Cupid And Bacchus

NEITHER OF MY grandparents were given to attending social affairs. Neighbors called on grandmother and she would pay return calls. Aunt Lib Martindale called frequently and I am sure that her calls meant much to grandmother. I remember Aunt Lib's fleshy figure as she rocked slowly back and forth relating the news that had come to her ears, and, when grandmother would in turn relate some tid-bit of information, Aunt Lib would show her appreciation by an ejaculation which sounded like "Y-ee." Whether "Y-ee" is a contraction of something else or whether it is a noun, pronoun, verb or adverb, I do not know but I have heard a lot of "Y-ee's" in my day. Aunt Lib also had a nervous habit, affliction I think it might be called, of repeatedly closing her eyes tightly and then opening them wide. I used to want to ask her why she went through that performance but restrained myself for grandmother's sake. She used to wear a little shawl over her head as she came through the path connecting the Martindale home with ours. During the call the shawl always dropped so as to protect her neck and shoulders.

The doings of the Fox children, my cousins, of Rutland constituted the principal topic of conversation when Aunt Lib came to our house. It seemed to me that the eligibility of every young man in Rutland was canvassed by my grandmother and Aunt Lib in their quest of a suitor for my cousin Mary when she became of marriageable age. Any young man who had ever touched his hat to our Mary was marked a potential suitor and put on the list for gentle panning or blessing as the case might be. I possessed a mental "Who's who" on all of them and could have enlightened them if they had consulited me about their chances of capturing cousin Mary.

One after the other, grandmother and Aunt Lib married off the several children of the Fox family; set one boy up in business, the other in a profession; married the girls off, and launched them all on distinguished careers, while I, sitting on a stool beside grandmother, took it all in and lent their conclusions my moral support.

To be sure errors in their reckonings revealed themselves; little Johnnie did not follow in the footsteps of his father and become a doctor as the board had planned, and faithful and self-sacrificing cousin Mattie, nearest to me in age and my favorite, deferred the announcement of marital vows until long after we had given up hope.

Failures in prognostication weakened my faith in the infallibility of the strategy board, but I felt myself greatly edified in witnessing its skilful maneuvers. It was like seeing a game of chess between the great masters, my dear cousins being pawns in their hands.

While the doings and prospective doings of the Fox children were the chief topics of conversation they were not the only ones. Sometimes certain villagers were honored by specific mention but I cannot remember that Aunt Lib ever had a hired girl anywhere near the equal of our Delia or Mary in the news-gathering business. Aunt Lib was greatly handicapped in this respect; Delia and Mary were unrivaled, better than some newspapers I have read.

To Aunt Lib however go my thanks for having given me my first impressions of neighborliness; it was good, old-fashioned neighborliness unspoiled by frills; the kind which continues year after year without break and always a beneficent influence.

Vermonters are famed for their frugality, and our valley had its full share of frugal folks; among them was Mrs. Abigail Coleridge

-Aunt Abbie we called her. Aunt Abbie once became afflicted with rheumatism which confined her to her bed. Someone advised her to take Hood's Sarsaparilla and Aunt Abbie soon had an ample supply. In order to avoid the high prices of Calvin Townsend's retail store Aunt Abbie bought a dozen bottles at a wholesale drug house in Rutland. Whether it was due to the virtues of Hood's Sarsaparilla or some other cause-a change of weather perhaps-her rheumatism quickly cleared up.

Eliza Huntoon, a neighbor who chanced to drop in one day, saw Aunt Abbie taking a liberal dose of Hood's Sarsaparila though she was running about the house chipper as a sparrow. The neighbor inquired of Aunt Abbie: "Why do you continue taking medicine, Aunt Abbie? You are entirely recovered from your rheumatism, aren't you?"

"Yes," answered Aunt Abbie "but I paid seventy-five cents a bottle for that Hood's Sarsaparilla and you wouldn't expect me to throw it away, would you, Eliza?"

The next house south of ours was that of Judge Button, a refined and educated gentleman, who had served as County judge at Rutland for many years, continuing however, during his encumbency of office, to live in Wallingford. During the latter years of his life he filled the position of Justice of the Peace in Wallingford. The Judge heard petty cases of misdemeanors and the trials were at times a circus for us boys. The most common offenses were drunkenness and fighting and the dramatis personae were pretty much the same folks all the time.

Bob Rutherford was one of the most frequent customers. Bob played shortstop on the baseball team and played well when he was sober enough to see the ball; he had his eccentricities and stuck to them come weal, come woe. He was ill one day and a friend advised him to take a teaspoonful of Hostetter's Bitters. Bob took the teaspoonful and then announced that it was his opinion if a little was so good, much would be better and so he drank the whole bottle. We expected to see him expire but he grew more hilarious with each succeeding swallow, and when he topped off with an even pound of honey which he bought at Luther Tower's candy shop, we concluded that if he were ever to die someone would have to kill him, which several citizens would have been glad to do.

Every' month or two, when Bob felt sufficiently prosperous, he would take a jug and start for the New York State line, twenty-five miles distant, where thirsty pilgrims from prohibition Vermont, were wont to go to slake their thirst. Bob always began his return trip with his jug full and arrived in Wallingford with it empty. Having had twenty-five miles of joyous inebriation, he was ready to work in anyone's hayfield at the customary wage.

Vermont was a prohibition state and the law was frequently evaded but Vermont villages were cleaner and more orderly by far than border towns in New York State. New Yorkers residing in the border towns used to claim that the reason why they could not keep their towns clean and orderly was because they were visited by so many "bums" from the state of Vermont.

Judge Button, who at the time presided at the court of justice, was exceedingly deaf and very solemn. Witnesses always had to speak loudly which they seemed willing to do, especially the contestants and their lawyers. There were no regularly admitted lawyers but Mr. Elija Brewster and Mr. Charles Congdon acted as such. Elijah Brewster was recognized as one of our most distinguished citizens, a versatile gentleman, something of a farmer, something of a capitalist and a politician as well. During political campaigns he played an important part and for Fourth of July orations, his services were indispensable. To use a hackneyed expression, Elija Brewster could "make the eagle scream." Under his capable leadership, we fought the battles of Bunker Hill, Bennington, Saratoga and Yorktown over again. We couldn't help wondering how many lives would have been saved and how wonderful it would have been, if the British could have had Mr. Elija Brewster to deal with.

While Mr. Brewster specialized on events of the Revolution, he was no tyro on the events of the Civil War; in fact, it was clear to all who heard him orate that Elija was a war horse and that it was a pity he was born too early to fight in one war and too late to fight in the other. His speeches were inspiring; they made us swell up until we almost burst. We felt that the United States could and probably should, pick up all the nations of the earth and crack their heads together. We knew that one American was the equal of ten of any other nation; that in fact, America was just America and that all the rest of the world was plain rubbish.

We also learned that America had always been entirely right in its contentions and that its opponents had always been entirely wrong; anyone who thought otherwise was a traitor to his country. How it happened that our country had always been such a paragon of virtue was a matter of conjecture. Mr. Elija dealt in "facts," not in theories. What he said was simply and definitely true; no one who loved his country could fail to recognize its infallibility in all things.

I do not know which of the two, Mr. Brewster or Mr. Congdon, knew the most law; in fact, it was claimed by many that neither of them knew much law and that Judge Button was the only person in Wallingford who knew law and the Judge was very deaf. However, Mr. Brewster and Mr. Congdon looked very learned and folks opined that things could not go very far wrong while Judge Hutton sat on the bench.

Deaf or not deaf, the Judge knew how to separate the wheat from the chaff. When at concert pitch, Elija Brewster's voice trembled with emotion and his hands shook as if he were afflicted with palsy. It always seemed to me that Mr. Brewster had a great advantage in this respect. He made us all feel lachrymose at times but I felt that he might have saved some of his tremolo so far as Bob Rutherford was concerned, and that it might have been just as well to have given Bob a bottle of Hostetter's Bitters and a pound of honey and turned him loose.

Bob, after a fight, used to look like a well-pounded beef steak but even so, he always seemed uplifted after hearing Mr. Brewster speak so well of him and cry about him so. Getting drunk and fighting were about the only spiritual outlets Bob had; he never went to church nor to the Friday evening prayer meetings in the little red chapel. Probably we all had something in the nature of a spiritual uplift or awakening when we heard Mr. Brewster explain the high moral tone of Bob 'Rutherford's fights; I mean all of us except Mr. Congdon. He was an old campaigner and not easily moved by such doings and besides he was on the other side of the case, and it was to his interest to look as if he didn't believe a word Mr. Brewster was saying and that he considered him a fraud anyway.

Judge Button always listened respectfully to eveiything the witnesses and the lawyers had to say however foolish it might seem to other people. The Judge's very presence spread a mantle of dignity over all the proceedings in the little frame building where he held court as Wallingford's Justice of the Peace.

No one ever thought of talking "out loud" or laughing, and men and boys took theft hats off without being told to do so. In fact Judge Button never issued any orders of any character to anyone that I can remember; everyone instinctively tried to act as near as possible as Judge Button acted during a trial of cases in his courtroom.

There has to be an end of all things both good and bad and, in course of time, there came an end to Judge Button's tenure of office. The good, upright old Judge went to bed one night tired and worn out and he never arose again. A hush fell over the little village when folks learned that Judge Button had passed on. The doors of the little office were locked for some time. The villagers had not realized how important a part the little office had played in the drama of community life.

I imagine that even Bob Rutherford missed the little office. What was the use of getting drunk and fighting if he must be deprived of the very heart and soul of the entire enterprise-trial in open court before his fellow townsmen. It was not easy for a great and temperamental artist like Bob to be pushed off the stage; to the folks of Wallingford, Bob was Edwin Booth, Joe Jefferson and Nat Goodwin combined when it came to dramatics.

There was no resident sheriff in Wallingford but Mr. Harvey Congdon, brother of Mr. Charles Congdon, was Constable and when tramps entered the village all one had to do was to send a boy to find Mr. Harvey Congdon. He was old and frail and toed-in considerably but even so, he was the best croquet player in Wallingford. Reverend Mr. Archibald, the Baptist minister, was runner-up.

Whenever Harvey Congdon caught a tramp, it was his custom to say to him, "Come along with me." There were no further preliminaries; these words having been spoken, he took his prisoner by the arm and led him to the village limits. Upon arrival at this point he performed the brief but impressive ceremony of looking the vagrant searchingly in the eye as if he feared he might forget him if he ever returned to Wallingford.

Harvey Congdon had a habit of spitting furiously whenever he became agitated. We townspeople knew all about that and thought nothing of it as several of our best citizens indulged in that practice. I have never seen Mr. Harvey Congdon administer what might be termed his, "bums rush," but I have often thought that his way of spitting right and left must have been disconcerting to strangers; they must have been glad to get beyond his range.

The Clarenden folks used to say that Mr. Harvey Congdon dumped more vagrant tourists on them than all the other constables in the county, though all Vermont constables were liberal in that respect; tramps had to walk too fast for their enjoyment of the scenic wonders of our beautiful state.