The Hired Man

— One of the chief arguments advanced by upholders of the Single Tax is, that if their scheme were adopted the early conditions of social life in New England would be regained. If this means that we should have the Hired Man back again, I for one shall become an ardent supporter of Mr. Henry George. In the relationship of domestic employer and employee there have been in New England three stages of progress or retrogression, whichever you may choose to call it. First came the era of the Hired Man, then that of the “ Help,” and finally that of the Servant. The first was a primeval, idyllic period, such as Rousseau dreamed of ; the second was a period of semi-civilization, morbidly self-conscious ; the third — upon which we have only just entered — is a period of effete civilization imported from Europe. The Hired Man is fast becoming extinct, and unless his traits are presently recorded in The Atlantic Monthly the very remembrance of what he was may fade from the minds of men. To prevent this contingency, I now come forward, — not in a spirit of self-sufficiency ; without doubt, other members of the Club are far better historians than myself. But I have a special knowledge of the subject. I was brought up, in no small measure, by a Hired Man ; I have summered and wintered with him ; from him, largely, I imbibed the tastes and principles which have inspired and guided me through life; and if I have been of any service to the community in my day and generation, the credit belongs to him.

The genesis of the Hired Man is somewhat as follows : In primitive New England, farmers hired men to assist them only in particular seasons, especially at haying time. At such a time, in default of grownup sons of his own, a farmer would hire some neighbor’s sons, who would of course live in the family on terms of perfect equality. In the villages, as a rule, people “ did their own work,” as the phrase runs. When Abraham Lincoln lived at Springfield, Illinois, he took care of his own horse and cow : that was the practice of the “ squire ” in a country town ; and in the smaller towns, East and West, it is the practice to-day. But in the larger towns, as business and wealth increased, it became the custom for well-todo persons, such as the lawyer, the doctor, the gentleman of leisure (not unknown fifty or even one hundred years ago), to have a Hired Man to do the chores. He was called the Hired Man to indicate that he had entered into a contract of some formality : he was hired regularly by the month, — not simply engaged casually for a special piece of work. His duties were to milk the cow, to take care of the horse or horses, to wash the carriage, to saw and split all the wood used by the family, to feed the pig and hens, to shovel snow in winter, to raise vegetables and flowers, to cut the acre or two of grass appurtenant to the house, to drive boys out of the apple orchard, to weed the paths, to mend the fences, to “ tinker ” the various tools and household utensils used on the premises, to beat carpets, to wash windows, to act as coachman on Sundays and at funerals, and, finally, to educate and bring up all the children of the family.

The native American never became a perfect Hired Man, because he was always looking forward to something better, or rather to something grander and more remunerative. Besides, he was not quite comfortable about taking his meals in the kitchen with the “ Hired Girl.” But fortunately, just when the services of the Hired Man began to be required, the Irish emigration to the United States set in upon a great scale. The flower of the Irish peasantry emigrated to this country, and it was among this class that the ideal Hired Man was developed. Of course there were many Hired Men among the Irish who had grave faults, and equally of course one of these faults was drunkenness. But, as a rule, Pat got drunk only on particular occasions, and thus, by a little care on the part of the family, any great inconvenience caused by his temporary disability might be avoided. Pat, when drunk, was inveigled or spirited to the haymow, and left there to “ sleep it off,” while his multifarious duties were distributed among the various members of the household, much to the delight of the children.

It was an especial pleasure for me to have Pat get thoroughly drunk, for then I was allowed to assume the sole responsibility of the stable. But I found it best to keep out of the way when Pat, having “ slept it off,” arose, shook the hayseed from his clothes, and set about his work. At such times his ordinarily placid temper was ruffled. I remember one occasion when Pat, having unaccountably failed to become intoxicated, caused me much disappointment, and still more embarrassment. It was the last day of Cattle Show, — the drunkenest day in the course of the year. Our town was the county seat, and Cattle Show was held there, annually, in the first week of October. The third and last day of the Fair was the great day. It was then that the “ horse trots ” came off ; the whole countryside poured in to see them, and everybody who “ took a little ” customarily seemed to make it a point of honor to take a great deal then. When the last race was finished, a grand rush for home took place, — delayed, however, in some cases, by a stay at the tavern. From dark till midnight, drunken men used to go shrieking and screaming past our house ; and the next morning, on all the main roads, a harvest of empty rum bottles, pints and quarts, might have been reaped in the ditch on either side.

It was, as I have said, the last day of Cattle Show, and we had all been to the races. It was a crisp autumnal night, and growing dark, when I, a boy of twelve, drove up with a flourish to the “ back stoop ” of our house, got down with an air of importance, threw off my coat, and proceeded to unhitch the horses. “ By this time,” I exclaimed, in a loud and triumphant tone, “ Pat must be as drunk as a fool, and I shall have to do all the work in the stable.” But I had made a mistake. “ No,” said an angry voice out of the gathering darkness, “Pat is n’t drunk.” And Pat himself came forward, as sober as a judge. What caused this idiosyncrasy on his part I never discovered, but my unjust remark created a breach between us, which was not healed until I fell into an old well, back of the barn, and was rescued from drowning by Pat himself.

However, my recollections of the Hired Man relate chiefly to another member of the class, one James McNiece, an Irishman from the north of Ireland. He was a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man, with a handsome though seamed and rugged face. He was rather Scotch than Irish in temperament, being stern and serious, and having no sense of humor. That he was a grave and dignified person may be gathered from the fact that no one ever called him “Jim.” Even among his intimates, very few in number, he was always known as “ James.” He came to this country as a boy, but old enough to bring with him a stock of information and of traditions with which he regaled me on Sunday afternoons, when, dressed in his best clothes, but without his coat, he reclined in the wheelbarrow, on the shady side of the barn, while I sat on the trestle, or “ horse,” that supported the grindstone. In the old country, James had lived with an uncle, who, like Bob Sawyer’s father, possessed “ live horses innumerable,” and James was a good horseman. He lacked the nice art of an English groom, but he knew how to use horses, and how to keep them fit for use. Moreover, he had perfect courage and coolness. We had one vicious horse, the terror of the whole family. He might have been got rid of, but a wholesome, conservative instinct for keeping things as they were operated in his favor ; and although the elders of the family often wished that he was dead, and sometimes actually talked of selling him or of giving him away, he continued, year after year, to occupy a stall in our stable, and to do his share, or nearly his share, of the work. Various Hired Men had adventures with him. It was Tim, as I remember, that he kicked in the stomach, and it certainly was Mike whose fur cap, together with a considerable wisp of hair, was torn from his head, one winter’s day, by the same horse. But Charley — so the beast was named — never got the better of James. I used to stand by in admiration, almost in awe, while James groomed him. There was no great trouble until the currycomb traveled down toward the region of Charley’s hind leg ; then the horse would show unmistakable signs of lashing out. At that stage in the proceedings all of our former Hired Men had discreetly and hurriedly got out of the way. Not so with James. As the horse drew back his leg to kick, James, instead of jumping out, would press in close to the animal’s leg. Then, if the horse actually kicked, James would receive a shove rather than a blow. But Charley never did carry out his evil intention ; he was always successfully “bluffed.” This action on the part of James was legitimate and well calculated, but it is not every man who would have the courage to perform it.

Perhaps the best thing about the Hired Man was that he identified his own interests with those of his employer. He always spoke of “ our horses,” never of “ your horses.” “ Our ” lawn was his pride, “ our ” cow was his concern, and he triumphantly contrasted “ our ” tomatoes with the inferior vegetables of a like kind which were raised next door. His employer’s enemies became his own enemies, and his ardor in this respect sometimes had to be restrained. I remember that our Hired Man, Mike, a very red-headed Irishman, once committed a serious fault in this direction. Some words at town meeting had passed between my grandfather and Deacon Dutton. The next day — it so happened — Mike drove our double carriage into a hind wheel of Deacon Dutton’s buggy with so much violence as to break several spokes, and to give the deacon a severe shaking up. Mike swore by all he held sacred that it was a pure accident ; but the deacon threatened to prosecute, and I believe that my grandfather compromised the matter by paying the carriage-maker’s bill for repairs. He censured Mike with proper gravity, but as he did so there was a twinkle in his eye which corresponded with a similar gleam in the latter’s fiery orb.

This same truculent Mike hated negroes. He often gave me to understand that he was ready to kill any negro at sight. There may have been a slight exaggeration in this statement, but I have frequently known him to aim the pole of my grandfather’s carriage at some African who chanced to be crossing the street when we came along. Very fortunately, we never quite impaled a negro, but there were several narrow escapes.

Almost all Irishmen have this hatred of negroes. Even James McNiece, of whom I have spoken already, could not endure a black man. He was no milksop. In fact, when he first served my grandfather, James kept wild company. Once, after being out very late, he was observed to have a black eye and a bruised hand. How he received these injuries, and what occurred to the person or persons who inflicted them, we never knew. James was not the man to condescend to explanations. But it was currently reported, and at least half believed among “ us children,” that he had killed his antagonist outright. For several weeks afterward we momentarily feared to see the high sheriff, in his blue coat with brass buttons, — like Daniel Webster’s, — drive into our yard and arrest James on a charge of murder.

However, James very soon gave up the sinful amusements of gambling, drinking, and fighting. He was, as I have said, of a stern, religious temperament, lacking the sense of humor, but hiding a tender heart under a rough exterior and a brusque manner. He was a good hater, and with all his heart — though why I never knew — he hated our opposite neighbor. Nevertheless, when that same neighbor was run away with, it was James who stopped the horse, and saved his enemy’s life at the risk of his own. He was a devout Catholic, and once I accompanied him to a vesper service. In the pew with us were two young and pretty girls, who laughed and talked irreverently. James, then a young and good-looking man, leaned over and gravely rebuked them. Even my infantile imagination discerned that this was an act still more heroic than the conquest of Charley.

Parting with a Hired Man was always a sad affair, especially for the children of the family ; but it was not the bitter, vulgar, exasperating experience which commonly attends a separation from the “ Help,” still more from the Servant. Hired Men commonly went away, not because they were dissatisfied nor because they were dismissed, but on account of some change in their circumstances. Mike, the red-haired, the fiery, enlisted in the army in 1862, and fell, with his face to the foe, at the battle of Malvern Hill ; Pat, after many years of service, retired to a farm which he had hired ; and James McNiece was lost to us in the following manner : —

One summer a strange maid was introduced in the house, as appurtenant to some new - fangled grandchildren. She was a Portuguese, pretty, graceful, and lively. For three months she made fun of James’s serious face and grave ways, and at the end of that time, as the natural result, he married her. The marriage turned out well. Children were born to them, and grew up strong and handsome. They moved to a large city, and, after some vicissitudes, James obtained a permanent place as teamster. He saved money, bought a little house, and the future looked smooth and pleasant before him. But a different fate was in store for James McNiece. I have often thought that these stern, grave people, who have no humor, who take life seriously, who struggle to obey their consciences, are bound to come to some tragic or premature end. Life is more than they can stand. With us light-minded people it is different. We have our little joke now and then. Misfortune may overwhelm us to-day, but to-morrow something strikes us as ridiculous, and we laugh, — the tension is relieved. One morning James McNiece met with an accident. The horse that he was driving ran away, and James was thrown out, run over by the heavy wagon, and killed instantly. His fellow-workmen carried the body home to his widow. “To me,” she said long afterward, “ he looked beautiful as he lay there in his old clothes.”

And so died James McNiece, a good, brave man, who had done his duty, who had achieved what Burns, not without reason, called “ the true pathos and sublime of human life.” He was a type of the Hired Man, whom I extol for his fidelity, for his good nature, and lastly for a certain raciness of character. A friend as well as an employee, he avoided alike the impudence of the “ Help” and the servility of the Servant.