Squire Longbow, however, still holds his own. He still lives on the old spot—is just as wise and happy as ever. Time has not affected his intellect, or impaired his self-consequence. He is no longer justice of the peace, but in his place we have a pert, dapper, little fellow, who wears a large ring on his little finger, and gives very scholastic opinions. The Squire professes to hold him in contempt, and says he "runs agin the staterts and common law mor'n half the time"—that "he don't know a fiery factus from a common execution"—that "he never looks inter the undying Story for 'thority, but goes on squashing papers, right straight agin the constitution and the etarnal rights of man."
Aunt Sonora was dissatisfied, too, with the revolution in society. She told me, the last time I saw her, that Puddleford was "made up of a hull passel of flip-er-ter-gib-its, and she couldn't see what in created natur' the place was a-comin' to—she never see'd such works in all her born days," that "the men wore broadcloth, and the women silks, and flar'd and spread about like pea-cocks. Nobody does nuthin'," said she. "The dear massy! They are getting so hoity-toity! I do wonder who pays!"
Ike Turtle is about the only person who has grown with the place. There was no such thing as keeping him under. He is just as humorous as ever, but a little more polished. Ike says "it won't do to let his natur' out as he used to, when the bushes were thick, and Squire Longbow was gov'ner"—that "he feels himself almost a-bustin' with one of his speeches, sometimes; but the folks wouldn't understand him if he made it—and as for law, he'd gin it all up—it had got to be so nice and genteel an article, there warn't a grain of justis' in it—everything was 'peal'd up, and 'peal'd up, until both parties themselves were 'peal'd to death." Ike has turned his attention to land and saw-mills, and is getting rich.
Poor Venison Styles! Dear old hunter! Venison is dead, and his children are scattered in the wilderness. He was found, one May morning, stretched out under a large maple, his dog and gun by his side, stiff and cold. The brown-threshers and bluebirds were singing merrily above him, and the squirrels were chattering their nonsense in the distance. His dog lay with his nose near his master's face, his fore paw upon his shoulder. How he died, no one could tell. He is buried on a bluff that overlooks the river; and I have fenced his grave, and erected a stone over his remains, with this inscription—"Nature loved him, if man did not."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CONCLUSION.
The Philosophy of Puddleford.—Diverse Elements in Pioneer Life.—Longbow and his Administration.—Not Expensive.—Two Hundred a Year, all told.—What would Chief Justice Marshall have done as Justice of Puddleford?—Longbow a great Man.—Fame and Politics.—Ike, a Wheel.—Puddleford Theology.—Camp-Meetings.—Who will do Bigelow's Work better than Bigelow?—Great Happiness, and few Nerves.—No "Society."—No Fashion in Clothes, or anything else.—Bull's-Eye and Pinchbeck.—The Great Trade didn't "Come Off."—Abounding Charity and Hospitality.—Pilgrim Blood.—Longbow's.—Planting the Mud-Sills.—Old Associations, how Controlling!—Good by, Reader.
Reader, I cannot dismiss Puddleford without adding a chapter in conclusion. The pictures I have drawn suggest to me something more. There is a philosophy that underlies the dignity of Longbow, the humor of Turtle, the rough sincerity of Aunt Sonora, the stormy and eccentric eloquence of Bigelow. Do you not think so?