no considerashun fer our feelin's, an I don' see wy we sh'd be so durn
tender o' theirn. I shouldn't be naow, arter they'd treated a brother o'
mine ez they hev Reub. But ye be cap'n, Perez, an it shel be ez ye say.
The boys kin try ther fiddles on Squire Edwards instid.”
“No. Not there, Abner,” said Perez, quickly.
“Wy not, I sh'd like ter know. His wife ain't sick, be she?”
“No, that is I don't know,” said Perez, his face flushing a little with
the difficulty of at once thinking of any plausible reason. “You
see,” he finally found words to say, “the store is so near Squire
Woodbridge's, that the noise might disturb Madam Woodbridge.”
“She muss hev dum sharp ears, ef she kin hear much at that distance,”
observed Abner, “but it shell be as ye say, Cap'n. I s'pose ye've nothin
agin our givin Sheriff Seymour a little mewsick.”
“As much as you please, Abner.”
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH
A PRAISE MEETING
As a fever awakes to virulent activity the germs of disease in the body,
so revolution in the political system develops the latent elements of
anarchy. It is a test of the condition of the system. The same political
shock which throws an ill-constituted and unsound government into a
condition of chaos, is felt in a politically vigorous and healthful
commonwealth, as only a slight disturbance of the ordinary functions.
The promptness with which the village of Stockbridge relapsed into its
ordinary mode of life after the revolt and revolution of Tuesday, was
striking testimony to the soundness and vitality which a democratic form
of government and a popular sense of responsibility impart to a body
politic. On Tuesday the armed uprising of the people had taken place;
on Wednesday there was considerable effervescence of spirits, though
no violence; on Thursday there was still a number of loutish fellows
loafing about the streets, wearing, however, an appearance of being
disappointed that there was no more excitement, and no prospect of
anything special turning up. Friday and Saturday, apparently disgusted
at finding rebellion such a failure in elements of recreation, these had
gone back to their farm-work and chores, and the village had returned to
its normal quiet without even any more serenades to the silk stockings,
to enliven the evenings.
A foreigner, who had chanced to be passing through Southern Berkshire
at this time, would have deemed an informant practicing on his credulity
who should have assured him that everywhere throughout these quiet
and industrious communities, the entire governmental machinery was
prostrate, that not a local magistrate undertook to sit, not a constable
ventured to attempt an arrest, not a sheriff dared to serve a process or
make an execution, or a tax-collector distrain for taxes. And yet
such was the sober truth, for Stockbridge was in no respect peculiarly
situated, and in many of the towns around, especially in Sheffield,
Egremont, Great Barrington, and Sandisfield, an even larger proportion
of the people were open sympathizers with the rebellion than in the
former village.
In these modern days, restaurants, barrooms, and saloons, and similar
places of resort, are chiefly thronged on Saturday evening, when the
labors of the week being ended, the worker, in whatever field, finds
himself at once in need of convivial relaxation, and disposed thereto
by the exhilaration of a prospective holiday. Necessarily, however,
Saturday evening could not be thus celebrated in a community which
regarded it in the light of holy time, and, accordingly in Stockbridge,
as elsewhere in New England at that day, Friday and Sunday evenings
were by way of eminence the convivial occasions of the week. One of the
consequences of this arrangement was that a “blue Saturday” as well as
the modern “blue Monday,” found place in the workingman's calendar. But
the voice of the temperance lecturer was not yet heard in the land, and
headaches were still looked upon as Providential mysteries.
The Friday following the “goings on at Barrington,” the tavern was
filled by about the same crowd which had been present the Friday evening
preceding, and of whose conversation on that occasion, some account was
given. But the temper of the gathering a week before had been gloomy,
foreboding, hopeless and well-nigh desperate; to-night, it was jubilant.
“It's the Lord's doin's, an marvellous in our eyes, an that's all I
kin say about it,” declared Israel Goodrich, his rosy face beaming with
benevolent satisfaction, beneath its crown of white hair. “Jess think
whar we wuz a week ago, an whar we be naow. By gosh who'd a thought it?
If one on ye had a tole me las' Friday night, what was a comin raound
inside of a week, I should a said he wuz stark starin mad.”
“We mout a knowed somethin wuz a gonter happin,” said Abner. “It's
allers darkest jess afore dawn, an 'twas dark nuff tew cut las' Friday.”
“I declar for't,” said Peleg Bidwell, “seem's though I never did feel
quite so down-hearted like ez I did las' Friday night, wen we wuz a
talkin it over. I'd hed a bad day on't. Sol Gleason'd been a sassin of
me, an I dassn't say a word, fer fear he'd send me to jail, fer owin
him, an wen I got home She wuz a cryin, fer Gleason'd been thar, an I
dunno what he'd said tew her, and then Klector Williams he told me
he'd hev tew sell the furnicher fer taxes, an by gosh, takin the hull
together seemed 's though thar warn't no place fer a poor man in this
ere world, and I didn' keer ef I lived much longer or not. An naow!
Wal thay ain't no use o' tellin ye what ye know. I seen Gleason on the
street yisday, an he looked like a whipped cur. He hed his tail atween
his legs, I tell yew. I reckon he thort I wuz gonter lick him. It wuz
'Good mornin, Peleg,' ez sweet's sugar, an he didn't hev nothing tew say
baout what I wuz a owin him, no; nor he didn't ass me nothin baout wy I
hedn't been tew work fer him sence Tewsday.”
After the haw-haw over Peleg's description had subsided, he added, with
a grin,
“Klector Williams he hain't thort tew call baout them taxes, sence
Tewsday, nuther. Hev any on ye seen nothin on him?”
“He hain't skurcely been outer his haouse,” said Obadiah Weeks. “I on'y
see him onct. It was arter dark, an he wuz a slippin over't the store
arter his tod.”
“I guess it muss be considabul like a funeral over't the store, nights,”
observed Abner, grinning. “Gosh I sh'd like ter peek in an see em a
talkin on it over. Wal, turn about's fair play. They don' feel no wuss
nor we did.”
“Won't thar be no more klectin taxes?” inquired Laban Jones.
“I guess thar won't be much more klectin roun' here 'nless the klector
hez a couple o' rigiments o' melishy tew help him dew it,” replied
Abner.
“I dunno, baout that,” said Ezra Phelps. “Thar's more'n one way ter skin
a cat.”
“Thar ain't no way o' skinnin this ere cat 'cept with bagonets,” said
Abner, decidedly, and a general murmur expressed the opinion that so far
as the present company was concerned government would have to practice
some preliminary phlebotomy on their persons before they would submit
to any further bleeding of their purses by the tax-collector. Nothing
pleased Ezra more than to get placed thus argumentatively at bay, with
the entire company against him, and then discomfit them all at a stroke.
The general expression of dissent with which his previous remark was
received, seemed actually to please him. He stood looking at Abner for a
moment, without speaking, a complacent smile just curving his lips,
and the sparkle of the intellectual combatant in his eye. To persons of
Ezra's disputatious and speculative temper, such moments, in which they
gloat over their victim as he stands within the very jaws of the logic
trap which they are about to spring, are no doubt, the most delightful
of life.
“Don't yew be in sech a hurry, Abner,” he finally ejaculated. “Would ye
mind payin yer taxes ef govment giv ye the money ter pay em with?”
“No. In course I wouldn't.”
“Ezzackly. Course ye wouldn't. Ye'd be dum unreas'nable ef ye did. Wal,
naow I callate that air's jess what govment's gonter dew, ez soon ez it
gits the news from Northampton and Barrington. It's gonter print a
stack o' bills, an git em inter cirk'lashun, an then we'll all on us
hev suthin tew pay fer taxes, an not mind it a bit; yis, an pay all the
debts that's a owin, tew.”
“I hain't no objeckshun ter that,” admitted Abner, frankly.
“Of course ye hain't,” said Ezra. “Nobody hain't. Ye see ye spoke tew
quick, Abner. All the kentry wants is bills, a hull slew on em, lots
on em, an then the courts kin go on, an debts an taxes kin be paid,
an everything'll be all right. I ain't one o' them ez goes agin' payin
debts an taxes. I says let em be paid, ev'ry shillin, on'y let govment
print nuff bills fer folks tew pay em with.”
“I callate a couple o' wagon loads o' new bills would pay orf
ev'ry morgidge, an mos' o' the debts, in Berkshire,” said Israel,
reflectively.
“Sartinly, sartinly,” exclaimed Ezra. “That would be plenty. It don'
cost nothin tew print em, an they'd pacify this ere caounty a dum sight
quicker nor no two rigiments, nor no ten, nuther.”
“That air's what I believe in,” said Israel, beamingly, “peaceable ways
o' settlin the trouble; bills instid o' bagonets. The beauty on't so fer
is that thar hain't been no sheddin o' blood, nor no vi'lence tew speak
of, ceppin a leetle shovin daown tew Barrington, an I hope thar won't
be.”
“I don't know about that,” said Paul Hubbard. “Not that I want to see
any killing, but there are some silk stockings in this here town that
would look mighty well sticking through the stocks, an there are some
white skins that ought to know how a whip feels, jist so the men that
own em might see how the medicine tastes they've been giving us so many
years.”
There was a general murmur indicating approval of this sentiment, and
several “that's sos” were heard, but Israel said, as he patted Hubbard
paternally on the back:
“Let bygones be bygones, Paul. Them things be all over naow, an I
callate thar won't be no more busin of poor folks. The lyin an the
lamb be a gonter lie down together arter this, 'cordin tew scripter. I
declar, it seems jiss like the good ole times 'long from '74 to '80,
wen thar warn't no courts in Berkshire. Wen I wuz a tellin ye baout them
times 'tother night, I swow I didn't callate ye'd ever have a chance to
see em fer yerselves, leastways, not till ye got ter Heavin, an I guess
that's a slim chance with most on ye. Jess think on't, boys. Thar ain't
been nary sheriff's sale, nor a man tuk ter jail this hull week.”
“Iry Seymour wuz a gonter sell aout Elnathan Hamlin this week, but
somehow he hain't got tew it,” said Abner, dryly. “I callate he heard
some news from Barrington baout Tuesday.”
“Iry mout's well give up his comishin ez depity sheriff an try ter git
inter some honest trade,” remarked Israel.
“Whar does Squire Woodbridge keep hisself these days? I hain't seen him
skurcely this week,” said Ezra Phelps.
“Yew don' genally see much of a rooster the week arter another rooster's
gin him a darnation lickin on his own dung hill, an that's wat's the
matter with Squire,” replied Abner. Shifting his quid of tobacco to the
other side of the mouth and expectorating across half the room into the
chimney place he continued, reflectively:
“By gosh, I don' blame him, nuther. It muss come kinder tough fer a
feller ez hez lorded it over Stockbridge fer nigh twenty year tew git
put daown afore the hull village the way Perez put him daown Tuesday. Ef
I wuz Squire, I shouldn't never wan ter show myself agin roun' here.”
“I be kinder sorry fer him,” said Israel Goodrich. “I declar for't if I
ain't. It muss be kinder tough tew git took daown so, specially fer sech
a dreffle proud man.”
“I hain't sot eyes on him on'y once sence Tewsday,” said Peleg. “He
looked right straight through me 'z ef he didn' see nothin. He didn'
seem ter notice nobody ez he went along the street.”
“By gosh, he'd notice ye quick nuff ef he could put ye in the stocks,”
observed Abner, grimly. “I tell yew he ain't furgut one on us that
went daown ter Barrington, nor one on us ez wuz a serenadin him t'other
night. Yew jess let Squire git his grip onto this ere taown agin ez he
uster hev it an the constable an the whippin post won't hev no rest till
he's paid orf his grudge agin' every one on us. An ef yew dunno that,
yew dunno Squire Woodbridge.”
The silence which followed indicated that the hearers did know the
Squire well enough to appreciate the force of Abner's remarks, and
that the contingencies which they suggested were inducive of serious
reflections. It was Jabez Flint, the Tory, who effected a diversion by
observing dryly,
“Yes, ef Squire gits his grip agin, some on us will git darnation sore
backs, but he's lost it, an he ain't a gonter git it agin ez long ez we
fellers keeps ourn. On'y 'twont dew ter hev no foolin, tain't no child's
play we're at.”
“I know one thing dum well” said Obadiah Weeks, “and that is I wouldn'
like tew be in Cap'n Hamlin's shoes ef Squire sh'd git top agin.
Jehosaphat, though, wouldn' he jess go fer the Cap'n. I guess he'd give
him ten lashes ev'ry day fer a month an make him set in the stocks with
pepper 'n salt rubbed in his back 'tween times, an then hev him hung ter
wind up with, an he wouldn' be half sassified then.”
“Warn't that the gol-darndest though, baout that Edwards gal agoin tew
ass Perez to git the mewsic stopped? By gosh, I can't git over that,”
exclaimed Peleg, grinning from ear to ear. “I was a lyin awake las'
night and I got ter thinkin bout it, an I begun snickering so's She
waked up, and She says, 'Peleg,' seshee 'what in time be yew a snickerin
at?' and I says I wuz a snickerin tew think o' that air stuck up leetle
gal o' Squire Edwards daown on her knees tew Perez, a cryin an a assin
him ef he wouldn' please hev the racket stopped. Yew sed she wuz ontew
her knees, didn't yew, Obadiah?”
“Tell us all about it Obadiah, we wanter hear it agin,” was the general
demand.
“Ye see the way on't wuz this,” said Obadiah, nothing loath. “She come
in all a cryin an scairt like, and Perez he wuz thar an so wuz the res'
o' the family, an the fuss thing she does, she gits down on the floor
intew the sand with a new silk gown she hed on, and asses Perez to hev
the hoss-fiddles stopped. An he said t'er fuss, as haow he wouldn't,
said 'twas good nuff fur the silk stockings, and he pinted ter Reub an
says for her tew see what they'd done ter his family. But she cried
an tuck on, an says ez haow she wouldn't git up 'nless he'd stop the
hoss-fiddles, an so he hed tew give in, an that's all I knows about it.”
“Ye see Obadiah knows all baout it,” said Abner. “He keeps kumpny with
the Fennell gal, as is tew the Hamlins. He got it straight's a string,
didn't ye, Obadiah?”
“Yes,” said Obadiah, “it's all jess so. Thar ain't no mistake.”
No incident of the insurrection had taken such hold on the popular
imagination as the appeal of Desire Edwards to Perez for protection.
It was immensely flattering to the vanity of the mob, as typifying the
state of terror to which the aristocrats had been reduced, and all the
louts in town felt an inch the taller, by reason of it, and walked with
an additional swagger. The demand for the details of the scene between
Perez and Desire was insatiable and Obadiah was called on twenty times
a day to relate to gaping, grinning audiences just how she looked, what
she did, and said, and what Perez said. The fact that Obadiah's positive
information on the subject was limited to a few words that Prudence had
dropped, made it necessary for him to depend largely on his imagination
to satisfy the demands of his auditors, which accounts for the slight
discrepancy between the actual facts as known to the reader and the
popular version. After everybody had haw hawed and cracked his joke over
Obadiah's last repetition of the anecdote, Peleg observed:
“I dunno's az a feller kin blame Perez fer givin intew her. The gal's
derned hansum, though she be mos' too black complected.”
“She ain't none tew black, not to my thinkin,” said Widow Bingham,
looking up from her knitting as she sat behind the bar,--the widow
herself was a buxom brunette--“but I never did see anybuddy kerry ther
nose quite so high in all my born days. She don't pay no more 'tension
to common folks 'n if they wuz dirt under her feet.”
“Whar's Meshech Little, ter night?” inquired Israel Goodrich, not so
much interested as the younger men in the points of young women.
“He's been drunk all day,” said Obadiah, who always knew everything that
was going on.
“Whar'd he git the money?” asked some one.
“Meshech don' need no money tew git drunk,” said Abner. “He's got a
thirst ontew him as'll draw liquor aout a cask a rod orf, an the bung
in, jess like the clouds draws water on a hot day. He don' need no
money, Meshech don' tew git soaked.”
“He hed some, he hed a shillin howsumever,” said Obadiah. “Deacon Nash
give it tew him fer pitchin rowen.”
“I hain't been so tickled in ten year,” said Israel, “ez I wuz wen
Deacon come roun tidday a offerin a shillin lawful tew the fellers tew
git in his rowen fer him. It must hev been like pullin teeth fer Deacon
tew pay aout cash fer work seein ez he's made his debtors dew all his
farmin fer him this five year, but he hed tew come tew 't, fer his rowen
wuz a spilin, an nary one o' his debtors would lif a finger 'thout bein
paid for 't.”
“That air shillin o' Meshech's is the fuss money o' his'n I've seen
fer flip in more'n a year,” said Widow Bingham, “an thar be them, not a
thousan mile from here, nuther, ez I could say the same on, more shame
to em, for't, an I a lone widder.”
The line of remark adopted by the widow, appeared to exert a depressing
influence on the spirits of the company, and this, together with the
information volunteered by Obadiah, that it was “arter nine,” presently
caused a general break-up.
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH
PEREZ GOES TO MEETING
The very next day, as Squire Edwards and his family were sitting down to
dinner, the eldest son Jonathan, a fine young fellow of sixteen, came in
late with a blacked eye and torn clothes.
“My son,” said Squire Edwards, sternly, “why do you come to the table in
such a condition? What have you been doing?”
“I've been fighting Obadiah Weeks, sir, and I whipped him, too.”
“And I shall whip you, sir, and soundly,” said his father, with the
Jove-like frown of the eighteenth century parent. “What have I told you
about fighting? Go to your room, and wait for me there. You will have no
dinner.”
The boy turned on his heel without a word, and went out and up to his
room. In the course of the afternoon, Squire Edwards was as good as his
word. When he had come downstairs, after the discharge of his parental
responsibilities, and gone into the store, Desire slipped up to
Jonathan's room with a substantial luncheon under her apron. He was her
favorite brother, and it was her habit thus surreptitiously to
temper justice with mercy on occasions like the present. The lively
satisfaction with which the youth hailed her appearance, gave ground to
the suspicion that an empty stomach had been causing him more discomfort
than a reproving conscience. As Desire was arranging the viands on the
table she expressed a hope that the paternal correction had not been
more painful than usual. The boy began to grin.
“Don't you fret about father's lickins,” he said, “I'd just as lieve
he'd lick me all day if he'll give me a couple o' minutes to get ready
in. How many pair o' trowsers do you s'pose I've got on?”
“One, of course.”
“Four,” replied Jonathan, laying one forefinger by the side of his nose
and winking at his sister. “I was sort of sorry for father, he got so
tuckered trying to make me cry. Jimmeny, though, that veal pie looks
good. I should hated to have lost that. You was real good to fetch it
up.
“T'was only fair, though, this time,” he continued, with his mouth full,
“for t'was on 'count o' you I got to fightin.”
“What do you mean?” said she.
“Why, Obadiah's been tellin the biggest set o' lies about you I ever
heard of. He's been tellin em all over town. He said you went over to
Elnathan Hamlin's, Wednesday, and got down on your knees to that Cap'n
Hamlin, so's to get him not to have no more o' those horse-fiddles in
front of Uncle's and our houses. You better believe I walloped him well,
if he is bigger than me.”
Jonathan, busy with eating, had not observed his sister's face during
this recital, but now he said, glancing up:
“What on earth do you s'pose put such a lie into his head?”
“It isn't all a lie, Jonathan.”
The boy laid down his knife and fork, and stared at her aghast.
“You don't mean you was over there?” he exclaimed.
Desire's face was crimson to the roots of her hair. She bowed her head.
“Wh-a-a-t!” said Jonathan, in a tone of utter disgust, tempered only by
a remnant of incredulity.
“I didn't go on my knees to him,” said Desire faintly.
“Oh, you didn't, didn't you? I believe you did,” said the boy slowly,
with an accent of ineffable scorn, rising to his feet and drawing away
from his sister, as she seemed about to approach him.
Before the lad of sixteen, his elder sister, who had carried him in her
arms as a baby, and been his teacher as a boy, stood like a culprit,
quite abject. Finally she said:
“I didn't do it for myself. I did it for Aunt Lucy. The doctor said it
would kill her if she was kept awake another night, and there was no
other way to stop the mob. And so I did it.”
“Was that the way?” said the boy, evidently staggered by this unexpected
plea, and seeming quite at loss what to say.
“Yes,” said Desire, rallying a little. “You might know it was. Do you
think I'd do it any other way? I couldn't see Aunty die, could I?”
“No-o, darn it. I s'pose not,” replied Jonathan slowly, as if he were
not quite sure. His face wore a puzzled expression, the problem offered
by this conflict of ethical obligations with caste sentiment being
evidently too much for his boyish intellect. Evidently he had not
inherited his grandfather's metaphysical faculty. Finally, with an air
of being entirely posed, and losing interest in the subject, he sat down
on the edge of his bed and abruptly closed the interview by observing:
“I'm going to take off some of these trowsers. They're too hot.” Desire
discreetly went out.
The only point in the observance of Sunday by the forefathers of New
England, which is still generally practiced in these degenerate
days, namely, the duty of sleeping later than usual that morning, was
transgressed in at least one Stockbridge household on the Lord's Day
following. Captain Perez Hamlin was up betimes and busy about house and
barns. Since he had returned home he had taken the responsibility of all
the chores about the place from the enfeebled shoulders of his father,
besides supplying the place of man nurse to the invalids. This morning
he had risen earlier than usual because he wanted to do up all the work
before time for meeting.
It would have been easy for any one whose eye had followed him at his
work, to see that his mind was preoccupied. Now he would walk about
briskly, with head in the air, whistling as he went, or talking to
the horse and cow, and anon bursting out laughing at his own
absent-mindedness, as he found he had given the horse the cow's food, or
put the meal into the water bucket. And again you would have certainly
thought that he was fishing for the frogs at the bottom of the well
instead of drawing water, so long did he stand leaning over the
well-curb, before he bethought himself to loose his hold on the rope and
let the ponderous well-sweep bring up the bucket.