 | CHAPTER XL. Forest life |  |
40. CHAPTER XL.
The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn
Into their contraries the petty plagues
And hindrances with which they stand beset.
Wordsworth.
Nothing is made more apparent in the course of
these our desultory sketches, than that to people
circumstanced as we are, some modification of the
ordinary relations of society must be absolutely
necessary. Colonists must not expect to carry with
them the whole social fabric undisturbed, as houses
are transported in the city—chimneys all standing,
partitions as stout as ever, and inmates pursuing
their usual avocations, scarce conscious of change.
No such mode of removal to the wilderness has yet
been discovered. Plaster will fall, and windows
be broken, and joints loosened, if nothing worse;
and it may be found impossible ever to bring the
edifice back to its original form, though it will continue
to be a good substantial dwelling after all—
a wholesome shade in the sunshine, and a cosy
bield against the storm. It will be the part of wisdom
to accommodate our ideas and habits to its present
condition, biding our time to amend it when
we can.
In circumstances where so many of the regular
and systematic and costly appliances of civilized
life are as yet unprovided, there will of course spring
up a thousand unconsidered wants, which, though
trivial singly, may yet make large deductions from
comfort and convenience. The first result of this
state of things is the awakening of ingenuity—the
invention of new modes of supplying these wants;
the substitution of one thing for another; the application
of the same article to many different purposes,
all of which will perhaps be quite different from
the one for which it was originally designed.
Many a leathern hinge—many a wooden latch—
many a window-pane of oiled paper, bears witness
to the wit-quickening power of necessity. What
else would have suggested the substitution of a
griddle and smoothing iron, for a slab and muller
where with to grind paint? What else would have
taught the farmer's wife to make a coffee or a
spice-mill out of a piece of thick cloth and a hammer?
or to think that roasted corn did very well
instead of the coffee itself?
A more important result of the lack of the advantages
which belong to a settled state of things, is a
certain feeling of mutual dependence;—a sense of
natural equality;—and a high appreciation of such
people as are emphatically termed among us—good
neighbors. The meaning which we apply to the
phrase is much more comprehensive than that
which can be found in the dictionary.
In cities, every man is, or would be thought to
be, sufficient for himself, and he forgets as far as
possible his relationship to the great human family.
He seems to himself to draw the requisites for daily
life from some great indefinite mass—some general
provision; and he scarcely remembers that this
mass is made up of individuals, on each of whom
he is in some degree dependent;—that this provision
for his need is the result of corresponding
necessities in his brother man. Competition has
rendered supply so easy and so certain that there is
little or no recognition of a mutual, personal dependence,
and there is consequently very little personal
interest beyond a very narrow circle. Rules are
strict, and lines are accurately drawn, and every
body is forced to observe them, however they may
contravene erratic propensities, aspiring wishes, or
rebellious sensibilities. Propinquity has nothing to
do with bringing people together. People who have
lived next door neighbors for seven years may be,
and often are, utter strangers; and though every
countenance in each family be perfectly familiar to
every member of the other, yet the two races may
be crammed into a close carriage, and dragged up
Cattskill Mountain on the hottest day in July, without
a glance or a nod betokening that they have
ever met before.
To be sure, if one of the children should fall into
the water, and neighbor Nextdoor should pull it
out at the risk of his life, we may thank him, unintroduced,
recognize him after our return to town, until he
invites us to a party, (not of our set,) or asks us to
endorse a note for him—either of which would
effectually build again the icy barrier between us.
It were vain, in such regions, to inquire, “Who
is my neighbor?” The relation is unknown.
In the country, and especially in the new country,
the case is far different. The code of morals, as
well as of manners, has a warmer, a more human
tinge. It is not enough that you avoid all encroachments
upon the rights of others. It will not
do to wrap yourself in exclusiveness—meddling
with nobody, and claiming no aid but such as can
be bought with money—
while, and, what would be much worse, you would
begin to fear that you deserved the character. Such
a position is odiously unnatural where men are few
and the means of life distributed with tolerable
equality. If harmony is desirable—as where is it
not?—there must be sympathy; and where there
is sympathy, there will be contact; and where there
is contact, we cannot but learn to appreciate people
according to their real merit, and not according to
their outward advantages, since their personal character
is alone of any consequence to us.
This closeness of acquaintance leads to great
but still, nearer right than its hollow-hearted
opposite. There is no glare thrown round any
body; no chance to pass for any thing but just
what you are; no opportunity to be grand, or over-powering,
or condescending; since the foundation
of such display must always be laid in the minds
and habits of those on whom it is to take effect.
You cannot be “charitable” at small cost, in the
country. It would not do to sit, richly dressed, on
a silken sofa, and plead poverty as an apology for
not helping to rebuild the cottage of a poor man
who has lost his all by fire. Inextinguished laughter
would shake the country round. Nor can you
feed the destitute with what none of your own
family would eat. Such messes as I have seen
doled out from city areas would be sent back from
the most wretched hovel in the wide West, with a
feeling of deep and general contempt for the giver.
Reputation is not cheaply maintained here. Where
every thing is known and understood there can be
no illusion; and all is certain to be known where
every body feels perfectly at liberty to ask point
blank questions upon any and every subject. A
certain class in the gay world, who act falsehood
daily; whose whole life is a—fib, to say the least;
—whose happiness and respectability (in their own
computation) depend upon their appearing what
they are not, and despising what they really are,
would soon find themselves routed out of their
of “walking uprightly,” since no curtain of
ceremony would be of any avail in hiding what
should be behind the scene.
It is not to be supposed that, even to those who
have no desire to deceive, this extreme of freedom
can be always agreeable. It is, indeed, often far
otherwise; but those who think so are but a small
minority—a mere fraction of the body politic,
and not usually the busiest or the most earnest class,
so that their opinion goes for little. Seeing this to
be the case, they rather endeavor to conform to the
general view, since whatever price the community
sets upon its good-will, it is always cheap to pay it.
And perhaps the general improvement is not the
less probable for the cultivation of a spirit of patient
humanity in those who claim to have made
some advances in the philosophy of life. The
most certain method of proving the truth of their
views and the value of their discoveries, both to
themselves and to others, is to show the practical
effects of their doctrines in the elevation of their
own characters. The mere gloss of civilization,
without this elevation, is worse than useless, inas-much
as hypocrisy is worse than coarseness.
But, as we were saying, these primitive ways
of ours afford a field for a character unknown in
the more advanced stages of society—the good
neighbor. We could not get along without him.
He is the main stay of the community. We
suited to our condition. We have none so well off
as to be able to bestow a great amount of time or
means in aiding others, and few so poor as to need
any but neighborly aid. Good neighbors are all
we want.
It is not easy to describe this beneficent spirit.
It takes a thousand forms. It changes its aspect
like the clouds of a glowing sunset, but it wears
ever the rich golden tint of a true human sympathy.
Does disease invade your dwelling? The good
neighbor does not pass coldly by, and take it for
granted that you have all that is needed. He sends
his horse for a doctor or his wagon for a nurse; he
offers aid for the long night-watches, or perhaps
takes kindly away to his own home the little noisy
voices that might disturb the invalid. Does death,
in spite of all care and kindness, make good his
dreaded entrance? You cannot send for an undertaker,
but you have such aid as professional hands
never gave. The good neighbor relieves you of all
anxiety as to the details of the last sad parting,
watching your wishes with a delicacy which is
erroneously supposed by many to be foreign to
unpolished natures; and he leaves not the good
work until he has with his own hands laid the
loved remains in the earth, with all due rites and
pious care. Can this do less than bind your heart
to him forever, and secure to him as warm a friend
for a like hour of need?
Is a mother called from her helpless infant?
The new-born will not lack any thing that it requires,
if there be but one nursing mother within
many miles. Are children orphaned, or worse than
orphaned, by the death or misconduct of a parent?
They will soon be distributed, and each one
cared for as a sacred trust, with a feeling of responsibility
of which those who have seen only
the little outcasts of city poor-houses can have but
a faint conception.
Besides these more active forms of well-doing,
the good neighbor has abundant occasion for the
exercise of passive virtues—often the more difficult
of the two. This land of imperfect arrangements
and half-executed labors, abounds in petty tres-passes,
silent encroachments, and very impudent
impositions. These our good neighbor bears with
unblenching patience as long as they are bearable;
for he sees that ungoverned temper is the source of
most of the evils which retard the progress of our
forming society. A slight dispute—rough words
—a quarrel—an outrage—these are the gradations;
the good neighbor prevents all by refraining
from the first step. If however he be surprised
into a harsh word, he will seek occasion to allow
himself to be obliged by the offended party. He
will ask a favor perhaps, and it will be a rare case
if this do not restore the good understanding that
previously existed. Revengeful tempers are not to
be reckoned among our Western sins. The fire
smouldering ashes on the morrow. A kind word
will often solder what seemed a hopeless breach,
and nothing is more common than to see two men
who have pursued each other from court to court
with an angry lawsuit, make up at last in all heartiness,
and be good friends ever after.
The very good neighbor does not get his good
name for nothing. He must keep nothing exclusively
for his own use. To have any thing too
good to go the rounds, is death to his fame. It
was for this reason that 'Squire Fellingwood, who
is a shrewd old pioneer, sold a handsome carriage
which was left him by a friend—a gay, high-built
thing, with a bright yellow body and wheels
picked out with vermilion—and a spirited high-trotting
horse which had been accustomed to draw
it. It was for this reason he sold it, though he
said he was afraid it would not stand our roads.
Our roads are smooth enough, but the 'squire did
well when he bought a great wagon with the
money. That will serve to carry whole families,
with their luggage, without racking or bruising;
and his stout farm team will not let any body
hurt them by overdriving.
What will the good neighbor do when unruly
cattle or ravenous pigs break into his enclosures
and damage his crop? Turn them out, mend his
fences, and say never a word unless it be to lament
his “luck.” If he is in the habit of keeping—as
entry on such occasion will be,
“Luck . . . . . . . . . . . Dr.
To—dollars' damage by reason of A's oxen.”
Speaking of fields,—we have a singular custom,
which he that would play good neighbor
must never think of violating. It is that of permitting
people to cross your grounds, either on
foot or with cart or wagon—at any time before
the grain is six inches high, in order to make a
short cut when convenient, instead of going round
by the road. If the fence is replaced three times
out of four, the good neighbor will be content, and
put it up the fourth time himself.
Even the good neighbor is shy of lending his
horse, but there are times when that must be
public property too. Should he be brought back
with marks of rather free usage, the good neighbor
will observe, “The weather is very warm;” or,
“The roads are heavy;” or, “My horse always did
tire easy;” or still better, he will avoid looking at
the horse at all. Should saddle be torn or bridle
broken, “'Twas an old thing,” the owner will
say; “I didn't suppose it would have lasted so
long;” and he will be very careful never to hint
that he should be much obliged if the borrower
saw fit to repair the injury.
B lent C a saddle for a two days' ride. When C
laid the saddle down on the marsh where he turned
out his horse, and went away to bed, thinking to
attend to it in the morning. Meanwhile some half
a dozen frolicsome calves, that were feeding on the
marsh, found the saddle, which happened to be
stuffed with hay, and having once effected an entrance,
they made a perfect wreck of it before
morning came, or at least before B in Sunday trim
sought his saddle for a Sunday ride. Now B
thinks it very hard that C is not willing to pay for
the damage done to the saddle, and C cries out
upon B's meanness in requiring it. They talk of
a lawsuit, for they neither of them set up for the
character of good neighbors; but we hope somebody
that does, may yet interfere to prevent that
mode of settling the point.
The reader may think we have hinted at some
rather costly sacrifices as the price of this same
character of ours, but indeed they are not greater
than the position is worth. Those who would be
the ministers of good on a larger scale, must make
themselves known first in humble efforts. True
benevolence will not disdain the humblest. We
have seen some rather ludicrous instances of the
petty trials which are inseparable from new country
life, but it is a serious and an interesting truth that
the spirit of the good Samaritan is nowhere found
in livelier exercise.
An instance of this occurs to me as worth recording.
At a time of distressing scarcity—I think
the winter of '37—'38—Mr.—, whose crop
had been abundant, refused to sell his produce to
any one who had money to pay for it. Those, he
said, could buy any where. He parted with his
entire crop on credit, to the poor; and thereby
saved many families from the extreme of want.
The next harvest gave his debtors the means of
paying, without reducing themselves to distress.
Such a man may well be called a good neighbor.
| CHAPTER XL. Forest life | |