 | CHAPTER XIX. Forest life |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
Dryden.
When we miss our way in a labyrinth,—I have
never attempted any thing in this line beyond following
with my bodkin's point cunning trickery
on paper,—our only hope of ultimate success lies
in returning to the position whence we set out, and
endeavoring by more disciplined attention to avoid
further wandering. I believe some people's heads
are labyrinthine by nature—but we will try.
We left the sun setting or preparing to set; the
willows looking at their pensile tresses in the water;
the herds making pleasant music at small cost
as they cropped the dainty meadow-grass. As my
memory recurs to that hour of beauty, I can recollect
that we paused a moment under the shade of
a spreading beech, and were wishing that the taste
of some adventurous settler had led him to pitch
his tent in this lovely spot, that we need not wander
further in search of a shelter for the night, when
we discovered that the light evening breeze, that
had seemed so refreshing as we met it on our onward
way, was in reality coaxing from their day
horn was fast overpowering all sweeter sounds.
The charm of the scene was gone at once. To
the practised ear the note of this enemy of mankind
is “like signal guns in battle”—a sound which
awakens at once a degree of passionate energy that
would seem surprising to the uninitiated. Our good
steeds felt the whip, probably for the first time that
day, and we soon found ourselves at the summit of
a gentle eminence which arose gradually from the
borders of the wide tract of meadow. Here the eye
wandered over a plain clothed rather sparingly
with heavy timber, and affording a cheering though
distant view of several newly-built log-houses
peeping here and there between the tall and
stately trunks of the original forest. Could this
be Constantinople? or was it only a Pera or Scutari—a
mere vestibule to more imposing localities?
We could not be long in suspense. Fumes of
tobacco filled the air—I hope the Turks smoke a
better quality—and lo! before we reached the
first house or its clearing, an Indian, without any
sort of covering for the head, not even a flaming
handkerchief—his hair faded to a red brown by the
burning sun—a cigar in his mouth—and in his hand
—yet no!—it cannot be!—yes! it is—a book!
An Indian with a book! This must be some missionary
station that we had never heard of. And besides,
off to Green Bay, at the point of the bayonet.
“Can you tell us, friend,”—but what is this?
Mr. Jenkins! our old neighbor, Mr. Simeon Jenkins—ruralizing
with a volume such as used to
grace the corner of his shop! the very same, I dare
say; at any rate I warrant it full of hard words,
or it would not have found favor in his eyes.
Our quondam neighbor seemed really glad to see
us. Cordial greetings were exchanged, and many
questions asked on both sides; but the one I most
desired to put, I did not dare even to hint at, namely,
what could possibly have transformed our friend
into so near a resemblance to the aborigines? He
never was particularly solicitous as to his outward
man, but he used to wear Hyperion's curls, though
he combed them but seldom; and his front, though
not exactly that of Jove, was of a scholarly whiteness
save when he rubbed it red in the anxiety of
his deep cogitations. His dress, which had formerly
carried with it as much of an outside show of
humanity as that of most of his neighbors, was
now, to say the least, none too much for the sultriest
weather. He seemed systematically to have dispensed
with every thing that could be deemed
superfluous even by an Indian. Indeed, Red Jacket,
if we may draw inferences from his name, must
have been in the habit of devoting a greater proportion
of his income to external decoration, than
our literary friend in his rusticated state.
He was changed but little, otherwise. His flow
of talk presented the old mixture of grand words,
picked up in the course of his reading, with local
peculiarities of diction which came unbidden.
“We had no idea that you lived in this quarter,
Mr. Jenkins. I think, when you left our neighborhood,
you were going into another part of the
country?”
“True! you are correct. When I transferred
my residence, I located for a pretty considerable
space of time in Etny, which was then confidentially
anticipated for to become the county-seat.
But, by the influence of faction, sir, our plans was
circumvented; nothing went as it had oughter;
and when I see how things was a goin', and that
we had got to be awfully taxed to pay for them
county-buildin's that's a dilapidatin' every day for
want of tenants and winder-glass, I concluded to
cut stick; and as my cows would concentrate at
Constantinople whether or no, and it took all my
time to run after 'em, I thought I might as well
come here at once, and devote myself to an agricultural
profession.”
“This is Constantinople then?”
“It is. This here eighty in your immediate
vicinity is intersected with streets.”
“And the stream which we have just passed—
has it a name too?”
“I should think it had! That's the Wolgy. I
named it myself, after considerable of a run in the
is not much book-learning among our neighbors.”
This last observation was accompanied by a
pitying smile.
“I suppose your own studies must be materially
interrupted since you turned farmer.”
“Mine! O no! far otherways, for I farm altogether
by the book. I consider headwork to be by
far the most important, so I generally let my boys
perform the manual labor, while I exercise my
mind in planning work for them. Farming requires
a great deal of reflection, and I never could reflect
much while I was hard at work.”
“And how does your mode of farming succeed?”
“Why, as to that, I hardly consider myself in
a suitable position for to answer determinedly.
I got a number of plans, and made some improvements
upon every one of them, but some how or
another—the season wasn't propitiatious. My
wheat was unaccountable chessy, though I turned
water upon it, and kept it moist all summer. After
all my care, we came pretty nigh bein' short on
for bread-timber this spring. I hadn't good luck
with my bees, neither; they all died off, though I
washed the hives in sulphur-water to kill the
worms. Some of the neighbors says it was the
sulphur that killed 'em, but they are very much
under the dominion of prejudice and superstition.
Sulphur is a dreadful purifying thing, and there
body suppose it would be bad for any thing.”
“Your neighbors then do not agree with you in
your fondness for experiments?”
“No! they are jined to their own ways, and
adverse to any improvement. I got some silk-worms,
and tried 'em upon oak-leaves, and they all
died, and I ra'ally believe my neighbors was glad
on't. Now you see them silk-worms had been
foolishly kept upon one particular kind of food;
but I am certain that if I could light upon some
that had been left to foller the leadings of their
own just appreciations, they would elongate the
best of silk from oak-leaves, which is naturally,
you know, a very tough sort of victuals, and would
therefore, of course, be productive of causing the
silk to be stronger. But, talking of victuals, won't
you enter my cottage and partake of a little refreshment?
It's a getting on towards night, and I
reckon you can't get along much further.”
This was declined, as we had a particular resting-place
in view; but we could not think of proceeding
without seeing Mrs. Jenkins, who is a woman of
sterling worth, and bears her husband's oddities with
admirable patience, evidently considering him as
belonging to that high order of genius whose
errors are more than pardonable.
The good lady received us with smiles somewhat
tinctured with sadness. She had not found very
pleasant the change of residence, from a little growing
dropped in to take a quiet cup of tea, and discuss the
floating, feminine news of the day, to a woodland
solitude, where even her husband's grandiloquence
was but sparingly bestowed, and where he—identifying
himself alternately with Cincinnatus, Franklin,
and Lord Byron—exacted the indulgence and
the homage which he conceived to be the just due of
a person whose exalted capacities and acquirements
united all these claims, and some more besides.
Mrs. Jenkins did not appear to have participated
in her husband's plan of extreme simplification of
costume. Her gown and cap were neat as usual,
though somewhat more worn than when I saw her
last; and she enjoyed shoes, though not stockings.
Perhaps Mr. Jenkins had discovered that the Albanian
ladies did not consider them indispensable.
The younger children were somewhat like Cupids,
in drapery if not in contour; the elder had not yet
returned from their field-work.
While we detailed our stories of village news,—
births, deaths, marriages, and removals,—the last
far the most prolific topic,—Mr. Jenkins vanished
for a few moments, and when he reappeared it
could not be unobserved that he had made material
additions to his dress. His wife looked evidently
pleased at this effort at humanization, and he replied
to her looks with something of a sheepish air, as
one might who had been caught betraying his
principles.
“The evenings come on chilly, after these hot
days,” he said; “and I find that old habits requires
more covering than an unsophisticated natural
condition would render necessary. I am a trying
to bring up my family upon rational principles, and
to learn them not to want things that wasn't naturally
required by the human constitution at the
creation of the world. We all know that nature
had its origin before the rise of human affairs, and
that most of the inventions that men has sought
out, is the offspring of pride and luxuriousness,
no ways needed by man in his true, independent
condition.”
“But do you consider it desirable to exchange
the habits of civilized life for those of the savage,
of our own Indians for instance?”
“Certingly I do. Pride I consider to be the
ruin of every thing in this world. Now there a'n't
no pride among the Indians. They like a man
just as well when he is dirty as if he was dressed
up ever so grand, and better too, because it seems
more sociable. Every body's alike among them,
and so it ought to be. They all eat out of one
dish, and drink out of one bottle.”
“But would you like to eat and drink with
them?”
“Why, as to that, the Indians is nasty creatures,
and don't know how to cook any thing; and
besides, my habits is fixed, as I was a saying a
while ago—and my health a'n't very good neither”
as to eatin', you know the Indians a'n't the same
color that we be.”
“Oh! your opinion that every body is alike
does not extend to color then?”
“I should hope not! you'll never catch me
eatin' with Indians nor niggers. They never were
meant to associate with white folks. But I want
my boys to be brought up rational, only their
mother won't let 'em.”
I could not help saying I was glad to hear it.
“Yes, I s'pose so!” was the reply. “Your
ideas was all originated and begun where folks
lived for nothing but pride—I don't mean no reflections,—but
it is jes so with people that's
brought up in cities—I don't blame you none,
but I know you can't be expected to see things in
their true light. We ra'ally need but precious little
if it wasn't for pride.”
We knew of old that Mr. Jenkins's passion for
argument was insatiable, and we declined entering
on the discussion of first principles on so short
notice. We knew too that our old neighbor had
been sadly unsuccessful in the many ingenious
modes by which he had attempted to get a living
without work; so that we had the more charity
for his desire to prove that very little is needed in
this world beyond a contented mind. He is one
of a numerous class who solace themselves by
decrying worldly advantages which they have not
which contravene their own coarse and
self-indulgent usages. They are self-deceivers undoubtedly,
but they seldom deceive others. Their
inconsistencies invariably tell the truth.
We might have been glad of a further opportunity
to cheer the good wife, whose eyes told the
pleasure our call was bestowing; but the westering
sun warned us to depart, and we bade adieu
after requesting a visit in return.
| CHAPTER XIX. Forest life | |