WHERE THE HARD STREAK CAME FROM.
THIS was Edmund Griffin, the proprietor of seven hundred acres of
excellent land, a very large stock of cattle, and money besides—the
strongest man in town (leaving out Lion Ben, who was an exception to
everybody), now that Captain Rhines and Uncle Isaac were getting in
years. He was not remarkably tall, being barely six feet in his boots,
but of vast proportions. There was no beauty about Edmund; his hair was
coarse as rope-yarn, inclining to red, and, where it was not confined
by a cue, bristling; his waist was small in proportion to the great
breadth of his shoulders and hips, his joints large, his lips and
teeth very prominent, which gave him the appearance of coming at you.
The whole expression of his face was extremely rugged, and would have
been fierce, had it not been neutralized by the kindly expression of
a clear, mild eye. His voice, also, was rather loud and hearty than
harsh in its tones. A skein of woollen yarn was tied round him for a
belt, his breeches of dye-pot blue, and a flannel shirt that had once
been bright red, but so bleached by the sun and perspiration as not to
show any red save under the armpits and below the girdle, from a pocket
in the breast of which stuck out the end of a purse made of a sheep’s
bladder; his open collar revealed a finely-formed throat, and a breast
covered with a thick mass of curling brown hair. This great, brawny man
was possessed of remarkable mechanical genius. With those great fingers
of his he could execute the nicest jobs, and he was constantly resorted
to by the neighbors; and yet there was not a sled or cart on the
premises that had a decent tongue in it; they were all made by cutting
down a forked tree, and sticking in the fork with the bark on.
“You’re getting fat, parson—fat as a porpoise; you don’t do work
enough; you ought to have been in the woods with me this forenoon;
‘twould make the gravy run, and take some of the grease out of you.”
“What are you going to do with those poles, Edmund?”
“Make pike-poles to drive logs with, in the fall freshet.”
Parson Goodhue was much attached to Edmund Griffin, who had grown up
under him, and whom he had married when he was but twenty and his wife
nineteen, and, though now surrounded by a large family, was in the very
maturity of his strength; for he well knew that, though the outside was
as rough as the coat of the alligator, there was a noble and generous
nature within, and a kindly heart throbbed beneath that hairy bosom and
faded shirt.
For many a long year he had been seeking his good, and striving in vain
to impress him with religious ideas; but it was like lifting a wet
cannon ball; he eluded all his efforts; he could find no chink in his
armor. He was always at meeting with his family, rain or shine, and an
attentive hearer. Anything, everything he would do for Parson Goodhue,
except listen to religious conversation; _that_ he would always avoid.
He had no sympathy in that direction, nor his wife either, and the
children naturally grew up with the same ideas. Even the old father,
ninety years of age, and tottering on the verge of eternity, seemed
to have no notions beyond the present; and all his talk was about
lifting, wrestling, and the Indian fights, in which he had played a
most conspicuous part, and, though he could with difficulty get across
the room, would, every few weeks, have his rifle brought to him, and
clean and oil the lock.
“Lizzy,” shouted Mr. Griffin, in a voice that might be heard a mile.
This brought to the door a woman of a noble form, dark-brown hair,
and one of the sweetest faces the eye ever rested upon, and, though
evidently just from the cheese-tub, very neatly dressed.
“Lizzy, here’s Parson Goodhue come to stay to dinner, and a fortnight
longer, I hope.”
“So do I,” was the reply of his wife, as she welcomed the visitor.
“Let the mare go, parson; she knows the way to the barn; come, let’s go
into the house.”
“I rather think, Edmund, I had better hitch her to this stub; if she
goes to the barn alone, she will certainly be in mischief;” but as the
minister stepped forward, with the bridle in his hand, to execute his
design, Griffin caught him by the shoulders, and exclaiming, “Bless me!
where is the man going?” lifted and set him aside, as though he had
been a feather; at the same time dropping a stone upon the trencher of
a bear trap, the great jaws sprung together with a clang that caused
Parson Goodhue to jump clear from the ground in mortal fear.
“Goodness, Edmund, do you set bear-traps for your friends?”
“No, parson; I’m sorry for your fright, but you see, we caught a bear
last night, and the boys have been playing with the trap, and left it
set. If you had got into it, ‘twould have broken your leg.”
What a contrast between the outside and the inside of the house, where
Elizabeth Griffin held undisputed sway! Silver was not brighter than
the pewter on the shelves, and white as the snow flake were dressers
and the nicely-sanded floor of the best room into which the visitor
was ushered, where, seated in his arm-chair, was Joseph Griffin,
the grandfather, a vast ruin, the great bones and cords of the old
Indian-killer standing out in bold relief through the shrunken flesh.
“Father’s master hard of hearing, and his eyesight has failed him a
good deal,” said his son; “but otherways he’s just as bright as he ever
was; knows all that’s going on, and all the young folks.”
“Father,” he shouted, as they entered the room, “here’s Mr. Goodhue,
come to see you.”
“Glad to see him; give him a cheer.”
“Good morning, Mr. Griffin,” said the minister, placing his chair close
to the old gentleman; “you have been spared to a great age.”
“_Spared!_ I never spared myself. I allers took the but-end of a log,
and the bunt of a topsail. Nobody can say that Joe Griffin ever spared
himself. Young man (Mr. Goodhue was on the wrong side of sixty), when I
was of your age, I had more strength than I knew what to do with.”
“I said you had lived to a great age.”
“Yes; I’ve been here a good while. I was through the French and Indian
wars. I was at the takin’ of Quebec, in ‘59, but I was too old for this
last one.”
“I trust, sitting here alone so much as you do, and knowing that you
are living on borrowed time, that you often think on your latter end,
and endeavor to prepare for it.”
“Leetle end; leetle end of what?”
“I say, I hope you are prepared to go.”
“I don’t go anywhere; I can’t for the rheumatics, only to town meetin’,
and then they put me into Isaac Murch’s wagin; before he had that, they
hauled me on an ox sled.”
“I mean, I hope you are prepared to die, and meet your Maker.”
“O, die, is it? I never killed nobody (except in fair fight), and
nobody ever killed me. I never abused my neighbors, or the cattle, and
I think it’s everybody’s duty to live just as long as they kin. It’s
an awful thing to kill yourself; when anybody has sich thoughts, they
ought to put ‘em right out o’ their minds.”
“Do you think that is all the preparation you need?”
“I allers kept up good line fence, and give good weight and measure. I
s’pose the less we do, the less there’s charged to us.”
Mr. Goodhue now relinquished the effort in despair; as Uncle Isaac
would have said, he could find nothing to nail to. The old man had
grown up, like the beasts he hunted, without culture, and could neither
read nor write. But, although he found great difficulty in hearing, he
could talk fast enough, and however impervious to religious sentiment,
was shrewd enough in other matters.
The subject which at that period most divided the opinions and agitated
the minds of the people, was the state of affairs in France, and our
relations to that nation. That nation having dethroned their king,
and proclaimed liberty and equality, naturally expected to receive
fraternal sympathy and aid from this country, and from the people whom
they had aided in their recent struggle for liberty.
The members in Congress were divided in sentiment on the subject.
The people at large, especially the mercantile portion of the
community (who were very much embittered against England on account
of the impressment of seamen and the right of search), felt that the
movement in France was resistance to arbitrary power, a struggle for
self-government against oppression, and a mere carrying out of the
principles of our own revolution, that we owed it to the cause of
liberty, and were obligated in gratitude to aid them to the extent of
entering into an offensive and defensive alliance, and declaring war
with Great Britain. The party espousing these sentiments was large
and influential, and a strong pressure was brought to bear upon the
administration. To complicate matters still more, Genet, the French
minister, a hot-headed, overbearing man, appealed to the prejudices and
sympathies of the people, and, without the sanction or knowledge of the
government, attempted to raise men and arms, and fit out privateers to
prey on British commerce, and sell their prizes in American ports.
On the other hand, Washington, and those of cooler heads and calmer
judgment, shocked at the excesses of the French revolution, and having
no confidence in the capacity of the French people for self-government,
were as resolutely opposed to any interference. Old Mr. Griffin, in
opposition to his son and the great majority of his neighbors, was of
the latter party, and Mr. Goodhue was of the same opinion.
“What’s that rapscallion’s name, parson, that’s come over here, and is
kickin’ up sich a dust, and tryin’ to get us into a quarrel with the
old country?”
“Genet, the French minister,” replied Mr. Goodhue, rejoiced at the
introduction of a topic in respect to which their sympathies were in
unison.
“A minister goin’ about tryin’ to stir up people agin their government,
and to git up a war!”
“He’s not a minister of the gospel, but a sort of ambassador.”
“Wal, I wish my eye was as quick and my hand as steady as ‘twas
once, and I had him within range of my rifle; I’d put an eend to his
trampin’;” at the same time striking his cane violently on the floor.
Captain Rhines was here t’other day, settin’ right where you set, and
sayin’ we never should got our liberty, if’t hadn’t been for them are
French; that one good turn deserved another; and all that. I ups and
tells him, I does, says I, the French waited till they see how the cat
was goin’ to jump, and that we were like to wear the old bull-dog out,
and then comes in to bet on the winnin’ horse. I telled him the French
were well enough, but it wasn’t so much for any love to us they come;
England had took Canada, and robbed ‘em of their colonies, and now
they wanted to pay her in her own coin, and help us get clear on ‘em;
they’ll eny time send over troops to help the Irish when they undertake
to rise.”
“I think you are right in that, Mr. Griffin.”
“If we should go into war with England now, it would make an eend of
our leetle commerce; but if we go on as we’ve begun, in a few years we
shall be able to fight our own battles, no thanks to eny on ‘em.”
“I’m perfectly willing to abide by the judgment of General Washington,
Hamilton, and those who have carried us thus far. I believe Washington
was raised up and divinely appointed to carry us through the
revolutionary war, as evidently as Moses was to lead the children of
Israel to the promised land.”
“That’s the talk, parson. I don’t know enything ‘bout Moses, and them
old characters, but I know ‘bout Gineral Washington, cause I fought
under him, when he was kernel; yes, I go in for the old horse that
never balked at the steepest hill, but allus pulled, whether the load
went, or whether other horses pulled or not.”
“Yes, my old friend, the heart of the country rests safely on
Washington.”
“Then, parson, he’s a prayin’ man. Isaac Murch told me that; he said,
that winter at Valley Forge, when the soldiers were barefoot, and
suffered so much, there was an hour at noon when he couldn’t be seen;
if an express came, he wouldn’t be disturbed; it was allers thought and
said among the men, that he was at prayer. I allers thought them are
the sort of men to foller.”
“Certainly; because in following them we may hope for the aid of Him by
whom they are guided.”
“There’s a great many in this place, parson, if you allow that there’s
any good thing in an Englishman, cry out, ‘Tory’!”
“That’s too much the case, I know.”
“I don’t want to swaller an Englishman whole. I know they press our
seamen, and are overbearin’; but, then, they press their own likewise,
take a man from his own doorstep; but ‘tain’t the people, it’s the
government, does that. They say this new man that’s come up—What’s his
name?”
“Bonaparte.”
“That he’s goin’ to lick the English into shoe-strings.”
“Then he’ll do what has not been done for the last two hundred years.”
“I tell you it ain’t in ‘em, parson; it’ ain’t in the men that live on
frogs and soup to lick the men that eat beef and pork, I don’t care
who they’re led by. When I was payin’ for my place, I follered the
sea a good deal. I have been in English ports and French ports; fought
side by side with Englishmen, and aginst Frenchmen; and I don’t care
who knows it, I like an Englishman better’n a Frenchman eny day. When
it’s good weather at sea, and everything goin’ well, an Englishman is
a grouty chap; he’ll growl at the wind, the ship, the grub, and the
usage; but let there come a gale of wind, a raal tryin’ time, the lee
riggin’ hangin’ in bights, men three or four hours on a yard tryin’ to
smother a sail, or the ship sprung a leak and like to go down, I tell
you, John Bull is there. The harder it blows, the blacker it looks,
and the tougher it comes, the higher his spirit rises; then they’re a
Protestant people, and that’s a thing goes a good ways with me.”
Our readers may suspect that the old gentleman was not so obtuse in
relation to religious matters as he appeared; an idea of this kind
seemed to cross the mind of Mr. Goodhue, for he instantly attempted to
introduce a religious conversation; but the old man shrunk from it as
speedily as a turtle draws his head into the shell when apprehensive of
danger.
When Edmund Griffin returned to the kitchen, he said, “Come, wife,
ain’t you going to do something? There ain’t a speck of fire on the
hearth.”
“What of that? I’ve got baked beans, brown bread, pies, and an Indian
pudding in the oven, and I must put this cheese in press.”
“_Baked beans!_ I want to kill some chickens, make a smother, and give
the old gentleman a good tuck out.”
“Well, then, make me up a fire; the boys are all in the field.”
He brought in a great log, and threw it on the hearth; then, bringing
in a huge armful of wood, the moment he was inside the door, let drive
right into the middle of the room, at the same time kicking the door to
with his feet. Proceeding to put on the log, instead of using the great
kitchen shovel to rake forward the ashes from the back, he put in his
foot, and, after scraping out a hole, flung on the log with such force
that the coals and ashes flew all over the room.
“Edmund, what a splutter you do make! Do go and get the chickens. I had
rather make two fires than clean up after you.”
Taking the mare’s bridle on his arm, he put her in the barn; returning
with the bridle in one hand, and a dish of corn in the other, he threw
it among the fowls; as they were busily eating, he brought down the
bridle on the flock with such force as to prostrate half a dozen, and
picking them up, cut off their heads, and soon transferred them to the
kitchen table.
“Why, Edmund,” cried his wife, looking them over, “what a careless
creature you are! Half of these are old hens; and, as sure as I live,
you’ve killed Winthrop’s setting hen. She was just ready to hatch. He
will cry his eyes out. I do wish I’d gone myself; the chickens are all
lost, and we shall have to throw the hen away. She’s all skin and bone.”
“Never mind, wife; the boy can set another. Have you got everything you
want now?”
“No. I want you to wash yourself, and put on a clean shirt and clothes.
They’re on the bed.”
“What’s the use, wife? I’m well enough.”
“I tell you, you shan’t come to dinner looking so!” she exclaimed,
pushing him into the bedroom, and pulling the skein of yarn from his
waist.
With a groan he obeyed, and, making him sit down on the edge of the
bed, she combed out his cue, and tied it up with a black ribbon,
instead of the eel-skin.
Mr. Goodhue, who had a large family of his own, was very fond of
children, and it was a curious sight to see Winthrop Griffin tugging
the stately old minister by the hand, to see his fowl and playthings,
his tame crow, and the woodchuck he had caught. The good man also
sincerely sympathized with him respecting the loss of his hen and
expected brood of chickens.
Mrs. Griffin would have persuaded the minister to lie down after
dinner; but as the boys were going to work in the field, he wished to
read the Scriptures and have prayers before they went away, it being
his constant custom. The parents and children all listened with the
greatest respect and attention, but all attempts to engage the seniors
in conversation of a religious nature were useless.
After the evening meal, when Parson Goodhue prepared to depart,
Dapple, true to her instincts, was found in a chamber over the stable
where Griffin kept grain. She had gone up a flight of stairs, but all
attempts to induce her to go down by the same were unavailing.
“Look here, parson,” said Edmund; “let me knock her on the head, and
take her for wolf bait—there’s a bounty on wolves,—and I’ll give you
my roan colt, that’s worth a dozen of her.”
But Mr. Goodhue entreated for the life of his beast. Griffin, then
putting a great pile of hay on the stable floor beneath, took up the
boards of the floor above, and forced her to jump down.
“What a strange family,” said the good man to himself as he returned,
his saddle-bags stuffed to their utmost extent. “I would be content
with less respect and kindness shown to myself if they would only
manifest some respect for my Master. How sad to see that old man
so thoughtless! Well, the children are different. Joe is a good
man,—there is certainly encouragement there,—and Walter takes after
his mother; if she was anywhere else, she would be different.”
In the course of the autumn, Dapple ended her eventful life; in trying
to get over a fence with the fetters on, she got cast, and beat herself
to death, thus dying as she had lived. Two days after, the parson, on
going to his barn to feed his cattle, found a noble-looking roan horse
in Dapple’s stall, a present from Edmund Griffin.
In this slight glance at the Griffins, we have seen where the hard
streak came from. That old grandfather’s was gradually diluted as it
mingled with other and more kindly blood, till in Walter rudeness had
become attempered to firmness, and nothing more.