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. II.
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 S E C O N D V O L U M E.
I.
PAGE
THE EDITOR’S CREED 1
II.
JOSH BEANPOLE’S COURTSHIP 8
III.
PETER BRUSH, THE GREAT USED UP 27
IV.
COUSIN SALLY DILLIARD 45
V.
THE AGE OF WONDERS 51
VI.
HOW SIMON SUGGS “RAISED JACK” 59
VII.
MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND 80
VIII.
BILLY WARRICK’S COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE 88
IX.
OUR TOWN 111
X.
“FALLING OFF A LOG,” IN A GAME OF “SEVEN UP” 113
XI.
A YANKEE CARD-TABLE 119
XII.
DICK M’COY’S SKETCHES OF HIS NEIGHBOURS 125
XIII.
KICKING A YANKEE 134
XIV.
WHY MR. SELLUM DISPOSED OF THE HORSE 140
XV.
METAPHYSICS 146
XVI.
A TIGHT RACE CONSIDERIN’ 157
XVII.
A SHARK STORY 175
XVIII.
A BEAR STORY 192
XIX.
THE BEST-NATURED MAN IN THE WORLD 203
XX.
CHUNKEY’S FIGHT WITH THE PANTHERS 216
XXI.
A BULLY BOAT, AND A BRAG CAPTAIN 230
XXII.
FYDGET FYXINGTON 239
XXIII.
DOING A SHERIFF 259
XXIV.
THE MUSCADINE STORY 265
XXV.
POLLY PEABLOSSOM’S WEDDING 280
XXVI.
THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD 297
XXVII.
PELEG PONDER; OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE 304
T R A I T S
OF
A M E R I C A N H U M O U R.
I.
THE EDITOR’S CREED.
He takes up the crook, not that the sheep may be fed, but that he may
never want a warm woollen suit and a joint of mutton.
For which reason I would derive the name _editor_ not so much from
_edo_, to publish, as from _edo_, to eat, that being the peculiar
profession to which he esteems himself called. He blows up the flames of
political discord for no other occasion than that he may thereby handily
boil his own pot. I believe there are two thousand of these
mutton-loving shepherds in the United States, and of these, how many
have even the dimmest perception of their immense power, and the duties
consequent thereon? Here and there, haply, one. Nine hundred and
ninety-nine labour to impress upon the people the great principles of
_Tweedledum_, and other nine hundred and ninety-nine preach with equal
earnestness the doctrines according to _Tweedledee_.
I du believe in Freedom’s cause,
Ez fur away ez Paris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Pharisees;
It’s wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an’ triggers,—
But libbaty’s a kind o’ thing
That don’t agree with niggers.
I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an’ coffees,
Thet nothin’ aint extravygunt,—
Purvidin’ I’m in office;
Fer I hev loved my country sence
My eye-teeth filled their sockets,
An’ Uncle Sam I reverence,
Partic’larly his pockets.
I du believe in _any_ plan
O’ levyin’ the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest wut I axes:
I go free-trade thru thick an’ thin,
Because it kind o’ rouses
The folks to vote,—an’ keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it’s wise an’ good
To sen’ out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An’ orthydox conditions;—
I mean nine thousan’ dolls, per ann.,
Nine thousan’ more fer outfit,
An’ me to recommend a man
The place ’ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special ways
O’ prayin’ an’ convartin’;
The bread comes back in many days,
An’ buttered, tu, fer sartin;—
I mean in preyin’ till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An’ in convartin’ public trusts
To very privit uses.
I du believe hard coin the stuff
Fer ’lectioneers to spout on;
The people’s ollers soft enough
To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An’ gives a good-sized junk to all,—
I don’t care _how_ hard money is,
Ez long ez mine’s paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press’s freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An’ in the traces lead ’em;
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin’,
An’ withered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov’ment printin’!
I du believe thet I should give
Wut’s his’n unto Cæsar,
Fer it’s by him I move an’ live,
Frum him my bread an’ cheese air;
I du believe thet all o’ me
Doth bear his souperscription,—
Will, conscience, honour, honesty,
An’ things o’ thet description.
I du believe in prayer an’ praise
To him thet hez the grantin’
O’ jobs,—in everythin’ thet pays,
But most of all in CANTIN’;
This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o’ sin to rest—
I _don’t_ believe in princerple,
But, O, I _du_ in interest.
I du believe in bein’ this
Or thet, ez it may happen
One way or t’other hendiest is
To ketch the people nappin’;
It aint by principles nor men
My preudunt course is steadied,—
I scent wich pays the best, an’ then
Go into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin’ slaves
Comes nat’ral tu a Presidunt,
Let ’lone the rowdedow it saves
To hev a wal-broke precedunt;
Fer any office, small or gret,
I couldn’t ax with no face,
Without I’d ben, thru dry an’ wet,
Th’ unrizzest kind o’ doughface.
I du believe wutever trash
’ll keep the people in blindness,—
That we the Mexicuns can thrash
Right inter brotherly kindness,
Thet bombshells, grape, an’ powder ’n’ ball
Air good-will’s strongest magnets,
Thet peace, to make it stick at all,
Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believe
In Humbug generally,
Fer it’s a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;
This heth my faithful leader ben,
To browsing sweet heth led me,
An’ this’ll keep the people green
To feed ez they hev fed me.
II.
JOSH BEANPOLE’S COURTSHIP.
“Mother!” exclaimed Josh Beanpole, “Mother, I say, I feel all over in a
twitteration like. Huh! huh! Who’d have thought it?”
“What ails ye, Josh?” asked the old woman, stopping her spinning-wheel
at this exclamation. “What bug has bit you now?”
“Can’t tell,” said Josh, in a drooping, dolorous tone, and hanging his
head as if he had been caught stealing a sheep.
“Can’t tell?” said Mrs. Beanpole, turning quite round, and giving Josh a
wondering stare. “Can’t tell? what does the critter mean?”
“Who’d ha’ thought it?” repeated Josh, fumbling in his pockets, twisting
round his head and rolling up his eyes in a fashion most immensely
sheepish.—“Hannah Downer’s courted!”
Here Josh shuffled himself awkwardly into the settle in the chimney
corner, and sunk upon one side, fixing his eyes with a most
ludicro-dismal squint upon the lower extremity of a pot-hook that hung
at the end of the crane.
“Courted!” exclaimed Mrs. Beanpole, not exactly comprehending the state
of her son’s intellectuals. “Well—what’s all that when it’s fried?”
“Arter so many pails of water as I’ve pumped for her,” said Josh in a
dismal whine,—“for to go for to let herself to be courted by another
feller!”
“Here’s a to-do!” ejaculated the old woman.
“It’s tarnation all over!” said Josh, beginning a bolder tone as he
found his mother coming to an understanding of the matter. “It makes me
crawl all over to think on’t. Didn’t I wait on her three times to
singing school? Hadn’t I e’en a most made up my mind to break the ice,
and tell her I shouldn’t wonder if I had a sneakin’ notion arter
somebody’s Hannah? I should ha’ been reg’lar courting in less than a
month—and Peet Spinbutton has cut me out—as slick as a whistle!”
“Peet Spinbutton!” said the old woman, “well, I want to know!”
“Darn his eyes!” exclaimed Josh.
“Peet Spinbutton!” repeated Mrs. Beanpole; “what, the ensign of the
Dogtown Blues? that great lummokin’ feller!”
“Darn him to darnation!” exclaimed Josh, catching hold of the toast-iron
as if he meant to lay about him, “to cut in afore me in that ere sort o’
way!”
Mrs. Beanpole caught Josh by the arm, exclaiming:
“Josh! Joshy! Joshy! what are you about? Peet Spinbutton? I don’t
believe it.”
“What!” said Josh, “didn’t I hear with my own ears, last night that ever
was, Zeb Shute tell me all about it?”
“Zeb Shute! well, what did Zeb Shute say?”
“Why, says he to me:
“‘Josh,’ says he, ‘what do you think?’ says he.
“‘I don’t know, no, n’t I,’ says I.
“‘Tell you what,’ says he, ‘that ’ere Hannah Downer—’
“‘What of Hannah Downer?’ says I, for I begun to crawl all over.
“‘Tell ye what,’ says he; ‘she’s a whole team.’
“‘Ah,’ says I, ‘she’s a whole team, and a horse to let.’
“‘Tell ye what,’ says he, ‘guess somebody has a sneakin’ notion that
way.’
“‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ says I, feelin’ all over in a flustration, thinkin’
he meant me.
“‘Tell ye what,’ says he, ‘guess Peet Spinbutton and she’s pretty thick
together.’
“‘How you talk!’ says I.
“‘Fact,’ says he.
“‘Well, I never!’ says I.
“‘Tell ye what,’ says he. No, that’s all he said.”
“Pooh!” said the old woman, “it’s all wind, Joshy; it’s nothing but Zeb
Shute’s nonsense.”
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Josh, with a stare of uncommon animation,
and his mouth wide open.
“No doubt on’t, Joshy, my boy,” replied she, “for Peggy Downer was here
yesterday forenoon, to borrow a cup of starch, and she never mentioned
the leastest word about it under the light of the livin’ sun.”
“If I was only sure of that!” said Josh, laying down the toast-iron and
sticking his knuckles into his right eye.
“Joshy, my boy,” said the old woman, “I don’t believe Hannah Downer ever
gin Peet Spinbutton the leastest encouragement in the universal world.”
“Think so?” asked Josh, setting his elbows on his knees, his chin in his
fists, and fixing his eyes vacantly downward in an angle of forty-five
degrees, as if in intense admiration of the back-log.
“I’ll tell you what, Joshy,” said Mrs. Beanpole, in a motherly tone, “do
you just put on your go-to-meetin’ suit, and go to see Hannah this
blessed night.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Josh, starting from his elbows at the astounding
boldness of the suggestion, and gazing straight up the chimney. “Do you
think she’d let me?”
“Nothin’ like tryin’, Joshy; must be a first time. Besides, the old
folks are going to lecture, Hannah’ll be all alone—hey! Joshy, my boy!
Nothin’ like tryin’.”
“Eh! eh!” said Josh, screwing himself all up in a heap and staring most
desperately at the lower button of his own waistcoat—for the thoughts
of actually going a courting came over him in a most alarming fashion;
“would ye though, mother? Hannah’s a nice gal, but somehow or other I
feel plaguy queer about it.”
“Oh, that’s quite naiteral, Joshy; when you once get a goin’ it be
nothin’ at all.”
“Higgle, giggle, giggle,” said Josh, making a silly, sputtering kind of
laugh, “that’s the very thing I’m afraid of, that ’ere gettin’ a goin’.
Hannah Downer is apt to be tarnation smart sometimes; and I’ve hearn
tell, that courtin’ is the hardest thing in the world to begin, though
it goes on so slick arterwards.”
“Nonsense, Josh, you silly dough-head; it’s only saying two words, and
it all goes as straight as a turnpike.”
“By the hokey!” said Josh, rolling up his eyes and giving a punch with
his fist in the air, “I’ve an all-fired mind to try it though!”
Josh and his mother held a much longer colloquy upon the matter, the
result of which was such an augmentation of his courage for the
undertaking, that the courtship was absolutely decided upon; and just
after dark, Josh gave his face a sound scrubbing with soapsuds, drew
forth his Sunday pantaloons, which were of the brightest cow-colour, and
after a good deal of labour, succeeded in getting into them, his legs
being somewhat of the longest, and the pantaloons as tight as a glove,
so that on seeing him fairly incased, it was somewhat of a puzzle to
guess how he could ever get out of them. A flaming red waistcoat, and a
grey coat with broad pewter buttons, set off his figure to the greatest
advantage, to say nothing of a pair of bran new cow-hide shoes. Then
rubbing his long hair with a tallow candle, and sprinkling a handful of
Indian meal by way of powder, he twisted it behind with a leather string
into a formidable queue, which he drew so tight that it was with the
greatest difficulty he could shut his eyes; but this gave him but little
concern, as he was determined to be wide awake through the whole affair.
Being all equipt, he mounted Old Blueberry, and set off at an easy trot,
which very soon fell into a walk, for the nearer Josh approached the
dwelling of his Dulcinea, the more the thought of his great undertaking
overpowered him.
Josh rode four times round the house before he found courage to alight;
at length he made a desperate effort and pulled up under the lee side of
the barn, where he dismounted, tied his horse, and approached the house
with fear and trembling. At two rods distance he stopped short. There
was a dead silence, and he stood in awful irresolution. All at once a
terrible voice, close at hand, caused him to start with great
trepidation:—it was nothing but a couple of turkeys who had set up a
gobbling from their roost on the top of the barn. Josh looked up, and
beheld, by the light of the moon, the old turkey cosily perched by the
side of his mate; the sight was overpowering. “Ah! happy, happy turkey!”
he mentally exclaimed, and turned about to proceed up the yard, but the
next moment felt a violent cut across the broadest part of his nose. He
started back again, but discovered it to be only a clothes-line which he
had run against.—“The course of true love never did run smooth.” He
went fearfully on, thinking of the connubial felicities of the turkey
tribe, and the perils of clothes-lines, till he found himself at the
door, where he stood fifteen minutes undetermined what to do; and if he
had not bethought himself of the precaution of peeping in at the window,
it is doubtful whether he would have mustered the courage to enter. But
peep he did, and spied Hannah all alone at her knitting-work. This sight
emboldened him, and he bolted in without knocking.
What precise sort of compliments Josh made use of in introducing
himself, never could be discovered, for Josh laboured under such a
confusion of the brain at the time, that he lost all recollection of
what passed till he found himself seated in a flag-bottomed chair with a
most uncomfortably deep hollow in it. He looked up, and actually saw
Hannah sitting in the chimney corner knitting a pepper-and-salt
stocking.
“Quite industrious to-night,” said Josh.
“Don’t know that,” replied Hannah.
“Sure on’t,” returned Josh. “Guess now you’ve knit from four to six
pearl at the lowest calculation.”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” replied Hannah.
“Tarnation!” said Josh, pretending to be struck with admiration at the
exploit, though he knew it was nothing to boast of.
“How’s your mother, Josh?” asked Hannah.
“Pretty considerable smart, Hannah; how’s _your_ mother?”
“So, so,” replied Hannah; and here the conversation came to a stand.
Josh fumbled in his pockets and stuck his legs out till they reached
nearly across the room, in hopes to think of something more to say; but
in vain. He then scratched his head, but there appeared to be nothing in
it.
“Is’t possible,” thought he, “that I’m actually here a courting?”
He could hardly believe it, and began to feel very awkward.
“I swow!” he exclaimed, opening his eyes as wide as he could.
“What’s the matter?” asked Hannah, a little startled.
“Cotch a ’tarnal great musquash this forenoon.”
“Ah!” said Hannah, “how big was it?”
“Big as all out-doors!”
“Lawful heart!” exclaimed Hannah.
Josh now felt a little more at his ease, finding the musquash helped him
on so bravely. He hitched his chair about seven feet at a single jerk,
nearer to Hannah, and exclaimed:
“Tell ye what, Hannah, I’m all creation for catching musquashes.”
“Well, I want to know!” replied Hannah.
Josh twisted his eyes into a squint, and gave her a look of melting
tenderness. Hannah perceived it, and did not know whether to laugh or be
scared; so, to compromise the matter, she pretended to be taken with a
fit of coughing. Josh felt his heart begin to beat, and was fully
convinced he was courting, or something very like it; but what to do
next was the question.
“Shall I kiss her?” thought he. “No, no, it’s a _leetle_ too early for
that; but I’ll tell her I love her.” At this thought his heart went
bump! bump! bump! harder than ever.
“Hannah!” he exclaimed, in a squeaking voice, and stopped short.
“Hey, Josh!” said Hannah.
“Hannah, I—I—” he rolled up the whites of his eyes, in a most
supplicating leer, but the word stuck in his throat. Hannah looked
directly in his face; he was in a dreadful puzzle what to say, for he
was obliged to say something. His eye fell by accident on a gridiron
hanging in the chimney corner:
“What a terrible crack your gridiron’s got in it!” exclaimed he.
“Poh!” said Hannah.
Here the conversation came again to a dead stop, for Josh had so
exhausted himself in this effort to break the ice, that he was not
master of his faculties for several minutes; and when he came fairly to
his senses, he found himself counting the tickings of an old wooden
clock that stood in the corner. He counted and counted till he had
numbered three hundred and ninety-seven ticks, when he luckily heard a
cow lowing out of doors.
“Ugh!” said he, “whose cow’s that?”
“Drummer Tucker’s,” replied Hannah.
“Drummer Tucker’s! Well, I want to know!”
This reply suggested an idea.
“Hannah,” asked he, “did you ever see a dromedary?”
“No; did you, Josh?”
“No,” returned Josh, “I never see nothin’ in my life but a green monkey;
and then I was a’most skeered to death!”
“Lawful heart! Mercy’s sake!” exclaimed Hannah, and here the
conversation came to a pause again.
The longer they sat, the more awkwardly Josh found himself situated; he
sat bolt upright in his chair, with his knees close together and his
head stooping forward in such a manner that his long queue stuck out
horizontally behind, and his eyes stuck out horizontally before, like
those of a lobster. For several minutes he sat contemplating the handle
of the warming-pan that hung by the side of the fireplace; and then
gradually elevating his line of vision, came in sight of a huge
crook-necked squash lying on the mantel-piece. Then he looked at Hannah,
and then at the dish-cloth in the mouth of the oven, and from the
dish-cloth made a transition back to the warming-pan.
“Courting,” thought Josh, “is awful hard work.” The perspiration stood
on his forehead, and his eel-skin queue pulled so tight that he began to
fear the top of his head was coming off; but not a word could he say.
And just at that moment a green stick of wood upon the fire began to
sing in a dismal tone, “_Que, que, que, que, que_.” Nothing frets the
nerves more when a body is a little fidgetty, than the singing and
sputtering of a stick of wood. Josh felt worse than ever, but the stick
kept on: _que, que, que, quiddle, de dee, que, que, quiddledy quiddledy
que, que, que_. Josh caught up the tongs and gave the fire a tremendous
poke. This exertion somewhat relieved him.
“Hannah!” said he, hitching his chair a yard nearer.
“Well, Josh.”
“Now,” thought Josh, “I _will_ tell I love her.”
“Hannah,” said he again, “I—” He stared so wildly and made such a
horrible grimace that Hannah bounced from her chair. “Hannah, I say,”
repeated he; but here again his courage failed him.
“What say, Josh?”
“I—I—it’s a grand time for turnips,” said Josh, “Ugh! ugh! ugh!”
“Poh!” returned Hannah, “let alone of my apron-string, you Josh.”
Josh sat in silence and despair for some time longer, growing more and
more nervous every moment. Presently the stick of wood burst out
squeaking again in the most doleful style imaginable: _Quiddledy,
quiddledy quee-ee-ee-iddledy, que, que quiddledy quiddledy que que
que-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee_. Josh could not bear it any longer, for he verily
believed his skull-bone was splitting.
“I swaggers!” he exclaimed, “this is too bad!”
“What’s the matter, Josh?” asked Hannah, in considerable alarm.
“Suthin’ ails me,” said Josh.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Hannah; “shan’t I get you a mug of cider?”
“Do,” replied Josh, “for I don’t feel as I used to did.”
Hannah ran down to the cellar and returned with a quart mug of cider.
Josh put it to his lips and took a heavy pull. It was what the farmers
call _hard_ cider, and Josh verily feared his eyes would start out of
his head while he was drinking it, but after several desperate gulps he
succeeded in draining the mug. Then pulling a blue and white check
handkerchief from his pocket, he rubbed his face very hard, and looked
straight into the fire.
But in a few minutes he found his spirits wonderfully rising; he lifted
up his eyes, hitched his chair nearer, sent Hannah a sly look, and
actually gave a loud giggle. Hannah giggled in reply, for giggling, like
gaping, is contagious. In two minutes more, his courage rose higher; he
threw one of his long legs across the other, gave a grin, slapped his
hand upon his knee, and exclaimed as bold as a lion:
“Hannah, if a young feller was for to go to offer for to kiss you, what
d’ye think ye should do?”
Having uttered these words, he stopped short, his mouth wide open, in
gaping astonishment at his own temerity.
If Hannah did not blush, it was probably owing to her being at that
moment engaged in blowing the fire at a desperate rate with an enormous
pair of broken-winded bellows, which occupation had set her all in a
blowze.
She understood the hint, and replied:
“Guess ye’d better not try, Josh.”
Whether this was intended as a warning, or an invitation, never could be
satisfactorily known. Josh did not stop to inquire, but he thought it
too good a chance to be lost:
“I’ll kiss her! by Golly!” he exclaimed to himself.
He made a bounce from his chair and seized the nozzle of the bellows,
which Hannah was sticking at that moment under a huge iron pot over the
fire. Now, in this pot were apples a stewing, and so it happened that
Hannah, in the confusion occasioned by the visit of Josh, had made a
mistake and put in sour apples instead of sweet ones: sour apples when
cooking, everybody knows, are apt to explode like bomb-shells. Hannah
had been puffing at the bellows with might and main, and raised the heat
to a mischievous degree; there was no safety-valve in the pot-lid, and
just as Josh was upon the point of snatching a kiss, whop! the whole
contents of the pot went off in their faces!
At the same moment the door flew open, and the whole Downer family came
in from meeting. Such a sight as they beheld! There stood Josh
beplastered with apple-sauce from head to foot, and frightened worse
than if he had seen a green monkey. Hannah made her escape, and left
Josh to explain the catastrophe. He rolled up his eyes in utter dismay.
“What _is_ the matter?” exclaimed Peggy Downer.
“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” replied Josh, and that was all he could say.
“Goodness’ sake! Josh Beanpole! is that you?” asked Mother Downer, for
Josh was so beplastered, beluted and transubstantiated by the
apple-sauce, that she did not at first discover who it was.
“I d’n know—no, n’t I,” said Josh.
“What a spot o’ work!” exclaimed Peggy.
Josh looked down at his pantaloons.
“Oh! forever!” he exclaimed, “this beats the gineral trainin’!”
How matters were explained, and how Josh got safe home, I cannot stop to
explain. As to the final result of the courtship, the reader may as well
be informed that Josh had too much genuine Yankee resolution to be
beaten away from his prize by a broadside of baked apples. In fact, it
was but a few months afterwards, that Deacon Powderpost, the town clerk,
was digging all alone in the middle of his ten-acre potato field, and
spied Josh Beanpole looming up over the top of the hill. Josh looked all
around the horizon, and finding no other living soul to be seen, came
scrambling over the potato hills, and got right behind the Deacon, where
in about a quarter of an hour he mustered courage sufficient to ask him
to step aside, as he had a communication for his private ear. To make a
long story short, Josh and Hannah were published the next Sunday.
III.
PETER BRUSH, THE GREAT USED UP.[7]
It was November; soon after election time, when a considerable portion
of the political world are apt to be despondent, and external things
appear to do their utmost to keep them so. November, the season of
dejection, when pride itself loses its imperious port; when ambition
gives place to melancholy; when beauty hardly takes the trouble to look
in the glass; and when existence doffs its rainbow hues, and wears an
aspect of such dull, common-place reality, that hope leaves the world
for a temporary excursion, and those who cannot do without her inspiring
presence, borrow the aid of pistols, cords, and chemicals, and send
themselves on a longer journey, expecting to find her by the way:—a
season, when the hair will not stay in curl; when the walls weep dewy
drops, to the great detriment of paper-hangings, and of every species of
colouring with which they are adorned; when the banisters distil
liquids, anything but beneficial to white gloves; when nature fills the
ponds, and when window-washing is the only species of amusement at all
popular among housekeepers.
It was on the worst of nights in that worst of seasons. The atmosphere
was in a condition of which it is difficult to speak with respect; much
as we may be disposed to applaud the doings of nature. It was damp,
foggy, and drizzling; to sum up its imperfections in a sonorous and
descriptive epithet, it was “’orrid muggy weather.”
The air hung about the wayfarer in warm, unhealthy folds, and extracted
the starch from his shirt-collar and from the bosom of his dickey, with
as much rapidity as it robbed his spirits of their elasticity, and
melted the sugar of self-complacency from his mind.
The street lamps emitted a ghastly white glare, and were so hemmed in
with vapoury wreaths, that their best efforts could not project a ray of
light three feet from the burner. Gloom was universal, and any change,
even to the heat of Africa, or to the frosts of the arctic circle,
would, in comparison, have been delightful. The pigs’ tails no longer
waved in graceful sinuosities; while the tail of each night-roving,
hectoring bull-dog ceased flaunting toward the clouds, a banner of wrath
and defiance to punier creatures, and hung down drooping and dejected,
an emblem of a heart little disposed to quarrel and offence.
The ornamentals of the brute creation being thus below par, it was not
surprising that men, with cares on their shoulders and raggedness in
their trousers, should likewise be more melancholy than on occasions of
a brighter character.
Every one at all subject to the “skyey influences,” who has had trouble
enough to tear his clothes, and to teach him that the staple of this
mundane existence is not exclusively made up of fun, has felt that
philosophy is but a barometrical affair, and that he who is proof
against sorrow when the air is clear and bracing, may be a very
miserable wretch, with no greater cause, when the wind sits in another
quarter.
Peter Brush is a man of this susceptible class. His nervous system is of
the most delicate organization, and responds to the changes of the
weather, as an Eolian harp sings to the fitful swellings of the breeze.
Peter was abroad on the night of which we speak; either because, unlike
the younger Brutus, he had no Portia near to tell him that such exposure
was “not physical,” and that it was the part of prudence to go to bed,
or that, although aware of the dangers of miasma to a man of his
constitution, he did not happen at that precise moment to have access to
either house or bed; in his opinion, two essential pre-requisites to
couching himself, as he regarded taking it _al fresco_, on a cellar
door, not likely to answer any sanitary purpose.
We incline ourselves to the opinion that he was in the dilemma last
mentioned, as it had previously been the fate of other great men. But be
that as it may, Mr. Peter Brush was in the street, as melancholy as an
unbraced drum, “a gib-ed cat, or a lugged bear.”
Seated upon the curb, with his feet across the gutter, he placed his
elbow on a stepping-stone, and like Juliet on the balcony, leaned his
head upon his hand—a hand that would perhaps have been the better of a
covering, though none would have been rash enough to volunteer to be a
glove upon it. He was in a dilapidated condition—out at elbows, out at
knees, out of pocket, out of office, out of spirits, and out in the
street—an “out and outer” in every respect, and as _outré_ a mortal as
ever the eye of man did rest upon.
For some time, Mr. Brush’s reflections had been silent. Following
Hamlet’s advice, he “gave them an understanding, but no tongue;” and he
relieved himself at intervals by spitting forlornly into the kennel. At
length, suffering his locked hands to fall between his knees, and
heaving a deep sigh, he spoke:
“A long time ago, my ma used to put on her specs and say, ‘Peter, my
son, put not your trust in princes;’ and from that day to this I haven’t
done anything of the kind, because none on ’em ever wanted to borry
nothing of me: and I never see a prince or a king, but one or two, and
they had been rotated out of office, to borry nothing of them. Princes!
pooh! Put not your trust in politicianers—them’s my sentiments. You
might jist as well try to hold an eel by the tail. I don’t care which
side they’re on, for I’ve tried both, and I know. Put not your trust in
politicianers, or you’ll get a hyst.
“Ten years ago it came into my head that things weren’t going on right;
so I pretty nearly gave myself up tee-totally to the good of the
republic, and left the shop to look out for itself. I was brimfull of
patriotism, and so uneasy in my mind for the salivation of freedom, I
couldn’t work. I tried to guess which side was going to win, and I stuck
to it like wax; sometimes I was a-one side, sometimes I was a-tother,
and sometimes I straddled till the election was over, and came up jist
in time to jine the hurrah. It was good I was after; and what good could
I do if I wasn’t on the ’lected side? But, after all, it was never a bit
of use. Whenever the battle was over, no matter what side was sharing
out the loaves and the fishes, and I stepped up, I’ll be hanged if they
didn’t cram all they could into their own mouths, put their arms over
some, and grab at all the rest with their paws, and say, ‘Go away, white
man, you ain’t capable.’ Capable! what’s the reason I ain’t capable?
I’ve got as extensive a throat as any of ’em, and I could swallow the
loaves and fishes without choking, if each loaf was as big as a
grindstone and each fish as big as a sturgeon. Give Peter a Chance, and
leave him alone for that. Then, another time when I called—‘I want some
spoils,’ says I; ‘a small bucket full of spoils. Whichever side gets in,
shares the spoils, don’t they?’ So they first grinned, and then they ups
and tells me that virtue like mine was its own reward, and that spoils
might spoil me. But it was _no_ spoils that spoilt me, and _no_ loaf and
fish that starved me—I’m spoilt because I couldn’t get either. Put not
your trust in politicianers—I say it agin. Both sides used me jist
alike.
“Here I’ve been serving my country, more or less, these ten years, like
a patriot—going to town meetings, hurraing my daylights out, and
getting as blue as blazes—blocking the windows, getting licked fifty
times, and having more black eyes and bloody noses than you could shake
a stick at, all for the common good, and for the purity of our illegal
rights—and all for what? Why, for nix. If any good has come of it, the
country has put it into her own pocket, and swindled me out of my
arnings. I can’t get no office! Republics is ungrateful! It wasn’t
reward I was after. I scorns the base insinivation. I only wanted to be
took care of, and have nothing to do but to take care of the public, and
I’ve only got half—nothing to do! Being took care of was the main
thing. Republics _is_ ungrateful; I’m swaggered if they ain’t. This is
the way old sojers is served.”
Peter, having thus unpacked his o’erfraught heart, heaved a sigh or two,
as every one does after a recapitulation of their own injuries, and
remained for a few minutes wrapped in abstraction.
“Well, well,” said he, mournfully, swaying his head to and fro after the
sagacious fashion of Lord Burleigh, “live and learn—live and learn—the
world’s not what a man takes it for before he finds it out. Whiskers
grow a good deal sooner than experience—genus and patriotism ain’t got
no chance—heigh-ho!—But anyhow, a man might as well be under kiver as
out in the open air in sich weather as this. It’s as cheap laying down
as it is settin’ up, and there’s not so much wear and tear about it.”
With a groan, a yawn, and a sigh, Peter Brush slowly arose, and
stretching himself like a drowsy lion, he walked towards the steps of a
neighbouring house. Having reached the top of the flight, he turned
about and looked round with a scrutinizing glance, peering both up and
down the street, to ascertain that none of the hereditary enemies of the
Brushes were in the vicinity. Being satisfied on that score, he prepared
to enjoy all the comfort that his peculiar situation could command.
According to the modern system of warfare, he carried no baggage to
encumber his motions, and was always ready to bivouac without
troublesome preliminaries. He therefore placed himself on the upper
step, so that he was just within the doorway, his head reclining against
one side of it, and his feet braced against the other, blockading the
passage in a very effectual manner. He adjusted himself in a position as
carefully as the Sybarite who was annoyed at the wrinkle of a rose-leaf
on his couch, grunting at each motion like a Daniel Lambert at his
toilet, and he made minute alterations in his attitude several times
before he appeared perfectly satisfied that he had effected the best
arrangements that could be devised.
After reposing for a while as if “the flinty and steel couch of war were
his thrice-driven bed of down,” he moved his head with an exclamation of
impatience at the hardness of the wall, and taking his time-worn beaver,
he crumpled it up, and mollified the austerity of his bolster by using
the crushed hat as a pillow.
“That will do,” ejaculated Brush, clasping his hands before him, and
twirling his thumbs; and he then closed his eyes for the purpose of
reflecting upon his condition with a more perfect concentration of
thought than can be obtained when outward objects distract the mind. But
thinking in this way is always a hazardous experiment, whether it be
after dinner, or in the evening; and Peter Brush soon unwittingly fell
into a troubled, murmuring sleep, in which his words were mere
repetitions of what he had said before, the general scope of the
argument being to prove the received axiom of former times, that
republics do not distribute their favours in proportion to services
rendered, and that, in the speaker’s opinion, they are not, in this
respect, much better than the princes against whom his mother cautioned
him. Such, at least, was the conviction of Mr. Brush; at which he had
arrived, not by theory and distant observation, but by his own personal
experience.
It is a long lane which has no turning, and it is a long sleep in the
open air, especially in a city, which does not meet with interruption.
Brush found it so in this instance, as he had indeed more than once
before. Several gentlemen, followed by a dog, arrived at the foot of the
steps, and, after a short conversation, dispersed each to his several
home. One, however, remained—the owner of the dog—who, whistling for
his canine favourite, took out his night-key, and walked up the steps.
The dog, bounding before his master, suddenly stopped, and after
attentively regarding the recumbent Brush, uttered a sharp rapid bark.
The rapidity of mental operations is such that it frequently happens, if
sleep be disturbed by external sounds, that the noise is instantly
caught up by the ear, and incorporated with the subject of the dream—or
perhaps a dream is instantaneously formed upon the nucleus suggested by
the vibration of the tympanum. The bark of the dog had one of these
effects upon Mr. Brush.
“Bow! wow! waugh!” said the dog.
“There’s a fellow making a speech against our side,” muttered Peter;
“but it’s all talk—where’s your facts?—print your speech in pamphlet
form, and I’ll answer it. Hurray for us!—everybody else is
rascals—nothing but ruination when that fellow’s principles get the
upper hand—our side for ever—we’re the boys!”
“Be still, Ponto!” said the gentleman. “Now, Sir, be pleased to get up,
and carry yourself to some other place. I don’t know which side has the
honour of claiming you, but you are certainly on the wrong side at
present.”
“Don’t be official and trouble yourself about other people’s business,”
said Brush, trying to open his eyes; “don’t be official, for it isn’t
the genteel thing.”
“Not official! what do you mean by that? I shall be very official, and
trundle you down the steps if you are not a little more rapid in your
motions.”
“Oh, very well,” responded Brush, as he wheeled round in a sitting
posture, and fronted the stranger—“very well; be as sassy as you
please; I suppose you’ve got an office, by the way you talk—you’ve got
one of the fishes, though perhaps it is but a minny, and I ain’t; but if
I had, I’d show you a thing or two. Be sassy, be anything, Mr.
Noodle-soup. I don’t know which side you’re on either, but I do know one
thing; it isn’t saying much for your boss politicianer that he chose you
when I must have been on his list for promotion; that’s all, though yon
are so stiff, and think yourself pretty to look at. But them that’s
pretty to look at ain’t always good ’uns to go, or you wouldn’t be
poking here. Be off; there’s no more business before this meeting, and
you may adjourn. It’s moved, seconded, and carried—pay the landlord for
the use of the room as you go.”
The stranger, now becoming somewhat amused, felt a disposition to
entertain himself a little with Peter.
“How does it happen,” said he, “that such a public-spirited individual
as you appear to be should find himself in this condition? You’ve had a
little too much of the _stimulantibus_, I fear.”
“I don’t know Greek, but I guess what you mean,” was the answer. “It’s
owing to the weather—part to the weather, and part because republics is
ungrateful; that’s considerable the biggest part. Either part is excuse
enough, and both together makes it a credit. When it’s such weather as
this, it takes the electerizing fluid out of you; and if you want to
feel something like; do you know what ‘something like’ is? it’s
cat-bird, jam up; if you want to feel so, you must pour a little of the
electerizing fluid into you. In this kind of weather you must tune
yourself up, and get, rosumed, or you ain’t good for much, tuned up to
concert pitch. But all that’s a trifle; put not your trust in
politicianers.”
“And why not, Mr. Rosum?”
“Why not! Help us up—there—steady she goes—hold on! Why not?—look at
me, and you’ll see the why as large as life. I’m the why you mustn’t put
your trust in politicianers. I’m a rig’lar patriot—look at my coat. I’m
all for the public good—twig the holes in my trousers. I’m steady in my
course, and I’m upright in my conduct—don’t let me fall down. I’ve
tried all parties, year in and year out, just by way of making myself
popular and agreeable; and I’ve tried to be on both sides at once,”
roared Brush, with great emphasis, as he slipped and fell, “and this is
the end of it!”
His auditor laughed heartily at this striking illustration of the
political course of Peter Brush, and seemed quite gratified with so
strong a proof of the danger of endeavouring to be on two sides at once.
He therefore assisted the fallen to rise.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m used to being knocked about—the steps and the pavement are no
worse than other people—they’re like politicianers—you can’t put any
trust in ’em. But,” continued Brush, drawing a roll of crumbled paper
from the crown of his still more crumpled hat, “see here now, you’re a
clever fellow, and I’ll get you to sign my recommendation. Here’s a
splendid character for me all ready wrote down, so it won’t give you any
trouble, only to put your name to it.”
“But what office does it recommend you for? what kind of recommendation
is it?”
“It’s a circular recommend—a slap at anything that’s going.”
“Firing into the flock, I suppose!”
“That’s it exactly, good character, fit for any fat post either under
the city government, the state government, or the gineral government.
Now jist put your fist to it,” added Peter, in his most persuasive
tones, as he smoothed the paper over his knee, spread it upon the step,
and produced a bit of lead pencil which he first moistened with his
lips, and then offered to his interlocutor.
“Excuse me,” was the laughing response; “it’s too dark, I can’t see
either to read or write. But what made you a politicianer? Haven’t you
got a trade.”
“Trade! yes,” replied Brush, contemptuously; “but what’s a trade, when a
feller’s got a soul! I love my country, and I want an office—I don’t
care what, so it’s fat and easy. I’ve a genus for governing—for telling
people what to do, and looking at ’em do it. I want to take care of my
country, and I want my country to take care of me. Head work is the
trade I’m made for—talking—that’s my line—talking in the streets,
talking in the bar rooms, talking in the oyster cellars. Talking is the
grease for the waggon wheels of the body politic and the body corpulent,
and nothing will go on well till I’ve got my say in the matter; for I
can talk all day, and most of the night, only stopping to wet my
whistle. But parties is all alike—all ungrateful; no respect for
genus—no respect for me. I’ve tried both sides, got nothing, and I’ve a
great mind to knock off and call it half a day. I would, if my genus
didn’t make me talk, and think, and sleep so much I can’t find time to
work.”
“Well,” said the stranger, “you must find time to go away. You’re too
noisy. How would you like to go before the Mayor?”
“No, I’d rather not. Stop—now I think of it, I’ve asked him before; but
perhaps if you’d speak a good word, he’d give me the first vacancy.
Introduce me properly, and say that I want something to do shocking—no,
not something to do—I want something to get; my genus won’t let me
work. I’d like to have a fat salary, and to be general superintendent of
things in general and nothing in particular, so I could walk about the
streets, and see what is going on. Now, put my best leg foremost—say
how I can make speeches, and how I can hurray at elections.”
“Away with you,” said the stranger, as he ran up the steps, and opened
the door. “Make no noise in this neighbourhood, or you’ll be taken care
of soon enough.”
“Well, now, if that isn’t ungrateful,” soliloquized Brush; “keep me here
talking, and then slap the door right in my face. That’s the way
politicianers serve me, and it’s about all I’d a right to expect. Oh,
pshaw! sich a world—sich a people!”
Peter rolled up his “circular recommend” put it in his hat, and slowly
sauntered away. As he is not yet provided for, he should receive the
earliest attention of parties, or disappointment may induce him to
abandon both, take the field “upon his own hook,” and constitute an
independent faction under the name of the “Brush party,” the cardinal
principle of which will be that peculiarly novel impulse to action,
hostility to all “politicianers” who are not on the same side.
-----
[7] By Neal.
IV.
COUSIN SALLY DILLIARD.
A LEGAL SKETCH IN THE “OLD NORTH STATE.”
SCENE: _A Court of Justice in North Carolina_.
A _beardless_ disciple of Themis rises, and thus addresses the court:
“May it please your worships, and you, gentlemen of the jury, since it
has been my fortune (good or bad, I will not say) to exercise myself in
legal disquisitions, it has never befallen me to be obliged to prosecute
so direful, marked, and malicious an assault—a more wilful, violent,
dangerous battery—and finally, a more diabolical breach of the peace,
has seldom happened in a civilized country; and I dare say it has seldom
been your duty to pass upon one so shocking to benevolent feelings, as
this which took place over at Captain Rice’s, in this county. But you
will hear from the witnesses.”
The witnesses being sworn, two or three were examined and deposed. One
said that he heard the noise, and did not see the fight; another that he
had seen the row, but didn’t know who struck first; and a third, that he
was very drunk, and couldn’t say much about the skrimmage.
_Lawyer Chops._ I am sorry, gentlemen, to have occupied your time with
the stupidity of the witnesses examined. It arises, gentlemen,
altogether from misapprehension on my part. Had I known, as I now do,
that I had a witness in attendance who was well acquainted with all the
circumstances of the case, and who was able to make himself clearly
understood by the court and jury, I should not so long have trespassed
upon your time and patience. Come forward, Mr. Harris, and be sworn.
So forward comes the witness, a fat, shuffy old man, a “leetle” corned,
and took his oath with an air.
_Chops._ Harris, we wish you to tell all about the riot that happened
the other day at Captain Rice’s; and as a good deal of time has already
been wasted in circumlocution, we wish you to be compendious, and at the
same time as explicit, as possible.
_Harris._ Adzackly (giving the lawyer a knowing wink, and at the same
time clearing his throat). Captain Rice, he gin a treat, and cousin
Sally Dilliard, she came over to our house, and axed me if my wife she
moutn’t go? I told cousin Sally Dilliard that my wife was poorly, being
as how she had a touch of the rheumatics in the hip, and the big swamp
was in the road, and the big swamp was up, for there had been a heap of
rain lately; but howsomever, as it was she, cousin Sally Dilliard, my
wife she mout go. Well, cousin Sally Dilliard then axed me if Mose he
moutn’t go? I told cousin Sally Dilliard that he was the foreman of the
crap, and the crap was smartly in the grass; but howsomever as it was
she, cousin Sally Dilliard, Mose he mout go.
_Chops._ In the name of common sense, Mr. Harris, what do you mean by
this rigmarole?
_Witness._ Captain Rice he gin a treat, and cousin Sally Dilliard she
came over to our house, and axed me if my wife she moutn’t go? I told
cousin Sally Dilliard—
_Chops._ Stop, Sir, if you please; we don’t want to hear anything about
your cousin Sally Dilliard and your wife. Tell us about the fight at
Rice’s.
_Witness._ Well, I will, Sir, if you will let me.
_Chops._ Well, Sir, go on.
_Witness._ Well, Sir, Captain Rice he gin a treat, and Cousin Sally
Dilliard she came over to our house, and axed me if my wife she moutn’t
go—
_Chops._ There it is again. Witness, please to stop.
_Witness._ Well, Sir, what do you want?
_Chops._ We want to know about the fight; and you must not proceed in
this impertinent story. Do you know anything about the matter before the
court?
_Witness._ To be sure, I do.
_Chops._ Well, go on and tell it, and nothing else.
_Witness._ Well, Captain Rice he gin a treat—
_Chops._ This is intolerable. May it please the court, I move that this
witness be committed for a contempt; he seems to be trifling with this
court.
_Court._ Witness, you are now before a court of justice, and unless you
behave yourself in a more becoming manner, you will be sent to gaol; so
begin and tell what you know about the fight at Captain Rice’s.
_Witness._ (alarmed.) Well, gentlemen, Captain Rice he gin a treat, and
Cousin Sally Dilliard—
_Chops._ I hope the witness may be ordered into custody.
_Court._ (after deliberating.) Mr. Attorney, the Court is of opinion
that we may save time by telling witness to go on in his own way.
Proceed, Mr. Harris, with your story, but stick to the point.
_Witness._ Yes, gentlemen. Well, Captain Rice he gin a treat, and Cousin
Sally Dilliard she came over to our house, and axed me if my wife she
mout go? I told Cousin Sally Dilliard that my wife she was poorly, being
as how she had the rheumatics in the hips, and the big swamp was up; but
howsomever, as it was she, Cousin Sally Dillard, my wife she mout go.
Well, Cousin Sally Dilliard then axed me if Mose he moutn’t go. I told
Cousin Sally Dilliard as how Mose he was foreman of the crap, and the
crap was smartly in the grass; but howsomever, as it was she, Cousin
Sally Dilliard, Mose he mout go. So they goes on together, Mose, my
wife, and Cousin Sally Dilliard, and they came to the big swamp and it
was up, as I was telling you; but being as how there was a log across
the big swamp, Cousin Sally Dilliard and Mose, like genteel folks, they
walked the log; but my wife, like a darned fool, hoisted her coats and
waded through. _And that’s all I know about the fight._
V.
THE AGE OF WONDERS.
My neighbour over the way, Colonel Swallowmore, thinks himself born in
the age of wonders:—and no wonder he thinks so, for he reads the
newspapers and believes them! It is astonishing how gravely the Colonel
gulps down every crude lump of monstrous fudge the papers contain.
Sea-serpents, crook-necked squashes, consumption cured, talking pigs,
and three-legged cats, are nothing to an appetite like his. He believes
electioneering speeches and predictions of political quidnuncs. All is
fish that comes to his net.
“These are times! Mr. Titterwell, these are times, indeed!” says he to
me, with a most rueful visage, as he lays down the newspaper. “What
_are_ we coming to! People have got to _such_ a pass! Something is
certainly going to happen before long. I’m really, really frightened to
think of it. There never were such doings in my day. Positively I’ve got
so now that I an’t surprised at anything!”
And so he shakes his head, hitches up his breeches, sticks his
spectacles higher up his nose, and reads the wonders of the day over
again.
Twenty-eight several times has this country been irretrievably ruined
since I knew the Colonel. Seven times has the world come quite to an
end. Nineteen times have we had the hardest winter ever known within the
memory of the oldest inhabitant. Twenty-one times there never was seen
such a backward spring. Forty-seven times the approaching session of
Congress has been one of uncommon interest; and thirteen thousand, nine
hundred and sixty-six times has death snatched away the best man upon
earth, leaving mortals inconsolable, and society with an immense void.
The mental agitations he has undergone in pondering upon the “wonderful
wonders” that spring up as plenty as grasshoppers in this wonderful age,
are not to be described; for the Colonel takes an immense interest in
public affairs, and cannot see the universe go to ruin about his ears
without pangs of sympathy. Whatever mole-hill he stumbles upon, he makes
a mountain of it.
He thought the Salem mill-dam absolutely necessary to the balance of
power, and was certain that the bridge over Peg’s Run was the only means
of saving the nation.
He went to bed in a great fright on reading in the paper that Emerson’s
Spelling-book would overthrow the liberties of the country; and he was
struck with the deepest alarm when he heard of the feud that had broken
out between the Houses of Correction and Reformation about a cart-load
of chips.
I shall never forget the anxiety that beset him last summer when the
City Council could not come to a choice about the Superintendent of
Drains. The newspapers were full of the affair, and the Colonel, I
verily believe, would have worried himself into a nervous fever, had
this alarming schism between the two branches of the city government
been carried much farther.
“A strange affair, Mr. Titterwell, a very mysterious affair,” said he.
“There are some dark, under-ground manœuvres going on in this matter,
depend upon it; and really the Mayor and Aldermen—” here he turned up
the whites of his eyes and shook his head. Heaven only knows what he
thought of those great dignitaries. However, the affair of the drains
got through without any great catastrophe to folk above ground, that
ever I could learn, and the Colonel’s consternation subsided for that
time.
All the world were going mad the other day about white mustard-seed.
“Pray, Colonel,” said I, “what is white mustard-seed to you or me? Can’t
we eat our bread and butter, and sleep till six in the morning, without
troubling our heads about white mustard-seed? Didn’t we fight the
battles of the revolution without white mustard-seed? Didn’t Samson
carry off the gates of Gaza without white mustard-seed? Didn’t your
blessed old grandmother knit stockings and live to the age of ninety
without white mustard-seed? Then what’s the use of minding the dolts in
the newspapers who tell you that white mustard-seed is better than meat,
drink and sunshine, and that we shall all die untimely deaths unless we
take white mustard-seed?”
The Colonel could not understand it: it was a great mystery indeed, but
the newspapers were full of it, and he was convinced white mustard-seed
had something in it, that would come out in due time. White
mustard-seed, however, has had its day; and the Colonel has probably
taken to saw-dust, as I heard him talk of Dr. Graham last week.
But of all mortals the Colonel is the most prone to sympathize with the
unfortunate public upon the loss of great men. I popped in upon him the
day before yesterday, and found him lamenting a huge public calamity.
Three great men had fallen in Israel—an eminent clergyman, an eminent
country representative, and an eminent dealer in salt-fish on Long
Wharf. The Colonel was triply dolorous upon the matter; society,
business, politics, had suffered an immense loss; a loss incalculable,
irreparable, and so forth.
I assured the Colonel there was no great cause for apprehension, for the
world was pretty sure to turn round once in twenty-four hours, whether
great men died or lived.
“The fact is, Colonel,” said I, “great men may die as fast as they
please for aught I care. I have never been frightened by the death of
them since an adventure that happened to me in my ninth year, when I
lived in the country.”
“What is that?” asked the Colonel.
“I’ll tell you,” said I.
“On a certain day—a day never to be forgotten by me, news arrived in
town that the Governor was dead. No sovereign prince, pontiff, or
potentate on the face of the earth, ever appeared so gigantic and
formidable to my childish eyes, as that harmless gentleman the Governor
of Massachusetts. Imagine the shock occasioned by this announcement!
Straightway the bells began tolling, people collected in groups,
quidnuncs scoured from place to place, gossips chattered, children gaped
in dumb astonishment, and old women with dismal faces ran about croaking
‘The Governor is dead!’
“To me these things seemed to betoken the general wreck of nature, for
how the order of the universe could subsist after the death of the
Governor, was beyond my comprehension. I expected the sun and moon to
fall, the stars to shoot from their spheres, and my grandfather’s
mill-pond to upset. The horrible forebodings under which I lay down to
sleep that night, are not to be described, and it was a long time ere I
could close my eyes. In the morning I was awakened by a dreadful
rumbling noise. ‘The Governor is dead!’ I exclaimed, starting up in a
terrible fright. The noise continued: I listened, and discovered it to
be nothing more than my old grandmother, grinding coffee!
“The effect of this prodigious anti-climax can hardly be imagined; never
in my life was I so puzzled and confounded as at the first moment of
this discovery.
“‘What!’ said I to myself, ‘is the Governor dead, and yet people grind
coffee? then it seems we are to eat our breakfast just as if nothing had
happened. Is a great man of no more consequence than this?’
“A new ray of light broke in upon me. I fell to pondering upon the
occurrence, and five minutes pondering completely demolished the power
supreme with which many a pompous owl had stalked through my
imagination.
“From that moment, governors, town-clerks, select-men, representatives,
justices of the peace, and great people of every degree, lost
nine-tenths of their importance in my eyes, for I plainly saw the world
could do without them.
“How often, in after life, have I applied the moral of this incident!
How much moving eloquence and dire denunciation have I passed by with
the remark:
“‘That is a great affair, no doubt, but it won’t stop a coffee-mill.’”
VI.
HOW SIMON SUGGS “RAISED JACK.”
Until Simon entered his seventeenth year, he lived with his father, an
old “hard-shell” Baptist preacher; who, though very pious and remarkably
austere, was very avaricious. The old man reared his boys—or
endeavoured to do so—according to the strictest requisition of the
moral law. But he lived, at the time to which we refer, in Middle
Georgia, which was then newly settled; and Simon, whose wits from the
time he was a “shirt-tail boy,” were always too sharp for his father’s,
contrived to contract all the coarse vices incident to such a region.
He stole his mother’s roosters to fight them at Bob Smith’s grocery, and
his father’s plough-horses to enter them in “quarter” matches at the
same place. He pitched dollars with Bob Smith himself, and could “beat
him into doll-rags” whenever it came to a measurement. To crown his
accomplishments, Simon was tip-top at the game of “old sledge,” which
was the fashionable game of that era, and was early initiated in the
mystery of “stocking the papers.”
The vicious habits of Simon were, of course, a sore trouble to his
father, Elder Jedediah. He reasoned, he counselled, he remonstrated, he
lashed, but Simon was an incorrigible, irreclaimable devil.
One day the simple-minded old man came rather unexpectedly to the field
where he had left Simon and Ben, and a negro boy named Bill, at work.
Ben was still following his plough, but Simon and Bill were in a
fence-corner very earnestly engaged at “seven up.” Of course the game
was instantly suspended, as soon as they spied the old man sixty or
seventy yards off, striding towards them.
It was evidently a “gone case” with Simon and Bill; but our hero
determined to make the best of it. Putting the cards into one pocket, he
coolly picked up the small coins which constituted the stake, and fobbed
them in the other, remarking:
“Well, Bill, this game’s blocked; we’d as well quit.”
“But, Massa Simon,” remarked the boy, “half dat money’s mine. An’t you
gwine to lemme hab ’em?”
“Oh, never mind the money, Bill; the old man’s going to take the bark
off of both of us—and besides, with the hand I helt when we quit, I
should ’a beat you and won it all any way.”
“Well, but, Massa Simon, we nebber finish de game, and de rule—”
“Go to Old Scratch with your rule!” said the impatient Simon; “don’t you
see daddy’s right down upon us, with an armful of hickories? I tell you
I hilt nothin’ but trumps, and could ’a beat the horns off of a
billy-goat. Don’t that satisfy you? Somehow or nother your d—d hard to
please!” About this time a thought struck Simon, and in a low tone—for
by this time the Reverend Jedediah was close at hand—he continued: “but
maybe daddy don’t know, _right down sure_, what we’ve been doin’. Let’s
try him with a lie—twon’t hurt no way; let’s tell him we’ve been
playin’ mumble-peg.”
Bill was perforce compelled to submit to this inequitable adjustment of
his claim of a share of the stakes; and of course agreed to the game of
mumble-peg. All this was settled and a peg driven in the ground, slyly
and hurriedly between Simon’s legs as he sat on the ground, just as the
old man reached the spot. He carried under his left arm several
neatly-trimmed sprouts of formidable length, while in his left hand he
held one which he was intently engaged in divesting of its superfluous
twigs.
“Soho! youngsters!—_you_ in the fence-corner, and the _crop_ in the
grass? what saith the Scriptur’ Simon? ‘Go to the ant, thou sluggard,’
and so forth and so on. What in the round creation of the yearth have
you and that nigger been a-doin’?”
Bill shook with fear, but Simon was cool as a cucumber, and answered his
father to the effect that they had been wasting a little time in a game
of mumble-peg.
“Mumble-peg! mumble-peg!” repeated old Mr. Suggs, “what’s that?”
Simon explained the process of _rooting_ for the peg; how the operator
got upon his knees, keeping his arms stiff by his side, leaned forward
and extracted the peg with his teeth.
“So you git _upon your knees_, do you, to pull up that nasty little
stick! you’d better git upon ’em to ask mercy for your sinful souls, and
for a dyin’ world. But let’s see one o’ you git the peg up now.”
The first impulse of our hero was to volunteer to gratify the curiosity
of his worthy sire, but a glance at the old man’s countenance changed
his “notion,” and he remarked that “Bill was a long ways the best hand.”
Bill, who did not deem Simon’s modesty an omen favourable to himself,
was inclined to reciprocate compliments with his young master; but a
gesture of impatience from the old man set him instantly upon his knees;
and, bending forward, he essayed to lay hold with his teeth, of the peg,
which Simon, just at that moment, very wickedly pushed half an inch
further down.
Just as the breeches and hide of the boy were stretched to the
uttermost, old Mr. Suggs brought down his longest hickory, with both
hands, upon the precise spot where the tension was greatest. With a loud
yell, Bill plunged forward, upsetting Simon, and rolled in the grass,
rubbing the castigated part with fearful energy. Simon, though
overthrown, was unhurt; and he was mentally complimenting himself upon
the sagacity which had prevented his illustrating the game of
mumble-peg, for the paternal amusement, when his attention was arrested
by that worthy person’s stooping to pick up something—what is it?—a
card upon which Simon had been sitting, and which, therefore, had not
gone with the rest of the pack into his pocket.
The simple Mr. Suggs had only a vague idea of the pasteboard abomination
called _cards_; and though he decidedly inclined to the opinion that
this was one, he was by no means certain of the fact. Had Simon known
this, he would certainly have escaped; but he did not. His father,
assuming the look of extreme sapiency which is always worn by the
interrogator who does not desire or expect to increase his knowledge by
his questions, asked:
“What’s this, Simon?”
“The Jack a-dimunts,” promptly responded Simon, who gave up all as lost
after this _faux pas_.
“What was it doin’ down thar, Simon, my sonny?” continued Mr. Suggs, in
an ironically affectionate tone of voice.
“I had it under my leg thar, to make it on Bill, the first time it come
trumps,” was the ready reply.
“What’s trumps?” asked Mr. Suggs, with a view of arriving at the import
of the word.
“Nothin’ ain’t trumps _now_,” said Simon, who misapprehended his
father’s meaning, “but _clubs_ was, when you come along and busted up
the game.”
A part of this answer was Greek to the Reverend Mr. Suggs, but a portion
of it was full of meaning. They had, then, most unquestionably been
“throwing” cards, the scoundrels! the “oudacious” little hellions!
“To the “Mulberry,” with both on ye! in a hurry,” said the old man,
sternly.
But the lads were not disposed to be in a “hurry,” for the “Mulberry”
was the scene of all formal punishment administered during work hours in
the field. Simon followed his father, however; but made, as he went
along, all manner of “faces” at the old man’s back; gesticulated as if
he were going to strike him between the shoulders with his fists; and
kicking at him so as almost to touch his coat-tail with his shoe. In
this style they walked on to the mulberry-tree, in whose shade Simon’s
brother Ben was resting.
It must not be supposed that, during the walk to the place of
punishment, Simon’s mind was either inactive or engaged in suggesting
the grimaces and contortions wherewith he was pantomimically expressing
his irreverent sentiments towards his father. Far from it. The movements
of his limbs and features were the mere workings of habit—the
self-grinding of the corporeal machine—for which his reasoning half was
only remotely responsible. For while Simon’s person was thus on its own
account, “making game” of old Jedediah, his wits, in view of the
anticipated flogging, were dashing, springing, bounding, darting about,
in hot chase of some expedient suitable to the necessities of the
case—much after the manner in which puss, when Betty, armed with the
broom, and hotly seeking vengeance for the pantry robbed or room
defiled, has closed upon her the garret doors and windows, attempts all
sorts of impossible exits, comes down at last in the corner, with
panting side and glaring eye, exhausted and defenceless. Our unfortunate
hero could devise nothing by which he could reasonably expect to escape
the heavy blows of his father. Having arrived at this conclusion and the
“Mulberry” about the same time, he stood with a dogged look, awaiting
the issue.
The old man Suggs made no remark to any one while he was seizing up
Bill—a process which, though by no means novel to Simon, seemed to
excite in him a sort of painful interest. He watched it closely, as if
to learn the precise fashion of his father’s knot; and when at last Bill
was strung up a-tiptoe to a limb, and the whipping commenced, Simon’s
eye followed every movement of his father’s arm; and as each blow
descended upon the bare shoulders of his sable friend, his own body
writhed and “wriggled” in involuntary sympathy.
“It’s the devil!—it’s tarnation,” said Simon to himself, “to take such
a wallopin’ as that. Why the old man looks like he wants to git to the
holler, if he could—rot his picter! It’s wuth, at the least, fifty
cents—je-e-miny, how _that_ hurt!—yes, it’s wuth three-quarters of a
dollar, to take that ’ere lickin’! Wonder if I’m ‘predestinated,’ as old
Jed’diah says, to get the feller to it? Lord, how daddy blows! I do wish
he’d bust right open, the darn’d old deer-face! If ’twan’t for Ben
helpin’ him, I b’lieve I’d give the old dog a tussel when it comes for
my turn. It couldn’t make the thing no wuss, if it didn’t make it no
better. Drot it! what do boys have daddies for, any how? ’Taint for
nuthin’ but jist to beat ’em and work ’em—There’s some use in
mammies—I kin poke my finger right in the old ’oman’s eye, and keep it
thar, and if I say it aint thar, she’ll say ’taint thar, too. I wish she
was here to hold daddy off. If ’twan’t so fur, I’d holler for her any
how. How she would cling to the old feller’s coat-tail!”
Mr. Jedediah Suggs let down Bill, and untied him. Approaching Simon,
whose coat was off:
“Come, Simon, son,” said he, “cross them hands, I’m gwine to correct
you.”
“It aint no use, daddy,” said Simon.
“Why so, Simon?”
“Just bekase it aint, I’m gwine to play cards as long as I live. When I
go off to myself, I’m gwine to make my livin’ by it. So what’s the use
of beatin’ me about it?”
Old Mr. Suggs groaned, as he was wont to do in the pulpit, at this
display of Simon’s viciousness.
“Simon,” said he, “you’re a poor ignunt creetur. You don’t know nothin’
and you’ve never been no whars. If I was to turn you off, you’d starve
in a week.”
“I wish you’d try me,” said Simon, “and jist see. I’d win more money in
a week than you can make in a year. There aint nobody round here kin
make seed corn off o’ me at cards. I’m rale smart,” he added, with great
emphasis.
“Simon! Simon! you poor unletered fool. Don’t you know that all
card-players and chicken-fighters, and horse-racers go to hell? You
crack-brained creatur’ you. And don’t you know that them that play cards
always lose their money, and—”
“Who wins it all then, daddy?” asked Simon.
“Shet your mouth, you imperdent, slack-jaw’d dog. Your daddy’s a-tryin’
to give you some good advice, and you a-pickin’ up his words that way. I
know’d a young man once, when I lived in Ogletharp, as went down to
Augusty and sold a hundred dollars’ worth of cotton for his daddy, and
some o’ them gambollers got him to drinkin’, and the _very first_ night
he was with ’em they got every cent of his money.
“They couldn’t get my money in a _week_,” said Simon. “Anybody can git
these here green fellows’ money; them’s the sort I’m a-gwine to watch
for, myself. Here’s what kin fix the papers jist about as nice as
anybody.”
“Well, it’s no use to argify about the matter,” said old Jedediah; “What
saith the Scriptur’? ‘He that begetteth a fool, doeth it to his sorrow.’
Hence, Simon, you’re a poor, miserable fool! so, cross your hands!”
“You’d jist as well not, daddy. I tell you I’m gwine to follow playin’
cards for a livin’, and what’s the use o’ bangin’ a feller about it? I’m
as smart as any of ’em, and Bob Smith says them Augusty fellers can’t
make rent off o’ me.”
The Reverend Mr. Suggs had, once in his life, gone to Augusta; an extent
of travel which in those days was a little unusual. His consideration
among his neighbours was considerably increased by the circumstance, as
he had all the benefit of the popular inference that no man could visit
the city of Augusta without acquiring a vast superiority over all his
untravelled neighbours, in every department of human knowledge. Mr.
Suggs, then, very naturally felt ineffably indignant that an individual
who had never seen a collection of human habitations larger than a
log-house village—an individual, in short, no other or better than Bob
Smith—should venture to express an opinion concerning the manners,
customs, or anything else appertaining to, or in any wise connected
with, the _ultima thule_ of backwoods Georgians. There were two
propositions which witnessed their own truth to the mind of Mr.
Suggs—the one was, that a man who had never been at Augusta, could not
know anything about that city, or any place or thing else; the other
that one who _had_ been there must, of necessity, be not only well
informed as to all things connected with the city itself, but perfectly
_au fait_ upon all subjects whatsoever. It was therefore in a tone of
mingled indignation and contempt that he replied to the last remark of
Simon.
“_Bob Smith_ says—does he? And who’s _Bob Smith_? Much does _Bob Smith_
know about Augusty! He’s been thar, I reckon! Slipped off yarly some
mornin’ when nobody warn’t noticin’, and got back afore night! It’s
_only_ a hundred and fifty mile. Oh yes, _Bob Smith_ knows all about it!
_I_ don’t know nothin’ about it! _I_ a’n’t never been to Augusty—I
couldn’t find the road thar I reckon, ha! ha! _Bob—Smi—th!_ The
eternal stink! if he was only to see one o’ them fine gentlemen in
Augusty, with his fine broad-cloath and bell-crown hat, and shoe-boots
a-shinin’ like silver, he’d take to the woods and kill himself
a-runnin’. Bob Smith! that’s whar all your devilment comes from, Simon.”
“Bob Smith’s as good as anybody else, I judge; and a heap smarter than
some. He showed me how to cut Jack,” continued Simon, “and that’s more
than some people can do if they _have_ been to Augusty.”
“If Bob Smith kin do it,” said the old man, “I kin too. I don’t know it
by that name; but if it’s book knowledge or plain sense, and Bob kin do
it, it’s reasonable to s’pose that old Jed’diah Suggs won’t be bothered
bad. Is it any ways similyar to the rule of three, Simon?”
“Pretty much, daddy, but not adzactly,” said Simon, drawing a pack from
his pocket to explain. “Now daddy,” he proceeded, “you see these here
four cards is what we call Jacks. Well, now, the idee is, if you’ll take
the pack and mix ’em all up together, I’ll take off a passel from top,
and the bottom one of them I take off will be one of the Jacks.”
“Me to mix em fust?” said Jedediah.
“Yes.”
“And you not to see but the back of the top one, when you go to ‘cut,’
as you call it?”
“Jist so, daddy.”
“And the backs all jist as like as kin be?” said the senior Suggs,
examining the cards.
“More like nor cow-peas,” said Simon.
“It can’t be done, Simon,” observed the old man, with great solemnity.
“Bob Smith kin do it, and so kin I.”
“It’s agin nater, Simon; thar a’n’t a man in Augusty, nor on the top of
the yearth, that kin do it!”
“Daddy,” said our hero, “ef you’ll bet me—”
“What!” thundered old Mr. Suggs, “_bet_, did you say?” and he came down
with a _scorer_ across Simon’s shoulders—“me, Jed’diah Suggs, that’s
been in the Lord’s sarvice these twenty years—_me_ bet, you nasty,
sassy, triflin’, ugly—”
“I didn’t go to say that, daddy; that warn’t what I ment, adzactly. I
ment to say that ef you’d let me off from this here maulin’ you owe me,
and _give me_ ‘Bunch’ ef I cut Jack, I’d _give you_ all this here
silver, ef I didn’t—that’s all. To be sure, I allers know’d _you_
wouldn’t _bet_.”
Old Mr. Suggs ascertained the exact amount of the silver which his son
handed to him, in an old leathern pouch, for inspection. He also,
mentally, compared that sum with an imaginary one, the supposed value of
a certain Indian pony, called “Bunch,” which he had bought for his “old
woman’s” Sunday riding, and which had sent the old lady into a
fence-corner, the first—and only—time she had ever mounted him. As he
weighed the pouch of silver in his hand, Mr. Suggs also endeavoured to
analyze the character of the transaction proposed by Simon. “It sartinly
_can’t_ be nothin’ but _givin’_, no way it kin be twisted,” he murmured
to himself. “I _know_ he can’t do it, so there’s no resk. What makes
bettin’? The resk. It’s a one-sided business, and I’ll jist let him give
me all his money, and that’ll put all his wild sportin’ notions out of
his head.”
“Will you stand it, daddy?” asked Simon, by way of waking the old man
up. “You mought as well, for the whippin’ won’t do you no good; and as
for Bunch, nobody about the plantation won’t ride him, but me.”
“Simon,” replied the old man, “I agree to it. Your old daddy is in a
close place about payin’ for his land; and this here money—it’s jist
eleven dollars lacking of twenty-five cents—will help out mightily. But
mind, Simon, ef anything’s said about this, hereafter, remember, you
_give_ me the money.”
“Very well, daddy, and ef the thing works up instid o’ down, I s’pose
we’ll say you give _me_ Bunch—eh?”
“You won’t never be troubled to tell how you come by Bunch; the thing’s
agin natur, and can’t be done. What old Jed’diah Suggs knows, he knows
as good as anybody. Give me them fixaments, Simon.”
Our hero handed the cards to his father, who dropping the plough-line
with which he had intended to tie Simon’s hands, turned his back to that
individual, in order to prevent his witnessing the operation of
_mixing_. He then sat down, and very leisurely commenced shuffling the
cards, making, however, an exceedingly awkward job of it. Restive
_kings_ and _queens_ jumped from his hands, or obstinately refused to
slide into the company of the rest of the pack. Occasionally, a
sprightly _knave_ would insist on _facing_ his neighhour; or, pressing
his edge against another’s, half double himself up, and then skip away.
But Elder Jedediah perseveringly continued his attempts to subdue the
refractory, while heavy drops burst from his forehead, and ran down his
cheeks. All of a sudden, an idea, quick and penetrating as a rifle-ball,
seemed to have entered the cranium of the old man. He chuckled audibly.
The devil had suggested to Mr. Suggs an _impromptu_ “stock,” which would
place the chances of Simon—already sufficiently slim in the old man’s
opinion—without the range of possibility. Mr. Suggs forthwith proceeded
to cull out all the _picter cards_—so as to be certain to include the
_jacks_—and place them at the bottom; with the evident intention of
keeping Simon’s fingers above these when he should cut. Our hero, who
was quietly looking over his father’s shoulders all the time, did not
seem alarmed by this disposition of the cards; on the contrary, he
smiled as if he felt perfectly confident of success, in spite of it.
“Now, daddy,” said Simon, when his father had announced himself ready,
“nary one of us ain’t got to look at the cards, while I’m a cuttin’; if
we do, it’ll spile the conjuration.”
“Very well.”
“And another thing—you’ve got to look me right dead in the eye,
daddy—will you?”
“To be sure—to be sure,” said Mr. Suggs; “fire away.”
Simon walked up close to his father, and placed his hand on the pack.
Old Mr. Suggs looked in Simon’s eye, and Simon returned the look for
about three seconds, during which a close observer might have detected a
suspicious working of the wrist of the hand on the cards, but the elder
Suggs did not remark it.
“Wake snakes! day’s a breakin’! Rise Jack!” said Simon, cutting half a
dozen cards from the top of the pack, and presenting the face of the
bottom one for the inspection of his father.
It was the Jack of Hearts!
Old Mr. Suggs staggered back several steps, with uplifted eyes and
hands!
“Marciful Master!” he exclaimed, “ef the boy hain’t! well, how in the
round creation of the——! Ben, did you ever! to be sure and sartin,
Satan has power on this yearth!” and Mr. Suggs groaned in heavy
bitterness.
“You never seed nothin’ like that in _Augusty_, did ye, daddy?” asked
Simon, with a malicious wink at Ben.
“Simon, _how_ did you do it?” queried the old man, without noticing his
son’s question.
“Do it, daddy? Do it? ’Taint nothin’. I done it jest as easy
as—shootin’.”
Whether this explanation was entirely, or in any degree, satisfactory to
the perplexed mind of the Elder Jedediah Suggs, cannot, after the lapse
of time which has intervened, be sufficiently ascertained. It is
certain, however, that he pressed the investigation no farther, but
merely requested his son Benjamin to witness the fact that, in
consideration of his love and affection for his son Simon, and in order
to furnish the donee with the means of leaving that portion of the state
of Georgia, he bestowed upon him the impracticable pony, “Bunch.”
“Jist so, daddy, jist so; I’ll witness that. But it ’minds me mightily
of the way mammy _give_ old Trailler the side of bacon, last week. She
was a-sweepin’ up the hath—the meat on the table; old Trailler jumps
up, gethers the bacon and darts; mammy arter him with the broomstick as
fur as the door, but seein’ the dog has got the start, she shakes the
stick at him, and hollers, ‘You sassy, aig-sukkin’, roguish, gnatty,
flopped-eared varmint, take it along, take it along! I only wish ’twas
full of a’snic and ox vomit and blue vitrul, so as ’twould cut your
intrils into chitlins!’ That’s about the way you give Bunch to Simon.”
It was evident to our hero that his father intended he should remain but
one more night beneath the paternal roof. What mattered it to Simon?
He went home at night, curried and fed Bunch; whispered confidentially
in his ear, that he was the “fastest piece of hoss-flesh, accordin’ to
size, that ever shaded the yearth;” and then busied himself in preparing
for an early start on the morrow.
VII.
MY FIRST VISIT TO PORTLAND.[8]
In the fall of the year 1829, I took it into my head I’d go to Portland.
I had heard a good deal about Portland, what a fine place it was, and
how the folks got rich there proper fast; and that fall there was a
couple of new papers come up to our place from there, called the
“Portland Courier,” and “Family Reader,” and they told a good many queer
kind of things, about Portland and one thing another; and all at once it
popped into my head, and I up and told father, and sais:
“I am going to Portland whether or no; and I’ll see what this world is
made of yet.”
Father stared a little at first, and said he was afraid I would get
lost; but when he see I was bent upon it, he give it up, and he stepped
to his chist, and opened the till, and took out a dollar, and gave to
me; and says he:
“Jack, this is all I can do for you; but go and lead an honest life, and
I believe I shall hear good of you yet.”
He turned and walked across the room, but I could see the tears start
into his eyes. And mother sat down, and had a hearty crying spell.
This made me feel rather bad for a minit or two, and I almost had a mind
to give it up; and then again father’s dream came into my mind, and I
mustered up courage, and declared I’d go. So I tackeled up the old
horse, and packed in a load of axe-handles, and a few notions; and
mother fried me some doughnuts, and put ’em into a box, along with some
cheese and sassages, and ropped me up another shirt, for I told her I
didn’t know how long I should be gone. And after I got all rigged out, I
went round, and bid all the neighbors good-bye, and jumped in, and drove
off for Portland.
Aunt Sally had been married two or three years before, and moved to
Portland; and I inquired round till I found out where she lived, and
went there, and put the old horse up, and eat some supper, and went to
bed.
And the next morning I got up, and straightened right off to see the
editor of the “Portland Courier,” for I knew, by what I had seen in his
paper, that he was just the man to tell me which way to steer. And when
I come to see him, I knew I was right; for soon as I told him my name,
and what I wanted, he took me by the hand as kind as if he had been a
brother, and says he:
“Mister,” says he, “I’ll do anything I can to assist you. You have come
to a good town; Portland is a healthy, thriving place, and any man with
a proper degree of enterprise may do well here. But,” says he,
“stranger,” and he looked mighty kind of knowing, says he, “if you want
to make out to your mind, you must do as the steam-boats do.”
“Well,” says I, “how do they do?” for I didn’t know what a steam-boat
was any more than the man in the moon.
“Why,” says he, “they go ahead. And you must drive about among the folks
here, just as tho’ you were at home, on the farm among the cattle. Don’t
be afraid of any of them, but figure away; and, I dare say, you’ll get
into good business in a very little while. But,” says he, “there’s one
thing you must be careful of; and that is, not to get into the hands of
them are folks that trades up round Hucklers’ Row, for there’s some
sharpers up there, if they get hold of you, would twist your eye-teeth
out in five minits.”
Well, arter he had gin me all the good advice he could, I went back to
Aunt Sally’s agin, and got some breakfast; and then I walked all over
the town, to see what chance I could find to sell my axe-handles, and
things, and to get into business.
After I had walked about three or four hours, I come along towards the
upper end of the town, where I found there were stores and shops of all
sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I:
“What place is this?”
“Why this,” says he, “is Hucklers’ Row.”
“What,” says I, “are these the stores where the traders in Hucklers’ Row
keep?”
And says he: “Yes.”
Well then, says I to myself, I have a pesky good mind to go in and have
a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye-teeth
out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do
what there ain’t a man in our place can do; and I should just like to
know what sort of stuff these ere Portland chaps are made of. So in I
goes into the best-looking store among ’em. And I see some biscuit lying
on the shelf, and says I:
“Mister, how much do you ax a piece for them are biscuits?”
“A cent a piece,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “shan’t give you that, but if you’ve a mind to I’ll give
you two cents for three of them, for I begin to feel a little as tho’ I
would like to take a bite.”
“Well,” says he, “I wouldn’t sell ’em to anybody else so, but seeing
it’s you, I don’t care if you take ’em.”
I knew he lied, for he never seen me before in his life. Well, he handed
down the biscuits, and I took ’em, and walked round the store a while,
to see what else he had to sell. At last, says I:
“Mister, have you got any good cider?”
Says he “Yes, as good as ever ye see.”
“Well,” says I, “what do you ax a glass for it?”
“Two cents,” says he.
“Well,” says I, “seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Ain’t
you a mind to take these ere biscuits again and give me a glass of
cider?” and says he:
“I don’t care if I do.”
So he took and laid ’em on the shelf again, and poured out a glass of
cider. I took the cider and drinkt it down, and to tell the truth, it
was capital good cider. Then says I:
“I guess it’s time for me to be a-going,” and I stept along towards the
door; but says he:
“Stop, Mister, I believe you haven’t paid me for the cider.”
“Not paid you for the cider!” says I; “what do you mean by that? didn’t
the biscuits that I give you just come to the cider?”
“Oh, ah, right!” says he.
So I started to go again, and says he:
“But stop, Mister, you didn’t pay me for the biscuit.”
“What?” says I, “do you mean to impose upon me? do you think I am going
to pay you for the biscuits and let you keep them too? Ain’t they there
now on your shelf? What more do you want? I guess, Sir, you don’t
whittle me in that way.”
So I turned about and marched off, and left the feller staring and
scratching his head as tho’ he was struck with a dunderment.
Howsomever, I didn’t want to cheat him, only jest to show ’em it wan’t
so easy a matter to pull my eye-teeth out; so I called in next day, and
paid him two cents. Well, I stayed at Aunt Sally’s a week or two, and I
went about town every day to see what chance I could find to trade off
my axe-handles, or hire out, or find some way or other to begin to seek
my fortune.
And I must confess the editor of the “Courier” was about right in
calling Portland a pretty good thriving sort of a place; everybody
seemed to be as busy as so many bees, and the masts of the vessels stuck
up round the wharves as thick as pine-trees in Uncle Joshua’s pasture,
and the stores and the shops were so thick, it seemed as if there was no
end to them. In short, altho’ I have been round the world considerable,
from that time to this, all the way from Madawaska to Washington, I’ve
never seen any place yet, that I think has any business to grin at
Portland.
-----
[8] By Zeba Smith.
VIII.
BILLY WARRICK’S COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER I.
WARRICK IN DISTRESS.
Piney Bottom, in Old North State,
Jinuary this 4, 1844.
Mr. Porter,
Sir:—Bein’ in grate distrest, I didn’t know what to do, till one of the
lawyers councilled me to tell you all about it, and git your apinion.
You see I are a bin sparkin’ over to one of our nabors a cortin’ of Miss
Barbry Bass, nigh upon these six munse. So t’other nite I puts on my
stork that cum up so high that I look’d like our Kurnel paradin of the
milertary on Gin’ral Muster, tryin’ to look over old Snap’s years—he
holds sich a high hed when he knows that he’s got on his holdsturs and
pistuls and his trowsen and sich like, for he’s a mity proud hoss. I had
on a linun shurt koller starched stif that cum up monstrus high rite
under my years, so that ev’ry time I turn’d my hed it nigh saw’d off my
years, and they are so sore that I had to put on some Gray’s intment,
which draw’d so hard, that if I hadn’t wash’d it in sope-suds I _do_
bleve it would a draw’d out my branes. I put on my new briches that is
new fashon’d and opens down before, and it tuck me nigh a quarter of a
hours to butten ’em, and they had straps so tite I could hardly bend my
kneas—I had on my new wastecoat and a dicky bussam with ruffles on each
side, and my white hat. I had to be perticlar nice in spittin’ my
terbaccer juce, for my stork were so high I had to jerk back my head
like you have seed one of them Snapjack bugs. Considrin’ my wiskurs
hadn’t grow’d out long enuff, as I were conceety to think that I look’d
middlin’ _peart_, and my old nigger ’oman Venus said I look’d nice enuff
for a Bryde.
It tuck one bale of good cotting and six bushils of peese to pay for my
close. Dod drot it, it went sorter hard; but when I tho’t how putty she
_did_ look last singin’ school day,—with her eyes as blue as indiger,
and her teath white as milk, and sich long curlin’ hare hanging clear
down to her belt ribbun, and sich butiful rosy chaeks, and lips as red
as a cock Red-burd in snow time, and how she squeased my hand when I gin
her a oringe that I gin six cents for—I didn’t grudge the price.
Mr. Porter—when I got to old Miss Basses bars, jist after nite, sich
streaks and cold fits cum over me worse than a feller with the Buck
agur, the furst time he goes to shute at a dear. My kneas got to
trimblin’, and I could hardly holler “get out” to Miss Basses son Siah’s
dog, old Troup, who didn’t know me in my new geer, and cum out like all
creashun a barkin’ amazin’. Ses I to myself, ses I, what a fool you
is—and then I thort what Squire Britt’s nigger man, Tony, who went to
town last week, told me about a taler there, who sed that jist as soon
he got thru a makin’ a sute of close for a member of assembly to go to
Rawley in, he ’spected to come out a cortin’ of Miss Barbry. This sorter
raised my dander—for he’s shockin’ likely, with black wiskurs ’cept
he’s nock-nead—with his hare all comded to one side like the Chapel
Hill boys and lawyers. Then I went in, and after howdying and shakin’
hands, and sorter squeasin’ of Barbry’s, I sot down. There was old Miss
Bass, Barbry and Siah Bass, her brother, a monstrus hand at possums—old
Kurnel Hard, a goin to cort and stopp’d short to rite old Miss Basses
will, with Squire Britt and one of the nabors to witness it all rite and
strate. This kinder shock’d me—till Kurnel Hard, a mighty perlite man,
sed, ses he:
“Mr. Warrick, you are a lookin’ oncommon smart.”
“Yes,” ses I, “Kurnel, (a sorter cuttin’ my eye at Barbry) middlin’ well
in body—but in mind—”
“Ah, I see,” ses he, (cuttin’ of my discoorse) “I understand that you
are”—(Mr. Porter, I forget the dixonary words he sed but it were that I
were in _love_). If you _could_ have seed my face and felt it burne, you
_would_ a tho’t that you had the billyous fever; and as for Barbry, now
want she red as a turkey-cock’s gills—and she gump’d up and said,
“Ma’am,” and run outer the room, tho’ nobody on yearth that I heerd on
called her; and then I heerd Polly Cox—drot her pictur!—who is hired
to weeve—a sniggrin’ at me.
Arter a while, Squire Britt and the nabor went off—and Siah he went a
coonin’ of it with his dogs, but driv old Troup back, for he’s deth on
rabbits; and old Miss Bass went out, and Kurnal Hard, arter taken a
drink outen his cheer-box, he got behin’ the door and shuck’d himself
and got into one of the beds in the fur eend of the room.
Arter a while, old Miss Bass cum back, and sot in the chimbly corner and
tuck off her shoes, and then tuck up her pipe and went to smokin’—the
way she rowl’d the smoke out was astonishin’—and ev’ry now and then she
struck her head and sorter gron’d like, what it were at I don’t know,
’cept she were bothered ’bout her consarns—or thinkin’ ’bout her will
which she had jist sined. Bimeby Barbry cum back, and sot on a cheer
clost by me. She was a workin’ of a border that looked mity fine.
Ses I, “Miss Barbry, what is that that you’re seamstring so plaguy
putty?”
Ses she, “It teent nothin’.”
Up hollered old Miss Bass:
“Why,” ses she, “Mr. Warrick, it’s a _nite-cap_, and what on the Lord’s
yearth young peple now-a-days works, and laces, and befrils nite-caps
fur, _I_ can’t tell—it beets me—bedizinin’ out their heads when
they’re gwain to bed, just as if anybody but their own peple seed ’em;
and there’s young men with wiskurs on there upper lip; it want so in my
day, but young people’s got no sense—bless the Lord! oh me—”
“Lord, mammy,” ses Barbry, “do hush.”
Ses old Miss Bass, “I shaan’t—for it’s the nat’ral truth.”
Miss Barbry then begun a talkin’ with me ’bout the fashuns, when I were
in town, but old Miss Bass broke in, and ses she:
“Yes, they tells me that the gals in town has injun-rubber things blowed
up and ties aroun’ there wastes, and makes ’em look bigger behin’ than
afore—for all the world like an ’oman was sorter in a curous way
behind.”
Thinks I, what’s comin’ next—when old Miss Bass, knockin’ the ashes
outer her pipe, gethered up her shuse and went off. Then Barbry blushed
and begun talkin’ ’bout the singin’ meetin’, and kinder teched me up
’bout bein’ fond of sparkin’ Dicey Loomis—jist to see how I’d take it.
“Well,” ses I, “she’s ’bout the likeliest gal in this settlement, and I
rekon mity nigh the smartest; they tells me she kin spin more cuts in a
day, and card her own rolls, and danse harder and longer, and sings more
songs outer the Missunary Harmony, than any gal in the country.”
You see, Mr. Porter, I tho’t I’d size her pile.
Ses she, sorter poutin’ up and jist tossin’ her head, “If them’s your
sentiments why don’t you cort her? For my part, I knows sev’ral young
ladies that’s jist as smart, and can sing as many songs, and dance as
well, and as for her bein’ the prettiest, Laws a mersy! sher—you
shouldn’t judge for me sposin’ _I_ was a man!”
I thot I’d come agin, but was sorter feard of runnin’ the thing in the
groun’. Then I drawd up my cheer a leetle closer, and were jist about to
talk to the spot, when I felt choky, and the trimbles tuck me oncommon
astonishin’.
Ses Barbry, lookin’ rite up in my face, and ’sorter quiv’rin’ in her
talk, ses she, “Mr. Warrick, goodness gracious! _what does_ ale you?”
Ses I, hardly abel to talk, “It’s that drotted three-day agur I cotch’d
last fall a clearin’ in the new grouns; I raly bleve it will kill me,
but it makes no odds, daddy and mammy is both ded, and I’m the only one
of six as is left, and nobody would kear.”
Ses she, lookin’ rite mornful, and holdin’ down her bed, “Billy, what
_does_ make you talk so? you auter know that there’s _one_ that would
kear and greve too.”
Ses I, peartin’ up, “I should like to know if it ar an ’oman; for if
it’s any gal that’s ’spectable and creddittable, I could love her like
all creashun. Barbry,” ses I, takin’ of her hand, “ain’t I many a time,
as I sot by the fire at home, all by my lone self, ain’t I considered
how if I _did_ have a good wife how I could work for her, and do all I
could for her, and make her pleasant like and happy, and do ev’rything
for her?” Well, Barbry she look’d up to me, and seem’d so mornful and
pale, and tears in her sweet eyes, and pretendin’ she didn’t know I held
her hand, that I could not help sayin’: “Barbry, if that sumbody that
keared was only _you_, I’d die for you, and be burry’d a dozen times.”
She trimbl’d, and look’d so pretty, and sed nothin’, I couldn’t help
kissin’ her; and seein’ she didn’t say “quit,” I kissed her nigh on
seven or eight times; and as old Miss Bass had gone to bed, and Kurnel
Hard was a snorin’ away, I want perticillar, and I spose I kiss’d her
too loud, for jist as I kissed her the last time, out hollered old Miss
Bass:
“My lord! Barbry, old Troup is in the milk-pan! I heard him smackin’ his
lips a lickin’ of the milk. Git out, you old varmint!—git out!”
Seein’ how the gander hopped, I jumped up, and hollered: “Git out,
Troup, you old raskel!” and opened the door to make bleve I let him out.
As for Barbry, she laffed till she was nigh a bustin’ a holdin’ in, and
run out; and I heerd Kurnel Hard’s bed a shakin’ like he had my
three-day agur. Well, I took tother bed, after havin’ to pull my
britches over my shuse, for I couldn’t unbutton my straps.
Next mornin’ I got up airly, and Siah axed me to stay to breakfast, but
I had to feed an old cow at the free pastur, and left. Jist as I got to
the bars, I meets old Miss Bass, and ses she, “Mr. Warrick, next time
you see a dog a lickin’ up milk, don’t let him do it loud enuff to wake
up ev’rybody in the house—perticerlar when there’s a stranger ’bout.”
And Barbry sent me word that she’s so shamed that she never kin look me
in the face agin, and never to come no more.
Mr. Porter, what shall I do? I feel oncommon sorry and distrest. Do
write me. I seed a letter from N. P. Willis tother day in the Nashunal
Intelligensur where he sed he had a hedake on the top of his pen; I’ve
got it at both eends, for my hands is crampped a writin’, and my hart
akes. Do write me what to do.
No more at pressence, but remane
Wm. Warrick.