There was in every village the “Country Shoemaker,” whose shop, close by the tavern and the blacksmith’s, was the favorite rainy day resort for both boys and men. There the latest news was rehearsed, party slates were made or broken, and matters of local interest, or of state and national politics received impassioned discussion.
There were also the village “Tailor” and “Cooper,” persons as indispensable as the village pump. The gossiping dressmaker went her yearly round among the circle of households; and the old-fashioned peddler brought silks and city goods to the farmer’s wife, and was always welcomed by the farmer himself for the news he brought from other places, supplying surprisingly well the place of the modern newspaper.
In almost every New England village situated at all near the sea coast a prominent character was the retired Whale Captain, a man of very positive character, accustomed to authority, and not always a comfortable neighbor or amiable citizen.
Very different also from the farmer of the north was the Southern Planter, who was with us only a little while ago, but now as a distinctive type is fast vanishing from sight. The product and the pride of the southern land, prominent in society and politics, ruling as lord over his swarm of dependents, and holding his social, religious, and political opinions by a sort of entail with his estate, he forms a most interesting subject of study, and will perhaps figure largely as a favorite character in the American novel of the future.
Any sketch of olden times ought to make special mention also of the “Old Stage Coach and Driver.” The days are not very long passed when a journey from here to New York or Philadelphia was a matter of graver consideration than is now given to a trip to London and return. Not without very serious preparation, fortifying himself for the hardships, considering the possible dangers, and perhaps taking a very formal farewell of his family, did a traveler set out on his journey; and then his progress was painfully slow, and his discomforts painfully many.
The stages, great lumbering vehicles, made perhaps forty miles a day in the summer, and not much more than half as many in the winter. In summer one was choked by the dust, and in cold weather he froze. “If no accident occurred the traveler was put down at the inn about ten o’clock at night. Cramped and weary, he ate a frugal supper, and betook himself to bed with a notice from the landlord that he would be called at three the next morning. Then, whether it rained or snowed, he was forced to rise and make ready by the light of a tallow candle, for another ride of eighteen hours. After a series of mishaps and accidents, such as would suffice for an emigrant train crossing the plains, the stage rolled into New York at the end of the sixth day after leaving Boston.” This is not exceptional. It was considered something remarkable when the trip from New York to Philadelphia was first made in less than two full days.
The mails of that time were carried in these same stages, except in the special cases where post-riders hastened through on horseback. So small, however, was the mail service at the beginning of this century, that Prof. McMaster affirms: “More mails are now each day sent out and received in New York, than in Washington’s time went from the same city to all parts of the country in the course of half a year. More letters are delivered in that city every twenty-four hours than, when Franklin had office, were distributed in the thirteen states in a whole year.”
Along with the varied types of character and of occupation that have vanished, or are vanishing away, there are many articles of use and of ornament, that were once common, but are now hardly to be found.
A pair of old brass andirons that belonged to one’s grandmother are to-day an almost priceless heirloom in any family. Old spinning wheels, in daily use fifty or more years ago, but for a generation consigned to the garret or remote store room, are now brought down and, freshly polished and decked with ribbons, made to adorn the parlor or the hall. A genuine old sickle is to-day hard to find; the hand fanning-mills are becoming rare, and a real flail is almost never heard. How many of the young ladies of to-day have ever seen one of the foot-stoves their grandmothers used to carry to church, or one of the warming-pans always put to use for the benefit of the friend that in winter time occupied “the best chamber?” How long is it since the side of every kitchen opened into the cavernous depth of the old “brick oven,” the heating of whose great dome was such a labor for the adults, but such a delight for the children? What too have become of the old tin “Dutch ovens” that were used before the open fireplace, and of the iron “bake kettles,” with cover for the burning coals, which were sometimes called by this same name? While for an old tinder box and flint one will search almost in vain unless in some cabinet of carefully guarded relics and antiques.