Traits of American Humour, Vol. 3 of 3
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Title: Traits of American Humour, Vol. 3 of 3
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOUR, VOL. 3 OF 3 ***
T R A I T S
OF
A M E R I C A N H U M O U R,
B Y N A T I V E A U T H O R S.
EDITED AND ADAPTED
BY THE AUTHOR OF “SAM SLICK,”
“THE OLD JUDGE,” “THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA,” &C. &C.
I N T H R E E V O L U M E S.
V O L. III.
L O N D O N :
C O L B U R N A N D C O., P U B L I S H E R S,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1 8 5 2.
L O N D O N :
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
P R E F A C E F R O M V O L . I.
Most Europeans speak of America as they do of England, France, or
Prussia, as one of the great countries of the world, but without
reference to the fact that it covers a larger portion of the globe than
all of them collectively. In like manner as the New England confederacy
originally comprised the most enlightened and most powerful
transatlantic provinces, and the inhabitants accidentally acquired the
appellation of Yankees, so this term is very generally applied to all
Americans, and is too often used as a national, instead of a provincial
or a sectional soubriquet. In order to form an accurate estimate of the
national humour, it is necessary to bear these two great popular errors
constantly in view. The Eastern and Western, Northern and Southern
States, though settled by a population speaking the same language, and
enjoying the same institutions, are so distant from each other, and
differ so widely in climate, soil, and productions, that they have but
few features in common; while the people, from the same causes, as well
as from habits, tastes, necessities, the sparseness or density of
population, free soil, or slave labour, the intensity, absence, or
weakness of religious enthusiasm, and many other peculiarities, are
equally dissimilar.
Hence, humour has a character as local as the boundaries of these civil
subdivisions.
The same diversity is observable in that of the English, Irish and
Scotch, and in their mirthful sallies, the character of each race is
plainly discernible.
That of the English is at once manly and hearty, and, though embellished
by fancy, not exaggerated; that of the Irish, extravagant, reckless,
rollicking, and kind-hearted; while that of the Scotch is sly, cold,
quaint, practical, and sarcastic.
The population of the Middle States, in this particular, reminds a
stranger of the English, that of the West resembles the Irish, and the
Yankees bear a still stronger affinity to the Scotch. Among the
Americans themselves these distinctions are not only well understood and
defined, but are again subdivided so as to apply more particularly to
the individual States.
Each has a droll appellation, by which the character of its yeomanry, as
composed of their ability, generosity, or manliness on the one hand, and
craft, economy, or ignorance of the world, on the other, is known and
illustrated. Thus, there are the Hoosiers of Indiana, the Suckers of
Illinois, the pukes of Missouri, the buck-eyes of Ohio, the red-horses
of Kentucky, the mud-heads of Tenessee, the wolverines of Michigan, the
eels of New England, and the corn-crackers of Virginia.
For the purpose of this work, however, it is perhaps sufficient merely
to keep in view the two grand divisions of East and West, which, to a
certain extent, may be said to embrace those spread geographically North
and South, with which they insensibly blend.
Of the former, New England and its neighbours are pre-eminent. The rigid
discipline and cold, gloomy tenets of the Puritans required and enforced
a grave demeanour, and an absence from all public and private
amusements, while a sterile and ungrateful soil demanded all the
industry, and required all the energy of the people to ensure a
comfortable support. Similar causes produce a like result in Scotland.
Hence the striking resemblance in the humour of the two people. But
though the non-conformist fathers controlled and modified the mirth of
the heart, they could not repress it. Nature is more powerful than
conventional regulations, and it soon indemnified itself in the
indulgence of a smile for the prohibition of unseemly laughter.
Hypocrisy is short-lived:
“Vera redit facies, dissimulata peret.”
The Puritans, as one of their descendants has well observed,[1]
emigrated “that they might have the privilege to work and pray, to sit
upon hard benches, and to listen to painful preaching as long as they
would, even unto thirty seventhly, if the Spirit so willed it. They were
not,” he says, “plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a
hard-faced, atrabilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling
with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new
Puritan hug.” Add two hundred years’ influence of soil, climate, and
exposure, with its necessary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the
present Yankee, full of expedients, half master of all trades, inventive
in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort,
armed at all points against the old enemy, hunger, longanimous, good at
patching, not so careful for what is best as for what _will do_, with a
clasp to his purse, and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build
against time, as in old countries, but against sore-pressing need,
accustomed to move the world with no assistants but his own two feet,
and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did
circumstances beget here, in the New World, upon the old Puritan stock,
and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such
niggard-geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron
enthusiasm, such unwilling-humour, such close-fisted generosity. This
new ‘_Græculus esuriens_’ will make a living out of anything. He will
invent new trades as well as new tools. His brain is his capital, and he
will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he will
make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan afterwards. _In cœlum
jusseris_, _ibit_, or the other way either, it is all one so as anything
is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more
like the Englishman of two centuries ago than John Bull himself is. He
has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more
of the original groundwork of character remains.
New England was most assuredly an unpromising soil wherein to search for
humour; but, fortunately, that is a hardy and prolific plant, and is to
be found in some of its infinite varieties, in more or less abundance
everywhere.
To the well-known appellation of Yankees, their Southern friends have
added, as we have seen, in reference to their remarkable pliability, the
denomination of “Eels.” Their humour is not merely original, but it is
clothed in quaint language. They brought with them many words now
obsolete and forgotten in England, to which they have added others
derived from their intercourse with the Indians, their neighbours the
French and Dutch, and their peculiar productions. Their pronunciation,
perhaps, is not very dissimilar to that of their Puritan forefathers. It
is not easy to convey an adequate idea of it on paper, but the following
observations may render it more intelligible:
“1.[2] The chief peculiarity is a drawling pronunciation, and sometimes
accompanied by speaking through the nose, as _eend_ for _end_, _dawg_
for _dog_, _Gawd_ for _God_, &c.
“2. Before the sounds _ow_ and _oo_, they often insert a short _i_,
which we will represent by the _y_; as _kyow_ for _cow_, _vyow_ for
_vow_, _tyoo_ for _too_, _dyoo_ for _do_, &c.
“3.[3] The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the _r_, when
he can help it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding
it, even before a vowel.
“4. He seldom sounds the final _g_, a piece of self-denial, if we
consider his partiality for nasals. The same may be said of the final
_d_, as _han’_ and _stan’_ for _hand_ and _stand_.
“5. The _h_ in such words as _while_, _when_, _where_, he omits
altogether.
“6. In regard to _a_, he shows some inconsistency, sometimes giving a
close and obscure sound, as _hev_ for _have_, _hendy_ for _handy_, _ez_
for _as_, _thet_ for _that_; and again giving it the broad sound as in
father, as _hansome_ for _handsome_.”
“7. _Au_ in such words as _daughter_ and _slaughter_, he pronounces
_ah_.”
Wholly unconstrained at first by conventional usages, and almost beyond
the reach of the law, the inhabitants of the West indulged, to the
fullest extent, their propensity for fun, frolic, and the wild and
exciting sports of the chase. Emigrants from the border States, they
engrafted on the dialects of their native places exaggerations and
peculiarities of their own, until they acquired almost a new language,
the most remarkable feature of which is its amplification. Everything is
superlative, awful, powerful, monstrous, dreadful, almighty, and
all-fired. As specimens of these extravagancies four narratives of the
Adventures of the celebrated Colonel Crocket are given, of which the
humour consists mainly in the marvellous. As they were designed for “the
million,” among whom the scenes are laid, rather than the educated
class, they were found to contain many expressions unfit for the perusal
of the latter, which I have deemed it proper to expunge. Other numbers
in both volumes, liable to the same objection, have been subjected to
similar expurgation, which, without affecting their raciness, has
materially enhanced their value.
The tales of both West and South are written in the language of the
rural population, which differs as much from the Yankee dialect as from
that of the Cockney. The vocabulary of both is most copious. Some words
owe their origin to circumstances, and local productions, and have
thence been spread over the whole country, and adopted into general use;
such as[4] _backwoods_, _breadstuffs_, _barrens_, _bottoms_,
_cane-brake_, _cypress-brake_, _corn-broom_, _corn-shucking_,
_clearing_, _deadening_, _diggings_, _dug-out_, _flats_, _husking_,
_prairie_, _shingle_, _sawyer_, _salt-lick_, _savannah_, _snag_.
Metaphorical and odd expressions often originated in some curious
anecdote or event, which was transmitted by tradition, and soon made the
property of all. Political writers and stump speakers perform a
prominent part in the invention and diffusion of these phrases. Among
others may be mentioned: _To cave in_, _to acknowledge the corn_, _to
flash in the pan_, _to bark up the wrong tree_, _to pull up stakes_, _to
be a caution_, _to fizzle out_, _to flat out_, _to fix his flint_, _to
be among the missing_, _to give him Jessy_, _to see the elephant_, _to
fly around_, _to tucker out_, _to use up_, _to walk into_, _to mizzle_,
_to absquatulate_, _to cotton_, _to hifer_, _&c._
Many have been adopted from the Indians; from corn, come, _samp_,
_hominy_, _and sapawn_; from the manive plant, _mandioca_, _and
tapioca_, and from articles peculiar to the aborigines, the words,
_canoe_, _hammock_, _tobacco_, _mocassin_, _pemmican_, _barbecue_,
_hurricane_, _pow-wow_.
The Spaniards have contributed their share to the general stock, as
_canyon_, _cavortin_, _chaparral_, _pistareen_, _rancho_, _vamos_.
The French have also furnished many more, such as _cache_, _calaboose_,
_bodette_, _bayou_, _sault_, _levee_, _crevasse_, _habitan_,
_charivari_, _portage_.[5]
The “Edinburgh Review,” for April, 1844, in an article on the
provincialisms of the European languages, states the result of an
inquiry into the number of provincial words which had then been arrested
by local glossaries at 30,687.
“Admitting that several of them are synonymous, superfluous, or common
to each county, there are nevertheless many of them which, although
alike orthographically, are vastly dissimilar in signification. Making
these allowances, they amount to a little more than 20,000; or,
according to the number of English counties hitherto illustrated, to the
average ratio of 1478 to a county. Calculating the twenty-six
unpublished in the same ratio, (for there are supposed to be as many
words collected by persons who have never published them,) they will
furnish 36,428 additional provincialisms, forming in the aggregate,
59,000 words in the colloquial tongue of the lower classes, which can,
for the chief part, produce proofs of legitimate origin.”
The process of coinage has been far more rapid and extensive in America
than in Europe. That of words predominates in the Western, and that of
phrases in the Eastern States. The chief peculiarity in the
pronunciation of the Southern and Western people, is the giving of a
broader sound than is proper to certain vowels; as _whar_ for _where_,
_thar_ for _there_, _bar_ for _bear_.
In the following table of words, incorrectly pronounced, such as belong
to New England are designated by the letters N.E.; those exclusively
Western, by the letter W.; the Southern words by S.; the rest are common
to various parts of the Union. In this attempt at classification, there
are, doubtless, errors and imperfections; for an emigrant from Vermont
to Illinois would introduce the provincialisms of his native district,
into his new residence.
Arter _for_ After.
Ary " Either.
Attackted " Attack’d.
Anywheres " Anywhere.
Bachelder " Bachelor.
Bagnet " Bayonet.
Bar " Bear, W.
Becase " Because.
Bile " Boil.
Cheer " Chair.
Chimbly " Chimney.
Cupalo " Cupola.
Cotch’d " Caught.
Critter " Creature.
Curous " Curious.
Dar " Dare, W.
Darter " Daughter.
Deu " Do, N.E.
Delightsome " Delightful.
Drownded " Drown’d.
Druv " Drove, W.
Dubous " Dubious.
Eend " End.
Everywheres " Everywhere.
Gal " Girl.
Gin " Give.
Git " Get.
Gineral " General.
Guv " Gave.
Gownd " Gown.
Har " Hair, W.
Hath " Hearth, S.
Hender " Hinder.
Hist " Hoist.
Hum " Home, N.E.
Humbly " Homely, N.E.
Hull " Whole, W.
Ile " Oil.
Innemy " Enemy.
Jaunders " Jaundice.
Jest " Just.
Jeems " James.
Jine " Join.
Jist " Joist.
Kittle " Kettle.
Kiver " Cover.
Larn " Learn.
Larnin " Learning.
Lives " Lief.
Leetle " Little.
Nary " Neither.
Ourn " Ours.
Perlite " Polite.
Racket " Rocket.
Rale " Real.
Rench " Rince.
Rheumatiz " Rheumatism.
Ruff " Roof, N.E.
Sarcer " Saucer.
Sarce " Sauce.
Sarve " Serve.
Sass " Sauce.
Sassy " Saucy.
Scace " Scarce.
Scass " Scarce, W.
Sen " Since, W.
Shay " Chaise, N.E.
Shet " Shut, S.
Sistern " Sisters, W.
Sich " Such.
Sot " Sat.
Sorter " Sort of.
Stan " Stand, N.E.
Star " Stair, W.
Stun " Stone, N.E.
Stiddy " Steady, N.E.
Spettacle " Spectacle.
Spile " Spoil.
Squinch " Quench.
Streech " Stretch, W.
Suthin " Something.
Tech " Touch.
Tend " Attend.
Tell’d " Told, N.E.
Thar " There, W.
Timersome " Timerous.
Tossel " Tassel.
Umberell " Umbrella.
Varmint " Vermin, W.
Wall " Well, N.E.
Whar " Where, W.
Yaller " Yellow.
Yourn " Yours.
Until lately, the humour of the Americans has been chiefly oral. Up to
the period when the publication of the first American “Sporting
Magazine” was commenced at Baltimore, in 1829, and which was immediately
followed by the publication, in New York, of “The Spirit of the Times,”
there existed no such class of writers in the United States, as have
since that recent day, conferred such popularity on this description of
literature.
The New York “Constellation,”[6] was the only journal expressly devoted
to wit and humour; but “The Spirit of the Times” soon became the general
receptacle of all these fugitive productions. The ability with which it
was conducted, and the circulation it enjoyed, induced the proprietors
of other periodicals to solicit contributions similar to those which
were attracting so much attention in that paper. Of the latter kind are
the three articles from the pen of McClintoch, which originally appeared
in the “Portland Advertiser.” The rest of the series by the same author,
I have not been able to procure, as they have shared the fate of many
others of no less value, that appeared in the daily press of the United
States. To collect, arrange, and preserve these specimens of American
humour, and present them to the British reader, in an unobjectionable
shape, is the object of this compilation.
To such of the numbers contained in these volumes as I could trace the
paternity, I have appended the names of the authors, and shall now
conclude, by expressing to those gentlemen the very great gratification
I have experienced in the perusal of their admirable sketches.
DECEMBER, 1851.
-----
[1] See Introduction to Biglow’s Papers, p. xix.
[2] See Introduction to Dictionary of Americanisms, p. xxiv, and
Biglow’s Papers.
[3] See Introduction to Biglow’s Papers, p. xxiv.
[4] Introduction to Dictionary of Americanisms.
[5] See Dictionary of Americanisms.
[6] See Porter’s account of “The Spirit of the Times.”
C O N T E N T S
O F
T H E T H I R D V O L U M E.
I.
PAGE
THE THIMBLE GAME 1
II.
MIKE HOOTER’S BAR STORY 22
III.
COUSIN GUSS 30
IV.
THE GANDER-PULLING 34
V.
HOW MIKE HOOTER CAME VERY NEAR “WALLOPING” ARCH COONEY 48
VI.
AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW 61
VII.
BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE 70
VIII.
MIKE FINK IN A TIGHT PLACE 79
IX.
OUR SINGING-SCHOOL 88
X.
WHERE JOE MERIWEATHER WENT TO 106
XI.
GEORGIA THEATRICS 114
XII.
TAKING THE CENSUS 120
XIII.
A FAMILY PICTURE 129
XIV.
COLONEL JONES’S FIGHT 136
XV.
THE FASTEST FUNERAL ON RECORD 147
XVI.
OLD TUTTLE’S LAST QUARTER RACE 154
XVII.
SPEECH ON THE OREGON QUESTION 160
XVIII.
BILL DEAN, THE TEXAN RANGER 165
XIX.
THE FIRE-HUNT 169
XX.
A PAIR OF SLIPPERS 188
XXI.
A SWIM FOR A DEER 202
XXII.
DILLY JONES; OR, THE PROGRESS OF IMPROVEMENT 214
XXIII.
LANTY OLIPHANT IN COURT 224
XXIV.
OLD SINGLETIRE 229
XXV.
MAJOR JONES’S COURTSHIP 234
XXVI.
DOWN-EAST CURIOSITY 314
XXVII.
A SAGE CONVERSATION 319
T R A I T S
OF
A M E R I C A N H U M O U R.
I.
THE THIMBLE GAME.
Forty years ago, Augusta, Ga., presented a very different appearance
from the busy and beautiful city of the present day. Its groceries,
stores, and extensive warehouses were few in number, and the large
quantities of cotton and other produce, which are still conveyed
thither, were transported entirely by waggons. The substantial railroad,
which links it with the richest and most beautiful regions of the empire
state of the South, was a chimera, not yet conceived in the wild brain
of Fancy herself; and many of the improvements, luxuries and
refinements, which now make it the second city in the state, were then
“in the shell.” _Yet_, by the honest yeomanry of forty years ago,
Augusta was looked upon as Paris and London are now viewed by us. The
man who had _never_ been there was a cipher in the community—nothing
killed an opinion more surely, nothing stopped the mouth of “argyment”
sooner, than the sneering taunt: “Pshaw! you ha’n’t been to _Augusty_.”
The atmosphere of this favoured place was supposed to impart knowledge
and wisdom to all who breathed it, and the veriest ass was a Solon, and
an umpire, if he could discourse fluently of the different localities,
and various wonders, of _Augusty_.
The farmers of the surrounding country paid a yearly visit to Augusta,
and having sold their “_crap_” of the great Southern staple, and laid in
their stock of winter necessaries, returned home with something of that
holy satisfaction with which the pious Mohammedan turns his face
homeward from Mecca. The first step upon arriving in the city was to lay
aside their “_copperas-coloured_,” fabrics of the wife’s or daughter’s
loom, and purchase a new suit of “_store_-clothes.”
These were immediately donned, and upon returning home were carefully
embalmed, nor again permitted to see the light until the next Sunday at
“meetin’,” when the farmer, with head erect and ample shirt-collar,
strutted up the aisle, the lion of the occasion, the “observed of all
observers” till the next Sabbath, when his neighbour returning with
_his_ new suit, plucked off his laurels and twined them green and
blooming upon the crown of his own shilling beaver.
These annual trips were _the event_ and _era_ of the year, and the
farmer returned to his home big with importance and news. The dishonesty
and shrewdness of “them Gimblit fellers,” (Cotton-Buyers,) the
extortions of hotel-keepers, the singular failures of warehouse
steelyards to make cotton-bales weigh as much in Augusta as at home, the
elegant apparel of the city belles and beaux, and the sights and scenes
which greeted their astonished gaze, formed the year’s staple of
conversation and discussion; and it would be difficult to say who
experienced the greater delight—the farmer in relating his wondrous
adventures, or his wife and daughters in listening to them with open
mouths, uplifted hands, and occasional breathless ejaculations of “Good
Lord, look down!” “Oh! go away!” or, “Shut up!” “You don’t ses so!”
Early in the fall of 18–, Farmer Wilkins announced to his son Peter,
that as he, “his daddy,” would be too busy to make the usual trip in
_propria persona_, he, Peter, must get ready to go down to Augusty, and
sell the “first load.” Now Peter Wilkins, jun., a young man just grown,
was one of the celebrities of which his settle_ment_ (neighbourhood)
boasted. He was supposed to have cut his eye-teeth—to have shaken off
that verdancy so common to young men; and while he filled up more than
half his father’s capacious heart, to the discomfiture of Mahaly (his
mother), and Suke and Poll (his sisters), he was the pet and darling of
the whole neighbourhood. An only son, the old man doted upon him as a
chip of the old block, and was confident that Peter, in any emergency of
trade, traffic, or otherwise, would display that admirable tact, and
that attentive consideration for “No. One,” for which Mr. P. Wilkins,
sen., was noted. A horse-swap with a Yankee, in which Peter, after half
an hour’s higgling, found himself the undisputed owner of both horses
and ten dollars boot, was the corner-stone of his fame. Every trip to
Augusta added another block; and by the time Peter arrived at the years
of discretion, he stood upon a lofty structure with all the green rubbed
off, the pride of his family and the universal favourite of his
acquaintances.
The night before his departure the family were all gathered around the
roaring fire, Mrs. and the Misses Wilkins engaged in ironing and mending
our hero’s Sunday apparel, the old man smoking his pipe, and
occasionally preparing Peter for the ordeal in Augusta, by wholesome
advice, or testing his claim to the tremendous confidence about to be
reposed in him, by searching questions, as to how he would do in case
so-and-so was to turn up. To this counsel, however, our hero paid less
attention than to the preparations making around him for his comely
appearance in the city. Nor, until he got upon the road, did he revolve
in his mind the numerous directions of his father, or resolve to follow
to the letter his solemn parting injunction to “bewar of them gimblit
fellers down to Augusty.”
“Durn it,” said he to himself, as the thought of being “sold” crossed
his mind, “durn it, they’ll never make gourds out o’ me. _I’ve_ bin to
Augusty _before_, and ef I don’t git as much fur that thur cotton as
anybody else does for thurn, then my name ain’t Peter Wilkins, and
that’s what the old ’oman’s slam book says it is.”
Arrived in the city, he drove around to one of the warehouses, and stood
against the brick wall, awaiting a purchaser. Presently a little man
with a long gimblet in his hand came out, and bade our hero a polite
“Good morning.”
“Mornin’,” said Peter, with admirable coolness, as he deliberately
surveyed the little man from head to foot, and withdrew his eyes as if
not pleased with his appearance.
The little man was dressed in the “shabby-genteel” style, a costume much
in vogue at that day among men of his cloth, as combining plainness
enough for the country-folk, with sufficient gentility to keep them on
speaking terms with the more fashionable denizens of the then
metropolis. The little man seemed in no way disconcerted by Peter’s
searching gaze, and a close observer might have perceived a slight smile
on his lip, as he read the thoughts of our hero’s bosom. His
self-confidence, his pride, his affected ease and knowing air, were all
comprehended, and ere a word had passed the lion knew well the character
of his prey. In the purchase of the cotton, however, the little man
sought no advantage, and even offered our hero a better price than any
one else in the city would have given him. To our hero’s credit, be it
said, he was not loth to accept the offer; 15 1/2 cents was above the
market, by at least a quarter, and the old man had told him to let it
slide at fifteen rather than not sell, so the bargain was closed, and
our hero and the “Gimblit-man” went out into the yard to settle.
Seating himself on a cotton-bale, the buyer counted out the money, which
our hero made safe in his pocket, after seeing that it was “_giniwine_,”
and tallied with the amount stated in the bill of sale. A few sweet
pills of flattery administered to our hero, soon made him and the
Gimblit-man sworn friends; and it was in consideration of his high
regard, that the Gimblit-man consented to initiate him into the
mysteries of a certain game, yclept “Thimble Rig,” a game which, our
hero was told, would yield him much sport, if successfully played up at
home among the boys; and would, when properly managed, be to him a
never-failing source of that desirable article, “pocket-change.” To this
proposition our hero readily assented, delighted with the idea of
playing off upon the boys up at home, who hadn’t been to Augusty; and
already began to revel in the visions of full pockets, when, to his
silent horror, the little man took from his pocket a hundred-dollar
bill, and very irreverently rolled it into a small round ball.
Three thimbles were next produced, and the game began.
“Now,” said the little man, “I am going to hide this little ball under
one of these thimbles, all before your eyes, and I want you to guess
where it is.”
“Well,” said Peter, “go it—I’m ready,” and the shifting game begun.
To the apparent astonishment of the little man, our hero guessed right
every time. No matter how rapid the changes, Peter invariably lifted the
thimble from the ball, and had begun to grow disgusted with the game,
little dreaming how soon he was to prove its efficacy as a source of
revenue, when the little man suddenly checked his hand.
“Wrong,” said he, with a friendly smile; “the ball is not under the
middle thimble, but under that next you.”
“Darned ef it is though!” responded Peter; “I ain’t as green as you
’Gusty folks thinks. Blamed ef I don’t know whar that ball is jist as
well as you does, and dod-drapped ef I don’t bet four hundred and
fifty-one dollars no cents (the price of the cotton) agin the load o’
cotton, that it’s under the middle thimble.”
“No, _Sir_,” said the little man, with another smile, “you are wrong,
and I’d hate to win your money.”
That smile deceived Peter—it manifested a friendly consideration for
his welfare, which he felt he did not need, and after bullying the
“Gimblit-man” for a few minutes, he succeeded in inveigling him (as he
thought) into a bet, which was duly closed and sealed, to the entire
satisfaction of his _friend_! Alas for poor Peter! he had awakened the
wrong passenger. But the idea of being too smart for an Augusty feller,
and he was sure he had cornered one this time, was too great a
temptation for him to withstand.
“Drot it,” said he to himself, “I seen him put it under that ere middle
thimble, I seen it myself, and I know it’s thar, and why not win the old
man’s cotton back when it’s jest as easy as nothin’? And ef I do win it,
why in course the old man can’t claim more’n four hundred and fifty-one
dollars no how.” (Peter forgot that the profits to be realized ought of
course to belong to the owner of the capital invested.) “The time me and
that Yankee swapped critters, warn’t I thar? Hain’t I cut my gums? Don’t
the old man, yes, and all the settle_ment_, say I’m smart, and then
thar’s Kitty Brown, I reckon she ort to know, and don’t she say I’m the
peertest feller in our parts? _I’ve_ bin to Augusty, and this time,
dod-drapped ef I don’t leave my mark.”
The result we need hardly relate. Peter was tempted—tempted sorely, and
he fell. Sick at heart, he ordered Bob, the driver, to turn his mules
homeward, and late on Saturday evening he entered the lane which led to
his father’s house. The blow was now to come; and some time before the
waggon got to the house, Peter saw his father, and mother, and sisters
coming out to meet him. At last they met.
“Well, son,” said the old man, “I s’pose you’ve been well?”
Here Mrs. Wilkins and the gals commenced hugging and kissing Peter,
which he took very coldly, and with the air of a man who felt he was
getting a favour which he didn’t deserve.
“Reasonably well,” said Peter, in reply to his father’s question; “but
I’ve lost it.”
“Lost what?” said his father.
“Lost _it_.”
“Lost the dockyments?” said the old man.
“No, here they are,” said Peter, handing the papers containing the
weights of his cotton, to his father, who began to read, partly aloud,
and partly to himself:
“‘Eight bags of cotton—350—400—348—550—317—15½ cents a pound—sold
to Jonathan Barker.’ Very good sale,” said he; “I knowed you’d fix
things rite, Peter.”
The waggon by this time had reached the house, and turning to Bob, the
old man told him to put the molasses in the cellar, and the sugar and
coffee in the house.
“Ain’t got no ’lasses, Massa,” said Bob, grinning from ear to ear.
“No,” said Peter, “we havn’t got none; we lost it.”
“Lost it! How on airth could you lose a barrel of molasses?”
“We never had it,” said Bob.
“Heavens and airth!” said the old man, turning first to Bob, and then to
Peter, “what do you mean? What do you mean? _What_, _what_, w-h-a-t in
the d-e-v-i-l _do_ you mean?”
“Gracious, Marster! Mr. Wilkins, don’t swar, so,” said his wife, by way
of helping Peter out.
“_Swar!_” said the farmer, “do you call _that_ swarring? Darned ef I
don’t say wussin that d’recley, ef they don’t tell me what they mean.”
“Why, father,” said Peter, “I’ve lost it. I’ve lost the money.”
“Well, and couldn’t you find it?”
“I didn’t lose it that way,” said Peter.
“You ain’t been a gamblin’ I hopes,” said the old man; “you ain’t been
runnin’ agin none of them Pharo banks down to Augusty, is you?”
“Bring me three thimbles,” said Peter, “and I’ll show you how I lost
it.”
The thimbles were brought, and Peter sat down to explain. It was a scene
for a painter: there sat our hero, fumbling with the thimbles and the
ball, but too much frightened to have performed the trick if he had
known how; his father sat next him, with his chin upon his hands,
looking as if undecided whether to reprimand him at once, or to give him
a “fair showin’.” Mrs. Wilkins stood just behind her husband, winking
and smiling, gesturing and hemming, in order to attract Peter’s
attention, and indicate to him her willingness to stand between him and
his father. The girls, who always sided with their mother, followed her
example in this case. But their efforts to attract his attention were
useless; they could not even catch his eye, so busy was he in trying to
arrange the ball and thimbles; but every time he got them fixed, and
told his father to guess, the old man would guess right, which, while it
astonished Peter, incensed the old man against him. It looked so easy to
him, that he could not help “blaming Pete fur bein’ sich a fool.”
“Shorely,” said the farmer, after Peter had finished his
explanation—“shorely it ain’t _possible_ that you’ve bin to Augusty _so
often_, and didn’t know no better. Didn’t I tell you not to have nothin’
to do with them _Gimblit Fellers_? Ther ain’t one of ’em honest, not
one. Like a fool, you’ve gone and lost jest four hundred and fifty-one
dollars no cents. It ain’t the munny that I keers for, Peter, it’s you
bein’ sich a fool—_four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents_. I’ll
go rite down to Augusty next Monday, and find this here Barker, and ef
he don’t give up the munny, I’ll have a _say so_ (ca. sa.) taken agin
him, and march him rite off to gaol—no deaf-allication about that. The
theavin’ rascal, gwine about cheetin’ people’s sons outin four hundred
and fifty-one dollars no cents? How often is you bin to Augusty, Peter?”
“Sixteen times,” said Peter.
“Well, I declare,” said the old man; “bin to Augusty sixteen times, and
didn’t know no better than to go thar agin and lose four hundred and
fifty-one dollars no cents!”
Early on Monday morning the old man started to Augusta with another load
of cotton; Bob driving as before, and his master riding his gray mare
“Bets.” Mr. Wilkins had a great many little commissions to execute for
his wife and the _gals_. The old lady wanted a pair of spectacles, and
the gals a bonnet each—ribbons and flowers, thread, buttons, &c., had
to be purchased, and the good farmer was nearly crazed by the loss he
had met with, and the multiplicity of things to be attended to. Ever and
anon, as he trotted along the road, he would mutter to himself something
as follows:
“Leghorn bonnet for Sal—12 skeins of flax thread—2 dozen pearl buttons
for pants—one gross horn buttons for shirts—5 grass petticoats—100
pounds coffee—451 dollars no cents—Jonathan Barker—bin to Augusty
sixteen times—1 bolt kaliker—Pete’s a fool—lost one barrel of
molasses and 451 dollars no cents.”
With such words as these he would while away the time, apparently
unconscious of the presence of Bob, who was much diverted by his
master’s soliloquy. As they approached Augusta, his wrath seemed to
increase, and he vented his spleen on his old mare and Bob.
“Bob,” said he, “you dad-dratted rascal, why don’t you drive up? you
don’t do nothin’ but set thar and sleep.
“Take _that_, and _that_, and _that_,” he would say to his mare,
accompanying each word with a blow; “_git up, Miss, and go long to
Augusty_.”
When they had come in sight of Augusta, Bob struck a camp, and his
master rode on into town. Having eaten his supper, and put up his horse,
he retired for the night, and early in the morning started out to look
for Jonathan Barker. He caused not a little laughter as he walked along
the streets, relating his troubles, and inquiring of everybody for
Jonathan Barker.
“Where’s Jonathan Barker,” he would cry out, “the Gimblit Feller what
cheeted Pete out’n 451 dollars no cents. Jes show me Jonathan Barker.”
As a last hope, he went around to the warehouse, where his son had lost
the cotton. Walking out into the yard, he bawled out the name of
Jonathan Barker. A little man, with a long gimlet in his hand, answered
to the name, and our farmer attacked him as follows:
“Look a here, Mr. Barker, I wants that money.”
“What money?” said Barker, who had no acquaintance whatever with the
farmer; “what money is it, Sir?”
“Oh no,” said the old man, perfectly furious at such barefaced
assurance. “Oh no! you don’t know _nuthin’_ now. Blame your picter,
you’re as innersent as a lam’. Don’t know what munny I _meen_? It’s that
four hundred and fifty-one dollars, and _no_ cents, what you cheeted
Pete out’n.”
“I recollect now,” said Barker, “that was fairly done, Sir; if you’ll
just step this way, I’ll show you how I got it, Sir.”
A bright idea struck the old man.
“I’ve seen Pete play it,” thought he to himself, “and I guessed _rite
every time_.
“Well,” said he, “I’ll go and see how it was dun, ennyhow.”
The two walked along to the same bale of cotton which had witnessed the
game before, and the gimlet man took the identical thimbles and ball
which had served him before, from his pocket, and sat down, requesting
the farmer to be seated also.
“Now, Sir,” said Barker, “when your son was here, I bought his cotton,
and paid him for it: just as he was going away, I proposed showing him a
trick worth seeing. I took this little ball, and put it under this
middle thimble.
“‘Now,’ said I to him, ‘you see it, and now you don’t see it; and I’ll
bet you you can’t tell where the little joker is.’”
“Well,” said the farmer, “all’s rite—the ball’s now under the middle
thimble.”
“When I had put it under there,” continued Barker, “your son wanted to
bet me that it was under the middle thimble.”
“So it is,” said the old man, interrupting him.
“No,” returned Barker, “it’s under the one next you.”
“I tell you it ain’t,” said Mr. Wilkins, who strongly advocated the
doctrine that “seeing is believing.”
He was sure he was right, and now a chance presented itself of regaining
his former load of cotton.
“I tell you it ain’t. I’m harder to head than Pete wus, and blamed ef I
don’t bet another load o’ cotton, that’s at the dore by this time.”
“You are mistaken,” said Barker, smiling; “but if you wish it, I’ll
bet.”
“Let’s understand one nuther fust,” said the farmer. “You say that ere
little ball you had jes now, ain’t under the little thimble in the
middle—I say it is. Ef it ain’t, I’m to give you the load o’ cotton—ef
it is, you’re to give me four hundred and fifty-one dollars no cents.”
“Exactly so,” said Barker.
“Well, I’ll bet,” said the farmer, “and here’s my hand.”
The bet was sealed, and with a triumphant air which he but poorly
concealed, the farmer snatched up the middle thimble, but no ball was
there.
“Well, I’ll be dod drapt!” he exclaimed, at the same time drawing a long
breath, and dropping the thimble. “Derned ef it’s _thar_! Four hundred
and fifty-one dollars no cents gone _agin_! Heven and airth, what’ll
Mahaly and the gals say! I’ll never heer the eend of it tel I’m in my
grave. Then thar’s Pete! _Gee-mi-my! jest_ to think o’ Pete—fur _him_
to know his ole daddy wus made a fool of too! four hundred and fifty-one
dollars no cents! but I wouldn’t keer _that_ for it,” snapping his
fingers, “ef it wern’t fur Pete.”
The Gimblit man reminded our friend of the result of his bet, by telling
him that the sooner he unloaded the better.
“Now you ain’t, shore ’nuff, in _yearnest_,” said the old man.
“Dead earnest,” returned Barker.
“Well, stranger,” added our friend, “I’se a honest man, and stands squar
up to my contracts.”
With this he had his cargo discharged into the street, and ordering Bob
to drive on, he mounted his mare, and set out for home with a heavier
heart than he had ever known before. ’Twere useless to attempt a
description of the scene which transpired on the farmer’s return home.
The first words he uttered were, “Pete, durned ef I hain’t lost it too.”
The misfortunes of his trip were soon all told, after which Peter and
his father wisely resolved never to bet on anything again, especially
“them blamed Yankee Thimbles.”
It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Wilkins, Pete, or the gals, could
help teasing the old man occasionally on the result of his trip.
Whenever he became refractory, his wife would stick her thimble on the
end on her finger, and hold it up for him to look at—it acted like a
charm. His misadventure, too, raised higher than ever his opinion of the
cunning and sagacity of “_them Augusty fellers!_”
A few years succeeding the events which we have attempted to narrate,
and Farmer Wilkins was gathered to his fathers; but his trip to Augusta
is still preserved as a warning to all honest and simple-hearted people.
The last words of the old man to his son were:
“Peter, Peter, my son, always be honest, never forgit your ole daddy,
and _allers bewar_ of them Gimblit fellers, _down to Augusty_.”
Reader! every tale has its moral, nor is ours without one. Not only did
Peter learn from his adventure in Augusta, the evils of betting, but
ever since the time to which we have alluded, he always allows his
factor to sell his cotton for him. Whatever you may think of it, both
Peter and his father came to the conclusion that there was “no use in
tryin’ to git the upper hand of one o’ them _Gimblet fellers down to
Augusty_.”
II.
MIKE HOOTER’S BAR STORY.
A YAZOO SKETCH.
SHOWING HOW THE BEAR OUTWITTED IKE HAMBERLIN.
BY A MISSOURIAN.
“It’s no use talkin’,” said Mike, “’bout your Polar Bar, and your Grisly
Bar, and all that sort er varmont what you read about. They ain’t no
whar, for the big black customer that circumlocutes down in our neck o’
woods beats ’em all hollow. I’ve heard of some monsus explites kicked up
by the brown bars, sich as totein off a yoke o’ oxen, and eatin’ humans
raw, and all that kind o’ thing; and Capten Parry tells us a yarn ’bout
a big white bar, what ’muses hisself climin’ up the North Pole and
slides down to keep his hide warm; but all that ain’t a circumstance to
what I’ve saw.
“You see,” continued Mike, “there’s no countin’ on them varmonts as I’s
been usened to, for they comes as near bein’ human critters as anything
I ever see what doesn’t talk. Why, if you was to hear anybody else tell
’bout the bar-fights I’ve had, you wouldn’t b’leeve ’em, and if I wasn’t
a preacher, and could not lie none, I’d keep my fly-trap shot ’till the
day of judgment.
“I’ve heard folks say as how bars cannot think like other human
critters, and that they does all the sly tricks what they does, from
instink. Golly! what a lie! You tell me one of ’em don’t know when
you’ve got a gun, and when you ain’t? Just wait a minit, an’ my privit
’pinion is, when you’ve hearn me thro’ you’ll talk t’other side of your
mouth.
“You see, one day, long time ago, ’fore britches come in fashion, I made
a ’pointment with Ike Hamberlin the steam doctor, to go out next Sunday
to seek whom we couldn’t kill, a bar, for you know bacon was skace, and
so was money, and them fellers down in Mechanicsburg wouldn’t sell on
tick, so we had to ’pend on the varmints for a livin’.
“Speakin’ of Mechanicsburg, the people down in that ar mud-hole ain’t to
be beat nowhere this side o’ Christmas. I’ve hearn o’ mean folks in my
time, an’ I’ve preached ’bout ’em a few; but ever sense that feller,
Bonnel, sold me a pint of red eye-whiskey—an’ half ov it backer
juice—for a ’coon-skin, an’ then guv me a brass picayune fur change,
I’ve stopped talkin’. Why, that chap was closer than the bark on a
hickory tree; an’ ef I hadn’t hearn Parson Dilly say so, I’d ov swore it
wasn’t er fact, he was cotch one day stealin’ acorns from a blind hog.
Did you ever hear how that hossfly died? Well, never mind. It was too
bad to talk ’bout, but heap too good for him.
“But that ain’t what I was spoutin’ ’bout. As I was sayin’ afore, we had
to ’pend on the varmints fur a livin’. Well, Ike Hamberlin, you see, was
always sorter jubous o’ me, kase I kilt more bar nor he did; an’, as I
was sayin’, I made a ’pointment with Ike to go out huntin’. Then, Ike,
he thought he’d be kinder smart, and beat ‘Old Preach’ (as them Cole
boys usen to call me), so, as soon as day crack he hollered up his
puppies, an’ put! I spied what he was ’bout, fur I hearn him laffin’ to
one o’ his niggers ’bout it the night afore—so, I told my gal Sal to
fill my private tickler full o’ the old ‘raw,’ and then fixed up an’
tramped on arter him, but didn’t take none o’ my dogs.
“Ike hadn’t got fur into the cane, ’fore the dogs they ’gan to whine an’
turn up the har on ther backs; an’, bimeby, they all tucked tail, an’
sorter sidled back to war he was stanin’. ‘Sick him!’ says Ike, but the
cussed critters wouldn’t hunt a lick. I soon diskivered what was the
matter, for I kalkilated them curs o’ hisn wasn’t worth shucks in a bar
fight—so, I know’d thar was bar ’bout, if I didn’t see no sine.
“Well, Ike he coaxed the dogs, an’ the more he coaxed the more they
wouldn’t go, an’ when he found coaxin’ wouldn’t do, then he scolded and
called ’em some of the hardest names ever you hearn, but the tarnation
critters wouldn’t budge a peg.
“When he found they wouldn’t hunt no how he could fix it, he begin a
cussin’. He didn’t know I was thar. If he had er suspicioned it, he’d no
more swore than he’d dar’d to kiss my Sal on er washin’ day; for you see
both on us belonged to the same church, and Ike was class-leader. I
thought I should er flummuxed! The dogs they sidled back, an’ Ike he
cussed; an’ I lay down an’ rolled an’ laughed sorter easy to myself,
’til I was so full I thort I should er bust my biler. I never see
ennything so funny in all my life! There was I layin’ down behind er
log, fit to split, an’ there was the dogs with their tails the wrong
eend down, and there was Ike a rarin’ an’ er pitchin’—er rippin’ an’ er
tarrin’—an’ er cussin’ wus nor a steamboat cap’n! I tell you it fairly
made my har stan’ on eend. I never see er customer so riled afore in all
my born days. Yes I did too, once—only once. It was that feller Arch
Coony, what used to oversee for old Ben Roach. Didn’t you know that ar’
hossfly? He’s a few! well he is. Jewhilliken, how he could whip er
nigger! and swar! whew! Didn’t you ever hear him swar? I tell you, all
the sailors and French parrots in Orleans ain’t a patchin’ to him. I
hearn him let hisself out one day, and he was a caution to sinners, an’
what was wus, it was all ’bout nothin’, for he warn’t mad a wrinkle. But
all that ain’t neither here nor thar.
“But, as I was sayin’ afore, the dogs they smelt bar sine, an’ wouldn’t
budge a peg, an arter Ike had almost cussed the bark off’n a dogwood
saplin’ by, he lent his old flint-lock rifle up agin it, and then he
pealed off his old blanket an’ laid her down, too. I diskivered mischief
was er cumin’, for I never see a critter show rathy like he did.
Torectly I see him walk down to the creek bottom, ’bout fifty yards from
where his gun was, and then he ’gin pickin’ up rocks an’ slingin’ um at
the dogs like bringer! Cracky! didn’t he linkit into um? It minded me of
David whalin’ Goliath, it did! If you’d er seed him, and hearn them
holler, you’d er thought he’d er knocked the nigh sites off’n every
mother’s son of ’em!
“But that ain’t the fun yet. While Ike was er lammin’ the dogs, I hearn
the allfiredest crackin’ in the cane, an’ I looked up, and thar was one
of the eternalist whollopin’ bars cummin’ crack, crack, through the cane
an’ kerslosh over the creek, and stopped right plumb slap up whar Ike’s
gun was. Torectly he tuck hold er the ole shooter, an’ I thought I see
him tinkerin’ ’bout the lock, an’ kinder whistlin’, and blowin’ into it.
I was ’stonished, I tell you, but I wanted to see Ike outdone so bad
that I lay low and kep’ dark, an’ in about a minit Ike got done lickin’
the dogs, an’ went to git his gun. Jeemeny, criminy! if you’d only been
whar I was! I do think Ike was the maddest man that ever stuk an axe
into a tree, for his har stuck rite strait up, and his eyes glared like
two dogwood blossoms! But the bar didn’t seem to care shucks for him,
for he jist sot the old rifle rite back agin the saplin’, and walked off
on his hind legs jist like any human. Then, you see, I gin to git sorter
jelus, and sez I to myself, ‘Mister Bar,’ sez I, ‘the place whar you’s
er stanin’ ain’t prezactly healthy, an’ if you don’t wabble off from
thar purty soon, Mizis Bar will be a widder, by gum!’ With that, Ike
grabbed up ole Mizis Rifle, and tuk most pertickler aim at him, and by
hokey, she snapped! Now, sez I, ‘Mister Bar, go it, or he’ll make bacon
of you!’ But the varmint didn’t wink, but stood still as a post, with
the thumb of his right paw on the eend of his smeller, and wiglin’ his
t’other finger thus,” (and Mike went through with the gyration). “All
this time Ike he stood thar like a fool, er snappin’ and her snappin’,
an’ the bar he lookin’ kinder quare like, out er the corner o’ his eye,
an’ sorter laffin’ at him. Torectly I see Ike take down the ole shooter,
an’ kinder kersamine the lock, an’ when he done that, he laid her on his
shoulder, and shook his fist at the bar, and walked toward home, an’ the
bar he shuk his fist, an’ went into the cane brake, and then I cum off.”
Here all the Yazoo boys expressed great anxiety to know the reason why
Ike’s gun didn’t fire.
“Let’s licker fust,” said Mik, “an’ if you don’t caterpillar, you can
shoot me. Why, you see,” concluded he, “the long and short of it is
this, that the bar in our neck o’ woods has a little human in um, and
this feller know’d as much about a gun as I do ’bout preachin’; so when
Ike was lickin’ the dogs, he jest blowed all the powder outen the pan,
an’ to make all safe, he tuk the flint out too, and that’s the way he
warn’t skeered when Ike was snappin’ at him.”
III.
COUSIN GUSS.[7]
“Well, how de dew? I’m right glad to see you, I swow. I rather guess I
can say suthin’ about the _Revolution_ business, purty good varsion,
tew, by jingo. My father, old Josh Addams, had his fist in it: any on
you know him? Old Josh Addams, as well known as the Schuylkill
water-works. He was born in Boston: he didn’t die there, ’cause he died
in Philadelphia. He used to wear an old genuine ’76 coat, little cut
down to suit the fashion, made it a razee. One might have known the old
man a mile off. If it hadn’t been for Cousin Guss, he’d have been livin’
to this ere day. You may see Guss in Chestnut Street—any of you know
him?—dressed like a peacock, and got whiskers big enough to stuff a
sofa bottom. He went down t’other day to see the wild beasts in 5th
street; jest as he was comin’ away, he met a hull squad of little
children a comin’ in: when they saw Cousin Guss, if they didn’t squeal
like ten thousand devils. The old man says, what’s the matter, young
ones? Oh dear, papa, see, they’ve let one of the monkeys loose. Cousin
Guss didn’t show his face in Chestnut Street for a week. Guss telled the
old man he must have his coat cut again, and altered to the fashion; so
he coaxed old Josh to let him take it down to his artist, as he called
him, down in 3rd street. Well, the good-natured old critter said he
might: when he got it back, sich a lookin’ thing as it was, you might
have fallen down and worshipped it, without breaking the ten
commandments. When we saw it, we all larfed; sister Jedide, she
snickered right out. The old man looked at it for about a minute, didn’t
say a word, by jingo—the tears rolled out of his eyes as big as
hail-stones. He jest folded it up, put it under his pillow, laid himself
down on the bed, and never got up again: it broke his heart: he died
from a curtailed coat.
“The old man used to tell sich stories about the Revolution. I rather
guess he could say a leetle more about that affair than most folks.
’Bout six years ago he went to Boston, when La Fayette was there; they
gave a great dinner at Fanueil Hall. When the Mayor heard old Josh
Addams was in Boston, he sent him a regular built invitation. The old
man went, and wore the ’76 coat,—that is, before it was cut down,
though. Bimeby they called upon the old man for a toast. Up he got, and,
says he:
“‘Here’s to the Heroes of the Revolution, who fought, bled, and died for
their country, of which I was one.’
“When old Josh said that, they all snickered right out.
“There’s one story the old man used to tell about Boston, that was a
real snorter: he always used to laugh afore he begun.
“He said, down on Long Wharf there was a queer little feller—a cousin
of his by the mother’s side—called Zedekiah Hales, who wasn’t more than
four foot high, and had a hump jest between his shoulders. A hull squad
of British officers got round Zedekiah, in State Street, and were
laughing and poking all sorts of fun at him: he bore it, cause as how he
couldn’t help it; one of them, a regular built dandy captain, lifting up
his glass, said to him:
“‘You horrid little deformed critter, what’s that lump you’ve got on
your shoulder?’
“Zedekiah turned round and looked at him for about a minute, and says
he:
“‘It’s _Bunker Hill_, you tarnal fool, you.’”
-----
[7] By G. H. Hill.
IV.
THE GANDER-PULLING.
In the year ——, I resided in the city of Augusta, and upon visiting
the Market-House one morning in that year, my attention was called to
the following notice stuck upon one of the pillars of the building:
“ADVURTYSEMENT.
“Thos woo wish To be inform hearof, is hearof notyfide that
edwd. Prator will Giv a Gander pullin’, jis this side of
harisburg, on Satterday of thes pressent munth, to All woo mout
wish to partak tharof.
“e. Prator—thos wishin’ to partak will cum yearly, as the
pullin’ will begin Soon.—E. P.”
If I am asked why “jis this side of harisburg” was selected for the
promised feat, instead of the city of Augusta? I answer from conjecture,
but with some confidence, because the ground chosen was near the central
point between four rival towns, the citizens of all which “mout wish to
partak tharof,” namely, Augusta, Springfield, Harrisburg, and
Campbelltown. Not that each was the rival of all the others, but that
the first and last were competitors, and each of the others backed the
pretensions of its nearest neighbour.
Harrisburg sided with Campbelltown, _not because she had any interest in
seeing the business of the two states centre upon the bank of the river,
nearly opposite to her_, but because, like the “Union democratic
republican party of Georgia,” she thought, after the adoption of the
Federal Constitution, that the several towns of the confederacy should
no longer be “separated” by the distinction of local party; that laying
down all former prejudices and jealousies as a sacrifice on the altar of
their country, they should become united in a single body, for the
maintenance of those principles which they deemed essential to the
public welfare.
Springfield, on the other hand, espoused the state rights’ creed. She
admitted that, under the federal compact, she ought to love the sister
states very much; but that, under the social compact, she ought to love
her own state a little more; and she thought the two compacts perfectly
reconcilable to each other. Instead of the towns of the several states
getting into single bodies to preserve the public welfare, her doctrine
was, that they should be kept in separate bodies to preserve the private
welfare. She admitted frankly, that living as she had always lived,
right amidst gullies, vapours, fogs, creeks and lagoons, she was wholly
incapable of comprehending that expansive kind of benevolence which
taught her to love people whom she knew nothing about, as much as her
next door neighbours and friends. Until, therefore, she could learn it
from the practical operation of the federal compact, she would stick to
the old-fashioned Scotch love, which she understood perfectly, and “go
in” for Augusta, live or die, hit or miss, right or wrong.
As in the days of Mr. Jefferson, the Springfield doctrines prevailed,
Campbelltown was literally _nullified_: insomuch, that ten years ago
there was not a house left to mark the spot where once flourished this
active, busy little village. Those who are curious to know where
Springfield stood, at the time of which I am speaking, have only to take
their position at the intersection of Broad and Manbury Streets, in the
city of Augusta, and they will be in the very heart of old Springfield.
Between Harrisburg and Springfield, and eleven hundred and forty-three
yards from the latter, there runs a stream which may be perpetual. At
the time just mentioned, it flowed between banks twelve or fourteen feet
high, and was then called, as it still is, “Hawk’s Gully.”
Now Mr. Prator, like the most successful politician of the present day,
was on all sides in a doubtful contest; and accordingly he laid off his
gander-pulling ground on the nearest suitable unappropriated spot to the
centre point between Springfield and Harrisburg. This was between
Harrisburg and Hawk’s Gully, but within one hundred yards of Harrisburg.
When “Satterday of the pressent munth” rolled round, I determined to go
to the gander-pulling. When I reached the spot, a considerable number of
persons of different ages, sexes, sizes, and complexions, had collected
from the rival towns, and the country around. But few females were
there, however, and those few were from the lowest walks of life.
A circular path, of about forty yards in diameter, had already been laid
out; over which, from two posts about ten feet apart, stretched a rope,
the middle of which was directly over the path. The rope hung loosely,
so as to allow it, with the weight of a gander attached to it, to
vibrate in an arc of four or five feet span, and so as to bring the
breast of the gander within barely easy reach of a man of middle
stature, upon a horse of common size.
A hat was now handed to such as wished to enter the lists, and they
threw into it twenty-five cents each; this sum was the victor’s prize.
The devoted gander was now produced; and Mr. Prator having tied his feet
together with a strong cord, proceeded to the _neck-greasing_. Abhorrent
as it may be to all who respect the tenderer relations of life, Mrs.
Prator had actually prepared a gourd of _goose-grease_ for this very
purpose.
For myself, when I saw Ned dip his hands into it, and commence stroking
down the feathers, from breast to head, my thoughts took a melancholy
turn. They dwelt in sadness upon the many conjugal felicities which had
probably been shared between the greasess and the grease. I could see
him, as he stood by her side, through many a chilly day, and cheerless
night, when she was warming into life the offspring of their mutual
loves, and repelled, with chivalrous spirit, every invasion of the
consecrated spot which she had selected for her incubation. I could see
him moving, with patriarchal dignity, by the side of his loved one, at
the head of a smiling, prattling group, the rich reward of their mutual
care, to the luxuries of the meadow, or the recreations of the pool. And
now, alas! the smoking sacrifice of his bosom friend was desecrated to
the unholy purpose of making his neck “a fit object” for Cruelty to
reach “her quick, unerring fingers at.”
Ye friends of the sacred tie, judge what were my feelings when, in the
midst of these reflections, the voice of James Prator thundered on mine
ear:
“Durn the old dodger, Brother Ned! Grease his neck, till a fly can’t
light on it!”
Ned having fulfilled his brother Jim’s request as well as he could,
attached the victim of his cruelty to the rope, directly over the path.
On each side of the gander was stationed a man, whose office it was to
lash forward any horse which might linger there for a moment; for by the
rules of the ring, all pulling was to be done at a brisk canter.
The word was now given for the competitors to mount and take their
places in the ring. Eight appeared: Tall Zubly Zin, mounted upon Sally
Spitfire; Arch Odum, on Bull and Ingons (Onions); Nathan Perdew, on Wild
Cat; James Dickson, on Nigger; David Williams, on Gridiron; fat John
Fulger, on Slouch; Gorham Bostwick, on Gimblet; and Turner Hammond, on
Possum.
“Come, gentlemen,” said Commandant Prator, “fall in! All of you get
behind one another, sort o’ in a row.”
All came into the track very kindly, but Sally Spitfire and Gridiron.
The former, as soon as she saw a general movement of horses, took it for
granted there was mischief brewing; and because she could not tell where
it lay, she concluded it lay everywhere, and therefore took fright at
everything.
Gridiron was a grave horse; but a suspicious eye, which he cast to the
right and left wherever he moved, showed that he was “wide awake,” and
that “nobody had better not go fooling with him,” as his owner sometimes
used to say. He took a sober, but rather intense view of things;
insomuch that, in his contemplations, he passed over his track three
times, before he could be prevailed upon to stop upon it. He stopped at
last, and when he was made to understand that this was all that was
expected of him for the present, he surrendered his suspicions at once,
with a countenance which seemed plainly to say:
“Oh, if this is all you want, I’ve no objection to it.”
It was long before Miss Spitfire could be induced to do the like.
“Get another horse, Zube,” said one; “Sall will never do for a gander
pullin’.”
“I won’t,” said Zube. “If she won’t do, I’ll make her do. I want a nag
that goes off with a spring, so that when I get a hold, she’ll cut the
neck in two, like a steel trap.”
At length Sally was rather flung, than coaxed, into the track, directly
a-head of Gridiron.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the master of the ceremonies, “no man’s to make a
grab till all’s been round; and when the first man _are_ got round, then
the whole twist and tucking off you grab away, as you come under (Look
here, Jim Fulger, you’d better not stand too close to that gander, I
tell you!), one after another. Now blaze away!” (the command for an
onset of every kind, with people of this order.)
Off they went, Miss Sally delighted; for now she thought the whole
parade would end in nothing more nor less than her favourite amusement,
a race. But Gridiron’s visage, pronounced this the most nonsensical
business that ever a horse of sense was engaged in since the world
began.
For the first three rounds Zubly was wholly occupied in restraining
Sally to her place; but he lost nothing by this, for the gander had
escaped unhurt. On completing his third round, Zube stretched forth his
long arm, grabbed the gander by the neck, with a firmness which seemed
likely to defy _goose-grease_, and at the same instant, he involuntarily
gave Sally a sudden check. She raised her head, which had been kept
nearly touching her leader’s hocks; and for the first time, saw the
gander in the act of descending upon her; at the same moment she
received two pealing lashes from the whippers. The way she now broke for
Springfield “is nothin’ to nobody.” As Zube dashed down the road, the
whole circus raised a whoop after him. This started about twenty dogs,
hounds, curs, and pointers in full chase of him (for no man moved
without his dog in those days). The dogs alarmed some belled cattle,
which were grazing on Zube’s path, just as he reached them; these joined
him, with tails up, and a tremendous rattling. Just beyond these went
three tobacco-rollers, at a distance of fifty and a hundred yards apart,
each of whom gave Zube a terrific whoop, scream, or yell, as he passed.
He went in and out of Hawk’s Gully like a trap-ball, and was in
Springfield “in less than no time.” Here he was encouraged onward by a
new recruit of dogs, but they gave up the chase as hopeless before they
cleared the village. Just beyond Springfield, what should Sally
encounter but a flock of geese, the tribe to which she owed all her
misfortunes.
She stopped suddenly, and Zube went over her head with the last-acquired
velocity. He was up in a moment, and the activity with which he pursued
Sally satisfied every spectator that he was unhurt.
Gridiron, who had witnessed Miss Sally’s treatment with astonishment and
indignation, resolved not to pass between the posts until the whole
matter should be explained to his satisfaction. He therefore stopped
short, and by very intelligible looks, demanded of the whippers,
whether, if he passed between them, he was to be treated as Miss
Spitfire had been. The whippers gave him no satisfaction, and his rider
informed him by reiterated thumps of the heel that he should go through,
whether he would or not. Of these, however, Gridiron seemed to know
nothing. In the midst of the conference, Gridiron’s eye lit upon the
oscillating gander, and every moment’s survey of it begat in him a
growing interest, as his slowly rising head, suppressed breath, and
projected ears plainly evinced. After a short examination, he heaved a
sigh, and looked behind him to see if the way was clear. It was plain
that his mind was made up: but to satisfy the world that he would do
nothing rashly, he took another view, and then wheeled and went for
Harrisburg, as if he had set in for a year’s running. Nobody whooped at
Gridiron, for all saw that his running was purely the result of
philosophic deduction. The reader will not suppose that this occupied
half the time which has been consumed in telling it, though it might
have been so, without interrupting the amusement, for Miss Spitfire’s
flight had completely suspended it for a time.
The remaining competitors now went on with the sport. A few rounds
showed plainly that Odum or Bostwick would be the victor, but which no
one could tell.
Whenever either of them came round, the gander’s neck was sure of a
severe wrench. Many a half pint of Jamaica was staked upon them, besides
other things. The poor gander withstood many a strong pull before his
wailings ceased. At length, however, they were hushed by Odum. Then came
Bostwick and broke the neck. The next grasp of Odum, it was thought,
would bear away the head, but it did not. Then Bostwick was sure of it,
but he missed it. Now Odum must surely have it. All is interest and
animation. The horses sweep round with redoubled speed—every eye is
upon Odum—his backers smiling—Bostwick’s trembling. To the rope he
comes—lifts his hand—when lo! Fat John Fulger had borne it away the
second before. All were astonished—all disappointed, and some were
vexed a little: for it was now clear, that, “if it hadn’t o’ been for
his great fat paw,” to use their own language, Odum would have gained
the victory. Others inveighed against “that long-legged Zube Zin, who
was so high, he did not know when his feet were cold, for bringing such
a nag as Sall Spitfire to a gander-pullin’; for if he’d o’ been in his
place, it would have flung Bostwick right were that _gourd o’ hogs’
lard_ (Fulger) was.”
Fulger’s conduct was little calculated to reconcile them to their
disappointment.
“Come here, Neddy Prater,” said he, with a triumphant smile, “let your
Uncle Johnny put his _potato-stealer_ (hand) into that hat, and tickle
the chins of them are shiners a little. Oh you little shining critters,
walk into your Mas’ Johnny’s pocket, and jingle so as Arch Odum and Gory
Bostwick may hear you! You hear ’em, Gory? _Boys_ don’t pull with _men_.
I’ve jist got my hand in; I wish I had a pond full of ganders here now,
jist to show you how I could make their heads fly. Bet all I’ve won, you
may hang three upon that rope, and I’ll set Slouch at full speed and
take off the heads of all three, the first grab, two with my hands and
one with my teeth.”
Thus he went on, but really there was no boasting in this; it was all
fun, for John knew, and all were convinced that he knew, that his
success was entirely the result of accident. John was really a
“good-natured fellow,” and his _cavorting_ had an effect directly
opposite to that which the reader would suppose that it had—it
reconciled all to their disappointment, save one. I except Billy Mixew
of Spirit Creek, who had staked the net proceeds of six quarts of
mukle-berries upon Odum, which he had been long keeping for a safe bet.
He could not get reconciled, until he fretted himself into a pretty
little piney-woods fight, in which he got whipt; and then he went home
perfectly satisfied. Fulger spent all his winnings with Prater, in
treats to the company—made most of them drunk, and thereby produced
four Georgia _rotations_,[8] after which all parted good friends.
-----
[8] I borrowed this term from Jim Inman, at the time: “Why, Jim,” said I
to him, just as he rose from a fight, “what have you been doing?” “Oh,”
said he, “nothing but taking a little _rotation_ with Bob McManus.”
V.
HOW MIKE HOOTER
CAME VERY NEAR “WALLOPING” ARCH COONY.
In the Yazoo Hills, near the town of Sartartia, in the good State of
Mississippi, there lived at no distant date one Mike Hooter, whose
hunting and preaching adventures became famous in all the land. Besides
being a great bear-hunter and hard to beat at preaching, Mike professed
to be “considerable” of a fighter, and in a regular knock-down and
drag-out row was hard to beat.
In order that the world may not remain in darkness as to his doings in
this last behalf, and fearing lest there may be no one who entertains
for him that particularly warm regard which animates us towards him, we
have thought it incumbent on us, in evidence of our attachment for the
reverend hero, to jot down an instance that lingers in our memory
respecting him, bequeathing it as a rich legacy to remotest time.
Entertaining such partiality, we may be pardoned for following Mike in
one of his most stirring adventures, related in his peculiar and
expressive vernacular.
“I’m one of the peaceablest fellers,” said Mike, “that ever trotted on
hind legs, and rather than git into er fuss ’bout nothin’, I’d let er
chap spit on me, but when it comes to rubbin’ it in, I always in
gen’rally kinder r’ars up an’ won’t stan’ it.
“But there’s some fellers up in Yazoo what would rather git into er
scrimmage than eat; an I’ve seen er few up thar what war so hungry for
er fight, that they fell away an’ got so poor an’ thin that they had to
lean up agin er saplin’ to cuss!
“That chap Arch Coony was er few in that line. He was the durndest,
rantankerous hossfly that ever clum er tree! I’ll tell you what, ef I
hadn’t er bin thar I wouldn’t er b’leeved it: I seed him one day in
Satartia git up from er jug of whiskey, when he hadn’t drunk morn’n half
of it, and leave t’other half to spile, and go an’ pitch into er privit
spoute ’twene two Injuns, when he didn’t care er durn cent which
walloped t’other, an’ lammin’ both on um out’n ther mockasins!
“Well, you see, Arch was mighty fond o’ them kind a tricks, an’ if he
seed er fellow he thought he could lamm without no danger, he wouldn’t
make no bones, but he’d just go up to the chap and make faces at him,
and harry his feelings er bit; and ef the fellow showed spunky like,
he’d let him alone, an’ ax him to take a drink; but if he sorter tried
to sidle out of it, Arch would git as mad as all wrath, an’ swar, an’
cuss, an r’ar, an’ charge like er ram at er gate-post; and the fust
thing you knowed, he’d shuck off his coat, an’ when the feller warn’t
’spectin’ nuthin’, Arch would fetch him er side wipe on the head, and
knock him into the middle of next week.
“You see I didn’t like them sort of doings much, me, myself, I didn’t;
and I all’ays, ef ever I got er chance at Arch, I’d let him down a
buttonhole or two. He was gittin’ too high up in the pictures, ennyhow;
and sez I one day, in er crowd, sez I:
“‘Ef that feller Arch Coony don’t mind which side of his bread’s
buttered, I’ll git hold of him one of those days, an’ I’ll make him see
sights.’
“Well, you see there was two or three sheep-stealing chaps listenin’ to
what I sed, an’ they goes and tells Arch the fust chance I got I was
gwine to larrup him. Well, that riled him like all fury, and as soon as
he hearn it he begins er cussin’ like wrath, and sez he:
“‘Dod rot that ole Mike Hooter. He pertend to be a preacher. His
preachin’ ain’t nothin’ but loud hollerin’ nohow.’
“So you see them same chaps, they comes an’ tells me what Arch had sed;
an’ I got mad too, an’ we had the durndest rumpus in the neighbourhood
you ever hearn.
“I didn’t see nothing of Arch from that time till about er month. Every
time I went down to Sartatia to buy ennything—er barrel of whiskey, or
backer, or sich like truck, for privit use—I looked for Arch, an’ Arch
looked for me, but somehow or tother he never crossed my path.
“At last one day I sent him word I beleeved he was skeered of me, and
the fust chance I got I would take the starch out’n him as sure as
shooting; and he sent word back to me that was a game two could play at,
and when I wanted to try it, he’d see if he couldn’t help me.
“Well, things went on that way for er long time, an’ I didn’t see
nothing of Arch, so I begin to forgit all ’bout him. At last one day,
when me and two or three other chaps was gwine down to Big Black River
to go bar-hunting on t’other side of it, I hearn the darndest
clatter-whacking, and noise in the road behind us; and when I turned
round to see what in the name of thunder it was, thar was Arch and a
whole lot of fellers cummin’ down the road, er galloping full tilt right
up to us, an’ er gwine bar-huntin’ too.
“When I seed him I was so mad I thought I should er burst myself.
“‘Now, Mr. Arch, I’ve got you, and if you don’t keep your eye skin’d,
I’ll lick you till your hide won’t hold shucks.’
“Toreckly, Arch he cum up alongside, and looked me right plum in the
face as savage as er meat-axe; and sez he:
“‘Good mornin’ ole Preach, give us your paw.’
“I see thar was mischief in him as big as a meetin’-house, and I
’termined to give him as good as he sent, so I looked at him sorter
savigerous like, and sez I:
“‘Look here, hoss, how can you have the face to talk to me, arter saying
what you sed?’
“‘Why,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, didn’t you begin it?’
“‘No,’ sez I; ‘an’ ef you sez I begun it I’ll larrup you in er inch of
your life.’
“Sez he, ‘You eternal ole cuss, ef you want to larrup me, just larrup
away as soon as you darn please, and we’ll see which ’ill get the wust
of it.’
“‘Now,’ sez I, ‘I likes you, Arch, ’cause I all’ays thought you was a
fust-rate feller; but ain’t you been ’busin’ me everywhere fur
everything you could think of?’
“‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you say you’d git hold of me one of these
days, and make me see sites?’
“‘No,’ sez I, ‘I didn’t: but this here’s what I sed, sez I, ef that
feller, Arch Cooney, don’t mind which side of his bread’s buttered, I’ll
get hold of him one of those days and make him see sites.’
“‘Well,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, you knows I’m the most peace’blest feller
living, and always mind which side of my bread’s buttered, and ef that’s
all you sed, ’taint nothin’; so let’s take er drink.’
“Then he tuck out er tickler of whiskey, and arter he’d tuck three or
four swallers out’n it, sez he:
“‘Uncle Mike, obleege me by taking er horn.’
“‘No,’ sez I, ‘I won’t do no such er dog on thing, for when I likes er
chap, I likes him, and when I don’t like him, I don’t like him: but if
you wants to fight, I’m your man.’
“You oughter seen Arch then, I think he was the most maddest man that
ever wobbled on two ’hind legs.’ He rar’d an’ pitched, an’ cussed an’
swore like anything.
“When I see him cuttin’ up that way, I commence getting mad, too, an’ my
knees they begin to shake, sorter like I had er chill, an’ skeered—no,
Sir—an’ I s’posed thar was gwine to be thar devil to pay, I give you my
word. I ain’t been so wrathy before once since, and that was t’other day
when that Cain, the blacksmith, drunk up my last bottle of ‘bullface;’
and when I tacked him ’bout it, sed he thought it was milk.
“But that ein’t neither here, nor thar. As I was a sayin’, Arch he
cussed at me, an’ I cussed at him, an’ the fellers what was along of me
sed I beat him all holler. Torectly I begin to get tired of jawin’ away
so much, and sez I:
“‘Arch, what’s the use of makin’ such er all-fired rackit ’bout nothin’.
S’pose we make it up?’
“‘Good as wheat,’ sez he.
“‘Well,’ sez I, ‘give us your paw,’ sez I, ‘but,’ sez I, ‘thar’s one
thing you sed, what sorter sticks in my craw yet, an’ if you don’t
pollogize, I’ll wallop you for it right now.’
“‘What does you mean?’ sez he.
“Sez I, ‘Didn’t you sed one day that my preachin’ warn’t nothin’ but
loud hollerin’?’
“‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you send me word one time that you b’lieved
I was skeered of you, an’ the fust chance you got you’d take the starch
out’n me, as sure as er gun.’
“Sez I, ‘Yes, but what does that signify?’
“‘Well,’ sez he, ‘ef you’ll take back what you sed, I’ll take back what
I sed.’
“Then I begin to get as mad as all wrath, and, sez I:
“‘You eternal sheep-stealin’ whiskey-drinkin’, nigger-lammin’,
bow-legged, taller-faced rascal, does you want me to tell er lie, by
chawin’ up my own words? Ef that’s what you’re arter, jest come on, and
I’ll larrup you till your mammy won’t know you from a pile of
sassage-meat.’
“So we kep er ridin’ on, and er cussin’ one another worse than two
Choctaw Injuns, an’ torectly we cum to the ferry-boat—whar we had to
cross the river. Soon as we got thar, Arch he hopped down off’n his ole
hoss, an’ commenced shuckin’ hisself fur er fight, an’ I jumped down
too. I see the devil was in him as big as er bull, so I begin gritten my
teeth, an’ lookin’ at him as spunky as er Dominecker rooster; and now,
sez I:
“‘Mr. Arch Coony,’ I sed, ‘I’ll make you see sites, an’ the fust thing
you know I’ll show them to you.’ Then I pulled off my ole Sunday
go-to-meetin’-coat, an’ slammed it down on er stump, and, sez I: ‘Lay
thar, ole Methodist, till I learn this ’coon some sense.’
“I soon see thar was gwine to be thar bustinest fight that ever was, so
I rolled up my sleeves, an’ Arch rolled up hisn, and we was gwine at at
it reglar.
“‘Now,’ sez he, ‘ole pra’r-meetin’ pitch in.’
“Well, I jist begin sidelin’ up, an’ he begin sidelin’ up. As soon as I
got close ’nuff to him, so I could hit him a go-darter, sez he:
“‘Hole on er minnit, this ground’s too rooty; wait till I clear the
sticks away from here, so as I can have a fair chance to give it to you
good.’
“‘Don’t hollar till you’re out’n the woods,’ sez I; ‘p’raps when I’m
done you won’t say my preachin’ ain’t nothin’ but hollerin’, I spec.’
“When he’d done scrapen’ off the ground, it looked jist like two bulls
had been pawing up the dirt, I give you my word it did.
“Well, as I sed before, he sidled up, an’ I sidled up, and now, sez I:
“‘Look out for your bread-basket, ole stud, for ef I happen to give you
er jolt thar, p’raps it ’ill tarn your stomach.’
“So thar we stood, head an’ tail up, jest like two chicken-cocks in
layin’ time, an’ sez I to him:
“‘Arch, I’m gwine to maul you till you won’t know yourself.’
“Soon as we got close enuff, an’ I see he was about to make er lunge at
me, sez I:
“‘Hole on, dod drot you, wait till I unbutton my gallowses, an’ may be
so then I’ll show you them sites what we was talkin’ ’bout.’
“Well, all the fellers was stannin’ round ready to take sides in the
fight, an’ toreckly the chap what kep’ the ferry begin to get tired of
keepin’ thar ferry-boat waitin’, an’, sez he:
“‘Cuss your pictures! I’m not gwine to keep this here ferry-boat waitin’
no longer, an’ people on t’other side waitin’ to go over, so if you want
to fight, come over on this side an’ fight there.’
“‘Good as ole wheat,’ sez I, anything to keep peace away, ‘ef you say
so, let’s get into the boat, and settle it over thar.’
“Well, they all agreed to that without sayin’ a word, an’ Arch he got
into the ferry-boat. I jumped into the eend of it, and was gwine to lead
my hoss on too, but the all-fired critter was skeered to jump on to it,
and sez I to the man who kept the ferry, sez I:
“‘Why don’t you wait till I get’s this durned four-legged critter into
the boat?’
“He didn’t say a word, but kept shovin’ the boat out, and toreckly my
hoss begin pullin’ back with the bridle, an’ I er holein’ on to it, an’
the furst thing I knowed, I went kerswash into the drink. So you see, in
about er minit, thar was I on to this side, and thar was Arch on
t’other, and no chance for me to git at him. Tell you what, I was hot
then—and what was worser, Arch he hollered out and sed he b’leved I
skeered the hoss and made him pull back, on purpose to get out’n the
scrape. When I hearn him say that, I was so mad I fairly biled.
Howsever, I soon see ’twarn’t no use raisen er racket ’bout what
couldn’t be helped, so I ’cluded I’d have my satisfaction out’n him any
way. An’ I begin shakin’ my fist at him, an’ er cussin’ him. Sez I:
“‘You eternal yaller-faced, suck-egg son of er ——, what is it you
ain’t mean ’nuff for me to call you? I tell you what!’ (an’ I hope to be
forgiven for swearin’) I cussed him blue.
“Well, I was so outdone I didn’t wait for the boat to come back, for it
was gettin’ ’most dark and too late for bar-huntin’ that day; ’sides, my
wife she would be ’spectin’ me at the house, and might rais pertickler
dust if I didn’t get thar in time; so I jumped on my ole hoss, an’ put
for home. But the way I cussed and ’bused Arch when I got on the hoss,
was er sin, an’ the further I got away from him the louder I hollered! I
pledge you my word, you might er hearn me er mile.
“To make a long story short, the last word I sed to him, sez I:
“‘Arch, you’ve ’scaped me this time by er axident, but the next time you
cross my path, I’ll larrup you worse nor the devil beatin’ tan-bark! I
will, by hokey!’
“Whew!” whistled Mike, drawing a long breath. “I tell you what, I come
the nearest wollopin’ that feller, not to do it, that ever you saw.”
At this moment Mike donned his coon-skin cap, and giving it a terrific
_slam_, that brought it over his eyes, vanished.
VI.
AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW.
I hope the day is not far distant, when drunkenness will be unknown in
our highly-favoured country. The moral world is rising in its strength
against the all-destroying vice, and though the monster still struggles,
and stings, and poisons, with deadly effect, in many parts of our
wide-spread territory, it is perceptibly wounded and weakened; and I
flatter myself, if I should live to number ten years more, I shall see
it driven entirely from the higher walks of life at least, if not from
all grades of society. For the honour of my contemporaries, I would
register none of its crimes or its follies; but, in noticing the
peculiarities of the age in which I live, candour constrains me to give
this vice a passing notice. The interview which I am about to present to
my readers, exhibits it in its mildest and most harmless forms.
In the county of ——, and about five miles apart, lived old Hardy Slow
and old Tobias Swift. They were both industrious, honest, sensible
farmers, when sober; but they never visited their county-town without
getting drunk; and then they were—precisely what the following
narrative makes them.
They both happened at the Court-House on the same day, when I last saw
them together; the former accompanied by his wife, and the latter by his
youngest son, a lad about thirteen. Tobias was just clearly on the wrong
side of the line, which divides drunk from sober; but Hardy was
“_royally corned_” (but not falling) when they met, about an hour by sun
in the afternoon, near the rack at which their horses were hitched.
They stopped about four feet apart, and looked each other full in the
face for about half a minute, during all which time, Toby sucked his
teeth, winked, and made signs with his shoulders and elbows to the
by-standers that he knew Hardy was drunk, and was going to quiz him for
their amusement. In the meantime, Hardy looked at Tobias, like a polite
man dropping to sleep in spite of himself under a dull long story.
At length Toby broke silence:
“How goes it, Uncle Hardy?” (_winking to the company, and shrugging his
shoulders_.)
“Why, Toby!—is that you? Well—upon my—why,
Toby!——Lord—help—my—soul and——Why, Toby! what, in, the, worl’,
set, you, to, gitt’n, drunk—this, time o’ day? Swear, poin’ blank,
you’re drunk! Why—you—must be, an old, fool—to, get, drunk, right,
before, all these, gentlemen——a’ready, Toby.”
“Well, but, now you see (_winking_), Uncle Hardy, a gill-cup an’t a
quart-pot, nor a quart-pot an’t a two-gallon jug; and therefore
(_winking and chuckling_), Uncle Hardy, a thing is a thing, turn it
which way you will, it just sticks at what it was before you give it
first ex—ex—ploit.”
“Well, the Lord, help, my——Why, Toby! what, is the reas’n, you, never,
will, answer, me this, one—circumstance——and, that, is——I, always,
find, you, drunk, when, I come, here.”
“Well, now, but Uncle Hardy, you always know circumstances alters cases,
as the fellow said; and therefore, if one circumstance alters another
circumstance——how’s your wife and children?”
“I, swear, poin’ blank, I shan’t tell you—because, you r’ally, is, too
drunk, to know, my wife, when, you, meet, her, in the street, all, day,
long, and, she’ll, tell, you, the, very, same, thing, as, all, these,
gentlemen, can—testimony.”
“Well, but now you see, Uncle Hardy, thinking’s one thing and knowing’s
another, as the fellow said; and the proof o’ the pudding’s chawin’ the
bag, as the fellow said; and you see—toll-doll-diddle-de-doll-doll-day
(_singing and capering_), you think I can’t dance? Come, Uncle Hardy,
let’s dance.”
“Why, Toby!—you—come—to this? _I_ didn’t make, you, drunk, did I?
You, an’t, took, a drink, with, me, this, live, long, day—is you? I,
say, is you, Toby?”
“No, Uncle Har—”
“Well, then, let’s go, take a drink.”
“Well, but you see, Uncle Hardy, drinkin’s drinkin’; but that’s neither
here nor there, as the fellow said.
“‘Come (_singing_) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,
And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’”
“Why, Toby! ha—ha—ha—Well, I r’ally, did, think, you, was, drunk,
but, now I believe——blast the flies! I b’lieve, they, jest, as li’f,
walk, in my, mouth, as, in, my nose. (_Then looking with eyes half
closed at Toby for several minutes._) Why, Toby, you, spit ’bacoo spit,
all over, your jacket—and, that’s jist, the very, way, you, got, in
your——fix.”
At this moment, Mrs. Slow came up, and immediately after, Swift’s son,
William.
“Come,” said the good lady, “old man, let’s go home; it’s getting late,
and there’s a cloud rising; we’ll get wet.”
“Why, Nancy! what in the worl’ has got into you! Is you drunk, too?
Well, ’pon, my word, and honor, I, b’lieve, every body, in this town,
is, got drunk to-day. Why, Nancy! I never, did, see, you, in, that fix,
before, in, all, my, live, long, born, days.”
“Well, never mind,” said she, “come, let’s go home. Don’t you see the
rain coming up?”
“Well, will, it rain, upon, my, corn-field, or my cotton-patch? Say,
Nancy! which one, will it, rain on? But, Lord, help, my, soul, you are,
too drunk, to tell me, any, thing, about it. Don’ my corn want rain,
Nancy? Now, jist, tell me, that?”
“Yes; but let’s go home.”
“Then, why, upon, the face, of the earth, won’t you, let it, rain, then?
I, rather, it, should rain, than not.”
“Come, old man,” said several by-standers, touched with sympathy for the
good lady, “come, get on your horse and go home, and we will help you.”
“Oh yes, Uncle Hardy,” said Tobias, affecting to throw all humour aside,
and to become very sober all at once, “go home with the old woman. Come,
gentlemen, let’s help ’em on their horses—they’re groggy—mighty
groggy. Come, old man, I’ll help you.” (_staggering to Hardy._)
“Jist look at daddy now!” said Billy; “he’s going to help Mr. Swift, and
he’s drunk as Mr. Swift is. Oh, daddy, come, let’s go home, or we’ll get
mazin’ wet.”
Toby stooped down to help Hardy on his horse—before the horse was taken
from the rack—and throwing his arm round Hardy’s legs, he fell
backwards, and so did Hardy.
“Why—Lord, bless, my, soul,” said Hardy, “I b’lieve I’m drunk, too!
What, upon the, face, of the earth, has got, into, all, of us, this
day!”
“Why, Uncle Hardy,” said Toby, “you pull us both down together! The old
man’s mighty groggy,” said Toby to me, in a half whisper, and with an
arch wink and smile, as he rose up—I happening to be next to him at the
moment—“s’pose we help him up, and get him off? The old woman’s in for
it, too,” continued he, winking, nodding, and shrugging up his shoulders
very significantly.
“Oh no,” said I, “the old woman is perfectly sober, and I never heard of
her tasting a drop in all my life.”
“Oh,” said Toby, assuming the gravity of a parson, “loves it mightily,
mightily! Monstrous woman for drinking!—at least that’s my opinion.
Monstrous fine woman, though! monstrous fine!”
“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home; only see what a rain is
coming?” said Billy.
“Daddy’ll go presently, my son.”
“Well, here’s your horse, git up and let’s go. Mammy’ll be sure to be
sendin’ for us.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Toby, winking to me; “he’s nothing but a boy; I
wouldn’t take no notice of what he said. He wants me (_winking and
smiling_) to go home with him; now you listen.”
“Well, come,” said I to Uncle Toby, “get on your horse and go home, a
very heavy rain is coming up.”
“I’ll go presently, but you just listen to Bill,” said he to me, winking
and smiling.
“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home.”
Toby smiled archly at me, and winked.
“Daddy, are you going home or not? Jist look at the rain comin’.”
Toby smiled and winked.
“Well, I do think a drunken man is the biggest fool in the county,” said
Bill, “I don’t care who he is.”
“Bill!” said the old man, very sternly, “‘honour thy father and thy
mother,’ that—that the woman’s seed may bruise the serpent’s head.”
“Well, daddy, tell me if you won’t go home! You see it’s going to rain
powerful. If you won’t go, may I go?”
“Bill; ‘Leave not thy father who begot _thee_; for thou art my beloved
son Esau, in whom I am well pleased.’”
“Why, daddy, it’s dropping rain now.”
Here Bill was relieved from his anxiety by the appearance of Aaron, a
trusty servant, whom Mrs. Slow had despatched for his master, to whose
care Bill committed him, and was soon out of sight.
Aaron’s custom had long been to pick up his master without ceremony, put
him on his horse, and bear him away. So used to this dealing had Toby
been, that when he saw Aaron, he surrendered at discretion, and was soon
on the road. But as the rain descended in torrents, before even Bill
could have proceeded half a mile, the whole of them must have been
drenched to the skin.
As to Hardy, whom in the proper order we ought to have disposed of
first, he was put on his horse by main force, and was led off by his
wife, to whom he was muttering as far as I could hear him:
“Why, Nancy! How, did, you, get, in, such a fix? You’ll, fall, off,
your, horse, sure, as you’re born, and I’ll have to put you up again.”
As they were constrained to go in a walk, they too must have got
wringing wet, though they had a quarter of an hour the start of Toby.
VII.
BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE.
Coming up from Newport, on the pretty little steamer ‘Perry,’ a few days
ago, I fell in with, or chanced to lay across the track of, a
Mississippi flat-boatman whom I had not seen for three years, and from
having had, once upon a time, a rather personal adventure with him, you
may guess that the meeting was one of curious congratulation.
Ben and I had both travelled “some” since we had parted, and he had, as
well as myself, many things to tell.
I was sitting on the upper deck, consulting the opinions of one of Job
Patterson’s A No. 1 Havanas, when a pretty muscular and sun-burnt
specimen of humanity hove alongside, and brought a rather big paw down
upon my right shoulder with a bim that made me start _a little_.
“How are you old J comp’ny?” was the first broadside. “I ha’nt set eyes
on you sence we had the scrimmidge down to the Washington ball-room,
Orleans. Rayther a time that ar?” and he winked his little black eyes
until I fancied I heard the lids snap.
“Ben Wilson?” I inquired.
“’Zactly; you’ve hit it on the head this time. How’ve you ben, and
whar?”
“Travelling generally,” I responded; “been looking at the Rhode Island
Legislature of late. About health I’m as snug as a kitten, and as hearty
as you seem to be.”
“I? Yes; ef I’d a had them sinners” (showing a lump of bones and muscles
_something_ larger than mine, I think), “when that ar scrimmidge took
place, there’d a been a different report of killed and wounded at the
perlice shop. But that ain’t no consekense now, tho’ thar is a ugly sort
of a seam on the larboard side of my phizognomy. What’ll you sample?”
Such a polite invitation was not under the circumstances to be refused,
and a liquid strengthener was presently applied to the in’nards of both.
A couple more of Job’s regalias were lighted, and we walked forward to
look at the sights and enjoy a little quiet conversation.
“You hev’nt got that thar took-pick about you, hev you?” asked Ben, as
we got afront of the wheelhouse.
“No.”
“I’m sorry for that, for I’d a like to had it for a keepsake, _that_
knife. You punched it into my jowl rather vigorously that night.”
“And this,” said I, rolling up my right sleeve, and pointing to a very
pretty stiletto scar.
“’Twarn’t mine, by all the broad horns that ever run in Mississip’!”
roared Ben. “’Twas the French bar-keeper did that.”
“Never mind, Ben,” said I, “I thought ’twas you at the time; but anyhow,
a man hasn’t much time to debate nice questions when that pile of ivory”
(pointing to his big fist) “is making love to his windpipe.”
“No more he han’t, and no more you hadn’t,” said Ben, “en it’s all
forgiv’. Less change the topick.”
“Been boating since I met you?” I inquired, after a short pause.
“Well, yes, mostly,” answered Ben, deliberately. “Druv a pretty fair
business last year; only sunk one broad-horn, en that war snagged. Saved
part of the load, en lost it agin at a _cre_-vasse. I had a fust-rate
openin’ this spring, but a awkward accident kicked all the fat into the
fire.”
“Bad luck, eh? how was it?”
“Did you ever jug for buffalo fish?”
“Never.”
“Han’t no idee on the _pre_-cise way it is done?”
“Not the least. Yes, I did see something about it in the ‘Spirit,’ but
I’ve forgotten all about it.”
“‘Sperit?’ Oh, that’s the sportin’ paper down to York. Nolan, and
Hooper, and Steve Tucker writes to it. Some jokes in that ar sheet, onst
in a while.”
“Occasionally, I calculate; but this jugging for buffaloes.”
“Sartin. You see it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. Git a dozen jugs en
two canoes; hitch your lines to the handles of the jugs, put on your
bait, and then toss them overboard. When you sees a jug begin to bob,
there’s a buffalo thar: en when it begins to dive and run, you may
calk’late there’s one varmint hooked. Strike out like a pointer, pull up
the line, and the fish is _thar_; but you’ve got to keep your weather
eye open, or you lose him.”
“I understand; but the awkward accident you spoke of?”
“Yes, of course; that’ll come in good time. D’you recollect that feller
with the one eye that stuck by me in that scrimmidg at Orleans?”
“Perfectly; I _felt_ him audibly that night.”
“Joe Stilwell. Wal, Joe and I run together, en we run sens, tel we fell
out on one of these jug affairs; en then he sot up for
hisself—oppersition. ’Bout the last of A-_prile_ we hap’nd to come
together to Saint Lewis, en started down the river the same day. Joe had
the start five hours, an’ I were glad of it; for he hadn’t no good
feelin’ towards me, en’ I hadn’t none for him, I swar. It war two days
’fore I see anythink of him, but a man who got on at Milses wood-yard
said Joe wanted to tackle me; en sez he, ‘Z’likes not he’ll stop to
Ransom’s for freight, for he han’t got more’n two-thirds his
complement,’ Sez I: ‘Ef Joe runs across my bows, he knows what’ll be the
konsekens;’ an’ we didn’t say no more about the matter.
“It was midnight when we got to Ransom’s, an’ I was debatin’ whether it
warn’t better to shove along then to stop, when I here’s Joe’s voice a
usin’ of my name. That was all war wanted to settle the matter. I tied
up, and asked all hands to licker. Joe he was the fust one to come up,
sez he:
“‘Ben, we’ve had some rily feelin’s, en let’s settle them rash’nally.’
“‘How?’ sez I, not ’zactly understandin’ him.
“‘Rash’nally,’ sez he. ‘I’ll drink with you, and you drink with me, en
then we’ll call it squar.’
“‘’Greed!’ sez I, en we lickered round twiste, en Joe and I shook hands,
en squar’d off all old ’counts _pertensively_.
“Thar was suthin’ in his looks I didn’t like when we shuck hands; but
sez I to myself, ‘this ’coon sleeps in the day-time maybe, but he’s wide
awake on this yer night.’ Ransom, he seemed glad we’d made up again ‘fer
all time,’ es he said, and we lickered ’long a him.
“While we was drinkin’ ’long a Ransom, one of my hands come in en
whispered softly in my ear, all unbeknown to the rest, that somebody hed
ben tryin’ to cut my starn-cable, and then he sneaked back to watch for
the marorder.
“I got off pretty soon after, en went aboard a _leetle_ riled. But I
didn’t tell the boys who I thought was the rascal, thoar I told em to
keep a sharp watch, en fire to kill, when they did shoot. But tha’
warn’t nobody come, Joe knew better than to play with the old fox in his
den—Joe did.
“Nex’ mornin’ we were just castin’ off, when Joe come down to the
wharf-boat, en sez he:
“‘You ain’t goin’ off mad, ar you?’
“‘No,’ sez I.
“‘Wal,’ sez he, ‘less take a partin’ smile.’
“I didn’t like the idea, but Ransom he said:
“‘Come in, Ben!’ en in I went and drinkt.
“‘What d’you say to a buffalo-juggin?’ said Joe, arter we’d lickered.
“‘It’s too airly in the season,’ sez I; ‘b’sides I’m off for Orleans.’
“‘So’m I,’ said Joe, ‘at eleven; en we’ll go company.’
“‘What’s the blaze?’ said Ransom.
“‘Two canoes, and one jug,’ said Joe.
“I knowed what he was after then, for it showed clean out’n his eyes.
Joe war the best swimmer, en he thort ef we cum together an’ upset the
canoes, he’d have the advantage. He knowed he’d git catawampously chored
up ashore, en _he wanted to drown me_.”
“What a devil incarnate! I exclaimed.”
“That’s just him ’zactly. I thort a minnit, and then sez I:
“‘I’m your man.’
“Wal, a skiff tuck out the only jug, en Joe en I paddled from shore
leisurely.
“‘A bob!’ yelled out Ransom, en we started.
“We was about ten rods apart, en neck-en-neck. On we swept like greased
lightnin’, Joe leadin’ by ’bout _two inches_, I should guess. I had not
look’t at Joe sens we left shore, but as we draw’d nigh the jug I seed
he had his coat and jacket off. We was within ten foot of the jug, en
both dropped paddles, en I shed my coat en jacket a _leetle_ quicker’n
common. Tha’ warn’t no misunderstandin’ between us then; en as the
canoes come together, both grappled and went overboard, and underneath
the water.”
Ben here paused, took out his bandanna, and wiped the big drops off of
his forehead, as coolly as if he was recounting the events of a
dinner-party.
“Well,” I urged impatiently, “you both went under the water?”
“Yes, that was the _accident_ happened!”
“Accident? explain.”
“Why, I’ve no more to say’n this. I riz, en got aboard my broad-horn, en
come away.”
“But Joe—what became of him?”
“_Joe? he was a missin’ ’long with my bowie-knife!_”
I parted with Ben, when the ‘Perry’ touched the wharf at Providence, not
caring, _under the circumstances_, to inquire which way he was
travelling.
VIII.
MIKE FINK IN A TIGHT PLACE.
Mike Fink, a notorious Buckeye-hunter, was contemporary with the
celebrated Davy Crockett, and his equal in all things relating to human
prowess. It was even said that the animals knew the crack of his rifle,
and would take to their secret hiding-places, on the first intimation
that Mike was about. Yet strange, though true, he was but little known
beyond his immediate “settlement.”
When _we_ knew him he was an old man—the blasts of seventy winters had
silvered o’er his head, and taken the elasticity from his limbs; yet in
the whole of his life was Mike never worsted, except upon one occasion.
To use his own language, he never “gin in,” used up, to anything that
travelled on two legs or four, but once.
“That _once_ we want,” said Bill Slasher, as some dozen of us sat in the
bar-room of the only tavern in the “settlement.”
“Gin it to us now, Mike; you’ve promised long enough, and you’re old
now, and needn’t care,” continued Bill.
“Right, right, Bill,” said Mike; “but we’ll open with a _licker_ all
around fust, it’ll kind o’ save my feelin’s I reckon.”
“Thar, that’s good. Better than t’other barrel, if anything.”
“Well, boys,” commenced Mike, “you may talk o’ your scrimmages, tight
places and sich like, and subtract ’em altogether in one all-mighty big
’un, and they hain’t no more to be compared to the one I war in, than a
dead kitten to an old she-bar, I’ve fout all kinds of varmints, from a
Ingun down to a rattlesnake, and never was willin’ to quit fust, but
this once, and t’was with a bull!
“You see, boys, it was an awful hot day in August, and I war near
runnin’ off into pure _ile_, when I war thinkin’ that a _dip_ in the
creek mout save me. Well, thar was a mighty nice place in old Deacon
Smith’s medder for that partic’lar bizziness. So I went down among the
bushes to unharness. I jest hauled the old red shirt over my head, and
war thinkin’ how scrumptious a feller of my size would feel a wallerin’
round in that ar water, and was jest ’bout goin’ in, when I seed the old
Deacon’s bull a makin a b-line to whar I stood.
“I know’d the old cuss, for he’d skar’d more people than all the parsons
in the ‘settlement,’ and cum mighty near killin’ a few. Think’s I, Mike,
you’re in rather a tight place. Get your fixin’s on, for he’ll be
drivin’ them big horns o’ his in yer bowels afore that time. Well,
you’ll hev to try the old varmint naked, I reck’n.
“The bull war on one side o’ the creek, and I on t’other, and the way he
made the ‘sile’ fly for a while, as if he war diggin’ my grave, war
distressin’!
“‘Come on, ye bellerin’ old heathen,’ said I, ‘and don’t be a standin’
there; for, as the old Deacon says o’ the devil, yer not comely to look
on.’
“This kind o’ reached his understandin’, and made him more wishious; for
he hoofed a little like, and made a drive. And as I don’t like to stand
in anybody’s way, I gin him plenty sea-room. So he kind o’ passed by me,
and cum out on t’other side; and as the captain o’ the mud-swamp
ranger’s would say: ‘’bout face for another charger.’
“Though I war ready for him this time, he come mighty nigh runnin’ foul
o’ me. So I made up my minde the next time he went out he wouldn’t be
alone. So when he passed, I grappled his tail, and he pulled me out on
the ‘sile,’ and as soon as we were both a’top o’ the bank, old Brindle
stopped, and was about comin’ round agin, when I begin pull’n t’other
way.
“Well, I reckon this kind o’ _riled_ him, for he fust stood stock still,
and look’d at me for a spell, and then commenced pawin’ and bellerin’,
and the way he made his hind gearing play in the air, war beautiful!
“But it warn’t no use, he couldn’t _tech_ me, so he kind o’ stopped to
get wind for suthin’ devilish, as I _judged_ by the way he stared. By
this time I had made up my mind to stick to his tail as long as it stuck
to his back-bone! I didn’t like to holler fur help, nuther, kase it war
agin my principles; and then the Deacon had preached at his house, and
it warn’t far off nuther.
“I know’d if he _hern_ the noise, the hull congregation would come down;
and as I warn’t a married man, and had a kind o’ hankerin’ arter a gal
that war thar, I didn’t feel as if I would like to be seed in that ar
predicament.
“‘So,’ ses I, ‘you old sarpent, do yer cussedst!’
“And so he did; for he drug me over every briar and stump in the field,
until I was sweatin’ and bleedin’ like a fat _bar_ with a pack o’ hounds
at his heels. And my name ain’t Mike Fink, if the old critter’s tail and
I didn’t blow out sometimes at a dead level with the varmint’s back!
“So you may kalkilate we made good time. Bimeby he slackened a little,
and then I had him for a spell, for I jest dropped behind a stump, and
that snubbed the critter.
“‘Now,’ ses I, ‘you’ll pull up this ’ere white oak, break you’re _tail_,
or jist hold on a bit till I blow.’
“Well, while I war settin’ thar, an idea struck me that I had better be
a gettin’ out o’ this in some way. But _how_, adzackly was the _pint_!
If I let go and run, he’d be a foul o’ me sure.
“So lookin’ at the matter in all its bearins, I cum to the conclusion
that I’d better let somebody _know_ whar I was. So I gin a _yell_ louder
than a locomotive whistle, and it warn’t long before I seed the Deacon’s
two dogs a comin’ down like as if they war seein’ which could get thar
fust.
“I know’d who they war arter—they’d jine the bull agin me, I war
sartin, for they war awful wenimous, and had a spite agin me.
“‘So,’ ses I, ‘old Brindle, as ridin’ is as cheap as walkin’ on this
rout, if you’ve no objections, I’ll jest take a deck passage on that ar
back o’ your’n.’
“So I wasn’t long gettin’ astride of him, and then if you’d been thar,
you’d ’ave sworn thar warn’t nothin’ human in that ar _mix_; the sile
flew so orrfully as the critter and I rolled round the field—one dog on
one side and one on t’other, tryin’ to clinch my feet!
“I pray’d and cuss’d, and cuss’d and pray’d, until I couldn’t tell which
I did last—and neither warn’t of any use, they war so orrfully mix’d
up.
“Well, I reckon I rid about an hour this way, when old Brindle thought
it war time to stop and take in a supply of wind and cool off a little!
So when we got round to a tree that stood thar, he nat’rally halted!
“‘Now,’ ses I, ‘old boy, you’ll lose _one_ passenger sartin!’
“So I just clum upon a branch, kalkelating to roost thar till I starved,
afore I’d be rid round that ar way any more.
“I war makin’ tracks for the top of the tree, when I heard suthin’ a
makin’ an orful buzzin’ over head, I kinder looked up, and if thar
warn’t—well thar’s no use swearin’ now, but it war the biggest
_hornet’s nest_ ever built!
“You’ll gin in now, I reckon, Mike, case thar’s no help for you! But an
idea struck me, then, that I’d stand a heap better chance a ridin’ the
old bull than where I war. Ses I, ‘Old feller, if you’ll hold on, I’ll
ride to the next _station_ any how, let that be whar it will!’
“So I jest drapped aboard him agin, and looked aloft to see what I’d
gained in changing quarters; and, gentlemen, I’m a liar if thar warn’t
nigh half a bushel of the stingen’ varmints ready to pitch into me when
the word ‘go’ was gin!
“Well, I reckon they got it, for ‘all hands’ started for our _company_!
Some on ’em hit the dogs—about a _quart_ struck me, and the rest
charged old Brindle.
“This time, the dogs led off fust, ‘dead’ beat, for the old Deacon’s,
and as soon as old Brindle and I could get under way, we _followed_. And
as I war only a deck passenger, and had nothin’ to do with stearin’ the
craft, I swore if I had we shouldn’t have run that channel, any how!
“But, as I said before, the dogs took the lead—Brindle and I next, and
the hornets dre’kly arter. The dogs yellin’, Brindle bellerin’, and the
hornets buzzin’ and stingin’! I didn’t say nothin’ for it warn’t no use.
“Well, we’d got bout two hundred yards from the house, and the Deacon
hearn us and cum out. I seed him hold up his hands and turn _white_! I
reckon he war prayin’ then, for he didn’t expect to be called for so
soon, and it warn’t long, neither, afore the hull congregation, men,
women, and children, cum out, and then all hands went to yellin’!
“None of ’em had the fust notion that Brindle and I belonged to this
world. I jest turned my head, and passed the _hull_ congregation! I seed
the run would be up soon, for Brindle couldn’t turn an inch from a fence
that stood dead ahead.
“Well, we reached that fence, and I went _ashore_, over the old
critter’s head, landin’ on t’other side, and lay thar stunned. It warn’t
long afore some of ’em as war not so scared, come round to see what I
war, for all hands kalkelated that the bull and I belonged _together_!
But when Brindle walked off by himself, they seed how it war, and one of
’em said:
“‘Mike Fink has got the _worst of the scrimmage once in his life_!’
“Gentlemen, from that day I drapped the _courtin’_ bizziness, and never
spoke to a gal since! And when my hunt is up on this yearth, thar won’t
be any more F I N K S and it’s all owin’ to Deacon Smith’s Brindle
Bull.”
IX.
OUR SINGING-SCHOOL.
A CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF THE TOWN OF
PIGWACKET.
My second cousin by the mother’s side, Benjamin Blackletter, A.M., who
was born and lived all his lifetime in the ancient town of Pigwacket,
has compiled, with scrupulous accuracy, the annals of that venerable
town, in three volumes folio, which he proposes to publish as soon as he
can find a Boston bookseller who will undertake the job. I hope this
will be accomplished before long, for Pigwacket is a very interesting
spot, though not very widely known. It is astonishing what important
events are going on every day, in odd corners of this country, which the
world knows nothing about. When I read over these trusty folios, which
bear the title, “=The General History of the Town of
Pigwacket=, _from its first settlement until the present day,
comprising an authentic relation of all its civil, military,
ecclesiastical, financial and statistical concerns, compiled from
original records, &c._” and see the great deeds that have been done in
that respectable town, and the great men that have figured therein, and
reflect that the fame thereof, so far from extending to the four corners
of the earth, has hardly penetrated as far as Boston, I heave a sigh for
mortal glory.
Knowing that my readers must be impatient for the appearance of the
three folios of the History of Pigwacket, and as they cannot be put to
press for some months, I avail myself of this chance to feed their
curiosity by an extract, as the cook at Camancho’s wedding gave Sancho a
couple of pullets to stay his stomach till dinner-time. Take then the
portion contained in Chapter CLXXXVIII., which begins as follows:
It becomes my lot at this period of the narrative, to chronicle
an event that formed quite an epoch in the history of the town,
or rather of that part which constituted our parish. This
occurrence may not be deemed by the world quite so momentous as
the Declaration of Independence, or the French Revolution, but
the reader may believe me, it was a great affair in our
community. This was no less than a mighty feud in church matters
about psalm-singing. The whole parish went by the ears about it,
and the affair gave the community such a rouse, that many people
feared we should never fairly recover the shock. The particulars
were these:
From time immemorial we had continued to sing psalms at meeting,
as became good Christians and lovers of harmony. But my readers,
accustomed to the improvements of modern days, have need to be
informed that up to this period, our congregation had practised
this accomplishment according to that old method of psalmody,
known by the designation of “read-a-line-and-sing-a-line.” This
primitive practice, which had first come into use when
hymn-books were scarce, was still persisted in, though the
necessity for its continuance no longer existed. Our church
music, therefore, exhibited the quaint and patriarchal
alternation of recitation and melody, if melody it might be
called, while some towns in the neighbourhood had adopted the
new fashion, and surprised us by the superiority of their
performances over the rude and homely chants of old.
But it was not long ere the wish to improve our style of singing
began to show itself among us. At the first announcement of such
a design, the piety of many of the old members took the alarm,
and the new method was denounced as heathenish and profane.
The chief personage who figured in the troubles which arose upon
this matter was Deacon Dogskin, a man of scrupulous orthodoxy,
highly dogmatical on theological points, and a leader of
powerful influence in the church. This dignitary, whose office
it had been to give out the several lines of the psalm as they
were sung, was one of the sturdiest opponents of the new-fangled
psalmody, and set his face against the innovation with all the
zeal and devotion of a primitive Christian. Unfortunately for
him, Deacon Grizzle, his colleague, took the opposite side of
the question, exemplifying the vulgar saying, “Two of a trade
can never agree.”
The discordancy, to tell the whole truth, between these two
worthies lay in more interests than one, and it is to be doubted
whether they would have come to a rupture in church affairs, had
not their mutual animosities been quickened by certain temporal
janglings; for so it happened that the two deacons kept each a
grocery store, and neither of them ever let a chance slip of
getting away the other’s custom. Sorry I am to record the
frailties of two such reputable personages, who looked upon
themselves as burning and shining lights in our community; but I
am afraid that the fact cannot be concealed, that the petty
bickerings which arose between them on these little matters of
filthy lucre were suffered to intrude within the walls of the
sanctuary, and stir up the flame of discord in the great
psalm-singing feud; whereby, as our neighbour Hopper Paul sagely
remarked, the world may learn wisdom, and lay it down as a
maxim, that church affairs can never thrive when the deacons are
grocers.
Deacon Grizzle, therefore, partly from conscience and partly
from spite, placed himself at the head of the innovators, and
took every occasion to annoy his associate with all sorts of
ingenious reasons why the singing should be performed without
any intermixture of recitation. The younger part of the
congregation were chiefly ranged under his banner, but the older
people mustered strong on the opposite side. To hear the
disputes that were carried on upon this point, and the
pertinacity with which each one maintained his opinion, an
uninformed spectator would have imagined the interests of the
whole Christian world were at stake. In truth, a great many of
the good old souls really looked upon the act of altering the
mode of singing as a departure from the faith given unto the
saints. It was a very nice and difficult thing to come to a
conclusion where all parties were so hotly interested, but an
incident which fell out not long afterward, contributed to
hasten the revolution.
Deacon Dogskin, as I have already remarked, was the individual
on whom devolved, by prescriptive right, the duty of giving out
the psalm. The Deacon was in all things a stickler for ancient
usages; not only was he against giving up a hair’s breadth of
the old custom, but his attachment to the antique forms went so
far as to embrace all the circumstances of immaterial moment
connected with them. His predilection for the old tone of voice
was not to be overcome by any entreaty, and we continued to hear
the same nasal, snuffling drawl, which, nobody knows how, he had
contracted in the early part of his deaconship, although on
common occasions he could speak well enough. But the tone was a
part of his vocation; long use had consecrated it, and the
Deacon would have his way. His psalm-book, too, by constant use
had become to such a degree thumbed and blurred and torn and
worn, that it was a puzzle how, with his old eyes, he could make
anything of one half the pages. However, a new psalm-book was a
thing he would never hear spoken of, for, although the thing
could not be styled an innovation, inasmuch as it contained
precisely the same collocation of words and syllables, yet it
was the removal of an old familiar object from his sight, and
his faith seemed to be bound up in the greasy covers and dingy
leaves of the volume. So the Deacon stuck to his old psalm-book,
and, by the help of his memory where the letter-press failed
him, he made a shift to keep up with the singers, who, to tell
the truth, were not remarkable for the briskness of their notes,
and dealt more in semibreves than in demi-semi-quavers.
But, on a certain day, it happened that the Deacon, in the
performance of his office, stumbled on a line which happened to
be more than usually thumbed, and defied all his attempts to
puzzle it out. In vain he wiped his spectacles, brought the book
close to his nose, then held it as far off as possible, then
brought his nose to the book, then took it away again, then held
it up to the light, then turned it this way and that, winked and
snuffled and hemmed and coughed—the page was too deeply grimed
by the application of his own thumb, to be deciphered by any
ocular power. The congregation were at a dead stand. They waited
and waited, but the Deacon could not give out the line; every
one stared, and the greatest impatience began to be manifested.
At last Elder Darby, who commonly took the lead in singing,
called out:
“What’s the matter, Deacon?”
“I can’t read it,” replied the Deacon in a dolorous and
despairing tone.
“Then spell it,” exclaimed a voice from the gallery.
All eyes were turned that way, and it was found to proceed from
Tim Crackbrain, a fellow known for his odd and whimsical habits,
and respecting whom nobody could ever satisfy himself whether he
was knave, fool, or madman. The Deacon was astounded, the
congregation gaped and stared, but there was no more singing
that day. The profane behaviour of Tim caused great scandal, and
he was severely taken in hand by a regular kirk session.
This, however, was not the whole, for it was plainly to be
perceived that the old system had received a severe blow in this
occurrence, as no one could deny that such an awkward affair
could never have happened in the improved method of psalmody.
The affair was seized by the advocates of improvement, and
turned against their opponents. Deacon Dogskin and his old
psalm-book got into decidedly bad odour; the result could no
longer be doubtful; a parish meeting was held, and a resolution
passed to abolish the old system, and establish a singing
school. In such a manner departed this life, that venerable
relic of ecclesiastical antiquity, read-a-line-and-sing-a-line,
and we despatched our old acquaintance to the tomb of oblivion,
unwept, unhonoured, but not unsung.
This event, like all great revolutions, did not fail to give sad
umbrage to many in the church; and as to Deacon Dogskin, who had
fought as the great champion of the primitive system, he took it
in such dudgeon that he fell into a fit of the sullens, which
resulted in a determination to leave a community where his
opinion and authority had been so flagrantly set at nought.
Within two years, therefore, he sold off his farm, settled all
his concerns both temporal and spiritual in the town, and
removed to a village about fifteen miles distant. His ostensible
motive for the removal was his declining age, which he declared
to be unequal to the cultivation of so large a farm as he
possessed in our neighbourhood; but the true reason was guessed
at by every one, as the Deacon could never speak of the
singing-school without evident marks of chagrin.
Be this as it may, we proceeded to organise the singing-school
forthwith, for it was determined to do things in style. First of
all, it was necessary to find a singing-master who was competent
to instruct us theoretically in the principles of the art, and
put us to the full discipline of our powers. No one, of course,
thought of going out of the town for this, and our directors
shortly pitched upon a personage known to every body by the name
of Hopper Paul. This man knew more tunes than any person within
twenty miles, and, for aught we knew, more than any other man in
the world. He could sing Old Hundred, and Little Marlborough,
and Saint Andrews, and Bray, and Mear, and Tanzar, and Quercy,
and at least half a dozen others whose names I have forgotten,
so that he was looked upon as a musical prodigy.
I shall never forget Hopper Paul, for both the sounds and sights
he exhibited were such as could hardly be called earthly. He was
about six feet and a half high, exceedingly lank and long, with
a countenance which at the first sight would suggest to you the
idea that he had suffered a _face-quake_, for the different
parts of his visage appeared to have been shaken out of their
places and never to have settled properly together. His mouth
was capable of such a degree of dilation and collapse and
twisting, that it looked like a half a dozen pair of lips sewed
into one. The voice to which this comely pair of jaws gave
utterance might have been compared to the lowing of a cow, or
the deepest bass of an overgrown bull-frog, but hardly to any
sound made by human organs.
Hopper Paul, possessing all these accomplishments, was therefore
chosen head singer, and teacher of the school, which was
immediately set on foot. This was a great affair in the eyes of
all the young persons of both sexes, the thing being the first
of that sort which had ever been heard of in our parts; for
though the natives of the town were a psalm-singing race, like
all genuine New Englanders, yet they had hitherto learned to
sing much in the same way as they learned to talk, not by
theory, but in the plainest way of practice, each individual
joining in with the strains that were chanted at meeting
according to the best of his judgment. In this method, as the
reader may suppose, they made but a blundering sort of melody,
yet as the tunes were few, and each note drawled out to an
unconscionable length, all were more or less familiar with their
parts, or if they got into the wrong key, had time to change it
ere the line was ended. But things were now to be set on a
different footing; great deeds were to be done, and each one was
anxious to make a figure in the grand choir. All the young
people of the parish were assembled, and we began operations.
How we got through our first essays, I need not say, except that
we made awkward work enough of it. There were a great many
voices that seemed made for nothing but to spoil all our melody:
but what could we do? All were determined to learn to sing, and
Hopper Paul was of opinion that the bad voices would grow mellow
by practice, though how he could think so whenever he heard his
own, passes my comprehension. However, we could all raise and
fall the notes, and that was something. We met two evenings in
each week during the winter, and by the beginning of spring we
had got so well drilled in the gamut that we began to practise
regular tunes. Now we breathed forth such melodies as I think
have seldom been heard elsewhere; but as we had no standard of
excellence to show us the true character of our performances, we
could never be aware that our music was not equal to the harmony
of the spheres.
It was thought a peculiar excellence to sing through the nose,
and take a good reasonable time to swell out every note. Many of
us were apt to get into too high a key, but that was never
regarded, provided we made noise enough. In short, after a great
deal more practice we were pronounced to be thoroughly skilled
in the science, for our lungs had been put to such a course of
discipline that every one of us could roar with a most
stentorian grace; and as to our commander-in-chief, no man on
earth ever deserved better than he, the name of Boanerges, or
Son of Thunder.
It was decided, therefore, that on Fast day next we should take
the field; so we were all warned to prepare ourselves to enter
the singing seats at the meeting on that eventful day. Should I
live a thousand years, I shall never forget it; this was to be
the first public exhibition of our prowess, and we were exhorted
to do our best. The exhortation was unnecessary, for we were as
ambitious as the most zealous of our friends could desire, and
we were especially careful in rehearsing the tunes before hand.
The day arrived, and we marched in a body to take possession. No
stalwart knights, at a tournament, ever spurred their chargers
into the lists with more pompous and important feelings than we
entered the singing seats. The audience, of course, were all
expectation, and when the hymn was given out, we heard it with
beating hearts.
It was amusing, however, in the midst of our trepidation, to
witness the countenance of Deacon Dogskin, who was obliged to
sit facing us during the whole service. His looks were as sour
and cynical as if he could have driven us out of the house, and
he never vouchsafed to cast a glance at us from beginning to end
of the performance. There was another person who had been a
great stickler for the ancient usage. This was Elder Darby, who
had been head singer under the Deacon’s administration, and
looked upon himself as dividing the honours of that system with
the Deacon himself. He accordingly fought hard against the
innovation, and was frequently heard to declare that the whole
platform of christian doctrine would be undermined, if more than
one line was suffered to be sung at a time. In fact, this
personage, being what is emphatically called a “weak brother,”
but full of zeal and obstinacy, gave us a great deal more
trouble than the Deacon, who was not deficient in common
shrewdness, notwithstanding his oddities. This was a bitter day,
therefore, to Elder Darby, who felt very awkward at finding his
occupation gone, and his enemies triumphant all in the same
moment.
But we were now called upon to sing, and every eye, except those
of the Deacon and a few others, was turned upward: the hymn was
given out, Hopper Paul brandished his pitch-pipe and set the
tune, and we began with stout hearts and strong lungs. Such
sounds had never been heard within those walls before. The
windows rattled, and the ceiling shook with the echo, in such a
manner that some people thought the great chandelier would have
a down-come. Think of the united voices of all the sturdy,
able-bodied lads and lassies of the parish pouring forth the
most uproarious symphony of linked sweetness long drawn out,
that their lungs could furnish, and you will have some faint
idea of our melodious intonations. At length we came to a verse
in the hymn where the words chimed in with the melody in such a
striking and effective manner that the result was overpowering.
The verse ran thus:
“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,
Beneath a burning sky,
Long for a cooling stream at hand,
And they must drink, or die.”
When we struck one after another into the third line, and
trolled forth the reiterations,
“Long for a cooling—
Long for a cooling—
Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”
we verily thought, one and all, that we were soaring
up—up—upwards on the combined euphony of the tune and
syllables, into the seventh heaven of harmony. The congregation
were rapt into ecstasies, and thought they had never heard music
till then. It was a most brilliant triumph for us; every voice,
as we thought, though of course the malcontents must be
excepted, struck in with us, and swelled the loud peal till the
walls rung again. But I must not omit to mention the strange
conduct of Elder Darby, who, in the midst of this burst of
enthusiastic approbation, never relaxed the stern and sour
severity of his looks, but took occasion of the first momentary
pause in the melody, to utter a very audible and disdainful
expression of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”
Deacon Grizzle was by no means slow in perceiving these
manifestations of the Elder’s mortified feelings, and did not
fail to join him on his way home from meeting, for the express
purpose of annoying him further by commendations of the
performances. All he could get in reply was a further
exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!” In fact, the
Elder’s obstinacy was incurable; he was seized during the
following week with a strange deafness in one of his ears, and
as it happened very strangely too, to be that ear which was
turned towards the singing seats when he sat in his pew, he
declared it would be impossible to hear sufficiently well on
that side of his head, to accompany the singers: as to altering
his position, it was not to be thought of: he had occupied the
same spot for forty years, and could no more be expected to
change his seat than to change his creed. The consequence was,
that on the day we began singing, the Elder left off. From that
time forth, he never heard the subject of church psalmody
alluded to, without a chop-fallen look, a rueful shake of the
head, a sad lamentation over the decline of sound christian
doctrine, and a peevish and indignant exclamation of “Chaff!
chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”
X.
WHERE JOE MERIWEATHER WENT TO.
“I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather,” said the old lady hostess of the
sign of “The Buck” tavern, as attracted by the noise of a horse’s hoofs,
she raised her eyes from her occupation of stringing dried slips of
pumpkin, and descried, this side of the first bend in the road, a
traveller riding a jaded horse towards the mansion.
“I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather. It’s about time for him to be
round agin a buyin’ shoats. But whar’s Joe? Phillisy Ann,” continued
Mrs. Harris, raising her voice, “catch a couple of young chickens, and
get supper ready soon as ye can, you dratted lazy wench you, for here
comes Bill Meriweather. But whar’s Joe? How do you do, Mr. Meriweather,”
concluded the old lady, as the stranger arrived in front of the porch.
“Lively,” replied that individual as he proceeded to dismount and tie
his horse. “How do you come on yourself, old ’omen.”
“Pretty well, Bill; how’s craps down in your parts?”
“Bad, uncommon bad,” replied Bill, “there’s a new varmint come around in
our country, that’s got a mortal likin’ fur the tobacker crap. They
looks a good deal like a fox, but are as big as a three year old nigger,
and kin climb a tree like a squearl, and they steals a dozen or so
‘hands’ every night, and next mornin’ if you notice, you’ll see all the
tops of the pine-oaks around the plantation kivered with them a dryin’,
and the infernal chawtobacks—that’s what we call ’em—a settin’ up in a
crotch, a chawin’ what is _cured_, and squirtin’ ambeer all over the
country. Got any on ’em up here yet?”
“The goodness, Lord ha’ mercy, no, Bill! But whar’s Joe?” Up to this
time Mr. Meriweather had been as pleasant and jovial a looking Green
River man, as you might find in a week’s ride along the southern border
of Kentucky, and had finished his lecture on the natural history of the
chawtoback, and the unsaddling his horse at the same time; but no sooner
had the old lady asked the question, “Whar’s Joe?” than he
instantaneously dropped on the bench alongside the questioner, gave her
an imploring look of pity and despair, let his head fail into his open
palms, and bending down both until they nearly touched his knees, he
uttered such a sigh as might a Louisville and New Orleans eight boiler
steam-packet in the last stage of collapsed flues.
“Goodness, gracious, Bill! what’s the matter?” cried the old lady,
letting her stringing apparatus fall. “Hev you got the cramps? Phillisy
Ann, bring that bottle here outen the cupboard, quick, and some pepper
pods!”
“Ah—h! no!” sighed the sufferer, not changing his position, but
mournfully shaking his head, “I ain’t got no cramps.” However, Phillisy
Ann arriving in “no time” with the article of household furniture called
for, that gentleman, utterly disregarding the pepper pods, proceeded to
pour out into a tumbler, preparatory to drinking, a sufficient quantity
of amber coloured fluid to utterly exterminate any cramps that might, by
any possibility, be secretly lingering in his system, or fortify himself
against any known number that might attack him in the distant future;
and having finished, immediately assumed his former position, and went
into most surprisingly exact imitations of a wheezy locomotive on a
foggy morning.
“Merciful powers! what can the matter be?” exclaimed the widow, now
thoroughly excited, as Mr. Meriweather appeared to be getting no better,
but was rocking himself up and down, “like a man who is sawing marble,”
groaning and muttering inarticulate sounds, as if in the last extremity
of bodily anguish. But Mr. Meriweather was for some time unable to make
any reply that could be understood, until at length, at the conclusion
of a very fierce paroxysm, the widow thought she could catch the two
words, “Poor Joe!”
“Is there anything the matter with Joe?” asked the old lady. If it were
possible for any _one_ man to feel and suffer, as far as appearances
went, all the agony and misery that a half dozen of the most miserable
and unfortunate of the human family ever have felt and suffered, and yet
live, Mr. Meriweather certainly was that individual, for he immediately
went off into such a state of sighs, groans, and lamentations, mingled
with exclamations of “Poor Joe!” “Poor Brother Joe!” that the widow,
aroused to the highest state of sympathy and pity, could do nothing but
wipe her eyes with her apron, and repeat the question.
“Whar is Joe, Mr. Meriweather, is he sick?”
“Oh—h—no!” groaned his mourning brother.
“Is he dead then? poor Joe!” faintly inquired the old lady.
“I don’t know that,” was the broken reply.
“The Lord ha’ mercy on our sinful sowls! then _whar_ is he?” cried the
widow, breaking out afresh. “Is he run away to Orleans—or gone to
Californey? Yes, that’s it! and the poor boy’ll be eaten’ up by them
‘diggers’ that they say goes rootin’ round that outlandish country, like
a set of mean stinkin’ ground-hogs. Poor Joe! he was a fine little
fellow, an’ it was only the other day last year, when you was on your
rounds, that he eat all my little bo——.”
“No, he ain’t gone to Californey as I know,” interrupted his brother.
“Then, for mercy’s sake! do tell a body what’s become on him!” rather
tartly inquired the old lady.
“Why, you see, Mrs. Harris,” replied Mr. Meriweather, still keeping the
same position, and interrupting the narrative with several bursts of
grief, (which we’ll leave out). “You see, Mrs. Harris, Joe and I went up
airly in the spring to get a boat load of rock from Boone county, to put
up the foundation of the new houses we’re buildin’, fur there ain’t no
rock down in them rich sily bottoms in our parts. Well, we got along
pretty considerable, fur we had five kegs of blast along, and what with
the hire of some niggers, we managed to get our boat loaded, an’ started
fur home in about three weeks. You never did see anythin’ rain like it
did the fust day we was floatin’ down, but we worked like a cornfilled
nigger ov a Crismus week and pretty near sundown we’d made a matter ov
nigh twenty mile afore we were ashore and tied up. Well, as we didn’t
have any shelter on the flat, we raised a rousin’ big fire on the bank,
close to whar she was tied up, and cooked some grub; and I’d eaten a
matter of two pounds of side, and half of a possum, and was sittin’ on a
log, smokin’ a Kaintuck regaly, and a talkin’ to Brother Joe, who was a
standin’ chock up agin the fire, with his back to it. You recollex, Mrs.
Harris, Brother Joe allers was a dressy sort of a chap—fond of brass
buttons on his coat and the flaim’est kind of red neckerchers; and this
time he had buckskin breeches, with straps under his boots. Well, when I
was a talkin’ to him ov the prospect fur the next day, all ov a sudden I
thought the little feller was a growin’ uncommon tall; till I diskivered
that the buckskin breeches, that wur as wet as a young rooster in a
spring rain, wur beginning to smoke and draw up kinder, and wur a
liftin’ Brother Joe off the ground.
“‘Brother Joe,’ sez I, ‘you’re a goin’ up.’
“‘Brother Bill,’ sez he, ‘I ain’t a doin’ anythin’ else.’
“And he scrunched down mighty hard; but it warn’t ov no use, fur afor
long he wur a matter of some fifteen feet up in the air.”
“Merciful powers,” interrupted the widow.
“‘Brother Joe,’ sez I.
“‘I’m here,’ sez he.
“‘Catch hold ov the top ov that black-jack,’ sez I.
“‘Talk!’ sez Brother Joe, and he sorter leaned over and grabbed the
saplin’, like as maybe you’ve seed a squ’el haul in an elm switch ov a
June mornin’. But it warn’t ov no use, fur, old ’omen, ef you’ll believe
me, it gradually begun to give way at the roots, and afore he’d got five
foot higher, it jist slipped out er the ground, as easy as you’d pull up
a spring reddish.
“‘Brother Joe!’ sez I agin.
“‘I’m a list’nin’,’ sez he.
“‘Cut your straps!’ sez I, for I seed it was his last chance.
“‘Talk!’ sez Brother Joe, tho’ he looked sort a reproachful like at me
fur broachin’ such a subject; but arter apparently considerin’ awhile,
he outs with his jack-knife, an’ leanin’ over sideways, made a rip at
the sole of his left foot. There was a considerable deal ov cracklin’
fur a second or two, then a crash sorter like as if a waggon-load of
wood had bruck down, and the fust thing I know’d, the t’other leg shot
up like, and started him; and the last thing I seed ov Brother Joe, he
was _a whirlin’ round like a four-spoked wheel with the rim off, away
overclost toward sundown_!”
XI.
GEORGIA THEATRICS.
If my memory fail me not, the 10th of June, 18— found me, at about
eleven o’clock in the forenoon, ascending a long and gentle slope in
what was called “The Dark Corner” of Lincoln. I believe it took its name
from the moral darkness which reigned over that portion of the county at
the time of which I am speaking. If in this point of view, it was but a
shade darker than the county, it was inconceivably dark. If any man can
name a trick or sin which had not been committed at the time of which I
am speaking in the very focus of all the county’s illumination
(Lincolnton), he must himself be the most inventive of the tricky, and
the very Judas of sinners. Since that time, however (all humour aside),
Lincoln has become a living proof “that light shineth in darkness.”
Could I venture to mingle the solemn with the ludicrous, even for the
purposes of honourable contrast, I could adduce from this county
instances of the most numerous and wonderful transitions, from vice and
folly to virtue and holiness, which have ever perhaps been witnessed
since the days of the Apostolic ministry.
So much, lest it should be thought by some that what I am about to
relate is characteristic of the county in which it occurred.
Whatever may be said of the moral condition of the Dark Corner, at the
time just mentioned, its natural condition was anything but dark. It
smiled in all the charms of spring; and spring borrowed new charms from
its undulating grounds, its luxuriant woodlands, its sportive streams,
its vocal birds, and its blushing flowers.
Rapt with the enchantment of the season, and the scenery around me, I
was slowly rising the slope, when I was startled by loud, profane, and
boisterous voices, which seemed to proceed from a thick covert of
undergrowth about two hundred yards in the advance of me and about one
hundred to the right of my road:
“You kin, kin you?”
“Yes, I kin, and am able to do it! Bo—oo—oo! Oh, wake snakes, and walk
your chalks! Brimstone and fire! don’t hold me, Nick Stoval! The fight’s
made up, and let’s go at it. My soul, if I don’t jump down his throat
and gallop every chitterling out of him before you can say ‘quit!’”
“Now, Nick, don’t hold him. Jist let the wild cat come, and I’ll tame
him. Ned’ll see me a fair fight, won’t you Ned?”
“Oh yes, I’ll see a fair fight, blame my old shoes if I don’t.”
“That is sufficient, as Tom Haynes said when he saw the elephant. Now
let him come!”
Thus they went on, with countless oaths interspersed, which I dare not
even hint at, and with much that I could not distinctly hear.
“In mercy’s name,” thought I, “what band of ruffians has selected this
holy season and this heavenly retreat for such Pandemonian riots?”
I quickened my gait, and had come nearly opposite to the thick grove
whence the noise proceeded, when my eye caught indistinctly and at
intervals, through the foliage of the dwarf oaks and hickories which
intervened, glimpses of a man or men who seemed to be in a violent
struggle, and I could occasionally catch those deep-drawn emphatic oaths
which men in conflict utter when they deal blows. I dismounted, and
hurried to the spot with all speed. I had overcome about half the space
which separated it from me, when I saw the combatants come to the
ground, and after a short struggle, I saw the uppermost one (for I could
not see the other) make a heavy plunge with both his thumbs, and at the
same instant I heard a cry:
“Enough! my eye’s out!”
I was so completely horror-struck that I stood transfixed for a moment
to the spot where the cry met me. The accomplices in the hellish deed
which had been perpetrated had all fled at my approach; at least I
supposed so, for they were not to be seen.
“Now, you old corn-shucking rascal,” said the victor (a youth about
eighteen years old), as he rose from the ground, “come cutt’n your
shines ’bout me agin, next time I come to the Court-House, will you? Get
your owl eye in again, if you can.”
At this moment he saw me for the first time. He looked excessively
embarrassed, and was moving off, when I called to him in a tone
emboldened by my office and the iniquity of his crime:
“Come back, you villain, and assist me in relieving your fellow-mortal,
whom you have ruined for ever!”
My rudeness subdued his embarrassment in an instant, and with a taunting
curl of the nose he replied:
“You needn’t kick before you’re spurred. There ain’t nobody there, nor
han’t been nother. I was jist seein’ how I could ’a fou’t.”
So saying, he bounded to his plough, which stood in the fence about
fifty yards beyond the battleground.
And would you believe it, gentle reader, his report was true? All that I
had heard and seen was nothing more or less than a Lincoln rehearsal, in
which the youth who had just left me had played all the parts of all the
characters in a Court-House fight.
I went to the ground from which he had risen, and there were the prints
of his two thumbs plunged up to the balls in the mellow earth, about the
distance of a man’s eyes apart, and the ground around was broken up, as
if two stags had been engaged upon it.
XII.
TAKING THE CENSUS.
Our next encounter was with an old lady, notorious in her neighbourhood
for her garrulity and simple-mindedness. Her loquacity knew no bounds;
it was constant, unremitting, interminable, and sometimes laughably
silly. She was interested in quite a large Chancery suit, which had been
dragging its slow length for several years, and furnished her with a
conversational fund, which she drew upon extensively, under the idea
that its merits could never be sufficiently discussed. Having been
warned of her propensity, and being somewhat hurried when we called upon
her, we were disposed to get through business as soon as possible, and
without hearing her enumeration of the strong points of her law case.
Striding into the house, and drawing our papers:
“Taking the census, Ma’am,” quoth we.
“Ah, well, yes! bless your soul, take a seat. Now do! Are you the
gentlemen that Mr. Fillmore has sent out to take the censis? I
wonder—well, good Lord, look down! how was Mr. Fillmore and family when
you seed him?”
We told her we had never seen the President; didn’t know him from a
piece of sole-leather; “we had been written to to take the census.”
“Well now, there agin! love your soul! Well, I s’pose Mr. Fillmore writ
you a letter, did he? No! Well, God be praised, there’s mighty little
_here_ to take down; times is hard, God’s will be done! but looks like
people can’t get their rights in this country, and the law is all for
the rich, and none for the poor, praise the Lord! Did you ever hear tell
of that case my boys has got agin old Simpson? Looks like they will
never get to the end on it, glory to His name! The children will suffer,
I’m mighty _afeard_, Lord give us grace! Did you ever see Judge B.? Yes!
Well, the Lord preserve us! Did you ever hear him say what he’s agwine
to do in the boys’ case agin Simpson? No! Good Lord! Well, Squire, will
you ax him the next time you see him, and write me word, and tell him
what I say? I’m nothing but a poor widow, and my boys has got no
larnin’, and old Simpson tuk ’em in. It’s a mighty hard case, and the
will ought never to a been broke, but—”
Here we interposed, and told the old lady that our time was
precious—that we wished to take down the number of her family, and the
produce raised by her last year, and be off. After a good deal of
trouble, we got through with the description of the members of her
family, and the “statistical table,” as far as the article “cloth.”
“How many yards of cotton cloth did you weave in 1850, Ma’am?”
“Well now, the Lord have mercy! less see. You know Sally Higgins that
used to live in the Smith settlement? Poor thing! her daddy drove her
off all on the ’count of Jack Miller, poor creetur! poor gal! she
couldn’t help it, I dare say. Well, Sally she come to stay ’long wi’ me
when the old man druv her away, and she was a powerful good hand to
weave, and I _did_ think she’d help me a power. Well, arter she’d bin
here awhile, her baby hit took sick, and Old Miss Stringer she undertook
to help it. She’s a powerful good hand, old Miss Stringer, on roots and
yearbs and sich like! Well, the Lord look down from above! she made a
sort of a tea, as I was a tellin’, and she gin it to Sally’s baby; it
got wuss—the poor creetur—and she gin it tea, and looked like the more
she gin it tea, the more—”
“My dear Madam, I’m in a hurry—please tell me how many yards of cotton
you wove in 1850. I want to get through and go on.”
“Well, well, the Lord have mercy! who’d a thought you’d a bin so
snappish! Well, as I was a sayin’, Sally’s child it kept gittin’ wus,
and old Miss Stringer she kept a givin’ it the yearb tea, till at last
the child hit looked like hit would die anyhow. And ’bout the time the
child was at its wust, Old Daddy Sikes he come along, and he said if we
git some nightshed berries and stew them with a little cream and some
hog’s lard. Now Old Daddy Sikes is a mighty fine old man, and he giv the
boys a heap of mighty good counsel about that case.
“‘Boys,’ said he ‘I’ll tell you what you do; you go and—’”
“In the name of goodness, old lady,” said we, “tell about your cloth;
and let the sick child and Miss Stringer, Daddy Sikes, the boys, and the
law-suit, go the Old Scratch. I’m in a hurry!”
“Gracious, bless your dear soul! don’t git aggravated. I was jist a
tellin’ you how it come I didn’t weave no cloth last year.”
“Oh, well you didn’t weave any cloth last year. Good! We’ll go on to the
next article.”
“Yes; you see the child hit begun to swell and turn yaller, and hit kept
a wallin’ its eyes, and a moanin’, and I know’d—”
“Never mind about the child—just tell me the value of the poultry you
raised last year.”
“Oh, well—yes—the chickens, you means. Why, the Lord love your poor
soul; I reckon you never in your born days see a creetur have the luck
that I did—and looks like we never shall have any good luck agin; for
ever since old Simpson tuk that case up to the Chancery Court—”
“Never mind the case, let’s hear about the chickens, if you please.”
“God bless you, honey! the owls destroyed in and about the best half
that I did raise. Every blessed night that the Lord did send, they’d
come and set on the comb of the house, and hoo, hoo; and one night in
particklar I remember, I had just got up with the nightshed salve to
’int the little gal with—”
“Well, well, what was the value of what you did raise?”
“The Lord above look down! They got so bad—the owls did—that they tuk
the old hens as well as the young chickens. The night I was a tellin’
’bout, I heard somethin’s s-q-u-a-l-l! s-q-u-a-l-l! and says I: ‘I’ll
bet that’s old Speck, that nasty awdacious owl’s got, for I see her go
to roost with the chickens up in the plum-tree, forenenst the
smoke-house.’
“So I went to whar old Miss Stringer was sleepin’, and says I:
“‘Miss Stringer! oh, Miss Stringer! sure’s you’re born, that owl’s got
old Speck out’n the plum-tree.’
“Well, old Miss Stringer she turned over ’pon her side like, and says
she:
“‘What did you say, Miss Stokes?’
“And says I:—”
We began to get very tired, and signified the same to the old lady, and
begged her to answer us directly, and without circumlocution.
“The Lord Almighty love your dear heart, honey, I’m tellin’ you as fast
I kin. The owls they got worse, and worse; after they’d swept old Speck
and all _her_ gang, they went to work on t’others; and Bryant (that’s
one of my boys), he ’lowed he’d shoot the pestersome creeturs. And so
one night arter that we hearn one holler, and Bryant he tuk the old
musket and went out, and sure enough there was owley (as he thought) a
sittin’ on the comb of the house, so he blazed away, and down come—what
on airth _did_ come down, do you reckon, when Bryant fired?”
“The owl, I suppose.”
“No sich thing; no sich thing; the owl warn’t thar. ’Twas my old house
cat came a tumblin’ down spittin’, sputterin’, and scratching and the
fur a flyin’ every time she jumped, like you’d busted a feather-bed
open. Bryant he said the way he come to shoot the cat, instead of the
owl, he seed somethin’ white—”
“For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Stokes, give me the value of your poultry, or
say you will not. Do one thing or the other.”
“Oh, well, dear love your heart, I reckon I had last year nigh about the
same as I’ve got this.”
“Then tell me how many dollars’ worth you have now, and the thing’s
settled.”
“I’ll let you see for yourself,” said Widow Stokes; and taking an ear of
corn between the logs of the cabin, and shelling off a handful, she
commenced scattering the grain, all the while screaming or rather
screeching: “Chick! chick! chick! chickee! chickee! chickee-ee!”
Here they came, roosters, hens, pullets, and little chicks; crowing,
cackling, chirping, flying, and fluttering against her sides, pecking at
her hands, and creating a din and confusion altogether indescribable.
The old lady seemed delighted, thus to exhibit her feathered “stock,”
and would occasionally exclaim:
“A nice passel! ain’t they a nice passel!”
But she never would say what they were worth, and no persuasion could
bring her to the point. Our papers at Washington contain no estimate of
the value of the Widow Stokes’s poultry, though, as she said herself,
she had a “mighty nice passel.”
XIII.
A FAMILY PICTURE.[9]
Mr. Hill, in one of his many visits “down east,” was belated one
evening, and was compelled to seek shelter at a small farm-house. He
thus describes the family party and the family doings on that evening.
The heads of the family were a Mr. and Mrs. Jones, who were honoured, on
this occasion, with a visit from a plain sort of man, who told me, said
Mr. Hill, that he teached school in winter, and hired out in haying
time. What this man’s name was, I do not exactly recollect. It might
have been Smith, and for convenience sake, we will call him John Smith.
This Mr. Smith brought a newspaper with him, which was printed weekly,
which Mr. Jones said—as it did not agree with his politics—was a very
weakly consarn.
Mr. Jones was seated one side of an old pine table, and Mr. Smith on the
other. Mrs. Jones sat knitting in one corner, and the children under the
fire-place—some cracking nuts, others whittling sticks, &c. Mr. Jones,
after perusing the paper for some time, observed to Mrs. Jones, “My
dear!”
_Mrs. Jones._ Well.
_Mr. Jones._ It appears.
_Mrs. J._ Well, go on.
_Mr. J._ I say, it appears.
_Mrs. J._ Well, law souls, I heard it; go on.
_Mr. J._ I say, it appears from a paragraph——
_Mrs. J._ Well, it don’t appear as if you were ever going to appear.
_Mr. J._ I say, it appears from a paragraph in this paper——
_Mrs. J._ There—there you go again. Why on airth, Jones, don’t you spit
it out.
_Mr. J._ I say, it appears from a paragraph in this paper——
_Mrs. J._ Well, I declare, Jones, you are enough to tire the patience of
Job. Why on airth don’t you out with it.
_Mr. J._ Mrs. Jones, will you be quiet. If you get my dander up, I’ll
raise Satan round this house, and you know it, tew. Mr. Smith you must
excuse me. I’m obliged to be a little peremptory to my wife, for if you
wasn’t here she’d lick me like all natur. Well, as I said, it appears
from this paper, that Seth Slope—you know’d Seth Slope, that used to be
round here?
_Mrs. J._ Yes; well, go on; out with it.
_Mr. J._ Well, you know he went out in a whalin’ voyage.
_Mrs. J._ Yes, well.
_Mr. J._ Well, it appears he was settin’ on the stern, when the vessel
give a lee lurch, and he was knocked overboard, and hain’t written to
his friends since that time.
_Mrs. J._ La, souls! you don’t say so.
Before going further, I will endeavour to give you some idea of this
Seth Slope. He was what they term down-east, “a poor shote;” his
principal business was picking up chips, feeding the hogs, &c., &c. I
will represent him with his hat. (_Puts on hat._)
“Mrs. Jones says I don’t know nothin’, and Mr. Jones says I don’t know
nothin’, (_laughs_;) and everybody says I don’t know nothin’; and I say
I _do_ know nothin’, (_laughs_.) Don’t I pick up all the chips to make
the fires? And don’t I feed the hogs, and the ducks, and the hens?
(_Laughs._) And don’t I go down to the store every morning, for a jug of
rum? And don’t I take a good suck myself? I don’t know
nothin’—ha—(_laughs_.) And don’t I go to church every Sunday? and
don’t I go up stairs, and when the folks go to sleep, don’t I throw corn
on ’em to wake ’em up? And don’t I see the fellers winking at the gals,
and the gals winking at the fellers? And don’t I go home and tell the
old folk; and when they come home, don’t the old folk kick up the
darndest row? (_Laughs._) And don’t I drive the hogs out of the garden,
to keep ’em from rooting up the taters? And don’t I git asleep there,
sometimes, and don’t they root _me_ up. (_Laughs._) And didn’t I see a
fly on Deacon Stoke’s red nose, t’other day; and didn’t I say, ‘Take
care, Deacon Stokes, you’ll burn his feet?’ I don’t know nothin’, eh!”
(_Laughs._)
This Mrs. Jones I have spoken of, was a very good kind of woman, and Mr.
Jones was considered a very good sort of man; but was rather fond of the
bottle. On one occasion, I recollect particularly, he had been to a
muster, and came home so much intoxicated, that he could hardly stand,
and was obliged to lean against the chimney-piece, to prevent himself
from falling, and Mrs. Jones says to him, “Now, Jones, aint you ashamed
of yourself? Where on airth do you think you’d go to, if you was to die
in that sitiwation?”
_Jones, (very drunk)._ Well, I don’t know where I should go to; but I
shouldn’t go far, without I could go faster than I do now.
As soon as Mr. Jones had finished the paragraph in the paper, Mrs. Jones
threw on her shawl, and went over to her neighbours to communicate the
news. I will endeavour to give you an idea of Mrs. Jones, by assuming
this shawl and cap. (_Puts on shawl and cap._)
“Well, Mrs. Smith, I suppose you ain’t heard the news?”
“La, no, what on airth is it?”
“You recollect Seth Slope, that used to be about here?”
“Yes, very well.”
“You know he went a whalin’ voyage?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it appears, from an advartisement in the papers, that he was
sittin’ on the starn of the vessel, when the vessel give a lee lurch,
that he was knocked overboard and was drowned, and that he has not
written to his friends ever since. Oh, dear! it’s dreadful to think on.
Poor critter!—he was such a clever, good-natured, kind soul. I
recollect when he was about here, how he used to come into the house and
set down, and get up and go out, and come in agin, and set down, and get
up and go out. Then he’d go down to the barn, and throw down some hay to
the critters, and then he’d come into the house agin, and get up and go
out, and go down to the store and get a jug of rum,—and sometimes he’d
take a little suck of it himself. But, la, souls! I never cared nothing
about that. Good, clever critter! Then arter he’d come back with the
rum, he’d set down a little while, and get up and go out, and pick up
chips, and drive the hogs out of the garden; and then he’d come into the
house and kick over the swill-pail, and set down, and stick his feet
over the mantel-piece, and whittle all over the hearth, and spit tobacco
juice all over the carpet, and make himself so _sociable_. And poor
fellow! now he’s gone. Oh, dear! how dreadful wet he must have got!
Well, Mrs. Smith, it goes to show that we are all accountable
_critters_.”
-----
[9] By G. H. Hill.
XIV.
COLONEL JONES’S FIGHT.
A STORY OF KENTUCKY.
Col. Dick Jones was decidedly the great man of the village of
Summerville. He was Colonel of the regiment—he had represented his
district in Congress—he had been spoken of as candidate for
Governor—he was at the head of the bar in Hawkins’ county, Kentucky,
and figured otherwise largely in public life. His legal opinion and
advice were highly valued by the senior part of the population—his
dress and taste were law to the juniors—his easy, affable, and
attentive manner charmed all the matrons, his dignified politeness
captivated the young ladies—and his suavity and condescension delighted
the little boarding-school misses. He possessed a universal smattering
of information—his manners were the most popular; extremely friendly
and obliging, lively and witty; and, in short, he was a very agreeable
companion.
Yet truth requires it to be admitted, that Col. Dick Jones was
professionally more specious than deep, and that his political
advancement was owing to personal partiality more than superior
merit—that his taste and dress were of questionable propriety: for
instance, he occasionally wore a hunting-shirt white fringed, or a red
waistcoat, or a fawn-skin one, or a calico morning-gown of a small
yellow pattern, and he indulged in other similar vagaries in clothing.
And in manners and deportment, there was an air of harmless (true
Virginian bred and Kentucky raised) self-conceit and swagger, which,
though not to be admired, yet it gave piquancy and individuality to his
character.
If further particulars are required, I can only state that the Colonel
boarded at the Eagle hotel—office, in the square, fronted the
court-house—he was a manager of all the balls—he was vice-president of
the Summerville Jockey Club—he was trustee of the Female Academy—he
gallanted the old ladies to church, holding his umbrella over them in
the sun, and escorted the young ladies, at night, to the dances or
parties, always bringing out the smallest ones. He rode a high headed,
proud-looking sorrel horse, with a streak down his face; and he was a
general referee and umpire, whether it was a horse-swap, a race, a rifle
match, or a cock fight.
It so chanced, on a time, though Colonel Jones was one of the
best-natured of men, that he took umbrage at some report circulated
about him in an adjoining county and one of his districts, to the effect
that he had been a federalist during the last war; and, instead of
relying on the fact of his being a school-boy on Mill Creek at that
time, he proclaimed, at the tavern table, that the next time he went
over the mountain to court, Bill Patterson, the reputed author of the
slander, should either sign a _liebill_, fight, or run.
This became narrated through the town,—the case and argument of the
difference was discussed among the patriarchs of the place, who
generally came to the conclusion that the colonel had good cause of
quarrel, as more had been said of him than an honourable man could
stand. The young store boys of the village became greatly interested,
conjectured how the fight would go, and gave their opinions what they
would do under similar circumstances. The young lawyers, and young
M.D.’s, as often as they were in the colonel’s company, introduced the
subject of the expected fight. On such occasions, the colonel spoke
carelessly and banteringly. Some good old ladies spoke deprecatingly, in
the general and in the particular, that so good and clever a young man
as Colonel Dick should set so bad an example; and the young ladies, and
little misses, bless their dear little innocent souls, they only
consulted their own kind hearts, and were satisfied that he must be a
wicked and bad man that Colonel Jones would fight.
Spring term of the courts came on, and the lawyers all started on their
circuit, and, with them, Colonel Jones went over the mountain. The whole
town was alive to the consequences of this trip, and without much
communion or understanding on the subject, most of the population either
gathered at the tavern at his departure, or noticed it from a distance,
and he rode off, gaily saluting his acquaintances, and raising his hat
to the ladies, on both sides of the street, as he passed out of town.
From that time, only one subject engaged the thoughts of the good people
of Summerville; and on the third day the common salutation was:
“Any news from over the mountain?”
“Has any one come down the road?”
The fourth, fifth, and sixth came, and still the public anxiety was
unappeased: it had, with the delay, become insufferable, quite
agonizing; business and occupation was at a stand still; a doctor or a
constable would not ride to the country lest news of the fight might
arrive in their absence. People in crossing the square, or entering or
coming out of their houses, all had their heads turned up that road. And
many, though ashamed to confess it, sat up an hour or two past their
usual bed-time, hoping some one would return from court. Still all was
doubt and uncertainty. There is an unaccountable perversity in these
things that bothers conjecture. I watched the road from Louisville two
days, to hear of Grey Eagle beating Wagner, on which I had one hundred
dollars staked, of borrowed money, and no one came; though before that,
some person passed every hour.
On the seventh morning, the uneasy public were consoled by the certainty
that the lawyers must be home that day, as court seldom held a week, and
the universal resolve seemed to be that nothing was to be attended to
until they were satisfied about the fight. Storekeepers and their
clerks, saddlers, hatters, cabinet-makers, and their apprentices, all
stood out at the doors. The hammer ceased to ring on the anvil, and the
bar-keeper would scarcely walk in to put away the stranger’s
saddle-bags, who had called for breakfast; when suddenly a young man,
that had been walking from one side of the street to the other, in a
state of feverish anxiety, thought he saw dust away up the road, and
stopped. I have been told a man won a wager in Philadelphia, on his
collecting a crowd by staring, without speaking, at an opposite chimney.
So no sooner was this young man’s _point_ noticed, than there was a
regular reconnoissance of the road made, and before long, doubt became
certainty, when one of the company declared he knew the colonel’s old
sorrel riding-horse, “General Jackson,” by the blaze on his face.
In the excited state of the public mind it required no ringing of the
court-house bell to convene the people; those down street walked up, and
those across the square came over, and all gathered gradually at the
Eagle hotel, and nearly all were present by the time Colonel Jones
alighted. He had a pair of dark green specks on, his right hand in a
sling, with brown paper bound round his wrist; his left hand held the
bridle, and the forefinger of it wrapped with a linen rag “with care.”
One of his ears was covered with a muslin scrap, that looked much like
the countrywomen’s plan of covering their butter when coming to market:
his face was clawed all over, as if he had had it raked by a cat held
fast by the tail; his head was unshorn, it being “too delicate an
affair,” as * * * said about his wife’s character. His complexion
suggested an idea to a philosophical young man present, on which he
wrote a treatise, dedicated to Arthur Tappan, proving that the negro was
only a white well pummelled; and his general swelled appearance would
induce a belief he had led the forlorn hope in the storming of a
beehive.
The Colonel’s manner did not exactly proclaim “the conquering hero,” but
his affability was undiminished, and he addressed them with:
“Happy to see you, gents; how are you all?” and then attempted to enter
the tavern; but Buck Daily arrested him with:
“Why, Colonel, I see you have had a skrimmage. How did you make it? You
didn’t come out at the little _eend_ of the horn, did you?”
“No, not exactly, I had a tight fit of it, though. You know Bill
Patterson; he weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds, has not an
ounce of superfluous flesh, is as straight as an Indian, and as active
as a wild-cat, and as quick as powder, and very much of a man, I assure
you. Well, my word was out to lick him; so I hardly put up my horse
before I found him at the court-house door, and, to give him a white
man’s chance, I proposed alternatives to him. He said his daddy, long
ago, told him never to give a _liebill_, and he was not good at running,
so he thought he had best fight. By the time the word was fairly out, I
hauled off, and took him in the burr of the ear that raised a singing in
his head, that made him think he was in Mosquitoe town. At it we went,
like killing snakes, so good a man, so good a boy; we had it round and
round, and about and about, as dead a yoke as ever pulled at a
log-chain. Judge Mitchell was on the bench, and as soon as the cry of
“fight” was raised, the bar and jury ran off and left him. He shouted,
‘I command the peace,’ within the court-house, and then ran out to see
the fight, and cried out, ‘I can’t prevent you!’ ‘fair fight!’ ‘stand
back!’ and he caught parson Benefield by the collar of the coat, who, he
thought, was about to interfere, and slung him on his back at least
fifteen feet.
“It was the evenest and longest fight ever fought: everybody was tired
of it, and I must admit, in truth, that I was” (_here he made an effort
to enter the tavern_.) But several voices called out:
“Which whipped? How did you come out?”
“Why, much as I tell you; we had it round and round, about and about,
over and under. I could throw him at rastle, but he would manage some
way to turn me. Old Sparrowhawk was there, who had seen all the best
fighting at Natchez, under the hill, in the days of Dad Girty and Jim
Snodgrass, and he says my gouging was beautiful; one of Bill’s eyes is
like the mouth of an old ink-bottle, only, as the fellow said,
describing the jackass by the mule, it is more so. But, in fact, there
was no great choice between us, as you see. I look like having ran into
a brush fence of a dark night. So we made it round and round, about and
about”—(_here again he attempted a retreat into the tavern_.)
But many voices demanded, “Who hollored?”
“Which gave up?”
“How did you hurt your hand?”
“Oh! I forgot to tell you, that as I aimed a sockdollager at him he
ducked his head, and he can dodge like a diedapper, and hitting him
awkwardly, I sprained my wrist; so, being like the fellow who, when it
rained mush, had no spoon, I changed the suit, and made a trump—and
went in for eating. In the scuffle we fell, cross and pile, and, finding
his appetite good for my finger, I adopted Doctor Bones’, the
toolsmith’s, patent method of removing teeth without the aid of
instruments, and I extracted two of his incisors, and released my
finger. However, I shall, for some time, have an excuse for wearing
gloves without being thought proud.” (_He now tried to escape under
cover of a laugh._)
But vox populi again.
“So you tanned him, did you?”
“How did the fight finish?”
“You were not parted?”
“You fought it out, did you?”
The colonel resumed, “Why, there is no telling how the fight might have
gone; an old Virginian, who had seen Francesco, and Otey, and Lewis, and
Blevins, and all the best men of the day, said he had never seen any one
stand up to their fodder better than we did. We had fought round and
round, and about and about, all over the courtyard, and, at last, just
to end the fight, every body was getting tired of it; so, at
l—a—a—s—t, I hollored.”—(_Exit Colonel._)
XV.
THE FASTEST FUNERAL ON RECORD.[10]
I had just crossed the long bridge leading from Boston to Cambridgeport,
and was plodding my dusty way on foot through that not very agreeable
suburb, on a sultry afternoon in July, with a very creditable
thunder-cloud coming up in my rear, when a stout elderly gentleman, with
a mulberry face, a brown coat, and pepper-and-salt smalls, reined up his
nag, and after learning that I was bound for Old Cambridge, politely
invited me to take a seat beside him in the little sort of tax-cart he
was driving. Nothing loth, I consented, and we were soon _en route_. The
mare he drove was a very peculiar animal. She had few good points to the
eye, being heavy-bodied, hammer-headed, thin in the shoulders,
bald-faced, and rejoicing in a little stump of a tail which was almost
entirely innocent of hair. But there were “lots of muscle,” as Major
Longbow says, in her hind quarters.
“She aint no Wenus, Sir,” said my new acquaintance, pointing with his
whip to the object of my scrutiny—“but handsome is as handsome does.
Them’s my sentiments. She’s a rum ’un to look at, but a good ’un to go.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, _Sir_! That there mare, Sir, has made good time—I may say, _very_
good time before the hearse.”
“Before the hearse?”
“Before the hearse! S’pose you never heard of _burying a man on time_!
I’m a sexton, Sir, and undertaker—Jack Crossbones, at your
service—‘Daddy Crossbones’ they call me at Porter’s.”
“Ah! I understand. Your mare ran away with the hearse.”
“Ran away! A child could hold her. Oh! yes, of course she ran away,”
added the old gentleman, looking full in my face with a very quizzical
expression, and putting the forefinger of his right hand on the right
side of his party-coloured proboscis.
“My dear Sir,” said I, “you have excited my curiosity amazingly, and I
should esteem it as a particular favour if you would be a little less
oracular and a little more explicit.”
“I don’t know as I’d ought to tell you,” said my new acquaintance very
slowly and tantalizingly. “If you was one of these here writing chaps,
you might poke it in the ‘Spirit of the Times,’ and then it would be all
day with me. But I don’t care if I do make a clean breast of it. Honour
bright, you know.”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, I live a piece up beyond Old Cambridge—you can see our
steeple off on a hill to the right, when we get a little further. Well,
one day, I had a customer (he was carried off by typhus) which had to be
toted into town—cause why? he had a vault there. So I rubbed down the
old mare, and put her in the fills. Ah! Sir! that critter knows as much
as an Injun, and more than a Nigger. She’s as sober as a judge when she
gets the shop—that’s what I call the hearse—behind her. You would not
think she was a three-minute nag, to look at her. Well, Sir, as luck
would have it, by a sort of providential inspiration, the day before,
I’d took off the old wooden springs and set the body on elliptics. For I
thought it a hard case that a gentleman who’d been riding easy all his
life, should go to his grave on wooden springs. Ah! I deal well by my
customers. I thought of patent boxes to the wheels, but _I_ couldn’t
afford it, and the parish are desperate stingy.
“Well, I got him in, and led off the string—fourteen hacks, and a
dearbourn wagon at the tail of the funeral. We made a fine show. As luck
would have it, just as we came abreast of Porter’s, out slides that
eternal torment, Bill Sikes, in his new trotting sulky, with the brown
horse that he bought for a fast crab, and _is_ mighty good for a rush,
but hain’t got nigh so much bottom as the mare. Bill’s light weight, and
his sulky’s a mere feather. Well, Sir, Bill came up alongside, and
walked his horse a bit. He looked at the mare and then at me, and then
he winked. Then he looked at his nag and put his tongue in his cheek,
and winked. I looked straight ahead, and only said to myself, ‘Cuss you,
Bill Sikes.’ By and bye, he let his horse slide. He travelled about a
hundred yards, and then held up till I came abreast, and then he winked
and bantered me again. It was aggravatin’, that’s a fact. Says I to
myself, says I: ‘That’s twice you’ve done it, my buzzum friend and
sweet-scented shrub—but you doesn’t do that ’ere again.’ The third time
he bantered me I let him have it. It was only saying, ‘Scat you brute,’
and she was off—that mare. He had all the odds, you know, for I was
toting a two hundred pounder, and he ought to have beat me like breaking
sticks, now hadn’t he? He had me at the first brush, for I told you the
brown horse was a mighty fast one for a little ways. But soon I lapped
him. I had no whip, and he could use his string—but he had his hands
full.
“Side by side, away we went—rattle-te-bang! crack! abuz! thump!—and I
afraid of losing my customer on the road; but I was more afraid of
losing the race. The reputation of the old mare was at stake, and I
swore she should have a fair chance. We went so fast that the posts and
rails by the road-side looked like a log fence. The old church and the
new one, and the colleges, spun past like Merry-Andrews.
“The hackmen did not know what was to pay, and, afraid of not being in
at the death, they put the string on to their teams, and came clattering
on behind as if Satan had kicked ’em on eend. Some of the mourners was
sporting characters, and they craned out of the carriage windows and
waved their handkerchiefs. The President of Harvard College himself,
inspired by the scene, took off his square tile as I passed his house,
and waving it three times round his head, cried:
“‘Go it, Boots!’
“It _is a_ fact. And I beat him, Sir! I beat him, in three miles, a
hundred rods. He gin it up, Sir, in despair.”
“His horse was off his feed for a week, and when he took to corn again
he wasn’t worth a straw. It was acknowledged on all hands to be the
fastest funeral on record, though I say it as shouldn’t. I’m an
undertaker, sir, and I never yet was over-taken.”
On subsequent inquiry at Porter’s, where the sporting sexton left me, I
found that his story was strictly true in all the main particulars. A
terrible rumpus was kicked up about the race, but Crossbones swore
lustily that the mare had run away—that he had sawed away two inches of
her lip in trying to hold her up, and that he could not have done
otherwise, unless he had run her into a fence and spilled his “customer”
into the ditch. If any one expects to die anywhere near the sexton’s
_diggings_, I can assure them that the jolly old boy is still alive and
kicking, the very “Ace of Hearts” and “Jack of Spades,” and that now
both patent boxes and elliptic springs render his professional
conveyance the easiest running thing on the road.
-----
[10] By F. A. Durivage, of Boston.
XVI.
OLD TUTTLE’S LAST QUARTER RACE.
As a matter of course a quarter race never goes off without old Tuttle
being thar—and he never attends without doing some business! So on
Thursday he makes his appearance on the track, on a bay gelding, (with
white hind feet,) which he calls “Indian Dick,” and allows he’s as good
a scrub as there’ll be on the ground! As old T. is _known_, and Dick has
been heard of, the boys are rather shy—but one of them thinks he’s got
a scrub that’s “some pumpkins!” and would like to know, without too much
cost, how far Dick can beat him; he, therefore, proposes to run them
three hundred yards, for “sucks all round.” Old T. understands the game,
and says:
“No, I don’t want yer to treat this crowd, but I’ll run with yer just to
show _yer hoss_ can’t run!”
This was what H. wanted, as he thought he could tell the speed of a
horse, even tho’ old T. did ride him; so back they go to the score, and
are off—with (as might be expected) H. a-head, and old T. in the rear,
whipping and spurring like mad, and letting his horse go just fast
enough to put H. at about the top of his speed—but he can’t _quite_
come it.
“H.’s horse is too smart and can beat him every inch of the road.”
So says H., and most of the crowd are of the same opinion.
Old T. says he believes he can beat H. Saturday, as “Dick’s shoes are
loose, and heavy, and he can’t run in ’em.”
There was nothing more said about it, till old Tut made his appearance
next morning, when the boys were after him with “Sharp Sticks” and “Hot
Bricks.” One wanted to bet him a horse on H.’s colt, _versus_ his Indian
Dick—another a V., another an X., and so on.
“Hold yer hosses b’hoys! Don’t be all after the old man at wunst. Wait a
while and he’ll commerdate yer! He’s an old man, and b’lieves he knows
mor’n all on yer; but he don’t want all yer money at wunst. He wants to
be _onatel_ with yer, so he can cum agin.”
This course didn’t set them back any, as they thought the old man was
_scary_, and they were after him the faster.
Some of the more wary cautioned them to look out, but they _didn’t want
no caution—they knew what they was about_. They could beat old Tuttle,
and they were going to “do the State some service” by skinning him.
They’d make the “old cuss” poor afore they left him!
He took it all very coolly, advised some of them to save their money for
the next time. He was an old man and b’lieved he knowed more’n all on
’em. _His father_ didn’t teach him for nothin’ sixty-five years ago! But
the boys said that was all gass to scare them off; but ’twouldn’t work!
The old cuss had got to be skinned or back out.
The result was, they got up a horse and fifty dollars a side, to run on
Saturday, at two o’clock, each one to start and ride his own horse,
judge tops and bottoms—the winning horse take the cakes—and no back
out. Either party refusing to run forfeits the whole stakes.
Things went on smooth that day—some thinking old T. was playing some
game with the boys, but what it was, no one could tell. However, before
night, it was known there was _a secret_ among the boys. They knew the
speed of Dick, and knew they could slay him; but there mustn’t anything
be said about it, as when they got the old man on the track and right,
they were going into him the whole amount of his fixins. They’d caught
the old man napping once. They’d got a plaguy sight faster horse than he
thought for, and now they were going to pay off old scores.
Two o’clock came, and found old T. on the spot leading Dick round, and
telling the boys they’d be surprised when they see Dick run his best—at
the same time “doing what _business_ offered,” but somehow the boys
appeared a little _scary_. Old T. was “on hand” for every offer, and no
mistake; and ’twas known he never bet liberally, unless he “had a sure
thing.” So that the betting soon began to lag, and the old man had the
call, but no takers. Finally the old man said:
“I’ve got a little more money, b’hoys, and I wouldn’t mind givin’ you a
chance at two to one for it.”
But this set them _clar back_—no one dare _bite_. There not appearing
any more chance for investment, the old man stripped off his hat, coat,
vest, and boots, tied a red cotton bandanna around his head (as an old
man only can tie it), then pulls off the cloths and saddle from Dick,
and mounts _bare-back_, declaring himself ready.
He mounted, and the word was given to “clear the track!”
Then Old T. says: “Are yer ready?”
“Yes.”
“Go along then!”
And over the score they go, H. a length ahead. But, oh! Jeminy! see Dick
run! Before you could turn round twice, the ends of Old T.’s bandanna
were pointing out the road for H., and at the outcome Dick was one, H.
nowhere.
Anybody that has seen a “quarter-horse” run by a “dunghill” knows how
this was—no one else can appreciate it—the thing was out. Old T.
really knew more than all of them, sure enough; but what was the secret,
and how could those in the secret be so stuck? That’s the idea.
The secret was, “the boys” stole Old Tuttle’s horse on Thursday night,
and run him with H.’s horse, and _beat him easy_. And the way they were
stuck was this: The old man supposing that they would steal his horse
that night, and run him, had put Dick’s cloths on another horse of the
same colour and marks, and about the same size, and put him in Dick’s
stall, starting a shoe, so that if they run him they would lose it, and
he should know they had taken the bait good. In the morning the shoe was
gone.
XVII.
SPEECH ON THE OREGON QUESTION.[11]
“Whoia! here I am, and intend, in a very few and expressive terms, to
speak my sentiments. Mr. Speaker, I have come all the way from Oregon,
to see, in behalf of my afflicted neighbours, who live a considerable
distance apart, and I want to know, what in thunder you’re about here,
in this comfortable location, while your fellow-countrymen, who are not
allowed to emigrate north of the Columbia River, on account of a raging
he-calf who is bla-ting on the other side; but, thunder and squashes!
can this be borne? No! Can the free inhabitants, who have emigrated
there with the full belief that protection was to be extended to them
from the great republic, bear the yoke of British law and British
tyranny? _No, Sir!_ we expect you to guard us from the sneers and
insults of savages subject and give us aid, and to plant the standard of
our country immutably on the 54–40, and, if anything, a leetle north.
“Powder and gun-flints! must we give up what is clearly proved by many
of our great men—and though not set down in Webster’s Spelling Book—to
belong to us? will any man, who has pure American blood coursing through
his veins, say let it go, ’cause we’re afraid to fight? No, Sir! no! it
is not in the natur of _Liberty boys_ to allow any usurpation of our
rights; let us be guided by Crockett’s motto: ‘_First, be sure your
right, then go ahead_.’
“I’ve killed four horses, worn out three pair of trousers and a pair of
saddle-bags, besides spending all my money to come here, and I must know
before I go back, which way the cat _jumps_, or both countries shall
hear from me, to their entire satisfaction, sooner or later. I’ve left
my grandmother, father, wife, three children, six cows, two hosses,
eighteen sheep, a gross of turkeys, geese, hens, chickens, a black dog,
and a grey cat, who fondly look for my return, and I wish to know,
without the shadow of a doubt, whether we are to be protected, or not,
by this government, or are we tew be trampled under the iron hoofs of
Europe’s roaring Bull. We are strong and true at heart for our country,
but we are as yet too few in number to offer just resistance. Give us a
chance for a few years, however, and we will then look out for
ourselves.
“Yet the time is not far off, when the locomotive will be steaming its
way to the Rocky Mountains, with a mighty big train of cars running
after it. Yes, the whistle of the engine will echo through the
South-west Pass, and sharply hint to the free people of that great
territory the approach of hundreds and thousands tew, who are to be
their neighbours. No, Sir, the time is not far distant, when our
commerce with China will equal that of all the world; when the Pacific
Ocean will be crossed with as much ease as the Frog pond on Boston
Common.
“Yes, Mr. Speaker, as my eloquent friend from the Hoosier State remarks:
‘Men of blood, and friends of General Washington, and that old hoss,
General Jackson, I want your attention. _Lightnin’_ has burst upon us;
and Jupiter has poured out the ile of his wrath. Thunder has broke loose
and slipped its cable, and is now rattling down the mighty Valley of the
Mississippi, accompanied by the music of the alligator’s hornpipe.
Citizens and fellers; on the bloody ground on which our fathers
catawampously poured out their claret free as ile, to enrich the soil
over which we now honour and watch with hyena eyes, let the catamount of
the inner varmint loose and prepare the engines of vengeance, for the
long looked-for day has come. The crocodile of the Mississippi has gone
into his hole, and the sun that lit King David and his host across the
Atlantic Ocean, looks down upon the scene, and drops a tear to its
memory.’
“I am with you, and while the stars of Uncle Sam, and the stripes of his
country, triumph and float in the breeze, whar, whar is the craven,
low-lived, chicken-bred, toad-hoppin’, red-mouthed mother’s son of ye
who will not raise the beacon-light of triumph, smouse the citadel of
the aggressor, and press onward to liberty and glory? Wha-ah! Hurrah!
where’s the inimy?”
-----
[11] By G. H. Hill.
XVIII.
BILL DEAN, THE TEXAN RANGER.[12]
Rare wags may be found among the Texas Volunteers, yet the funniest
fellow of all is a happy-go-lucky chap named Bill Dean, one of
Chevallier’s spy company, and said to be one of the best “seven-up”
players in all Texas. While at Corpus Christi, a lot of us were sitting
out on the stoop of the Kinney House, early one morning, when along came
Bill Dean. He did not know a single soul in the crowd, although he knew
we were all bound for the Rio Grande; yet the fact that the regular
formalities of an introduction had not been gone through with, did not
prevent his stopping short in his walk and accosting us. His speech, or
harangue, or whatever it may be termed, will lose much in the telling,
yet I will endeavour to put it upon paper in as good a shape as
possible.
“Oh, yes,” said he, with a knowing leer of the eye: “oh, yes; all going
down among the robbers on the Rio Grande, are you? Fine times _you’ll_
have, over the left. I’ve been there myself, and done what a great many
of you won’t do—I come back; but if I didn’t see nateral h—ll—in
August at that—I _am_ a teapot. Lived eight days on one poor hawk and
three blackberries—couldn’t kill a prairie rat on the whole route to
save us from starvation. The ninth day come, and we struck a small
streak of good luck—a horse give out and broke down, plumb out in the
centre of an open prairie—not a stick big enough to tickle a
rattlesnake with, let alone killing him. Just had time to save the
critter by shootin’ him, and that was all, for in three minutes longer
he’d have died a nateral death. It didn’t take us long to butcher him,
nor to cut off some chunks of meat and stick ’em on our ramrods; but the
cookin’ was another matter. I piled up a heap of prairie grass, for it
was high and dry, and sot it on fire; but it flashed up like powder, and
went out as quick. But—”
“But,” put in one of his hearers, “but how did you cook your horse-meat
after that?”
“How?”
“Yes, how?”
“Why, the fire caught the high grass close by, and the wind carried the
flames streakin’ across the prairie. I followed up the fire, holding my
chunk of meat directly over the blaze, and the way we went it was a
caution to anything short of locomotive doin’s. Once in a while a little
flurry of wind would come along, and the fire would get a few yards the
start; but I’d brush upon her, lap her with my chunk, and then we’d have
it again, nip and chuck. You never seed such a tight race—it was
beautiful.”
“Very, we’ve no doubt,” ejaculated one of the listeners, interrupting
the mad wag just in season to give him a little breath: “but did you
cook your meat in the end?”
“Not bad I didn’t. I chased that d—d fire a mile and a half, the
almightiest hardest race you ever heer’d tell on, and never give it up
until I run her right plump into a wet marsh: there the fire and chunk
of horse-meat came out even—a dead heat, especially the meat.”
“But wasn’t it cooked?” put in another one of the listeners.
“Cooked!—no!—just crusted over a little. You don’t cook broken-down
horse-flesh very easy, no how; but when it comes to chasing up a prairie
fire with a chunk of it, I don’t know which is the toughest, the meat or
the job. You’d have laughed to split yourself to have seen me in that
race—to see the fire leave me at times and then to see me brushin’ up
on her agin, humpin’ and movin’ myself as though I was runnin’ agin some
of those big ten mile an hour Gildersleeves in the old States. But I’m a
goin’ over to Jack Haynes’s to get a cocktail and some breakfast—I’ll
see you all down among the robbers on the Rio Grande.”
-----
[12] By G. W. Kendall.
XIX.
THE FIRE-HUNT.
Samuel Sikes was one of the most inveterate hunters I ever knew. He
delighted in no other pursuit or pastime, and though he pretended to
cultivate a small spot of ground, yet so large a portion of his time was
spent in the pursuit of game, that his agricultural interests suffered
much for the want of proper attention. He lived a few miles from town,
and as you passed his house, which stood a short distance from the main
road, a few acres of corn and a small patch of potatoes might probably
attract your notice as standing greatly in need of the hoe; but the most
prominent objects about Sam’s domicile pertained to his favourite
pursuit. A huge pair of antlers—a trophy of one of his proudest
achievements—occupied a conspicuous place on the gable end; some ten or
a dozen tall fishing-poles, though modestly stowed behind the chimney,
projected far above the roof of the little cabin, and upon its unchinked
walls, many a ’coon and deer-skin were undergoing the process of drying.
If all these did not convince you that the proprietor was a sportsman,
the varied and clamorous music of a score of hungry-looking hounds, as
they issued forth in full cry at every passer-by, could not fail to
force the conviction.
Sam had early found a companion to share with him his good or ill luck,
and though he was yet on the green side of thirty, he was obliged to
provide for some five or six little tallow-faced “responsibilities;” so
he not only followed the chase from choice, but when his wife—who hated
“fisherman’s luck” _worse_ than Sam did a “miss” or a “nibble”—took him
to account for spending so many broken days, Saturday afternoons, rainy
days and odd hours, to say nothing of whole nights, in the woods,
without bringing home so much as a cut-squirrel or horney-head, his
ready reply was, that he was “’bleeged” to do the best he could to get
meat for her and the “childer.”
The Fire-Hunt was Sam’s hobby, and though the legislature had recently
passed an act prohibiting that mode of hunting, he continued to indulge,
as freely as ever, in his favourite sport, resolutely maintaining that
the law was “unconstitootional and agin reason.” He had often urged me
to accompany him, just to see how “slick” he could shine a buck’s eyes;
and such were the glowing accounts he had from time to time given me of
his achievements in that way, that he had drawn from me a promise to go
with him “some of these times.”
I was sitting one evening, after tea, upon the steps of the porch,
enjoying the cool autumnal breeze, when my friend Sam Sikes suddenly
made his appearance. He had come for me to go with him on a fire-hunt,
and was mounted on his mule Blaze, with his pan upon one shoulder, and
his musket on the other. Determined to have everything in readiness
before calling on me, he had gone to the kitchen and lit a few
light-wood splinters, which were now blazing in his pan, and which
served the double purpose of lighting him through the enclosure, and of
demonstrating to me the manner of hunting by night. As he approached the
house, his light discovered me where I was sitting.
“Good evenin’, Major,” said he, “I’ve come out to see if you’ve a mind
to take a little hunt to-night.”
“I believe not, Mr. Sikes,” I replied, feeling entirely too well
satisfied with my pleasant seat in the cool breeze, to desire to change
it for a night-ramble through the woods. “Not to-n
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