The village is filled with other characters, quite as original as any I have described. They are important personages, and have lived in it a long time; but they have no family history to fall back upon. There is Major Follett, who still lingers on the shores of time, and sustains a vast dignity amid his declining years. His head is very white, his hat very sleek, and his silk vest is piled very full of ruffles. He carries a gold-headed cane, and when he marches through the streets, it rises and falls with great emphasis, in harmony with his right foot. Now and then he gives out an a-hem!—one of the lordly kind—that fairly awes down his inferiors. He is a remarkable talker, too, among his equals—uses words having a great many syllables. He never spits, but "expectorates"—his pains are all "paroxysms"—talks about the "foreshadowing of events"—and all his periods are as round and stately as the march of a Roman army. The Major has actually made his assumed dignity pave his way in life—it has given him wealth and influence among those who are intrinsically his superiors, but who do not know how to put on the airs of consequence.
Old Doctor Styles is living yet. He has survived two or three crops of customers—helped them in and out of the world—balanced their accounts—and his face is as ruddy, his laugh as hearty, his stories as ludicrous, his nose as full of snuff, as though nothing melancholy had ever happened in his practice. Eighty odd and more, he stands as straight as a staff. Death has been so long a business with him, and he has stared it for so many years in the face, that he really does not know, or care, how near he is to it himself.
Crapo Jackson, the sexton, is one of the characters. He has announced the end of Doctor Styles's labor a great many hundred times through the belfry, and helped cover up what remained. Crapo is black, but he has a fine heart. He is a perfect master of his work. He puts on an air of melancholy and circumspection at a funeral, that becomes the occasion. He sings, from door to door, a hymn on Christmas mornings, with cap in hand extended for his "quarter"—peddles gingerbread on training days—and aids the female portion of the community on festival occasions, and does a great many more things, "too numerous to mention."
Speaking of "training days"—dear me!—there used to be a military spirit in this village, in times past. I can recollect the names of scores of generals, majors, colonels, captains, and even corporals—yes, corporals—every man couldn't be a corporal in those times. Why, bless your soul, reader! there was General Peabody, and General Jones, and Major Goodwin, and Major Boles, and any quantity of colonels. And then "training day"—nobody worked—the village was upside down—"'Seventy-six" was in command, and martial law declared.
Major Boles I recollect, when in the active discharge of his duty. He always grew serious as the great militia muster drew on. He went away off by himself, into the chamber, where he could be alone with the spirits of his forefathers, and burnished up his sword, shook out the dust from his regimentals—warned his children to stand out of the way—and looked ferociously at his wife. He knew he was Major Boles, and he knew every other respectable man knew it.
But Major-General Peabody was the greatest general I ever saw. When a boy, I looked upon him as a very blood-thirsty man, and nothing would have induced me to go near him. He was a little fellow in stature, had a hard round paunch that looked like an iron pot, and short, thick, dropsical legs. (Major Boles, who was a little envious, said they were stuffed, which produced a coldness between them.) His face was freckled, and his hair gray. He wore two massive epaulets, an old Revolutionary cap, shaped like the moon in its first quarter, from which a white and red feather curved over his left ear. He had a sword—and such a sword! Nobody dared touch it; for it was the General's sword!
"Training day" usually opened with a boom from the field-piece, at sunrise, that shook the hills. About ten in the morning the soldiers began to pour in from all quarters. Drums and fifes, and muskets and rifles, filed along in confusion,—ambitious companies in uniform—common militia, who were out according to law. Uncle Joe Billings, who had played the bass-drum for more than twenty years (poor old man, he is dead now!) was seen gravely marching along all by himself, his drum slung about his neck, his head erect, his step firm, pushing on to head-quarters at the measured beat of his own music, now and then cutting a flourish with his right hand, for the amusement of the children who were capering around him. Knots of soldiers gathered about the tavern, and made a circle for the music to practise, preparatory to the great come-off. Then came the good old continental tunes that were full of fight, played by old fifers and drummers that had been through the wars; men who made a solemn and earnest thing of martial music—who reverenced it as the sacred voice of liberty, not to be trifled with, who thought of Bunker Hill until the tears started from their eyes. Those old airs, that used to echo among the mountains of New England—where are they?
But the captains, and colonels, and generals did not mix with the common soldiers on training day—no! nor speak to them. Rank meant something. They felt as though they were out in a war. They kept themselves covered from the public gaze away off in a secluded corner of the tavern, and were waited upon with great respect by those of inferior grade. Sometimes a guard was stationed at the door to prevent a crowd upon their dignity. Occasionally, one of them would bustle out among the rank and file on some momentous duty, fairly blazing with gold and silver, lace and feathers; but there was never an instance of one of these characters recognizing even his own brother while in military costume. Major Boles has often said that "no officer can be expected to see small things when in the active discharge of his duty."
At about eleven o'clock the solemn roll of the drums was heard, and loud voices of command followed; and swords flashed, and feathers danced, in the organization of the companies; and then came the training—real training—a mile down street; a mile back again; a perfect roar of music; and flags flying—horses prancing. What was rain, or dust, or mud with such an army! They marched straight through it; it was nothing to war. The sweat poured down, but the army moved on for hours and hours in its terrible march.
The great sight of the day, however, was the Major-General and his staff—I mean, of course, Major-General Peabody. They were not seen until about three o'clock in the afternoon; it being customary for them to withdraw from public observation the day prior to the muster. When the army was drawn up in the field, preparatory to inspection, there was usually a pause of an hour—a pause that was deeply impressive. We never knew exactly where the General and his staff were concealed. Some persons said they were housed in one place, some in another; but, upon the discharge of a cannon, they burst upon us, glittering like the sun, and came cantering down the road with perfect fury, in a cloud of dust, followed by a score of boys who were on a sharp run to "keep up."