USA > Pennsylvania > Washington County > Claysville > Our church and our village > Part 9
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The home library, although not colossal, has been no unimportant element of my intellectual life. Haven's illustrated "Book of Trades" gave me an insight of the various things that man's hand finds to do. Chauncey Goodrich's "History of the United States " was so frequently read that its vivid narrations of the " Battle of Saratoga," the "Trea- son of Benedict Arnold," the "Capture of John André," the " Desertion of Sergeant Champe," the " Death of Washington," and the " Funeral of Will- iam Henry Harrison " are indelibly imprinted on my memory.
A small collection of books (not more than twenty volumes), known as "Parley's Cabinet Library," riveted the enthusiastic interest of youth. I recall the sketches of Josephine, Mrs. Barbauld, Lady Hester
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Stanhope, Hannah More, Martha Washington, and Abigail Adams, in the volume entitled "Famous Women " ; of Solon, Socrates, Plato, Alcibiades, De- mosthenes, Cicero, Cæsar, and Seneca, in “ Famous Men of Ancient Times"; of Cromwell, Charles the First, William Penn, in “ Famous Men in Modern Times " ; of Zerah Colburn, Admiral Crichton, Cas- par Hauser, Daniel Lambert, and John Elwes, in " Curiosities of Human Nature," along with as good a description as I ever saw of England and Eng- lishmen, in “ Manners and Customs of European Na- tions."
I still feel the impression of the truth in its im- perishableness, its heroism and its triumph, which came to me when I grasped D'Aubigne's " History of the Reformation." A factor of my life has been the useful information, secular and religious, which I ab- sorbed from a Sunday-school library issued by the London Religious Tract Society.
I also foraged on the literary wares of my neighbors, and was very much attracted by the "Legends " of George Lippard in the work entitled "Washington and his Generals." I turned the pages of Captain Marryat's "Peter Simple " with the keen interest of a boy who was learning his first lesson in what Wash- ington Irving called " the chivalry of the ocean." I was deeply moved by Jane Porter's touching story of " Thaddeus of Warsaw " and her tales of " The Scot- tish Chiefs." I took a short excursion into that the- saurus of the past known by our fathers as " Rollin's Ancient History." The summer days will never be forgotten in which I read Shakespeare and Byron. I
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remember well how the literary circle in Our Village Home was stirred by the appearance of Macaulay's " History of England," Harper's Monthly Magazine, and " Uncle Tom's Cabin."
But the dear ones around the village hearthstone! Where are they now? No longer on Sunday evening do we read aloud from the Bible, each taking his or her turn, from the father to the youngest child; recite the answers of the Catechism, worship God in song, and bow to Him in prayer. No longer do we make the walls ring with music, sacred and secular, vocal and instrumental, as with the aid of the neighboring boys and girls we drummed the piano, scraped the fiddle, buzzed with the jewsharp, thundered with the bass-viol, and waked the guitar. No longer do we wait for the college vacation or for the yearly home- coming of those who had gone out from the old nest, so that the old circle may be itself again. The father, full of years and rich in the love and respect of the com- munity, still sits at the fireside. Death, however, has made us understand the philosophy of Wordsworth's " We are Seven." No more as I turn the corner from the depot do I see MOTHER at the gate waiting to wel- come me home. Dear, lovely FRANK, my companion brother, of prodigious memory, of brilliant imagina- tion, quick intellectual perception, acute moral sense, had scarcely entered into the activities of earthly life ere he mounted to the higher life, saying: " I shall soon see greater things than you." Dear, modest, quiet WILLIE wanted us to sing because death was open- ing his ear to the swelling harmony of the New Jeru- salem.
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GOD BE THANKED FOR MY VILLAGE HEARTHSTONE! The vacant chambers where the loved ones slept are sanctuaries. The empty chairs where the loved ones sat are altars. As I saw the cradle in which I was rocked, my heart was touched by the following lines:
MY CRADLE
A dark little closet stands under the stair, With some scraps of old furniture stocked, And save these few things it is dusty and bare- A most unfit place for an object so rare ; Yet something I prize very highly is there :; "Tis the cradle in which I was rocked.
To me, oft as I've gazed on the treasure before, Sweet thoughts of my childhood have flocked, Of the playmates and friends of those bright days of yore, Of the father whose face I shall never see more, And the mother who bent with fondness o'er The dear cradle in which I was rocked.
I've had many a couch since in it I have lain ; The cold world has scorned me, and mocked ; My bravest endeavors have proved all in vain ; The joys have all flown that I hoped would remain, And it seems naught is left me but sadness and pain And the cradle in which I was rocked.
The path of my life is so rugged and steep, And with so many hardships is blocked, That my feet grow so weary I scarcely can creep ; But there's no room to rest, and there's no time to weep Though I fain would return and again fall asleep In the cradle in which I was rocked.
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But as oft as I open that old closet door The mystery of love is unlocked : I seem to become mother's baby once more ; My heart swells with love and with hope as of yore, And I pray with much faith as I kneel on the floor Near the cradle in which I was rocked.
ROY.
MORROW, O.
OUR VILLAGE POPULATION
Our Village Home numbered about three hundred souls. Among these there were the peers of the three hundred who followed Gideon to victory as well as of the three hundred who, with heroic Leonidas, taught the proud Xerxes that there were Greeks who would cheerfully die for their country. Lord Byron sings the following prayer:
" Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ; Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylæ."
The history of Our Village Home has more than one Thermopylæ. The one who met death so bravely, the one whom I saw plunging into the death-damp of an old well to save human life, the one who would not be driven from his determination to secure an education-each made a new Thermopylæ.
The range of nativity in our village population was quite extensive. It included, besides those to the manor born, the members of a colony from the North
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of Ireland, the h-dropping Englishman, the Mary- lander, and the Pennsylvania Dutchman. Our village was unique in the absence of the colored people. I remember but one resident, and an occasional visitor, whom all Washington County knew as "Dungy and his sugar-sticks." It was the current report concern- ing the taffy pedler that he prepared for pulling his molasses candy by spitting on his hands.
Our village population was a very distinct revelation of the kaleidoscope of human nature. Every grade of talent, every feature of eccentricity, every variety of taste, seemed to have its subject in our little town. There was Uncle Bobby, whether at the blacksmith's forge on the weekdays or in the elder's pew on the Sabbath, so wise, witty, religious, and humble. There was Uncle Watty, who, a retired stage-driver, was a venerable gentleman. There was Squire Miller, a man of wide reading and great mental acuteness, whose conversation was an education. And what genuine old ladies were the admiration of Our Village Home! They were the doctors, nurses, counsellors, and helpers of the whole community. The active citi- zens were, as a rule, intelligent, industrious, and abreast of the times. There was a general impression of the value of money, illustrating an American trait which was brought to the attention of Professor Park, of Andover, during a tour of Germany. Dr. Park was standing by a magnificent building. A German professor approached him and said, " I perceive, sir, that you are an Englishman." Professor Park smiled and made no reply. A moment later the professor in- quired, "Do you know the cost of this building?"
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The German at once exclaimed, "I perceive, sir, that you are an American. I do verily believe that when an American comes to stand before the great white throne, his first words will be, 'How much did it cost? '"
The good wives of the town, in more cases than one, had their husbands under good control. I think of several who bring to mind the related experience of the stranger who called at forty-eight different houses in Cleveland, and asked, " Is the boss home? " There was no man home in any one instance, and yet forty-seven of the women promptly replied: " Yes, sir! What do you want? "
Like all other communities of imperfect humanity, our native place gave a home to the village gossip. Neither was the wag of tongue confined to the gentler sex. The thirst to gather and retail statements, con- cerning persons rather than things, developed many a masculine talebearer. I recall special instances of the clatter, " I heard," " You don't say," "I don't believe it," "There must be something in it," "Said I," " Said he," " Said she." So that we were familiar with a phenomenon noted by one of our leading periodicals, as follows: " We have many times been an unwilling listener to the 'said she' and 'said I' narrations in public conveyances, and elsewhere; but never knew an instance where the 'said I's' didn't say all the smart things, and the ' said she's ' all the stupid, vicious ones, or where the 'said I's ' didn't come off victorious in the end."
A near relative of the gossip was the exaggerator. This character seemed to thrive on visits to the Great
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THE WAGONER OF THE OLD NATIONAL ROAD
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West. The prairies in their extensiveness, and his native valleys in their narrowness, gave the truth a distortion which was simply amusing. We were ac- customed to hear accounts of the richness of the land which were fully equal to the railroad's agent's praise of the Arkansas Valley. His narrative was so extrava- gant that he was asked if there was anything that wouldn't grow there. "Yes," he answered quickly, "pumpkins won't." "Why not?" was the question. The reply was: " The soil is so rich and the vines grow so fast that they wear out the pumpkins, dragging them over the ground."
The stage-driver and the wagoner fairly revelled in the big story. The big story was the ideal in which they clothed their real experience of the incidents, both humorous and tragical, which marked the prosecution of their calling. Their contact with every phase of human nature made them the news-gatherers and the news-distributors of the communities along the Na- tional Road. They were so often in perils of storm and darkness and snow and ice and mud as to com- pel the most wonderful feats of expertness in the man- agement of their teams. It must be confessed that the narratives which these feats evolved were mainly im- aginary. Yet the historical background of their big stories is just as true as that from which came forth the wondrous literary creations of Sir Walter Scott. Hence there is a rough though true photograph of the real in a tradition of Our Village Home that a company of wagoners were talking once of their exploits in con- nection with the spring mud through which they were often compelled to wade. At last old Billy M-,
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whom I can see as if it were but yesterday, contributed his tale. "That's nothing," said he. He declared that once when he was on the road with a six-horse team he drove at a place where the mud was so deep that all he had to guide him were the ears of the horse in the lead. The same man gave a true photograph of what we would have felt under similar circum- stances when, referring to a time when he was load- ing his wagon in Baltimore, he affirmed that in going from the store to the wagon with a bag of lead on his shoulders, he sank to his knees in the pavement.
A cousin german of the exaggerator was the pro- fessional politician. The newspaper of his party was so much the political Bible of this individual, that where it praised he commended, and where it abused he denounced. The village store and the village bar- room were, by turns, the forum of this tribute of the people. His vocabulary was so familiar to the ear of childhood that, before I was twelve years of age, I knew whether I fully understood or not of the " Tariffs of '42 and '46," the "Buckshot War," the " United States Bank," "Whig and Democrat," "Tory and Locofoco," " Neutral and Abolitionist," "Tippecanoe and Tyler too," " Salt River," besides being acquainted with every phase of county politics.
The word " Abolitionist " is the wand which wakes from memory two men who were members of that party when it was but a handful of corn upon the top of the mountains. One was a real prophet of fire and, though without a liberal education, a natural genius; an impassioned orator; breath, blood, bone, and muscle an agitator. Neither the bitter taunt nor angry threat
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nor contemptuous sneer could drive our village Wendell Phillips from the crusade in behalf of the slave.
However, the investigations of the village senate, in its several places of assembly, were not confined to the political horizon. I have known the company in the village store to resolve itself into a committee of the whole on mathematical, especially arithmetical, problems. The arbiter of the science of quantity in the community was the proprietor of the brick store, whose delight in the solution of a problem was in pro- portion to its intricacy of statement.
I cannot forbear the introduction of one of the arith- metical jokes of the village traditions. Two persons of the vicinity, known as Mr. B- and Patrick C., had met to make a final settlement for work done for the former by the latter. The former presented his statement of the account, and asked the latter if he were satisfied. According to the story, Patrick took the calculation and commenced: " Nort from nort and nort remains." Then, with an expletive as full of vigor as it was destitute of reverence for the third commandment, he asserts, " Mr. B .- , you owe me fifty cents."
Our village senate would often leave the store and the barroom for the schoolhouse and resolve itself into a debating society. The village disputants used to wrestle with such questions as involved the com- parative merits of a tariff and a direct tax. I reach over the lapse of years and turn the leaves of the old record book, and "Is there more pleasure in pursuit than in possession?" My ears recall the eloquence
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that was poured forth concerning Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington.
The literary world seems to be determined that the close of the nineteenth century shall not be blind to that " little Corsican " who was the prominent figure in the political world at its opening. As my thoughts go back to the days of our village debating club, I am convinced that it was about as successful in its homely analysis of the character of Napoleon as the most acute and judicial of our historians. Sir Archibald Alison asserts that there is no man who can say that he has a clear conception of what Napoleon's character actually was-brave, without being chivalrous; some- times humane, seldom generous; insatiable in am- bition, inexhaustible in resources; without a thirst for blood, but totally indifferent when his interests were concerned; without any fixed ideas in religion, but a strong perception of its necessity as a part of the mechanism of government; a great general with a small army, a mighty conqueror with a large one; gifted with extraordinary powers of perception and the clearest insight into every subject connected with man- kind, without extensive information derived from study, but the rarest aptitude for making himself mas- ter of every subject from actual observation; ardently devoted to glory, and yet incapable of the self-sacrifice which constitutes its highest honors; he exhibited a mixture of great and selfish qualities such as, perhaps, never were before combined in any single individual. His greatest defect was the constant and systematic disregard of truth which pervaded all his thoughts.
The same writer adopts the sentiment of another,
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who styled Wellington " a Cæsar, without his ambi- tion; a Pompey, without his pride; a Marlborough, without his avarice; a Frederick, without his infidelity."
Of course, as a part of that sovereignty which our Constitution has put into the hands of the people, our village debating society would canvass questions in which it would take issue for and against such men as Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun, and Daniel Webster. I simply advert to these names to refresh our minds with respect to these great men.
HENRY CLAY
It is generally conceded that neither ancient nor modern times has presented a so nearly complete specimen of natural eloquence, or a so great power of adaptation to the assemblies whom his wondrous oratory made the subjects of his will. In the personal memories of E. D. Mansfield there is the record of an incident in connection with the " disgust " which Mr. Clay, by some vote in Congress, had created among his mountaineer constituents, known as the " Hunters of Kentucky." Mr. Clay called a meeting, and, in the course of his speech, fixing his eye on one of his old supporters, said: " Suppose, my friend, you had an old rifle which you had borne through the hills many a day, and it had never failed you; but now you put it to your shoulder and it snapped, but hung fire, would you break the stock and throw it away, or would you try it again? "
" I would try it again. We'll try you again, Harry Clay! " shouted the hunters.
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Our Village Home had an especial interest in Henry Clay. Its founders saw in the Great Commoner and staunch friend of the National Road the man whom they delighted to honor, and gave the new settlement his name. In his journeys to and fro from Washing- ton, it was his wont to stop and cordially greet the inhabitants of our little town. Well do I remember the day when I formed one of a group which gathered at the stage station to await the arrival of Henry Clay. The impression of that venerable face, the tones of that voice which had been the occasion of such marvels of the orator's cunning, that fur cap and blue coat, will never be dislodged from my memory.
JOHN C. CALHOUN
We have no reason to believe that he would have shrunk from the consequences of the seed that he planted as the Apostle of Secession. Let it suffice here to quote Daniel Webster's description of his elo- quence: " It was plain, strong, terse, condensed, pre- cise; sometimes impassioned, still always severe. Re- jecting ornament, not often seeking far for illustration, his power consisted in the plainness of his propositions, in the closeness of his logic, and in the earnestness and energy of his manner."
DANIEL WEBSTER
Thomas Carlyle met Daniel Webster during his visit to England. In a letter to Ralph Waldo Emerson he says: "Not many days ago I saw at breakfast the
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notablest of all your notabilities, Daniel Webster. He is a magnificent specimen. You might say to all the world, ' This is your Yankee Englishman; such limbs we make in Yankee land!' As a Logic-fencer, Advo- cate, or Parliamentary Hercules, one would incline to back him at first sight against all the extant world. The tanned complexion; that amorphous, crag-like face; the dull, black eyes under their precipice of brows, like dull anthracite furnaces needing only to be blown; the mastiff mouth accurately closed-I have not traced so much of silent Berserker rage that I re- member of in any other man."
But I must not forget that our village population was but a section of
OUR VILLAGE NEIGHBORHOOD
Alexander, Brownlee, Carson, Craig, Dickey, Egan, Henderson, Hutchinson, McMillen, Marshall, Me- cracken, Meloy, Moore, Robinson, are surnames which show that our part of Washington County was the Canaan of the North of Ireland, the Beersheba where the Scotch-Irishman pitched his home, his school, and his church. Some of these surnames are remarkable for their connection with the same Chris- tian name. Thus in one case the community dis- tinguished the members of a family connection as " Big Billy," "Little Billy," " Miller Billy," " Patton Billy," Hutchinson Billy," "Laughing Billy," " Blue Billy," and "Slim Jim," and "Blue Jim." Another family had a member whom the whole country jocosely stamped as "Imaginative Jim." To the northward
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from Our Village Home there was a colony of Penn- sylvania Dutch, who seemed to take to the Christian name of Christopher.
Our village neighborhood was given up to the work of agriculture. The farmer of our community was one
" Who with peculiar grace his station filled, By deeds of hospitality endeared, Served from affection, for his worth revered. A happy offspring blessed his plenteous board ; His fields were fruitful and his barns well stored.
And (flocks) he fed : a sturdy team ! And lowing kine that graz'd beside the stream. Unceasing industry he kept in view- The fields his study, nature was his book. And as revolving SEASONS changed the scene From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene, Through every change, still varied his employ, Yet each new duty brought its share of joy."
One peculiarity of our farmers was the line they drew between the value of an article while it was for sale and after it was sold, thus confirming the word of the writer of the Book of Proverbs: "It is naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he is gone his way, then he boasteth; " and bringing to mind the somewhat ludicrous but significant story mentioned by Augustine, in which a theatrical mountebank an- nounces to his audience that at his next entertainment he will show every man what is in his heart. When he stood before the immense concourse, he redeemed his pledge by a single sentence: “ Vili vultis emere et caro vendere."-" You wish to buy cheap and sell dear." Although they were so neighborly, so hospitable, and
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so accommodating that they would share with you any product of the farm, yet it was like pulling a tooth to draw from them the least denomination of the current coin of the realm. I recall a man who, when he went to pay for a farm, would make one think of a person going to mill. He would ride into our village, sitting on a bag thrown across the saddle, the stones at one end of it being balanced by a half-bushel of half-dollars at the other. The panorama of memory presents more than one who were in sympathy with the old farmer, who, as the story goes, came into his town looking for an editor's table on which to build a hen's nest. He explained that he had learned from the papers that the biggest eggs were always laid on the editor's table, and he wished to ascertain whether the papers lied or not.
The tables of our village neighborhood were marvels of culinary skill. The boys who sauntered from town could find the way to this one's honey and to that one's jam. Although it was not customary to eat by courses, I believe that few of our vicinage would have been as unsophisticated as the new member of Congress who sent home the following description of his experience at a dinner in the Capital of the Na- tion. "There was nothing on the table when I got there but some forks and spoons and bricky-brac. Presently they brought in some soup. As I didn't see nothin' else, I thought I'd eat all the soup I could, though soup is a mighty poor dinner to invite a fellow to. So I was helped four times, and then come on the finest dinner I ever see, and there I sot," groaned he, " chock full of soup."
- A marked feature of our village neighborhood was
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the intermarriage of kin. In no small number of in- stances the marriage knot was the tie of consanguinity, making the genealogical record a story of mixed phenomena.
Neither the opposition of parents nor the unfavor- able comment of the neighbors prevented the young people of our community from giving the marriage pledge in early life. My recollection of early mar- riages convinces me that the dire prophecies concern- ing them have not, by a great deal, been fulfilled. It was rather " John Anderson, my jo John," from the beginning to the end. There was nothing of the feel- ing that was said to have inspired a Detroit girl who married at fifteen so as to have her golden wedding when it would do her some good.
Let me not be understood as conveying the idea that every household of our region was free from family jars. There were commotions which suggested the story of a North Carolina justice of the peace, who married a couple as he sat enthroned in state on the back of a mule, and the animal, for once realizing that bigger trouble was going on than he could produce, kept his heels still.
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