mill then was jist a-smoulderin' to ashes--fer it was as dry as tinder
and burnt like a flash--and jist as a party was a-talkin' o' organizin'
and follerin' Carter, we heerd a yell 'at I'll never fergit ef I'd live
tell another flood. Old Ezry, it was, as white as a corpse, and with
the blood a-streamin' out of a gash in his forred, and his clothes half
on, come a-rushin' into the crowd and a-hollerin' fire and murder ever'
jump. "My house is a-burnin', and my folks is all a-bein' murdered
whilse you're a-standin' here! And Bills done it! Bills done it!" he
hollered, as he headed the crowd and started back fer home. "Bills done
it! I caught him at it; and he would a-murdered me in cold blood ef it
hadn't a-be'n fer his woman. He knocked me down, and had me tied to a
bed-post in the kitchen afore I come to. And his woman cut me loose and
told me to run fer he'p; and says I, 'Where's Bills?' and she says,
'He's after _me_ by this time.' And jist then we heerd Bills holler,
and we looked, and he was a-standin' out in the clearin' in front o'
the house, with little Annie in his arms; and he hollered wouldn't she
like to kiss the baby good-bye. And she hollered My God! fer me to save
little Annie, and fainted clean dead away. And I heerd the roof
a-crackin', and grabbed her up and packed her out jist in time. And
when I looked up, Bills hollered out agin, and says, 'Ezry,' he says,
'you kin begin to kindo' git an idee o' what a good feller I am! And ef
you hadn't a-caught me you'd a-never a-knowed it, and "_Brother
Williams_" wouldn't a-be'n called away to another app'intment like he
is.' And says he, 'Now, ef you foller me I'll finish you shore!--You're
safe _now_ fer I hain't got time to waste on you furder.' And jist then
his woman kindo' come to her senses ag'in and hollered fer little
Annie, and the child heerd her and helt out its little arms to go to
her, and hollered 'Mother! Mother!' And Bills says, 'Dam yer mother! ef
it hadn't a-be'n fer _her_ I' a-be'n all right. And dam you, too!' he
says to me.--'This'll pay you fer that lick you struck me; and fer you
a-startin' reports, when I first come, 'at more'n likely I'd done
somepin' mean over East and come out West to reform! And I wonder ef I
_didn't_ do somepin' mean afore I come here?' he went on; 'kill
somebody er somepin'? And I wonder ef I ain't reformed enough to go
back? Good-bye, Annie!' he hollered; 'and you needn't fret about yer
baby, I'll be the same indulgent father to it I've allus be'n!' And the
baby was a-cryin' and a-reachin' out its little arms to'rds its mother,
when Bills he turned and struck off in the dark to'rds the river."
This was about the tale 'at Ezry told us, as nigh as I can rickollect:
and by the time he finished, I never want to see jist sich another
crowd o' men as was a-swarmin' there. Ain't it awful when sich a crowd
gits together? I tell you it makes my flesh creep to think about it!
As Bills had gone in the direction of the river, we wasn't long in
makin' our minds up 'at he'd haf to cross it, and ef he done _that_
he'd haf to use the boat 'at was down below the mill, er wade it at the
ford, a mil'd er more down. So we divided in three sections, like--one
to go and look after the folks at the house, and another to the boat,
and another to the ford. And Steve and me and Ezry was in the crowd 'at
struck fer the boat: and we made time a-gittin' there! It was awful
dark, and the sky was a-cloudin' up, like a storm; but we wasn't long
a-gittin' to the p'int where the boat was allus tied; but they wasn't
no boat there! Steve kindo' tuk the lead, and we all talked in
whispers. And Steve said to kindo' lay low and maybe we could hear
somepin'; and some feller said he thought he heerd somepin'
strange-like, but the wind was kindo' raisin' and kep' up sich a
moanin' through the trees along the bank 'at we couldn't make out
nothin'. "Listen!" says Steve, suddent-like, "_I_ hear somepin'!" We
was all still ag'in--and we all heerd a moanin' 'at was sadder'n the
wind--sounded mournfuller to _me_,--'cause I knowed it in a minute, and
I whispered, "Little Annie." And 'way out acrost the river we could
hear the little thing a-sobbin', and we all was still's death; and we
heerd a voice we knowed was Bills's say, "Dam ye! Keep still, or I'll
drownd ye!" And the wind kindo' moaned ag'in, and we could hear the
trees a-screetchin' together in the dark, and the leaves a-rustlin';
and when it kindo' lulled ag'in, we heerd Bills make a kindo' splash
with the oars; and jist then Steve whispered fer to lay low and be
ready--he was a-goin' to riconn'itre; and he took his coat and shoes
off, and slid over the bank and down into the worter as slik as a' eel.
Then ever'thing was still ag'in, 'cept the moanin' o' the child, which
kep' a-gittin' louder and louder; and then a voice whispered to us,
"He's a-comin' back; the crowd below has sent scouts up, and they're on
t'other side. Now watch clos't, and he's our meat." We could hear
Bills, by the moanin' o' the baby, a-comin' nearder and nearder, tel
suddently he made a sorto' miss-lick with the oar, I reckon, and must
a-splashed the baby, fer she set up a loud cryin'; and jist then old
Ezry, who was a-leanin' over the bank, kindo' lost his grip, some way
o' nother, and fell kersplash in the worter like a' old chunk. "Hello?"
says Bills, through the dark, "you're there, too, air ye?" as old Ezry
splashed up the bank ag'in. And "Cuss you!" he says then, to the
baby--"ef it hadn't be'n fer _your_ infernal squawkin' I'd a-be'n all
right; but you've brought the whole neighberhood out, and, dam you,
I'll jist let you swim out to 'em!" And we heerd a splash, then a kindo
gurglin', and then Steve's voice a-hollerin', "Close in on him, boys;
I've got the baby!" And about a dozent of us bobbed off the bank like
so many bull-frogs, and I'll tell you the worter b'iled! We could jist
make out the shape o' the boat, and Bills a-standin' with a' oar drawed
back to smash the first head 'at come in range. It was a mean place to
git at him. We knowed he was despert, and fer a minute we kindo' helt
back. Fifteen foot o' worter's a mighty onhandy place to git hit over
the head in! And Bills says, "You hain't afeard, I rickon--twenty men
ag'in one!" "You'd better give yourse'f up!" hollered Ezry from the
shore. "No, Brother Sturgiss," says Bills, "I can't say 'at I'm at all
anxious 'bout bein' borned ag'in, jist yit awhile," he says; "I see you
kindo' 'pear to go in fer baptism; guess you'd better go home and git
some dry clothes on; and, speakin' o' home, you'd ort 'o be there by
all means--your house might catch afire and burn up whilse you're
gone!" And jist then the boat give a suddent shove under him--some
feller'd div under and tilted it--and fer a minute it throwed him off
his guard, and the boys closed in. Still he had the advantage, bein' in
the boat: and as fast as a feller would climb in he'd git a whack o'
the oar, tell finally they got to pilin' in a little too fast fer him
to manage, and he hollered then at we'd have to come to the bottom ef
we got him, and with that he div out o' the end o' the boat, and we
lost sight of him; and I'll be blame ef he didn't give us the slip
after all!
Wellsir, we watched fer him, and some o' the boys swum on down stream,
expectin' he'd raise, but couldn't find hide ner hair of him; so we
left the boat a-driftin' off down stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin'
he'd jist drownded hisse'f a-purpose. But they was more su'prise
waitin' fer us yit,--fer lo-and-behold-ye, when we got ashore they
wasn't no trace o' Steve er the baby to be found. Ezry said he seed
Steve when he fetched little Annie ashore, and she was all right, on'y
she was purt-nigh past cryin'; and he said Steve had lapped his coat
around her and give her to him to take charge of, and he got so excited
over the fight he laid her down betwixt a couple o' logs and kindo'
fergot about her tel the thing was over, and he went to look fer her,
and she was gone. Couldn't a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered off
her-own-se'f; and it couldn't a-be'n 'at _Steve_'d take her, 'thout
a-lettin' us know it. It was a mighty aggervatin' conclusion to come
to, but we had to do it, and that was, _Bills_ must a-got ashore
unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardly
probable, yit it was a thing 'at _might_ be; and after a-talkin' it
over we had to admit 'at _that_ must a-be'n the way of it. But where
was _Steve_? W'y, we argied, he'd diskivvered she was gone, and had
putt out on track of her 'thout losin' time to stop and explain the
thing. The next question was, what did Bills want with her ag'in?--He'd
tried to drownd her onc't. We could ast questions enough, but c'rect
answers was mighty skearce, and we jist concluded 'at the best thing to
do was to putt out fer the ford, fer that was the nighdest place Bills
could cross 'thout a boat, and ef it _was_ him tuk the child, he was
still on our side o' the river, o' course. So we struck out fer the
ford, a-leavin' a couple o' men to search _up_ the river. A drizzlin'
sorto' rain had set in by this time, and with that and the darkness and
the moanin' of the wind, it made 'bout as lonesome a prospect as a
feller ever wants to go through ag'in.
It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the morning by the time we
reached the ford, but you couldn't hardly see two rods afore you fer
the mist and the fog 'at had settled along the river. We looked fer
tracks, but couldn't make out nothin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched me
and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist
'bout half-way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter--couldn't
make out what--perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and told
him I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" says he;
"sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" And, shore enough, it
was the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we first got
on the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well, ef
that's _Bills_," says I--"and I reckon they hain't no doubt but it
is--what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the feller a-standin'
there fer!" And a-creepin' clos'ter, we could make him out plainer and
plainer. It _was_ him; and there he stood breast-high in the worter,
a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a-lookin' up stream, and
a-waitin.'
"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' fer?"
And, a-strainin' my eyes in the direction _he_ was a-lookin', I seed
somepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out the
old boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing was
plain enough: He was waitin' fer the boat, and ef he got _that_ he'd
have the same advantage on us he had afore.
"Boys," says I, "he mustn't git that boat ag'in! Foller me, and don't
let him git to the shore alive!" And in we plunged. He seed us, but he
never budged, on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it
out at arms-len'th. "Stop, there!" he hollered.--"Stop jist where ye
air! Move another inch and I'll drownd this dam young-un afore yer
eyes!" he says.--And he'd a-done it. "Boys," says I, "he's got us.
Don't move! This thing'll have to rest with a higher power'n our'n! Ef
any of you kin _pray_," says I, "now's a good time to do it!"
Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills grabbed it and retch 'round and
set the baby in it, never a-takin' his eye off o' us, though, fer a
minute. "Now," says he, with a sorto' snarlin' laugh, "I've on'y got a
little while to stay with you, and I want to say a few words afore I
go. I want to tell you fellers, in the first place, 'at you've be'n
_fooled_ in me: I _hain't_ a good feller--now, honest! And ef you're a
little the worse fer findin' it out so late in the day, you hain't none
the worse fer losin' me so soon--fer I'm a-goin' away now, and any
interference with my arrangements'll on'y give you more trouble; so
it's better all around to let me go peaceable and jist while I'm in the
notion. I expect it'll be a disapp'intment to some o' you that my name
hain't 'Williams,' but it hain't. And maybe you won't think nigh as
much o' me when I tell you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt the name
o' 'Williams' onc't to keep from bein' strung up to a lamp-post, but
sich is the facts. I was so extremely unfortunit onc't as to kill a
p'tickler friend o' mine, and he forgive me with his dyin' breath, and
told me to run whilse I could, and be a better man. But he'd spotted me
with a' ugly mark 'at made it kindo' onhandy _to_ git away, but I did
at last; and jist as I was a-gittin' reformed-like, you fellers had to
kick in the traces, and I've made up my mind to hunt out a more moraler
community, where they don't make sich a fuss about trifles. And havin'
nothin' more to say, on'y to send _Annie_ word 'at I'll still be a
father to her young-un here, I'll bid you all good-bye." And with that
he turned and clum in the boat--or ruther _fell_ in,--fer somepin'
black-like had riz up in it, with a' awful lick--my--God!--And, a
minute later, boat and baggage was a-gratin' on the shore, and a crowd
come thrashin' 'crost from t'other side to jine us,--and 'peared like
wasn't a _second_ longer tel a feller was a-swingin' by his neck to the
limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean off the ground and his legs
a-jerkin' up and down like a limber-jack's.
And Steve it was a-layin' in the boat, and he'd rid a mil'd er more
'thout knowin' of it. Bills had struck and stunt him as he clum in
whilse the rumpus was a-goin' on, and he'd on'y come to in time to
hear Bills's farewell address to us there at the ford.
Steve tuk charge o' little Annie ag'in, and ef she'd a-be'n his own
child he wouldn't a-went on more over her than he did; and said nobody
but her mother would git her out o' his hands ag'in. And he was as good
as his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after that, when
he _did_ give her to her mother--all lapped up in his coat and as
drippin' wet as a little drownded angel--it would a-made you wish't you
was him to see that little woman a-caperin' round him, and a-thankin'
him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', and almost a-huggin' him, she was so
tickled,--well, I thought in my soul she'd die! And Steve blushed like
a girl to see her a-takin' on, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin', and
a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when she inquired 'bout
Bills, which she did all suddent-like, with a burst o' tears, we jist
didn't have the heart to tell her--on'y we said he'd crossed the river
and got away. And he had!
And now comes a part o' this thing 'at'll more'n like tax you to
believe it: Williams and her wasn't man and wife--and you needn't look
su'prised, nuther, and I'll tell you fer why:--They was own brother and
sister; and that brings me to _her_ part of the story, which you'll haf
to admit beats anything 'at you ever read about in books.
* * * * *
Her and Williams--that _wasn't_ his name, like he acknowledged,
hisse'f, you rickollect--ner _she_ didn't want to tell his right name;
and we forgive her fer that. Her and "Williams" was own brother and
sister, and their parunts lived in Ohio some'ers. Their mother had be'n
dead five year' and better--grieved to death over her onnachurl
brother's recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up in
some way, in tryin' to shield him from the law. And the secret of her
bein' with him was this: She had married a man o' the name of Curtis or
Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly--but no matter; she'd married a
well-to-do young feller 'at her brother helt a' old grudge ag'in, she
never knowed what; and, sence her marriage, her brother had went on
from bad to worse, tel finally her father jist give him up and told him
to go it his own way--he'd killed his _mother_ and ruined _him_, and
he'd jist give up all hopes! But Annie--you know how a sister is--she
still clung to him and done ever'thing fer him, tel finally, one night,
about three years after she was married, she got word some way that he
was in trouble ag'in, and sent her husband to he'p him; and a half hour
after he'd gone, her brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told
her to git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got in a
quarrel with a friend o' his and was bad hurt. And she went with him,
of course, and he tuk her in a buggy, and lit out with her as tight as
he could go all night; and then told her 'at _he_ was the feller 'at
had quarrelled with her husband, and the officers was after him, and he
was obleeged to leave the country, and fer fear he hadn't made shore
work o' him, he was a-takin' her along to make shore of his gittin' his
revenge; and he swore he'd kill her and the baby too ef she dared to
whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships he'd made his way
at last to our section o' the country, givin' out 'at they was man and
wife, and keepin' her from denyin' of it by threats, and promises of
the time a-comin' when he'd send her home to her man ag'in in case he
hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-cried to hear her tell
it, and still see her sister's love fer the feller a-breakin' out by
a-declarin' how kind he was to her _at times_, and how he wasn't railly
bad at heart, on'y fer his ungov'nable temper. But I couldn't he'p but
notice, when she was a-tellin' of her hist'ry, what a quiet sorto' look
o' satisfaction settled on the face o' Steve and the rest of 'em, don't
you understand.
And now they was on'y one thing she wanted to ast, she said; and that
was,--could she still make her home with us tel she could git word to
her friends?--and there she broke down ag'in, not knowin', of course,
whether _they_ was dead er alive; fer time and time ag'in she said
somepin' told her she'd never see her husband ag'in on this airth; and
then the women-folks would cry with her and console her, and the boys
would speak hopeful--all but Steve; some way o' nother Steve was never
like hisse'f from that time on.
And so things went fer a month and better. Ever'thing had quieted down,
and Ezry and a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, was
a-workin' on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and
we was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole neighberhood
inte_rest_ed--and they _was_, too--women-folks and ever'body. And that
day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner to fetch
down to us from the house; and along about noon a spruce-lookin' young
feller, with a pale face and a black beard, like, come a-ridin' by and
hitched his hoss, and comin' into the crowd, said "Howdy,"
pleasant-like, and we all stopped work as he went on to say 'at he was
on the track of a feller o' the name o' "Williams," and wanted to know
ef we could give him any infermation 'bout sich a man. Told him
maybe,--'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared kindo' myster'ous
from our neighberhood 'bout five weeks afore that. "My God!" says he
a-turnin' paler'n ever, "am I too late? Where did he go, and was his
sister and her baby with him?" Jist then I ketched sight o' the
women-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jug
o' worter in her hand; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and says I,
"I guess 'his sister and her baby' wasn't along," says I, "but his
_wife_ and _baby's_ some'eres here in the neighberhood yit." And then
a-watchin' him clos't, I says suddent, a-p'intin' over his shoulder,
"There his woman is now--that one with the jug, there." Well, Annie had
jist stooped to lift up one o' the little girls, when the feller
turned, and their eyes met. "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie she
kindo' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down in his arms;
and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a
somerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back and
hollered "Good--good--good--good--good!" like as ef it knowed what was
up and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of us.
DIALECT IN LITERATURE
DIALECT IN LITERATURE
"_And the common people heard him gladly._"
Of what shall be said herein of dialect, let it be understood the term
dialect referred to is of that general breadth of meaning given it
to-day, namely, any speech or vernacular outside the prescribed form of
good English in its present state. The present state of the English is,
of course, not any one of its prior states. So first let it be remarked
that it is highly probable that what may have been the best of English
once may now by some be counted as a weak, inconsequent _patois_, or
dialect.
To be direct, it is the object of this article to show that dialect is
not a thing to be despised in any event--that its origin is oftentimes
of as royal caste as that of any speech. Listening back, from the
standpoint of to-day, even to the divine singing of that old classic
master to whom England's late laureate refers as
"... the first warbler, whose sweet breath
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still";
or to whom Longfellow alludes, in his matchless sonnet, as
"... the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song";--
Chaucer's verse to us is _now_ as veritably dialect as to that old time
it _was_ the chastest English; and even then his materials were
essentially dialect when his song was at best pitch. Again, our present
dialect, of most plebeian ancestry, may none the less prove worthy.
Mark the recognition of its own personal merit in the great new
dictionary, where what was, in our own remembrance, the most outlandish
dialect, is now good, sound, official English.
* * * * *
Since Literature must embrace all naturally existing
materials--physical, mental, and spiritual--we have no occasion to urge
its acceptance of so-called dialect, for dialect _is_ in Literature,
and _has_ been there since the beginning of all written thought and
utterance. Strictly speaking, as well as paradoxically, all verbal
expression is more or less dialectic, however grammatical. While usage
establishes grammar, it no less establishes so-called dialect.
Therefore we may as rightfully refer to "so-called grammar."
It is not really a question of Literature's position toward dialect
that we are called upon to consider, but rather how much of
Literature's valuable time shall be taken up by this dialectic country
cousin. This question Literature her gracious self most amiably answers
by hugging to her breast voluminous tomes, from Chaucer on to Dickens,
from Dickens on to Joel Chandler Harris. And this affectionate spirit
on the part of Literature, in the main, we all most feelingly indorse.
Briefly summed, it would appear that dialect means something more than
mere rude form of speech and action--that it must, in some righteous
and substantial way, convey to us a positive force of soul, truth,
dignity, beauty, grace, purity and sweetness that may even touch us to
the tenderness of tears. Yes, dialect as certainly does all this as
that speech and act refined may do it, and for the same reason: it is
simply, purely natural and human.
Yet the Lettered and the Unlettered powers are at swords' points; and
very old and bitter foemen, too, they are. As fairly as we can, then,
let us look over the field of these contending forces and note their
diverse positions: First, _the Lettered_--they who have the full
advantages of refined education, training, and association--are
undoubtedly as wholly out of order among _the Unlettered_ as the
Unlettered are out of order in the exalted presence of the Lettered.
Each faction may in like aversion ignore or snub the other; but a
long-suffering Providence must bear with the society of both. There may
be one vague virtue demonstrated by this feud: each division will be
found unwaveringly loyal to its kind, and mutually they desire no
interchange of sympathy whatever.--Neither element will accept from the
other any _patronizing_ treatment; and, perhaps, the more especially
does the _Unlettered_ faction reject anything in vaguest likeness of
this spirit. Of the two divisions, in graphic summary,--_one_ knows
the very core and centre of refined civilization, and this only; the
_other_ knows the outlying wilds and suburbs of civilization, and this
only. Whose, therefore, is the greater knowledge, and whose the just
right of any whit of self-glorification?