Chapter III (5)

“Mr. Hodgkins, hold up your right hand.”

George Washington obeyed, and held up his hand.

“Miss Polly, hold up yours.”

Polly, in her confusion held up the left hand.

“The other hand, Miss Peablossom.”

And the Squire proceeded, in a loud and composed manner, to qualify them:

“You and each of you do solemnly swear, before the present company, that you will perform toward each other, all and singular the functions of a husband or wife—as the case may be—to the best of your knowledge and ability, so help you God!”

“Good as wheat!” said Captain Peablossom. “Polly, my gal, come and kiss your old father; I never felt so happy since the day I was discharged from the army, and set out homewards to see your mother.”

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[15] By the Hon. J. B. Lamar.

XXVI.
THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

Whence comes the gibberish which is almost invariably used by mothers and nurses, to infants? Take for example the following, which will answer the twofold purpose of illustrating my idea, and of exhibiting one of the peculiarities of the age.

A few days ago, I called to spend an hour in the afternoon with Mr. Slang, whose wife is the mother of a child about eight months old.

While I was there, the child in the nurse’s arms, in an adjoining room began to cry.

“You Rose,” said Mrs. Slang, addressing a female slave, “quiet that child!”

Rose walked it, and sang to it; but it did not hush.

“You Rose! if you do not quiet that child, I lay I make you.”

“I is tried, ma’am,” said Rose, “an’ he wouldn’t get hushed.”

(_Child cries louder._)

“Fetch him here to me, you good for nothing hussy you. What’s the matter with him?” reaching out her arms to receive him.

“I dun know ma’am.”

“Nhei—nhun—nho—nha’am!” (_mocking and grinning at Rose._)

As Rose delivered the child, she gave visible signs of dodging, just as the child left her arms; and, that she might not be disappointed, Mrs. Slang gave her a box: in which there seemed to be no anger mixed at all; and which Rose received _as a matter of course_, without even changing countenance under it.

“Da den!” said Mrs. Slang, “come elong e muddy (mother.) Did nassy Yosey, (Rose,) pague muddy thweety chilluns? (children)” pressing the child to her bosom, and rocking it backward and forward tenderly. “Muddins will whippy ole nassy Yosey. Ah! you old uggy Yosey,” (_knocking at Rose playfully_.) “Da den; muddy did wippy bad Yosey.”

(_Child continues crying._)

“Why what upon earth ails the child? Rose, you’ve hurt this child, somehow or other!”

“No m’m, ’cla’ I didn’t—I was jist sitt’n down dar in the rock’n chair long side o’ Miss Nancy’s bureau, an’ want doin’ nothin’ ’tall to him, jis playin’ wid him, and he jis begin to cry heself, when nobody wa’n’t doin’ nothin’ ’tall to him, and nobody wa’nt in dar nuther sept jis me and him, and I was—”

“Nhing—nhing—nhing—and I expect you hit his head against the bureau.”

“Let Muddy see where ole bad Yosey knocky heady ’gin de bureaus. Muddy _will_ see,” taking off the child’s cap, and finding nothing.

(_Child cries on._)

“Muddy’s baby was hongry. Dat was what ails muddy’s darling, th’sweety ones. Was cho hongry, an’ nobody would givy litty darling any sings ’tall for eaty?” (_loosing her frock bosom._) “No, nobody would gim t’shweety ones any sings fo’ eat ’tall”—(_offers the breast to the child, who rejects it, rolls over, kicks, and screams worse than ever_.)

“Hush, you little brat! I believe it’s nothing in the world but crossness. Hush! (_shaking it_,) hush, I tell you!”

(_Child cries to the ne plus ultra._)

“Why surely a pin must stick the child. Yes, was e bad pin did ticky chilluns. Let muddy see where de uggy pin did ticky dear prettous creter,” (_examining_.) “Why no, it isn’t a pin. Why what can be the matter with the child! It must have the cholic surely. Rose, go bring me the paragoric off the mantle-piece. Yes, muddy’s baby did hab e tolic. Dat was what did ail muddy’s prettous darly baby.”

(_Pressing it to her bosom and rocking it. Child cries on._)

Rose brought the paragoric, handed it, dodged, and got her expectations realized as before.

“Now go bring me the sugar, and some water.”

Rose brought them, and delivered both without the customary reward; for at that instant, the child being laid perfectly still on the lap, hushed.

The paragoric was administered, and the child received it with only a whimper now and then. As soon as it received the medicine, the mother raised it up and it began to cry.

“Why Lord help my soul, what’s the matter with the child! what have you done to him, you little hussy?”

(_Rising and walking towards Rose._)

“’Cla’, Missis, I eint done nothin’ ’tall—was jis sittin’ down da by Miss Nancy’s bu—”

“You lie, you slut!” (_hitting her a passing slap_,) “I know you’ve hurt him. Hush, my baby,” (_singing the Coquet_,) “don’t you cry, your sweetheart will come by’m’by; da, de dum dum dum day, da de dum diddle dum dum day.”

(_Child cries on._)

“Lord help my soul and body, what can be the matter with my baby!” (_tears coming in her own eyes._) “Something’s the matter with it; I know it is,” (_laying the child on her lap, and feeling its arms, to see whether it flinched at the touch of any particular part_.) But the child cried less while she was feeling it than before.

“Yes, dat was it; wanted litty arms yubb’d. Mud will yub its sweet little arms.”

(_Child begins again._)

“What upon earth can make my baby cry so!” rising and walking to the window.

(_Stops at the window, and the child hushes._)

“Yes, dat was it: did want to look out ’e windys. See the pretty chickens. O-o-o-h! Look, at, the beauty, rooster! Yonder’s old aunt Betty! See old aunt Betty, pickin’ up chips. Yes, ole aunt Betty, pickin’ up chip fo’ bake bicky (biscuit) fo’ good chilluns. Good aunt Betty fo’ make bicky fo’ sweet baby’s supper!”

(_Child begins again._)

“Hoo-o-o! see de windy!” (_knocking on the window. Child screams._)

“You Rose! what have you done to this child? You little hussy you, if you don’t tell me how you hurt him, I’ll whip you as long as I can find you!”

“Missis I ’cla’ I never done noth’n’ ’tall to him. I was jis sett’n’ down da by Miss Nancy’s bu—”

“If you say ‘_Miss Nancy’s bureau_’ to me again, I’ll stuff Miss Nancy’s bureau down your throat, you little lying slut! I’m just as sure you’ve hurt him, as if I’d seen you. How did you hurt him?”

Here Rose was reduced to a _non plus_; for, upon the peril of having a bureau stuffed down her throat, she dare not repeat the oft-told tale, and she knew no other. She therefore stood mute.

“Julia,” said Mr. Slang, “bring the child to me, and let me see if I can discover the cause of his crying.”

Mr. Slang took the child, and commenced a careful examination of it. He removed its cap, and beginning at the crown of its head, he extended the search slowly and cautiously downward, accompanying the eye with the touch of the finger. He had not proceeded far in this way, before he discovered in the right ear of the child, a small feather, the cause, of course, of all its wailing. The cause removed, the child soon changed its tears to smiles, greatly to the delight of all, and to none more than to Rose.

XXVII.
PELEG W. PONDER;
OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE.[16]

It is a curious thing—an unpleasant thing—a very embarrassing sort of thing—but the truth must be told—if not at all times, at least sometimes; and truth now compels the declaration, that Peleg W. Ponder, whose character is here pourtrayed, let him travel in any way, cannot arrive at a conclusion. He never had one of his own. He scarcely knows a conclusion, even if he should chance to see one belonging to other people. And, as for reaching a result, he would never be able to do it, if he could stretch like a giraffe. Results are beyond his compass. And his misfortune is, perhaps, hereditary, his mother’s name having been Mrs. Perplexity Ponder, whose earthly career came to an end while she was in dubitation as to which of the various physicians of the place should be called in. If there had been only one doctor in the town, Perplexity Ponder might have been saved. But there were many—and what could Perplexity Ponder do in such a case?

Ponder’s father was run over by a waggon, as he stood debating with himself, in the middle of the road, whether he should escape forward or retreat backward. There were two methods of extrication, and between them both old Ponder became a victim. How then could their worthy son, Peleg, be expected to arrive at a conclusion? He never does.

Yet, for one’s general comfort and particular happiness, there does not appear to be any faculty more desirable than the power of “making up the mind.” Right or wrong, it saves a deal of wear and tear; and it prevents an infinite variety of trouble. Commend us to the individual who closes upon propositions like a nutcracker—whose promptness of will has a sledge-hammer way with it, and hits nails continually on the head. Genius may be brilliant—talent commanding; but what is genius, or what is talent, if it lack that which we may call the clinching faculty—if it hesitates, veers, and flutters—suffers opportunity to pass, and stumbles at occasion? To reason well is much, no doubt; but reason loses the race, if it sits in meditation on the fence when competition rushes by.

Under the best of circumstances, something must be left to hazard. There is a chance in all things. No man can so calculate odds in the affairs of life as to insure a certainty. The screws and linchpins necessary to our purpose have not the inflexibility of a fate; yet they must be trusted at some degree of risk. Our candle may be put out by a puff of wind on the stairs, let it be sheltered ever so carefully. Betsy is a good cook, yet beefsteaks have been productive of strangulation. Does it then follow from this, that we are never to go to bed, except in the dark, and to abstain from breaking our fast until dinner is announced?

One may pause and reflect too much. There must be action, conclusion, result, or we are a failure, to all intents and purposes—a self-confessed failure—defunct from the beginning. And such was the case with Peleg W. Ponder, who never arrived at a conclusion, or contrived to reach a result. Peleg is always “stumped”—he “don’t know what to think”—he “can’t tell what to say”—an unfinished gentleman, with a mind like a dusty garret, full, as it were, of ricketty furniture, yet nothing serviceable—broken-backed chairs—three-legged tables—pitchers without a handle—cracked decanters and fractured looking-glasses—that museum of mutilations, in which housewifery rejoices, under the vague, but never-realized hope, that these things may eventually “come in play.” Peleg’s opinions lie about the workshop of his brain, in every stage of progress but the last—chips, sticks, and saw-dust, enough but no article ready to send home.

Should you meet Peleg in the street, with “Good morning, Peleg—how do you find yourself to-day?”

“Well—I don’t know exactly—I’m pretty—no, not very—pray, how do you do, yourself?”

Now, if a man does not know exactly, or nearly, how he is, after being up for several hours, and having had abundant time to investigate the circumstances of his case, it is useless to propound questions of opinion to such an individual. It is useless to attempt it with Peleg. “How do you do,” puzzles him—he is fearful of being too rash, and of making a reply which might not be fully justified by after-reflection. His head may be about to ache, and he has other suspicious feelings.

“People are always asking me how I do, and more than half the time I can’t tell—there’s a good many different sorts of ways of feeling betwixt and between ‘Very sick, I thank you,’ and ‘Half dead, I’m obliged to you;’ and people won’t stop to hear you explain the matter. They want to know right smack, when you don’t know right smack yourself. Sometimes you feel things a-coming, and just after, you feel things a-going. And nobody’s exactly prime all the while. I ain’t, anyhow—I’m kinder so just now, and I’m sorter t’other way just after.—Then, some people tell you that you look very well, when you don’t feel very well—how then?”

At table, Peleg is not exactly sure what he will take; and sits looking slowly up and down the board, deliberating what he would like, until the rest of the company have finished their repast, there being often nothing left which suits Peleg’s hesitating appetite.

Peleg has never married—not that he is averse to the connubial state—on the contrary, he has a large share of the susceptibilities, and is always partially in love. But female beauty is so various. At one time, Peleg is inclined to believe that perfection lies in queenly dignity—the majesty of an empress fills his dreams; and he looks down with disdain upon little people. He calls them “squabs,” in derogation. But anon, in a more domestic mood, he thinks of fireside happiness and quiet bliss, declining from the epic poetry of loveliness, to the household wife, who might be disposed to bring him his slippers, and to darn the hole in his elbow. When in the tragic vein, he fancies a brunette; and when the sunshine is on his soul, blue eyes are at a premium. Should woman possess the lightness of a sylph, or should her charms be of the more solid architecture? Ought her countenance to beam in smiles, or will habitual pensiveness be the more interesting? Is sparkling brilliancy to be preferred to gentle sweetness?

“If there wasn’t so many of them, I shouldn’t be so bothered,” said Peleg; “or, if they all looked alike, a man couldn’t help himself. But yesterday, I wanted this one—to-day, I want that one; and to-morrow, I’ll want t’other one; and how can I tell, if I should get this, or that, or t’other, that it wouldn’t soon be somebody else that I really wanted? That’s the difficulty. It always happens so with me. When the lady’s most courted, and thinks I ought to speak out, then I begin to be skeered, for fear I’ve made a mistake, and have been thinking I loved her, when I didn’t. May be it’s not the right one—may be she won’t suit—may be I might do better—may be I had better not venture at all. I wish there wasn’t so many ‘may-bes’ about everything, especially in such affairs. I’ve got at least a dozen unfinished courtships on hand already.”

But all this happened a long time ago; and Peleg has gradually lost sight of his fancy for making an addition to his household. Not that he has concluded, even yet, to remain a bachelor. He would be alarmed at the bare mention of such an idea. He could not consent to be shelved in that decisive manner. But he has subsided from active “looking around” in pursuit of his object, into that calm, irresponsible submissiveness, characteristic of the somewhat elderly bachelor, which waits until she may chance to present herself spontaneously, and “come along” of her own accord. “Some day—some day,” says Peleg; “it will happen some day or other. What’s the use of being in a hurry?”

Peleg W. Ponder’s great object is now ambition. His personal affairs are somewhat embarrassed by his lack of enterprize; and he hankers greatly for an office. But which side to join? Ay, there’s the rub! Who will purvey the loaf and fish? For whom shall Peleg shout?

Behold him, as he puzzles over the returns of the state elections, labouring in vain to satisfy his mind as to the result in the presidential contest. Stupefied by figures—perplexed by contradictory statements—bothered by the general hurrah; what can Peleg do?

“Who’s going to win? That’s all I want to know,” exclaims the vexed Peleg; “I don’t want to waste my time a blowing out for the wrong person, and never get a thank’e. What’s the use of that? There’s Simpkins—says I, Simpkins, says I, which is the party that can’t be beat? And Simpkins turns up his nose and tells me every fool knows that—it’s his side—so I hurrah for Simpkins’s side as hard as I can. But then comes Timpkins—Timpkins’s side is t’other side from Simpkins’s side, and Timpkins offers to bet me three levies that his side is the side that can’t be beat. Hurrah! says I, for Timpkins’s side!—and then I can’t tell which side.

“As for the newspapers, that’s worse still. They not only crow all round, but they cipher it out so clear, that both sides must win, if there’s any truth in the ciphering-book; which there isn’t about election times. What’s to be done? I’ve tried going to all the meetings—I’ve hurraed for everybody—I’ve been in all the processions, and I sit a little while every evening in all sorts of head-quarters. I’ve got one kind of documents in one pocket, and t’other kind of documents in t’other pocket; and as I go home at night, I sing one sort of song as loud as I can bawl half of the way, and try another sort of song the rest of the way, just to split the difference and show my impartiality. If I only had two votes—a couple of ’em—how nice it would be.

“But the best thing that can be done now, I guess, as my character is established both ways, is to turn in quietly till the row is all over. Nobody will miss me when they are so busy; and afterward, when we know all about it, just look for Peleg W. Ponder as he comes down the street, shaking people by the hand, and saying how we have used them up. I can’t say so now, or I would—for I am not perfectly sure yet which is ‘we,’ or which is ‘them.’ Time enough when the election is over.”

It will thus be seen that Ponder is a remarkable person. Peter Schlemihl lost his shadow, and became memorably unhappy in consequence; but what was his misfortune when compared with that of the man who has no side? What are shadows if weighed against sides? And Peleg is almost afraid that he never will be able to get a side, so unlucky has he been heretofore. He begins to dread that both sides may be defeated; and then, let us ask, what is to become of him? Must he stand aside?

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[16] By J. C. Neal.

END OF VOL. II.
L O N D O N :
Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Printer errors have been corrected where obvious errors occur.

Author spellings have been maintained and differences corrected to majority author use.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

The Preface from Volume I was included in Volumes II & III.

A cover was created for this eBook.

[The end of _Traits of American Humour, Vol. II of III_, by Thomas Chandler Halliburton, ed.]