University of Virginia Library

THE TOWN POOR.
A WESTERN REMINISCENCE.

It is somewhat difficult, amid the conventionalisms of great cities,
to remember that mere humanity, ungraced by wealth or station,
and destitute of the talent by which these are to be acquired, has
any claim to respect or consideration. A pauper, among us, is a
mere animal, whose physical necessities a certain prejudice obliges
us to supply, but whose extinction would be a decided advantage to
all concerned, himself included, though there is unfortunately no
provision in our laws for putting out of the world those who are
merely superfluous in it.

A lady observed, last summer, that it was delightful, during the
abundant fruit season, to see every poor little beggar about the
markets with a fine peach or watermelon. `Why,' said her friend,
in all simplicity, `did you think they would eat so much as to kill
themselves?'

This was the thought that suggested itself to a rich and not unfeeling
person, on hearing that paupers were enjoying fruit. In the
country, and especially in the new country, people feel so differently,
with all their coarseness!

We had only one confessedly `poor' family in the town during

the half dozen years of our residence in the West. This was the
household of a stout, healthy carpenter, with a bed-ridden wife, and
a good many chubby children. At first the man struggled feebly
against fate, but he was too insurmountably lazy and inefficient to
supply, by extra effort, the deficiency occasioned by his wife's condition.
His step was always slow and heavy, except when the dinner-horn
sounded when he was at work for some thriving farmer. At
home, it was said, poor fellow, that he never knew what dinner was,
but took bread and milk, morning, noon, and night, the year round.
At his work he was a very snail, measuring and measuring, and,
after all, going wrong, and spoiling all by mere absence of mind and
forgetfulness. So, of course, work became scarce with him.

Meanwhile, his wife was always on the bed, except when she
wanted something to eat; and she was reported to have an admirable
appetite. The neighbors said a good many hard things about
her being able to exert herself when anything excited her; but she
insisted that she had a weakness in her back about as large as a
knitting-needle, which prevented her doing any kind of work, active
or sedentary, though she could manage occasionally to go to a tea-drinking,
or net herself a smart cap or collar when there was to be
a quarterly meeting.

This did pretty well while the poor carpenter could pay his way,
and keep all the hungry mouths supplied with something in the
way of food. But by and bye indolence, and improvidence, and
dirt, and poor fare, did their work upon him, and he was gradually
incapacitated for work, and reduced to the necessity of asking aid
from the town. After this the waters soon closed over his head.
Debts pressed—sickness came—hope (for this world) was extinct.
Happily, even in this darkness, a light came forth from the future
to gild the downward path of the pauper,—(paupers have souls, in

the country,)—and he turned his eyes from the wretched present to
the far better life to come, and welcomed Death as a kindly messenger,
sent by his Heavenly Father to release him from a world of
woe. No death-bed so poor that this spirit of love and hope cannot
curtain it with glorious light, converting its very penury into an
earnest of good things in store for the soul which has received `evil
things' on this side the grave.

There is perhaps no occasion on which the rougher sort of people
appear to better advantage than in circumstances of illness and
death in the neighborhood. Misfortunes of a different kind occurring
among their friends do not always awaken the sympathy we
should expect, perhaps because there is some truth in Rochefoucault's
famous maxim, that there is something in the misfortunes of
others which is not disagreeable to us; and the untaught do not
conceal this infirmity as cunningly as we do. Pecuniary misfortunes
are pitied by a curious scale of estimates. If a man is cheated out
of his farm, so that he is obliged to `pull up stakes' and go off to
Wisconsin or elsewhere, very little commiseration is felt for him.
It passes as one scene in the great drama of life; a crook which
may come in any man's lot; a new and therefore not entirely
undesirable experience; an opportunity of seeing the world; an
excuse for `going West,' an ever-present dream with all Western
people. If heavy rains destroy the harvest, when all has promised
golden abundance, the misfortune is shared so widely that it is
borne without special complaint, since misery not only loves company
but is consoled by it. If the miller's dam break away, so that
it requires all the men in the neighborhood to build it up again, it
is not in human nature to expect any great sympathy, for who is
sorry for a good `job?'

But let a fox come in and eat up a brood of young geese, or a

weasel suck a whole nest of promising eggs; let the rats make
havoc in the pile of rolls from the carding-mill, or the best cow get
too much clover, and the talk of the whole neighborhood will run on
nothing else until some new accident happens. Perhaps it will be
said that it is because these misfortunes fall within the female province
that words are lavished about them. As to that we cannot
say. But it is certain that they seem to make more impression on
the general mind.

For all that touches health or life, however, there is an ever-ready,
warm, overflowing and active sympathy, which education and
refinement could hardly improve, even if education and refinement
were always free from certain haunting influences which sometimes
mar their inherent beneficence. Delicacy, taste, disinterestedness,
tenderness, may be lacking at other times among the uninstructed;
when the hand of God touches `the bone and the flesh' of any
member of the community, all these things come, by a beautiful
instinct, just in proportion as they are needed. There is even a sort
of awe of the sick, and this among people whose organ of reverence
is usually anything but morbidly sensitive. They gaze upon
the sufferer reflectingly, and as he perceptibly nears the borders of
the dark valley, this awe is deepened, until it seems as if the outskirts
of that world upon which clouds and darkness rest, cast a
shadow on the face of the attendants around the sick bed. And
this reverential or awe-stricken feeling is not to be ascribed to a
mere fear of death; for this, strange to say, is not a trait among
such people, probably because their imaginations are unawakened.
It is a sense of spiritual reality; a bringing home of the assurances
of the pulpit; an effort to contemplate the unknown, which seems
brought within ken by a connecting link in the person of the dying.

At least such is the appearance. Although not untinged by superstition,
it is a truly religious awe.

But in cases which are far from being extreme, or even dangerous,
a high degree of sympathy is felt, and the most active, ingenious
and self-sacrificing kindness exhibited. The remedies prescribed and
offered might excite a smile, to be sure; but we will not touch upon
them now. In seasons of general or prevalent disease, it not unfrequently
occurs that a whole neighborhood will be so worn out with
night-watching that there is not one left who is well enough for
this most onerous service. In that case what riding and driving is
there, to fetch unexhausted nurses from more fortunate parts of
the country! No labor or sacrifice is thought too great for this end,
since vigils are a part of the religion of country people. When the
most luxurious citizen would not think it necessary to have one sitting
up to be ready in case he should awake and wish a drink, the
backwoodsman would think himself ill-used if he had not one or
two `watchers,' for whom a regular meal is always set, and who
often have nothing to do but see the sick man sleep all night. It is
not this injudicious zeal which we recommend as an example.

When death enters a family, however, the sensation is felt
throughout a whole wide neighborhood. No business goes on as
usual. Every voice is softened; every countenance saddened.
Arrangements are made to put by business as much as possible,
that there may be leisure to assist in the last duties. These last
duties are not simplified by the intervention of professional people as
they are in older settlements. Everything has to be considered,
planned and provided for, by the neighbors and friends, at no little
cost of time and trouble. It is often necessary to send several miles
to obtain suitable material for the coffin, as this is a point of much
interest; and it would be considered highly disrespectful and unkind

to the bereaved to neglect such a mark of respect. The other
offices necessary at such times are all performed in the same spirit,
and all in the most quiet and delicate manner, without a question
asked of the mourning family, if it be possible to avoid this. The
house is prepared for the funeral, conveyances provided, distant
friends summoned; all, in short, is done, with what seems an instinct
of goodness. The coarse man of yesterday is to-day a gentle
brother, full of untaught but most touching refinement. The neighborhood
gossip, whose visits have been a terror, is transformed to an
active, useful, quiet friend; stepping about on tip-toe, and refusing
no office, however unpleasant, which can aid the general purpose.
Some good soul whose personal services are not needed in the house,
will, without a word, take the children to her own home, and devote
herself to them; while another will occupy herself in preparing nice
things in the way of food, that there may be wherewithal to entertain
the numerous family of assistants and guests usually congregated
on such occasions, without unpleasant bustle in the house of
affliction.

The last ceremonies are very similar everywhere. The universal
heart speaks out in sympathy with the bereaved, who are about to
commit their loved ones to the earth, even in the most artificial
society, where every other feeling seems moulded, if not chilled, by
fashion. True, gushing tears and melting hearts, attest the great
brotherhood of humanity, even in circles from which the thought
of death seems habitually shut out. In the country this is prolonged
by prayers and hymns, and sometimes by the very protracted
preaching of the clergyman—a painful practice, since emotion is
necessarily exhausting, and there is a sort of blank which occurs
after it has subsided, unfavorable to the tender associations that
called it forth.

The public leave-taking customary in the country is an exception
to the general good taste and delicacy which prevails on these occasions.
Nothing can be imagined more distressing for the friends, or
more embarrasing to the spectators, than the custom of leading up
every member of the family to take a last look at the beloved
remains before they are forever removed from the light of day.
How this could ever have been judged proper, is indeed a mystery.

The procession consisting of all the wagons and carriages of the
neighborhood, filled with whole families—since women and even
children are included—is always a most beautiful and interesting
sight, as it winds slowly through the woods and dells, now crossing
a rustic bridge, now passing the brow of a hill. Let the distance
be ever so great, the same deferential pace is preserved, and the
assistants refrain religiously from conversation on indifferent subjects.
Death is with them not only a solemn but a sacred thing. Its presence
hushes for the time all worldly thoughts, and brings eternity
to view. Such should be its salutary influence everywhere. If we
viewed it aright, would the rebellious heart so often ask—Why
must it be?

The burial ground in the new country is usually on a hill-side,
enclosed with a rough fence, and encumbered often with stumps left
from the original clearing. The graves are wholly unornamented
except here and there a bit of wooden railing, and rarely, a head
and foot-stone. Generally two pieces of board supply the place of
these; the name and age of the deceased being painted upon the
larger one. Not unfrequently a bit of unpainted wood, with letters
marked by some one who can scarce write, is all! No attempt at
shrubbery, not even a solicitude for removing the rubbish which
encumbers all newly-cleared lands. Grief has not yet sought the
aid of Taste to soften its recollections. The idea of beautifying the

cemetery is the slow result of civilization and refined thought.
Superstition used to ask the shadow of the church, for its dead;
and this accorded well with the practice of continued prayers for
the parted soul. Our usage seems more simple, more in accordance
with our religious belief; yet the other had a tender appeal in it,
and commends itself to the feelings of all those who have suffered
deeply. How inseparably is the idea of the Divine Omnipotence
connected with our bereavements! How distinctly we feel in parting
with our loved ones, that we are committing them to that faithful
and just One, who is able to keep them for us, and to re-unite
us with them. Of all the funeral hymns that have ever been written,
perhaps none expresses the sentiment of the hushed but trembling
heart of the mourner so well as that beautiful one:

At the grave there is generally a prayer and further exhortation;
but usually after the coffin is lowered, and the earth partly replaced,
the nearest relative of the deceased, or the clergyman at his request,
thanks the company for their kindness and their reverent attendance,

and so dismisses them—a custom which, primitive as it sounds in
description, has yet a grace and beauty to the unprejudiced
observer. It is especially appropriate where so many of the individuals
present have given their attention, their personal services,
their sighs and tears, from the beginning to the end of the sad
period. To express a feeling of obligation in such a case is both
natural and proper, and finishes tenderly what has been a matter of
feeling throughout.

None can know without actual experience, the deep teachings of
the most unpolished rustic life. But to return.

The funeral of this poor worn out creature was an occasion of as
much interest in the neighborhood as if he had been a rich proprietor.
The dignity of human nature was acknowledged by all, without
a grudge on the score of pauperism. Tears flowed freely at the
leave-taking, before the coffin was closed, and the widow was handed
into the best carriage, with the respect due to deep affliction.

But here the pathetic aspect of this case fades at once. The recollections
of poor Mrs. Crindle's consciousness of her new mourning
—the airs with which she arranged and re-arranged her veil—the
pullings on and off of the black gloves—the flutterings of the unaccustomed
white handkerchief—are far too vivid to allow of any
dwelling upon the solemnities of the scene. The kindness of her
friends had arrayed her in a complete outfit for the occasion, and
although some of the articles were only lent for the funeral, the mere
appearing in them was too delicious to allow Mrs. Crindle to view
the occasion as anything but a grand pageant in which she, after all
her seclusion, was the observed of all observers. If she thought of
poor Crindle at all, it was probably only to regret he could not have
seen his own funeral, and herself the grandest feature of it.

A question soon arose as to Mrs. Crindle's support. She had

seven children, and not one of them able to earn a living. One son
was lame, through the rickets, and him it was his mother's ambition
to bring up as a school-master. She said he had a big head to hold
learning, and that his arms were strong if his legs were weak. This
was for the future, however. The present concern was subsistence,
and here a series of argumentations, not to say altercations, ensued
between Mrs. Crindle and the town-officers. The functionaries, potent
in a brief authority, insisted that Mrs. Crindle should do something,
however little, towards her own support; she maintained as
stoutly that she neither could nor would do any such thing. She
had never worked during her husband's lifetime, and she was not
going to begin now. She had a family of helpless children, and it
was the duty of the town to see that they did not starve. Nobody
could prove that she ever had worked, and she took good care not
to put such proof in any one's power by making the slightest
effort.

A proposition was made to `put out' the children, but to this the
mother declared she never would consent. What! let her poor
little dears go to live with strangers, when they had never been separated
from her for a day—the thing was out of the question! She
would see them starve first. But Mr. Zeiber, the Dutch poor-master,
though he shrunk from the rattling storm which the proposition
brought about his ears, was not to be silenced very easily, and matters
came to such a pass, that Mrs. Crindle declared if she could only
get to her own people, in `York State,' she wouldn't be beholden to
nobody that begrudged her a living! Her folks were respectable,
and wouldn't see her want for anything if they had her and her
children among them.

`They shall have you!' was the immediate and hearty reply, and
as soon as the idea was fairly set on foot in the community, a generous

enthusiasm seemed to pervade the neighborhood. The needful
clothing for the widow and orphans was speedily provided. The
guardians of the poor kindled with the unwonted warmth; the
loose cash in their hands was liberally appropriated for travelling
expenses; and, to make assurance doubly sure, a trusty agent was
appointed as companion for the journey, with directions to pay all
expenses, handing over only the balance to the lady, lest some unfortunate
financial error should prevent the safe transportation of
these interesting members of the community to York State.

This arrangement was substantially agreeable to Mrs. Crindle;
how could it be otherwise? A journey to the East! The very
sound makes western ears tingle, especially when the events of a
western residence have been such as to throw no golden hue over
the new country. And here that Elysian prospect, a visit eastward,
was offered to Mrs. Crindle, the very last person in our whole community
for whom such a blessing was supposed to be in reserve.
That Mrs. Crindle, emphatically poor Mrs. Crindle, should be so
favored, when the wives of some of our best (technically best) citizens
had been trying for the same thing for years in vain! It was
supposed that her cup must be full—nay, that it overflowed!

Yet, whose cup is without the bitter drop? whose feast without
some death's head? whose villa without a pea-hen? Not Mrs.
Crindle's. The guardian of the poor, (officially, poor-master—what
an undemocratic term!) refused her at the outset the use of her
money! Monstrous! to know that another had money—real money
—belonging to her, who had hardly ever had a whole dollar at
once—in his pocket, yet she herself not be allowed to touch it!
She was not in the dark in the matter. She knew for certain that
funds almost unlimited—amounting, at least, to twenty-nine dollars
and fifty-nine cents, had been collected for the travelling expenses

of herself and children, and she had looked forward to its possession,
on the morning of her departure, as the happiest moment of her
life. How overwhelming the discovery that Mr. Linacre, who had
been chosen to superintend the interests of the unfortunate, and at
the same time to take care that the public purse received no unnecessary
detriment, was to be purse-bearer, regulating, entirely at discretion,
the expenditure of the journey! Who could tell what great
things her management might have done with so enormous a sum
as twenty-nine dollars, (to say nothing of the cents.) She was
already planning a new bonnet for Jemimy Jane, and thinking how
pretty George Washington would look in a pair of high-heeled
boots; and of the comforts of a whole pound of candy, (it comes so
cheap by the quantity!) for the solace of the party on the journey.
A widow's cap was of course the proper thing to travel in; and,
though Mrs. Brooke had sent her one, the hems were not half broad
enough, and a new one could be bought for next to nothing at Detroit.
These, and a thousand more of brilliant visions, had danced
before her mind's eye times innumerable. Now, what a change!
She not to be trusted with her own money!

Now, our poor-master was admirably fitted for his office—that of
providing for the poor, without the public feeling the burden. He
was not naturally hard-hearted, even towards the poor, who are, as
everybody knows, our natural enemies; but his doctrine was, (and
it is everywhere a popular one,) that those who take care of themselves
do not need help, and those who do not, don't deserve it.
Some ill-conditioned people, indeed, would say that Mr. Zieber was
chosen because he was deaf, and so could with difficulty be made to
hear the cries of the needy, and lame, and therefore moved but
slowly to their relief. But this we repudiate as mere town scandal.
He showed alacrity enough in forwarding Mrs. Crindle's departure.

When the town was to be relieved of a burden, his lameness proved
no obstacle. Economy is the only virtue we recognize in our public
men.

Mr. Linacre was deaf, too; at least so it seemed to poor Mrs.
Crindle, whose hints, inuendos, and longings, openly or covertly
expressed, as they passed through sundry villages rich in shops, went
by him as the idle wind, and never produced even so much as an
answer. Wise Mr. Linacre! If he had attempted to argue, he had
been lost. Nobody wearing the form of man could have resisted
the widow's strong reasons.

Happily the younger members of the party shared none of their
mother's cares and anxieties. They had, to be sure, heard something
of a large sum of money, but they showed no remembrance
of it save asking occasionally for `that 'ere candy.' They were too
full of enjoyment to long for anything they had not. To ride all
day! To visit parts unknown, when they had never been more
than three or four miles from home before! When the wagon
came to the door, they could not wait till the poor moveables,
(truck, the farmer not inaptly called them,) were stowed, but sprang
in, and took a foretaste of the journey, while waiting for the
preparations to be completed. When once in motion, their shouts
of merry laughter would have warmed any heart but an old
bachelor's. At view of the first village, an involuntary exclamation
burst forth at the sight of the frame houses. `What a lot of
barns!'[1] they never having seen any large frame buildings, except
barns. When they reached the railroad, everything was like a
wild dream, and they seemed as if their little wits must be unsettled.
`How are they going to get that house along with so many folks
in't?' said one. `Is that a burying?' asked another, staring at the

train. The whistle almost paralyzed them, and when they soon
began to be tired and sleepy, they actually fancied in their bewilderment
that the houses and fences were flying away, while
they themselves stood still. It was strange, all strange; and they
began to wonder if it was really the same world they had been
living in all this time.

The great Lake steamer was another world still, and the blowing
off seemed a forewarning of a worse fate than they had ever
learned about in the Catechism. In short, the pauper child is like
any other child, when he is where he dare be anything but a
crushed worm; and one blessed good of the wild West is the
recognition of his share in the common humanity.

But we spare our readers further detail of the incidents of the
journey. It is enough to say, that the young ones did not recover
from their astonishment, nor the mother from her just indignation
at what she considered the unworthy conduct of Mr. Linacre in the
suppression of her funds, by means of which she lost several great
bargains, things having been offered her (she was assured by the
sellers,) cheaper than was ever before known. The consequence of
all this was, that she had to travel to the East in unsuitable apparel,
which she well knew was the subject of unfavorable remarks among
her fellow-passengers; for she saw them whispering together,
and knew it must be about her. Another hardship of which she
bitterly complained was, that she had no presents to carry to her
friends at the East, who wonld reasonably expect something, as she
had been away from them so long. Then the children, poor
things, it certainly was very hard that she could not buy them anything,
when she had money—or ought to have it if she had her
rights,—and everything so cheap, too! But Mr. Linacre was like
the dumb idols who `have ears but hear not—mouths have they,

but they speak not—' and he held fast the deposits until they
reached the end of the journey. It needed a good deal of inquiry
to discover the residence of the `respectable' relatives of Mrs.
Crindle, as the place had grown so much during her absence
that she found herself quite at a loss as to localities. As
`respectability,' in Mr. Linacre's estimation, as well as that of the
world in general, had something to do with streets and houses, the
quest was begun in the more showy neighborhoods, and at what
might be called the Court End; but here no account could
be obtained of the widow's friends. From the wide streets to
the narrow—from these to the lanes—to the by-ways—trooped our
weary wayfarers, and in one of the poorest of these last, and in the
poorest hovel in it, the `respectables' were at last unearthed. The
hut was in no particular better than the one Mrs. Crindle had
quitted at the West; and, in fact, greatly resembled it, except that
boards held the place of logs, and an uneven brick hearth the place
of an uneven stone one. Mr. Linacre stood aghast at the sight of
the wretched poverty to which he had brought his wards, and
it struck him at once as not improbable that the worthy board at
home had been preciously humbugged—and that by one of their
own paupers. He witnessed, however, a warm greeting from the
old father, although this was somewhat qualified by the sour looks
of a hard favored step-mother, who evidently counted, at the first
glance, the number of mouths that were thus suddenly added to the
consumers at the paternal board. But he kept his own counsel.
Where would be the use of getting up a scene with Mrs. Crindle
now? She had said her family were `respectable'—whose family
is not respectable, six hundred miles off? And why were n't they
as respectable as anybody's folks, she said, when Mr. Linacre seemed
inclined to charge her with having blinded the Western folks a
little. `None of 'em have ever been in jail; and if they have n't
lived as well as other folks, that was n't their fault; they had lived
on the best they could get. And more than all, grandfather was a
revolution sojer; and if they were a little down in the world now,
what of it? They might be up before long, just as their neighbors
were.' As to imposing on people, Mrs. Crindle thought she was
the one imposed upon, for she had not had the use of her own
money.

Mr. Linacre, as we have hinted, thought it prudent to avoid
further discussion, and after paying over the balance of the twenty-nine
fifty-nine, (amounting only to a few shillings, to Mrs. Crindle's
inexpressible surprise and indignation,) he took his leave—not very
proud of his achievement. What became of the rest of that money,
the widow never could imagine, unless, as she observed, Mr. Linacre
`drank it, unbenownst.'

On his return to our neighborhood, Mr. Linacre, though sufficiently
communicative as to the incidents of the journey, and particularly
jocular in his description of a visit to the Episcopal Church
at Detroit, where one of the children observed it was the biggest
school-house he ever saw, but wondered why the minister wore his
white nightgown, yet avoided condescending upon any particulars as
to the state in which he found matters and things among Mrs.
Crindle's respectable relatives. He probably had certain misgivings
as to the final result of the expedition, as it was likely to concern
the tax payers of the town of P—; but he said nothing, preferring
to await the development in the course that the affairs of the
poor are likely to take.

Time rolled on. We heard nothing of Mrs. Crindle, and the
town was pauperless, save for the two orphan boys of a not
`respectable' mother who had absconded from our bounds. Mr.

Linacre, doubtless, began to hope that some favorable turn at `the
East,' matrimony perhaps—had relieved us forever of the carpenter's
family, when a wagon, loaded like the departing one described some
pages since, rolled briskly through the village, and stopt at the
tavern; whence flew like wildfire the annunciation, `The Crindles
have come back!'

Come back! after all the trouble of getting them off—all the
sewings, the givings, the contrivings; the complete outfit, as the
villagers thought it, though Mrs. Crindle complained much of the
deficiencies and unhandsomenesses. There they were again. The
anthorities of the town of Q—, County of Cattaraugus, State of
New York, had met, and concluded that they had subjects enough
of their own; and that if they assisted the father, it belonged to
others to look after the daughter; and, accordingly, ascertaining
that she had `a residence' at the West, they had despatched her
and hers at once, under the care of a trusty person, back to the
woods; demanding from our town not only travelling expenses, but
physician's fees and sundry other charges, amounting to no inconsiderable
sum, not to be raised without many words and sour looks,
if it do not lead to a lawsuit between the two towns, one of which
claims damages for `sending the said widow to be by it maintained,'
which the other refuses absolutely, averring that `the said widow
went of her own free will and accord, without compulsion or advice
of the town authorities, whereupon said town joins issue,' &c., &c.

The widow herself is meanwhile the most unconcerned person in
the town. She declares that she had a delightful visit, and wouldn't
have missed of it for anything. The `charitable,' who contributed
so readily to the outfit, feel a little sore; but all join in the laugh
at the widow's triumph, and agree to hold themselves outwitted.