Chapter C: O N T E N T S (3)

“Well, John,” says he, “I’ll do the handsome thing by ye. If you keep better goods than anybody else, and sell cheaper, you shall have my custom, and welcome, provided you’ll take pay in sauce and things. Isn’t that fair?”

“O, yes, Cap’m.”

“And I wish you success, on the other tack. No fear of that, I’ll warrant. There’s lots of silly girls afloat; and such a fine, taught-rigged gen’man as you are, can run one down in no time.”

“O, yes, Cap’m; I have run down Hannah already.”

“My Hannah?”

“O, yes, Cap’m; we have agreed, and only want your consent.”

With this the old Cap’m ris right up on eend, upset the tub and frying-pan, and pointed with a great red ear of corn in his hand, towards the door, without saying a word; but his eyes rolled like all creation!

This raised my blood, that I felt so stuffy, that I marched right straight off, and never turned my head to the right or left, till I was fairly home and housed.

“Well now,” says I, “my apple-cart is upset in good earnest.” And when I went to Doctor Dingley for comfort, says he, “John, I wash my hands of this whole affair, from beginning to end. I must support my character. I am a settled doctor in this town; and the character of a doctor, John, is too delicate a flower to go poking round, and dabbling into everybody’s mess. Then,” says he, “Mrs. Dingley, I warn you not to meddle nor make in this business. Let everybody skin their own eels. Hold your tongue, you fool, you. Did you ever hear of me burning my fingers?”

Howsomever, there was some under-hand work carried on somewhere, and by somebody. I don’t tell tales out of school. I had no hand in it, till one day, Dr. Dingley, says he, “John, if you happen to be wanting my horse and shay, this afternoon, about three o’clock, go and take it. I never refused to lend, you know. And I hope Captain Peabody will gain his law-suit with Deacon Carpenter, that he has gone down to Portland to see to. But that’s none of my business.”

Somebody, too—I don’t say who—there was a certain Squire Darling, living in a certain town, about ten miles off, that did business, and asked no questions. Well, in the said town, just after sundown, a young man, named Joseph Morey, was walking near the meeten-house, with a sort of cream-coloured book under his arm; and he heard something in the woods, this side, that, if it wasn’t a hurricane, he’d give up guessing. Such a cracking, and squeaking, and rattling!—such a thrashing, and grunting, and snorting!—you never! He stopped, and looked back, and all soon came to light. There was an old white-faced horse came scrabbling along out of the woods, reeling and foaming, with an old wooded top shay at his tail, and a chap about my size flourishing a small beach-pole, pretty well boomed up at the end. And, says I, “Mister, can you tell me where one Squire Darling lives?”

“Which Squire Darling?” says he; “there’s two of the name.”

“His name is John,” says I.

“Faith,” says he, “they are both Johns too; but one is a lawyer, and the other a cooper.”

“O, it must be the lawyer that I want,” says I.

With this, the young man gave a squint at Hannah, and a wink at me; and “Come along,” says he, “I am going right there now, and I’ll show you the Squire, and fix things for ye.”

“Hannah,” says I, “that’s lucky.”

Well, he carried us into a small, one-story house, a little further on, full of books and dust, and smelling of strong, old dead tobacco-smoke. Here we sat down, while he went out about our business. We waited and waited, till long after dark, and were glad enough to see him come back at last with a candle. “The Squire is very sick,” says he, “but I have over-persuaded him.” And the next minute, Squire came grunting along in, all muffled by in a great-coat, and spectacles on, and a great tall woman, as witness for the bride.

Well, he went to work, and married us, and followed up with a right down sensible sermon, about multiplying and increasing on the earth; and I never felt so solemn and serious. Then followed kissing the bride all round, the certificate; and then I gave him two silver dollars, and we got into the shay again, and off.

After this, nothing happened, to speak of, for about a month. Everything was kept snug, and Captain Peabody had no suspicion; but one morning, at break of day, as I was creeping softly down Captain Peabody’s back-stairs, with my shoes in my hand, as usual, I trod into a tub of water, standing on the third step from the bottom, and down I came, slam bang. The Captain was going to kill his hogs, and had got up betimes; put his water to heat, and was whetting his butcher-knife in the kitchen.

The first thing I saw, when I looked up, there stood Captain Peabody, with a great butcher-knife in his hand, looking down upon me like a thundercloud! I want to know if I didn’t feel streaked! He clinched me by the collar, and stood me up; and then raised his knife over me, as far as he could reach. I thought my last moment was come. Blood would have been shed, as sure as rats, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Peabody. She stepped up behind, and laid hold of his arm; and says she, “It’s no matter, Mr. Peabody; they are married.”

“Married to that puppy?” roared the Captain.

“Yes, Sir,” said I; “and here’s the certificate.”

And I pulled it out of my jacket-pocket, and gave it to him; but I didn’t stay for any more ceremony. As soon as I felt his gripe loosen a little, I slid off like an eel, and backed out-doors, and made track home, about as fast as I could leg it. I was in a constant worry and stew all the forenoon, for fear the Captain would do anything rash; and I could neither sit still, nor stand still, eat, drink, or think.

About the middle of the afternoon, Dr. Dingley came bouncing in, out of breath, and says he, “John, you have been cheated and bamboozled. Your marriage ain’t worth that. It was all a contrivance of Jack Darling, the lawyer, and his two imps, Joe Morey and Peter Scamp.” This was all he could say, till he had wiped his face, and taken a swig of cider, to recover his wind; and then he gave me all the particulars.

When Captain Peabody had read my certificate, he could not rest, but tackled up, and drove right down, to let off his fury upon his old friend, Squire Darling. The moment he got sight of the Squire, he turned to and called him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to, for half an hour.

The Squire denied everything. The Captain downed the certificate, and says he, “There’s black and white against ye, you bloody old sculpen.”

The Squire knew the hand-writing was his nephew’s, as soon as he saw it, and the truth was brought to light; but as the storm fell in one quarter, it rose from the other. Squire Darling had smelt tar in his day, and hadn’t forgot how to box the compass; and as soon as the saddle was on the right horse, he set in and gave the Captain his own back again, and let him have it about nor-nor-west, right in his teeth, till he was fairly blown out. They shook hands then, and seeing Hannah and I had got under-weigh together, they said we must go to the Vice, and no time must be lost in making all fast in the lashings, with a good, fine square knot, before a change in the weather. So the Squire slicked up a little, got into the shay, and came home with the Captain, to hold the wedding that very night.

How Dr. Dingley happened to be in town, just at the time, I don’t know. It was his luck; and as soon as he saw which way the wind was, he licked up and cantered home in a hurry. After he had got through with the particulars, says he, “Now, Mr. Beedle, it’s none of my business; but if I had such a hitch upon Captain Peabody, I would hang back like a stone dray, till he agreed to back my note for two hundred dollars, in the Portland Bank, to buy goods with, enough to set you up in the store.”

I thought strong on this idea, as I was going over to Captain Peabody’s; but the moment I show the least symptoms of packing, such a storm was raised as never was seen. Father, and mother-in-law, and Squire Darling, set up such a yell altogether; and, poor Hannah, she sat down and cried. My heart failed me, and I made haste to give in and plead sorry, as quick as possible; and somehow, in my hurry, I let out that Dr. Dingley had set me on; and so was the innocent cause of his getting a most righteous licking, the first time Captain Peabody caught him. It wasn’t settled short of thirty dollars.

Well, Squire Darling stood us up, and married us about right, and here was an end of trouble. Mother-in-law would not part with Hannah, and she made father-in-law give us a settling out in the north end of his house. He could not stomach me very well for a while, but I have managed to get on the blind side of him. I turned right in to work on his farm, as steady and industrious as a cart-horse. And I kept on pleasing him in one way and another, more and more, till he has taken such a liking to me, that he wouldn’t part with me for a cow. He owns that I save him the hire of a help—out and out—the year round.

There—now I have done. I can’t patronise the newspapers any more. I have enough to do that is more profitable about home. Betwixt hard work in the fields, and chores about house and barn, and hog pens, I can’t call a minute my own, summer nor winter. And just so sartain as my wife sees me come in and set down to take a little comfort, just so sartain is she to come right up and give me a baby to hold.

Noty Binny. The stories that are going the rounds, from mouth to mouth, about my fust marriage, are all packs of lies, invented by Joe Morey and Peter Scamp, jest to make folk laugh at my expense.

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[9] By W. J. McClintoch.

VII.
JOHNNY BEEDLE’S THANKSGIVING.[10]

“I says,” says I, “Hannah, sposin we keep thanksgivin’ to home this year,” says I, “and invite all our hull grist o’ cousins, and aunts and things—go the hull figure, and do the thing genteel.”

“Well, agreed,” says she, “it’s just what I was a thinkin’, only I consate we’d better not cackliate too fur ahead, for I didn’t never no it to miss somethin’ happenin’ so sure as I laid out for the leastest thing. Though it’s as good a time now, far’s I know, as any—for I’ve just weanen Moses, and tend to take comfort a spell, ’cause a troublesomer cryiner critter niver come into life.”

“Exactly so,” says I, “and if I’d a known everything afore I was married that I do now,” says I—

“Hold your tongue for a goney, Johnny Beedle,” says she, “and mind your thanksgivin’.”

“Poh!” says I, “Hannah, don’t be miffy; I was only jeestin’—and you jist go and put on a kittle of water, and I’ll go out and stick a pig for you; two if you like.” So away I went and murdered the pigs out o’ love and good-will to Hannah. I rather guess the critters wished I warn’t so good-natured.

Well, things went on swimmingly, and what was best of all, we had the luck to invite the minister and deacon afore anybody got a chance; for the very moment the proklimation was read, I watched for em comin’ out of meeting, and nailed ’em both. But as I was a tellin’, Hannah, she went at it—she got some of her galls to help her, and they made all smoke. In the first place she went to work reg’lar, and turned the house inside out, and then t’other side in again, all the same as darnin’ a stocking. Hannah is a smart willin’ gall, and a rael worker, and a prime cook into the bargain; let her alone in the doughnut line, and for pumpkin pies—lick! So the day afore the thanksgivin’ she called me into the t’other room, that Marm Peabody christened the parlour, to see what a lot o’ pies and cakes, and sausage-meat and doughnuts she’d got made up, and charged me not to lay the weight of my finger upon one on ’em. I telled her I guessed she cackelated to call in the whole parish, paupers and all, to eat up sich a sight of vittles; so I grabbed a handful of doughnuts, and went out to feed the hogs, and to see to things in the field. I was gone all the fore part o’ the day, and when I went home I found Hannah all hoity toity, in a livin’ pucker cryin’, and taken on to kill, and poor little Moses tottling arter her and cryin’ too. I declare if I didn’t feel streaked.

“What in the name o’ natur,” says I, “is the matter? who’s dead, and what’s to pay now?”

With that she fetched a new screech, and down she whopped into a cheer.

“Johnny Beedle, Johnny,” says she, and with that she boohood agin.

“What ails the woman?” says I, “are you possest, or what?”

“The child is ruined!” says she, “Moses Beedle is ruined.”

I kitched up the child, and turned him eend for eend, every which way, but I couldn’t see nothin’ extraordinary. I began to think that the woman was bewitched, and by this time was a good mind to feel mad. I don’t know of nothin’ that’ll raise a feller’s dander quicker than to skeer him out of his seven senses. So I giv Hannah a reg’lar breezin’, for actin’ so like a raven distracted bed bug; and what with jarrin’ a spell and coaxin’ a spell, at last I got the whole on’t out of her.

It appears that about an hour or thereabouts arter I’d gone out, there was a man rid up to the door a horseback, got down, and come in and asked for a drink o’ water or beer, I ain’t sartain which—but anyhow he was a raal dandified chap, and dreadful civel spoken withal. So my wife and he soon got into a chat about the weather and sich things. Well, while he set, the young one squalled in the room; he’d been asleep, you know, with his mornin’s nap; my wife went and fetched him into the room, and she obsarved that the man looked considerable hard at him, as if he see’d somethin’ queer; tho’ she didn’t think nothin’ of it at the time, but recollected arterwards.

She was quite tickled to see the man take him and set him on his knee; but while he was a playin’ with him—for Moses is a raal peeler, he ain’t afeered of the biggest stranger that ever was—directly he fell to pawin’ about his head in sich a comical style, and talking to himself, and withal acted so curious, that Hannah got skeery, and went to take him away, but he wouldn’t let her take him just then; he said, “he wanted to examine his head.”

“His head!” says Hannah, “nothin’ ails his head.”

“Nothin’ ails it?” says he, “why it’s the most remarkable head that I’ve ever seen.” And then he went on with sich a string of long words, there was no memberin’ or understandin’ half—then he clapped his hand on the side of the little fellow’s sconce-box, “there,” says he, “do you see that _divilupment_;” or some sich word that sounded awful.

“That’s what?” says Hannah.

“Vulgarly called a bump,” continued he.

“It ain’t a bump too, nyther,” says his mother. “It’s his nat’rul shape.”

“No doubt of that,” said the villin.

“Well now, if ever I heard the beat o’ that,” says she, “that bump’s come nat’rul.”

So he told her they was only called bumps, ’cause they looked like ’em; and the bigger they were, and the more there was on ’em, the more different sorts of capacities and idees folks had—and so on.

At first she thought the man was stark mad; but he seemed entirely harmless, and so she let him go on with his stuff, and somehow he e’en a most persuaded her it was all gospel. He said little Moses had got the bump of destruction to an all-fired degree, tho’ it was in the mother’s power to help it considerable. But when Hannah asked him if she must swathe up his head he snortered right out; and then went on to say, that Moses had jist got sich a shaped head as the man had that was hung down to Boston last September. He finally talked her into a livin’ fidgit—polite as a stage-driver, all the time too, and so larnt, besides, that Hannah couldn’t do nothin’ but paraphrase. So arter he’d drinked a quart o’ beer, and Hannah cut a mince-pie for him, he cleared, leaving Hannah in such a stew, that kept workin’ up and workin’ up till she heered me comin’ into the house, and then it all burst out to once. A tempestical time there was, I tell you.

Now, by the time Hannah had finished her lockrum, you may depend I was in an almighty passion; and it was amazin’ lucky for the feller that he was out of arm’s length that minit. But then I understood it all better than she, for I’d seen, in the prints, pieces about Franology or Cranology, or some such stuff that seemed to explain to my mind what the feller meant. But poor Hannah don’t get much time to read newspapers, so that she hadn’t hearn a word. No wonder she took the man for a crazy critter.

Yet, somehow, when I looked at Moses, I couldn’t help consatin’ that his head looked sort o’ queer, tho’ I wouldn’t say nothin’ nyther; but, says I, “Hannah, look here, that feller that’s been treatin’ you to sich a rigmarole of nonsense is a rotten fool, and you’re another. If iver I should light ’pon him, I gess I would give his head a bump that would save him from the gallows. All is, if you think anything is the matter with the young one, why I’ll go arter the docter, and that’ll settle it.”

“Do, John,” says she.

So off I starts for Doctor Eldrich; but by the time I got to the house, I begun to think what a tarnation goose I was to go on such a tomfool’s arrent. By good luck, howsomever, the doctor was out; so I jist left word for him to come to our house in the course iv the day, if he had nothin’ else to do.

Thinks I, as I trudged back, here’s an end to thanksgiving. Well, to rights, Doctor Hosannah Eldrich, he’s a deacon of our church, and sings thro’ his nose a few. I declare, when I see him ridin’ up the lane I couldn’t help feelin’ like a thunderin’ calf; so I jist made excuse to split up some kindlin’, and left Hannah to give him the chapter and the varse. Our wood-house is short of a mile from the house; but I could hear the doctor’s haw-haw clear out there. So I dropped axe, and in I went. S’niver the Doctor see me he giv’ me a hunch.

“Ain’t yew a pretty considerable queer chap,” sez he, “to send for me on such a beautiful bizness as this?” With that he haw-haw’d agin; and my wife she laughed till she cried, jist to see the figer the Doctor cut, for he’s as long as the moral law, and couldn’t stand up for laughin’.

Then I laughed tu, till the house rung; luckily our nearest neighbour lives a half a mile off, and is stone deaf into the bargain. So I tipt the wink to Hannah, and tell’d Hosannah ’twas all a joke of our’n to send for him; (for I thought I should look corner ways and skwywoniky if he should tell the company about us nixt day. Besides, I know’d the Deacon liked a joke pretty well, even if he got rubbed sometimes). So, says I, “How did Hannah carry it out?” Consarn it, if he didn’t jump right into the trap.

“Capital! capital!” said he. “Botheration, if I didn’t think she was in raal arnest!”

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[10] By W. L. McClintoch.

VIII.
AUNT NABBY’S STEWED GOOSE.

It was my Aunt Nabby’s birthday, and she was bent upon having a stewed goose, stewed in onions, and with cabbage and salt pork to match.

“Pollijah,” said she to me, “ain’t we got a goose ’bout the farm?”

“No,” said I, “we eat the old gander at Christmas, and he was the last of the patriarchs.”

Aunt Nabby went down to Sue, who was getting breakfast.

“Susanna,” said she, “the boy tells how we ain’t got a goose in creation. Now what shall we do?”

“Go without,” replied Susanna, with that amiable tone which father said had worn off her teeth to the gums.

But Aunt Nabby was bent upon a goose, and when such a stiff and straight person gets bent upon anything, you may consider the matter settled, and I saw that a goose of some kind would be had at some rate or other.

“Here, you crittur,” cried Aunt Nabby to the little black specimen of the human family which was digging potatoes in the garden, “here, I want you to go along to the neighbours, and borra a goose.” Cato laid down his hoe, got over the fence, and shovelled off on his broad pedestals to get a goose.

The first house that Cato came to was that of Sam Soap, the tailor, commonly called Soft Soap. Into the shop went the Yankeefied negro, and making a leg to Mr. Soap, who sat like a Hindoo idol, busily employed in patching an old blue coat with still older brown rags, and humming most mournfully the air of “Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,” giving it a nasal twang that came direct from Jedediah Soap, who was a member of the Long Parliament.

“Soap,” says Cato, “you haan’t got no goose, nor nothin’, haan’t ye, for Aunt Nabby?”

Soap was a literal (not literary) man, who as he called his daughter Propriety, and having but one eye, was likewise called Justice, that is by some that were classical. “Priety,” says he, “gin Cato the largest goose.”

Priety, like a good girl, went into the other room, and arter some time returned with one, well enveloped and carefully wrapped up in paper, telling Cato to be as careful as everlasting not to get it wet; and away went the web-footed mortal to deliver his charge to Susanna.

“My gracious!” said Sue, “if that are niggar ain’t brought me a tough feller to stew!”

But nevertheless, as her business was to stew the goose and ask no questions, at it she went, and pretty soon the tailor’s treasure was simmering among onions, and carrots, and cabbages, and turnips, and spices, all as nice as need be. After breakfast, Aunt Nabby had gone abroad to ask in the neighbours, and when she came home, she went of course directly into the kitchen to see how the goose came on.

“Is it tender, Susanna?” said she.

Susanna smiled so sweetly, that the old house-clock in the corner next the cupboard stopped and held up its hand. “Oh, Ma’am,” replied Susanna, “it’s so tender, that I guess it won’t be the more tender arter being biled.”

“And fat?”

“Oh, bless you! it’s so broad across the back.”

My Aunt’s mouth watered so, that she was forced to look at Susanna, to correct the agreeable impression.

Well, noon came and the neighbours began to drop in. First came the parson, who being a man of vast punctuality, took out his watch as soon as he came in, and for the purpose of seeing how it chimed, as he said, with the old clock, walked into the kitchen, bade Miss Susanna good day, hoped she continued well in body, and snuffed up the sweet flavours of the preparing sacrifice with expanded nostrils. Next to the Minister came the Squire, he opened the front door, and seeing no one but me.

“Pollijah,” he said, “when ’ill that are goose be done? ’cause I’m everlastin’ busy, settlin’ that hay-mow case, and I’d like to know—”

“Ready now, Squire,” answered the Parson, opening the kitchen-door; “and I guess it’s an uncommon fine one too, so walk in and let’s have a chat.”

The Squire entered, and he and the Minister had a considerable spell of conversation about the hay-mow case. The case was this: Abijah Biggs got leave to carry his hay across Widow Stokes’s field to the road; well, this hay-mow had dropped off the poles, and Widow Stokes claimed it as a waif and stray.

“Now,” says the Squire, “I conceit the chief pint in the case is this here; has Widow Stokes a right to this hay? Now this ’ill depend, ye see, ’pon t’other point, to wit, _videlicet_, does the hay belong to Bijah? Now the Widow says, says she, ‘every man in this country’s free, and therefore every man in this country is a king, jist as far as his farm goes. Now the king, all allow, has a right to waifs and strays; and so,’ says Widow Stokes, ‘that are hay is mine.’ ‘But,’ says Bijah—and by jinks, it’s a cute argument; ‘but,’ says he, ‘tho’ every man in this land of liberty is a free man, yet that doesn’t prove that every woman is, and _per contra_, we know that women don’t vote, and of course ain’t free; so,’ says he, ‘the Widow Stokes ain’t a king; so,’ says he, ‘the hay ain’t hern.’ But’s a puzzlin’ case, ain’t it?”

“Well, now,” answered the minister, “it strikes me that hay ain’t astray.”

“Well,” said the Squire, “there’s a pint I never thinked of.”

Just then in came the Deacon, and after him the sexton, and so on till pretty much all the aristocratic democracy of the village had assembled. And then in bustled Aunt Nabby, awful fine I tell you; and then Susanna and Cato began to bring in dinner. And while they were doing that, the company all took a stiff glass of grog by way of appetite, and then stroked down their faces and looked at the table, and there was a pig roast and stuffed, and a line of veal, and two old hens, and an everlastin’ sight of all kinds of sarce, and pies, and puddins, and doughnuts, and cider, and above all, at the head of the table, the dish in which lay the hero of the day—that are goose, smothered in onions, and utterly hid beneath the load of carrots and cabbages. The seat next the goose was assigned to the Minister, and all sat down.

The Squire flourished his fork, and pounced upon the pig; the Deacon he tackeled to at the veal, while the sexton went seriously to work to exhume a piece of pork from amid an avalanche of beans. The Minister, with a spoon, gently stirred away a few carrots and onions, in hopes of thus coming at the goose.

“It smells remarkably fine,” says he, to Aunt Nabby.

“It’s particularly fine and tender,” says she; “I picked it myself from a whole heap.”

And still the Minister poked, till at last his spoon grated upon a hard surface.

“A skewer, I guess!” and plunging his fork into the onion mass, he struggled to raise the iron handle with which he had joined issue.

“Bless me!” cried Aunt Nabby, “what’s that are?”

“I should judge,” said the Squire, “that are was an old goose.”

“Gracious me!” exclaimed the Deacon.

Still the Minister struggled, and still the goose resisted. Aunt Nabby grew nervous, and the more the Minister struggled, the more the goose would not come. I saw my Aunt’s eye dilating, her hand moved ugly, and then pounce, just when the Minister thought he had conquered the enemy, my Aunt drove the round steel through the onions into the eye of the skewer as she thought, and dragging forth the tailor’s goose, held it at arm’s length before the company. The Squire had just raised the pig upon his fork, when seeing my Aunt’s discovery, he dropped it and the dish was knocked all to smash. The sexton had drawn his beans to the edge of the table, another pull as he saw the goose, and over it went. My Aunt dropped the cause of all this evil, and there went another plate. The company dined elsewhere, and the next Sunday the Minister declined preachin’, on account of a domestic misfortin. My Aunt Nabby died soon arter, and the sexton buried her, observing as he did so, that she departed, the poor critter, in consequence of an iron goose, and broken crockery!

IX.
DECLINE AND FALL OF THE CITY OF DOGTOWN.

Dogtown is a beautiful place, in the interior of this State. There is plenty of land around it, so that nothing can hinder it from growing in every direction, and thus becoming a great city. In fact, Dogtown has already a one-story church, part of a school-house, and an elegant pound. Nobody can see Dogtown without being reminded of that celebrated town in France, named Grandville, of which we have the following description:

Grandville, grand vilain,
Une église et un moulin
Voilà Grandville tout à plein.

Which we may translate thus:

Grandville, great Grandville,
Has a meeting-house and mill.
Nothing else in all Grandville.

Dogtown is finely and advantageously situated. It stands on Eel River, a stream of water which runs into another stream, and that into a third, which runs into Connecticut River, which running into Long Island Sound, finally reaches the Atlantic. Who does not see, therefore, that Dogtown may become a great sea-port?

The territory in the neighbourhood of Dogtown is remarkable for its fertility, bating that part of it which is covered with rocks, the salt meadow, the pine woods, the clay-ponds, and the swamps. It is past a doubt, therefore, that the territory, if well cleared, drained, peopled, and cultivated, would become a perfect garden, abounding with the richest productions of nature, and affording a mine of wealth to the country. As to the facilities of communication with the great Atlantic cities and commercial marts, they are admirable.

Dogtown has Boston on one side, and New York on the other: Montreal and Quebec are in the north, while in the east is the rich and thriving State of Maine, with Bangor and Owl’s Head to boot. Rail-roads can be made to connect Dogtown with all these places, and they will certainly form such a connection, _when they are built_. That the place will be a great focus of trade, when this is done, nobody, I think, will deny.

The neighbourhood of Dogtown has all the advantages that can be desired in a young country. There will be as many large towns within thirty miles of the place, as people choose to build. The population cannot fail to increase rapidly for a man can get married for seventy-five cents, town clerk’s fees included. The attraction for settlers must, therefore, be considered very great.

The Dogtowners are remarkably industrious, for they get a living, although constantly grumbling of hard times. They are moreover ingenious, for they manufacture axe-handles, wooden bowls, birch brooms, and white oak cheese, and invent mousetraps and washing machines. Last of all, the inhabitants of Dogtown are literary and intellectual; for they talk a great deal of the march of improvement, and the minister and the lawyer take the “Penny Magazine” between them.

All these attractions together, form a combination truly wonderful; but the reader will be astonished when I inform him, that the inhabitants of this favoured spot lived a great many years without the smallest suspicion of what I have been describing. They thought very little of themselves, or of the town they lived in, and continued to vegetate from year to year without imagining they were better off than other folks. In fact, the world might have continued to this day in utter ignorance that Dogtown was such a wonderful place, but for an accident—an accident I call it—for the Dogtowners having lived for so many years without opening their eyes, the fact that they _did_ open them of a sudden, on a certain day, in the year of grace 1834, must be considered purely accidental. Some people are inclined to ascribe it to the approach of the comet, which had a powerful influence in opening people’s eyes, to say nothing of its effect in driving them stark mad. But that is neither here nor there. The people of Dogtown opened their eyes, and _saw_; that was enough: they saw in an instant their immense advantages, and were astonished that they never had seen them before. They saw their advantages, I say, and were determined to turn them to account.

Straightway Dogtown was all alive: everybody was confident that Dogtown must become a great place; and as everybody told everybody else so, there was no doubt about the matter. Every man went to buying land who could pay for it; and those who could not pay, bought upon credit, sure of selling it at ten times the cost within the year. Nothing was talked of but the immense advantages of the place. The riches of Dogtown were indeed immense; and how they could have been overlooked so long, was a mystery that no one could understand. The land within the limits of the town was computed at seven hundred and twenty million square feet, which, at only one cent per square foot, which is cheap enough in all conscience, would amount to seven million two hundred thousand dollars. What a sum! But this was not all. Half of this land was covered with trees, at the rate of one tree to every five feet square, or quadrangle of twenty-five feet: this gave a computation of ten million four hundred thousand trees; and as each tree, on an average, contained seventy-five cubic feet of timber, it followed that there was actually within the town seven hundred and eighty million feet of timber, worth, on the lowest calculation, five cents per foot, which would amount to thirty-nine million dollars. This, added to the value of the land, as above, made a grand total of _forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars_!

The mention of these sums almost drove the good people of Dogtown distracted with joy; they could hardly believe their eyes or ears, but there it was in black and white; figures could not lie. They were amazed to think of their own stupidity and that of their ancestors in letting forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars lie totally idle and unproductive; but they were determined not to allow their wealth to be neglected any longer. A grand scheme of speculation and improvement was started, and all rushed headlong into it. Every man in Dogtown was now rich, or, what was the same thing, was sure of being so before long. Immense tracts were laid out in building lots, and speculators flocked in from all quarters; from Catsville and Weazletown and Buzzardsborough, and Ganderfield and Crow Corner and Upper Bugbury and East Punkinton, and Black Swamp and the Bottomless Bogs. Such a busy time as the Dogtowners had of it! Nothing was talked of but buying land, building houses, laying out roads, streets, squares, avenues, railroads, canals, &c. &c. &c. People left off ploughing and hoeing, because agriculture was too slow a method of making money; for who would think of raising turnips to sell, at twenty cents a bushel, when he could make a hundred times the profit by speculating in land?

First of all, it was determined that Dogtown should be a city. The want of population was found to be a serious obstacle here; the constitution of the state requires ten or twelve thousand inhabitants for a city; and as Dogtown, including the suburbs of Puppyville and Skunk’s Misery, contained a population of only six hundred and thirty-one, it was thought there might be some difficulty in getting a charter without anticipating the returns of the next census. However, a city it must be, some time or other, in this all were agreed, and it might as well have the name first as last, so they concluded to _call_ it a city. It is astonishing what a spirit of enterprise these prospects infused into the people of Dogtown. The school-house door was painted green: uncle Joe Stubbins mended the top of his chimney; and it was voted in town-meeting to purchase three wheel-barrows for the public use;—and all in consequence of these projected improvements. Nay, so widely did their views of business expand, that Aminidab Figgins, the grocer, determined to give up retailing, and declared he wouldn’t split crackers nor cut candles any longer.

Such was the thriving condition of the City of Dogtown when I left the place in the autumn of that year. I continued to hear of it through the medium of the Dogtown Daily Advertiser, a newspaper established there by an enterprising printer from Connecticut at the first dawning of the commercial prosperity of the city. It appeared to go ahead rapidly. The newspaper spoke of the Exchange, the Town Hall, the Bank, the New Post Office, the Railroad, Canal, &c. House lots were advertised in Washington Square, Merchants Row, State Street, Market Street, &c. Contracts were proposed for building churches, manufactories, &c. This was Dogtown in all its glory.

Last August I determined to make a visit to this celebrated place, in order to feast my eyes with the splendour of a city that had sprung up as it were by enchantment. When I reached the foot of Blueberry Hill, which overlooks the whole place, I walked eagerly to the top, in order to catch a view, at a single glance, of the city in all its magnificence. To my utter astonishment, instead of spires and domes, I saw nothing but Deacon Stumpy’s old mansion, with five other ragged and dingy-looking edifices, which stood exactly where I had always known them. I entered the city through State Street, but discovered nothing new except a small house without a chimney. Not a living thing was to be seen in Washington Square, but three geese, who were lazily picking a mouthful of grass among the mud-puddles. I inquired for the Exchange, and found it in use by the Deacon as a cow-pen. The new church, however, I was told had actually proceeded as far as the raising of the timbers; but it was subsequently sold by auction to pay for digging the cellar.

I had a cheque upon the Dogtown Bank for three dollars, and wishing to draw the money, I was directed to No. 19, Tremont Street. This turned out to be the identical building formerly occupied by old Kit Cobble, the shoemaker. It was bank hours, but the bank was shut, and there was not a soul to be seen. Just as I was going away, I spied a tin horn by the door, with a paper hanging over it, on which was written, “Persons having business at the bank, are requested to blow the horn.” I put the horn to my lips and blew a blast both long and loud. After waiting about ten minutes, I spied Isaac Thumper coming slowly down the road: he proved to be cashier of the Dogtown Bank, and after some difficulty I convinced him of the safety of cashing the cheque.

Upon inquiring of Isaac what use had been made of the forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars, he informed me that most of it remained invested in notes of hand. Money was scarce, and was expected to continue so until the onion crop had been got in. It was easy to see that the city had sadly declined from its meridian splendour. In fact, Dogtown has suffered a complete downfall, for hardly anybody now speaks of it as a city. They have as much land as ever, and so long as it continued to be valued at their own price, they were as rich as Jews; but, unfortunately, it fell in value the moment they expected the purchasers to pay for it. The Dogtowners are poor enough at present, but they are not the first, and probably will not be the last people who have ruined themselves by building a city on speculation.

X.
THE COON-HUNT; OR, A FENCY COUNTRY.

’Tis really astonishin’ what a monstrous sight of mischief there is in a pint of rum! If one of ’em was to be submitted to an analization, as the doctors call it, it would be found to contain all manner of devilment that ever entered the hed of man, from cussin’ and stealin’, up to murder and whippin’ his own mother, and nonsense enuff to turn all the men in the world out of their senses. If a man’s got any badness in him, it’ll bring it out, jest as sassafras-tea does the measles, and if he’s a good-for-nothin’ sort of a feller, without no bad traits in pertikeler, it’ll bring out all his greenness. It affects different people in different ways—it makes some men monstrous brave and full of fight, and some it makes cowards; some it makes rich and happy, and some poor and miserable; and it has a different effect on different people’s eyes—some it makes see double, and some it makes so blind that they can’t tell themselves from a side of bacon. One of the worst cases of rum-foolery that I’ve heard of for a long time, tuk place in Pineville last fall.

Bill Sweeney and Tom Culpepper is the two greatest old coveys in our settlement for ’coon-huntin’. The fact is, they don’t do much of anything else, and when _they_ can’t ketch nothin’ you may depend ’coons is scarce. Well, one night they had everything reddy for a regular hunt, but owin’ to some extra good fortin’, Tom had got a pocket-pistol, as he called it, of reglar old Jimmakey, to keep off the rumatics. After takin’ a good startin’ horn, they went out on their hunt, with their lite-wood torch a-blazin’, and the dogs a-barkin’ and yelpin’ like forty thousand. Ev’ry now and then stoppin’ to wait for the dogs, they would drink one another’s helth, till they begun to feel very comfortable, and chatted away ’bout one thing and another, without mindin’ much which way they was gwine. Bimeby they cum to a fence. Well, over they got, ’thout much difficulty.

“Who’s fence is this?” ses Bill.

“’Taint no matter,” ses Tom, “let’s take suthin’ to drink.”

After takin’ a drink they went on, wonderin’ what on yearth had cum of the dogs. Next thing they cum to was a terrible muddy branch. After pullin’ through the briers and gettin’ on tother side, they tuck another drink, and after gwine a little ways they cum to another branch, and a little further they cum to another fence—a monstrous high one this time.

“Whar upon yearth is we got to, Culpepper?” ses Bill, “I never seed sich a heap of branches and fences in these parts.”

“Why,” ses Tom, “it’s all old Sturlin’s doins—you know he’s always bildin’ fences and making infernal improvements, as he calls ’em. But never mind, we’s through them now.”

“Guess we is,” ses Bill; “here’s the all-firedest tall fence yet.”

Shure enuff, thar they was right agin another fence. By this time, they begun to be considerable tired and limber in the gints, and it was sich a terrible high fence!—Tom drapped the last piece of the torch, and thar they was in the dark.

“Now you is done it,” ses Bill.

Tom know’d he had, but he thought it was no use to grieve over spilled milk, so ses he, “Never mind, old hoss, cum a-head, and I’ll take you out,” and the next minit kerslash he went into the water.

Bill hung on to the fence with both hands, like he thought it was slewin’ round to throw him off.

“Hellow, Tom!” ses he, “whar in the world is you got to?”

“Here I is,” ses Tom, spoutin’ the water out of his mouth, and coffin’ like he’d swallowed something. “Look out, thar’s another branch here.”

“Name o’ sense, whar is we?” ses Bill. “If this isn’t a fency country, dad fetch my buttons.”

“Yes, and a branchy one, too!” ses Tom; “and the highest, and deepest, and thickest that I ever seed in my born days.”

“Which way is you?” ses Bill.

“Here, rite over the branch.”

The next minit in Bill went, up to his middle in the branch.

“Cum a-head,” ses Tom, “let’s go home.”

“Cum thunder! in such a place as this, whar a man hain’t more’n got his cote tail unhitched from a fence, fore he’s over his head and ears in the water.”

After gettin’ out and feelin’ about in the dark a little, they got together agin. After takin’ another drink, they sot out for home, denouncin’ the fences and the branches, and helpin’ one another up now and then; but they hadn’t got more’n twenty yards fore they brung up all standin’ in the middle of another branch. After gettin’ thro’ the branch and gwine about ten steps, they was brung to a halt by another fence.

“Dad blame my pictur,” ses Bill, “if I don’t think we is bewitched. Who upon yearth would bild fences all over creation this way?”

It was but a ower’s job to get over this one; but after they got on the top, they found the ground on tother side ’thout much trouble. This time the bottle was broke, and they come monstrous near having a fight about the catastrophy. But it was a very good thing, it was; for, after crossin’ two or three more branches, and climbin’ as many more fences, it got to be daylight, and they found out that they _had been climbin’ the same fence all night_, not more’n a hundred yards from whar they first cum to it.

Bill Sweeney ses he can’t account for it no other way but that the licker sort o’ turned their heads; and he says he does really believe, if it hadn’t gin out, they’d been climbin’ the same fence, and wadin’ the same branch, till yet. Bill promised his wife to jine the Temperance Society, if she won’t never say no more ’bout that coon-hunt.

XI.
A RIDE WITH OLD KIT KUNCKER.

Our old friend, Kit Kuncker, as he put us to bed on the night of a big frolic at his house, exacted a promise that we would visit him again, shortly thereafter; promising us, on his part, that he would ride all over the settlement with us; and more especially, that he would go with us to the house of Jim Kent, whose sister, Beck, was so ugly “that the flies wouldn’t light on her face,” and about whose going to mill, he assured me, there was a very pleasant story to be told.

Poor old Kit! But the other day we saw him—and how altered by the lapse of a few years! His head has become white, his figure more bent, and his laughing old face—merry still!—was furrowed with an hundred additional wrinkles. His eye, too, was dull—had lost the twinkle that used so mischievously to light up his countenance. And then, too, he walked with a staff; and when he went to mount “Fiddler Bill,” he said, “Help me, Squire,” instead of vaulting into the saddle, as of yore! “Thank you, Squire. God bless your Union heart—old Hickory and the Union for ever! I’m gittin’ old now, Squire, and can’t git about, like I used to”—the old man sighed—“Fiddler Bill is old, too—notice how gray his face is—we’re all gittin’ old—yer Aunt Hetty as well’s the rest; and, God bless yer soul, Squire,” (here the old man warmed into animation), “_she’s uglier than ever—uglier than the devil_—he! he! ya! ya! It’s wuth while coming, jist to take a look at her! With that old long bonnet on”—here the old fellow bent down on his horse’s neck, in a paroxysm of laughter—“he! he! hea! ya! ya! and her mouth skrootched up, ya! ya! the go-to-meetin’ way; I’ll be cust, ef she ain’t so bad to look at, it’s enuff to fotch sickness in the family! But,” he added, wiping the tears from his eyes, “Squire, I’m old now, yer Aunt Hetty’s old, and Fiddler Bill is old—all old! old! old! Ah, me!”

But we are digressing. It was of our Ride with old Kit, in 1840, that we began to write—and not of his chattering in 1849.

We went to old Kit’s house on the day appointed, at a very early hour, and found the old fellow waiting for us, with “Fiddler Bill” hitched at the gate.

“You can’t see yer Aunt Hetty, Squire,” he said, “for she’s laid up with a pain in her jaw. It’s swelled mighty bad, enny how, and makes her look so much better, ’twouldn’t be no curiosity to see her now—so we may as well ride. Another time when she’s at herself—and her ‘ugly’ out in _full bloom_, I’ll show her to you—he! he! yah! That bonnet o’ hern, too, hit’s some. ’Tain’t like nothin’ ever growed, except the baskets the Injin wimmin makes to tote their young ones in!” And the old rascal laughed at his wife and her bonnet, until the woods rang again.

Walking our horses leisurely along the road leading down the creek to the river, Uncle Kit, tapping his steed lightly across the neck with his switch, began, as he had promised, to tell us how he obtained him.

“You see, Squire, me and my Jim was a haulin’ a load of whiskey up from Wetumpky, in the spring of ’36, and we had a mighty dull old horse under the saddle. The like of him never was on the yeth for hard trottin’. He was _powerful_ hard. You’ve set and watched a saw-mill gate jerk up and down, havn’t you—up and down, up and down, like it was goin’ into fits? Well, _that was his motion adzactly_. Ses Jim, one day, ‘daddy I’m gwine to swop ‘old Hoss’ off, fust chance I git.’ Ses I, ‘Nobody’s fool enough to give you anything better’n an old cow for him.’ Ses he, ‘You’ll see.’ Well ’twarn’t long afore we ketcht up with a traveller—it was in the piney woods ’twixt Oakfuskee and Dudleyville—walkin’ and leadin’ his horse, which was Fiddler Bill. I’ll tell you, Squire,”—old Kit raised his voice and gesticulated vehemently—“_he was a horse then_—none o’ your little grays—as Homer Hinds ses—but a reg’lar horse, with head and legs like a deer, a body like a barrel, and put up like a jack-screw. He wos jist risin’ four year old, fat, _and hilt his head like the Queen of Sheby_!

“So Jim bantered the stranger purty quick for a swap—but fust we found out he was walkin’ bekase he was afeard of his horse. He was a Norrud raised man and talked mighty proper—he said his horse was ‘very rested’—which you might see he had been layin’ by corn and fodder for some time—and had throwed him and disculpated his shoulder a’most! Then he axed us about the Injuns—this was jist afore the infernal devils began their devilment, and the thing had leaked out and was talked of, all over the country—and Jim seein’ he was _afeared of them_ too, let on like they was mighty thick and hostile in them woods.

“‘Stranger,’ says he, ‘what would you do ef you was to see a red-skin peepin’ from behind that big pine yonder—and you afeared o’ your horse?’

“‘God only knows,’ ses the Yanky.

“‘Well now I’ll tell you,’ ses Jim, ‘_thar’s_ a crittur under that saddle’—p’intin’ to ‘old Hoss’—‘that could take you outen the way like goose-grease! How’ll you trade?’

“The Yanky let on like he tho’t his horse was the most vallyble, but Jim out-talked him to deth. He praised old one, ’twell I had to go behind the wagin and laugh. Bimeby ses he, ‘ain’t that a _Injun holler_?’ and with that the stranger looked white, and axed Jim how _he’d_ trade?

“‘You must give me ten dollars to boot,’ ses Jim.

“‘But my horse is the most vallyble,’ ses the Yanky.

“‘He ain’t half-broke,’ ses Jim, ‘and I’d be most afeard to ride him—let’s see!’