The squire himself was the type of a class found only among the rural
population of our Southern States--a class, the individuals of which are
connected by a general similarity of position and circumstance, but
present a field to the student of man infinite in variety, rich in
originality.
As the isolated oak that spreads his umbrageous top in the meadow
surpasses his spindling congener of the forest, so does the country
gentleman, alone in the midst of his broad estate, outgrow the man of
crowds and conventionalities in our cities. The oak may have the
advantage in the comparison, as his locality and consequent superiority
are permanent. The Squire, out of his own district, we ignore. Whether
intrinsically, or simply in default of comparison, at home he is
invariably a great man. Such, at least, was Squire Hardy. Sour and
cynical in speech, yet overflowing with human kindness; contemning
luxury and expense in dress and equipage, but princely in his
hospitality; praising the olden time to the disparagement of the
present; the mortal foe of progressionists and fast people in every
department; above all, a philosopher of his own school, he judged by the
law of Procrustes, and permitted no appeals; opinionated and arbitrary
as the Czar, he was sauced by his negroes, respected and loved by his
neighbors, led by the nose by his wife and daughters, and the abject
slave of his grandchildren.
His house was as big as a barn, and, as his sons and daughters married,
they brought their mates home to the old mansion. "It will be time
enough for them to hive," quoth the Squire, "when the old box is full."
Notwithstanding his contempt for fast men nowadays, he is rather pleased
with any allusion to his own youthful reputation in that line, and not
unfrequently tells a good story on himself. We can not omit one told by
a neighbor, as being characteristic of the times and manners forty years
ago:
At Culpepper Court-house, or some court-house thereabout, Dick Hardy,
then a good-humored, gay young bachelor, and the prime favorite of both
sexes, was called upon to carve the pig at the court dinner. The
district judge was at the table, the lawyers, justices, and everybody
else that felt disposed to dine. At Dick's right elbow sat a militia
colonel, who was tricked out in all the pomp and circumstance admitted
by his rank. He had probably been engaged on some court-martial,
imposing fifty-cent fines on absentees from the last general muster.
Howbeit Dick, in thrusting his fork into the back of the pig,
bespattered the officer's regimentals with some of the superfluous
gravy. "Beg your pardon," said Dick, as he went on with his carving. Now
these were times when the war spirit was high, and chivalry at a
premium. "Beg your pardon" might serve as a napkin to wipe the stain
from one's honor, but did not touch the question of the greased and
spotted regimentals.
The colonel, swelling with wrath, seized a spoon, and deliberately
dipping it into the gravy, dashed it over Dick's prominent shirt-frill.
All saw the act, and with open eyes and mouth sat in astonished
silence, waiting to see what would be done next. The outraged citizen
calmly laid down his knife and fork, and looked at his frill, the
officer, and the pig, one after another. The colonel, unmindful of the
pallid countenance and significant glances of the burning eye, leaned
back in his chair, with arms akimbo, regarding the young farmer with
cool disdain. A murmur of surprise and indignation arose from the
congregated guests. Dick's face turned red as a turkey-gobbler's. He
deliberately took the pig by the hind legs, and with a sudden whirl
brought it down upon the head of the unlucky officer. Stunned by the
squashing blow, astounded and blinded with streams of gravy and wads of
stuffing, he attempted to rise, but blow after blow from the fat pig
fell upon his bewildered head. He seized a carving-knife and attempted
to defend himself with blind but ineffectual fury, and at length, with a
desperate effort, rose and took to his heels. Dick Hardy, whose wrath
waxed hotter and hotter, followed, belaboring him unmercifully at every
step, around the table, through the hall, and into the street, the crowd
shouting and applauding.
We are sorry to learn that among this crowd were lawyers, sheriffs,
magistrates, and constables; and that even his honor the judge,
forgetting his dignity and position, shouted in a loud voice, "Give it
to him, Dick Hardy! There's no law in Christendom against basting a man
with a roast pig!" Dick's weapon failed before his anger; and when at
length the battered colonel escaped into the door of a friendly
dwelling, the victor had nothing in his hands but the hind legs of the
roaster. He re-entered the dining-room flourishing these over his head,
and venting his still unappeased wrath in great oaths.
The company reassembled, and finished their dinner as best they might.
In reply to a toast, Hardy made a speech, wherein he apologized for
sacrificing the principal dinner-dish, and, as he expressed it, for
putting public property to private uses. In reply to this speech a treat
was ordered. In those good old days folks were not so virtuous but that
a man might have cakes and ale without being damned for it, and it is
presumable the day wound up with a spree.
After the squire got older, and a family grew up around him, he was not
always victorious in his contests. For example, a question lately arose
about the refurnishing of the house. On their return from a visit to
Richmond the ladies took it into their heads that the parlors looked
bare and old-fashioned, and it was decided by them in secret conclave
that a change was necessary.
"What!" said he, in a towering passion, "isn't it enough that you spend
your time and money in vinegar to sour sweet peaches, and your sugar to
sweeten crab-apples, that you must turn the house you were born in
topsy-turvy? God help us! we've a house with windows to let the light
in, and you want curtains to keep it out; we've plastered the walls to
make them white, and now you want to paste blue paper over them; we've
waxed floors to walk on, and we must pay two dollars a yard for a carpet
to save the oak plank! Begone with your nonsense, ye demented jades!"
The squire smote the oak floor with his heavy cane, and the rosy
petitioners fled from his presence laughing. In due time, however, the
parlors were furnished with carpets, curtains, paper, and all the
fixtures of modern luxury. The ladies were, of course, greatly
delighted; and while professing great aversion and contempt for the
"tawdry lumber," it was plain to see that the worthy man enjoyed their
pleasure as much as they did the new furniture.
On another occasion, too, did the doughty squire suffer defeat under
circumstances far more humiliating, and from an adversary far less
worthy.
The western horizon was blushing rosy red at the coming of the sun,
whose descending chariot was hidden by the thick Indian-summer haze that
covered lowland and mountain as it were with a violet-tinted veil. This
was the condition of things (we were going to say) when Squire Hardy
sallied forth, charged with a small bag of salt, for the purpose of
looking after his farm generally, and particularly of salting his sheep.
It was an interesting sight to see the old gentleman, with his
dignified, portly figure, marching at the head of a long procession of
improved breeds--the universally-received emblems of innocence and
patience. Barring his modern costume, he might have suggested to the
artist's mind a picture of one of the Patriarchs.
Having come to a convenient place, or having tired himself crying
_co-nan_, _co-nan_, at the top of his voice, the squire halted. The
black ram halted, and the long procession of ewes and well-grown lambs
moved up in a dense semicircle, and also halted, expressing their
pleasure at the expected treat by gentle bleatings. The squire stooped
to spread the salt. The black ram, either from most uncivil impatience,
or mistaking the movement of the proprietor's coat-tail for a challenge,
pitched into him incontinently. "_Plenum sed_," as the Oxonions say. An
attack from behind, so sudden and unexpected, threw the squire sprawling
on his face into a stone pile.
Oh, never was the thunder's jar,
The red tornado's wasting wing,
Or all the elemental war,
like the fury of Squire Hardy on that occasion.
He recovered his feet with the agility of a boy, his nose bleeding and a
stone in each hand. The timid flock looked all aghast, while the
audacious offender, so far from having shown any disposition to skulk,
stood shaking his head and threatening, as if he had a mind to follow up
the dastardly attack. The squire let fly one stone, which grazed the
villain's head and killed a lamb. With the other he crippled a favorite
ewe. The ram still showed fight, and the vengeful proprietor would
probably have soon decimated his flock had not Porte Crayon (who had
been squirrel-shooting) made his appearance in time to save them.
"Quick, quick! young man--your gun; let me shoot the cursed brute on the
spot."
The squire was frantic with rage, the cause of which our hero, having
seen something of the affray, easily divined. He was unwilling, however,
to trust his hair-triggered piece in the hands of his excited host.
"By your leave, Squire, and by your orders, I'll do the shooting myself.
Which of them was it?"
"The ram--the d----d black ram--kill him--shoot--don't let him live a
minute!"
Crayon leveled his piece and fired. The offender made a bound and fell
dead, the black blood spouting from his forehead in a stream as thick as
your thumb.
"There, now," exclaimed the squire, with infinite satisfaction, "you've
got it, you ungrateful brute! You've found something harder than your
own head at last, you cursed reptile! Friend Crayon, that's a capital
gun of yours, and you shot well."
The squire dropped the stones which he had in his hands, and looking
back at the dead body of the belligerent sheep, observed, with a
thoughtful air, "He was a fine animal, Mr. Crayon--a fine animal, and
this will teach him a good lesson."
"In all likelihood," replied Crayon, dryly, "it will break him of this
trick of butting."
Not long after this occurrence, Squire Hardy went to hear an itinerant
phrenologist who lectured in the village. In the progress of his
discourse, the lecturer, for purposes of illustration, introduced the
skulls of several animals, mapped off in the most correct and scientific
manner.
"Observe, ladies and gentlemen, the head of the wolf: combativeness
enormously developed, alimentiveness large, while conscientiousness is
entirely wanting. On the other hand, look at this cranium. Here
combativeness is a nullity--absolutely wanting--while the fullness of
the sentimental organs indicate at once the mild and peaceful
disposition of the sheep."
The squire, who had listened with great attention up to this point,
hastily rose to his feet.
"A sheep!" he exclaimed; "did you call a sheep a peaceful animal? I tell
you, sir, it is the most ferocious and unruly beast in existence. Sir, I
had a ram once--"
"My dear sir," cried the astonished lecturer, "on the authority of our
most distinguished writers, the sheep is an emblem of peace and
innocence."
"An emblem of the devil," interrupted the squire, boiling over. "You are
an ignorant impostor, and your science a humbug. I had a ram once that
would have taught you more in five seconds than you've learned from
books in all your lifetime."
And so Squire Hardy put on his hat and walked out, leaving the lecturer
to rectify his blunder as best he might.