FIDDLING AND DANCING, AND SERVING THE DEVIL.
By the time we had reached the house, Cutler joined us, and we dined
off of the doctor’s salmon, which was prepared in a way that I had
never seen before; and as it was a touch above common, and smacked of
the wigwam, I must get the receipt. The only way for a man who travels
and wants to get something better than amusement out of it, is to notch
down anything new, for every place has something to teach you in that
line. “_The silent pig is the best feeder_,” but it remains a pig
still, and hastens its death by growing too fat. Now the talking
traveller feeds his mind as well as his body, and soon finds the less
he pampers his appetite the clearer his head is and the better his
spirits. The great thing is to live and learn, and learn to live.
Now I hate an epicure above all created things—worse than lawyers,
doctors, politicians, and selfish fellows of all kinds. In a giniral
way he is a miserable critter, for nothin’ is good enough for him or
done right, and his appetite gives itself as many airs, and requires as
much waitin’ on, as a crotchetty, fanciful, peevish old lady of
fashion. If a man’s sensibility is all in his palate he can’t in course
have much in his heart. Makin’ oneself miserable, fastin’ in sackcloth
and ashes, ain’t a bit more foolish than makin’ oneself wretched in the
midst of plenty, because the sea, the air, and the earth won’t give him
the dainties he wants, and Providence won’t send the cook to dress
them. To spend one’s life in eating, drinking, and sleeping, or like a
bullock, in ruminating on food, reduces a man to the level of an ox or
an ass. The stomach is the kitchen, and a very small one too, in a
general way, and broiling, simmering, stewing, baking, and steaming, is
a goin’ on there night and day. The atmosphere is none of the
pleasantest neither, and if a man chooses to withdraw into himself and
live there, why I don’t see what earthly good he is to society, unless
he wants to wind up life by writin’ a cookery-book. I hate them—that’s
just the tarm, and I like tarms that express what I mean.
I shall never forget when I was up to Michelimackinic. A thunderin’
long word, ain’t it? We call it Mackinic now for shortness. But perhaps
you wouldn’t understand it spelt that way, no more than I did when I
was to England that Brighton means Brighthelmeston, or Sissiter,
Cirencester, for the English take such liberties with words, they can’t
afford to let others do the same; so I give it to you both ways. Well,
when I was there last, I dined with a village doctor, the greatest
epicure I think I ever see in all my born days. He thought and talked
of nothing else from morning till night but eatin’.
“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, rubbin’ his hands, “this is the tallest
country in the world to live in. What a variety of food there is
here,—fish, flesh, and fowl,—wild, tame, and mongeral,—fruits,
vegetables, and spongy plants!”
“What’s that?” sais I. I always do that when a fellow uses strange
words. “We call a man who drops in accidently on purpose to dinner a
sponging fellow, which means if you give him the liquid he will soak it
up dry.”
“Spongy plants,” sais he, “means mushrooms and the like.”
“Ah!” said I, “mushrooms are nateral to a new soil like this. Upstarts
we call them; they arise at night, and by next mornin’ their house is
up and its white roof on.”
“Very good,” said he, but not lookin’ pleased at havin’ his oratory cut
short that way. “Oh, Mr Slick!” said he, “there is a poor man here who
richly deserves a pension both from your government and mine. He has
done more to advance the culinary art than either Ude or Soyer.”
“Who on earth now were they?” said I. I knew well enough who they were,
for when I was to England they used to brag greatly of Soyer at the
Reform Club. For fear folks would call their association house after
their politics, “_the cheap and dirty_” they built a very splash
affair, and to set an example to the state in their own establishment
of economy and reform in the public departments, hired Soyer, the best
cook of the age, at a salary that would have pensioned half-a-dozen of
the poor worn-out clerks in Downing Street. _Vulgarity is always
showy._ It is a pretty word, “Reformers.” The common herd of them I
don’t mind much, for rogues and fools always find employment for each
other. But when I hear of a great reformer like some of the big bugs to
England, that have been grinning through horse-collars of late years,
like harlequins at fairs, for the amusement and instruction of the
public, I must say I do expect to see a super-superior hypocrite.
Yes, I know who those great artists Soyer and Ude were, but I thought
I’d draw him out. So I just asked who on earth they were, and he
explained at great length, and mentioned the wonderful discoveries they
had made in their divine art.
“Well,” sais I, “why on earth don’t your friend the Mackinic cook go to
London or Paris, where he won’t want a pension, or anything else, if he
excels them great men?”
“Bless you, Sir,” he replied, “he is merely a voyageur.”
“Oh dear,” sais I, “I dare say then he can fry ham and eggs and serve
’em up in ile, boil salt beef and pork, and twice lay cod-fish, and
perhaps boil potatoes nice and watery like cattle turnips. What
discoveries could such a rough-and-tumble fellow as that make?”
“Well,” said the doctor, “I didn’t want to put myself forward, for it
ain’t pleasant to speak of oneself.”
“Well, I don’t know that,” sais I, “I ain’t above it, I assure you. If
you have a horse to sell, put a thunderin’ long price on him, and folks
will think he must be the devil and all, and if you want people to
vally you right, appraise yourself at a high figure. _Braggin’ saves
advertising’._ I always do it; for as the Nova Scotia magistrate said,
who sued his debtor before himself, ‘What’s the use of being a justice,
if you can’t do yourself justice.’ But what was you sayin’ about the
voyageur?”
“Why, Sir,” said he, “I made the discovery through his instrumentality.
He enabled me to do it by suffering the experiments to be made on him.
His name was Alexis St Martin; he was a Canadian, and about eighteen
years of age, of good constitution, robust, and healthy. He had been
engaged in the service of the American Fur Company as a voyageur, and
was accidentally wounded by the discharge of a musket, on the 9th of
June, 1822. The charge, consisting of powder and duck-shot, was
received in his left side; he being at a distance of not more than one
yard from the muzzle of the gun. The contents entered posteriorly, and
in an oblique direction, forward and inward, literally blowing off
integuments and muscles, of the size of a man’s hand, fracturing and
carrying away the anterior half of the sixth rib, fracturing the fifth,
lacerating the lower portion of the left lobe of the lungs, the
diaphragm, and perforating the stomach.”
“Good gracious!” sais I, “how plain that is expressed! It is as clear
as mud, that! I do like doctors, for their talking and writing is
intelligible to the meanest capacity.”
He looked pleased, and went ahead agin.
“After trying all the means in my power for eight or ten months to
close the orifice, by exciting adhesive inflammation in the lips of the
wound, without the least appearance of success, I gave it up as
impracticable, in any other way than that of incising and bringing them
together by sutures; an operation to which the patient would not
submit. By using the aperture which providence had supplied us with to
communicate with the stomach, I ascertained, by attaching a small
portion of food of different kinds to a string, and inserting it
through his side, the exact time each takes for digestion, such as beef
or pork, or mutton or fowl, or fish or vegetables, cooked in different
ways.1 We all know how long it takes to dress them, but we did not know
how long a time they required for digestion. I will show you a
comparative table.”
1 The village doctor appears to have appropriated to himself the credit
due to another. The particulars of this remarkable case are to be found
in a work published in New York in 1833, entitled “Experiments and
observations on the gastric juices, and the physiology of digestion,”
by William Beaumont, M. D., Surgeon in the United States’ Army, and
also in the “Albion” newspaper of the same place for January 4, 1834.
“Thank you,” sais I, “but I am afraid I must be a moving. “Fact is, my
stomach was movin’ then, for it fairly made me sick. Yes, I’d a plaguy
sight sooner see a man embroidering, which is about as contemptible an
accomplishment as an idler can have, than to hear him everlastingly
smack his lips, and see him open his eyes and gloat like an anaconda
before he takes down a bullock, horns, hair, and hoof, tank, shank, and
flank, at one bolt, as if it was an opium pill to make him sleep.
Well, all this long lockrum arose out of my saying I should like to
have the receipt by which Jessie’s sister had cooked the salmon for
dinner; and I intend to get it too, that’s a fact. As we concluded our
meal, “Doctor,” sais I, “we have been meditating mischief in your
absence. What do you say to our makin’ a party to visit the ‘_Bachelor
beaver’s dam_,’ and see your museum, fixins, betterments, and what
not?”
“Why,” said he, “I should like it above all things; but—”
“But what?” said I.
“But I am afraid, as you must stay all night, if you go, my poor wigwam
won’t accommodate so many with beds.”
“Oh! some of us will camp out,” sais I, “I am used to it, and like it a
plaguy sight better than hot rooms.”
“Just the thing,” said he. “Oh! Mr Slick, you are a man after my own
heart. The nature of all foresters is alike, _red_ or white, English or
French, Yankee or Blue-nose.”
Jessie looked up at the coïncidence of that expression with what I had
said yesterday.
“Blue-nose,” said I, “Doctor,” to familiarize the girl’s mind to the
idea I had started of the mixed race being on a footing of equality
with the other two, “Blue-nose ought to be the best, for he is half
Yankee and half English; two of the greatest people on the face of the
airth!”
“True,” said he, “by right he ought to be, and it’s his own fault he
ain’t.”
I thought it would be as well to drop the allusion there, so I said,
“That’s exactly what mother used to say when I did anything wrong:
‘Sam, ain’t you ashamed.’ ‘No, I ain’t,’ said I. ‘Then you ought to
be,’ she’d reply.
“It’s a fixed fact, then,” said I, “that we go to-morrow to the Beaver
dam?”
“Yes,” said he, “I shall be delighted. Jessie, you and your sister will
accompany us, won’t you?”
“I should be charmed,” she replied.
“I think you will be pleased with it,” he continued, “it will just suit
you; it’s so quiet and retired. But you must let Etienne take the
horse, and carry a letter to my sergeant and his commanding officer,
Betty, to give them notice of our visit, or he will go through the
whole campaign in Spain before he is done, and tell you how ill the
commissariat-people were used, in not having notice given to them to
lay in stores. I never was honoured with the presence of ladies there
before, and he will tell you he is broken-hearted at the accommodation.
I don’t know what there is in the house; but the rod and the gun will
supply us, I think, and the French boy, when he returns, will bring me
word if anything is wanted from the shore.”
“Jessie,” said I, “can’t you invite the two Highland lassies and their
brother that were here last night, and let us have a reel this
evening?”
“Oh! yes,” she said, and going into the kitchen, the message was
despatched immediately. As soon as the guests arrived, Peter produced
his violin, and the doctor waking out of one of his brown studies,
jumped up like a boy, and taking one of the new-comers by the hand,
commenced a most joyous and rapid jig, the triumph of which seemed to
consist in who should tire the other out. The girl had youth and
agility on her side; but the doctor was not devoid of activity, and the
great training which his constant exercise kept him in, threw the
balance in his favour; so when he ceased, and declared the other
victorious, it was evident that it was an act of grace, and not of
necessity. After that we all joined in an eight-handed reel, and eight
merrier and happier people I don’t think were ever before assembled at
Ship Harbour.
In the midst of it the door opened, and a tall, thin,
cadaverous-looking man entered, and stood contemplating us in silence.
He had a bilious-looking countenance, which the strong light of the
fire and candles, when thrown upon it, rendered still more repulsive.
He had a broad-brimmed hat on his head, which he did not condescend to
remove, and carried in one hand a leather travelling-bag, as lean and
as dark-complexioned as himself, and in the other a bundle of
temperance newspapers. Peter seeing that he did not speak or advance,
called out to him, with a face beaming with good humour, as he kept
bobbing his head, and keeping time with his foot (for his whole body
was affected by his own music).
“Come in, friend, come in, she is welcome. Come in, she is playin’
herself just now, but she will talk to you presently.” And then he
stamped his foot to give emphasis to the turn of the tune, as if he
wanted to astonish the stranger with his performance.
The latter however not only seemed perfectly insensible to its charms,
but immoveable. Peter at last got up from his chair, and continued
playing as he advanced towards him; but he was so excited by what was
going on among the young people, that he couldn’t resist dancing
himself, as he proceeded down the room, and when he got to him, capered
and fiddled at the same time.
“Come,” said he, as he jumped about in front of him, “come and join
in;” and liftin’ the end of his bow suddenly, tipt off his hat for him,
and said, “Come, she will dance with you herself.”
The stranger deliberately laid down his travelling-bag and paper
parcel, and lifting up both hands said, “Satan, avaunt.” But Peter
misunderstood him, and thought he said, “Sartain, I can’t.”
“She canna do tat,” he replied, “can’t she, then she’ll teach you the
step herself. This is the way,” and his feet approached so near the
solemncolly man that he retreated a step or two as if to protect his
shins. Everybody in the room was convulsed with laughter, for all saw
what the intruder was, and the singular mistake Peter was making. It
broke up the reel. The doctor put his hands to his sides, bent forward,
and made the most comical contortions of face. In this position he
shuffled across the room, and actually roared out with laughter.
I shall never forget the scene; I have made a sketch of it, to
illustrate this for you. There was this demure sinner, standing bolt
upright in front of the door, his hat hanging on the handle, which had
arrested it in its fall, and his long black hair, as if partaking of
his consternation, flowing wildly over his cheeks; while Peter, utterly
unconscious that no one was dancing, continued playing and capering in
front of him, as if he was ravin distracted, and the doctor bent
forward, pressing his sides with his hands, as if to prevent their
bursting, laughed as if he was in hysterics. It was the most comical
thing I ever saw. I couldn’t resist it no longer, so I joined the trio.
“Come, Doctor,” sais I, “a three-handed reel,” and entering into the
joke, he seized the stranger by one hand, and I by the other, and
before our silent friend knew where he was, he was in the middle of the
floor, and though he was not made to dance, he was pushed or flung into
his place, and turned and faced about as if he was taking his first
lesson. At last, as if by common consent, we all ceased laughing, from
sheer exhaustion. The stranger still kept his position in the centre of
the floor, and when silence was restored, raised his hands again in
pious horror, and said, in a deep, sepulchral voice:
“_Fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil._ Do you ever think of
your latter end?”
“Thee had better think of thine, friend,” I whispered, assuming the
manner of a quaker for fun, “for Peter is a rough customer, and won’t
stand upon ceremony.”
“_Amhic an aibhisteir_ (son of the devil),” said Peter, shaking his
fist at him, “if she don’t like it, she had better go. It’s her own
house, and she will do what she likes in it. Faat does she want?”
“I want the man called Samuel Slick,” said he.
“Verily,” sais I, “friend, I am that man, and wilt thee tell me who
thee is that wantest me, and where thee livest?”
“Men call me,” he said, “Jehu Judd, and when to home, I live in Quaco
in New Brunswick.”
I was glad of that, because it warn’t possible the critter could know
anything of me, and I wanted to draw him out.
“And what does thee want, friend?” I said.
“I come to trade with you, to sell you fifty barrels of mackerel, and
to procure some nets for the fishery, and some manufactures, commonly
called _domestics.”_
“Verily,” sais I, “thee hast an odd way of opening a trade, methinks,
friend Judd. Shaking quakers dance piously, as thee mayest have heard,
and dost thee think thy conduct seemly? What mayest thee be, friend?”
“A trader,” he replied.
“Art thee not a fisher of men, friend, as well as a fisher of fish?”
“I am a Christian man,” he said, “of the sect called ‘_come-outers_,’1
and have had experience, and when I meet the brethren, sometimes I
speak a word in season.”
1 Come-outers. This name has been applied to a considerable number of
persons in various parts of the Northern States, principally in New
England, who have recently _come out_ of the various religious
denominations with which they have been connected; hence the name. They
have not themselves assumed any distinctive organization. They have no
creed, believing that every one should be left free to hold such
opinions on religious subjects as he pleases, without being held
accountable for the same to any human authority—_Bartlett’s
Americanisms._
“Well, friend, thee has spoken thy words out of season tonight,” I
said.
“Peradventure I was wrong,” he replied, “and if so, I repent me of it.”
“Of a certainty thee was, friend. Thee sayest thy name is Jehu; now he
was a hard rider, and it may be thee drivest a hard bargain, if so, go
thy ways, for thee cannot ‘make seed-corn off of me;’ if not, tarry
here till this company goeth, and then I will talk to thee touching the
thing called mackarel. Wilt thee sit by the fire till the quaker
ceaseth his dancing, and perhaps thee may learn what those words mean,
‘and the heart danceth for joy,’ or it may be thee will return to thy
vessel, and trade in the morning.”
“No man knoweth,” he said, “what an hour may bring forth; I will bide
my time.”
“The night is cold at this season,” said Peter, who considered that the
laws of hospitality required him to offer the best he had in his house
to a stranger, so he produced some spirits, as the most acceptable
thing he possessed, and requested him to help himself.
“I care not if I do,” he said, “for my pledge extendeth not so far as
this,” and he poured himself out a tumbler of brandy and water, that
warn’t half-and-half, but almost the whole hog. Oh, gummy, what a horn!
it was strong enough almost to throw an ox over a five-bar gate. It
made his eyes twinkle, I tell you, and he sat down and began to look as
if he thought the galls pretty.
“Come, Peter,” said I, “strike up, the stranger will wait awhile.”
“Will she dance,” said he, “tam her.”
“No,” said I, but I whispered to the doctor, “he will _reel_ soon,” at
which he folded his arms across his breast and performed his gyrations
as before. Meanwhile Cutler and Frazer, and two of the girls, commenced
dancing jigs, and harmony was once more restored. While they were thus
occupied, I talked over the arrangements for our excursion on the
morrow with Jessie, and the doctor entered into a close examination of
Jehu Judd, as to the new asphalt mines in his province. He informed him
of the enormous petrified trunks of palm-trees that have been found
while exploring the coal-fields, and warmed into eloquence as he
enumerated the mineral wealth and great resources of that most
beautiful colony. The doctor expressed himself delighted with the
information he had received, whereupon Jehu rose and asked him in token
of amity to pledge him in a glass of Peter’s excellent cognac, and
without waiting for a reply, filled a tumbler and swallowed it at one
gulp.
My, what a pull that was. Thinks I to myself, “Friend, if that don’t
take the wrinkles out of the parchment case of your conscience, then I
don’t know nothin’, that’s all.” Oh dear, how all America is overrun
with such cattle as this; how few teach religion, or practise it right.
How hard it is to find the genuine article. Some folks keep the people
in ignorance, and make them believe the moon is made of green cheese;
others, with as much sense, fancy the world is. One has old saints, the
other invents new ones. One places miracles at a distance, t’other
makes them before their eyes, while both are up to mesmerism. One says
there is no marryin’ in Paradise, the other says, if that’s true, it’s
hard, and it is best to be a mormon and to have polygamy here. Then
there is a third party who says, neither of you speak sense, it is
better to believe nothin’ than to give yourself up to be crammed.
Religion, Squire, ain’t natur, because it is intended to improve
corrupt natur, it’s no use talkin’ therefore, it can’t be left to
itself, otherwise it degenerates into something little better than
animal instinct. It must be taught, and teaching must have authority as
well as learning. There can be no authority where there is no power to
enforce, and there can be no learning where there is no training. If
there must be normal schools to qualify schoolmasters, there must be
Oxfords and Cambridges to qualify clergymen. At least that’s my idea.
Well, if there is a qualified man, he must be supported while he is
working. But if he has to please his earthly employer, instead of
obeying his heavenly Master, the better he is qualified the more
dangerous he is. If he relies on his congregation, the order of things
is turned upside down. He serves mammon, and not God. If he does his
duty he must tell unpleasant truths, and then he gets a walkin’ ticket.
Who will hire a servant, pay him for his time, find a house for him to
live in, and provide him in board, if he has a will of his own, and
won’t please his employer by doin’ what he is ordered to do? I don’t
think you would, Squire, and I know I wouldn’t.
No, a fixed, settled church, like ourn, or yours, Squire, is the best.
There is safe anchorage ground in them, and you don’t go draggin’ your
flukes with every spurt of wind, or get wrecked if there is a gale that
rages round you. There is something strong to hold on to. There are
good buoys, known landmarks, and fixed light-houses, so that you know
how to steer, and not helter-skelter lights movin’ on the shore like
will-o’-the whisps, or wreckers’ false fires, that just lead you to
destruction. The medium between the two churches, for the clergy, would
be the right thing. In yours they are too independent of the people,
with us a little too dependent. But we are coming up to the notch by
making moderate endowments, which will enable the minister to do what
is right, and not too large to make him lazy or careless. Well then, in
neither of them is a minister handed over to a faction to try. Them
that make the charges ain’t the judges, which is a Magna Charta for
him.
Yes, I like our episcopal churches, they teach, persuade, guide, and
paternally govern, but they have no dungeons, no tortures, no fire and
sword. They ain’t afraid of the light, for, as minister used to say,
“their light shines afore men.” Just see what sort of a system it must
be that produces such a man as Jehu Judd. And yet Jehu finds it answer
his purpose in his class to be what he is. His religion is a cloak, and
that is a grand thing for a pick-pocket. It hides his hands, while they
are fumblin’ about your waistcoat and trousers, and then conceals the
booty. You can’t make tricks if your adversary sees your hands, you may
as well give up the game.
But to return to the evangelical trader. Before we recommenced dancing
again, I begged the two Gaelic girls, who were bouncing, buxom lasses,
and as strong as Shetland ponies, to coax or drag him up for a reel.
Each took a hand of his and tried to persuade him. Oh, weren’t they
full of smiles, and didn’t they look rosy and temptin’? They were sure,
they said, so good-lookin’ a man as he was, must have learned to dance,
or how could he have given it up?
“For a single man like you,” said Catherine.
“I am not a single man,” said Old Piety, “I am a widower, a lonely man
in the house of Israel.”
“Oh, Catherine,” sais I, a givin’ her a wink, “take care of theeself,
or thy Musquodobit farm, with its hundred acres of intervale meadow,
and seventy head of horned cattle, is gone.”
He took a very amatory look at her after that hint.
“Verily she would be a _duck_ in _Quaco,_ friend Jehu,” said I.
“Indeed would she, anywhere,” he said, looking sanctified Cupids at
her, as pious galls do who show you the place in your prayer-book at
church.
“Ah, there is another way methinks she would be a duck,” said I, “the
maiden would soon turn up the whites of her eyes at dancin’ like a
_duck_ in thunder, as the profane men say.”
“Oh, oh,” said the doctor, who stood behind me, “I shall die, he’ll
kill me. I can’t stand this, oh, how my sides ache.”
“Indeed I am afraid I shall always be a _wild duck_,” said Catherine.
“They are safer from the fowler,” said Jehu, “for they are wary and
watchful.”
“If you are a widower,” she said, “you ought to dance.”
“Why do you think so?” said he; but his tongue was becoming thick,
though his eyes were getting brighter.
“Because,” she said, “a widower is an odd critter.”
“Odd?” he replied, “in what way odd, dear?”
“Why,” said the girl, “an ox of ourn lately lost his mate, and my
brother called him the odd ox, and not the single ox, and he is the
most frolicksome fellow you ever see. Now, as you have lost your mate,
you are an odd one, and if you are lookin’ for another to put its head
into the yoke, you ought to go frolickin’ everywhere too!”
“Do single critters ever look for mates?” said he, slily.
“Well done,” said I, “friend Jehu. The drake had the best of the duck
that time. Thee weren’t bred in Quaco for nothin’. Come, rouse up, wake
snakes, and walk chalks, as the thoughtless children of evil say. I see
thee is warmin’ to the subject.”
“Men do allow,” said he, lookin’ at me with great self-complacency,
“that in speech I am _peeower_ful.”
“Come, Mary,” said I, addressin’ the other sister, “do thee try thy
persuasive powers, but take care of thy grandmother’s legacy, the two
thousand pounds thee hast in the Pictou Bank. It is easier for that to
go to Quaco than the farm.”
“Oh, never fear,” said she.
“Providence,” he continued, “has been kind to these virgins. They are
surprising comely, and well endowed with understanding and money,” and
he smirked first at one and then at the other, as if he thought either
would do—the farm or the legacy.
“Come,” they both said, and as they gave a slight pull, up he sprung to
his feet. The temptation was too great for him: two pairs of bright
eyes, two pretty faces, and two hands in his filled with Highland
blood—and that ain’t cold—and two glasses of grog within, and two
fortunes without, were irresistible.
So said he,” If I have offended, verily I will make amends; but dancing
is a dangerous thing, and a snare to the unwary. The hand and waist of
a maiden in the dance lead not to serious thoughts.”
“It’s because thee so seldom feels them,” I said. “Edged tools never
wound thee when thee is used to them, and the razor that cutteth the
child, passeth smoothly over the chin of a man. He who locketh up his
daughters, forgetteth there is a window and a ladder, and if gaiety is
shut out of the house, it is pitied and admitted when the master is
absent or asleep. When it is harboured by stealth and kept concealed,
it loses its beauty and innocence, and waxeth wicked. The crowd that
leaveth a night-meeting is less restrained than the throng that goeth
to a lighted ball-room. Both are to be avoided; one weareth a cloak
that conceals too much, the other a thin vestment that reveals more
than is seemly. Of the two, it is better to court observation than shun
it. Dark thoughts lead to dark deeds.”
“There is much reason in what you say,” he said; “I never had it put to
me in that light before. I have heard of the shakers, but never saw one
before you, nor was aware that they danced.”
“Did thee never hear,” said I, “when thee was a boy,
“‘Merrily dance the quaker’s wife,
And merrily dance the quaker?’
and so on?”
“No, never,” said he.
“Then verily, friend, I will show thee how a quaker can dance. They
call us shakers, from shaking our feet so spry. Which will thee
choose—the farm or the legacy?”
Mary took his hand, and led him to his place, the music struck up, and
Peter gave us one of his quickest measures. Jehu now felt the combined
influence of music, women, brandy, and dancing, and snapped his fingers
over his head, and stamped his feet to mark the time, and hummed the
tune in a voice that from its power and clearness astonished us all.
“Well done, old boy,” said I, for I thought I might drop the quaker
now, “well done, old boy,” and I slapped him on the back, “go it while
you are young, make up for lost time: now for the double shuffle. Dod
drot it, you are clear grit and no mistake. You are like a critter that
boggles in the collar at the first go off, and don’t like the start,
but when you do lay legs to it you certainly ain’t no slouch, I know.”
The way he cut carlicues ain’t no matter. From humming he soon got to a
full cry, and from that to shouting. His antics overcame us all. The
doctor gave the first key-note. “Oh, oh, that man will be the death of
me,” and again rubbed himself round the wall, in convulsions of
laughter. Peter saw nothing absurd in all this, on the contrary, he was
delighted with the stranger.
“Oigh,” he said, “ta preacher is a goot feller after all, she will
tance with her hern ainsel;” and fiddling his way up to him again, he
danced a jig with Jehu, to the infinite amusement of us all. The
familiarity which Mr Judd exhibited with the steps and the dance,
convinced me that he must have often indulged in it before he became a
Christian. At last he sat down, not a little exhausted with the violent
exertion, but the liquor made him peeowerful thick-legged, and his
track warn’t a bee line, I tell you. After a while a song was proposed,
and Mary entreated him to favour us with one.
“Dear Miss,” said he, “pretty Miss,” and his mouth resembled that of a
cat contemplating a pan of milk that it cannot reach, “lovely maiden,
willingly would I comply, if Sall Mody (Psalmody) will do, but I have
forgotten my songs.”
“Try this,” said I, and his strong, clear voice rose above us all, as
he joined us in—
“Yes, Lucy is a pretty girl,
Such lubly hands and feet,
When her toe is in the Market-house,
Her heel is in Main Street.
“Oh take your time, Miss Lucy,
Miss Lucy, Lucy Long,
Rock de cradle, Lucy,
And listen to de song.”
He complained of thirst and fatigue after this, and rising, said, “I am
_peeower_ful dry, by jinks,” and helped himself so liberally, that he
had scarcely resumed his seat before he was fast asleep, and so
incapable of sustaining himself in a sitting posture, that we removed
him to the sofa, and loosening his cravat, placed him in a situation
where he could repose comfortably. We then all stood round the
evangelical “_Come-outer_,” and sang in chorus:
“My old master, Twiddledum Don,
Went to bed with his trousers on,
One shoe off, and the other shoe on—
That’s the description of Twiddledum Don.”
“Oh, my old ‘Come-outer,’” said I, as I took my last look at him for
the night, “you have ‘come-out’ in your true colours at last, but this
comes of _‘fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil_.’”