ez Wicks. Ef yer 
 want ter make him mad, y've on'y to say, ' Moms uiul- 
 ticaiilis' " 
 
 "The experience was salutary, though painful," said 
 Wentworth. " But you won't have any more oaks to 
 cut." 
 
 ** Trew 'nough. Them air's ben growin' sence afore 
 my father's time ; when they're gone, we sh'll hev to 
 du sunthin' else." 
 
 "People used to live without cutting off their trees." 
 "Thet's so ; but folks didn't use ter treat their crops 
 an' airnin's like a cowcumber, — eat out the middle and 
 fling away both eends." 
 
 " I thought the people about here were economical." 
 "So they be — some on 'em ; an' some is runnin' to 
 new funnitoor an' carpets. The man who must hev 
 new carpets to walk on when he's ter hum won't stan' 
 on his own graass ou' doors but a leetle while." 
 
 " What has made the change in the value of crops } " 
 "Railroads, an' one thing 'n nuther. I kin buv a 
 
290 QUABBIN 
 
 bushel o' corn fcr fifty cents that I couldn't raise fer 
 less 'n seventy-five." 
 
 " I suppose I am talking to Captain Newcomb ? " 
 
 "Jcs' so; an' yeou air" — 
 
 *' Wentworth is my name." 
 
 '* Oh, vis. I heerd somebody tell 'baout haow yeou 
 gin it tu the minister t'other day." 
 
 "We had some talk about books and reading, — all 
 in a friendly way." 
 
 ''They say yeou gin it to him, all the same." 
 
 "And are you not the man who objected to giving 
 so much to the missionaries abroad, while there was 
 money needed for schools at home } " 
 
 " I s'pose I be. I ain't ashamed on't. But I hear 
 the minister says yeou air a Unitarian." 
 
 " He is welcome to say it. I have never talked about 
 doctrines, and I don't belong to any church." 
 
 "Air yeou f'm Harvard College, daown ther' nex' tu 
 Boston } " 
 
 " No ; but I should like to be able to graduate there." 
 
 " What sh'd make the minister say yeou was a 
 Unitarian V 
 
 " Unitarians are liberal, and he probably thought I 
 was not strict enough in regard to the books that 
 should be read." 
 
 "Weren't ther' nothin' said 'baout the Trinity ner 
 futur' punishment 1 " 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " I'm kinder sorry. I was in hopes ter hear 'baout 
 it. I don't take no stock in the lake o' fire an brimstun 
 myself." 
 
 " I don't think such discussions do anv srood. I don't 
 believe in any punishment that is endless, for that 
 
A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 29 1 
 
 seems to me against the justice of God; but I never 
 argue upon the subject. My notion is to make the 
 b^st use of life, to get all the knowledge possible, to 
 love God, be cheerful, and do all the good I can." 
 
 " A man who doos that, he's in heaven a'ready." 
 
 ''So I think." 
 
 "Air yeou a-goin' ter preach } " 
 
 " Not that I know of. I haven't decided what I 
 shall do." 
 
 " 'Pears like yeou orter. Yeour talk is saound sense. 
 Folks is tired o' doctrine, like bein' tired o' smoked 
 an' pickled meat, an' want sunthin' fresh, like dewty 
 an' sunshine. We've bed an awfle lot o' doctrine fust an' 
 last ; an' sometimes the more doctrine the more deviltry. 
 What I mean is, the more doctrine was preached, the 
 more the wicked pulled t'other way, like contr'y 
 steers. I've often thought them critters might a' ben 
 got hold on by the right man, — the man tnet'd take 
 'em right." 
 
 " You never have any but orthodox preaching here I 
 understand." 
 
 "No, 'less it's Methodist ; an' thet don't 'maount ter 
 much. Thcr' ain't but 'baout a dozen on 'em ; an' jes' 
 as soon's they git a leetle 'quainted 'ith their minister, 
 off he goes. I dunno ez ary Unitarian or Universallcr 
 ever preached in Ouabbin. We hear on 'em raound 
 abaout, like fer-off thunder in a summer arternoon, but 
 they never come a-nigh." 
 
 "I think, as time goes on, preaching will be more 
 practical. Religion is a matter of life and character. 
 Christ never talked theology, and if you could have 
 asked his disciples, it isn't likely that any two of them 
 would have agreed upon a system^ for they probabl\- had 
 
292 QUABBIN 
 
 none ; but they all knew what Christ wanted them to 
 do and be." 
 
 " Wal, young man, yeou're tlie man tcr du it. Yeou 
 sh'd take up preachin'. Folks is tired o' 'lection an' all 
 thet ; many hain't the head to un'erstan' it. But ef 
 they kin see thet they're in etarnity right naozu, an' 
 that fiao7us the time ter du good an' be good, they 
 won't wanter go a-mournin' all their days, so's to make 
 ready for the joyful herearter." 
 
 *' But in spite of doctrinal preaching, or, perhaps, on 
 account of it, you think the place has been improving.^ " 
 
 '' Land sakes, yis. Ye hain't no idee what a state 
 o' things ther' was when I. was a boy. Ther' was some 
 stiddy men an' good men, but ther' was an awfle lot o' 
 drunken, fightin', swearin' fellers, thet made the village 
 hot a'most every time th^y come into 't. They was 
 alius raisin' Cain, cuttin' off boss's tails, an' pizenin' 
 honest dogs. Oh, things is quieted daown. Ther's less 
 h'ash talk, more schoolin', comf'tablerhaousen, an' nicer- 
 lookin' women an' childern. Folks go an' come, sence 
 the railroad, an' they bring new idees. Ouabbin's 
 a leetle taown, an' alius will be; but ther' ain't no 
 place so lonely's in the ol' times." 
 
 The conversation went on with increased animation, 
 and the two men, strangers until that day, were becom- 
 ing friends. Wentworth was always pleased to talk 
 with a straightforward and natural man. They were 
 leaning against the fence, and the farmer was showing 
 him how he calculated the contents of a log. 
 
 There was a sound of wheels in the sandy road, and 
 Wentwortli, looking up, saw a light wagon coming, in 
 which were Miss Wicks and the Grant sisters. They 
 were evidently taking a drive around the hill. He 
 
A TALK BY THE ROADSIDE 293 
 
 raised his hat and bowed, and was civilly greeted in 
 return. When they had passed, Captain Newcomb 
 said, — 
 
 "A gal o' good sense, thet Miss Wicks is. She ain't 
 no gre't beauty, but she looks good 'nough tu eat. 
 She won't hev no gre't fortin', sech ez the Grant gals 
 '11 git some day, but it's my 'pinion she hain't' her ekal 
 in taown." 
 
 *'You think well of the Misses Grant also, do you 
 not .? " 
 
 '' Oh, yis ; they're smart an' well-eddicated, an' though 
 folks say they air high-flyers, I don't think ther's any- 
 thin' />'<'?'(^/abaout 'em. They've got larnin' an' hev seen 
 life, an' air goin' to hev money 'nough ter du what 
 they wanter ; so I don't wonder they caper over Ouab- 
 bin ez though 'twa'n't o' much 'caount. The youngest 
 hed a love-scrape a year or two ago 'ith a schoolmaster ; 
 but I guess she's got over it, an' none the wuss. But 
 the Wicks gal's the one for uiy money." 
 
 '' Miss Wicks appears to be all you sav." 
 
 "Yis ; but her father's curus. He jest turns raound 
 the minister like the moon raound the airth. Ef the 
 minister says, 'It's fair weather,' why, 'tis fair; ef he 
 says, ' Go back an' git an umberell,' why, he goes back. 
 Ez long's the minister stays here, an' Mr. Wicks lives, 
 no feller need think he kin git that girl 'thout hcvin' 
 the minister on his side." 
 
 " From the number of ancient spinsters, there does 
 not seem to be much marrying here." 
 
 " No ; we've lost aour young people, an' keep a-losin' 
 'em. This region hez gin' its life-blood ter the West- 
 ern country; fust ter York State, then ter 'llio, Indi- 
 anny, Michigan, an' so on. 'Stonishin', when I think 
 
294 QUABBIN 
 
 on't, haow they've gone. Eenamost every haouse hez 
 lost its sons or darters, or both. No, ther's leetle 
 nicrryin' naow, 'cej)' naow an' then when some ol' 
 gran'ther merries a widder in caps an' false hair. But 
 thet ain't Dicrryiti ! It's on'y a trick to save usin' a 
 brass warmin'-pan. Sech weddin's ez them on'y make 
 me feel lonesome. I couldn't go to one on 'em ; 'twould 
 grip me by the throat. I'd ruther go tu a fun'rul, an' 
 done "ith it, ef so I could noniernate the corpse." 
 
 Two chance seeds had been planted in Wentworth's 
 mind, whose development might determine his future ; 
 one, that it was, perhaps, his duty to preach the gospel ; 
 the other, that Miss Wicks was worth consideration. 
 
 *' Du yeou ever go a-fishin' t " asked the farmer. 
 
 ''Seldom," said Wentworth. "I walk about the 
 country whenever I can : it refreshes me, soul and 
 body ; but fishing seems to me a rather indolent amuse- 
 ment ; and then, I never have any luck, which is the 
 same as to say I have no skill." 
 
 " I don't fish much, nuther, but I like sometimes to 
 go to a quiet, shady place 'long with some sensible 
 feller. While yeou air flingin' a line yeou don't talk 
 much; only a word naow an' then, — jest the notion 
 of the minnit, — sunthin' like a float that bobs on 
 the wMter when an idee comes along ; an' the pond, an' 
 the trees, an' bushes say the rest on't. Naow ther's 
 a pond not more'n a mile f'm here, an' not fer f'm the 
 road ; an' when yeou air on the bank yeou can't see a 
 haouse nor a sign of a livin' creetur'. Yeou'd think 
 yeou was ten miles in the woods ; jest trees an' sky, 
 an' a poorty leetle pond, raound ez a bowl, so still, an' 
 a'most mournful-like, cf it wa'n't fer the water-lilies." 
 
 " You make me wish to see the pond," said the 
 
^■I 
 
A TALK BV THE ROADSIDE 295 
 
 schoolmaster ; " and I like your notion of nature's 
 filling in the gaps in a conversation. Yes, I should 
 like to go with you some good day." 
 
 *' Take the fust lowery day, when it ain't actilly 
 rainin.' I've poles an' lines, an' yeou might bring 'long 
 a couple of new hooks. Some leetle shaver in the 
 village will git us the shiners" (minnows). "We 
 mayn't ketch pickerel, but we'll hev the fun of tryin'." 
 
 " The good people of Quabbin will think us a couple 
 of boys." 
 
 " I alius expect to be a boy myself. An' ther's no 
 man that is a man, who can't be a boy sometimes." 
 
296 QUABBIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 AN ARRIVAL 
 
 The morning stage-coach from the " Deepo " (the 
 nearest railroad station), one day brought to the village 
 hotel (styled '* tavern " no longer) a passenger, whose 
 appearance and "kit" excited some curiosity. There 
 were straggling groups of people near the hotel veranda 
 and about the post-office, who, besides diligently chew- 
 ing tobacco, had the responsible duty of inspecting the 
 daily arrivals, and, in consequence, felt themselves 
 relieved from other work. 
 
 The stranger was of medium height, and wore a soft, 
 gray, broad-brimmed hat, a brown velvet "cut-away" 
 coat, conspicuous white wristbands, a wide linen collar 
 turned down over a poppy-colored silk necktie, and a 
 full, dark, wavy beard, showing gleams of red in the sun. 
 He had been seated beside the driver, and stepped 
 down lightly, as one to whom an alert movement was 
 habitual. His features were pleasing, and the expres- 
 sion of good-humor in his brilliant gray eyes, together 
 with the smile that at times lifted his ruddy mustaches 
 and disclosed his white teeth, arrested general atten- 
 tion. This person was a problem for the inspectors on 
 duty, both at the post-office and the hotel. 
 
 "Tell ye wliat, Hi," said a lank fellow in a palm-leaf 
 hat, whose dress consisted mainl}' of a shady woollen 
 
AN ARRIVAL 297 
 
 shirt, and a pair of loose trousers, hoisted almost to his 
 armpits by leather '' galluses," the ends being tucked 
 into the faded red tops of a pair of mouldy looking 
 boots, *' tell ye what, thet's a curus chap. Jes' look at 
 thet baird 1 " 
 
 ** Je-\vhillikins ! " exclaimed the second inspector, thus 
 appealed to, — a sturdy fellow all in russet from his hair 
 to his boots. *''Tis a baird, an' no mistake. Aiii t it 
 nasty 1 I sh'd think I was some sort o' critter or other, 
 ef I let hair grow all over my face an' mouth like thet 
 air. I hain't seen nothin' like it, 'ceptin' ol' Lamson's, 
 an' hisn was white. An', I say, Obed, jes' look at thet 
 velvet jacket ! " 
 
 *' Yis," said Obed ; ^' an' thet red neckhan'kercher. 
 A pooty lively chap he must be." 
 
 ** What d'ye think he is?" said Hiram. "A circus- 
 rider } " 
 
 '* Wal, no ; I sh'd think he's more likely ter be a 
 trillerkist " (ventriloquist), '' or sleight-o'-hand feller, or 
 one o' them thet crawls inter a hot oven, and drors in 
 arter him a piece o' beef to roast." 
 
 "Anyhow, he's some sort o' showman. An', see 
 ther' ! What's the driver handin' daown .'' Some sort 
 o' wooden frame. Some o' his kit." 
 
 '' An' look," said Obed, *' for the land's sakes ! at thet 
 air white umbereller ! Big 'nough fer a Sunday-skule 
 picnic on a rainy day." 
 
 *' An' jes' see," continued Hiram, "thet all-fired long 
 handle tu it, 'ith an iron spike on the eend ! Wal, I 
 vum, thet's the beatenest ! " 
 
 " An' ther's his trunk, an' a carpet-bag, an' a m'hog- 
 any box 'itli brass handles. Oh, he's some kind o' 
 showman, fer sartin ! " 
 
298 QUABBIN 
 
 The object of this attention disappeared within the 
 hotel, and a few of the inspectors gathered to examine 
 his ** kit." The wooden frame was '' a stumper " for 
 them ; they could not make out the use of it. On the 
 trunk were the initials L. A. S., and on the brass plate 
 of the mahogany box was the name L. A. Stewart. 
 The name was unfamiliar to the inspectors ; it be- 
 longed to no '* trillerkist " or other showman they had 
 heard of. 
 
 Soon from an upper window of the hotel was heard 
 a voice calling in a marked New York accent, '* Waiter ! 
 waiter ! won't some one answer the bell ? I want a 
 pitcher of water, and to have my boots brushed." 
 
 The last was an unheard-of request, and caused 
 much unfavorable comment upon the veranda below : 
 "Couldn't he bresh his own boots ? " — " Wonder who 
 was his nigger ter hum .-^ " and other less compliment- 
 ary remarks. Then the opinion began to take form 
 that this "■ 'ristercrat who wanted so much waitin' on " 
 was, maybe, '' a lord, or some other kind o' furriner," 
 and there was intense curiosity to know what had 
 brought him to Quabbin. 
 
 The excitement was somewhat calmed when the 
 schoolmaster was seen approaching the hotel. David 
 Wentworth, who had been sent for, came to call on his 
 old friend and sometime classmate, Louis Stewart, and 
 there was a joyous meeting. Stewart was a landscape 
 painter, and had brought his easel and a box of colors, 
 to do some sketching. His sister had been a friend of 
 Miss Wicks, and of Eliza and Lois Grant at school, 
 and had recently been visiting them. The two friends 
 m.ade a brief call at both houses, and were warmly 
 received. All the young ladies were impressed by the 
 
AN ARRIVAL 299 
 
 painter's manners and presence. He had the air which 
 should belong to the best society, and his conversation 
 though lively was unobtrusive. He quite outshone 
 Wentworth on account of his knowledge of the world, 
 and familiarity with men of distinction ; although, per- 
 haps, in intellect and training, as well as in certain 
 ideal traits of character, the schoolmaster was the 
 superior. But Stewart's joyous nature, frank smile, 
 and unfailing tact, were irresistible. Wentworth had 
 the manners of a student, and his habitual life was 
 more interior, so that he was often silent when a man 
 of the world would have seen and improved oppor- 
 tunities. 
 
 If Stewart felt an inclination toward any of the 
 ladies, it was not shown ; but Wentworth was trans- 
 parent as a sunbeam, and his devotion to Miss Wicks 
 was always evident. It was clear that it was thought 
 much to the credit of the schoolmaster that he had 
 such a brilliant friend. There was much talk of scen- 
 ery, and plans were formed to take the artist to favorite 
 spots. Promising to return in the evening, the young 
 men took leave. 
 
 After the customary early dinner at the hotel, the 
 two friends went up Great Ouabbin, the schoolmaster 
 being the guide. On the way, as they paused to look 
 back, the painter's practised eye took in the calm 
 impression of the valley with the village and river, 
 the graceful curves of the cove, and the outlines of 
 the so-called mountains. The autumn colors were just 
 beginning to glow, and the landscape was as warm as a 
 picture by Cuyp. At the top they roamed over the 
 broad convexity, among the surprised cattle that ran 
 and capered, and tlien stopped and snorted. Now they 
 
300 QUABBIX 
 
 were looking at the blue cloud which was Monadnock, 
 
 — now at the black and strongly marked Holyoke 
 range, and toward the dim cone of Sugar Loaf, and now 
 to the sharp outline of a distant hill in Connecticut. 
 
 *' A delightful spot," said Stewart. " I could enjoy 
 this air and this prospect for hours." 
 
 "I have always felt here a singular repose," said 
 Wentworth, '* a repose that is in effect a quiet exalta- 
 tion, a pleasing loneliness, away from earthly affairs, 
 and from black care." 
 
 "If it were new to you, it would not seem reposeful. 
 The breadth of view, — over a hundred miles, I judge, 
 
 — is glorious, uplifting. It is not the height of this 
 hill, for it cannot be more than eight hundred feet, but 
 its fortunate position which makes the grand outlook. 
 Our eyes sweep over what seems like a vast plain on 
 which young mountains have sprouted, and are just 
 heaving up their round heads. No, this is not a place 
 for repose. My thoughts rise from this plateau, hover 
 over all those billowy ranges and deep-sunk valleys, and 
 bathe in that mist of gold in the west. I could do 
 anything here but paint. This scene could be repre- 
 sented only in a panorama." 
 
 They walked down the hill toward Crombie's bridge, 
 and then sauntered along the river. 
 
 "Now, here I could paint," said Stewart ; "here are 
 several points of view, — that quaint old timber bridge, 
 the glossy black water, which looks evil enough to have 
 drowned many a thoughtless swimmer, the frayed cur- 
 tain of willows and alders ; and then, looking the other 
 way, that dense heap of tree-tops, and the white spire 
 over them ; yes, I could make some pictures here." 
 
 "A little farther down stream," said Wentworth, 
 
AN ARRIVAL 301 
 
 " there is a place where the river has left its old bed 
 and cut a new channel ; and there is a scries of curv- 
 ing embankments, one stretching out beyond the other, 
 and always returning. Seen from below, they are like 
 grass-grown fortifications ; from above they are simply 
 rings of excavations. Nature is smoothing them over, 
 but will not soon obliterate them. There are some 
 rather fine trees too. We will see them some day." 
 
 ''The factories are ugly," said Stewart, looking to- 
 ward the village, "• but the little river is pretty ; and the 
 May of the land' is charming. In early times, when 
 the region was wilder, it must have been beautiful." 
 
 " I wish you would set up your easel somewhere in 
 this meadow." 
 
 *' I will ; but first I want to look the ground over. 
 Has any one sketched here.'' " 
 
 " Not that I know of. It is an out-of-the-way place. 
 And besides, artists generally look for more contrasts 
 or strong effects." 
 
 "■ I know that is the tendency ; but an artist ought to 
 find use for all his power and skill in painting even the 
 simplest scene. There isn't a spot I walk over when I 
 am in the country, not a tree or bush, not a living 
 creature, in which there is not something that appeals 
 to me." 
 
 *' I am not an artist ; but an untaught man, perhaps, 
 may have a similar feeling. I see men with heavy 
 boots trampling upon bunches of green and gold moss, 
 or on leaves whose veins and colors are bevond art, 
 and with no more thought of the delicate things they 
 are crushing than an ox. Leaves must be trodden on, 
 but, apart from that, there is seldom any sense of the 
 sacredness of God's work." 
 
302 . QUABBIX 
 
 '' People suppose that beauty is to be sought for in 
 some far-away region, and under exceptional conditions ; 
 when it is at their own doors, and wherever they go. 
 If they really loved nature, this would not be so." 
 
 "Love of nature does not seem to be common in the 
 country, — not hereabouts. As for city people, I be- 
 lieve it is mostly the novelty that appeals to them ; 
 while the feeling is fresh they are exalted, but unless 
 it has some root in the heart it soon withers." 
 
 '' The chatter of fashionable people about the loveli- 
 ness of rural scenes never touches me," said the painter. 
 " I prefer the frank brutality of a countryman, who, if 
 he feels nothing, pretends nothing." 
 
 *'* Frank brutality' exactly expresses the state of 
 things here," said Wentworth, '* both as to nature and 
 art. I have seen only one picture in Ouabbin that 
 could be called artistic ; and that is the portrait of a 
 retired China merchant, a man of evident distinction. 
 It is well painted, and mellow as an autumn sunset. 
 There isn't another picture in town, except one of an 
 old doctor, that you would look at ten seconds. There 
 are a few engravings, commonly heads of famous 
 preachers or other public men. One that is often seen 
 is a grim portrait of Caleb Strong, of Northampton, a 
 former governor. Most frequently you will see in the 
 parlor, among wrought * sam})lers ' and funereal urns, 
 various-colored lithographs. Consider, if you can, what 
 that means, — a coarse, ill-drawn picture of a general on 
 a prancing horse, or of a girl with a kitten or puppy, 
 or a mother with a child, or the like ; and then the 
 color! — crude red and blue, put on thick, as children 
 daub j)icture-books. You will see such atrocities in 
 the houses of worthy people who ought to know better. 
 
AN ARRIVAL 303 
 
 But there is a lower deep. Image venders have found 
 their way to this Arcadia, or Boeotia, and liave brought, 
 not the pretty figurines, the little Bacchuses, Venuses, 
 and Mercuries, — those would be improper, and perhaps 
 idolatrous, — but plaster vases of plaster fruits, rudely 
 colored ; a vivid green apple, a yellow and red peach, 
 and a bunch of purple grapes, stuck in a heap upon the 
 ghastly white plaster. It makes one feel ill to think 
 of it." 
 
 "And yet," said the painter, ''while I sympathize in 
 vour distress, all this shows the existence of a lono-ins: 
 for beauty, — in color, at least, — and a groping toward 
 the light ; just as the flower-pot at the sewing-girl's 
 window, and the poppies and pinks by the laborer's 
 door, show a yearning for something beyond the satis- 
 faction of primary wants. There is a foothold for art 
 everywhere." 
 
 " Since people of taste generally agree about forms 
 and colors," said Wentworth meditatively, '' I wonder 
 if the arrangements and harmonies of nature are abso- 
 lutely beautiful in themselves, or if they seem beautiful 
 because we have become accustomed to them, and 
 educated by them 1 The richness of color in those 
 maples, with the ground of green grass, and with the 
 blue sky and wliite clouds, seem to our e}'es a per- 
 fect whole ; but should we have thought the arrange- 
 ment ugly or incomplete, if it had been otherwise 
 predestined } " 
 
 " I will answer you with a paral)le that I have long 
 ]"i:ul in mind," said Stewart. "There was a i-ace "of 
 l)cings that lix'cd liabitually in a dim light, and fountl 
 themselves well nurtured and content. The surface of 
 their world w^as smooth, and of a uniform dark red. 
 
304 QUABBIN' 
 
 Slight vegetation was apparent, except in tracts where 
 grew tall, silky bushes, very frail and easily swayed. 
 Some of these bushes appeared as tall as trees, but all 
 had the same slender stalks, as if they were mere fila- 
 ments leaninir on each other. The colors of this vesfe- 
 tation ranged from silver gray to turquoise and beryl. 
 The combination of the universal red ground with the 
 gray, green, and blue shrubbery, whether in the forests 
 and jungles, or in the more open spaces, was very 
 striking. The inhabitants thought it perfect and pre- 
 destined, and their philosophers taught that the exist- 
 ence of a Creator was proven by the fact of this 
 harmonious correspondence, which could not have come 
 about by chance, and which, they said, was absolute, 
 and founded in the nature of things. They could not 
 conceive of any other colors. Their artists also praised 
 the frail, swaying, silky shrubbery, and found in it a 
 new proof of wise design. 
 
 ** Their world was pervaded by a peculiar odor, not 
 wholly unpleasant ; it was in themselves, the soil, pro- 
 ductions, and atmosphere. They professed they could 
 not imagine a world without this odor ; and this was 
 another proof of goodness and wisdom. 
 
 " Their world was of some extent, and few had trav- 
 elled over it ; where they were born, there within narrow 
 limits they lived and died. But the most adventur- 
 ous had never found rocks or caverns, or streams of 
 water. It was wonderfully uniform, and was made 
 to be the home of millions, — the best of possible 
 worlds for material uses, and for the divine sense of 
 beauty. 
 
 '* Their happiness long continued under their dim 
 light, with their fore-ordained harmonies of color, 
 
AjV arrival 305 
 
 and with the odor which was a part of the system 
 of thinsfs. 
 
 " But one day there came a flash that lightened the 
 whole globe, then an earthquake shock, and a cata- 
 clysm. Trees and shrubs and clinging thousands were 
 swept away in universal ruin. 
 
 " The grocer's boy had opened a wire gauze safe, 
 and scraped a cheese." 
 
 " I see your drift," said Wentworth. *' You think 
 we have no faculty of independent judgment } " 
 
 " As much as a nursing child has to pronounce upon 
 the flavor and bouquet of its mother's milk." 
 
 '' Your parable is hard upon Paley." 
 
 "■ That is merely incidental. I was thinking of the 
 contrast between our assumption of absolute judgment 
 and our real helplessness. We are a part of the ar- 
 rangement, and cannot get away, any more than we 
 can jump from the globe into space. We talk of 
 'creation,' and have never drawn an original line. The 
 genius is the fortunate fellow who comes upon things, 
 — finds them. Forests and caverns tau^'ht us archi- 
 
 o 
 
 tecture ; frost-work, flowers, fruit, shells, and other 
 natural objects, have suggested ornament ; and the 
 earth and sky furnish our palette of colors. We com- 
 bine pre-existing elements, and never conceive anything 
 new. These thoughts, in some pedant's phrase, arc 
 obviosities ; and I bring them up only to show that our 
 appreciation of form and color is something inevitable. 
 Therefore anything which repels the eye of a sane, 
 cultivated, observing man is certain to be wrong. If, 
 by and by, chemistry should produce new tones of 
 colors that sting the eye, — some trenchant red, or 
 piercing blue, or remorseless green, — the vulgar might 
 
306 QUABBIN 
 
 be attracted, but tbe wise would shun them. The 
 color you do not find in nature is false in art." 
 
 "Your statement," said Wentworth, ''may be con- 
 sidered an artist's confession of faith, and it has sug- 
 gested, perhaps vaguely, several analogies. In medicine, 
 leading men are giving up the coarse and violent reme- 
 dies called 'heroics,' and are relying more upon the 
 curative power of nature. As air and water make 
 climate, it is seen that slight and impalpable things are 
 all powerful to build up or to undermine bodily health. 
 In steering a boat the merest touch upon the tiller 
 alters the course. In following nature man imitates 
 the Eternal Wisdom, which never expends the least 
 surplus of energy. And in theology there is a deep 
 movement, a disposition to return to nature, a new 
 faith in human possibilities. There is a growing dis- 
 trust of metaphysical subtilties, and of religious systems 
 laid out for demonstration, like theorems in geometry ; 
 of attempts at the analysis of the first cause, and 
 of the geography of the moral universe, or at settling 
 the future of all human souls. As we have what we 
 think are natural sentiments of justice, we ought not 
 to accept as true a scheme of the moral government of 
 the world which outrages those sentiments. This sen- 
 timent of justice is the witness of God in our hearts, 
 and it cannot be wrong or rash to trust it ; for nature 
 must be one with God." 
 
 Stewart looked at his friend with some curiosity, and 
 saw by his earnest manner that there was something 
 serious going on within. 
 
 They had passed the village, and were on the curves 
 near the cove. The western sun was touching the 
 spire, making its vane a gleam, and kindling all the 
 
AN ARRIVAL " 307 
 
 maples to a blaze. The sheet of water above the dam 
 showed fair reflections, and the hills were bricrht ajzainst 
 the sky. 
 
 *'We had better return," said Wentworth. ''Late 
 in the day it becomes chilly here." 
 
 "Well," said Stewart, ''you can call for me after 
 supper, and we will go to see the girls." 
 
508 OWABBIJV 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 The prospect from the Wilson place, on the western 
 side of the Great Hill, was reputed to be the finest in 
 the region. It was distant, and the road was hilly and 
 rough, but all who visited it came back in raptures. 
 David Went worth had finished his school, and was on 
 the point of returning to college; but he gladly stayed 
 on a few days to be with his friend Stewart. A party 
 was made up for an excursion to the famous spot, con- 
 sisting of Miss Wicks, the Grant sisters, the painter, 
 and the schoolmaster, and a newly arrived theological 
 student, James Stowe, who was Mr. Grant's guest. A 
 light stage-coach with a pair of horses was procured, 
 and a stable boy was engaged as driver. The vehicle 
 was not luxurious, but was comfortable, and the leathern 
 curtains were rolled up, to allow a view in all directions. 
 
 It was a fine day in September, and though the sun 
 was warm the air was cool and bracing. The forests 
 were still mostly green, though showing here and there 
 some brilliant spot of red or yellow. The maples along 
 the roadside were in their glory of mingled colors ; 
 golden-rod flamed in the pastures, and deep red spikes 
 of sumach were seen in the fence corners. Cattle were 
 crop]:)ing the late grass in the meadows, while red 
 pumpkins lay basking between the rows of Indian corn, 
 
AN EXCURSION 309 
 
 whose stiffening leaves gave a papery rustle as the light 
 airs lifted them. Crows gathered in the oaks in search 
 of acorns, and now and then swept down with harsh 
 cries upon the cornfields. Blue jays were screaming in 
 hazel bushes, and blackbirds were merry and busy. 
 
 After passing the West Branch the ascent was steady 
 for several miles, and the progress was slow. Farm 
 succeeded farm, where men or boys w^ere digging pota- 
 toes, or cutting corn-stalks for fodder, and stopped to 
 see the gay -looking party go by. Houses looked poorer, 
 and yards less tidy, as they ascended. At the doors 
 were rows of milk-pans in the sun, and under the win- 
 dows were strings of sliced apples or of red peppers. 
 There were no signs of squalor or suffering, but life 
 was evidently between narrow lines, and little enlivened 
 by gayety. 
 
 When the back-bone of the hill was crossed, the 
 coach stopped where the road began to descend, and 
 the party got out to walk. The farm they were to 
 visit was off the highway at the left, and the road lead- 
 ing to it was not considered safe. However, the coach 
 followed slowly and joltingly, and reached the spot 
 without an overturn. 
 
 While walking toward the pasture, Stewart said to 
 Wentworth apart, '' What sort of a fellow^ is this Stowe } 
 He looks bilious and sullen. Divinity, I think you 
 said. Is it a domestic parson, or a missionary for 
 export .'' " 
 
 "I know scarcely anything of him," replied Went- 
 worth. '' I believe he is in the last vear of his course, 
 and is already licensed to preach. He seems to follow 
 our friend Lois with his eyes." 
 
 "We will sec to that," said Stewart in his gay and 
 
3IO QUABBIN 
 
 triumphant way. " I don't want to lose a prize, — if it 
 should be a prize ; and I think a man might easily get 
 the better of that gloomy fellow." 
 
 Wentworth fell back to talk with Miss Wicks ; 
 Stewart succeeded in detaching Lois, — not without 
 some skilful tactics, — and the discomfited divinity stu- 
 dent followed with Eliza. When they reached the 
 spot, all sat down to enjoy the prospect. The driver 
 had hitched the horses to a fence, and followed on with 
 the luncheon-basket, volunteering to point out the 
 places in sight. 
 
 '' Thet nighcst taown ther' is Ahmust (Amherst). 
 Yeou kin see the colleges on the rise o' land, jest a 
 leetle Saouth. Daown yander is Maovmt Holyoke ; 
 yeou kin see the haouse on top on't. Jest across f'm 
 ther' is Ol' Hadley, wher' the river makes an ox-bow. 
 In among them woods is Northampton. Yeou kin see 
 tew steeples. Furder on is the Berksher Hills. It's 
 all kinder mixt they way, part woodsy an' part misty. 
 Thet air hill up yander, all blue an' pupple, is Sugar 
 Loaf. Ef 'twa'n't fer the mist you'd see a lot more 
 taowns. It's fust-rate land all the wav f'm Sunderland 
 daown ter the p'int of Holyoke. Jest ez pooty's ever 
 yeou see. Raise lots o' broomcorn. But to see it all 
 ther's a better place by yander rock." 
 
 Here the volunteer cicerone was thanked, and allowed 
 to retire. 
 
 "When we look across this beautiful basin," said 
 Wentworth, "and consider the wide space that has been 
 affected by the river in past ages, we try to think what 
 a mighty flood it must have been, and what a time 
 must have been required to cut its way between Tom 
 and Holyoke, and spread out the alluvial soil." 
 
AN EXCURSION 3 1 1 
 
 " The aspect of to-day is what interests me," said 
 Stewart. ** For a painter, the earth is like a belle, — 
 its beauty is only skin-deep. And then, Wentworth, 
 some of us may be tender-footed on the antiquity of 
 the earth." And he smiled at Mr. Stowe. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Stowe with solemnity; "religion 
 accepts the facts of geology, but without admitting the 
 necessity of such enormous periods of formation. God 
 could have created the world in one condition or in 
 another. He could have called it into being with all 
 its strata just as they are." 
 
 " God could have done manv thinsfs he has not chosen 
 
 J o 
 
 to do," said Wentworth. "Geology shows what he has 
 done. And as to creation, let me ask you if in the 
 Hebrew there is any notion of God's callins^ the world 
 out of nothing t I don't know Hebrew ; but I have been 
 told that in the passage, ' In the beginning,' etc., the 
 word ' created ' signifies 'formed,' and that creation, as 
 understood in theology, is the conception of a later 
 age." 
 
 " Don't answer him," said Stewart, laughing. "This 
 picnic isn't going to be turned into a Scripture debating- 
 society." Then calling the driver, he sent him to the 
 house for a teakettle of boiling water. " And now, 
 Wentworth," he continued, "you and Mr. Stowe can 
 spread out the luncheon ; say, some stratifications of 
 bread,<with interstices of butter, and some bowlders in 
 the shape of eggs. Divide that pie into six isosceles 
 triangles with curved bases, and cut down that fruit- 
 cake so as to exhibit the conglomerate elements, allow- 
 ing sixty degrees of the circumference in each segment." 
 
 Wentworth smiled at the timely rebuke. The bas- 
 ket was opened, a cloth was spread on the grass, and. 
 
312 QUABBIN 
 
 by the help of the young ladies, the luncheon was taste- 
 fully laid out. The youth soon returned with the hot 
 water, Miss Wicks infused some of her fragrant tea, and 
 the party sat down to enjoy the repast. 
 
 Then Stewart produced a small canvas and arranged 
 for it a support with sticks, in order to make a rough 
 sketch of the central part of the landscape. 
 
 Mr. Stowe, who had been lingering near, endeavoring 
 to enfrao:e Lois Grant in conversation, su2:£rested that 
 there would probably be a better view from the pro- 
 jecting point on the hillside mentioned by the driver, 
 which was a little distance farther ; but when she 
 caught an expressive look from the painter, she sat 
 down by his side, saying, " We can come here again for 
 this view, but there will not be an artist with us, and I 
 am curious to see how a sketch is made." 
 
 The easy way in which she shook off the attentions 
 of the divinity student, and devoted herself to the 
 painter, was amusing to all but one person. If Stowe's 
 self love was touched by the repulse, he had too much 
 pride to show it, and he began talking with Eliza as if 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 Said Wentworth to Miss Wicks, "The young preacher 
 would have preferred Rachel, but, if he cannot get her, 
 he will take up with Leah. After all, they should be 
 equally attractive ; they are both beautiful, and they 
 will inherit alike." » 
 
 *' Do you think he has mercenary motives } " 
 
 "■ Clergymen, as well as other people, marry rich 
 wives when they can, and that he has come here with 
 matrimonial intentions is clear enough." 
 
 "I suppose every minister needs a wife to help him 
 in his work," said Miss Wicks. 
 
AN EXCURSION' 313 
 
 *' And he would not find a rich father-in-law an 
 obstacle," said Wentworth. 
 
 " Does a painter like Mr. Stewart have a good posi- 
 tion in society?" asked Miss Wicks with some hesi- 
 tation. *' I mean a painter who lives by his work." 
 
 '' Yes, the best, — among liberal-minded people. If 
 a painter is successful, and a man of good character, 
 there is nothing equivocal about his position, either in 
 regard to income or social consideration." 
 
 " Isn't his dress just a little peculiar .^ " 
 
 "Perhaps so; but artists are allowed to dress as 
 they please ; while a financier or a lawyer who should 
 permit himself to wear a velvet coat or red necktie 
 would infallibly lose credit. I knov/ a man of character 
 and solid means, who was lately refused a discount at 
 a Boston bank because he wore mustaches. The 
 cashier bluntly told him the reason. In the world of 
 business there is no tolerance for eccentricity ; while 
 an artist is a 'chartered libertine,' — not in the evil 
 sense, you know." 
 
 After a little time Miss Wicks seated herself by 
 Lois, near Stewart, and looked on at his rapid work. 
 Mr. Stowe and Eliza Grant had gone on to the place 
 for the vaunted prospect, and for Wentworth there was 
 nothing to do but join the girls who were watching 
 Stewart's progress. He was not consciously jealous ; 
 but he felt his friend's social superiority, and he was 
 looking intently upon Miss Wicks's face to catch any 
 indication of her feeling. He saw that Stewart's fas- 
 cinating manner had made an impression upon all, and 
 that he might be, if he chose, a strong competitor, e\cn 
 with the gracious, sedate, or saintl\' Miss Wicks. The 
 three adjectives floated over her image in his mind, and 
 
314 QUABBIN 
 
 he was not sure which of them belonged to her. But 
 what likehhood was there that Stewart, who was in the 
 height of favor in New York society, would think seri- 
 ously of any country girl ? And if he did, would it not 
 be the pretty and vivacious Lois ? But, probably, he 
 was intent only upon the pleasure of the moment. 
 And then Wentworth judged himself a jealous fool to 
 have been seeking to intercept glances of intelligence, 
 and to have made himself miserable upon supposition. 
 Jealousy, as he reflected, was an irrational self-torture 
 at best. And what right had he to be jealous } 
 Thou2:h he adored Miss Wicks, she had not manifested 
 anything beyond courtesy and good-will. And then 
 the insurmountable obstacles, — his unfinished studies, 
 his lack of position and fortune, his liberal opinions. 
 ^* Fool, fool ! " he said to himself, '* better cram your 
 impulses back into your heart, get through this day, 
 keep out of temptation in future, and leave Ouabbin ! " 
 This wisdom, however, had only a short reign. 
 
 Meanwhile, the sketch was becoming a vivid impres- 
 sion, and the young ladies were full of admiration. 
 Soon Mr. Stowe and Eliza Grant returned with a glow- 
 ins: account of the view from the rock. Stewart cast 
 a rapid glance at them, and mentally observed that 
 there was something in their faces besides scenery. 
 But Went worth's regards were only for Miss Wicks ; 
 and he said, " Since we have come so far, perhaps we 
 ought to go there, and get the best view. Suppose 
 we all go .'' " 
 
 " Thank you, no," said Stewart. " I must not waste 
 a moment ; and I don't wish to confuse the impres- 
 sions of views from different points. The rest of you 
 can e:o." 
 
AN EXCURSION 3 I 5 
 
 Wentworth looked an earnest interrogation to Miss 
 Wicks, who, after a little hesitation, said, *' Yes, I will 
 go. Will you come too, Lois ? " Lois was evidently 
 reluctant, and answered, — 
 
 *' Perhaps I may follow you later. I am much inter- 
 ested in 02ir sketch." 
 
 The pair started off, while Mr. Stowe and Eliza 
 strolled about arm-in-arm, leaving the painter and Lois 
 by themselves. 
 
 If this young lady's thoughts could have been suc- 
 cessively photographed, the train would have appeared 
 something like this : — 
 
 *'A charming man; original, and a little brusque, 
 yet delicate and not egotistic. I don't read him clearly. 
 His heart is not worn on his sleeve. Can he be en- 
 gaged already } All engaged men ought to be labelled, 
 just as other mortgages are recorded. How he works ! 
 And he has not said one word that all the world might 
 not hear. Yet his eyes asked me to sit down beside 
 him. Perhaps he thinks he can throw his handker- 
 chief, like a sultan. Or perhaps he isn't a marrying 
 man ; artists are said to be queer ; and he talks about 
 loving his art. To love a woman is more to the pur- 
 pose. Now that Alma Wicks is away he might take 
 the time to say something nice. Anyhow sJic can't 
 have him alone. Eliza can have that dark-looking min- 
 \?>X.Q.x for all vie. I wonder if the schoolmaster will pro- 
 pose to Alma.'* I believe he is dying to; but she won't 
 have him : her father wouldn't let her. I should be 
 afraid to trust him ; he is to(^ much like Herman h^icld ; 
 too frank by half. I like this shrewd painter better. 
 All the same, I wish Wentworth would sometime pro- 
 jDOse to me. I might play with him, — just a little, — 
 
3l6 QUABBIN 
 
 and then I should refuse him ; and my account with 
 schoolmasters would be square. I wonder if Stewart 
 is like some artists, — the least bit of a niauvais sujet, 
 — what they call Bohemian? He is on the surface 
 free and off-hand, but perhaps — However, as he 
 doesn't paint nude figures, he has no need or excuse 
 for a model. Couldn't allow that on any account. 
 Wentworth and Alma Wicks will be coming back soon, 
 and that Stowe and Eliza may stumble in upon us at 
 any moment. Really, isn't he going to take advantage 
 of the interim, and say something pretty .? No, he 
 avon't. I have a great mind to leave him, and follow 
 Wentworth and Alma. But that would be mean. Let 
 the schoolmaster have his chance, and be put out of 
 his misery. How that brush goes, and how the dis- 
 tant hills start up on the canvas ! He doesn't dream 
 what I am thinking of. Perhaps he doesn't care. How 
 do the lines go } 
 
 " 'Alas, to seize the moment 
 , When heart inclines to heart, 
 
 And press a suit with passion 
 Is not a woman's part. 
 
 If tlie man comes not to gather 
 
 The roses where they stand, 
 They fade among their foliage, 
 
 They cannot seek his hand.' 
 
 "'Tis true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true. T wish I had been 
 born a man ! No, for then — No, 'tis better as it is. 
 I will queen it to the last. But it is sometimes hard to 
 be passive when the active ivle might serve so well." 
 
 And while she mused and raged, Stewart was brush- 
 ing away, bringing out misty hilltops, clustered trees, 
 points of spires, and gleaming streaks of river, but 
 
AN EXCURSION 317 
 
 without a tender word to the maid beside him. Did he 
 think of her? Yes, vaguely ; but it was as of "some- 
 thing that would keep." The thought was not im- 
 portunate. 
 
 " Your friend is an accomplished man," said Miss 
 Wicks to Went worth, as they walked away. 
 
 *' Yes ; and he was greatly admired in college. He 
 has a good mind aside from his artistic faculty, and 
 would have shone in any profession ; but he was born 
 a painter, and after a time he determined to give up 
 everything for art." 
 
 ** There seems to be a distinct type of men in New 
 York," said Miss Wicks. "They are easier and more 
 ao:reeab]e in manner than most Bostonians. I have 
 found Bostonians either meditative, or stiff, or self- 
 conscious." 
 
 " Something of the Puritan manner survives in 
 them," said Wentworth. "They are proud of family 
 and wealth, though not more so than New Yorkers, 
 and they add something of British 'grandeur' and 
 implacability. The New Yorker calmly rests on his 
 superiority ; the Bostonian doesn't intend that any- 
 body shall forget it." 
 
 " I presume you may be right, but I have seen few 
 young men from either city. You are not a Bostonian, 
 I believe } " 
 
 " No ; I am from a town near Boston." 
 
 " And you are about leaving Ouabbin, I hear." 
 
 "Yes; my school term has ended, and I must go 
 back to college. I am sorry niy time here has been so 
 short. A schoolmaster makes but a little ripple in 
 society ; but among my forty pupils I ho{)c there may 
 be some who will remember me." 
 
3l8 QUAE BIN 
 
 " You are sure to be remembered. A teacher may 
 influence his pupils' whole life ; and, in any event, if he 
 is a man of ideas, he cannot fail to make a lasting 
 impression upon young minds." 
 
 '' But there is a deeper reason for my regret in leav- 
 ing," said Wentworth. " I think you must have guessed 
 it. I have no art to conceal my feelings, and you must 
 have seen how much I admire you." 
 
 *' You are very kind to say so, but I ought not to let 
 you go on." 
 
 " And why not 1 I know I must complete my studies, 
 and that Time will not stand still for me ; but while I 
 am with you I am not my own master. You are more 
 to me than ambition or any earthly good." 
 
 ** And if I cannot reciprocate, it would be wrong not 
 to tell you, would it not } " 
 
 " I know the obstacles," he continued, as if he had 
 not heard her. ** I know that in my present state of 
 uncertainty I ought not to speak, — that silence would 
 better become me ; but I cannot put down the wish ; I 
 cannot forego the hope. I could not go away Vv^ithout 
 telling you." 
 
 " It may be a relief to you, but you should know it 
 is painful to me." 
 
 *' Is the knowledge that an honorable man loves you 
 painful ^ " 
 
 " Yes, when I know that his love cannot be re- 
 turned." 
 
 " Dear Miss Wicks, I do not ask for a return now. 
 I know that I have to toil some years before that can- 
 be ; but, when Providence opens the way, if 'you should 
 then be free, I shall come to offer you my love and my 
 life." 
 
AN EXCURSION 319 
 
 *' I am afraid that time is not likely to bring us any 
 nearer together." 
 
 '* May I ask if you feel aversion or indifference 
 toward me ? " 
 
 *' Not at all, Mr. Wentworth. You are very far from 
 disagreeable. I esteem you highly ; but as to marriage, 
 I could not think of it ; and I see I must be plain with 
 you." 
 
 " If it is not in my person, nor in what you know of 
 my character, I am at a loss." 
 
 " It would be enough to remind you of the time that 
 must pass. An engagement with a young man who is 
 still in college " — 
 
 '' But is there not somethinsf more } " 
 
 '' I need not give any other reason." 
 
 *' But is there not another — something quite differ- 
 ent ->. " 
 
 " I will be frank with you. IMy friends (and I mean 
 chiefly my father) believe that you are unsettled in your 
 religious belief." 
 
 '' Your friends think I am not quite orthodox. But 
 do you know that among the most conscientious men 
 there are those who cannot fit their conceptions into 
 the lines of any written creed } I have never re- 
 nounced the doctrines of the orthodox church in 
 which I was brought up, but I confess I have some 
 misGfivinsis." 
 
 *' When one begins to doubt, I have heard say, there 
 is no knowimr where he mav end." 
 
 " He will not end badly if he determines to follow 
 where truth leads." 
 
 " Our minister says the worst enemies of religion are 
 the unstable, who make conscience an excuse for doubt. 
 
320 QUABBIX 
 
 WHio can say where you will be found a few years 
 hence ? " 
 
 " I trust I shall always follow Christ ; and what 
 Christian can do more ? But that is not enough, I 
 know, for those who think there is no fruitful piety 
 unless it is nailed upon a theologic frame. And, as I 
 have declined assistance from the l^Lducation Society, 
 because I would not pledge myself to preach, I fear 
 I am regarded as little better than one' of the wicked. 
 But, I beg your pardon. Miss Wicks. It is not right or 
 courteous to argue in this way. I respect your right 
 to your opinions, and I hope we may never be wider 
 apart than we are now. Let me repeat that, whatever 
 you may say, I shall live in hope of becoming some day 
 worthy of you, at least in a measure." 
 
 Miss Wicks gently shook her head, while a melan- 
 choly smile — if a look in which warm regard and hope- 
 less pity were blended could be so called — played over 
 her expressive features. She gave him her hand, which 
 he kissed, and then they took their way back. Stewart 
 looked a moment at them as thev came near, and said to 
 himself, " There seems to be something discomposing 
 about that boasted view. When Stowe and Miss Grant 
 returned there was a look in their faces that could not 
 have been due to scenery, and now you two come back 
 completely upset, both of you." Then turning to his 
 companion, *' It is well we didn't go, Miss Lois, isn't it ? 
 There should be one sane and cheerful couple." 
 
 ''I don't know," said Lois; ''I fear I belong to the 
 flighty, rather than to those you call sane people." 
 
 '' And j^;/ desert me.'*" said Stewart, ''then I am 
 indeed unhappy. Well, wisdom will be justified of her 
 one faithful child." 
 
A A' EXCURSION 32 1 
 
 He had done all he proposed to his sketch ; and so, 
 taking up the canvas, he started with it toward the 
 coach, while Wentworth and Stowe gathered the dishes 
 and napkins into the basket. 
 
 *' I will sit beside the driv^er," said Stewart, " other- 
 wise it would be difficult to save the ladies' dresses 
 from being soiled by this fresh paint. Pity I haven't 
 learned to use water-colors." 
 
 Miss Wicks and Lois sat at the back ; Eliza and Mr. 
 Stowe took the middle seat, and Wentworth occupied 
 the front. It was a preoccupied and silent party inside. 
 The pair on the middle seat appeared thoughtful, yet 
 not unhappy ; Lois was still wroth on account of the 
 persistent silence of her companion during the day ; 
 Wentworth felt bitterly that his impetuosity had led 
 him into an impasse ; and Alma Wicks was wishing 
 that he had remained silent. Stewart, meanwhile, was 
 in excellent humor, holding his canvas on his knees 
 edgewise, and, when not too heavily jolted, whistling, 
 or humming, or singing in deep bass tones airs from 
 the " Masfic Flute." 
 
 After supper at the hotel, Wentworth and Stewart 
 strolled down toward the Crombie bridge. 
 
 '* Your departure seems sudden ; day after to-morrow, 
 you say 1 " said Wentworth. 
 
 *' Yes; I must be in my studio early in October, and 
 I want to visit Lake Georjie on the wav." 
 
 "■ I shall go when you go. Of course your sister had 
 told you, or written you, of these Ouabbin girls, had 
 she not .'* " 
 
 *' Yes ; and I confess I came here mainly to see 
 them." 
 
 '^ And which one do vou admire .'' " 
 
322 QUABBIN 
 
 ''Miss Wicks" — Wentworth's countenance fell. 
 "Miss Wicks, I was going on to say," said Stewart 
 gravely, '' is an almost ideally perfect character " — 
 
 '' Well ? " said Wentworth, in a rising and imperative 
 tone, indicative of extreme impatience. 
 
 "Ideally perfect in character for a wife" — and there 
 was a coming smile. 
 
 "What pauses!" ejaculated Wentworth. "For 
 Heaven's sake, do finish your sentence !" 
 
 " For the wife of a calm and philosophic person like 
 yourself," with a merry twinkle in his eyes. " I am not 
 worthy of her." 
 
 " Is any one V demanded Wentworth excitedly. 
 
 " Probably no one. But I don't think it worth while 
 to aspire. A less perfect woman would suit me 
 better." 
 
 " Such as Lois Grant, for instance .-* " 
 
 " Well, she is pretty and bright, and would make a 
 cheery wife for a melancholy man." 
 
 " You call yourself melancholy } " 
 
 " Whenever you see a fellow on stilts with good 
 humor in public, you may be sure he is a desponding 
 wretch when left to himself. I hope to go to Europe 
 next year to see the galleries. It is an easy matter 
 now; the New York clipper-ships cross in thirty days, 
 and sometimes even in twenty. If I were to marry, 
 that would be a glorious bridal trip. I shall try to be 
 saving, if that is possible, and make preparations ; and 
 I may ask a young lady to go with me." 
 
 " Why don't you ask her now 1 " 
 
 " The proverb says, * Never leap before you come to 
 the stile.'" 
 
 " Proverbs are rubbish. They are always cynical, 
 
AjV excursion 3-3 
 
 and they are seldom fitted to actual circumstances. A 
 word spoken now might prevent a sad misundcrstand- 
 ins: hereafter." 
 
 '' I'll think of it. By the way, you were eager just 
 now to know what I was gomg to say of Miss Wicks." 
 "Naturally I was eager. I worship her ! " 
 *' I rather thought that the prospect you went out 
 with her to see was not that of the Connecticut Valley, 
 but of the land of promise, like that from Pisgah." 
 *' No promise in it for me, I assure you." 
 *' The sad tone of your voice is catching. Let us cry." 
 Then Wentworth told his friend, what the reader 
 already knows, of Miss Wicks's tea-party, and of the 
 recent conversation on the hillside. 
 
 "The affair doesn't look promising," said Stewart. 
 " According to Dr. Johnson, no one is ever reasoned 
 out of a doctrine or position that he was not reasoned 
 into. Prejudice is inveterate, especially when it has 
 the sanction of religion ; there is no contending with it. 
 There is little chance for you, unless the lady should go 
 away from here, and come under different influences. 
 And you have not shown much tact. Why must you 
 blurt out your opinions } As you haven't broken with 
 her church, why need you have brought your pale 
 doubts out of the cellar where they have sprouted } 
 And why should you have tried an assault instead of a 
 carefully planned siege } " 
 
 " I must follow mv instincts," said Wentworth. " I 
 could not restrain my impulses, though I see I was un- 
 wise ; and, as to my blurting out opinions, I cannot and 
 would not conceal an honest thought, of whatever com- 
 plexion, not for any advantage." 
 "Not for Miss Wricks.?" 
 
324 QUABBIN 
 
 "■ Not for any woman," said Wentworth doggedly. 
 
 " Well, we'll think about it. You know v/e are to 
 take tea with the Grant family to-morrow. Curious 
 way they have in this village. Tea, indeed ! Why not 
 a dinner } " 
 
 " Dinner-parties are seldom given ; principally be- 
 cause everybody dines in the middle of the day. But 
 a tea, w^ith a re-enforcemcnt of steaks, chickens, and 
 oysters, is not a bad substitute for a dinner ; and then 
 a sociable evening follows." 
 
 *' I suppose we shall meet the minister and his wife." 
 
 "■ Yes, and James Stowe, who appears to have got on 
 well. You see, he didn't look at Miss Wicks, who, for 
 a minister's wife, w^ould be twice the woman that Eliza 
 Grant is." 
 
 " Unreasonable and perverse man that you are," said 
 Stewart, " to quarrel with a fellow because he did not 
 try to cut you out ! " 
 
 *' If Air. Wicks had been rich you would have seen ; 
 but Stowe knows that the Grant girls are going to in- 
 herit a pile of money, and he was bound to have one of 
 them, if he could get her." 
 
 The long drive and the events of the day had brought 
 fatigue, and the friends separated early. 
 
AiXOTHER TEA-PARTY 325 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 ANOTHER TEA-PART V 
 
 The tea-party given by the Misses Grant comprised 
 the minister and his wife, Mr. and Miss Wicks, Mr. 
 Stowe, Dr. Fletcher, Mr. Wentworth, and Mr. Stewart. 
 Mr. Grant and his daughters received their guests with 
 frank courtesy, and in the case of the minister it rose 
 to an affectionate and reverent greeting. The " tea " 
 was served in bountiful style, and Stewart afterward 
 acknowledged that no (teetotal) dinner could have been 
 more appetizing or substantial. After the repast was 
 over, the gentlemen were shown into the ''parlor," as 
 the drawing-room was called, while the ladies lingered 
 behind, according to custom. 
 
 The minister began to talk with the painter about 
 the scenery of the neighborhood, and the places he had 
 visited, and showed that he had some feeling for land- 
 scape, and some regard for art. Mr. Grant listened 
 with interest ; for though he knew that a painter might 
 be famous after death, he was not quite sure he would 
 be a man to be altogether respected while living. The 
 feeling among country people in regard to artists was 
 shown by the questions put to Wentworth by Miss 
 Wicks the day before. It will be rcmcmbci-ctl there 
 had never been an artist in Ouabbin, and the idea that 
 landscape painting could be really an honorable and 
 
326 QUABBIN • 
 
 lucrative profession had never occurred to such men as 
 Mr. Grant and Mr. Wicks. The latter said to Mr. 
 Stewart, " I wonder yeou don't paint portraits." — " Ah, 
 no," said Stewart, *'that is a distinct branch of the art. 
 Many great artists have painted portraits, but they 
 usually chose their subjects. In a portrait, character 
 is the thing ; and an artist might have twenty orders 
 before he would have a chance to do himself credit. 
 What is he to do when he is asked to paint all sorts of 
 people, — the dull, the mean, bigoted, avaricious, or cun- 
 ning } How will he make a brilliant picture out of an 
 insipid or vulgar woman t " 
 
 '' But if he makes likenesses ? " said Mr. Grant. 
 
 *' A mere map of the features is nothing without the 
 soul," said Stewart. "If a portrait does not reveal 
 character it is not art. The new and wonderful sun- 
 pictures of Daguerre, taken on silver plates, ought to 
 satisfy those who want mere likenesses ; although, as 
 the sitter has to be motionless in glaring sunlight for 
 some minutes, his eyes are apt to blink. I suppose you 
 you have seen them, Mr. Grant ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I saw them in Boston at Plumb's. They are 
 not taken in the country yet." 
 
 ''You are from New York.'*" said the minister to 
 Stewart. 
 
 *' I live there, though I was born at some distance 
 from the city." 
 
 " By your name you must be of Scottish descent, like 
 myself." 
 
 "Yes. My grandfather came from Scotland." 
 
 " We have great reason to rejoice in the Christian 
 light and liberty of this land," said the minister. " It 
 is in many things like Scotland." 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 327 
 
 '' And yet there are differences," said Stewart. ^* For 
 instance, liberty has a meaning here that is not known 
 anywhere else." 
 
 "In speaking of liberty," said Wentworth, ''you 
 mean probably to include equality." 
 
 *' Certainly," said Stewart. ''Where there is not 
 political equality, there is no true liberty." 
 
 "Where did the notion of political equality first 
 appear t " asked Wentworth of the minister. " Do you 
 find it in the early laws or customs of the colony ? " 
 
 "It had not occurred to the Puritans, I think," replied 
 the minister. " They were Britons, and apparently had 
 never questioned law and usage as to established ranks 
 and orders of men. They were little given to theoriz- 
 ing, and let things grow." 
 
 "The most remarkable of their institutions," said 
 Wentv\^orth, " was the town, and that, as you say, grew 
 up. It is the most important feature in local govern- 
 ment, the realization of democracy. As to equality, it 
 must have come from France. It was never heard of, 
 as I believe, before it was incorporated in the Declara- 
 tion of Independence." 
 
 "Well," said Stewart, "there is another idea which 
 appears to be embraced in your phrase 'Christian light 
 and liberty,' and that is religious toleration. Where 
 did that come from .'* " 
 
 " Evidently not from the founders of Massachusetts," 
 said Wentworth. "The history of the colony is full 
 of painful proofs to the contrary." ^ 
 
 " No," said the minister; "it must be confessed tlie 
 fathers of this State were not 'tolerant.' Unhappily 
 they did not see that truth by its own nature and jkuio- 
 ply is invulnerable, and needs no protection from the 
 
328 QUAE BIN 
 
 temporal power. Roger Williams, whom they did not 
 understand or appreciate, appears to have been the 
 first in Christendom to perceive this just doctrine." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say that," said Went worth. 
 ''Many are so fearful of countenancing reproach upon 
 the Puritan fathers, that they wander away from the 
 point of ethics, and defend the early intolerance on the 
 crround that the exclusion of heretics and malecon- 
 tents was a political necessity." 
 
 ** Was it not a political necessity t " asked Mr. Stowe. 
 " And, as the colonists were what we might call a pri- 
 vate corporation, were they not right to keep out any 
 intruders whom they judged dangerous to their little 
 state ? " 
 
 " The political reason may have been urgent," said 
 Wentworth ; " but that is not taking high ground. It 
 is defending a false position in morals by reasons of 
 expediency." 
 
 " The fathers were wise in their generation," said 
 the minister, *' but I don't think they consciously took 
 a low position in regard to Christian ethics. They 
 were taught by many trials, and generation by gener- 
 ation they rose into clearer light ; but from the begin- 
 ning they had high and noble aims, and impressed their 
 character upon the colony. Few founders of churches, 
 and few lawgivers, have higher claims upon the admira- 
 tion of mankind." 
 
 *' What you say of their character is true," said 
 Wentworth. 
 
 "There is another criticism," said Stewart. "A 
 friend of mine, wlio is a student of constitutional law, 
 finds fault with the early legislation, and especially 
 with the administration of law, as showing ignorance 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 329 
 
 of legal principles, as well as low and narrow views of 
 the functions of government. He says that lawyers 
 had been excluded, and not allowed to practise, and 
 that they had no standing — in Massachusetts at least 
 — until about the time of the Revolution; that for 
 a hundred years persons were appointed magistrates 
 who were notoriously incompetent ; that the clergy did 
 their best to set up the Mosaic code ; that, in short, 
 there was an almost total subversion of justice as it 
 had been administered for centuries in English courts. 
 You see, I reel off what my friend told me. I am not 
 a lawyer." 
 
 *' The influence of the clergy has been often the sub- 
 ject of unfriendly comment," said the minister, ''and the 
 government has been called a theocracy ; but I believe 
 that in early times the Puritan ministers had no undue 
 influence, no more than was exercised by the Romish 
 or the Episcopal clergy. The times are altered. In 
 an age of faith the people willingly followed their 
 spiritual leaders." 
 
 '' That hardly meets the case," said Stewart. " If 
 what my friend says is true, the Puritan clergy not only 
 wanted the influence and leadership to which they were 
 entitled, but determined there should be no other. 
 They feared able lawyers, and preferred uneducated 
 magistrates whom they could manage. No other lead- 
 ing church has suppressed lawyers." 
 
 "Are lavv^yers so very important } " asked Mr. Stowe. 
 " Do they not, as a class, stir up strife, and despoil 
 both plaint,iff and defendant by the machinery of 
 courts i 
 
 " Can you have an intelligent school of medicine 
 without ph\sicians .-^ " said Stewart, "or of theology 
 
330 QUAE BIN 
 
 without an educated clergy ? And can there be a 
 system of law without trained lawyers ? It is not 
 wortli while to dwell upon the knavery of pettifoggers. 
 It is better to look at law with the eyes of Hooker 
 or Bacon. What basis has society, what protection 
 is there for property, for liberty, or for life, but in a 
 settled system of law.? " 
 
 " I should think that many of the troubles of the 
 colony," said Wentworth, ** arose from the want of 
 legal knowledge, and from disregarding the rules of 
 judicial procedure. I am a Puritan to the last drop 
 of my blood, but it appears to me that the course of 
 the early rulers of Massachusetts in endeavoring to 
 administer justice without regard to Vv^hat we should 
 now call constitutional principles and methods was the 
 occasion of calamities and scandals." 
 
 '' The Christian liberty and light of which you 
 speak," said Stewart to the minister, " is complex, and 
 seems to have largely come from without. The legacy 
 which the Puritans left was personal liberty (as far as it 
 was then possible), and with it an exalted character, full 
 of faith and zeal. For political equality, which is the 
 latest phase of democracy, we are indebted to Jeffer- 
 son and Rousseau ; while for toleration, which is the 
 Christian corollary of equality, we are indebted, as you 
 have said, to Roger Williams. These related doctrines 
 are now so universally accepted, we easily forget that 
 equality and toleration are so modern, and were once 
 so foreign to the thought of the fathers." 
 
 "I haven't anythin' to say agin toleration," said 
 Mr. Wicks, " though what them Methodists (not 
 more'n two'r three dozen on 'em), git by goin' tu their 
 meetin' which they couldn't git by goin' to aourn, I 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 33T 
 
 dunno ; but I shouldn't like to sec the time come when 
 the ministers won't hev any word ter say abaout makin' 
 the laws. I was allers sorry when people was let out 
 from payin' the minister-tax. The whole people oughter 
 contribute ter the s'port of the gospel, ez the whole 
 people gits the benefit on't." 
 
 Mr. Wicks was a man of fair practical sense, but his 
 mind moved in unexpected curves, rather than in right 
 lines. 
 
 **True," said Mr. Grant. "What would liberty and 
 law be worth without Christian principle ?" 
 
 " The preachin' of the gospel, an' the influence of 
 the church," continued Mr. Wicks, " is what holds 
 thinsfs tocrether. Relioion's better'n sheriffs an' con- 
 
 o o o 
 
 stables. Who makes th' expense of courts but the un- 
 believers ? Who fills the jails an' poor-haouses but 
 th' unbelievers } The taxes for sech things fall on 
 sober an' God-fearin' men, who ain't responsible for 
 the bad behavior. So I say the unbelievers oughter 
 pay their sheer fer preachin'." 
 
 " I am afraid your arguments," said Dr. Fletcher, 
 "are like tools carried loose in a basket, — they cut one 
 another. If we admit that the church restrains crime, 
 and so lessens the expense for criminals, then the min- 
 ister tax is for vour advantaire. But do vou think the 
 unbelievers would behave better if they were compelled 
 to support worship which they wouldn't attend?" 
 
 " I can't say," said Mr. Wicks. " On'y I feel 't they 
 oughter be made ter du it." 
 
 " I lately had a talk with one of your elderly people," 
 said Wentworth, " and he told me that in the old times 
 when all paid the minister tax, the conduct of the in- 
 temperate and depraved was far worse than now. They 
 
332 QUAE BIN- 
 
 were often drunk, or indecent, or malicious, from sheer 
 perversity or defiance." 
 
 "It is pretty certain," said Dr. Fletcher, "that men 
 are not reformed from drinking-habits, nor made moral 
 or religious by law." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mr. Stewart, "as long as they 
 think they are wronged as well as coerced." 
 
 " True religion," said Mr, Stowe, " comes from di- 
 vine grace, and is an inward life, while law can only 
 control the outward action." 
 
 " I have been reflecting upon the analysis you made 
 of liberty," said the minister to Mr. Stewart, "and I 
 would suggest that, although neither political equality 
 nor religious toleration originated with the Puritans, 
 yet their character counted for so much, — I mean 
 their sublime faith and truth, their conscientiousness, 
 courage, and self-devotion, — that the State and society 
 they founded was in many respects unexampled. We 
 admit that Rousseau developed the doctrine of political 
 equality ; but what a wretched use his disciples made of 
 it ! Roger Williams was the apostle of toleration, — all 
 honor to him ! — but is Rhode Island to-day in any way 
 more advanced than Massachusetts } A people actuated 
 by high and holy motives goes on developing its 
 powers, and receives new light from whatever quarter. 
 But the most perfect system of political and moral 
 philosophy would not have built up our State, if the 
 cliaracter of its founders had been other than it 
 was." 
 
 " I cannot abide the spirit that is forever seeking to 
 disparage the Puritans and Pilgrims," said Mr. Stowe 
 with warmth. " It isn't honorable or decent to belittle 
 our ancestors; nor is it just to try them by modern 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 333 
 
 standards. In actual worth they were heroes com- 
 pared wifh the puny time-servers of to-day." 
 
 "The Puritans were not my ancestors," said Stewart 
 calmly. ''They are entitled to veneration for what 
 they were and did; but their principles and policy may 
 be properly judged in the light of history, as we judge 
 of the ideas and conduct of the Covenanters, and of the 
 Long--Parliament men. It does not appear to me dis- 
 honorable or indecent to point out their errors or fail- 
 ings ; because such lessons are proper for the instruction 
 of mankind." 
 
 The entrance of the ladies put an end to the discus- 
 sion ; and after a little time the piano was opened, and 
 there were songs, duets, and instrumental pieces. The 
 minister had a refined taste in music, within certain 
 limits, and was an attentive listener ; his wife was a 
 woman of vigorous mind, with few feminine elegances, 
 and wholly absorbed in her husband and his work ; but 
 she smiled upon the singers in a way that was meant 
 to be gracious. Dr. Fletcher, who was a frequent guest, 
 stood by the piano, and turned over the leaves, while 
 his head kept airy time with the music, turning now 
 and then with a triumphant look at the company, as if 
 to emphasize some striking passage. He had been an 
 admirer of Lois Grant, and had worn for her his finest 
 costumes ; but, as he had made little headway, he was 
 now thinking of cultivating an intimacy with Eliza ; 
 and his attentions to her were so marked that the 
 divinitv student's dark face soon became a dimry iireen. 
 Went worth was near Miss Wicks, and was very quiet. 
 He felt that if he should ever win it would be in a 
 waiting race. 
 
 The painter was in excellent humcjr, in sfjite of the 
 
334 QUABBIN 
 
 little breeze in the discussion, and he adapted himself 
 with easy grace to the gayety of Lois, the gravity of 
 her father, and the sombre dignity of the minister, in 
 turn. The minister often smiled, but it was like the 
 play of wintry sunlight on marble. He could not make 
 out Stewart. The painter was a man of the world, and 
 that was not the sign of a godly man. Evidently, also, 
 he was a man of ideas, well read, and well trained ; and 
 that of itself was a problem ; for half a century ago 
 there were few cultivated men outside of the learned 
 professions. The minister continued to look askance 
 at Wentworth, and was uneasy at the thought that the 
 teacher and his friend Stewart had become intimate 
 with favorite members of his flock. 
 
 The party was soon divided into groups. The minis- 
 ter had a quiet conversation with Mr. Stowe, and 
 learned that he proposed to enter the service of the 
 ''American Board" as a missionary to the Nestorians, 
 and that he desired to take with him Eliza Grant as 
 help-meet. The minister seemed pleased, and promised 
 to support 1dm with Mr. Grant, if it should be necessary. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Stewart had approached Lois, and 
 in a few low-toned sentences let her know that he was 
 to leave Quabbin the next day, and on one account 
 (not named) deeply regretted going ; that he should re- 
 turn the next spring, and in the latter part of summer 
 intended to sail to Europe for a long visit. Lois lis- 
 tened eagerly, but, except in the play of her expressive 
 features, made no reply. 
 
 Turning to the minister Stewart said with a frank 
 smile, ''There was one matter I did not mention when 
 we were talking of the Puritans, — a matter that con- 
 cerns me personally. It is, that in those old times 
 
ANOTHER lEA-PARTY 335 
 
 I might have been arrested and put in the stocks, 
 or banished along with fiddlers, beggars, and other 
 vagabonds." 
 
 " Hardly possible," said the minister. 
 
 " I am quite sure of it. To begin with, no one 
 would have bought my pictures, and so I should have 
 been 'without visible means of support.' " My vagrant 
 life wdiile sketching would have been a scandal. My 
 fancy for neckties would have made me a suspect, and 
 my velvet coat might have brought me within the 
 sumptuary laws. Well, perhaps not an arrest, but an 
 intimation. I should have been made to understand 
 that there was no room nor welcome." 
 
 " I see you are jesting," said the minister. 
 
 " No, indeed, replied Stewart ; " and the ground you 
 take shows how public sentiment has changed. Half a 
 century ago the clergy and magistrates would not have 
 looked upon me with your friendly eyes." 
 
 Seeing that Mr. Wicks was listening, and believing 
 that his daughter was taking note also, the painter 
 continued, — 
 
 ''Then as to toleration, that beautiful trait of Chris- 
 tian charity, permit me to say, witli all respect, that I 
 fear the descendants of the Puritans have not quite got 
 hold of it. It is hard for them to admit the possibility 
 of being in the wrong ; and their behavior to those who 
 are unsound in the faith is, to say the least, seldom 
 quite brotherly. I believe my friend there," pointing 
 to Wentworth, " has been made to feel it ; and he is 
 the most conscienticnis man I ever knew. If there was 
 ever a sincere and devout seeker after trutli, he is the 
 man. He is of the stuff of which mart\'rs and heroes 
 are made ; and yet his life is overcast, and his future is 
 uncertain, on account of a pcrJiaps!' 
 
336 QUAE BIN 
 
 Stewart did not raise his voice, but it had a vibrant 
 and carrying quality, and he felt sure that every word 
 told upon those around him. 
 
 " Your warmth does you credit," said the minister ; 
 ** but, as we are both speaking plainly, you will pardon 
 me for suggesting that the value of your opinion, for 
 us, depends upon your own conceptions of divine truth, 
 and your relations with evangelical believers." 
 
 " I think I can testify to what I have seen, no matter 
 what may be my opinions ; and I know the working of 
 my friend's mind, as a watchmaker knows the movement 
 of a watch." 
 
 '* That is more than I should undertake to say of any 
 friend, however intimate," said the minister. ''God 
 only knows the heart. Let me ask if you are a mem- 
 ber of a church t " 
 
 " I have been, but I fear my membership has lapsed." 
 
 '' I thought that might be the case. How can you 
 expect that we should accept your judgment, when 
 you confess that you are not qualified by any relation 
 with the church of Christ.? A worldly minded man 
 may lead a moral and respectable life ; but his views 
 upon the religious character of a friend who, I may sav, 
 is noted for a tendency to doubt, cannot carry much 
 weight." 
 
 " What you say," said Stewart, " shows that there is 
 a wide difference between modern Christianity and that 
 of the New Testament. Christ never talked theology ; 
 his creed had but one article, and he gave but two pre- 
 cepts. But I had not reflected. People do not easily 
 get out of the subtiltics in which they have been trained, 
 I fear I have done my friend hurt instead of good. We 
 are both to leave this place to-morrow, and I hoped to 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY y:,'] 
 
 sav somethincr that miirht make him resfrettcd, and 
 welcomed if he should ev^er come again." 
 
 Mr. Stowe by movements, gestures, and frowns suc- 
 ceeded in driving" away Dr. Fletcher, and then took his 
 place by the side of Eliza Grant. Once there, his seri- 
 ous features wore a look of gloomy content. He did 
 not seem an ardent lover, but a lawful and godly pos- 
 sessor. What fascination he exerted upon his partner 
 could not be divined. Women when they marry gen- 
 erally prefer looking up to a master, rather than down 
 upon a suppliant or servant. She was going to leave 
 her home, her father and sister, for a husband whose 
 love w^as more allied to dutv than tenderness, and zo 
 into a distant land to encounter hardship and danger, 
 and would not return for many years. It was the old 
 Puritan courage, devotion, sacrifice, such as has be^n 
 shown in everv ireneration. 
 
 Miss Wicks was talking absently with Dr. Fletcher. 
 Her father and Mr. Grant were listening to the minis- 
 ter, who counselled standing fast in the old ways ; and 
 the minister's stately wife, who had seen everything, 
 was talking earnestly with Lois. At this point Went- 
 worth and Stewart took leave of the company with a 
 word of farewell and a shake of the hand of each. 
 Their absence produced a void. 
 
 "I tell you," said Stewart, in walking home with 
 Wentworth, "it is not religion itself which is antago- 
 nistic to human progress ; but it is the design of men 
 like yonder minister to make it so. You told me how 
 he talked to you about Scott and Shakespeare ; how 
 jealous he was of literature ; and it is the same with 
 everything. Give him, and people like hi n. full swing, 
 and there would not be a poet, novelist, painter, ur com- 
 
338 QUABBIN 
 
 poser. The clergy have yielded somewhat, but grudg- 
 ingly, and because they have been obliged to. They 
 would like to have the old darkness return. They would 
 have music * experience religion ; ' they would frighten 
 gayety into tears, put scientists in leading-strings, smash 
 the classic statues, and turn the splendors of Titian and 
 Leonardo to the wall. What a world they would make 
 of it ! And let the best and purest man say a word in 
 favor of light, life, and beauty, he is the target of arrowy 
 texts." 
 
 *' You are 'riding the high horse,' " said Wentworth, 
 ''and you are not wholly just. The orthodox clergy 
 show some traces of the old intolerance ; it is born in 
 them ; but they are generally just and considerate, 
 especially in populous communities, and they do not 
 wish to deprive their people of innocent pleasure. In 
 this town there is a provincial, or rather a parochial 
 narrowness ; things move slowly, the old shadow over- 
 hanofs." 
 
 '' There is no need of my repeating things which you 
 know perfectly well," said Stewart; "but let me say, 
 the thins^s which make for humanitv must move on to- 
 gether. A broad system of education, including reli- 
 gion for the soul and athletics for the body, holds the 
 centre ; but law, natural science, industrial training, 
 medicine, literature, music, the fine arts, and organized 
 philanthropy, all have their separate claims, and not 
 one of them can be slighted. Why should religion 
 limit literature or crowd out art, any more than these 
 should restrict religion } I think there are viany things 
 ' needful ;' and it is a wrong and shame to arouse or play 
 upon a morbid fear of death, in order to secure for wor^ 
 ship or })iety, or whatever you please to call it, an undue 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 339 
 
 share of men's time and thoufrht. We have so manv 
 useful and agreeable things to do, that we ought to 
 spend our hours as a miser pays out gold, giving none 
 without value received. And to think that minister 
 was not willing to allow those bright young women to 
 read Shakespeare, the one transcendent genius ! It is 
 shameful ! I have a mind to found a new religion, without 
 a creed. Life shall be fully employed. Labor, study, 
 country walks, poetry, music, and art, with love to God 
 and man, all together will make life worth living." 
 
 " It is not so much a new religion that is wanted," 
 said Wentworth, "as common-sense, broad culture, and 
 liberality." 
 
 The subsequent history of the young people who 
 have engaged our attention does not concern the prog- 
 ress of Ouabbin, and may be briefly dismissed. 
 
 In the course of the year the Rev. James Stowe was' 
 married to Miss Eliza Gi'ant, and the pair set out upon 
 their long journey to Asia. 
 
 IMr. Stewart returned, as he promised, the following 
 spring, and made numerous sketches, besides one lovely 
 portrait of a young lady. He was courteously received 
 by Mr. Grant, who had taken pains to make inquiries 
 in New York as to the painter's character and social 
 standing. In the course of the summer Lois became 
 Mrs. Stewart, but not until she had told her lover of 
 her being brought down the mountain, and of her 
 dramatic parting from Herman Field. 
 
 Miss Alma Wicks, after remaining single for a num- 
 ber of vears, married a man S(jmewhat older than lier- 
 self, in a neighboring town. She was a pattern of 
 motherhootl, adored by her husband antl chikh-en, held 
 
340 QUABBIN 
 
 in honor in the church, and the friend of all who needed 
 help and sympathy. 
 
 David Wentworth finished his studies with honor, 
 and having grown more and more reluctant to bind 
 himself to a creed, renounced theology, fitted himself 
 as an instructor in English literature, and became a 
 professor in a Western university. At forty he was 
 still unmarried. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Quabbin had reached its 
 possibilities in the time of the good Robert ; it had 
 been merelv set on a moral and intellectual foundation, 
 and was in a condition to receive the benefit of the im- 
 provements which time was to bring. Its institutions, 
 like its shade-trees, were undeveloped. The subsequent 
 years, which have covered its dwellings with foliage, so 
 that from the hill the village seems to be sunk in a 
 * billowy sea of green, have also brought new and unex- 
 pected advantages to the people. Town and country are 
 in substantial accord. The public schools have been re- 
 organized and graded ; and now, with able and permanent 
 teachers, efficient supervision, and pleasant surround- 
 ings, are probably as good as they can be made for the 
 present population. The school of the highest grade 
 receives pupils from all parts of the town, and the most 
 distant of them are brought in wagons at the public ex- 
 pense. The roads have been greatly improved ; the 
 common and most of the private yards are neatly kept, 
 and sidewalks are extending from the centre in various 
 directions. The meeting-house has a large and fine- 
 toned organ. A substantial town hall has been built, 
 and in it is maintained a free public library of varied and 
 solid excellence. 
 
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY 3^1 
 
 The chief feature in the modern church is the in- 
 creased share of labor undertaken by the laity. In the 
 old times the brethren assisted in the Sunday-school 
 and in the prayer-meetings, but now they are organized 
 in disciplined bands, Orthodox and Methodists to- 
 gether, and go out on missionary tours in the outlying 
 districts, and in adjoining towns. An amusing story is 
 told, that one of these Ouabbin bands, on its way for 
 the first time to a meetino' to be held on a Sunday after- 
 noon in a hill town-, came upon a farmer who was 
 killinsf and dressino: ho2:s, and another who with his 
 men was making cider. Seeing the unlooked-for inva- 
 sion of the church militant, the Sabbath-breakers took 
 to their heels, and remained hid until daylight was past. 
 Generally the people so visited receive the Christian 
 workers kindly, and often return the compliment. 
 
 How strange all this would have appeared in the time 
 of Joshua I. ! Equally strange to him and his people 
 would have appeared the antiphonal reading of the 
 psalm in the morning service, and the profuse floral 
 decoration of the pulpit and communion-table. The 
 disciples and contemporaries of Cotton Mather, or of 
 Jonathan Edwards, would find little to please them in 
 the worship or sermons at Ouabbin or elsewhere in 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 Ouabbin has some right to self-gratulation. Few 
 towns of its size — about one thousand souls — have 
 done so much ; but it remains quiet and modest : the 
 only pDeans heard are from the song-birds which have 
 repeopled the orchards and copses, and fill the air with 
 delight all day. With morning newspapers, the tele- 
 graph, and three daily mails, Ouabbin belongs to the 
 great world ; but it breakfasts before seven o'clock, 
 
342 QUA B BIN 
 
 dines without ceremony at one, and goes to bed after 
 an earlv supper. Comfort and content lodge in every 
 house, for there is not a pauper in the region. The 
 sunlight nowhere lies fairer than on its three hills, and 
 the heat of a midsummer's day is follow^ed by the cool 
 south-west wind that sweeps up the valley in the even- 
 in l;-. 
 
 Then let the elderly people say '' Haow," if they 
 prefer that locution ; and let their thoughts be bounded 
 bv their daily vision ; for as good English is heard in 
 the pulpit and in the schools, and as a well-chosen and 
 growing library is to furnish the coming generation 
 with knowledsfe and broad ideas, the future of Ouabbin 
 is assured. 
 
LITERATURE 343 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 LITERATURE 
 
 There are familiar facts which at times strike us 
 with a sudden sense of novelty or strangeness. 
 
 The name of New Eno'land sug^o'ests a modern 
 origin ; and it is sometimes with surprise, as if his- 
 tory or arithmetic must be at fault, that we find the 
 date of its settlement to have been as long ago as the 
 early part of the reign of Charles I. Then, when we 
 look back along the mighty course of literature, and 
 think of the great names in the Victorian era, in that 
 of the Georges, of Queen Anne, of William and Mary, 
 and of the Stuarts, we see that the largest part of 
 English poetry, history, fiction, and essays, has been 
 produced since the Pilgrims sailed from Southampton. 
 So, during the two centuries while the Puritans were 
 vanquishing Antinomians, Baptists, and Quakers, or 
 recording the miraculous providences of God in favor 
 of his exiled servants, or reiterating and fortifying the 
 scheme of salvation according to Calvin, or combatting 
 demons by the exposure of witchcraft, there appeared 
 in the British Isles the poets from Milton to Tennyson, 
 historians from Clarendon to Carlyle, novelists from 
 Fielding to Thackeray, essayists from Addison to 
 Macaulav, as well as other men of iienius unclassified. 
 
 In the New World tliere was no lileralure of uencial 
 
344 QUAE BIN 
 
 interest, aside from the discussion of American inde- 
 pendence, until Bryant's "Thanatopsis" and Irving's 
 *' Sketch Book " appeared. In spite of the many obvious 
 reasons that have been given for this protracted barren- 
 ness, the fact remains a matter of wonder ; for many 
 of the colonists were able and liberally educated 
 men. 
 
 Genius is seldom equally distributed as to time or 
 place by any system of averages, else there should 
 have been some few striking works in Boston or in 
 New England in the course of two centuries. But no ; 
 their poetry ranges between the platitudes of the Bay 
 Psalm Book and the painful sixteenth century verse of 
 Anne Bradstreet ; their annals are without literary art, 
 and their discourses void of almost everything but 
 energy and piety. Excepting the frisky and pedantic 
 Cotton Mather, their w^riters seem to have benumbed 
 whatever they touched. 
 
 Water in a flowing current retains its life and fresh- 
 ness, but left in a hollow or slough, away from move- 
 ment, it becomes stagnant. The colony of the- Bay 
 was like a solitary pool which no angel came to 
 trouble. 
 
 Whether genius be the rare flower of intellect and 
 feeling, or, as some say, only '' a splendid disease," its 
 manifestations are capricious and inscrutable. The 
 speed of a well-descended colt can be predicted from 
 the time it is foaled ; but who will venture to say of a 
 babe, no matter of what parentage, "This child is to 
 become a poet " 1 A fond father, who had allowed his 
 son to study music instead of going into business, said 
 apologetically, ** Why isn't it a good thing to have a 
 Mozart or a Be-tho-ven in the family ? " If the 
 
LITER A TURE 345 
 
 singer's wish could make the song, the top of Par- 
 nassus, as Lowell observes, might be the most thickly 
 settled part of the country. 
 
 The soil and atmosphere of Quabbin, at least up to 
 the time of our narration, must have been unsuitable 
 for rearing a poet or artist. There was in progress 
 some mental cultivation and taste for the beautiful, but 
 no freedom or expansion ; mind was constrained to act 
 in grooves and upon practical themes. I^ut it is inter- 
 esting to know that in a similar small town, some forty 
 miles west, and under almost the same conditions, 
 Bryant had already written poems, which his father, a 
 country doctor, carried in his odorous saddle-bags, and 
 read with tears of honest pride in the houses of his 
 patients. The youth had been named William Cullen, 
 after an eminent Scottish medical writer, and perhaps 
 with a paternal intention ; but the wish, if it existed, 
 was not fulfilled ; it was a poet, and not a doctor, who 
 had come into the world. 
 
 About the same time Emerson was occupied with 
 philosophic thoughts tinged with poetry. He had 
 already (1837) delivered his address upon the American 
 Scholar, in which was a definite renunciation of depend- 
 ence upon Old World thought and models. Quabbin 
 had never heard of him, and did not hear of him until 
 long afterward ; but no literary contemporary, whether 
 friend or foe, escaped his influence. All weather-vanes 
 high enough to be touched by celestial airs pointed to 
 Concord. The ideas and even the lanjruaire of the 
 time bore witness of the genius that stamped its fresh 
 phrases upon the memories of men. His tlirect influ- 
 ence never affected Calvinists, and it is not at all 
 probable that the good Robert I\'. ever read a line of 
 
346 QUABBIN 
 
 his essays or poems ; but he was an abiding force, 
 and affected, directly or indirectly, a generation of 
 writers, so that people of ev^en moderate attainments, 
 and in obscure places, were unconsciously his disciples. 
 Hawthorne was just beginning his career with the 
 simple yet exquisite tales which were the precursors of 
 his romances. They were written for magazines, and 
 attracted very little attention. Unaffected simpHcity 
 is not often understood at first, because most people 
 think that genius is shown by glitter and point. Time 
 and the study of classic models are necessary for the 
 due appreciation of such perfect work. If Hawthorne 
 had any readers in Quabbin before the publication of 
 the "Scarlet Letter," which is doubtful, he would have 
 been considered as quite inferior to N. P. Willis, the 
 idol of romantic readers of that day. In his stories there 
 was vigor and dash ; his heroines were brilliant and 
 impossible, like their pictures in the annuals and ladies' 
 magazines ; nature sat to him in full dress, and his 
 triumphant heroes recoiled before no obstacles. In his 
 verse was thought to be blended the passion of Byron, 
 the sweetness of Moore, and the magic of Scott. And 
 his sacred poems, easy amplifications of biblical narra- 
 tives, how they were copied, quoted, and declaimed, 
 even in little places like Quabbin ! For some years his 
 popularity was almost universal. In this early period 
 he was the writer who was always named first ; some 
 few critics rated him more justly, but meanwhile, his 
 supremacy was seldom questioned. Had a youth writ- 
 ten verses, it was to Willis they were sent for an en- 
 couraging word. It was to Willis that most literary 
 novices applied for advice, and seldom in vain; for 
 never was a reigning favorite more amiable and helpful. 
 
LITER A TURK 347 
 
 Longfellow, too, was being heard of. When the 
 "Voices of the Night" appeared (1839), the impres- 
 sion upon cultivated readers was solemn and thrilling, 
 as well as tender and delightful. It w^as the first time 
 in America that such sustained melody, such delicate 
 and spiritual thought, and such touching lessons, had 
 been united in verse. It was an uplifting sensation to 
 feel that after so long a time a poet had arisen who 
 might become the Voice of the New World. '* The 
 human heart ," says Landor, " is the world of poetry ; 
 the imagination is only its atmosphere." In "The Psalm 
 of Life," " The Footsteps of Angels," and " The Be- 
 leaguered City," there seemed to be embodied w^hat men 
 love, — the poetry of their own lives. Probably no poet 
 ever had more immediate and loyal recognition. In 
 our later times, when the heart has yielded to the 
 brain, the notion of poetry is something in which Kant, 
 Pascal, and Omar Khayyam have an equal share. Sim- 
 ple lays of human feeling are banished to the nursery, 
 whither their old-fashioned lovers must go. 
 
 Whittier, also, had begun to write, though not in the 
 free and large-hearted style which he afterward attained. 
 But some of his Indian legends, his Quaker ballads, and 
 his burning appeals for the slave, had already impressed 
 men of liberal minds and generous sympathies. At 
 that time, as has been stated, Quabbin had but one 
 zealous anti-slavery man, and he read the poems of 
 Whittier, as they appeared in the Liberator and the 
 Emancipator, with ever-increasing admiration. 
 
 Fitz Greene Halleck was already known by his 
 beautiful poem on Burns, and by his tribute to his 
 friend J. R. Drake ; and Drake was known by liis "Cul- 
 prit Fay," a piece of fancy which greatly pleased youth- 
 
348 QUAD BIN 
 
 fill minds. J. G. Pcrcival was remembered as the author 
 of the " Coral Grove " and other poems copied into the 
 school-books. 
 
 In all these instances an acquaintance with the new 
 authors came primarily to school-boys through their 
 reading-lessons. The " xA.merican First-Class Book," 
 compiled by the Rev. John Pierpont, himself a poet, 
 was the first and most effective instructor in modern 
 literature ; and, as his compilation was in the hands of 
 all the youth, he did more to cultivate the literary taste 
 of New England than all the magazines, and all other 
 agencies together. 
 
 Cooper and other early novelists were only names in 
 Ouabbin, for obvious reasons. 
 
 The brilliant and polished Everett, who was for four 
 years Governor of the State, during the second min- 
 ister's reign, appeared, from the standpoint of Ouabbin, 
 as one might imagine an ancient orator in classic robes, 
 who had been turned to marble and pedestalled for the 
 admiration of posterity. But Ouabbin knew only his 
 utterances in public life ; it did not know his literary 
 essays, nor the animated part he had played in the 
 awakening of Harvard College. 
 
 George Bancroft, who had been a teacher in a town 
 not very far from Ouabbin, had, at the time of our nar- 
 ration, begun his life-long studies in American history, 
 and had published his first three volumes. The time 
 had not come when a Democrat could make any deep 
 or favorable impression upon the people of Western 
 Massachusetts, nor when a history based upon the 
 ideas of Jefferson would be received as authentic 
 among the sons of Federalists. It is unlikely that he 
 had either admirers or readers in Ouabbin. It was 
 
LITER A TURE 349 
 
 early for the appreciation of a philosophic history of 
 America ; in fact, the time has hardly come even now. 
 
 It would be expecting much to look for any acquaint- 
 ance with Prescott's " Ferdinand and Isabella " (pub- 
 lished in 1837), i^ ^ small town so far away from the 
 literary centre. It was an event of some importance 
 for the capital, as it was the first historical work of a 
 high order produced in America ; ^ and its thorough- 
 ness, no less than its form and finish, were acknowl- 
 edged by competent judges everywhere. It was a most 
 encouraging sign of the times, and added to the light 
 that was beginning to illuminate the State and nation. 
 
 Lydia Maria Child had published two novels, and 
 some works upon education and domestic economy. 
 In one of the novels were supposed addresses by 
 James Otis and the celebrated Whitefield, which were 
 everywhere copied, and often believed to be genuine. 
 The patriotic speech attributed to Otis was often 
 declaimed in schools. 
 
 Much inspiration came to the youth of New Eng- 
 land from the orations of Daniel Webster. Their 
 (most striking passages were in the school-books, and 
 were admired more than any other specimens of rhet- 
 oric. The oration at Plymouth in 1820, upon the two 
 hundredth anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims ; 
 those at Bunker's Hill upon laying the corner-stone, 
 and upon completing the monument ; and the cele- 
 brated reply to Hayne of South Carolina in the U. S. 
 Senate, furnished the most brilliant and admired selec- 
 tions. Webster had formed his stvle by reading the 
 Bible and Bunyan ; seldom was purer or more idio- 
 
 1 Bancroft's work, dealing largely with British treatment of the colonies, 
 though "of a high order," is controversial for English critics. 
 
0!) 
 
 o QUABBIN 
 
 matic English spoken than his; but he had a glowing 
 imagination, and great depth of feeling, and, as he 
 went on speaking, his simple phrases became ample 
 and majestic ; his figures, in which he was a consum- 
 mate artist, were more dazzling ; and before he finished 
 he always raised his auditors to his own high level. 
 
 It is said that such orations are out of date, but it is 
 equally true that no such orator has since been heard. 
 Whoever will read any of the familiar and well-worn 
 passages understandingly and with due emphasis, and 
 will endeavor to keep in mind the impressive scene in 
 which the oration was originally delivered, will find 
 the spirit of the author gaining hold of him, and when 
 he comes to the end will confess to having a lump in 
 his throat. 
 
 The literary periodicals of this time (about 1840) 
 were generally feeble and superficial. Some of them 
 were largely made up of articles "borrowed" from 
 British magazines ; and their original contributors 
 were poorly paid, when paid at all. Five dollars was 
 not considered a contemptible sum to offer a writer ; 
 some of Hawthorne's early tales brought him no more. 
 In looking over these magazines we get an impression 
 that is both painful and comic. Among the inapti- 
 tudes and the crude attempts at fine writing, there are 
 occasional gems from poets who were just becoming 
 known ; but it is evident the number of cultivated 
 readers was small, and the managers strove to attract 
 the public by means of fashion-plates, meretricious 
 engravings, and other devices. 
 
 The progress of American literature, and of literary 
 taste among readers, was exceedingly slow, — almost 
 imperceptible. Excepting the eminent preachers and 
 
ff-f 
 
 ^J ^'^' 
 
 ''^'l 
 
 Playmates i;v ihi. 11a\>.i\c-k 
 
LITERATURE 35 1 
 
 the public orators, few literary men had any following, 
 or any serious consideration. British authors held 
 the field, and it was not supposed they would ever 
 have successful American rivals. The history of this 
 development would take us far beyond the limits of 
 time and space proper for the story of Ouabbin ; but 
 even fifty years ago the change was in progress, and 
 the faint streaks of dawn have since brightened into a 
 still advancing day. 
 
 Of the difficulties which sixty years ago stood in 
 the way of acquiring a fair knowledge of literature, 
 enough has been said in former chapters. For the 
 elder people of Ouabbin the great authors were only 
 luminous names, — mere points of light, distant and 
 unknown, like stars. By stated reading-lessons, and 
 by the efforts of a few enlightened schoolmasters, the 
 younger generation got some notion of the power of 
 thought and imagination, and the distinction of style 
 of the masters of English. But a general acquaint- 
 ance with literature is not to be expected until after 
 education has been universal, and society has acquired a 
 literary tone ; nor, indeed, until ample public or private 
 libraries have been established and used. 
 
 The qualities of literary works can only be estimated 
 after repeated comparisons, and after free interchange 
 of opinions with other readers. When men come to 
 see that literature and art are the only enduring titles 
 to renown, and that merely commercial nations liavc no 
 place in history, then the great poets, thinkers, and 
 artists loom up like mountains. People who have 
 taken up reading systematically, or who read much, 
 even cursorily, soon recognize the fact that there is no 
 pleasure like it, and that it is almost the only distinc- 
 tion between t.ne wise and fools. 
 
352 QUAE BIX 
 
 After the earning of one's livelihooc], the care for 
 religion, jniblic order, and common schools, there is 
 nothing so important as the general circulation of 
 well-chosen books. This truth gradually dawned upon 
 Ouabbin, and in recent years, as has been stated, a 
 public library has been set up in its town hall. 
 
 It was not the fortune of such a small town to have 
 any part in the literary awakening referred to in this 
 chapter ; it was much if some of its people could ap- 
 preciate the new and reviving spirit which was abroad. 
 
 The becrinnimr of a native literature was in one 
 aspect an offshoot from the parent stock ; and, in an- 
 other, a new and distinct growth. American literature, 
 which is a fact, and not simply a future possibility, is 
 connected with its venerable parent by indissoluble ties. 
 Physical barriers, such as the ocean, do not interfere 
 with the intimate union of a dual literature any more 
 than they separate spiritual existences. In its origin and 
 traditions American literature is necessarily English to 
 the core ; but in time its material characteristics, 
 springing from soil, climate, and vegetation, together 
 with the virile spirit of democratic institutions, and 
 new tendencies coming from the mixture of races, gave 
 it such distinctive qualities that the alma viater might 
 hesitate about recognizing her offspring. 
 
 Few of these considerations had occurred to the 
 people of Ouabbin, or of Massachusetts, sixty years 
 ago. Bobolinks and catbirds were singing merrily in 
 meadows and bushes, and golden orioles hung their 
 '* hammock nests " at the tips of elm-tree boughs ; but 
 in tlie acceptc^d poetry one read only of British larks, 
 thrushes, and robins. The hillsides were rosy with 
 acres of laurel ; azaleas brightened and perfumed the 
 
LITERATURE 353 
 
 river-banks ; the cardinal flower flamed in swampy 
 nooks ; in the spring woods the mayflower crept out 
 with its pink-and-white blooms from under the melting 
 snow ; but all these indigenous beauties were unsung. 
 Country life, seen too near, was coarse and vulgar, 
 because no poet had looked at it with the Claude 
 Lorraine glass of genius. 
 
 Under equal laws, a well-descended and well-taught 
 people were making progress in civilization, and in 
 establishing a national character ; and there was no 
 hint of it in literature, except in the tasteless declama- 
 tion of popular orators. But all these things were to 
 appear in good time, in romance, poem, and essay. 
 Western grapes might spring from imported vines, but 
 the racy flavor and perfume drawn from the soil of the 
 New World was sure to be manifest in the ripened 
 clusters. 
 
54 QUAE BIN 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 
 
 When a new ship glides on its ways into the water, 
 the least imaginative of the spectators lets his mind 
 run forward upon its course over oceans, up to the 
 time when it shall sail no more. Will it 2:0 from 
 haven to haven in safety ? Or will it be buffeted by 
 winds and waves until it founders and plunges into 
 the depths ? Will its ribs and keel lie bleaching on a 
 coral island ? or will it float, waterlogged, in the track 
 of navigation ? How small the chance that it will 
 return to anchor in the river-mouth where it was 
 launched ! 
 
 A youth who sets out from his native town may 
 have as many good wishes as follow a newly launched 
 vessel, but no voyage is more perilous or problematical 
 than the voyage of life. If the native should return 
 crestfallen and despondent, he may perhaps be com- 
 forted by sympathy from the friends of his youth ; but 
 if he holds his own while abroad, and needs nothing 
 from those he left behind, he may get an indifferent 
 welcome. This is not to say that townsfolk bear 
 malice toward a native who has won a place in the 
 world ; but the Scripture saying remains true, that 
 a prophet is without hon(jr among kindred and in his 
 birthplace, at least until the generation that knew him 
 
THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 355 
 
 in boyhood is passing away. The townsfolk may re- 
 member too vividly the day of small things, — the boy- 
 ish scrapes and peccadilloes, the grime of some menial 
 service, or the undignified early associations. 
 
 A native who contemplates returning to end his 
 days among his kindred, will do so, if he is wise, while 
 he is still in the vigor of manhood, and before failing 
 memory and other infirmities make him a dazed and 
 dumb creature, and before those who should know him, 
 and whom he should know, are ready to look upon him as 
 a stranger. The ties of old friendship may be broken, 
 or may be stretched and atrophied ; in either case the 
 genial current passes to and fro no more. A group of 
 silent, apathetic, indifferent townsfolk gives to a 
 native a strange chill ; he would be more at ease with 
 the ghosts of all their fathers and grandfathers. 
 
 If he could adapt himself again to the old life, and 
 step back with the fresh feelings of youth into the 
 society he left, that would be a delight ; but in most 
 cases he might as well attempt to fit his broad shoul- 
 ders with the boy's coat which his fond mother had 
 saved as a souvenir. 
 
 While memory is active, and faces come to him as 
 they did when he played and fought with his school- 
 fellows, he has an unutterable pleasure in recalling the 
 beautiful days. The hills smile upon him as the\-lic in 
 sunshine ; the swift river is gurgling for him under 
 alders and vines ; for him the gilded vane is shining on 
 the steeple as it points to fair weather. If he could 
 only annihilate the interval of his absence, and forget 
 what he learned and unlearned in the world witliout ! 
 But he comes back a changed man ; politics, finance, 
 professional studies, art, and literature, some of them 
 
356 QUABBhW 
 
 liave been possessing him and overgrowing him, as a 
 coiUng parasite grapples and masters a tree. The free 
 and simple-hearted youth has been merged in the 
 absorbed and preoccupied man, and between him and 
 his old life the way has been closed up. As he looks 
 back, the pictures of memory are touched with an 
 unreal splendor, and are as distant as fairyland. In 
 the depths of his heart he loves the old town, and has 
 nothing but kind feelings for the old people, even for 
 those whom he knew least. How gladly he would 
 renew old friendships and intimacies, if it were pos- 
 sible ; but circumstances are often stronger than 
 inclination. 
 
 A popular writer once deplored the tendency among 
 literary men to hold themselves aloof from the com- 
 mon people. Literary influence, he thought, liko 
 Christianity, ought to be diffused among all classes; 
 and how could this be, he plaintively asked, if writers 
 and thinkers should continue to isolate themselves } 
 Like many plausible suggestions ma.de by impulsive 
 men, this is wholly illusory and incapable of realiza- 
 tion. Like consorts only with like, and without some 
 community of thought, habit, taste, or purpose, no inti- 
 macy is possible. The training of a poet, critic, or man 
 of science, necessarily isolates him, because he is occu- 
 pied with ideas which the uneducated cannot be made 
 to comprehend. The vocabulary alone is an effectual 
 barrier. A beginner with Herbert Spencer or Huxley 
 has first to master a new language, and then to become 
 familiar with a world of new ideas. 
 
 Writers and thinkers in their hours of leisure must 
 seek the society of those with whom they are in sym- 
 pathy, and those from whom they will receive the 
 
THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 357 
 
 stimulus which comes in the clash of mind with mind. 
 The intellect is never so active, original and forgctive, 
 as when it feels the shock from collision with another 
 of kindred temper. The philosopher cannot translate 
 his ideas into the English of the field and the workshop. 
 In literature and science there are middlemen engaged 
 in letting ladders down from the thought of Darwin, 
 Emerson, Browning, Comte, and Hegel ; and even after 
 one descent other ladders are often necessary to land 
 any lucid and comprehensible ideas upon the lower level 
 of the unread. 
 
 A client was told in court by Rufus Choate that judg- 
 ment was given in his favor ''on demurrer." The client, 
 who had expected to witness a display of oratory by the 
 great advocate, was disappointed to see the case ended 
 after a short and (to him) unintelligible colloquy with 
 the presiding judge ; and when going out of the chamber 
 he exclaimed, " I don't understand about this demur- 
 rer." — "The Almighty never intended you should," 
 said Choate. 
 
 When two men meet for the first time, the x, or 
 unknown quantity, representing the studies, pursuits, 
 tastes, and habits of each, is the subject of curious 
 reciprocal inquiry ; and there ensues a series of tenta- 
 tive equations made on the one side and the other, until 
 approximations have been reached. 
 
 Here is a man, for instance, who makes mathemati- 
 cal calculations in molecular physics, — the architecture 
 of the universe of atoms ; or he estimates the solar 
 energy, or computes the totality of force effectuated 
 by winds and waves around the globe. These \ast 
 trains of thought and speculation occup}' a large 
 part of his interior mental space, if such an e.xpres- 
 
358 QUABBIN 
 
 sioii may be allowed ; yet he may talk agreeably upon 
 politics, poetry, or art, and a stranger might not suspect 
 the existence of that interior laboratory whose bulk 
 almost equals the sum of his being. Such a man might 
 seldom speak upon the themes which occupy him, for 
 the reason that few would comprehend him. His inter- 
 course with mankind would therefore be upon superfi- 
 cial things ; and in his case the x would be huge, and 
 his totality, minus the x, a disappointing remainder. 
 
 Many a man carries about an x of more or less mag- 
 nitude, — something for which he lives ; and few, 
 beside egotists and other bores, let the secret be 
 known except to closest friends. Lower down in the 
 scale of intellectuality, unless it is among criminals, 
 the X becomes insignificant. When two uneducated 
 farmers meet they readily unpack their respective wal- 
 lets. The weather, the crops, prices, wages, and taxes, 
 are all their intellectual counters, and an exchange is 
 easily made. In like manner two gossips have no diffi- 
 culty in overhauling each other's mail-bag. 
 
 Now, if a man who is almost wholly absorbed by some 
 study meets another whose intellectual outfit is like a 
 native African's wardrobe, on what terms can there be 
 an intimacy, or more than a passing recognition } If 
 there were to be a closer relation, it must be that of 
 teacher and pupil, which is seldom agreeable. 
 
 So, if the native has remained long enough away to 
 have become a changed man, whether for better or 
 worse, there will be difficulties in the way of resuming 
 old intimacies. The townsfolk are likely to misunder- 
 stand him, and to misinterpret his conduct, even in the 
 most trivial particulars ; for they do not know the 
 nature and power of the x which dominates him. 
 
THE RETURN OE THE NATIVE 359 
 
 Few of the inhabitants of any small village can have 
 a very wide experience of life ; and it is not impossible 
 for them to mistake slang for wit, and to be impressed 
 by demonstrative manners and dress, which, with a 
 fuller knowledge of the world, they would at once 
 recognize as vulgar. But though the young people 
 may be dazzled by jewellery, and may admire clothes 
 of eccentric pattern, yet it does not take long for the 
 elders to ''size up" an ill-bred fellow who assumes to 
 be " the glass of fashion." 
 
 The reign of slang phrases, though brief in a city, 
 may be interminably tedious in a remote place ; when 
 they have had their ignoble day at the capital, they are 
 still fresh in villages like Ouabbin, especially among 
 overofrown bovs. And for a while the slan^:, with an 
 occasional razeed oath, gives a curious piquancy to the 
 rustic dialect. The Yankee does not indulge in solid 
 and obtrusive oaths, but allows himself modified oath- 
 lets, or colorable imitations. Sometimes two or three 
 senseless collocations which have been *' translated " 
 {a la Bottom) from their natural meaning into nonsen- 
 sical catch-words are bandied about during a whole sea- 
 son by ''knowing" youths, until nervous people would 
 wish them struck dumb. Probably this is a Yankee 
 peculiarity ; for the British call all the current slang, 
 and all the ready-made or second-hand jokes, Ameri- 
 canisms. 
 
 The returned native may notice these and other 
 things which are not agreeable subjects of medita- 
 tion ; such as flippancy, unknown in earlier times, a 
 disposition to treat sacred themes with a familiar 
 irreverence, a boastful defiance of parents, a derision 
 of the maxims of the elders, a self-sufificiency wholly 
 
36o QCABBIN. 
 
 in contrast with the modesty or "humility" of the old 
 time, and a chuckling approval of successful sharp- 
 ness. As to the last, he will see that the tendency is 
 not universal, though sometimes painfully conspicuous. 
 It would appear that the career of the notorious Jim 
 Fisk, chief wrecker of the Erie Railroad, who in his 
 younger days was a well-known and successful pedler 
 of dress fabrics, etc., in a large district wdiich included 
 Ouabbin, had a demoralizing influence upon the country 
 youth far and wdde. It came to be the habit to say of 
 a successful rogue or sharper that he was "smart." 
 One story of Fisk was long current in Ouabbin. His 
 father, wdio was also a noted pedler, and, like his son, 
 drove a handsome turnout, had sold a woman a dress 
 pattern of calico which, though warranted fast in 
 color, faded lamentably when washed. The woman 
 complained to Jim when he called at her house on his 
 round. " How much did yeou pay a yard fer the cali- 
 ker .^ " he asked. " Ninepence " (twelve and a half 
 cents), was the answer. " No," said Jim reflectively ; 
 " no, the old man wouldn't du that ; he wouldn't 've 
 told a lie fer ninepunce, — but he niigJit ' ve told eight. 
 fer a dollar! " 
 
 The unpleasant change in moral tone, as it appears 
 to the returned native, may be only superficial. And 
 he will recollect that there must have been a reaction 
 after the slackening of the old and rigid rule. Those 
 who live under mild laws keep an even mind when a 
 change comes; it is only when laws have been griev- 
 ous that their repeal is followed by excesses. 
 
 One of the inevitable experiences is to find all boy- 
 ish recollections of size and distance ridiculously dim- 
 inished. The returned native discovers that the 
 
THE RETURN OF THE XATIVE 36 1 
 
 well-known hills and fields are small, and that the river 
 is scarcely more than a dark and rushing brook ; that of 
 the distances to neighboring towns, so formidable in 
 bovhood, not one is too lone: for a comfortable morn- 
 ing's walk. The white steeple with its gilded vane, 
 once so much admired, now that he looks at it would 
 not be too large for one of the lesser pinnacles of a 
 cathedral. The mansions have dwindled to modest 
 houses, and ordinary dwellings appear small and poor. 
 There is not room to turn about in the heart of the 
 village ; and as for the narrow common, he v»^onders 
 how the boys ever played round-ball upon it. But his 
 exaggerated notions soon settle down, and he gradu- 
 ally adjusts himself to the old dimensions ; it was he 
 that was wronn' ; the town remains unchans:ed. 
 
 In the country round about it seems that the crops 
 have decreased ; the great barns are no longer burst- 
 ing with hay, nor does the gold of Indian corn gleam 
 through the chinks of the lean-to ; all the people are 
 fed with Western beef and flour. Many farms, though 
 not abandoned, yield little return, except in shelter, 
 garden vegetables, pasturage for a few cows, and plenty 
 of fresh air. 
 
 The owners must pick up a living as best they can ; 
 the thin and stony soil can do no more for them. As 
 we have seen, their sons are away in the cities, or in 
 the far West, and their daughters are teachers, or are 
 married and settled, and not in Ouabbin. The houses 
 of these people have a plaintive look, such as they 
 themselves wear when they go to meeting. 
 
 He remembers that the early settlers clung to the 
 soil, like a colony of sea-cucumbers to their rock. A 
 house seldom sheltered strangers ; long journeys were 
 
362 QUABBIISr 
 
 uncommon, and letters from foreign countries and dis- 
 tant States rarely came to the post-office. A family's 
 lines of intimacy, however numerous, were as local and 
 limited as those of the clothes-yard ; but the native 
 now knows that there are few houses, especially in the 
 village, from which there are not ties of interest and 
 relationship extending to some of the large centres of 
 business, or perhaps to the uttermost parts of the 
 earth. 
 
 But whatever may have been the changes in the life 
 of the town, the returned native finds himself every- 
 where on familiar ground, and memory connects each 
 spot with some event or emotion. Filaments from the 
 core of his heart strike into the natal soil. Each 
 bodily faculty is alert to bring out something from its 
 own record of past sensations. The ear remembers 
 the songs of native birds, and preserves them distinct 
 from the carollings heard in Scottish valleys, in Eng- 
 lish meadows, and German forests. It recalls the 
 different voices of the men and women v/ho once fre- 
 quented the village. It hears anew, but faintly and 
 far away, as in the telephone, the psalms and hymns of 
 the long-silent choir, and the voice of the minister in 
 warning, expostulation, and prayer. 
 
 So, in miraculous freshness, flavors and scents re- 
 turn, associated with images of color and form. On 
 the bosom of the cove are spread anew the lily-pads, 
 as in the old time, forming a green patchwork, whose 
 rifts are studded with cups of dazzling white petals, 
 enclosing tufts of gold. The coolness and fragrance 
 of those lilies are as palpable to touch and olfactories 
 as if they were that moment pressed to the lips. 
 
 On warm nights in spring there used to come up 
 
THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 363 
 
 from the cove the cries of thousands of frogs, — boom- 
 ing basses, croaking baritones, and keen-piping falset- 
 tos ; and now, when the eye* of the returned native 
 catches the lilies, or when a thin mist draws attention 
 to the still basin, the confused medley of those monot- 
 onous concerts seems to return. 
 
 On the shady, steep bank of the river, and on well- 
 known hillsides, there were and still are checkerberry 
 plants, sought by children in spring for the sweet pun- 
 gency of the young shoots, and later for the delicate 
 flavor of the dainty pink berries. This flavor and aroma, 
 like that of the young bark of the fragrant black birch, 
 belong to the New World. At the thought of the dark, 
 glistening leaves and the sculptured, coral-tinted berries, 
 the characteristic taste and scent are in the air, as if 
 memory kept a store of nature's woodland essences. 
 So it is with the more pronounced aromatic warmth of 
 sassafras and sweet-flag, each siii geneiHs and indescrib- 
 able. The native well remembers the rocky ledge from 
 which he dug the one, and the swam}) where he pulled 
 the other. 
 
 As he passes walls and fences overgrown with vines 
 and clematis, how the odor of wild grapes and of dusty 
 white blossoms comes back to him, even in winter ! In 
 bushy pastures the perfume of sweet-fern lingers like a 
 breath of incense. On the arid plains is the whole- 
 some and enduring scent of the silvery everlasting ; 
 the native perceives and snuffs it, though it lies un- 
 touched at his feet. Form, color, and sweetness afe 
 one in memory. 
 
 When he thinks of the old-fashioned gardens, what 
 delights for every sense ! The tinted bells of tall holly- 
 hocks, the flat-topped bouquets of sweet-william, the 
 
364 QUABBIN 
 
 convolutions of pinks and marigolds, the jaunty pin 
 and-purple caps of sweet-pease, the deep crimson globes 
 of peonies, the starry e^es of pansies, — all these are 
 seen by the native in any spot " where once a garden 
 smiled," even though it is neglected and grass-grown ; 
 and along with their vanished beauty come the odors 
 of lavender, sweet-brier, mint, sage, and southernwood. 
 
 Without going to the pond he sees in the still water 
 near the shore the round beds scooped in the sand by 
 the roach for the cradle and playground of its young. 
 The " pumpkin-seed," as boys call this short and chunky 
 fish, with shadings of pale-green and black, and with 
 scarlet-tipped fins, continually playing in exquisite 
 curves, — a motion which men clumsily imitate in 
 feathering an oar, — is ceaselessly hovering around 
 those tepid shallows ; and its wariness, its arrowy 
 flights, and the gleams of scarlet fins, are reproduced 
 in the mental picture. 
 
 Thus, while the native walks about an^'d the scenes 
 of his childhood, he is reminded of the past by innumer- 
 able associations with every sense. He lives over again 
 his school-days with former playmates ; and his toils, 
 his sports, his trials, and his hopes, come back with 
 glimpses of hill, field, and river; with the bloom and 
 scent of flowers, and with the colors, flight, and song 
 of birds. Subtle lines connect whatever he has per- 
 ceived by any of the senses, so that as he walks he 
 constantly touches some electric knob, and all his nerves 
 feel the thrill. 
 
 In all these scenes are beheld the human beings 
 whose figures, lineaments, voices, and movements form 
 for CRch a never-to-be-forgotten whole. Whatever was 
 pcor or mean has dropped away, and the men and 
 
THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 365 
 
 women, at their best, and as they aspired to be, welcome 
 the native with friendly glances. Venerable hands 
 that blessed him in infancy, hard and honest hands that 
 have clasped his own fervently, and dainty white hands 
 that he has dallied with, are beckoning to him. Faces 
 that are brown and sober, or round and rosy, or refined 
 and delicate, look as if they must speak of the unrc- 
 tiirning past. They are voiceless, but their eyes are 
 eloquent. 
 
 He climbs the hills, and sees the faint plumes of 
 smoke over distant dwellings, thinking of the patient 
 labor he has witnessed on those farms, and of the love 
 and content sheltered for generations by the gray roofs. 
 Returning, he visits the graveyard, and tarries long by 
 the mounds which cover his beloved ones. In the rus- 
 tle of the trees he seems to hear a voice, "Wait a while ! 
 Soon shalt thou, too, have rest." 
 
 In the cool evening, by the margin of the wood, he 
 hears the plaintive whippoorwill ; and it seems that it 
 must be the same bird which he listened to with stran^re 
 pleasure when a boy. 
 
 With the waning light the sounds of day have sunk 
 into silence. Night comes with the train of ancient 
 stars which know no change. What unutterable 
 thoughts come as he looks at the shining host ! In 
 the morning he is awakened by the sun peering over the 
 eastern hill, and touching the vane of the steeple. 
 There is a new day, and the world begins its toil. And 
 so it will be when he does not rise at that call, and the 
 grass is beginning to grow over him. 
 
APPENDIX I 
 
 It has been mentioned that within half a century the livins: 
 theology and the methods of the church, in Quabbin and else- 
 where, underwent a silent change in fact, without any material 
 alteration of the time-honored covenant. The change is still in 
 progress, and is likely to be f^ir-reaching. For instance, there 
 was a strong controversy a few years ago, in an ecclesiastical coun- 
 cil held in Indian Orchard (Mass.), over the ordination of a young 
 minister who. in his examination, declared he was not satisfied 
 that the heathen would be forever damned. In spite of his denial 
 of one of the cardinal doctrines of Calvinism, the majority of the 
 council consented to his ordination. 
 
 The trials of Andover professors for heresy are familiar to all 
 readers. If these trials appear to have been conducted in a super- 
 ficial or half-hearted way, it may be because no living theologian is 
 so grounded in the faith once held by the orthodox as to be an 
 effective prosecutor. It would be instructive if some theologic 
 Landor would write an imaginary conversation between a modern 
 Andover man and Jonathan Edwards. With what indignation 
 would that Boanerges disown and denounce the orthodoxy of 
 to-day ! 
 
 The controversy is enveloped in a cloud of words, but the most 
 vital questions, are these: Will the future punishment of the im- 
 penitent be without end.-* and are the Scriptures wholly inspired, 
 in words as well as ideas ? 
 
 Discussion of doctrine is no part of the plan of this book ; but 
 it may be observed that the Calvinistic position on those questions 
 has not been forced or turned, but rather silently abandoned. If 
 the scheme of Calvin be regarded as a framed building, it has 
 hopelessly sagged, so that there are no more levels, or perpendicu- 
 lars. We are concerned with this fact (if it is a fact) solely on 
 
368 APPENDIX 
 
 account of tlic attitude of the church toward what is generally 
 called the progress of civilization. 
 
 Whenever any comment is made upon the rule of the early Puri- 
 tan Church in Massachusetts, stereotyped replies, kept in handy 
 pigeon-holes, are at once forthcoming. The case for the colonial 
 magistrates and clergy was presented by Lowell in an able and 
 brilliant article, " New England Two Centuries Ago." The essayist 
 had every qualification for his task, excepting, perhaps, an active 
 sympathy with the progress of religious ideas. Every student of 
 history admits the main contention ; namely, that the exclusion 
 of religious opponents, of "cranks" and impracticable theorists, 
 was, at the beginning, a necessity for the existence of the colony. 
 It could not have defended itself against the crown on one hand, 
 and the Indians and French on the other, unless it had been a 
 compact and homogeneous body, directed from the centre. In 
 view of what the colony, or rather the people of Massachusetts, 
 were to become, after being emancipated, enlightened, and liberalized, 
 this " survival of the fittest" was providential ; but if the result had 
 bien only to perpetuate and enthrone unenlightened Mathers and 
 " Simple Coblers," with all that would follow such a rule, the down- 
 fall of the theocratic fabric would not have greatly disturbed the 
 moral balance of the universe. Massachusetts became great, not by 
 adhering rigidly to tradition, but by interweaving it with new ideas. 
 It is freely admitted that the most of the ministers acted according 
 to their light ; hwX they naturally supposed a seventeenth century 
 Puritan the highest ideal of a man ; and that further development 
 was impossible, or not to be looked for. 
 
 The intention of the leaders was to set up a theocracy, and to 
 govern the people as nearly as possible by the Mosaic code. It is 
 true there were Deputies and Assistants, who formed in a way an 
 Upper and Lower House, and who, besides supervising the churches, 
 exercised both legislative and judicial powers, unfettered by the com- 
 mon law, or by the statutes of the mother country, and often with 
 little of Christian charity. Had there been lawyers of experience in 
 the colony, many acts of injustice and cruelty might have been 
 prevented, and the reputation of a Christian commonwealth miglit 
 have been preserved from dark and indelible stains. But no law- 
 yers were permitted in Massachusetts until the colony was merged 
 in the province; nor had they even then any proper standing in 
 
APPENDIX 369 
 
 such travesties of courts as existed, until a little before the out- 
 break of the Revolution. The reason is obvious. At the elbow of 
 every magistrate and deputy was a minister; the office-bearers 
 governed in the interest of the church, and the will of the ministers 
 was never thwarted. Had there been independent courts, and 
 learned, courageous lawyers, such outrages as the banishment of 
 Roger Williams, the scourging and hanging of Quakers, and th^ 
 sending of Anne Hutchinson to her death in the wilderness, could 
 not have happened. Under the provincial government, in the 
 trials for witchcraft, the rules of law and evidence, and the estab- 
 lished usages of British tribunals, are said to have been substan- 
 tially followed. If this is true, it proves the barbarity of our 
 race two centuries ago. Persons convicted of offences in the 
 early years of the colonv were frequently punished not according 
 to statute, but according to the law of Moses, interpreted by the 
 clergv 
 
 It is not necessary to elaborate these points, as the subject has 
 already been exhaustively treated.^ 
 
 It is obvious that the fabric of society, with civilization and 
 religion itself, has its foundation and defence in law. Until the 
 domination exercised by the ministers was thrown off, there was no 
 hope of a stable government based on the will of an intelligent con- 
 stituency ; of equal laws and orderly procedure ; of free thought and 
 free speech ; of literature or art ; of the civilizing influences of com- 
 merce ; of learning, science, or invention ; of toleration or human 
 brotherhood. In a state of society such as prevailed down to the 
 time of the trials for witchcraft, any progress in enlightenment was 
 impossible. For that reason any shock which that theocracy met, 
 however rude or malevolent, was a blessing to after-times. 
 
 In the work just referred to, Mr. Adams seems to regard the 
 emancipation of Massachusetts as completed by the Revolution. 
 Potentiallv tliis was the case, but the era of full emanciixition ap 
 pears to be of much later date. The rule of the clergy did not end 
 until the divorce of church and State was accomplished, and the 
 ministers were left to dciiend wholl}' upon voluntar\- contributions 
 for their support. 
 
 The orthodox Congregationalists have an historic position as 
 lineal descendants of tlic Puritan Church ; and i)robabiy some of 
 
 1 " The Kniancipation of Massachubctts," by Brooks .\dams. 
 
370 APPENDIX 
 
 their leaders have deplored the clian<]:es which have deprived the 
 body of its former prestige ; but the changes have brought com- 
 pensations. When that church lost its hold upon the government; 
 its control of the schools and the college ; its power to lay taxes in 
 every town for the support of its ministers, — losses which were inevi- 
 table in the changed circumstances and ideas of the time, — it was 
 gaining new vitality and making sure its future prominence in the 
 State. A church and its ministers are never so strong as when, 
 dispensing with statutes and privileges, they rely upon loyal hearts 
 and willing hands. 
 
 Cotton JMather, after mentioning the niggardly support given by 
 a certain town to its minister, averred that there immediately fol- 
 lowed a wide-spread and fatal murrain among the milch cows in 
 that region ; and, as if he himself had let loose the pestilence, ex- 
 claimed exultingly that it would have been better for those people 
 to have been more liberal with their minister. Nothing could illus- 
 trate more vividly the difterence between the notions of his time 
 and ours than this foolish story, in which priestly arrogance, 
 ignorance of natural laws, and a mean and degrading conception 
 of the Deity are equally conspicuous. What would be thought to- 
 day of such a scare-crow appeal to tax-payers? 
 
 The Orthodox Church is now fairly in touch with the ideas and 
 movements of the age. Its preachers are often men of command- 
 ing talents, and are generally literary by taste and habit. Its 
 members in all enlightened places may be prominent in science, in 
 historical research, and in authorship. How different the case was 
 sixty years ago, except in regard to theology, is well known. Per- 
 haps other and even more vital changes may be witnessed in the 
 next generation. If Unitarianism be considered a protest or re- 
 action against the extreme doctrines of Calvinism, it mav in good 
 time have fulfilled its mission ; if it is based upon broad affirma- 
 tions, sufficient for the intellect and with free scope for the religious 
 sentiment, it will endure. Vital ideas are as indestructible as 
 matter. 
 
APPENDIX II 
 
 CIVIL LIBERTY 
 
 It seems desirable to look at the idea of civil liberty as it was 
 conceived l)y the founders of Massachusetts. It is probably impos- 
 sible to say anything new in itself, but it may be possible to com- 
 bine in one view something between indiscriminate eulogy and 
 malevolent criticism. Nothing in this book is meant as disparage- 
 ment of Pilgrim or Puritan. They acted their part according to the 
 light given them ; and they believed that principles and forms of 
 government, as well as personal liberty, should be subordinated to 
 the rule of Christ on earth, or, what was the same thing, to the in- 
 terests of their church. The State they founded became eventually 
 the noblest of free and Christian commonwealths ; but though the 
 original spirit came from them, it was modified and controlled by 
 other influences, against which they and many of their descendants 
 strove with their might. 
 
 If we think of what is contained or implied in the notion of a free 
 State in this century, we shall find these to be the chief: i. Per- 
 sonal liberty, subject to be restrained as a punishment for crime, or 
 to prevent injury to others. 2. Political equality, absolute and uni- 
 versal, except for public malefactors. 3. Toleration, or the inalien- 
 able right of opinion upon religious and all other topics, but subject 
 to restraint as to public utterance, when such utterance is subversive 
 of law and order. Where these three notions are recognized there 
 is freedom. 
 
 Pilgrims and I\n-itans steadfiistly upheld the first. Tiie second 
 they did not know, as it had not come into being. • To the third 
 they opposed all the energy of their convictions. 
 
 There may have been previous attempts to set up political equality, 
 but never by an enlightened, reasonable, law-abiding people, until 
 it w'as made the ground-work of the Constitution of the United 
 
'}i']2 APPEXDIX 
 
 States by the hand of Thomas Jefferson. And it is obvious that 
 even he shrank from carrying the doctrine to its logical result in the 
 general liberation of African slaves. He felt the incongruity, as his 
 writings show, but it was left for later believers in the doctrine to 
 complete his work. 
 
 The distincions in social rank, as recognized in England at the 
 time, were preserved in the^colonies, and had the sanction of law. 
 It is well known tliat few servants were named in the list of the 
 Mayflower's passengers. Sumptuary laws were justified by a clause 
 stating that it was monstrous for people of mean condition to imitate 
 the garb of gentlemen by wearing wide ruffs, laces, or long boots. 
 The " seating of the meeting " was a deference paid to superior 
 rank. For an offence a man might be deprived of the title of " Mr.,"' 
 and condemned to be called thereafter " Goodman" so-and-so. 
 And ao man could be a " freeman," that is, a citizen and voter, un- 
 less he were a church-member, and unless admitted by special vote 
 of the General Court. A person who was not a freeman lived on 
 sufferance, and had few rights which the rulers were bound to re- 
 spect. Thess facts, which are tediously familiar, show that there 
 was not the least notion of political equalitv. The vision of a free 
 commonwealth resting upon universal suffrage is wholly modern, 
 and had not dawned upon the settlers of Plymouth or Boston. 
 There is no reason for reproaching them on that account, for they 
 were Britons, with the education and inherited prejudices of a peo- 
 ple to whom political equality was unknown. It is commonly said 
 that the feudal system came to an end in Great Britain some cen- 
 turies ago, but there was never a greater error. 
 
 Slavery lingered in Massachusetts until after the adoption of the 
 Constitution in 1820. The system of indentured apprenticeship, 
 and the binding out of friendless girls as house-servants, continued 
 much longer. 
 
 Political equality is to be considered as a purely legal status, and 
 not confounded with social equality, which has never existed any- 
 where except among obscure religious sects, such as the primitive 
 church. The communism of the New Testament has never been 
 taken seriously by any considerable body of Christians. In the 
 United States a man has his right in court and at the polls, but no 
 legal claim for social recognition, still less for brotherly love. 
 
 As to the third element in a free State, toleration, it would be 
 
APPEXD/X 373 
 
 superfluous to dwell upon the position of the founders of Massachu- 
 setts in regard to it. It was established after long struggles. It 
 conquered by the suppression of Episcopalians, the scourging and 
 hanging of Quakers, and by the banishment of Anne Wheelwright, 
 and of Roger Williams.^ The persecution, which at the time 
 seemed to strengthen the government, had a reflex action little sus- 
 pected. Every violent measure brought the triumph of peace and 
 good-will nearer. Toleration became the rule in Massachusetts 
 onlv when theological dogmas had been softened, and the church 
 and State dissociated. 
 
 In tliis matter, as in regard to political equality, we are indebted 
 to Jet^erson, — the Constitution of the United States forbidding reli- 
 gious tests. This is a boon that will endure ; there can never be 
 even an attempt to fetter the free mind. 
 
 One anomaly still exists in Massachusetts, and perhaps in other 
 States, namely, the exclusion from the witness-box of those who do 
 not profess to believe certain abstract doctrines. In its results this 
 is an infringement of natural justice. If an atheist were assaulted 
 and beaten, or injured in his propert}', he would be without redress, 
 
 1 Bancroft thus summarizes the views of Roger Williams : " The civil magis- 
 trates should restrain crime, but never control opinion ; should punish guilt, but 
 never violate inward freedom. The principle contained within itself an entire ref- 
 ormation of theological jurisprudence: it would blot from the statute-book the fel- 
 ony of non-conformity ; would quench tlie fires that persecution had so long kept 
 burning ; would repeal every law compelling attendance on public worship ; would 
 abolish tithes and all forced contributions to the maintenance of religion ; would 
 give an equal protection to every form of religious faith. 
 
 " Almost half a century before William Penn became an American proprietary, 
 and two years before Descartes founded modern philosophy on the method of free 
 reflection, Roger Williams asserted the L.rcat doctrine of intellectual liberty. It 
 became his glory to found a State upon that principle, and to stamp himself upon 
 its rising institutions in characters so deep that the impress has remained to this 
 day, and can never be erased without a total destruction of the work. 
 
 " He was the first person in modern Christendom to assert in its plentitude the 
 doctrine of the liberty of conscience, the equality of opinions before tlie law ; and 
 in its defence he was the harbinger of Milton, the precursor and the superior of 
 Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 '* We praise the man who lirst analyzed the air, or resolved water into its ele- 
 ments, or drew the lightning from the clouds. ... A nuiral principle has a much 
 •wider and nearer influence on human happiness ; nor can any discovery of truth 
 be of more direct benefit to society than that which establishes a perpetual religious 
 peace.'' 
 
374 APPENDIX 
 
 if the case depended in any way upon his own testimony. " Athe- 
 ism '' has often been fastened upon fooHsh talkers, as well as upon 
 conscientious persons who professed themselves unable to bring the 
 tremendous and unthinkable attributes of the Former of the uni- 
 verse into the limits of a personal or anthropomorphic God. It has 
 also been required by statute that witnesses should qualify by 
 avowing their belief in "a state of future rewards and punishments." 
 Many an honest man might find it difficult to do this, if the words 
 were literally construed ; and the more conscientious he was the 
 less would he be disposed to frame an answer that would comply 
 with the law. 
 
 The natural remedy is to abolish oaths in courts of justice, and 
 to substitute affirmations, annexing the penalties now provided for 
 perjury. The taking of an oath is a relic of superstition, useless as 
 a guarantee of truth, and, in fact, a prolific source of falsity. ^ 
 
 If we consider now all that is included in the idea of a free com- 
 monwealth, we shall be able to give such credit as is due to our 
 Puritan ancestors. We are to remember that we owe to them 
 exclusively free schools and local government by towns, — two 
 agencies more important than any others in diftusing intellectual 
 light, in making men worthy of freedom, and in fitting them to 
 maintain it. Without these the doctrines of political equality and 
 toleration would have had little practical influence ; with them, aided 
 by the deep religious spirit, the truth, self-devotion, and ideality 
 which marked the fathers, there has been set up a republic, 
 strong: in the hearts of men, firmlv based also on law, and which 
 recognizes the highest ethical principles ever embodied in a govern- 
 ment. 
 
 Perhaps the delay in the development of freedom was not only 
 inevitable, but in the end advantageous. Perhaps the rule and 
 the methods of the Puritan clergy were best for the future prosper- 
 ity of a small, remote, and isolated colony. They could be useful 
 and successful only so long as the people were obedient as one man 
 to spiritual rulers ; only so long as intercourse with the great 
 world was cutoff; only so long as the wretched roads made inter- 
 
 1 After a trial in the Superior Court in Boston, in which the false swearing on 
 botli sides was evident and appalling, the chief justice, Charles Allen, pointing 
 to an old and dirty volume on which the witnesses had been sworn, said, " Mr. 
 Clerk, get a new Testament : that calf-skin is saturated with perjury!" 
 
APPENDIX 375 
 
 communication difficult ; only so long as men were debarred from 
 general reading and free inquiry ; only so long as superstition pre- 
 vailed, and the phenomena of nature were taken as signs of the 
 anger of the Almighty. With the advance of learning, and the in- 
 flux of new ideas from without, there came a relaxation of dogma, 
 and an irresistible development of freedom. Then it was that " the 
 stars in their courses fought against " the pretensions of the clergy 
 and their allies, the magistrates. At last came the era of science 
 and invention, — of railroads, newspapers, and general literature; 
 an era of enlightenment so vivid and universal that the colonial and 
 provincial centuries now seem to have been a continuance of the 
 Dark Ages. 
 
 It should be added that, in spite of the supposed leanings of the 
 Federalists toward aristocratic institutions, political equalitv was 
 welcomed in Massachusetts as early as anywhere in the Union. In 
 Virginia, where the idea first took practical form, it was not fully 
 realized until nearly a century afterward, when slavery fell by the 
 proclamation of President Lincoln. 
 
APPENDIX III 
 
 Singers in the olden times sang as birds sing: " As the old cocks 
 crew the young ones learned." Books of musical notation were 
 used in psalmody, but seldom for secular music ; and, in the coun- 
 try, at least, there was no sheet music before the days of pianos. 
 A singer caught a new melody by attentively listening to it, and 
 learned the words by assiduous repetition. The singer referred to 
 in the chapter upon "Working the Roads'' had an extraordinary 
 memory, — perfected by years of practice, — which retained the 
 Bible as well as the two hundred songs. His powers would seem 
 to make credible the handing down of the Homeric ballads, and the 
 Gaelic legends and apostrophes of Ossian. 
 
 He found the words of " Wolfe's Adieu " in an American news- 
 paper of the early part of this century, without any hint of the au- 
 thorship ; and he adapted them to an old English melody (which 
 he had learned by rote), called " The Nightingale.''' It is probable 
 that neither the words nor the music have ever been in print from 
 that day to this. A search was made in the British Museum with- 
 out result. The music is pleasing, but without much vigor or origi- 
 nality. The song will serve to show how people were entertained 
 in the old days. 
 
 The singer referred to was more successful in satiric songs, .such 
 as "The Vicar of Bray "and "The Embargo," a political skit 
 against Jefferson ; but he sang many of a sentimental kind, like 
 Campbell's " Soldier's Dream," with natural pathos and good taste. 
 
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