Abner Beech had often been supervisor2 for his town, and could have gone to the Assembly, it was said, had he chosen. He was a stalwart, thick-shouldered, big man, with shaggy dark eyebrows3 shading stern hazel eyes, and with a long, straight nose, and a broad, firmly shut mouth. His expansive upper lip was blue from many years of shaving; all the rest was bushing beard, mounting high upon the cheeks and rolling downward in iron-gray billows over his breast. That shaven upper lip, which still may be found among the farmers of the old blood in our district, was, I dare say, a survival from the time of the Puritan protest against the mustaches of the Cavaliers. If Abner Beech, in the latter days, had been told that this shaving on Wednesday and Saturday nights was a New England rite4, I feel sure he would never have touched razor again.
He was a well-to-do man in the earlier time—a tremendous worker, a “good provider,” a citizen of weight and substance in the community. In all large matters the neighborhood looked to him to take the lead. He was the first farmer roundabout to set a mowing-machine to work in his meadows, and to put up lightning-rods on his buildings. At one period he was, too, the chief pillar in the church, but that was before the episode of the lightning-rods. Our little union meeting-house was supplied in those days by an irregular procession of itinerant5 preachers, who came when the spirit moved and spoke6 with that entire frankness which is induced by knowledge that the night is to be spent somewhere else. One of these strolling ministers regarded all attempts to protect property from lightning as an insolent7 defiance8 of the Divine Will, and said so very pointedly9 in the pulpit, and the congregation sat still and listened and grinned. Farmer Beech never forgave them.
There came in good time other causes for ill-feeling. It is beyond the power of my memory to pick out and arrange in proper sequence the events which, in the final result, separated Abner Beech from his fellows. My own recollections go with distinctness back to the reception of the news that Virginia had hanged John Brown; in a vaguer way they cover the two or three preceding years. Very likely Farmer Beech had begun to fall out of touch with his neighbors even before that.
The circumstances of my adoption10 into his household—an orphan11 without relations or other friends—were not of the sort to serve this narrative12. I was taken in to be raised as a farm-hand, and was no more expected to be grateful than as if I had been a young steer13 purchased to toil14 in the yoke15. No suggestion was ever made that I had incurred16 any debt of obligation to the Beeches17. In a little community where every one worked as a matter of course till there was no more work to do, and all shared alike the simple food, the tired, heavy sleep, and the infrequent spells of recreation, no one talked or thought of benefits conferred or received. My rights in the house and about the place were neither less nor more than those of Jeff Beech, the farmer’s only son.
In the course of time I came, indeed, to be a more sympathetic unit in the household, so to speak, than poor Jeff himself. But that was only because he had been drawn18 off after strange gods.
At all times—even when nothing else good was said of him—Abner Beech was spoken of by the people of the district as a “great hand for reading.” His pre-eminence in this matter remained unquestioned to the end. No other farmer for miles owned half the number of books which he had on the shelves above his writing-desk. Still less was there any one roundabout who could for a moment stand up with him in a discussion involving book-learning in general. This at first secured for him the respect of the whole country-side, and men were proud to be agreed with by such a scholar. But when affairs changed, this, oddly enough, became a formidable popular grievance19 against Abner Beech. They said then that his opinions were worthless because he got them from printed books, instead of from his heart.
What these opinions were may in some measure be guessed from the titles of the farmer’s books. Perhaps there were some thirty of them behind the glass doors of the old mahogany bookcase. With one or two agricultural or veterinary exceptions, they related exclusively to American history and politics. There were, I recall, the first two volumes of Bancroft, and Lossing’s “Lives of the Signers,” and “Field-Books” of the two wars with England; Thomas H. Benton’s “Thirty Years’ View;” the four green-black volumes of Hammond’s “Political History of the State of New York:” campaign lives of Lewis Cass and Franklin Pierce and larger biographies of Jefferson and Jackson, and, most imposing20 of all, a whole long row of big calf-bound volumes of the Congressional Globe, which carried the minutiae21 of politics at Washington back into the forties.
These books constituted the entire literary side of my boyish education. I have only the faintest and haziest22 recollections of what happened when I went during the winter months to the school-house at the Four Corners. But I can recall the very form of the type in the farmer’s books. Every one of those quaint23, austere24, and beardless faces, framed in high collars and stocks and waving hair—the Marcys, Calhouns, DeWitt Clintons, and Silas Wrights of the daguerreotype25 and Sartain’s primitive26 graver—gives back to me now the lineaments of an old-time friend.
Whenever I could with decency27 escape from playing checkers with Jeff, and had no harness to grease or other indoor jobs, I spent the winter evenings in poring over some of these books—generally with Abner Beech at the opposite side of the table immersed in another. On some rare occasion one of the hired men would take down a volume and look through it—the farmer watching him covertly28 the while to see that he did not wet his big thumbs to turn over the leaves—but for the most part we two had the books to ourselves. The others would sit about till bedtime, amusing themselves as best they could, the women-folk knitting or mending, the men cracking butternuts, or dallying29 with cider and apples and fried-cakes, as they talked over the work and gossip of the district and tempted30 the scorching31 impulses of the stovehearth with their stockinged feet.
This tacit separation of the farmer and myself from the rest of the household in the course of time begat confidences between us. He grew, from brief and casual beginnings, into a habit of speaking to me about the things we read. As it became apparent, year by year, that young Jeff was never going to read anything at all, Abner Beech more and more distinguished32 me with conversational33 favor. It cannot be said that the favoritism showed itself in other directions. I had to work as hard as ever, and got no more play-time than before. The master’s eye was everywhere as keen, alert, and unsparing as if I had not known even my alphabet. But when there were breathing spells, we talked together—or rather he talked and I listened—as if we were folk quite apart from the rest.
Two fixed34 ideas thus arose in my boyish mind, and dominated all my little notions of the world. One was that Alexander Hamilton and John Marshall were among the most infamous35 characters in history. The other was that every true American ought to hold himself in daily readiness to fight with England. I gave a great deal of thought to both these matters. I had early convictions, too, I remember, with regard to Daniel Webster, who had been very bad, and then all at once became a very good man. For some obscure reason I always connected him in my imagination with Zaccheus up a tree, and clung to the queer association of images long after I learned that the Marshfield statesman had been physically36 a large man.
Gradually the old blood-feud with the Britisher became obscured by fresher antagonisms37, and there sprouted38 up a crop of new sons of Belial who deserved to be hated more even than had Hamilton and Marshall. With me the two stages of indignation glided39 into one another so imperceptibly that I can now hardly distinguish between them. What I do recall is that the farmer came in time to neglect the hereditary40 enemy, England, and to seem to have quite forgotten our own historic foes41 to liberty, so enraged42 was he over the modern Abolitionists. He told me about them as we paced up the seed rows together in the spring, as we drove homeward on the hay-load in the cool of the summer evening, as we shovelled43 out a path for the women to the pumps in the farm-yard through December snows. It took me a long time to even approximately grasp the wickedness of these new men, who desired to establish negro sovereignty in the Republic, and to compel each white girl to marry a black man.
The fact that I had never seen any negro “close to,” and had indeed only caught passing glimpses of one or more of the colored race on the streets of our nearest big town, added, no doubt, to the mystified alarm with which I contemplated44 these monstrous45 proposals. When finally an old darky on his travels did stroll our way, and I beheld46 him, incredibly ragged47, dirty, and light-hearted, shuffling48 through “Jump Jim Crow” down at the Four Corners, for the ribald delectation of the village loafers, the revelation fairly made me shudder49. I marvelled50 that the others could laugh, with this unspeakable fate hanging over their silly heads.
At first the Abolitionists were to me a remote and intangible class, who lived and wrought51 their evil deeds in distant places—chiefly New England way. I rarely heard mention of any names of persons among them. They seemed to be an impersonal52 mass, like a herd53 of buffaloes54 or a swarm55 of hornets. The first individuality in their ranks which attracted my attention, I remember, was that of Theodore Parker. The farmer one day brought home with him from town a pamphlet composed of anti-slavery sermons or addresses by this person. In the evening he read it, or as far into it as his temper would permit, beating the table with his huge fist from time to time, and snorting with wrathful amazement56. At last he sprang to his feet, marched over to the wood-stove, kicked the door open with his boot, and thrust the offending print into the blaze. It is vivid in my memory still—the way the red flame-light flared57 over his big burly front, and sparkled on his beard, and made his face to shine like that of Moses.
But soon I learned that there were Abolitionists everywhere—Abolitionists right here in our own little farmland township of northern New York! The impression which this discovery made upon me was not unlike that produced on Robinson Crusoe by the immortal58 footprint. I could think of nothing else. Great events, which really covered a space of years, came and went as in a bunch together, while I was still pondering upon this. John Brown was hanged, Lincoln was elected, Sumter was fired on, the first regiment59 was raised and despatched from our rustic60 end of Dearborn County—and all the time it seems now as if my mind was concentrated upon the amazing fact that some of our neighbors were Abolitionists.
There was a certain dreamlike tricksiness of transformation61 in it all. At first there was only one Abolitionist, old “Jee” Hagadorn. Then, somehow, there came to be a number of them—and then, all at once, lo! everybody was an Abolitionist—that is to say, everybody but Abner Beech. The more general and enthusiastic the conversion62 of the others became, the more resolutely63 and doggedly64 he dug his heels into the ground, and braced65 his broad shoulders, and pulled in the opposite direction. The skies darkened, the wind rose, the storm of angry popular feeling burst swooping66 over the countryside, but Beech only stiffened67 his back and never budged68 an inch.
At some early stage of this great change, we ceased going to church at all. The pulpit of our rustic meeting-house had become a platform from which the farmer found himself denounced with hopeless regularity69 on every recurring70 Sabbath, and that, too, without any chance whatever of talking back. This in itself was hardly to be borne. But when others, mere71 laymen72 of the church, took up the theme, and began in class-meetings and the Sunday-school to talk about Antichrist and the Beast with Ten Horns and Seven Heads, in obvious connection with Southern sympathizers, it became frankly73 insufferable. The farmer did not give in without a fierce resistance. He collected all the texts he could find in the Bible, such as “Servants, obey your masters,” “Cursed be Canaan,” and the like, and hurled74 them vehemently75, with strong, deep voice, and sternly glowing eyes, full at their heads. But the others had many more texts—we learned afterwards that old “Jee” Hagadorn enjoyed the unfair advantage of a Cruden’s Concordance—and their tongues were as forty to one, so we left off going to church altogether.
Not long after this, I should think, came the miserable76 affair of the cheese-factory.
The idea of doing all the dairy work of a neighborhood under a common roof, which originated not many miles from us, was now nearly ten years old. In those days it was regarded as having in it possibilities of vastly greater things than mere cheesemaking. Its success among us had stirred up in men’s minds big sanguine77 notions of co-operation as the answer to all American farm problems—as the gateway78 through which we were to march into the rural millennium79. These high hopes one recalls now with a smile and a sigh. Farmers’ wives continued to break down and die under the strain, or to be drafted off to the lunatic asylums80; the farmers kept on hanging themselves in their barns, or flying off westward81 before the locust-like cloud of mortgages; the boys and girls turned their steps townward in an ever-increasing host. The millennium never came at all.
But at that time—in the late fifties and early sixties—the cheese-factory was the centre of an impressive constellation82 of dreams and roseate promises. Its managers were the very elect of the district; their disfavor was more to be dreaded83 than any condemnation84 of a town-meeting; their chief officers were even more important personages than the supervisor and assessor.
Abner Beech had literally85 been the founder86 of our cheese-factory. I fancy he gave the very land on which it was built, and where you will see it still, under the willows87 by the upper-creek bridge. He sent to it in those days the milk of the biggest herd owned by any farmer for miles around, reaching at seasons nearly one hundred cows. His voice, too, outweighed88 all others in its co-operative councils.
But when our church-going community had reached the conclusion that a man couldn’t be a Christian89 and hold such views on the slave question as Beech held, it was only a very short step to the conviction that such a man would water his milk. In some parts of the world the theft of a horse is the most heinous90 of conceivable crimes; other sections exalt91 to this pinnacle92 of sacredness in property a sheep or a pheasant or a woman. Among our dairymen the thing of special sanctity was milk. A man in our neighborhood might almost better be accused of forgery93 or bigamy outright94, than to fall under the dreadful suspicion of putting water into his cans.
Whether it was mere stupid prejudice or malignant95 invention I know not—who started the story was never to be learned—but of a sudden everybody seemed to have heard that Abner Beech’s milk had been refused at the cheese-factory. This was not true, any more than it was true that there could possibly have been warrant for such a proceeding96. But what did happen was that the cheese-maker took elaborate pains each morning to test our cans with such primitive appliances as preceded the lactometer, and sniffed97 suspiciously as he entered our figures in a separate book, and behaved generally so that our hired man knocked him head over heels into one of his whey vats98. Then the managers complained to the farmer. He went down to meet them, boiling over with rage. There was an evil spirit in the air, and bitter words were exchanged. The outcome was that Abner Beech renounced99 the co-operative curds100 of his earlier manhood, so to speak, sold part of his cattle at a heavy loss, and began making butter at home with the milk of the remainder.
Then we became pariahs101 in good earnest.
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1
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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supervisor
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| n.监督人，管理人，检查员，督学，主管，导师 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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7
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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8
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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10
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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minutiae
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| n.微小的细节，细枝末节；（常复数）细节，小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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22
haziest
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| 有薄雾的( hazy的最高级 )； 模糊的； 不清楚的； 糊涂的 | |
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23
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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antagonisms
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| 对抗，敌对( antagonism的名词复数 ) | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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44
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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46
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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50
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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buffaloes
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| n.水牛（分非洲水牛和亚洲水牛两种）( buffalo的名词复数 )；（南非或北美的）野牛；威胁；恐吓 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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62
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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curds
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| n.凝乳( curd的名词复数 ) | |
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pariahs
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| n.被社会遗弃者( pariah的名词复数 )；贱民 | |
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