University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE VILLAGE DO-NOTHING.

“WAL naow, Horace, don't ye cry so. Why, I 'm railly
concerned for ye. Why, don't you s'pose your daddy 's
better off? Why, sartin I do. Don't cry, there 's a good boy,
now. I 'll give ye my jack-knife now.”

This was addressed to me the day after my father's death,
while the preparations for the funeral hung like a pall over the
house, and the terror of the last cold mystery, the tears of my
mother, and a sort of bustling dreariness on the part of my aunts
and grandmother, all conspired to bear down on my childish
nerves with fearful power. It was a doctrine of those good old
times, no less than of many in our present days, that a house
invaded by death should be made as forlorn as hands could make
it. It should be rendered as cold and stiff, as unnatural, as dead
and corpse-like as possible, by closed shutters, looking-glasses
pinned up in white sheets, and the locking up and hiding out
of sight of any pleasant little familiar object which would be
thought out of place in a sepulchre. This work had been driven
through with unsparing vigor by Aunt Lois, who looked like one
of the Fates as she remorselessly cleared away every little familiar
object belonging to my father, and reduced every room
to the shrouded stillness of a well-kept tomb.

Of course no one thought of looking after me. It was not the
fashion of those days to think of children, if only they would
take themselves off out of the way of the movements of the
grown people; and so I had run out into the orchard back of the
house, and, throwing myself down on my face under an apple-tree
in the tall clover, I gave myself up to despair, and was sobbing
aloud in a nervous paroxysm of agony, when these words
were addressed to me. The speaker was a tall, shambling,
loose-jointed man, with a long, thin visage, prominent watery

blue eyes, very fluttering and seedy habiliments, who occupied
the responsible position of first do-nothing-in-ordinary in our
village of Oldtown, and as such I must introduce him to my
readers' notice.

Every New England village, if you only think of it, must have
its do-nothing as regularly as it has its school-house or meeting-house.
Nature is always wide awake in the matter of compensation.
Work, thrift, and industry are such an incessant steam-power
in Yankee life, that society would burn itself out with
intense friction were there not interposed here and there the
lubricating power of a decided do-nothing, — a man who won't
be hurried, and won't work, and will take his ease in his own
way, in spite of the whole protest of his neighborhood to the contrary.
And there is on the face of the whole earth no do-nothing
whose softness, idleness, general inaptitude to labor, and everlasting,
universal shiftlessness can compare with that of this
worthy, as found in a brisk Yankee village.

Sam Lawson filled this post with ample honor in Oldtown.
He was a fellow dear to the souls of all “us boys” in the village,
because, from the special nature of his position, he never
had anything more pressing to do than croon and gossip with us.
He was ready to spend hours in tinkering a boy's jack-knife, or
mending his skate, or start at the smallest notice to watch at a
woodchuck's hole, or give incessant service in tending a dog's
sprained paw. He was always on hand to go fishing with us on
Saturday afternoons; and I have known him to sit hour after
hour on the bank, surrounded by a troop of boys, baiting our
hooks and taking off our fish. He was a soft-hearted old body,
and the wrigglings and contortions of our prey used to disturb
his repose so that it was a regular part of his work to kill the fish
by breaking their necks when he took them from the hook.

“Why, lordy massy, boys,” he would say, “I can't bear to see
no kind o' critter in torment. These 'ere pouts ain't to blame for
bein' fish, and ye ought to put 'em out of their misery. Fish hes
their rights as well as any on us.”

Nobody but Sam would have thought of poking through the
high grass and clover on our back lot to look me up, as I lay sobbing

under the old apple-tree, the most insignificant little atom
of misery that ever bewailed the inevitable.

Sam was of respectable family, and not destitute of education.
He was an expert in at least five or six different kinds of handicraft,
in all of which he had been pronounced by the knowing
ones to be a capable workman, “if only he would stick to it.”
He had a blacksmith's shop, where, when the fit was on him, he
would shoe a horse better than any man in the county. No one
could supply a missing screw, or apply a timely brace, with more
adroitness. He could mend cracked china so as to be almost as
good as new; he could use carpenter's tools as well as a born
carpenter, and would doctor a rheumatic door or a shaky window
better than half the professional artisans in wood. No man
could put a refractory clock to rights with more ingenuity than
Sam, — that is, if you would give him his time to be about it.

I shall never forget the wrath and dismay which he roused in
my Aunt Lois's mind by the leisurely way in which, after having
taken our own venerable kitchen clock to pieces, and strewn the
fragments all over the kitchen, he would roost over it in endless
incubation, telling stories, entering into long-winded theological
discussions, smoking pipes, and giving histories of all the other
clocks in Oldtown, with occasional memoirs of those in Needmore,
the North Parish, and Podunk, as placidly indifferent to
all her volleys of sarcasm and contempt, her stinging expostulations
and philippies, as the sailing old moon is to the frisky, animated
barking of some puppy dog of earth.

“Why, ye see, Miss Lois,” he would say, “clocks can't be
druv; that 's jest what they can't. Some things can be druv,
and then agin some things can't, and clocks is that kind. They 's
jest got to be humored. Now this 'ere 's a 'mazin' good clock;
give me my time on it, and I 'll have it so 't will keep straight on
to the Millennium.”

“Millennium!” says Aunt Lois, with a snort of infinite contempt.

“Yes, the Millennium,” says Sam, letting fall his work in a
contemplative manner. “That 'ere 's an interestin' topic now.
Parson Lothrop, he don't think the Millennium will last a thousand
years. What 's your 'pinion on that pint, Miss Lois?”

“My opinion is,” said Aunt Lois, in her most nipping tones,
“that if folks don't mind their own business, and do with their
might what their hand finds to do, the Millennium won't come
at all.”

“Wal, you see, Miss Lois, it 's just here, — one day is with
the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.”

“I should think you thought a day was a thousand years, the
way you work,” said Aunt Lois.

“Wal,” says Sam, sitting down with his back to his desperate
litter of wheels, weights, and pendulums, and meditatively caressing
his knee as he watched the sailing clouds in abstract meditation,
“ye see, ef a thing 's ordained, why it 's got to be, ef you
don't lift a finger. That 'ere 's so now, ain't it?”

“Sam Lawson, you are about the most aggravating creature I
ever had to do with. Here you 've got our clock all to pieces,
and have been keeping up a perfect hurrah's nest in our kitchen
for three days, and there you sit maundering and talking with
your back to your work, fussin' about the Millennium, which
is none of your business, or mine, as I know of! Do either put
that clock together or let it alone!”

“Don't you be a grain uneasy, Miss Lois. Why, I 'll have
your clock all right in the end, but I can't be druv. Wal, I
guess I 'll take another spell on 't to-morrow or Friday.”

Poor Aunt Lois, horror-stricken, but seeing herself actually
in the hands of the imperturbable enemy, now essayed the tack
of conciliation. “Now do, Lawson, just finish up this job, and
I 'll pay you down, right on the spot; and you need the money.”

“I 'd like to 'blige ye, Miss Lois; but ye see money ain't
everything in this world. Ef I work tew long on one thing, my
mind kind o' gives out, ye see; and besides, I 've got some 'sponsibilities
to 'tend to. There 's Mrs. Captain Brown, she made
me promise to come to-day and look at the nose o' that 'ere silver
teapot o' hern; it 's kind o' sprung a leak. And then I 'greed
to split a little oven-wood for the Widdah Pedee, that lives up
on the Shelburn road. Must visit the widdahs in their affliction,
Scriptur' says. And then there 's Hepsy: she 's allers a castin'
it up at me that I don't do nothing for her and the chil'en; but

then, lordy massy, Hepsy hain't no sort o' patience. Why jest
this mornin' I was a tellin' her to count up her marcies, and I
'clare for 't if I did n't think she 'd a throwed the tongs at me.
That 'ere woman's temper railly makes me consarned. Wal,
good day, Miss Lois. I 'll be along again to-morrow or Friday,
or the first o' next week.” And away he went with long, loose
strides down the village street, while the leisurely wail of an old
fuguing tune floated back after him, —

“An eternal torment,” said Aunt Lois, with a snap. “I 'm
sure, if there 's a mortal creature on this earth that I pity, it 's
Hepsy Lawson. Folks talk about her scolding, — that Sam
Lawson is enough to make the saints in Heaven fall from grace.
And you can't do anything with him: it 's like charging bayonet
into a woolsack.”

Now, the Hepsy thus spoken of was the luckless woman whom
Sam's easy temper, and a certain youthful reputation for being a
capable fellow, had led years before into the snares of matrimony
with him, in consequence of which she was encumbered with the
bringing up of six children on very short rations. She was a
gnarly, compact, efficient little pepper-box of a woman, with snapping
black eyes, pale cheeks, and a mouth always at half-cock,
ready to go off with some sharp crack of reproof at the shoreless,
bottomless, and tideless inefficiency of her husband. It seemed to
be one of those facts of existence that she could not get used to,
nor find anywhere in her brisk, fiery little body a grain of cool
resignation for. Day after day she fought it with as bitter and
intense a vigor, and with as much freshness of objurgation, as if it
had come upon her for the first time, — just as a sharp, wiry little
terrier will bark and bark from day to day, with never-ceasing
pertinacity, into an empty squirrel-hole. She seemed to have
no power within her to receive and assimilate the great truth
that her husband was essentially, and was to be and always
would be, only a do-nothing.

Poor Hepsy was herself quite as essentially a do-something, —
an early-rising, bustling, driving, neat, efficient, capable little body,
— who contrived, by going out to day's works, — washing, scrubbing,
cleaning, — by making vests for the tailor, or closing and
binding shoes for the shoemaker, by hoeing corn and potatoes in
the garden at most unseasonable hours, actually to find bread
to put into the mouths of the six young ravens aforesaid, and to
clothe them decently. This might all do very well; but when
Sam — who believed with all his heart in the modern doctrines
of woman's rights so far as to have no sort of objection to Hepsy's
sawing wood or hoeing potatoes if she chose — would make the
small degree of decency and prosperity the family had attained by
these means a text on which to preach resignation, cheerfulness,
and submission, then Hepsy's last cobweb of patience gave out,
and she often became, for the moment, really dangerous, so that
Sam would be obliged to plunge hastily out of doors to avoid a
strictly personal encounter.

It was not to be denied that poor Hepsy really was a scold, in
the strong old Saxon acceptation of the word. She had fought
life single-handed, tooth and nail, with all the ferocity of outraged
sensibilities, and had come out of the fight scratched and dishevelled,
with few womanly graces. The good wives of the village,
versed in the outs and ins of their neighbors' affairs, while
they admitted that Sam was not all he should be, would sometimes
roll up the whites of their eyes mysteriously, and say, “But
then, poor man, what could you expect when he has n't a happy
home? Hepsy's temper is, you know,” etc., etc.

The fact is, that Sam's softly easy temper and habits of miscellaneous
handiness caused him to have a warm corner in most
of the households. No mothers ever are very hard on a man
who always pleases the children; and every one knows the
welcome of a universal gossip, who carries round a district a
wallet of choice bits of neighborhood information.

Now Sam knew everything about everybody. He could tell
Mrs. Major Broad just what Lady Lothrop gave for her best
parlor carpet, that was brought over from England, and just on
what occasions she used the big silver tankard, and on what they

were content with the little one, and how many pairs of long
silk stockings the minister had, and how many rows of stitching
there were on the shoulders of his Sunday shirts. He knew just
all that was in Deacon Badger's best room, and how many silver
table-spoons and teaspoons graced the beaufet in the corner; and
when each of his daughters was born, and just how Miss Susy
came to marry as she did, and who wanted to marry her and
could n't. He knew just the cost of Major Broad's scarlet cloak
and shoe-buckles, and how Mrs. Major had a real Ingy shawl up
in her “camphire” trunk, that cost nigh as much as Lady Lothrop's.
Nobody had made love, or married, or had children
born, or been buried, since Sam was able to perambulate the
country, without his informing himself minutely of every available
particular; and his unfathomable knowledge on these subjects
was an unfailing source of popularity.

Besides this, Sam was endowed with no end of idle accomplishments.
His indolence was precisely of a turn that enjoyed
the excitement of an occasional odd bit of work with which he
had clearly no concern, and which had no sort of tendency toward
his own support or that of his family. Something so far
out of the line of practical utility as to be in a manner an artistic
labor would awaken all the energies of his soul. His shop was
a perfect infirmary for decayed articles of virtu from all the
houses for miles around. Cracked china, lame tea-pots, broken
shoe-buckles, rickety tongs, and decrepit fire-irons, all stood in
melancholy proximity, awaiting Sam's happy hours of inspiration;
and he was always happy to sit down and have a long, strictly
confidential conversation concerning any of these with the owner,
especially if Hepsy were gone out washing, or on any other work
which kept her at a safe distance.

Sam could shave and cut hair as neatly as any barber, and was
always in demand up and down the country to render these
offices to the sick. He was ready to go for miles to watch with
invalids, and a very acceptable watcher he made, beguiling the
night hours with endless stories and legends. He was also an
expert in psalmody, having in his youth been the pride of the
village singing-school. In those days he could perform reputably

on the bass-viol in the choir of a Sunday with a dolefulness
and solemnity of demeanor in the highest degree edifying, —
though he was equally ready of a week-evening in scraping on
a brisk little fiddle, if any of the thoughtless ones wanted a performer
at a husking or a quilting frolic. Sam's obligingness was
many-sided, and he was equally prepared at any moment to raise
a funeral psalm or whistle the time of a double-shuffle.

But the more particular delight of Sam's heart was in funerals.
He would walk miles on hearing the news of a dangerous illness,
and sit roosting on the fence of the premises, delighted to gossip
over the particulars, but ready to come down at any moment to
do any of the odd turns which sickness in a family makes necessary;
and when the last earthly scene was over, Sam was more
than ready to render those final offices from which the more nervous
and fastidious shrink, but in which he took almost a professional
pride.

The business of an undertaker is a refinement of modern civilization.
In simple old days neighbors fell into one another's
hands for all the last wants of our poor mortality; and there
were men and women of note who took a particular and solemn
pride in these mournful offices. Sam had in fact been up all
night in our house, and having set me up in the clover, and
comforted me with a jack-knife, he proceeded to inform me of the
particulars.

“Why, ye see, Horace, I ben up with 'em pretty much all
night; and I laid yer father out myself, and I never see a betterlookin'
corpse. It 's a 'mazin' pity your daddy hed such feelin's
'bout havin' people come to look at him, 'cause he does look
beautiful, and it 's been a long time since we 've hed a funeral, anyway,
and everybody was expectin' to come to his 'n, and they 'll
all be dissipinted if the corpse ain't show'd; but then, lordy
massy, folks ought n't to think hard on 't ef folks hes their own
way 'bout their own funeral. That 'ere 's what I 've been a tellin'
on 'em all, over to the tavern and round to the store. Why, you
never see such a talk as there was about it. There was Aunt
Sally Morse, and Betsey and Patsy Sawin, and Mis' Zeruiah Bacon,
come over early to look at the corpse, and when they was n't

let in, you never heerd sich a jawin'. Betsey and Patsy Sawin
said that they allers suspected your father was an infidel, or
some sich, and now they was clear; and Aunt Sally, she asked
who made his shroud, and when she heerd there was n't to be
none, he was laid out in his clothes, she said she never heerd such
unchristian doin's, — that she always had heerd he had strange
opinions, but she never thought it would come to that.”

“My father is n't an infidel, and I wish I could kill 'em for
talking so,” said I, clenching my jack-knife in my small fist, and
feeling myself shake with passion.

“Wal, wal, I kind o' spoke up to 'em about it. I was n't
a-goin' to hear no sich jaw; and says I, `I think ef there is any
body that knows what 's what about funerals I 'm the man, fur I
don't s'pose there 's a man in the county that 's laid out more
folks, and set up with more corpses, and ben sent for fur and
near, than I have, and my opinion is that mourners must always
follow the last directions gi'n to 'em by the person. Ef a man
has n't a right to have the say about his own body, what hes he
a right to?' Wal, they said that it was putty well of me to talk
so, when I had the privilege of sittin' up with him, and seein' all
that was to be seen. `Lordy massy,' says I, `I don't see why
ye need envi me; 't ain't my fault that folks thinks it 's agreeable
to have me round. As to bein' buried in his clothes, why,
lordy massy, 't ain't nothin' so extraordinary. In the old country
great folks is very often laid out in their clothes. 'Member,
when I was a boy, old Mr. Sanger, the minister in Deerbrook,
was laid out in his gown and bands, with a Bible in his hands,
and he looked as nateral as a pictur. I was at Parson Rider's
funeral, down to Wrentham. He was laid out in white flannel.
But then there was old Captain Bigelow, down to the Pint
there, he was laid out regular in his rigimentals, jest as he wore
'em in the war, epaulets and all.' Wal now, Horace, your
daddy looks jest as peaceful as a psalm-tune. Now, you don't
know, — jest as nateral as if he 'd only jest gone to sleep. So
ye may set your heart at rest 'bout him.”

It was one of those beautiful serene days of October, when
the earth lies as bright and still as anything one can dream of in

the New Jerusalem, and Sam's homely expressions of sympathy
had quieted me somewhat. Sam, tired of his discourse, lay back
in the clover, with his hands under his head, and went on with
his moralizing.

“Lordy massy, Horace, to think on 't, — it 's so kind o' solemnizin'!
It's one's turn to-day, and another's to-morrow. We
never know when our turn 'll come.” And Sam raised a favorite
stave, —

“Active limbs! I guess so!” said a sharp voice, which came
through the clover-heads like the crack of a rifle. “Well, I 've
found you at last. Here you be, Sam Lawson, lyin' flat on
your back at eleven o'clock in the morning, and not a potato
dug, and not a stick of wood cut to get dinner with; and I won't
cut no more if we never have dinner. It 's no use a humorin'
you, — doin' your work for you. The more I do, the more I
may do; so come home, won't you?”

“Lordy massy, Hepsy,” said Sam, slowly erecting himself out
of the grass, and staring at her with white eyes, “you don't
ought to talk so. I ain't to blame. I hed to sit up with Mr.
Holyoke all night, and help 'em lay him out at four o'clock this
mornin'.”

“You 're always everywhere but where you 've business to
be,” said Hepsy; “and helpin' and doin' for everybody but your
own. For my part, I think charity ought to begin at home.
You 're everywhere, up and down and round, — over to Shelbun,
down to Podunk, up to North Parish; and here Abram
and Kiah Stebbins have been waitin' all the morning with a horse
they brought all the way from Boston to get you to shoe.”

“Wal now, that 'ere shows they know what 's what. I told
Kiah that ef they 'd bring that 'ere hoss to me I 'd 'tend to his
huffs.”

“And be off lying in the mowing, like a patridge, when they
come after ye. That 's one way to do business,” said Hepsy.

“Hepsy, I was just a miditatin'. Ef we don't miditate sometimes
on all these 'ere things, it 'll be wus for us by and by.”

“Meditate! I 'll help your meditations in a way you won't
like, if you don't look out. So now you come home, and stop
your meditatin', and go to doin' somethin'. I told 'em to come
back this afternoon, and I 'd have you on the spot if 't was a possible
thing,” said the very practical Hepsy, laying firm hold of
Sam's unresisting arm, and leading him away captive.

I stole into the darkened, silent room where my father had
lain so long. Its desolate neatness struck a chill to my heart.
Not even a bottle remained of the many familiar ones that used to
cover the stand and the mantel-piece; but he, lying in his threadbare
Sunday coat, looked to me as I had often seen him in later
days, when he had come from school exhausted, and fallen asleep
on the bed. I crept to his side and nestled down on the floor
as quietly as a dog lies down by the side of his master.