THE SHIVEREE.
If Webster's "American Dictionary of the English Language" had not been
made wholly in New England, it would not have lacked so many words that
do duty as native-born or naturalized citizens in large sections of the
United States, and among these words is the one that stands at the head
of the present chapter. I know that some disdainful prig will assure me
that it is but a corruption of the French "_charivari,"_ and so it is;
but then "_charivari_" is a corruption of the low Latin "_charivarium_"
and that is a corruption of something else, and, indeed, almost every
word is a corruption of some other word. So that there is no good reason
why "shiveree," which lives in entire unconsciousness of its French
parentage and its Latin grand-parentage, should not find its place in an
"American Dictionary."
But while I am writing a disquisition on the etymology of the word, the
"shiveree" is mustering at Mandluff's store. Bill Day has concluded that
he is in no immediate danger of perdition, and that a man is a "blamed
fool to git skeered about his soul." Bob Short is sure the Almighty will
not be too hard on a feller, and so thinks he will go on having "a
little fun" now and then. And among the manly recreations which they
have proposed to themselves is that of shivereeing "that Dutchman, Gus
Wehle." It is the solemn opinion of the whole crowd that "no Dutchman
hadn't orter be so lucky as to git sech a beauty of a gal and a hundred
acres of bottom lands to boot."
The members of the party were all disguised, some in one way and some in
another, though most of them had their coats inside out. They thought it
necessary to be disguised, "bekase, you know," as Bill Day expressed it,
"ole Grizzly is apt to prosecute ef he gits evidence agin you." And many
were the conjectures as to whether he would shoot or not.
The instruments provided by this orchestra were as various as their
musical tastes. It is likely that even Mr. Jubilee Gilmore never saw
such an outfit. Bob Short had a dumb-bull, a keg with a strip of
raw-hide stretched across one end like a drum-head, while the other
remained open. A waxed cord inserted in the middle of the drum-head, and
reaching down through the keg, completed the instrument. The pulling of
the hand over this cord made a hideous bellowing, hence its name. Bill
Day had a gigantic watchman's rattle, a hickory spring on a cog-wheel.
It is called in the West, a horse-fiddle, because it is so unlike either
a horse or a fiddle. Then there were melodious tin pans and conch-shells
and tin horns. But the most deadly noise was made by Jim West, who had
two iron skillet-lids ("leds" he called them) which, when placed face to
face, and rubbed, as you have seen children rub tumblers, made a sound
discordant and deafening enough to have suggested Milton's expression
about the hinges which "grated harsh thunder."
One of this party was a tallish man, so dressed as to look like a
hunchback, and a hunchback so tall was a most singular figure. He had
joined them in the dark, and the rest were unable to guess who it could
be, and he, for his part, would not tell. They thumped him and pushed
him, but at each attack he only leaped from the ground like a circus
clown, and made his tin horn utter so doleful a complaint as set the
party in an uproar of laughter. They could not be sure who he was, but
he was a funny fellow to have along with them at any rate.
He was not only funny, but he was evidently fearless. For when they came
to the castle it was all dark and still. Bill Day said that it looked
"powerful juberous to him. Ole Andy meant to use shootin'-ir'ns, and
didn't want to be pestered with no lights blazin' in his eyes." But the
tall hunchback cleared the fence at a bound, and told them to come on
"ef they had the sperrit of a two-weeks-old goslin into 'em." So the
bottle was passed round, and for very shame they followed their
ungainly leader.
"Looky here, boys," said the hunchback, "they's one way that we can fix
it so's ole Grizzly can't shoot. They's a little shop-place, a sort of a
shed, agin the house, on the side next to the branch. Let's git in thar
afore we begin, and he can't shoot."
The orchestra were a little stupefied with drink, and they took the idea
quickly, never stopping to ask how they could retreat if Andrew chose to
shoot. Jim West thought things looked scaly, but he warn't agoin' to
backslide arter he'd got so fur.
When they got into Andrew's shop, where he had a new and beautiful
skiff in building, the tall hunchback shut the door, and the rest did
not notice that he put the key in his pocket.
That serenade! Such a medley of discordant sounds, such a clatter and
clangor, such a rattle of horse-fiddle, such a bellowing of dumb-bull,
such a snorting of tin horns, such a ringing of tin pans, such a
grinding of skillet-lids! But the house remained quiet. Once Bill Day
thought that he heard a laugh within. Julia may have lost her
self-control. She was so happy, and a little unrestrained fun was so
strange a luxury!
At last the door between the house and shop was suddenly opened, and
Julia, radiant as she could be, stood on the threshold with a candle
in her hand.
"Come in, gentlemen."
But the gentlemen essayed to go out.
"Locked in, by thunder!" said Jim West, trying the outside door of the
shop.
"We heard you were coming, gentlemen, and provided a little
entertainment. Come in!"
"Come in, boys," said the hunchback, "don't be afeard of nobody."
Mechanically they followed the hunchback into the room, for there was
nothing else to be done. A smell of hot coffee and the sight of a
well-spread table greeted their senses.
"Welcome, my friends, thrice welcome!" said Andrew. "Put down your
instruments and have some supper."
"Let me relieve you," said Julia, and she took the dumb-bull from Bob
Short and the "horse-fiddle" from Day, the tin horns and tin pans from
others, and the two skillet-lids from Jim West, who looked as sheepish
as possible. August escorted each of them to the table, though his face
did not look altogether cordial. Some old resentment for the treatment
of his father interfered with the heartiness of his hospitality. The
hunchback in this light proved to be Jonas, of course; and Bill Day
whispered to the one next to him that they had been "tuck in and done
fer that time."
"Gentlemen," said Andrew, "we are much obliged for your music." And
Cynthy would certainly have laughed out if she had not been so perplexed
in her mind to know whether Andrew was speaking the truth.
Such a motley set of wedding guests as they were, with their coats
inside out and their other disguises! Such a race of pied pipers! And
looking at their hangdog faces you would have said, "Such a lot of
sheep-thieves!" Though why a sheep-thief is considered to be a more
guilty-looking man than any other criminal, I do not know. Jonas looked
bright enough and ridiculous enough with his hunch. They all ate rather
heartily, for how could they resist the attentions of Cynthy Ann and the
persuasions of Julia, who poured them coffee and handed them biscuit,
and waited upon them as though they were royal guests! And, moreover,
the act of eating served to cover their confusion.
As the meal drew to a close, Bill Day felt that he, being in some sense
the leader of the party, ought to speak. He was not quite sober, though
he could stand without much staggering. He had been trying for some time
to frame a little speech, but his faculties did not work smoothly.
"Mr. President--I mean Mr. Anderson--permit me to offer you our pardon.
I mean to beg your apologies--to--ahem--hope that our--that
your--our--thousand--thanks--your--you know what I mean." And he sat
down in foolish confusion.
"Oh! yes. All right; much obliged, my friend," said the Philosopher,
who had not felt so much boyish animal life in twenty-five years.
And Jim West whispered to Bill: "You expressed my sentiments exactly."
"Mr. Anderson," said Jonas, rising, and thus lifting up his hunched
shoulders and looking the picture of a long-legged heron standing in the
water, "Mr. Anderson, you and our young and happy friend, Mr. Wehle,
will accept our thanks. We thought that music was all you wanted to gin
a delightful--kinder--sorter--well, top-dressin', to this interestin'
occasion. Now they's nothin' sweeter'n a tin horn, 'thout 'tis a
melodious conch-shell utterin' its voice like a turkle-dove. Then we've
got the paytent double whirlymagig hoss-violeen, and the tin pannyforte,
and, better nor all, the grindin' skelletled cymbals. We've laid
ourselves out and done our purtiest--hain't we, feller-musicians?--to
prove that we was the best band on the Ohio River. An' all out of
affection and respect for this ere happy pair. And we're all happy to be
here. Hain't we?" (Here they all nodded assent, though they looked as
though they wished themselves far enough.) "Our enstruments is a leetle
out of toon, owin' to the dampness of the night air, and so I trust
you'll excuse us playin' a farewell piece."
Jim West was so anxious to get away that he took advantage of this turn
to say good-evening, and though the mischievous Julia insisted that he
should select his instrument, he had not the face to confess to the
skillet-lids, and got out of it by assuring her that he hadn't brought
nothing, "only come along to see the fun." And each member of the party
repeated the transparent lie, so that Julia found herself supplied with
more musical instruments than any young housekeeper need want, and
Andrew hung them, horns, pans, conch-shell, dumb-bull, horse-fiddle,
skillet-lids, and all, in his library, as trophies captured from
the enemy.
Much as I should like to tell you of the later events of the
Philosopher's life, and about Julia and August, and their oldest son,
whose name is Andrew, and all that, I do not know that I can do better
than to bow myself out with the abashed serenaders, letting this musical
epilogue harmoniously close the book; writing just here.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The End Of The World, by Edward Eggleston