But I learned, upon inquiry, that Longbow's blood had experienced a very serious pilgrimage since its departure from its New England head. It had been mixed with Irish, and Scotch, and English, and German. In reality, the Squire was a kind of "compound" of all nations, as most Americans are. If it were possible to introduce Captain Standish, the military hero of 1620, or Bradford, or Winslow, to Squire Longbow, they would look as wildly at him as the boys did at poor Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep on the mountain. I am sure they would not be able to detect any resemblance to the Mayflower. They would find the Squire a little the worse for wear – ignorant in spiritual matters – discover that his psalm-book was lost, and he as blind as a beetle in the New-England catechism. But, after all, if they probed him deep, they would strike much, very much, of the old stuff, living and burning yet.
The Squire's Pilgrim blood, too, had filled nearly all occupations in life. It had been a sailor – the master of a vessel – a merchant – fought in the Revolution – a preacher once, and once a lawyer. These facts I procured from the Squire for my special use, and they may be relied upon. And now that same blood was doing service at Puddleford as a magistrate. Whether blood changes occupation, or occupation blood, is a physiological question that I do not intend to debate. But that one can be surprised at any exhibition of American character, after looking into the crosses and counter-crosses of blood, is marvellous.
Here is a sample of Puddleford blood, and such is the blood of many western pioneers. How much the world is indebted to the pioneer! He lays the foundation, let build who may. I regret the necessity of perpetrating a ridiculous figure, but I cannot help it: he plants deep the mud-sills of empire, amid toil, and sweat, and groans, poverty and disease. The superstructure is always reared by other hands. The columns and capitals are the product of wealth and taste. How few of them reap the harvest, their cabins, now standing deserted and silent, and strewn thousands of miles over the West and North-west, abundantly testify.
The pioneer severs all connection between himself and the past when he enters upon his work. I have already remarked that Puddleford had no past. He breaks all local ties, and snaps in twain the golden threads that link him to his home. The caravan that winds away from the old hearth-stone, where the first kiss was imprinted, the first prayer offered, where the winter cricket sang as the tempest roared without, and devotes itself to a wilderness, leaves behind what can never be found again. The barefooted striplings who gambol with it – the immortal seed to be sown, and to sow – from whose loins giants in thought, word, and action will spring – "may forget," and themselves become new centres of new associations – but men and women never.
What constitutes a man? – a nation? Inhabitants only? The songs of a people stir them up to revolution – and what are they but the glowing language of the associations of the soul? What is Bannockburn to a savage? A plain, over which the winds blow and the thistles gather. What to a Scotchman? A living, breathing host! What to the pioneer is the memory of that church steeple that flung its long shadow over his boyhood, around whose vane the swallows whirled, and the evening sun lingered? – that bell that swung high therein? – the torrent that roared through his early years, and wove its music into his very being? – the lone cliff, where the cloud slept and the eagle rested? These all are a part of the man himself; and when he is torn from them, his very nature receives a shock, and he has lost, he hardly knows how or where, a portion of his very existence.
Reader, you and I must part. How I ever happened to write the history of Puddleford is more than I can say. I have more than once been frightened at my impudence. In all probability you will never hear of me again in print – and, before we separate, reach me your hand – (if it is a lady's, it is all the better) – "Good by to you, my friend;" and if you should stray into Puddleford, I will set apart an hour, and give you an introduction to Squire Longbow – an honor to which, I am very sure, you cannot be insensible or indifferent.