A COLLECTION

OUR VILLAGE:

OF SKETCHES FROM 'STILL LIFE.'

THE village of Johnstown lay cradled between two hills, in a quiet green valley. A stream wound lazily through this valley, which kept the slopes and level at the bottom shining with a living green. It always was a dull-looking spot, and every object about it appeared just so tranquil, and just so indolent. Every thing, animate and inanimate, seemed asleep one half the time, like a silent spot deserted by the plague. Yet Johnstown was ancient; many had been born and many had died there; and many lived there to keep up the quorum of the place. A man once caught within the magic of its atmosphere, seldom escaped; he was a prisoner for life, and left his bones within its soil. There had been no new buildings erected for many years: this would have been sacrilege. Here was Deacon Jones' house, there 'Squire Peabody's; and what was termed the old store' stood about the centre of the settlement. Every body knew just where every body lived, and it never entered into the heads of the good people that a change of residence could be effected. There was an ancient little church at the upper end of the place, with a little wooden spire, and a wooden fish to point the way of the wind. The spire, which once undoubtedly stood boldly up, leaned with a weight of years, and the fish looked downward into the burying-yard, as if seeking a place of repose. The clap-boards were loose and fluttering, and the winds piped a sad and crazy song among them. Yet the old church had looked just so for many years; no one thought of disturbing it. There never have been, save the present, but four ministers within its walls, and they lingered so long upon earth, that they seemed to pass away by a gradual translation. You may know their graves by yon little hillocks, guarded with marble, for the others are all humble hewn stone.

To assert for a certainty who was the greatest man in the village, would be a task. Lawyers usually occupy this distinction; but there were no lawyers in Johnstown. They could not live. The doctor was

thought to be a great man, but it was not for a certainty known. The 'doctor,' as he was universally termed, resided in a low white cottage, upon the brow of the hill, and of course looked down upon his patients that lived in the line of buildings which bounded the creek. Here he was born, and here his father and grandfather followed his profession before him. The grandfather seemed to bequeath his skill to his son, and from him it descended to the grandson. The people of Johnstown looked upon them as born physicians, and alone capable of filling that station. They seemed to view them as appointments by the Creator, as the governor makes appointments for the state. The grandfather had a thread-bare surtout-coat, a wide brimmed hat, a pair of goggles, and an old mouldy carriage, all which, with his profession, descended to the son, and so downward. The grandfather drove one horse for fifty years, and ere death came to his relief, it was thought he was well nigh as skilful as his master - for he had been among medicine and the sick all his days. The horse undoubtedly passed off by consumption, for his sunken eye and emaciated form his nerveless

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limbs and dependent tail were, as the doctor said, symptoms which should not pass unnoticed. If any one would know the last narrow home of this faithful beast, his poor remains may be found in one corner of the doctor's garden - a brown stone at his head and foot, upon one of which stands out his deep-cut epitaph, which speaks with an eloquence sufficient to thrill the heart-strings of the most obstinate reader. After the demise of this poor beast, the doctor failed rapidly, and he who had battled death, (sometimes with and sometimes against,) submitted at last himself, and was laid down to slumber with the faithful animal who had been called away before him. This was the grandfather, and upon his tomb-stone may be read this inscription: DOCTOR RANNEY, aged eighty years-Johnstown's first physician.' Whether the doctor exhibited any vanity by leaving such an epitaph to adorn his the writer saith not. He recorded the truth, which grave, Heaven pardon the falsehood! is more than could be said of every epitaph. He lies like a tomb-stone!' is a common and very expressive phrase. The doctor left to Johnstown his son Ezekiel, and to him his profession, and title. Things soon resumed their old appearance; and a new horse having been enlisted, the old carriage moved around again as if nothing had happened. Of course, Ezekiel was considered equal to his father, and the utmost confidence was placed in him. He could not be superior, for that would be impossible; he must be equal, for he had inherited his wisdom. Ezekiel and his horse, after the lapse of fifty years, passed off the stage; the horse and his master becoming the proprietors each of a grave and a monument by the side of their predecessors. Then came Peter. Peter was the one I am about to treat of, and descended as he is from such illustrious ancestors, great merit is undoubtedly anticipated. Ezekiel left three children, the youngest of whom was this self-same Peter. He of course equipped himself in the coat, hat, and goggles before spoken of- for without these, the good people of the village would have had no faith in him: the clothes were indispensable. Another horse being engaged canonized as it were set apart and devoted to a high-calling the carriage commenced its rounds, and death was again set at defiance. Now- to resort to the previous question whether Doctor Peter Ranney was the greatest man in Johnstown, was not certainly known. He was seldom heard to speak, and ever maintained a gravity of demeanor which betokened a mighty mind. Old Aunt Williams,' as she was universally termed, was taken one evening very violently with bilious cholic. With the speed of lightning, intelligence flew to the doctor.' The doctor looked wise, ordered, with a moderate tone, his horse; sipped quietly his tea, and in about half an hour, with great precision, walked out to his carriage and seated himself. He drove off with a moderate trot, for it was inconsistent with dignity to exhibit any hurry or discomposure. He arrived at his patient's abode amid the fury and stir attendant upon a case of life and death. Without turning either to the right or left, he passed by the weeping and inquiring friends, to the room of the invaliddrew up a large arm-chair to the fire, where he seated himself— and with his head wisely leaning upon his hand, fixed his eyes intently upon the ashes. By his side lay the sufferer, writhing in the severest agony, but the doctor ruminated, perfectly composed. At last he rose, turned upon the merits of the case, inquired what treatment had been

pursued, which was answered by a multitude of voices, each one of which were prescriptions of a different nature. All right-all right' said the doctor, with a wave of the hand, and departed. The patient survived, and the doctor was lauded for his skill.

The people of Johnstown never accused Doctor Ranney of exhibiting much knowledge, but,' they would say, putting the palms of their hand across their foreheads, he has it here- he has wonders stored away in his head he is silent, but deep reflection upon vast and weighty matters deprives him of speech.' Old Ben. Simons, who was rather shrewd, said it was undoubtedly true that he had wonders in his head, since nothing wonderful ever came out of it. But Johnstown folks considered such a speech as very wicked, and that none but a trifler in important matters would be guilty of uttering it. Doctor Ranney was consulted by the people in almost every thing relating to the welfare of the village; but he was always considering upon it, and was never known to come to but one conclusion, viz: All right— all right.' So, as before stated, 'the doctor' was thought to be the wisest man in the village, though not for a certainty known.

Every village has its odd characters, and Johnstown had its share. There were the corporal' and old uncle Tim. Both were genuine wits, though of a different school. The 'corporal' for he always passed by that title was a man in wreck, being reduced by too frequent drafts of good liquor from an exalted station in society to nobody and nothing. Corporal Jones' was his full Johnstown name, though forty years before, in another section of the world, he passed as William Jones, Esq. His morning day rose brilliant and unobscured, but a pall hangs over the evening. He is essentially a lost man. I will just relate a little tale which he once told me in confidence. It may soften the feelings, and half palliate his infirmities. He was, at the age of thirty, possessed of a large property, at which season he was about being married. He was engaged, it appears, to the daughter of a neighbor of his father, both of whom, neighbor and father, were bitter enemies. They consequently opposed it. He was obliged to steal his bride by night. This he attempted during a heavy thunder storm, trusting to the uproar of the elements to cover his proceeding. While his affianced bride was lowering herself by a rope from the window, the heavens flamed up, a thunder-bolt fell, and she lay dead upon the earth, black and scorched by the electric fluid. She had been struck by lightning. I have been another man ever since,' said he. But the corporal,' after all, was a jolly fellow. If a man wanted a few potatoes dug, send for the corporal—a little message carried, look up the corporal. He was all Johnstown's servant. Johnstown to him was as a great family, and he a person bound to listen to every call. He was horse-doctor and horse-trimmer, and trimmer of fruit-trees; these things he professed some skill in. The 'corporal' always said he was the most important character in the place. Some were complete slaves to their money, which was the worst species of tyranny; he always presumed he should have as much ground to lie in as the richest. So the 'corporal' felt, and so he viewed life and its vicissitudes.

Uncle Tim' was quite another sort of character. He was a soldier during the Revolution, and was as full of tales of blood and mirth, or any other species, as he could hold. He possessed a good property,

though he was not counted wealthy. It was hinted occasionally that 'Uncle Tim' would, to make a good story, stretch it a little; for, as he often said, 'a good thing never should be ruined for want of being properly handled. He was to be found at the tavern, sitting in his chair, with his cane between his legs, at almost any hour of the day. He also was the chronicle of the whole village - the register of births, deaths, marriages, crimes, etc., — could tell all about every body's father and grandfather—the age of every house and post in the place. He also scrutinized with great care every stranger who made a temporary visit to the village, and was apt to detect every thing which looked suspicious. Uncle Tim felt as if Johnstown was under his especial care. He seemed himself quite a monarch among the denizens. He was looked up to and listened to. The younger portion deemed him a great man, for he had fought in the revolution. The fact was, uncle Tim did not shine so much by his own superior light, as by the darkness about him. This he had sagacity himself sufficient to know; therefore, it was his intention to lay his bones in the village.

Johnstown tavern stood at the end of one of the rows of houses which bound in the creek. It was ancient, having numbered near a century. The shingles upon its roof were closely coated with a beautiful body of slippery green moss - the chimney had lost part of the bricks from its top carried away, as some assert, by the witches-and its whole four sides were browned and seamed by the whirlwind and the storm. A low pillared balcony once ran in front, but the columns had mostly dropped away, and the floor sunk down. In front, ran up a long slender pole, crossed at the top like a letter T, at each end of which hung a ball, in appearance like a pumpkin. But alas! that I must record the fact - few landlords ever amassed wealth. They were too good to themselves - they were their best customers. Old Willie

Waters, who has been asleep these fifty years, was the second in command as fine a man as ever drew the breath of life- but he would drink. Willie never found a glass amiss; he was always 'just in order,' as he termed it, when he found it convenient to wet his whistle. Willie kept 'just in order' for about forty years, when his strength failed him, his eyes became bound with a red rim, and purged thick amber and plum-tree gum.' His face colored up like the dying glories of a sunset his nose shone like a piece of precious metal-and all of a sudden, getting entirely out of order, his breath fled, and so he was buried. The peppermint, when the first gentle showers cooled his grave, sprang forth green and luxuriant, and continues to haunt the spot even at this day. Poor Willie Waters! you are embalmed in the memory of all Johnstown, as well as in your own tomb. There was, tradition asserts, a wooden slab, most curiously carved, erected to his memory; but time, which pulls down thrones, pulled that down too. Upon it was inscribed, 'Just in order. It was said strange noises had been heard around the grave of Willie Waters; for when the winds sang loud, and the swaying tree-tops groaned heavily in the gale, and the dark clouds moved low and rapidly along the heavens, his restless spirit aroused itself, and a voice came forth proclaiming him 'just in order.'

Ephraim Doolittle, who is now sole proprietor, is a man of most singular character. He says the world has all turned topsy-turvy

within forty years, and Johnstown with it. Pride and fashion, he declares, is working poverty and destruction. Look about you,' he says, ' and what do you find? Nothing but steam-boats, rail-roads, balloons, or some other new-fangled foolery. What are they all good for? Does a man want to move like lightning, breaking perhaps every bone in his body? Does the world thrive any better than formerly? Are the people more wealthy? Do they live any longer?' Such was Ephraim's philosophy. He would run from internal improvement; he would look upon a snake as soon as upon a rail-road, and loved one equally as well. Ephraim wore the same style of costume which his grandfather wore before him, and he maintained that it was the only one designed for man by his Creator. He would not have his house repaired, because it would be executed in modern style: no, not he; it should rot to the earth first.' He used to say he could not bear to look upon the natural world, even-every thing had become transformed: sky, and stars, and earth were different from the ancient daysthe good old ancient days,' as he called them. Ephraim Doolittle was a bigot; yet he made a good landlord, and was agreeable enough when Uncle Tim' was dealing out some tale of the days past and gone.

It was seldom that the occupants of this spot found themselves in much commotion. But a subject arose once, which came near dissolving the union. It was upon the propriety of erecting a school-house, and supporting a teacher. It was indeed a momentous question. The eloquence of the village assembled, and the arguments of all were advanced. 'Squire Williams urged the necessity of establishing a school: The children of Johnstown, one of the most important villages in the country, are without the advantages of education; it is a startling fact I repeat it it is a startling fact' - and then he sat down, covered with perspiration, and his face glowing like a coal.

I oppose that, root and branch,' said Mr. Doolittle, choked with indignation; who ever saw a schoolmaster fit for any thing? They turn the brains of the children — raise them above the plain matter-offact business of the world—and make them no better than madmen. Let me ask,' he cried, raising himself on tiptoe, and swinging both arms like a windmill, let me ask what our ancestors did? What book-knowledge they knew, they learnt between times-studied by the light of pine-knots-nature taught them—and one man of that day was wiser than any ten of the present. Cram our children's heads with book-knowledge, and common sense finds no room to work? I oppose it, Sir, root and branch.'

Deacon Bigelow arose: I, too, shall come out against that,' he said, 'because, if our children get puzzled in any thing, they can go to the minister, who will soon make it all clear to them; it is a useless expense, and ought not to be allowed in society.'

Doctor Ranney got up, paused-pushed up his goggles - looked around upon the assembled talent -proclaimed, All right! and sat down again.

There was a short silence, for every one felt the weight of the argument.

Uncle Tim thought education necessary, but he supposed it was his duty, as well as every other man's, to agree with Dr. Ranney. The 'corporal' considered it a disgrace to the village that no school had