MORE OF THE VILLAGE OF TWIN MOUNDS.
In Twin Mounds the citizens spent their idle time in religious
discussions, and although I lived there a great many years I do not
remember that any of the questions in dispute were ever settled. They
never discussed politics with any animation, and read but little, except
in the Bible to find points to dispute; but of religion they never
tired, and many of them could quote the sacred word by the page. No two
of them ever exactly agreed in their ideas, for men who thought alike on
baptism violently quarrelled when the resurrection was mentioned, and
two of them who engaged a hell-redemptionist one night would in all
probability fail to agree themselves the next, on the atonement. The
merchants neglected their customers, when they had them, to discuss
points in the Bible which I used to think were not of the slightest
consequence, and in many instances the men who argued the most were
those who chased deer with hounds on Sunday, and ran horse races, for
they did not seem to discuss the subject so much on account of its
importance as because of its fitness as a topic to quarrel about.
There was always a number of famous discussions going on, as between the
lawyer and the storekeeper, or the blacksmith and the druggist, or the
doctor and the carpenter, and whenever I saw a crowd gathering hurriedly
in the evening I knew that two of the disputants had got together again
to renew their old difficulty, which they kept up until a late hour, in
the presence of half the town.
There was a certain man who kept a drug store, who was always in nervous
excitement from something a fat blacksmith had said to him in their
discussions, and who had a habit of coming in on him suddenly in the
middle of the day; and whenever I went into the place of business of
either one of them I heard them telling those present how they had
triumphed the night before, or intended to triumph on a future occasion.
Some of the greatest oaths I have ever heard were uttered by these men
while discussing religion, and frequently the little and nervous
drug-store keeper had to be forcibly prevented from jumping at his burly
opponent and striking him. The drug store was not far away from the
office where I worked, and whenever loud and boisterous talking was
heard in that direction a smile went round, for we knew the blacksmith
had suddenly come upon his enemy, and attacked him with something he had
thought up while at his work. I never knew exactly what the trouble
between them was, though I heard enough of it; but I remember that it
had some reference to a literal resurrection, and a new body; and I
often thought it queer that each one was able to take the Bible and
establish his position so clearly. Whenever I heard the blacksmith talk
I was sure that the druggist was wrong, but when the druggist called
upon the blacksmith to stop right there, and began his argument, I
became convinced that, after all, there were two sides to the question.
These two men, as well as most of the others, were members of a church
known then as the Campbellite, for I do not remember that there was an
infidel or unbeliever in the place. There were a great many backsliders,
but none of them ever questioned religion itself, though they could
never agree on doctrine. It has occurred to me since that if one of them
had thought to dispute the inspiration of the Bible, and argued about
that, the people would have been entirely happy, for the old discussions
in time became very tiresome.
The people regarded religion as a struggle between the Campbellite
church and the Devil, and a sensation was developed one evening when my
father remarked to the druggist, in the presence of the usual crowd--he
happened to be in the place on an errand, as he never engaged in the
amusement of the town--that sprinkling answered every purpose of
baptism. The druggist became very much excited immediately and prepared
for a discussion, but my father only laughed at him and walked away. The
next Sunday, however, he preached a sermon on the subject in the
court-house, and attacked the town’s religion with so much vigor that
the excitement was very intense.
Most of the citizens of Twin Mounds came from the surrounding country,
and a favorite way of increasing the population was to elect the county
officers from the country, but after their terms expired a new set moved
in, for it was thought they became so corrupt by a two years’ residence
that they could not be trusted to a re-election. The town increased in
size a little in this manner, for none of these men ever went back to
their farms again, though they speedily lost standing after they retired
from their positions. Many others who left their farms to move to the
town said in excuse that the school advantages were better, and seemed
very anxious for a time that their children should be educated, but once
they were established in Twin Mounds they abused the school a great
deal, and said it was not satisfactory, and allowed their children to
remain away if they were so inclined.
There was the usual number of merchants, professional men, mechanics,
etc., who got along well enough, but I never knew how at least one half
the inhabitants lived. Some of them owned teams, and farmed in the
immediate vicinity; others “hauled,” and others did whatever offered,
but they were all poor, and were constantly changing from one house to
another. These men usually had great families of boys, who grew up in
the same indifferent fashion, and drifted off in time nobody knew where,
coming back occasionally, after a long absence, well-dressed, and with
money to rattle in their pockets. But none of them ever came back who
had business of sufficient importance elsewhere to call them away again,
for they usually remained until their good clothes wore out, the
delusion of their respectability was broken, and they became town
loafers again, or engaged in the hard pursuits of their fathers. The
only resident of Twin Mounds who ever distinguished himself ran away
with a circus and never came back, for although he was never heard of it
was generally believed that he must have become famous in some way to
induce him to forego the pleasure of returning home in good clothes, and
swaggering up and down the street to allow the people to shake his hand.
This class of men never paid their debts, and to get credit for an
amount was equal to earning it, to their way of thinking, and a new
merchant who came in did a great business until he found them out. I
have said they never paid; they did sometimes, but if they paid a dollar
on account they bought three or four times that amount to go on the
books.
They always seemed to me to be boys yet, surprised at being their own
masters, and only worked when they had to, as boys do. They engaged in
boys’ amusements, too for most of them owned packs of dogs, and
short-distance racehorses, and it was one of their greatest
accomplishments to drive a quarter-horse to a wood-wagon to some
out-of-the-way neighborhood, match it against a farmer’s horse
threatened with speed, and come back with all the money owned in that
direction. I suppose they came West to grow up with the country, like
the rest of us, but they were idle where they came from, and did not
improve in the West, because work was necessary, whereupon the thought
no doubt occurred to them that they could have grown rich in that way
anywhere.
A few of them were away most of the time--I never knew where, but so far
away that they seldom came home--and their families supported themselves
as best they could, but were always expecting the husbands and fathers
to return and take them away to homes of luxury. Occasionally news came
that they were killed by Indians, and occasionally this was contradicted
by the certainty that they were locked up for disreputable transactions,
or hanged. Whenever a Twin Mounds man died away from home otherwise than
honorably, it was always said that he had been killed by the Indians.
All of this, and much more, I learned during the first three years of my
residence there, which were generally uneventful and without incident,
save that on rare occasions I was permitted to visit Jo and Agnes at
Fairview, who made so much of me that I dreaded to come away. I had long
since displaced Adams, and Jo was out of his time at the mill, and for
more than a year had been receiving wages enabling him to save
considerable money, which he invested in his enterprise at the Ford with
a steadfastness for which I, his best friend, did not give him credit.
He was engaged now to be married to Mateel Shepherd, and he worked and
studied to make himself worthy of her. Barker had been known to confess
that Jo was the better miller of the two--I believe he really was--and
when he came to town he spent more of his time in examining the
machinery in the mills on the river than in visiting me, and it was
plain that the old-fashioned establishment on Bull River would not
satisfy him when he began the building of his own.
Dad Erring’s hands had improved somewhat during the three years, and the
great piles of framed timbers lying at the ford now were his work, but
Jo had paid him from his earnings as much as he would take. These were
hauled from the woods, where they were fashioned by Jo himself on odd
occasions, with ox teams and low wagons, assisted by the cheap labor
which abounded in winter.
While the creek was low, he had laid a broad foundation for his dam,
with stones so large that a great many men were necessary to handle
them, which were sunk into the creek, and the succeeding layers fastened
to them by a process he had invented. I think he worked there a little
every week during the three years, assisted by young men he hired for
almost nothing, and there was system and order in everything he did.
Occasionally it happened that the water at Barker’s was too high or too
low to run the mill, when he worked on his own enterprise from daylight
until dark, living at his father’s house. Barker often gave him the half
of one day, and all of the next, when trade was dull, and these
opportunities he improved to the very best advantage; every time I went
to Fairview I visited the mill, and it was always growing.
Jo made a good deal of money every month by running extra time, which
opportunity Barker delighted to give him, and often after he had worked
all night or all day he would commence again and work half of his
employer’s time, studying his books when everything was running
smoothly.
His ambition had become noised about, and partly because a mill was
needed in that part of the country, and partly because the people had
lately grown to admire Jo, they proposed to raise him a certain sum of
money to be returned at any time within five years after the mill should
commence running. My recollection is that the amount was three or four
hundred dollars, and I have always believed that Damon Barker paid Lytle
Biggs out of his own pocket to solicit subscriptions to the fund, for he
seemed to have something to do with it.
During this time I had mastered the mystery of the boxes so well that I
wondered how it was possible I had puzzled my brain over them, they
seemed so simple and easy, and if I improved the time well, I am sure it
was due to the kindly encouragement and help of Martin, who was not only
a very clever printer, but an intelligent man besides. It had always
been a part of his work, I believe, to write the few local items of the
town, and he taught me to help him; making me do it my way first, and
then, after he had explained the errors, I wrote them all over again. If
I employed a bad sentence, or an inappropriate word, he explained his
objections at length, and I am certain that had I been less dull I
should have become a much better writer than I am, for he was very
competent to teach me.
My father, as an editor, was earnest and vigorous, and the subjects of
which he wrote required columns for expression, so that his page of the
paper was always full. I spent a quite recent rainy holiday in a dusty
attic looking over an old file of the “Union of States” when he was its
editor, and was surprised at the ability he displayed. The simple and
honest manner in which he discussed the questions of the day became very
popular, for he always advocated that which was right, and there was
always more presswork to do every week, which he seemed to regard as an
imposition on Martin, who had formerly had that hard part of the work to
perform, and on the plea of needing exercise he early began to run the
press himself, and in the history of the business at that time no man
was known who could equal him in the rapid and steady manner in which he
went about it.
Soon after my introduction into the office I had learned to ink the
forms so acceptably with a hand roller that I was forced to keep at it,
for a suitable successor could not be found, but at last we found a
young man who had a passion for art (it was none other than my old
enemy, Shorty Wilkinson; I fought him regularly every week during the
first year of my residence in town, but we finally agreed to become
friends), and after that Martin and I spent a portion of the two press
days of the week in adorning our page with paragraphs of local
happenings; or rather in rambling through the town hunting for them.
Sometimes we invented startling things at night, and spent the time
given us in wandering through the woods like idle boys, bathing and
fishing in the streams in summer, and visiting the sugar-camps in early
spring, where we heard many tales of adventure which afterwards appeared
in print under great headings.
By reason of the fact that it was conducted by a careful and industrious
man, and the great number of law advertisements which came in from that
and two of the adjoining counties, the “Union of States” made a good
deal of money, and certainly it was improved under my father’s
proprietorship. Before it came into his possession it was conducted by a
man who had ideas, but not talents, beyond a country newspaper, who
regarded it as a poor field in which to expect either reputation or
money; but my father made it as readable as he could, and worked every
day and night at something designed to improve it. The result was that
its circulation rapidly extended, and the business was very profitable.
His disposition had not changed with his residence, except that he
turned me over entirely to Martin, and a room had been fitted up in the
building where the paper was printed for our joint occupancy, where we
spent our evenings as we saw fit, but always to some purpose, for the
confidence reposed in Martin was deserved.
From my mother, who was more lonely than ever in the stone house in
which we lived, I learned occasionally that the Rev. John Westlock still
read and thought far into every night. Into the room in which he slept
was brought every evening the dining-table, and sitting before this,
spread out to its full size, he read, wrote, or thought until he went to
bed, which was always at a late hour.
It occurred to me once or twice, in an indifferent sort of way, that a
man who had no greater affairs than a country printing office, and a
large amount of wild land constantly increasing in value, had reason to
think so much as he did, but I never suspected what his trouble was
until it was revealed to me, as I shall presently relate.
When I rambled through the town at night, and passed that way, if I
looked in at his window, which was on the ground floor, he was oftener
thinking than reading or writing, leaning back in his chair, with a
scowl on his face which frightened me. Whether the procession of
forbidden pictures was still passing before him, and the figures
accompanying them were still beckoning, will never be known until the
Great Book of Men’s Actions, said to be kept in Heaven, is opened, and I
hope that those who are permitted to look at the writing under the head
of John Westlock will be able to read, through the mercy of God:
“Tempted and tried; but forgiven.”
Almost every Saturday afternoon he drove away into the country without
explanation, and did not return until Sunday night or early Monday
morning. Where he went we never knew, but we supposed he had gone to
preach in some of the country churches or school-houses, for persons who
came into the office through the week spoke in a way which led us to
believe that such was the case, although he was not often at Fairview,
Jo told me, but he heard of him frequently in the adjoining
neighborhoods.
During the latter part of the second year of our residence in Twin
Mounds, my father came home one Monday morning in an unusually bad
humor, and though he went away occasionally after that, it was usually
late in the evening, and I came to understand somehow that he did not
preach any more, the result of some sort of a misunderstanding. Even had
I been anxious to know the particulars, there was no one to inform me,
as no one seemed to know, and in a little while I ceased to think about
it entirely, for he at once gave me more to do by teaching me the
details of the business. The men who came to the office to see him after
that annoyed him, and made him more irritable, therefore he taught me
the routine of his affairs, that I might relieve him of them. We all
usually worked together, but after this he took whatever he had to do
into the room where Martin had his bed, and when the people came in I
was expected to attend to them. From my going into the bedroom to ask
him questions about his land business, which I did not so well
understand, it came to be believed that he was failing in health, and
his old friends frequently expressed the hope that he would soon be
better. If I had trouble in settling with any one, he came out
impatiently, and acted as if he would like to pitch the man into the
street, for his affairs were always straight and honest, and there was
no occasion for trouble. Frequently he would propose to work in my place
if I would go out in town, and solicit business, and when there were
bills to collect, I was put about it, so that for weeks at a time he did
not see any one, and trusted almost everything to me.
When my father was away, I was expected to stay at home, and I could not
help noticing that my mother was growing paler and weaker, and that the
old trouble of which she had spoken to Jo was no better. The house in
which we lived was built of square blocks of stone, and the walls were
so thick, and the windows so small, that I used to think of her as a
prisoner shut up in it. The upper part was not used, except when I went
there to sleep, and it was such a dismal and lonely place that I was
often awakened in the night with bad dreams, but I always had company,
for I found her sleeping on a pallet by the side of my bed, as though
she was glad to be near me. I never heard her come, or go away, but if I
awoke in the night I was sure to find her by my side.
“There is a great change in you, Ned,” she said to me one evening when I
had gone to stay with her, “since coming to town.”
I replied that I was glad to hear her say so, as I was very ignorant
when I went into the office to work.
“The rest of us are unchanged,” she said. “We are no happier here than
in Fairview; just the same, I think.”
It was the only reference she had ever made to the subject to me, and I
did not press it, for I feared she would break down and confess the
sorrow which filled her life. A great many times afterwards I could have
led her up to talk about it, fully and freely, I think, but I dreaded to
hear from her own lips how unhappy she really was. Had I those days to
live over--how often are those words said and written, as though there
is a consciousness with every man of having been unwise as well as
unhappy in his youth--I would pursue a different course, but it never
occurred to me then that I could be of more use to her than I was, or
that I could in any way lessen her sorrow. She never regretted that I no
longer slept in the house, nor that I was growing as cold toward her as
my father, which must have been the case, so I never knew that she cared
much about it. Indeed, I interpreted her unhappiness as indifference
toward me, and it had been that way since I could remember. Had she put
her arms around me, and asked me to love her because no one else did, I
am sure I should have been devoted to her, but her quietness convinced
me that she was so troubled in other ways that there was no time to
think of me, and while I believe I was always kind and thoughtful of
her, I fear I was never affectionate.