I pity a genuine New Englander, who migrates from a land in which every inhabitant is born with a faculty of doing everything in the best manner, and in the very "nick of time," and settles down among a Penelope race, who weave their webs in the morning, only to find them irretrievably unravelled every night. Thriftless! You may think there are worse qualities than this in a person's moral make-up. I believe it to be the foundation of sand upon which any permanently useful superstructure is impossible. Thriftless! The gods remove me far from this aimless specimen of adult infancy, who crawls a mile on all fours to pick up a straw; who, forgetting where he placed it the moment after he gets it, makes a series of circuitous journeys in search of it; who is constantly placing things on their tops that are not self-supporting unless set upon their bottoms; and who, though warned by repeated thumps and bumps, that there are better ways than those he chooses to crawl in, still persists in scratching and scarring himself, and driving you wild with wondering what mischief he can do next that he has not already done. I say that a lunatic asylum can be the only end of a New Englander who is forced into a daily yoke-ship with your "thriftless" person.
New England! bless it! Isn't it thorough? Does their sewing ravel out? Do their shoes rip at the first wearing? Don't their children's "bought" clothes hang together, at least till you get them home? Isn't a New England-buttonhole exhilarating to the moral eyesight? Don't their blinds keep fastened? Don't their doors shut without bringing them "to" with a bang like the explosion of a Parrot gun? Haven't the women sense "into" them? Don't the men know what they know? Haven't their children a backbone, moral and physical? and haven't they a right to boast of the "hub?" And as to their kitchens, my very soul yearns for those shining tin pans and pewter pots, and immaculate dishcloths. I am homesick for an old-fashioned "dresser," with the kitchen spoons laid in a row after every meal. I long for a peep into the kitchen closet, where the tea isn't in the coffee-thing, and the starch mixed with the pepper; where the rolling-pin hangs up, white and suggestive of flaky pie-crust; where the clothes-pins are shrouded in a clean bag till next Monday's wash; where the lids of the coffee and tea-pot are left open, for those vessels to air, and no yesterday's "grounds" are permitted to repose over night; where—but what's the use? Gotham is Gotham—Erin always will be Erin—and New England, God be praised! will always be New England; for were there not that leaven to infuse thrift through the veins of the country——Well, you perceive that I am a New-Englander.
While in Brattleboro I obtained permission to write in the quiet empty school-house, during the summer vacation. I thought while seated there of the probable fate and fortunes of their absent occupants. How many Senators, how many Presidents, how many Artists, how many Sculptors, how many Authors, how many men, and women, of note, might make their starting-point from that very school-house.
I should like to keep the statistics from this time had I leisure. You must know that it is an article in my creed that a New England cradle is the safest and fittest to rock a baby in. In other words, that a New England foundation is sounder and better than any other; the superstructure may be laid elsewhere—I had almost said anywhere—this being secured.
With these views, from which I am quite willing you should dissent, should it so please you, I look around on these vacant seats of our future men and women, with intense interest. "The war is over," I hear people say; I say it has just begun. The smoke of battle having cleared a little, he that hath eyes to see, shall note the dead who are to be carried out of sight, the maimed who are to be tenderly cared for, and the vultures who are to be driven, at all costs, from feeding on that which is as dear to us as our heart's blood. This work these children will have to do. Pinafores and blouses they will not wear forever. Balls, kites and dolls are but for now. Earnest men and women they must be, being New England born. Earnest for the Right, I plead, as I glance at the Teacher's Desk. I do not know him, who wields a power for which I would not exchange a monarch's throne—who must face in this world, and account for in the next, these boys and girls, who look to him for guidance and help; but whoever he may be, I trust that he holds his office, for sublimity and honor, second to none. I trust he looks beyond to-day, when he gazes into those clear, bright eyes, where his teachings are mirrored like the branches and blossoms in the clear, still lake beneath. I trust he sees in those boys something beyond a trousers-tearing, bird's-nest-robbing crew, out of whose craniums must be thumped fun, and into whose craniums must be bored grammar. I trust he sees in those girls something besides machines for sewing on buttons, and frying "flap-jacks," and making cheese. I trust he does not expect to run all these children, like a pound of candles, into the same shaped and sized mould. I trust he knows a properly developed head when he sees it, and believes in individuality of character, whether male or female. I am glad to hear that he does not see only dollars and cents in the glorious vocation he has adopted.
Schoolmaster! Why, Emperor, King, President, are nothing to it. There is only one thing before it, and that is—"Mother." Let the world look to it who are its schoolmasters. Let schoolmasters look to it that they are God-appointed to their places. If a conscientious clergyman need ask God's blessing on his Sunday message before delivering it to his flock, so much the more need the schoolmaster take the shoes from off his feet; because the place where he treads is holy ground.
Meantime, I sat there in the empty school-house, and watched the birds flit in and out through the open window, while the breath of the clover and the smell of the new-mown hay came pleasantly enough to my city-disgusted nose. So now, dear children all, whoever you may be, I leave you my hearty and sincere benediction for the pleasant hour in your school-house, when you had "a vacation" and I had none.
Now let me tell you a little story about a Green Mountain Sculptor. The town of Brattleboro', wrapped in its mantle of snow, looked very lovely one crisp, cold winter night. There were no operas, no theatres, no racketing or frolicking of any sort going on. The snow and the stars had it all their own way. I said it was "quiet," and yet, from the windows of one pretty little white house, lights were gleaming; and now a young man, warmly muffled to the ears, crosses the threshold, and is joined by two or three young companions, who commence gathering the snow in heaps in front of the house, while he shapes it with his benumbed fingers into the form of a pedestal; occasionally stepping back and looking at it, or slapping his hands together to produce circulation. Now upon the pedestal he commences modeling a figure; while his companions continue patiently to supply him with fresh heaps of the pure white snow, one holding a lantern while he proceeds with his work. Noiselessly and industriously they toil, no policeman disturbing them with curious inquiries or a threatened "station house." Occasionally they glide into the house, where warm flannels, and warm beverages, and a good fire, and "mother's" encouraging smile, await them, to inspire the party with new energy. It is near daylight, and still our snow-sculptor toils on, hour after hour, till, fair and lovely, stands before him, on this night of the New Year, the form of a Recording Angel, writing upon a scroll. Now, the party, taking one long look, quietly retire, leaving the figure conspicuously standing at the meeting of two roads. The stars gradually fade out, and Brattleboro' begins to be astir. First comes the earliest riser of all, poor "crazy Jim," who never seems to weary of wandering to and fro on the earth, and up and down on it. Dim in his confused brain lie tangled memories of childhood's "angels." He stands and gazes, awe-struck and wondering, while his busy, chattering tongue is for the time quite still. Now a farmer from the mountains glides over the snow with his fleet horse and sleigh, with tinkling bells, and reins up, and shares crazy Jim's amazement. As the morning wears on, the news flies that there is "an angel" among them. Schoolgirls and boys forget that it is "past nine," and stand spell-bound by the side of their parents, whose wonder at the marvellous beauty of the figure is only equalled by their curiosity as to the fingers that so cunningly shaped it. Had Brattleboro', with its other natural marvels, furnished also a genius? Was Vermont, rich in so many other treasures, to "keep" a sculptor? Artists were not wont to swarm in Brattleboro' in mid-winter, how long soever might be the list of "arrivals" during the balmy days of summer. There was no name of distinction now on the hotel books. Who could it be? And what a pity such a beautiful thing should perish, and fade away with the first warm rays of the sun. Among the crowd who gathered to wonder and admire came an editor. This editor was intelligent, and what is more, sympathetic and appreciative. He wrote a glowing account of the "snow-angel." The paper containing it met the eye of rich old Nicholas Longworth, of Cincinnati. He immediately sent an order to the young sculptor, who was then modestly enjoying his first triumph from the windows of his father's little white house, to perpetuate it for him in marble, not forgetting to send with the order a generous check in advance. This was substantial praise. This looked like beginning the world right. For once, Fortune, too often churlish to genius, seemed about to take it at once into her ample lap.