But our sculptor did not presume on this. He finished his beautiful statue to the satisfaction of his patron, and with the proceeds went to Italy, where he could more easily command the requisites of the profession for which Nature had ordained him. One lovely creation after another has succeeded the snow-angel, and are now cherished household treasures in his native land and State. I am not a Vermonter, unless strong love for its grand mountains and intelligent people can make me one; still, though suffering under the disgrace of not having been born in that glorious old State, I feel just as proud of that young Green Mountain sculptor and his beautiful works, as if its lovely valleys had cradled me.
So, lest other States begin to wrangle by and by as to the honor of producing him, I wish to place it on record that Larkin G. Mead was born and reared in Vermont, and nowhere else.
While in Vermont, it seemed to me that every State in the Union should consider it a religious duty to gather, in some shape, form or place, every relic of the war with which the people of that State were in any way connected. The golden moment of action in this regard will pass, is passing, with each fleeting day. Life presses heavily on most of us. The shuttlecock of the present is so busy and swift, that its whirr may well distract us from aught else. But think! to our children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren what these relics would be. This coat, torn, blood-stained, bullet-riddled in so many battles. This shoe, patched with improvised needle and thread in the horrible prison pens of Andersonville and Libby. This—but time would fall me to tell of the relics and memorials which every farm-house in the country might yield, and which might so easily now become a nation's property and pride. I was particularly awake to this subject because I lately saw, up here in Brattleboro', a private by the name of Colt, with his right arm now quite useless, who has in his possession a fiddle manufactured by himself, while in camp, from a maple stump, with no other tools than a jackknife, and a piece of broken bottle, a gimlet and an old file, which he made into a chisel.
It was in Virginia, on the Potomac, below Washington, that his regiment was located. "Boys," said one of them, as they lounged in their tents at nightfall, when it will not do to think too long or too much of the dear faces they might never more see—"boys, if we had a fiddle here we might have some music." "I could play on it," says one, (what can't a Yankee do?) "So can I," said another. "Well," said our hero, "the only way for us to have a fiddle is to make one." No sooner said than begun, at least. A maple stump was found, and comrade after comrade, when off duty, watched its transformation to a fiddle with the intensest interest. Some laughed, some cheered; praise, blame or indifference were all alike to our indomitable private, who was bound to get music out of that maple stump.
Still the fiddle grew. Still the chips flew. A good piece of wood was desirable for what I shall designate as the lid;—the bottom and sides being finished. Our private looked about. There was an old box in camp, sent from prolific Vermont, with "goodies" for her valiant boys. He seized upon the best part of it, and shaped it to its purpose, polishing it smooth with the broken bit of glass. The pegs he made from the horns of secesh cattle slaughtered by the rebels, when they didn't dream our boys would rout them to take possession. The strings for the fiddle-bow he made of hairs from the tail of the General's horse. Just at this juncture in fiddle-progress, came a pause. Where are the fiddle strings to come from? Away there in camp; even a Yankee might well stop, and scratch his head. Up comes an officer, and gazes with dumb wonder on that improvised fiddle. When he found his tongue, he offered our private to send to Washington by the sutler for the desired strings. These were obtained, and straightway fastened in their places. And now behold a pretty, delicate little affair, in color resembling the satin wood-fans sent us from Fayal. But did it have music in it? Most assuredly. There is the beauty of it. The tone of our Yankee fiddle is irreproachable.
Now I ask, is that fiddle to become the property and pride of Vermont, and be handed down, as it should, to its future sons and daughters, with the name of its enterprising maker? As I sat in that low-roofed wooden house, listening to his simple story, and looking first at the fiddle, and then at his twisted and useless arm, and then at a little fat roly-poly of a dimpled baby on the carpet, I thought—well, I said, Fanny, thank God that you were born a Yankee; and now go home and tell the world the history of that fiddle. And I have done it. Now, millions of relics, most interesting, like this, lie scattered all over the land. Let each State garner its own. It is due to the brave fellows who, modest as brave, will never do it themselves. It is due to these "Privates" to whom no splendid residences in our cities are presented, ready furnished and victualled. Let them have the reward of remembrance and appreciation, at least from a grateful posterity.
After leafy, lovely Vermont, to come back to the dusty city! To lose October! the golden month of all the year in the country, that one may come to town, to see that a dusty house is put in shining order: that's what I call a trial. Of course, I anticipate your provoking rejoinder—"What if you had no house to put to rights?" And now, if you have done interrupting me, I will proceed to say, that to decide between poultry, beef, mutton or veal for dinner; to make the disgusting tour of closets and cupboards that have enjoyed a long summer vacation in company with mice; instead of strolling "down to the river" and watching the little boats glide on its polished surface, or gaze at the mist lazily rolling off the mountain; while sweet odors of flowers, and the fresh smell of grass, make breathing itself a luxury, for which you can find no words of thanks—this change, I say boldly, is not to my taste. Not to mention, of a hot morning, when you innocently thought hot mornings were quite gone till next season, sitting in Intelligence Offices trying to decipher the countenances of various applicants for the care of your kitchen-range, or dining-room, or bed-chamber, when your tantalizing thoughts were far away on delicious roads, shaded so thickly with trees that in the hottest noon scarce a sun-ray penetrated, while the cool water dripped from mossy rocks, or rushed foaming over them, with a glad free joy that set you wild with longing. To fight rabid city mosquitoes all night, after a blessed freedom from the wretches all summer; to listen to the shrieks of infuriated cats, in the intervals, instead of the whisper of the soft leaves almost within your bed-room window; to hear the ceaseless click, click, of the tireless street cars, instead of the solitary musical "peep, peep" of some little bird; to be woke in the morning, when exhausted nature craves so madly that one little restoring-nap before breakfast, by the whooping of infuriated milk-men, and the thumping and ringing of bakers; in short, after kicking your heels like a colt in a pasture all summer, to be suddenly noosed, caught and harnessed to a relentless dray-cart which keeps on going up hill, regardless of your disgusted puffing and panting and attempts at halting; well—I trust now you understand what my emotions are on returning to this Pandemonium of a city, after a breezy, care-free, delicious summer sojourn in the mountains.
What do I care for the "new style of bonnets," when I have found it so much pleasanter to stroll out without any covering for the head? What to me are "top-boots" with red and blue tassels and lacings, when any old shoe served my turn if a lovely country tramp was in prospect? What to me are new dresses? involving weary hunts for buttons, and "bones," and hooks, and eyes, and cord, and tassels, and lace, and bugles, and gimp, and facings, and linings, and last, but not least, a "lasso" to catch a dress-maker?