 | Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family |  |
BIOGRAPHY
OF
MRS. PARTINGTON,
RELICT OF P. P., CORPORAL.
PAUL Partington, whose name is immortalized
by its association with that
of the universal Mrs. Partington, a
portion of whose oracular sayings our
book comprises, was a lineal descendant
of Seek-the-Kingdom-continually
Partyngetonne, who came from the old
country, by water probably, somewhere
in the early days of our then not very extensive civilization.
At that time, people were not in the habit of
putting everything into the papers, as they do now, when
the painting of a front door, or the setting of a pane of
glass, or the laying of an egg, is deemed of sufficient
consequence for a paragraph; much, therefore, of interest
known by the faint light which tradition has thrown
upon it.
A story has come down to us from remote time,
through the oracular lips of the oldest inhabitants, that
“Seek-the-Kingdom-continually Partyngetonne” — abbreviated
to Seek — was troubled in the old country by
certain unpleasant and often-occurring reminders of
indebtedness, yclept “bills,” which were always, like a
summer night, falling due, and certain urgently-pressing
importunities, the which, added to a faith that was not
too popular, by any means, at last induced him to warily
scrape together such small means as he could, and
incontinently retire from metropolitan embarrassment to
the comparative quiet of an emigrant's life, where he
might encounter nothing more annoying than the howling
of wolves, or the yelling of savages, — sweet music
both when contrasted with the horror comprised in the
words “PAY THAT BILL!” which had long distressed
him. Here the voice of the dunner was done, and Seek,
under his own vine and pine-tree, worshipped God and
cheated the Indians according to the dictates of his own
conscience and the custom of the times.
But little, however, can be gleaned of the early supporters
of the family name, save what we procure from
the ancient family record, a Dudley Leavitt's Almanac,
on which agricultural memoranda had been kept, and from
as remembered the Partington mansion in Beanville, —
of course before it was torn down to make way for the
new Branch Railroad.
The “new house,” as the mansion has been called
for a century — (see the accompanying sketch, drawn
on a piece of birch bark by a native artist) — to distinguish
it from some old house that had at some previous
time existed somewhere, was erected about the year
—, as is supposed, from the discovery of a receipted
bill from Godffrey Pratt, for “Ayde in Rayse'g ye Nue
Eddiffyce,” which bears date as above, and likewise from
the fact that a child was born to the erector of the new
house the same year, which was duly chronicled in the
ancient Bible, with other blessings, and the word “Howse”
is distinctly to be traced among them.
It is supposed by some that the old house was upon
a slight hill opposite the gentle acclivity upon which the
new house stood, and fancied outlines of an ancient cellar
are there discernible by those whose faith is large enough.
But a younger class have set up another hypothesis:
that what they suppose must have been a cellar, was in
reality an apple-bin; and there is no knowing when or
how the point will be determined.
The new house was a stanch piece of work, erected
at a time when men were honest, and infused much of
their own character into the work they put together;
the beams of oak so sturdy, that Time, failing to make
an impression upon them, gives up at last in despair.
The interior of the mansion, in the latter day of its
existence, contrasted gloomily with the modern houses,
that sprang like mushrooms around it; its oak panelling
and thick doors imparted an idea of strength, and the
huge beam overhead, beneath which a tall man could not
stand erect in the low-studded room, showed no more
signs of decay than if placed there a hundred years later.
It was not destitute of ornament, for around the fireplace
were perpetuated, in the everlastingness of Dutch crockery,
numerous scriptural scenes, more creditable to the
devotional spirit that conceived, than to the art (or artlessness)
that executed, them. The house was intended as
a garrison, and where the clapboards had chafed off were
revealed the scarfed logs, denoting where the loop-holes
was wont to dig out with his knife, when a boy, and
make sinkers of for his fishing-lines. Many a story that
venerable house could tell of ancient warfare, of the
midnight attack and gallant defence; but it never told a
thing.
It was in this house that Paul Partington was born
and grew, amid all the luxuries that the town of Beanville
afforded,—said town at that time consisting of five
houses and a barn.
In this house he was married,—the most momentous
act of his life, as through the hymeneal gate came upon
the world the dame whose name we are delighted to
honor. We find upon the fly-leaf of a treatise on
calcareous manures, yet sacredly treasured, the following
memorandum, in the corporal's own writing, significant
of the methodical habits of the man who shed, in after
life, as far as a corporal's warrant could do it, undying
glory upon his country:—Married this day, January
the 3, 1808, to Ruth Trotter, by Rev. Mr. Job Snarl.
Forty bushels of potatoes to Widow Green.”
There is a blending of bliss and business in this entry
that strikes one at the first glance. The record of the
sale of the potatoes in the same paragraph announcing
his marriage to Ruth might signify to some that they
were held in equal regard. But we see the matter
differently. The purchase of Ruth and the sale of the
of January, and they naturally associated themselves.
So you, madam, might associate the birth of your firstborn
— the most blissful moment of your life — with the
miserable matter of the death of a lame duck, or the
blowing down of a pig-sty.
Of the courtship that preceded that marriage we can
say nothing, except what we have gleaned by accident
from the old lady herself. In rebuking the want of sincerity
of devotion now-a-days, on the part of lovers, she
once spoke of a time when some one would ride a hard-trotting
horse ten miles every night, and back, for the
sake of sitting up with her. But no name was mentioned.
When it is remembered that the ancient borough
of Dog's Bondage was just ten miles from Beanville, it
is easy enough to guess who the individual was.
Ruth Partington — born Trotter — came amid sub-lunar
scenes several years before the nineteenth century
commenced; consequently, she is older than 1800. She
was a child, by law, for eighteen years before she became
a woman, and performed the duties “incumbered” upon
her, as we have been informed by her, with great fidelity.
We have often endeavored, in fancy, to picture the Ruth
of Dog's Bondage, in the check apron and homespun
gown, by the brook engaged in washing; or, basket in
hand, feeding the yellow corn to hungry ducks, emblematic
of that throwing forth of gems that have since been
in the woods, crowned with wintergreen, as the meed of
popular approbation surrounds her brow in the latter day
of her existence; or engaged in incipient benevolences —
as binding up the broken limbs of barn-yard favorites, or
protecting the songsters of the marsh from predatory
boyhood — fitting fore-heralds of that matured benevolence
which embraces the world in its scope: here speaking
the consoling word, and there dispensing comfort,
mingled with catnip tea. In fancy, we say; the check
apron, homespun gown and all, are but the stuff that
dreams are made of.
There are vague reminiscences of things that have past
which we catch occasionally, when souchong has released
the memory of Mrs. Partington from the overriding care
for the world's welfare that would fain keep it home, and
we roam back through scenes of her early life that
breathe of rurality like a hay-field in June, or a barn-yard
in the month of March. We have tales of apple-parings,
and attendant scenes and suppers; of huskings
full of incident and red ears, and resonant with notes the
sweet import of which Mrs. Partington can well tell; and
jolly quiltings, great with tattle and tea, and moonlight
walks home, with the laughter of mirth mingling with
the song of the cricket in the hedge, or that of the
monarch of the swamp singing his younglings to sleep in
the distance, or the whippoorwill upon the bough; and
to broad shirt-collars and cheeks sweeter than
molasses; and slides down-hill on the ox-sled runners,
in winter, that the boys hauled up to the summit, disastrous
at times to propriety and health, but full of a fun
that looked at no result but its own enjoyment — the
means a secondary consideration. And there gleams
through this a ray that reveals early loves and dreams
that had an existence for a time, to be swallowed up
eventually in admiration for that embodiment of war and
peace, Paul Partington, whose flaming eye and sword,
upon an ensanguined muster-field, won a regard that
only ended in Beanville, when the name of Trotter
became merged in that of Partington.
Tradition — which, in this instance, may be partly
right — tells of rivalry for the possession of the belle of
Dog's Bondage. We can conceive of rivalry among the
men, and envy among the women; of struggles on the
one part to gain her favor, on the other part the struggle
to lose it by provoking her hostility. Hostility?
Herein might arise a question as to whether so gentle a
being ever entertained hostility to anything. We should
be false to our object — that of writing a true biography
of Mrs. Partington — did we pretend that she was perfect.
We would take this pen and inkstand, as well as
they have served us in our need, and throw them in the
grate, before we would make any such assertion. But
Tradition — that grim old chap, that has so many bad
things to say about people, and so few that are good —
never said a word about it. Doubtless many a rustic
heart beat warm beneath a homespun coat of numberless
years, and sighs redolent of feeling poured from beneath
the rim of many an old bell-crowned hat of felt. But
the meteor came, — Paul swept the field, — the heart
of Ruth surrendered with discretion, — and other people
stood back.
Great was this for Dog's Bondage! The sun rose on
the brightest day of the year when it happened; the brook,
that had frozen up previously, immediately thawed out;
two robins were seen looking round for places to build
their nests, thinking it was spring, so mild was it; the
lilac buds almost “bursted” in their anxiety to notice
the occasion; and old farmers, as they talked to one
another across dividing fences, spoke most sagaciously
about the extr'or'nary spell of weather. As old Roger,
Mrs. P.'s cousin, remarked, when he heard the circumstance,
it was a wether very like a lamb. But, as we
were saying, —
Schools were not so common at that time as now, and
as there was none nearer the Trotters than Huckleberry
Lane, in the Upper Parish, and as there was a quarrel
between the Upper and the Lower parishes, old Trotter,
who belonged with the Lower, felt bound to stand by that
— and hence Ruth was kept at home to receive by the
fireside the domestic accomplishments nowhere else to be
learned, and drink in the oracular wisdom of the venerable
Trotter, as it fell from his lips through the aroma of
pigtail tobacco and hard cider.
Alas for Trotter! His day is done, his pipe is out,
his cider has gone, and even Dog's Bondage has become
a name obsolete among the places of the earth, that town
rejoicing now in the more euphonious title of Clover
Hill, probably from the fact of there not being a leaf of
clover within seven miles of it.
And thou, Dame Trotter! — famous for pastry and poultry,
beneath whose ready skill Thanksgiving became a
carnival of fat things, whose memory yet lingers about
the olden home, now in stranger hands, with the fragrance
of innumerable virtues, like the spicy odor of
many Christmas dinners, — thou, too, art gone, and
Dog's Bondage may know thee no more forever! The
Rev. Adoniram Smith, who preached her funeral sermon,
drew largely upon the book of Proverbs for illustrations
of her character, and said that better pumpkin pies, or
a better exhibition of grace, he had never known any
woman to make before.
A kind heart has characterized Mrs. Partington from
her childhood up, displayed in many ways. Her benevvolence
got far in advance of her grammar in her early
inaccuracies that some people are inclined to laugh at;
but if they will stop a little and see the yellow kernels
of wisdom gleaming out through the thickly-surrounding
verbiage, they will raise their hats in grateful respect for
the bounty afforded.
The domestic history of Mrs. Partington requires a
nice pen to portray it, so full was it of delicate beauty
and delightful incident. Marriage meant something in
old times. It was no holiday affair, donned like a garment,
to be regarded as worthless when the fashion
changed. It grew out of no sickly sentiment that had
its existence in the yellow fever of a wretched romance,
as unlike true life as a cabbage is to a rose; or the sere
of autumn, — a more fitting simile, — to the vernal
spring. It was a healthy, hearty, happy old institution
in those days, was matrimony, and people jogged along
together in the harness of its duties, as harmoniously as
the right hand and the left, that help each other and yet
don't seem to know it, so natural is the service rendered,
— as if they were born to it. And as the right
hand or the right eye sympathizes with the left, so did
the twain thus united sympathize. Duty and affection
leaned upon each other, and inseparably strove to make
the home hearth cheerful. It became pleasure to carry
the sweet drink to the thirsty man, in the field a-mowing;
or to bear the basket of luncheon to the woods where the
patiently hold the light in the long winter evenings
when the yokes were to be mended or the harness repaired.
And it became pleasure when the goodman
went to town to stow his pockets with something nice for
the wife at home, — a new dress or a new apron, — the
remembrance of whose face would come to him when
away and hasten his departure back. It was that remembrance
which prompted the mare into an urgent trot
on the last mile home, — though she could n't see the
necessity for it, — and his eye looked brighter when he
saw the cheerful face at the window, looking down the
road, and shook his whip at it as it smiled at him, as much
as to say, let me get near you, and — and what? Ask
the walls, and the bureau in the corner, and the buffet
where the china was, or the milk-pans upon the dresser,
what.
No jars occurred in a home that owned such a
pair. Can the right hand quarrel with the left? Can
the left eye cast severe glances upon the right? The
home where a true marriage exists is blest, and the man
who finds his domesticity cast in a mould such as we
have described, may be called happy in the fullest sense
of the blissful word.
It would have done all of us good to peep in upon
fireside scenes at the Partington mansion. The fire-place,
with its wide and hospitable arms extended, looked
revealed in its huge dimensions. It was a brave idea
of Seek Partyngetonne, and when he laid the cornerstone
of the Beanville structure he had visions of a
posterity as numerous as the leaves of the sweet-briar
bush that waved by his door. Alas! how were those
visions verified, as a few generations saw the line of Seek
diminishing, to find its end, at last, like the snap of a
whip-lash, in one little knot.
But those scenes! It was the custom of the corporal,
in the long nights of winter, to seat himself in the right
corner of the old fire-place, while the dame occupied the
other, and read, by the light of a mutton tallow candle,
such literature as the house afforded. This was comprised
in the family Bible, an old and massive volume
that adorned the black bureau under the glass; a copy
of army tactics, presented to Paul by a revolutionary
soldier; and a copy of Dudley Leavitt's Almanac.
These were read, by the light of mutton fat, aloud, while
Mrs. Partington pursued her knitting in the corner,
nodding at times, perhaps, as the theme was dull or
familiar; but the smile always rewarded Paul's effort to
amuse her, as much as if he had n't read the same things
over and over a thousand times. The small, covered
earthen pitcher kept time to his reading often, and sung
and sputtered upon the coals between the old-fashioned
dog andirons, as if a spirit were within struggling to
as the hand of the old bull's-eye watch on the
nail over the mantel-piece denoted the hour of nine, was
the book laid by, and the mug taken from the fire and
its steaming contents poured into the white earthen bowl
upon the table, which sent up a vapor that rolled upon the
dark walls like a fragrant cloud, and made the room
redolent with the fume of the “mulled cider” that
smoothed the pillow of Paul.
It was pleasant, too, to have a neighbor come in at
times and spend an evening, when the big dish of apples
would be brought on, and the sparkling cider, that
snapped and foamed, in an ambition to be drank, crowned
the board. And then such stories as would be told of
“breakings out,” and “great trainings,” and “immense
gunnings,” in which exploits were achieved that my
veracious pen would hardly dare recall! And the old
Indian wars would be fought again by the light of
tradition and the above-named tallow candle; and the
tales be retold of revolutionary valor that signalized itself
in '76. Perhaps a song would be sung commemorating
old times, in the quaint melody that knew no artistic
skill beyond nature's teaching.
Mrs. Partington, as the presiding genius of these
scenes, shed the radiance of her presence over the circle,
as the sunflower claims eminence in a garden of marigolds.
Her sage voice was heard in wise counsel; and in
be married, or was n't about to be married, but ought to
be, she was at home.
The time we speak of was near the close of Paul's
career, before the sad military reverse took place which
broke his heart. It would be impossible, in the small
space allotted us, to describe all the virtues of Mrs. Partington.
It were best to make an aggregate of good, and
call it all hers. The herbs that adorned the garret walls
in innumerable paper bags, were not gathered for herself;
the balm-of-gilead buds and rum, that occupied their
position in the buffet, were not prepared for her; but at
the first note of distress from a neighbor her aid was ever
ready. She was the first who was sent for on important
occasions, when goodwives must be wakened from their
beds at midnight; and to this day half the population
at Beanville speak of the benevolent face that bent over
them in the first moments of their struggle with existence,
and gave them a better impression of life than after-experience
verified; and catnip tea and saffron became
palatable when commended by a spoon held by her.
She knew the age of every one in the village, and, had
politicians not rendered the word hackneyed, we would
say she had the “antecedents” of every one at her
fingers' ends. She was as good as an almanac for chronological
dates; and in the matter of historical incidents
She had a great reverence for this same almanac, and
we cannot refrain from speaking of an incident in connection
with it. She put implicit faith in its predictions,
and the weather-table stood like a guide-board to direct
her on her meteorological march through the year. One
year, however, everything went wrong. Storms took
place that were not mentioned, and those mentioned never
occurred. The moon's phases were all out of joint, and
the good dame sat up all one cold night to watch for an
advertised eclipse that did n't come off. For a long
time she tried to vindicate her favorite, but at last, when
a “windy day” predicted proved as mild a one as ever
the sun shone on, her faith wavered, to be entirely overthrown
by a cold north-easterly storm that had been set
down for “pleasant.” A timely discovery, that Ike had
put a last year's almanac instead of the true one, alone
saved the credit of that mathematical standard of natural
law.
Her domestic virtues were of the most exalted kind.
Cleanliness was with her a habit, and every windy day
was sure to see Paul's regimentals upon a clothes-line, in
the yard, dancing away with a levity altogether at variance
with the rules of military propriety. A spider
never dared to obtrude his presence upon the homestead;
a moth never corrupted the sanctuary of woollen that her
of the Partingtonian kitchen was as full of knots as a
map of New Hampshire is of hills, from frequent scourings,
and, though she never scoured through and fell into
the cellar, like the Dutch damsel we read of, it did
not seem at all improbable that such an event might
happen.
But her benevolence was the crowning characteristic
of her life, developing itself in a thousand and more
ways. It sought to make every one around her happy.
She commenced taking snuff with an eye solely to its
social tendencies, and her box was a continual offering
to friendship. When the “last war” broke out, she
headed a volunteer list of patriotic women to make shirts
for the soldiers, and gave them encouragement and
souchong tea to work for the brave men that were exposing
themselves to peril; and she scraped Paul's only linen
shirt — an heir-loom, by the way, in the family — up into
lint for the wounded soldiers. A fitting spouse was she
for Corporal Paul. Her reputation for benevolence was
spread all over the land, like butter upon a hot Johnnycake
of her own baking, and her currant-wine for the
sick got a premium for three successive years in the cattle
fair.
Alas that we have not room to pursue the theme
further! We must take a flying leap over many incidents
and hasten on.
When Paul's younger brother, Peter — the Peter that
went “out West,” in his youth, whose wife joined the
Mormons — died, he sent his little Isaac to the care of
the widow of Paul, and from his earliest infancy he has
been her care. She never had any children of her own,
and her solicitude is earnestly engaged for him. He is
as merry a boy as you will find any day, and, though a
little tricky and mischievous, the first beginning of malice
does n't abide with him. His tricks do not flow from
any premeditation of fun even; they spring spontaneously
and naturally, as the lambs skip or the birds sing
off the acorn on the tall, old-fashioned chair for a top, it
is all a matter of course, and his bright face knows no
cloud when rebuked for what he has done, but he turns to
new mischiefs with new zest. Such is Ike. He is now
eleven years, just upon the dividing line between accountability
and indulgence, — beyond which boyish
mischief becomes malice, to be trained by the magic of
a leather strap.
Professor Wideswarth, a member of the Partington
family — like a “remarkable case” in the paper — of long
standing, has associated the two in a poem, which for
sublimity is surpassed by Coleridge's Hymn in the Valley
of Chamouni; but then they are nothing alike, and
parties may divide on their respective merits. One thing
about the song, — it is authentic in its details, as we
have heard averred by the old lady herself. The music,
set to a rocking-chair movement, was very popular
when it was first issued, and the editor of the Blaze, in
a complimentary notice of it, said no musical library
could be perfect without it. The poem we give below:
—
MRS. PARTINGTON AT TEA.
Sat sipping her tea,
Sipping it, sipping it, Isaac and she;
And the rain on the pane gave a comfortless sound;
Little cared she,
Kind Mistress P.,
As Isaac and she sat sipping their tea.
And in memory
What sights did she see,
As Isaac and she sat sipping their tea!
She turned her gaze to the opposite wall,
Where hung the portrait of Corporal Paul;
And fancies free,
To Mistress P.,
Arose in her mind like the steam of the tea.
And little saw she,
Blind Mistress P.,
As silently she sat sipping her tea,
With her eyes on the wall and her mind away,
That Isaac was taking that time to play;
And wicked was he
To Mistress P.,
As dreamily she sat sipping her tea.
For Isaac he,
In diablerie,
Emptied her rappee into her tea;
And the old dame tasted and tasted on,
Till she thought, good soul, that her taste was gone,
For the souchong tea
And the strong rappee
Sorely puzzled the palate of Mistress P.
Is drawn from the tea
That Isaac had ruined for Mistress P
Forever will mix in the cup of our joy
The dark rappee of sorrow's alloy,
And none are free,
Any more than she,
From annoying alloys that mix with their tea.
We have spoken before of the Partington mansion
having been removed to make way for the Beanville
railroad. It was taken after Paul's demise. He never
would have parted with it thus. He would have fortified
it and defended it while a charge of powder remained in
the old powder-horn that hung above the mantel-piece,
or a billet of wood was left to hurl at assailants! But,
alas! Paul was not there; and his amiable relict opposed
but feeble resistance to the encroachment of the new
power. As she herself forcibly expressed it, “What was
the use of her trying to go agin a railroad?”
It was hard for her to give up the old mansion, endeared
by so many recollections, — not a thousand,
merely, the number usually given as the poetical limit,
but infinite in number, for they embraced all of the days
of her wedded happiness, and the companionship of the
corporal.
This sketch of the life of Mrs. Partington would be
imperfect were we to omit giving a brief notice of the
We have long felt that an admiring public
deserved a more definitive expression of her than could be
gained from the mere words, however wise, that fell from
her oracular lips. A sense of justice to her innumerable
merits has impelled us to redeem her from the uncertainty
of mere verbal delineation, and here we have produced
her, the fair ideal of wise simplicity.
It was with great difficulty that we secured this boon
for the world. A modest diffidence, that fifty-seven
winters have not weakened, made her unwilling that her
likeness should be thus submitted to the unsparing gaze
of thousands. In vain we urged many illustrious examples
of like martyrdom, — of men, who, from pure philanthropy,
had sacrificed themselves in the everlasting
reproach of stereotype, from the never-souring “Old
Jacob” to the meek “Elder-Berry,” blessing the world
with disinterested benevolence at a dollar a quart bottle,
six bottles for five dollars. She was not to be moved by
any argument we could offer, and we were about to
abandon the idea in despair, when the strategy of Isaac
effected what diplomacy had failed to accomplish. Snugly
ensconced in an old clothes-press, by Isaac, for three
days, our artist was enabled through the key-hole to
watch the varied expression that flitted across her time-worn
face, and his genius achieved its high triumph at
the moment when Paine's gas had become the concentrated
external scene and circumstance, her mind was grappling
that huge problem, in a vain effort to get a little light
upon the subject.
This is the precise moment at which the artist has
taken her — impaled her, so to speak, in view of its correctness,
on his pencil point, and transferred her, still
quick with life, to the breathing — paper.
The faithfulness of this picture cannot be too much
admired. We have, at a glance, the whole character of
the old lady, in her blessed “liniments,” with a benignity,
like a cup of Sleeper's best ningyong, irradiating
every feature. The cap-border crowns like a halo the
brow, upon whose lofty height benevolence sits enthroned;
the lock of gray vibrates tremulously in the wintry air;
the specs repose tranquilly in the abstractedness of meditation;
the pinned kerchief, in modest plaits, onfolds a
breast whose every throb is kindly; the knitting-work,
the close attendant upon her loneliness, has its position,
and the busy fingers, in diligent competition, ply the
gleaming wires; the ancient chair, “sacred to memory,”
the one that came over in the Mayflower, is presented in
its puritanic uprightness, and at its back hangs the “ridicule,”
in whose mysterious depths dwelleth many a rare
antique, that the light of day hath not seen since the
memorable '14; upon the little pine table, white as snow,
from frequent inflictions of soap and sand, are seen that
respective solaces of which the ills of life have found mitigation,
and grief has been allayed of half its bitterness;
the amelioration of maccaboy relieving the woes of widowhood,
and sorrow finding cessation 'neath the softening
influence of souchong. Above, upon the wall, hangs
Paul's ancient profile, in dark rigidity, like a soldier on
parade, staring straight forward at nothing, the unbending
integrity of whose dickey stands in marked contrast
with the charcoal of his complexion. And long and often
has that profile been scanned by fond eyes in vain effort
to detect one line of the olden affection that warmed the
original, or dwelt in the hard-spelt character of Paul's
epistles, that, well-worn and well-saved, are yet treasured
in the old black bureau-desk in the corner. And carefully
the sprig of sweet fern is renewed above the picture,
every year, when the berries lure Ike to the woods, and
he comes back laden with pine, and fern, and hemlock,
to garnish the fire-place and mantel-piece withal. That
handkerchief has been preserved as a sacred relic since
the corporal's battle days, when in young devotion he
laid it, blazoned with the glory of the Constitution and
Guerriere, upon her lap, and, standing by her, with his
artillery sword gleaming in his hand, vowed by its edge
that his love for her should divide with that for his
country! The story has not been written of his deeds
of arms, of his “moving accidents by flood and field,”
in the artillery, and his campaign-dinner once a
year. These remain to be written, and the biographer
of Paul Partington shall set the world aglow with the
recital of deeds that have been hid, like the diamond in
the ashes, but have lost no ray of brilliancy.
It may, however, be well to give a few of these exploits,
as illustrative of the character of the person in
whose heroism we may detect an influence that dates from
Dog's Bondage; and nice discriminators may, by close
scrutiny, see therein the fusion of the fiery blood
of Seek-the-Kingdom-continually Partyngetonne — the
trumpeter of Oliver Cromwell — and the gentle outside
current that met, mingled, and softened — the veni, vidi,
vici, of conjugal triumph — and formed no merely
bloody warrior, but a hero, whose sword would be stained
by nothing worse than the mark of cheese that crowned
the board of war.
When the news came, in the “last war,” that the
British had landed on the coast, although nine miles
from Beanville, his voice waked the people from their
slumbers, calling them to arms; it was his plume that
was seen gleaming in the light of the stars, as he dashed
through the town on horseback, urging his steed on
through the mud at the rate of five miles an hour; it
was his warlike skill that arranged the eleven men of
Beanville into a phalanx of attack; and it was his eloquence
patriots, and Christians, to fight and die like men.
When afterwards it was discovered that all the alarm
arose from seeing two men in their boats drawing lobster
nets, the merit of valor did not depart from Paul Partington,
and, though he never got the brevet as sergeant,
promised him by the general of division, yet the people
honored him, and the battle of the “Bloody 'Leven,”
as they were called, formed a theme for gossip in the
tavern at Beanville for many a day.
When the call came for volunteers to throw up fortifications
in Boston harbor, he was the first man to enrol
his name; his pickaxe struck the first blow for his
country in this service. His use of the spade rendered
his advice invaluable to the commanding officer, and he
could tell, to a fraction, how many shovels full to take
from one portion, and how many wheelbarrow loads to
put in another. His overalls were in the front of the
fight; his arm was fearlessly bared in the encounter.
“But, alas for his country!” he got a grain of gravel
in his eye, and had to go home, after exhorting his
comrades in arms to dig on, and giving his overalls to
one who needed them. He was afterwards pensioned for
his injury, having been very favorably mentioned in the
orders of the day.
But in the muster-field was his greatest triumph. The
smell of gunpowder he snuffed like the war-steed from afar.
always selected to lead the forlorn hope in an attack, and
his compressed lips and flashing eyes were precursors of
victory. It became a standing rule that he must beat; but
when the mad sergeant from the city, who commanded the
point to be attacked, would n't give in, and charged home
upon the corporal, driving him back at the point of the
bayonet, whereby he lost three of his men and his credit
in a bog through which they were compelled to pass,
the star of the corporal waned. His martial spirit departed
from that hour. Even though a court-martial
was ordered at once, and the sergeant ordered to be shot,
— which fate was only avoided by his speedy departure
from Beanville, — it was of no avail. The careful
nursing of Ruth availed nothing. He took to his bed,
had his artillery sword and cap hung upon a nail
where he could see them, and lay down to die. The skill
of the country doctor, with a pair of saddlebags filled
with medicine, and the whole pharmacopœia of Mrs. P.,
could n't save him, and, after making his will, like a
prudent citizen and a good soldier, he bade the world
good-night, and — Paul was not.
“No sound can awake him to glory again.”
He was buried with military honors by the Beanville
Artillery, who for twenty years voted annually to erect
a monument to his memory, and then gave it up. The
prepared an epitaph, which we subjoin: —
A hero of extensive worth,
A whole-souled man, full six feet tall,
Surnamed Partington, christened Paul.”
The parish burying-ground in Beanville, — a sketch
of which is here subjoined, — is situated in the bend of
the turnpike leading from Clover Hill, — and it is a
shrine much visited in the summer months by tarriers at
the village; for all that was Paul Partington rests beneath
the turf, with naught but a tall sweet-briar to
mark the spot, standing like a sentinel on duty, armed
at all points, and watching the slumber of the hero of
the Bloody 'Leven. The picture was taken by a travelling
artist while riding over the turnpike on the stage-coach,
who was so struck with the picturesque beauty of
the scene that he made an eight-miles-an-hour sketch
of it in his portfolio.
It is to this spot, on each returning season, that Mrs.
Partington comes, — by virtue of a free pass allowed her
and praises the ancient corporal's virtues, and tries to
incite the boy's ambition to be like him; and he likes to
come, for, while he is drinking in the words which Mrs.
Partington imparts, he can watch the chip-munks on the
decaying wall, and slily shy stones at birds whose confidence
leads them to approach the spot and twitter upon
the mullein-stalks that grow rankly by the gate.
We say naught but a sweet-briar tree marks the spot.
The old gravestone, with its hard-faced remembrance of
Paul, has been carried off in relics by modern Vandals.
Chip by chip has the ancient monument disappeared, that
affection paid for to the city stone-cutter and placed
here, until not a scrap of it is left. The ancient stone
of blue slate, with its jolly death's-head, that appeared
as if quick with mirth; the winged, chubby cherubs in
the corners, that looked like babies living in uncomfortable
fat, like doughnuts; the simple inscription, in
Roman characters, commemorative of the Roman virtues
of Paul, and the quaint epitaph that told in equivocal
English of a future hope, all have been chipped off.
But, thanks to art, that can
restore the lost and create
that which never existed, that
monument is before us for our
admiration. How many shocks
of elemental war has that antiquated
— standing despite the snow and frost of winter,
or the tornadoes of summer, to be carried off piece by
piece in the pockets of encroaching pilgrims! But there
is a glory in the idea of a gravestone's being used up in
breast-pins, to be more choicely cherished than the richest
rubies.
There were melancholy days in the Partingtonian
mansion when Paul stepped out. The old chair stood
by the right side of the fire-place, as if waiting to be
occupied; the mug simmered in the winter evenings
between the andirons, with a mournful measure, as if
responsive to the wind that made a muss and hurly-burly
about the chimney-top, but only one now partook of its
contents; the regimentals were aired upon the clothes-line,
and, inflated with wind, seemed at times like the
corporal himself, cut up in parcels, who was, alas! to fill
them no more. The settling of the estate broke in upon
this dull and monotonous existence, and, in the excitement
of the law, she forgot the sorrow that, as she said,
made her nothing but flesh, skin, and bones. The remark
she made concerning probate offices is recorded as
a living evidence of her sagacity. Some one spoke to
her about the probate proceedings regarding the estate.
“Yes,” said she, “it is probe it, probe it, all the time;
and if the poor, widowless body gets the whole she don't
get half enough.” The remark, likewise, about doing
— “Don't do anything by power of eternity,” said
she, “for, if you do, you will never see the end of it.”
What profundity!
But the estate was settled, after much delay, and the
farm carried on at the halves by a neighbor, whose honesty
was no security against the temptation of plethoric
crops and opportunity. The hay fell off in the accounts,
the recorded corn denoted a speedy famine, and a more
disastrous havoc of potato rot has never since transpired
than assailed her crops. But this state of things came
to an end, instead of the farm as was threatened.
The march of improvement led to the need of a railroad
through Beanville, and the Partingtonian mansion
became a sacrifice to the ruthless spirit of progress, that,
all-grasping, stops not at anything in its path, whether it
be a homestead or a hemisphere. Mrs. Partington left
Beanville reluctantly. As she herself has said, it was
useless to try to stand against a railroad; and the city
offering inducements in the way of education for Isaac,
the legacy left her by the brother of Paul, she anchored
her bark in the municipal haven, where her benevolence
of act, intention, and sentiment, has been spread broad-cast,
and many a smile has grown out of her “lines” that
“have been cast in pleasant places.”
There is a mystery thrown about the brother of Paul
that we cannot unravel. All that is known of him is,
in the Black Hawk war, and died on his way to Beanville,
forwarding Isaac and a black silk handkerchief of
boy's clothes by stage to their destination. But in Isaac
is centred the affection that shed its rays about her early
years, and in him she sees the nucleus of a Partingtonian
progeny that shall appease the spirit of Seek-the-Kingdom
Partyngetonne, if it be knocking round amid sub-lunar
scenes. She takes every occasion to describe his exalted
origin. On a recent occasion, while in the street with
Isaac, a citizen soldier in all the pride of regulation-uniform
passed them. “See!” said the boy with animation,
“does that look like uncle Paul?” She looked at
him, half offended. “No,” said she, with pride in her
expression, “he is no more like your uncle than Hyperion
fluid is like a satire!” There was Shakspeare
and dignity in the remark, and Isaac turned with emotion
to look at the picture of a monkey, in a window, tempting
a chained dog by holding his tail within an inch of the
canine nose.
Speaking of the monkey's tail reminds us that we are
nearly to the end of our tale about Mrs. Partington. We
at the first thought of getting an autobiography of the
old lady, which would have greatly enhanced the interest
of the book, and had asked her to give us something of
this kind. But one afternoon, as we were revolving some
stupendous idea, — the Nebraska bill, may be, or the
in slippers a foot or two above our head, and puffing one
of those choice Habanos that the importer had sent in,
we felt a finger on our shoulder. “Get out, woman!”
we cried, somewhat tartly, “there 's nothing for you.”
Heaven help us! we thought it was the woman with the
rummy breath that had haunted us for days. The touch
was repeated, and, looking around to frown down the intruder,
the mild gaze of Mrs. Partington was bent upon
us. The chair from the other room was brought in.
“So you thought it was the beggar woman, did you?”
said she. “Well, suppose it had have been? Could n't
you have given her a soft word, if you had n't any money?
Was there anything harmonious in her asking you for a
penny?”
We felt rebuked.
“But,” continued she, smilingly, “I have come to
say, about that writing matter, that it will do just as
well if you write it for me. Generally, I s'pose, a naughty
biography is better if it is writ by one's self, but I can
trust you to do me justice.”
What a privilege! Macaulay says somewhere that
Boswell was the only true biographer that ever wrote.
“By the star that is now before us!” we ejaculated,
looking at Mrs. Partington, “he shall yet confess that
another has been found, and Bozzy's glories be shared
with us.”
Mrs. Partington smiled at our enthusiasm, and passed
out of the door, and down the stairs, and waved an adieu
to us a moment afterwards from the steps of an omnibus
that was to take her home.
We have thus given the Life of Mrs. Partington,
with her antecedents and coässociates. It is a desultory
story, unlike, perhaps, anything you have seen before,
dear reader. Try to fancy its oddity a reason for praise.
Remember the dull and hackneyed path of common
biographers, and remember, too, that this is the biography
of no common person, but that of Mrs. Partington
— a name not born to die. Perhaps you may
recognize in the oddity of the sketch a gleam of the
eccentricity that has marked her sayings. In the hope
that he has pleased you, the biographer places his hand
on his heart and bows, as the curtain descends to slow
music.
| Life and sayings of Mrs. Partington and others
of the family | |