DANIEL BLAISDELL.
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a modest house on the farm since owned by James Doron, and readapted himself to the career of a farmer. His knowledge of law made him a safe counsellor. He was sometimes called upon to carry business for his neighbors up to the courts. At one time he was solicited to carry a case to the court at Exeter. He started on horseback, as was the custom then, and on his road was over-taken by Gen. Benjamin Pierce, who was traveling the same way. Personally they were friendly, but very hostile in politics. Blaisdell was a man of even temperament, not easily excited, and whom mere words could not offend ; but he never yielded a point once settled in his mind. Pierce, in temperament, was the reverse of Blaisdell, but he was equally tenacious of his opinions. Blaisdell believed only Federalism and baptism. Pierce believed only in Democracy. They traveled together, discoursing pleasantly as they rode until they approached the subject of politics. Pierce quite earnestly denounced the Federalists as the enemies of the country, and as desiring to destroy the liberties of the people by consolidating all power in the hands of a few families. Blaisdell very coolly replied by accusing the Democracy of demagogism, of debauching the virtue of the youth of the country, and like satan, of wishing to lead all things down to himself. This reply infuriated Pierce. He declared that he “would not ride with such a traitor any further,” and jumping off his horse dared Blaisdell to take his chance of a “thrashing on the spot.” Blaisdell declined to take the chances offered, not only because they were not favorable to him, but because he saw nothing to fight about. He said some soothing words to the governor, who finally remounted his horse, and the two jogged on to Exeter as though nothing had occurred; but they talked no more politics on that ride.
There never was much poetry in his life. His habits of thought had always been so earnest, so convincing to his reason, that every position he ever assumed, whether in morals, politics, or religion, became to him matters of fact. He never yielded a point to an opponent, because he never allowed himself to be in the wrong. It pleased him to see labor rewarded, and mean, tricky people punished. But young folks never loved him, because he never seemed to see them. He would speak of “the rising generation,” with a look so far away, as if he never expected to give place to them, or as if they were to drop from some distant sphere, and slowly approach to greet him as he disappeared. We used to look upon him as the embodiment of dignity and wisdom, a man with whom we could take no liberties. He was a willful man, who liked to have his way. Like most men in his day he ignored the presence of children. I do not remember of any boy who felt proud of his caresses or approving words. He never uttered them, and he very seldom saw any boys. His own life, from boyhood until long after he thought himself a man, was of hard toil, without schools or books, and all the way up hill. Did he never yearn for a word of encouragement? I often wonder, when the manner of these men’s lives occurs to me, how they could always pass by the children,—the boys, who are coming right along to crowd them out of the way?
In his day the old Judge was a great power in politics, and he had the faculty of keeping his party in office nearly all his life. He never thrust himself forward for office, nor would he allow more than one of his boys to be in office at the same time. This policy made him strong. He did not use his political influence to keep his family in office. In this respect he understood human nature better than some of the leaders of later years. The people respected his advice because they knew him to be unselfish. ∗ ∗ ∗ It was more than fifty years ago, just before March election, there had been a sly caucus at Cobb’s tav-
