Chapter III (1)

WARRICK’S WEDDING.
Described in a letter by an “old flame” of his.
Piney Bottom, this July 9, of 1844.
Miss Polly Stroud,

Dere Maddam.—I now take my pen in hand of the presence oppertunity to let you know how we are all well, but I am purry in sperits hopin’ this few lines may find you the same by gods mercy as I have been so mortfiyde I could cry my eyes out bodily. Bill Warrick, yes Bill Warrick, is married to Barbry Bass! I seed it done—a mean triflin; deceevinist creetur—but never mind—Didn’t I know him when we went to old field skool—a little raggid orflin Boy, with nobody to patch his close torn behin a makin of a dicky-dicky-dout of himself—cause his old nigger oman Venus was too lazy to mend ’em? Didn’t I know him when he couldn’t make a pot-hook or a hanger in his copy book to save his life, as for makin of a S he always put it tother way, jist so S backwards. And then to say I were too old for him, and that he always conceited I was a sort of a sister to him! O Polly Stroud, he is _so_ likely, perticlar when he is dressed up of a Sunday or a frolick—and what is worser his wife is prutty too, tho I don’t acknowlige it here. Only too think how I doated on him, how I used to save bosim blossoms for him, which some people call sweet sentid shrubs—and how I used to put my hand in an pull them out for him, and how I used to blush when he sed they was sweeter for comin’ from where they did? Who went blackberryin’ and huckleberryin’ with me? who always rode to preechun with me and helped me on the hoss? who made Pokebery stains in dimons and squares and circles and harts and so on at quiltins for me?—and talkin’ of Poke—I do hope to fathers above that Poke will beat Clay jist to spite Bill, for he is a rank distracted Whig and secreterry to the Clay Club—who always threaded my nedle and has kissed me in perticler, in playin’ of kneelin’ to the wittyist, bowin’ to the puttyist, and kissin’ of them you love best, and play in Sister Feebe, and Oats, Peas-Beans and Barley grows—at least one hundred times? Who wated as candil holder with me at Tim Bolins weddin’, and sed he knowd one in the room hed heap rather marry, and looked at me so oncommon, and his eyes so blue that I felt my face burn for a quarter of a hour? who I _do_ say was it but Bill Warrick?—yes, and a heap more! If I haven’t a grate mind to sue him, and would do it, if it wasn’t I am feared hed show a Voluntine I writ to him Feberary a year ago. He orter be exposed, for if ever he is a widderer hell fool somebody else the same way he did me. It’s a burnin’ shame, I could hardly hold my head up at the weddin’. If I hadn’t of bin so mad and too proud to let him see it I could cried severe.

Well, it was a nice weddin’; sich ice-cakes and minicles, and raisins, and oringis and hams, flour doins and chickin fixins, and four oncommon fattest big goblers rosted I ever seed.

The Bryde was dressed in a white muslin figgured over a pink satin pettycote, with white gloves and satin shoes, and her hair a curlin’ down with a little rose in it, and a chain aroun her neck. I don’t know whether it was raal gool or plated. She looked butiful, and Bill did look nice, and all the candydates and two preechers and Col. Hard was there, and Bills niggers, the likeliest nine of them you ever looked at, and when I did look at em and think, I raly thought I should or broke my heart.

Well, sich kissin’—several of the gals sed that there faces burnt like fire, for one of the preechers and Col. Hard wosn’t shaved clost.

Bimeby I was a sittin’ leanin’ back, and Bill he come behin me and sorter jerked me back, and skeared me powerful for fear I was fallin’ backwards, and I skreamed and kicked up my feet before to ketch like, and if I hadn’t a had on pantalets I reckon somebody would of knowd whether I gartered above my knees or not. We had a right good laff on old Parson Brown as he got through a marryin’ of em—says he:

“I pronounce you, William Warrick and Barbry Bass, man and oman,”—he did look so when we laffed, and he rite quick sed—“man and wife—salute your Bryde,” and Bill looked horrid red, and Barbry trimbled and blushed astonishin’ severe.

Well, it’s all over, but I don’t keer—there’s as good fish in the sea as ever come outen it. I’m not poor for the likes of Bill Warrick, havin’ now three sparks, and one of them from Town, whose got a good grocery and leads the Quire at church, outer the Suthern Harmony, the Missonry Harmony is gone outer fashion.

Unkle Ben’s oldest gal Suky is gwine to marry a Virginny tobacker roler, named Saint George Drummon, and he says he is a kin to Jack Randolf and Pokerhuntus, who they is the Lord knows. Our Jack got his finger cut with a steal trap catchin’ of a koon for a Clay Club, and the boys is down on a tar raft, and ole Miss Collis and mammy is powerful rumatic, and the measly complaint is amazin! I jist heard you have got two twins agin—that limestone water must be astonishin’ curyous.

What is the fashuns in Tennysee, the biggest sort of Bishups is the go here. My love to your old man,

Your friend,
Nancy Guiton.
To Miss Polly Stroud,
Nigh Noxvil in the State of Tennysee,
Close by where the French Broad and Holsin jines.

Old Miss Collis and mammy is jist come home. Betsy Bolin is jist had a fine son and they say she is a doin’ as well as could be expected, and the huckleberry crop is short on account of the drouth.

IX.
OUR TOWN.[9]

I spent a summer in the Eastern States, for the purpose of studying Yankee character, and picking up such peculiarities of dialect and expression as I could, from constant communication with the “critters” themselves. In Boston, I was thus invited by a countryman to visit the town in which he lived.

“Wal, stranger, can’t you come down our way, and give us a show?”

“Where do you live?” inquired I.

“Oh, abeout half way between this ere and sunrise.”

“Oh, yes,” said I, adopting at once the style of the countryman, “I know; where the trees grow under-ground, and galls weigh two hundred pounds. Where some on ’em are so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with their shadow, and some on ’em so thin, you’re obliged to look at ’em twice afore you can see ’em at all.”

“Wal, I guess you’ve been there,” says he, saying which, the countryman departed.

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[9] By G. H. Hill.

X.
“FALLING OFF A LOG,” IN A GAME OF “SEVEN UP.”

“Hoss and hoss!”

“Yes; ‘hoss and hoss,’ and my deal!”

“I’ll double the bet and have the whole bottle or none.”

“Let me cut, and I’ll stand it.”

“S’pose we both take a _little_ drink first,” said Chunkey.

“No: darned if I do! thar ain’t enough for us both—if I win I’ll drink it, and you must wait till a boat comes, if you die! If you win, I’ll wait, if I die!”

Such was the conversation between Jim and Chunkey, as they were sitting across a log on the banks of the Yazoo River, surrounded by a cloud of musquitoes, playing “seven-up” for a remaining bottle of whisky, which was not enough for the two, and “wouldn’t set one forward” _much_. They were just returning from Bear Creek, in Township 17, Range 1, where they had some hands deadening timber, preparatory to opening a plantation in the Fall. They had sent the negroes to the river to take a steam-boat, whilst they, with their furniture, and the remains of a forty-two gallon “red-head,” came down Deer Creek in a day, out into False Lake, through False Lake into Wasp Lake, and down that to where it empties into the Yazoo, and here on the banks of that river our scene opens.

“Go ahead, then,” said Chunkey, “shuffle, deal, and win, if you can, but take out that Jack what’s torn!”

I took the Jack out, shuffled, dealt, and at it we went. Chunkey looked mighty scared; his eye was sorter oneasy, and dartin’ about, and he seemed to be choked as he kept tryin’ to swaller somethin’—the long beard on his face looked powerful black, or else his face looked powerful white, one or the ’yether. We both played mighty slow and careful. The first hand I made “high, low,” and Chunkey “game;” the second hand I made “low, Jack,” and Chunkey “high, game.”

“Four to three,” says I.

“Yes, and my deal,” said Chunkey.

He gin ’em the Sunflower “shuffle,” and the Big Greasy “cut,” and pushed ’em back. Chunkey dealt ’em mighty slow, and kept tryin’ to see my cards, but I laid my hand on ’em as fast as they fell on the log, to prevent him from seein’ the marks. He turned up the Ace of Clubs. When I looked at my hand, thar was the King, Jack, Nine, and Deuce,—I led my King——

“High!” says I.

“Low!” said Chunkey, poppin’ down the Tray.

“Not edzactly,” said I, hawlin’ in the trick, and leadin’ the Deuce, and jist as I done so, I seed Chunkey starin’ over my shoulder, lookin’ wilder nor a dyin’ bar. I never seed a man look so awful in my life. I thought he were gwine to have a fit.

“Ya, ya!” said he, “fallin’ off the log,” cryin’ “_Snake! snake!_”

I never took time to look, but made a big he-spring about twenty feet in the cane, the har on my head standin’ stiff as bristles and ratlin’ like a raftsman’s bones, with the Sky lake ager, and the bad feelins runnin’ down to my toes. I reckon you never seed a man so frightened of snakes as I is, and I’ve been so all my life; I’d rather fight the biggest bar in the swamp with his own weapons, teeth and claws, takin’ it rough and tumble, dependin’ on my mind and knowledge of a bar’s character, than come in contact with a big rusty highland mocassin or rattlesnake, and that’s the reason I never hunts in the summer time. When I lived up on Deer Creek, thar was a perfect cord of all sorts, and I used to wear all summer the thickest kind of cow-hide boots, reachin’ up to my hips, and I _never_ went into the field, ’ceptin on a mule, with a double-barrelled gun at that. This, Chunkey knowed; and whenever he seed one he gin me warnin’. Chunkey ain’t afraid of snakes; he’d jist as soon eat of a gourd with a snake, as not, if the snake would help himself and not meddle with his licker.

Well, arter lookin’ about a spell I couldn’t see no snake-sign, and I then hollered to Chunkey, but darned a word did he say. It then flashed across my mind that as Chunkey fell on the side of the log whar the licker lay, he _might_ sorter taste it, as he were dry enough to be able to swaller a little at a time; so I struck a lick back to the log and looked over, and thar he lay, jist curled up like a ’coon in the sunshine, _and the bottle jist glued to his lips_, and the licker runnin’ down his throat like a storm! darn him, I hadden’t no time to think afore I bounced at him! I struck across his snout, and he nailed my thumb in his jaws, and rostled up a handful of dirt and throwed it in my eyes, and that sot me to gwine, and I throwed the licks into him right and left, and I made the fur fly, _I tell you_; but Chunkey stood it like a man! Darned the word did he say; he wouldn’t holler, he was _perfectly game_!

“No, that’s a fact! I didn’t holler; I didn’t have time; while you were working away on that gum-knot, I were standin’ up agin a little dog-wood finishin’ the licker!”

“How comes it that you never wrung in that part of the story about the knot before?”

“’Cause, I’d done got the licker, and I was satisfied; you thought you’d gin me some mighty big licks, and you was satisfied; and it would have been mean in me to crow over you then: you was out of licker, tobacco, and had your fist all skinned and beat as soft as a bar’s foot! Oh no, Jim, I’m reasonable, _I is_.”

“Well, _go along_; if I don’t set you to gnawin’ somethin’ harder than that knot afore long, then my name ain’t nothin’ to me, and I don’t car for nobody, that’s all.”

“All sot,” says Chunkey, “let’s licker. You wanted to know what ‘_fallin off a log_’ meant, and I thought I’d show you; but, my honey, I’ll jist let you know if you’d a hit _me_ any of them licks what you struck ‘right and left’ into that knot, I’d a gin you a touch of panter fistcuffs—a sort of cross of the scratch on the bite—and a powerful strong game it is, in a close fight. Come, gents, let’s licker, and then I can beat any man that wars har, for a mighty nice chunk of a poney, at any game of short cards:

Oh, the waggoner was a mighty man, a mighty man was he:
He’d pop his whip, and stretch his chains, and holler ‘wo, gee!’”

XI.
A YANKEE CARD-TABLE.[10]

When I was about leaving New Orleans, standing upon the Levee, waiting for my luggage, I was thus addressed by a long, lean, down-Easter:

“Say yeou, which of these things slips up fust?”

“What?” said I.

“Which of these things slips up fust?”

“Do you mean which steam-boat goes up the river first?”

“Yes, I’ll be darned if I don’t.”

“That one,” said I pointing to the nearest.

“I’m in an awful hurry to git eout of this. It is so thundering hot, and I smell the yeller fever all reound.”

This individual had a very intellectual forehead, measuring about an inch and a quarter in height, and punched in at the sides to match. His eyes were set deep in their sockets, and something like a pig’s, only the colour was not as good. His nose pushed boldly out, as it started from the lower part of his forehead, as though it meant to be something, but when it had reached half its destination, it bent suddenly in like a parrot’s beak. His upper lip was long and thin, and was stretched on a sort of rack, which was made by a couple of supernumerary teeth, which stuck out very prominently. His chin, too modest to attempt a rivalry with his projecting lip, receded backwards towards the throat, so that, to look at him in front, you did not perceive that he had any chin at all. His hair was very light and bristly. A snuff-coloured coat of domestic manufacture adorned the upper part of his person. It was an ancient affair. The velvet was worn from the collar in several places, but which was carefully patched with red flannel, being the nearest approach to the original colour of the collar that could be found in his domestic menagerie of reserved rags. The buttons, which one would naturally look for at the bottom of the waist, had wandered up between his shoulders. The coat was remarkably long, extending from high up on the shoulders to the lower part of the calves of his legs. He was slightly round-shouldered, so that when he stood right up, a small lady might have found shelter in a rain storm in the vacancy left beween the coat and the back. His pants, to common observers, would have been called too short, but he denied this, averring that his legs were too long for his trowsers. On his arm hung an old-fashioned camblet cloak, with the lining of green baize hanging about a quarter of a yard below the edge of the camblet. He said this was no fault of the lining, anyhow; “it got wet, and t’other shrunk a leetle, but the lining stuck to it like blazes.” The Yankee was exceedingly anxious to secure his passage by the first boat, and he sang out to some person:

“Say, yeou, where is the Captain of this consarn. Say, yeou, (to some one else,) I want the Captain. Look here, Nigger, show a feller the Captain. Look here, you black sarpint, don’t stick out your lips at me. Wal, I swow, I’ll give anybody three cents that will show me the Captain.”

The Captain, hearing the noise, stepped forward, and told the Yankee if he wished to see the Captain, he was commander of the boat.

“Dew tell? Wal, I swan, you have got a kind of commanding way about you, that’s a fact.”

“What do you wish?” said the Captain.

“Wal, I want a bathe.”

“Very well, jump into the river, there is plenty of water.”

“I tell you, I want a bathe.”

“Well, don’t I tell you to jump in, you can swim across if you like; we shall not start just yet.”

“I want a bathe to lie down in. Now do you know what I mean, darn you?”

“Oh, you want a berth?”

“Wal, darn you, didn’t I say bathe? I know what I’m about, I guess.”

“I will accommodate you as far as I can,” said the Captain, “but I’ve nothing but a mattrass to offer, and that is upon the cabin floor.”

“Dew tell.”

“It is the only one that is vacant, and the cabin floor is covered with them, so you had better secure it at once.”

“Wal, then, I guess I’d better turn right in.”

I omitted to mention that he carried a valise in his hand. Some one rather impertinently asked him what he had in it.

“Wal,” said he, “I don’t know that it’s any of your business, but I don’t mind telling on you. There is two shirts, one clean, t’other dirty; a pair of pants about as good as new, only a leetle worn here and there, and a pair of pistols. D’ye want I should take ’em out and show you?”

When he went down to turn in, he put the valise under his head, wrapped his old cloak around him, and threw himself, as he said, “into the arms of omnibus.” The mattrasses on the other side of him, were occupied by some rough Kentucky boatmen. In the middle of the night, these men got up and commenced playing cards. No table being handy, they made use of the back of our Yankee friend for one, and chalked the reckoning of the game upon the camblet cloak, which surrounded the body of the unconscious sleeper. They became interested in the game, and began to lay down their cards with a might of fist, and earnestness of manner, which soon roused up our sleeping friend. He attempted to rise, but was held down by one of the party, who exclaimed:

“Lie still, stranger, I’ve only got three to go, and I hold the Jack.”

“Never mind, I’m a most smothered here, but go ahead, darn you, play quick and I’ll go you halves.”

He according lay still, until they had finished their game, but whether the Kentucky gambler divided his gains with his table, was never satisfactorily ascertained.

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[10] By G. H. Hill.

XII.
DICK M’COY’S SKETCHES OF HIS NEIGHBOURS.

Last summer, I determined to visit the battle-ground of the _Horse-Shoe_, to see if any vestiges remained of _Old Hickory’s_ great fight with the Indians of the Tallapoosa. Fond of all sorts of aquatic diversion, I concluded to take the river four or five miles above, and descend to the “Shoe,” and I therefore employed an old crony of mine, Dick M’Coy, to take me down in a canoe. Dick lives on the bank, and has all the qualifications of an otter, for river explorations.

For some miles above the battle-ground, the river is a succession of shallows, broken every mile or two by lovely patches of smooth, still water, generally bedecked with a green islet or two, around which the trout love to play. The banks are generally large, irregular hills, that look as if they were struggling to pitch themselves, with their huge pines, into the stream; but, once in a while, you find a level strip of alluvial in cultivation, or a beautiful and fertile declivity, shaded by magnificent poplars, beech-trees, and walnut. Now and then you may see the cabin of a squatter, stuck to the side of a hill, like a fungus against a wall; but, generally, the Tallapoosa retains the wild, pristine features of the days when the Creek hunted on its banks, or disported himself upon its waters. A little way out from the river, on either side, among the “hollows” formed by little creeks and smaller streams, live a people, half-agricultural, half-piscatorial—a sinewy, yellow-headed, whiskey-loving set. Those south of the river, are the inhabitants of “’Possum-Trot,” while those on the north are the citizens of “Turpentine.” Dick M’Coy is a ’Possum-Trotter, a fishing fellow, fishy in his stories, but always _au fait_ in regard to matters of settlement gossip.

Seated on a clap-board, a little aft of the centre of the boat, and facing Dick, I was amused for several hours with his conversation, as we threaded the intricate passages of the shoals, now whizzing by and barely touching an ugly rock, now spinning round in a little whirlpool, like a tee-totum. The skill of my Palinurus, however, seemed equal to any emergency; and we alternately twisted and tumbled along, at the rate of two miles and a half an hour.

As we came into a small, deep sheet of water, Dick pointed with his paddle to a smoke issuing from among the trees, on the “Turpentine” side of the river, and remarked:

“Thar’s whar our _lazy_ man lives—Seaborn Brown.”

“Ah! is he lazy much?”

“Powerful.”

“As how?”

“Onct he went out huntin’, and he was so lazy he ’cluded he wouldn’t. So he laid down in the sand, close to the aidge of the water. It come on to rain like the devil, and I, seen him from t’other side, tho’t he was asleep, and hollered to him.

“Ses I, ‘it’s rainin’ like wrath, Seab, and why don’t you git up?’

“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘I’m wet any how, and thar’s no use.’

“After a little, the river begun to rise about five foot an hour, and I hollers to him agin.

“Ses I, ‘Seaborn, the river’s a-risin’ on to your gun; the but’s half way in the water now.’

“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘The water ain’t gwine to hurt the wood part.’

“I waited a few minutes, and sung out:

“‘Seaborn, you’re half under water yourself, and your gun-lock is in the river!’

“Ses he, ‘I never ketches cold, and thar’s no load in the gun, and besides, she needs a washin’ out.’

“And Squire,” continued Dick, “the last I seen of him that day, he tuck a flask out of his pocket, _as he lay_, drinkt, ketcht some water in the flask, and drinkt again, _as he lay; and then throw’d his face back_, this way, like, _to keep the river out of his mouth and nose_!”

Amused at Dick’s anecdote of his lazy neighbour, I solicited some information about the occupant of a cabin nearly in the water, on the ’Possum Trot side.

At the very door of the dwelling commenced a fish-trap dam; and on the trap stood a stalwart fellow in a red flannel shirt, and pantaloons that were merely breeches—the legs being torn off entirely.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Wait till we pass him, and I’ll tell you.”

We tumbled onward a few yards.

“That’s Jim Ed’ards; _he loves cat-fish, some! Well_, he does! Don’t do nothin’ but ketch ’em. Some of the boys says he’s got slimy all over, _like_ unto a cat—don’t know about that; all I know is, we ketcht one in the seine, that weighed over forty pounds. Thar was a _mocassin_ tuk out of it longer than my arm. And nobody wouldn’t have it then, but Jim. As we was goin’ home, Jim a totin’ the fish—ses I, ‘Jim, you ain’t agwine to eat _that_ cat, sure_ly_!’

“Ses he, ‘Pshaw! that mocassin warn’t nothin’.’

“Ses I, ‘Jim, enny man that’ll eat that cat, would eat a bull-frog.’

“And with that, he knocked me down and liked to a killed me: and that was the reason I didn’t want to tell you about him twell we’d passed him.”

As we neared a pretty little island, on which were a house and two or three acres in cultivation:

“Thar,” said Dick, “is Dock Norris’s settle_ment_. I guess he won’t ‘_play horse_’ agin in a hurry. He claims ’Possum Trot for his beat, but we’d all rather he’d take Turpingtine.”

“What game was that he played?” I asked.

“Oh! playin’ horse. See, thar was a crowd of boys come down and kamped on Turpingtine side, to seine. They was but a little ways from the river—leastways thar camp-fire was—and between the river and it, is a pretty knoll, whar the river’s left a pretty bed of white sand as big as a garden spot, and right at it the water’s ten foot deep, and it’s about the same from the top of the bluff to the water.

“A big, one-eyed fellow named Ben Baker, was at the head of the town crowd, and as soon as they’d struck a camp, Ben and his fellers, except one (a lad like), tuck the seine and went away down the river, fishin’, and was gone a’most all day. Well, Dock bein’ of a sharp, splinter-legged, mink-face feller, gits some of his boys, and goes over in the time, and they drinks all Ben’s whiskey and most all his coffee, and eats up all his bacon-meat—’sides bein’ sassy to the boy. Arter a while here comes Ben and his kump’ny, back, wet and tired, and hungry. The boy told ’em Dock Norris and his crowd had eat and drunk up everything, and Ben’s one eye shined like the ev’ning star.

“‘Whar’s he?’ axed Ben; and then he turned round and seed Dock and his boys, on thar all-fours squealin’ and rearin’, _playin’ horse_, they called it, in that pretty sandy place. Ben went right in amongst ’em, and ses he, ‘I’ll play horse, too,’ and then he came down to his all-fours, and here they had it, round and round, rearin’, pitchin’, and cavortin’! Dock was might’ly pleased that Ben didn’t seem mad; but bimeby, Ben got him close to the bank, and then, in a minute, gethered him by the seat of his breeches and the har of the head and slung him twenty foot out in the current. About the time Dock ris, Ben had another of the crowd harnessed, and he throw’d _him_ at _Dock_! Then he pitched another, and so on, twell he’d thrown ’em all in. You oughter ’a seen ’em swim to the shoals and take that bee-line for home!”

“Why didn’t they turn on him and thrash him?” I asked.

“Oh, you see he was a great big fellow, weighed two hundred, and was as strong as a yoke of oxen; and you know, ’squire, most of the people is mighty _puny-like_, in the _Trot_. Well, _playin’ horse_ got broke up after that.”

When the next clearing came into view, I inquired of M’Coy, whose it was.

“_Don’t_ you know, ’squire? Ain’t you never _seen_ him? Why, it’s old Bill Wallis’s place, and he’s _our ugly man_! The whole livin’, breathin’ yeth ain’t got the match to his picter! His mouth is split every way, and turned wrong-side out, and when he opens it, it’s like spreadin’ an otter trap to set it. The skin’s constant a pealin’ from his nose, and his eyes looks like they was just stuck on to his face with pins! He’s got hardly any skin to shet his eyes with, and not a sign of _har_ to that little! His years is like a wolf’s, and his tongue’s a’most allers hangin’ out of his mouth! His whole face looks like it was half-roasted! Why, he’s obleeged to stay ’bout home; the nabor women is afraid their babies ’ill be like him!”

Just after this last story, we reached a fall of two feet, over which Dick’s plan was to descend bow-foremost, with a “ca-souse,” as he expressed it. But we ran upon a rock, the current swayed us round, and over we went, broadside.

“This is an ugly scrape, Dick,” said I, as soon as we got ashore.

“Yes, ’squire, but not so ugly as old Wallis; thar’s nuthin but deth can eekal him. Howsever, less leave bailin’ the boat twell mornin’, and go and stay with old Billy to-night, and then you’ll see for yourself.”

So, instead of sleeping at the Horse-shoe, we spent the night with old Billy and his folks; and we had a rare time there, I assure you.

XIII.
KICKING A YANKEE.[11]

A very handsome friend of ours, who a few weeks ago was _poked_ out of a comfortable office up the river, has betaken himself to Bangor, for a time, to recover from the wound inflicted upon his feelings by our “unprincipled and immolating administration.”

Change of air must have had an instantaneous effect upon his spirits; for, from Galena, he writes us an amusing letter, which, among other things, tells us of a desperate quarrel that took place on board of the boat between a real live dandy tourist, and a real live Yankee settler. The latter trod on the toes of the former; whereupon the former threatened to “Kick out of the cabin” the latter.

“You’ll kick me out of this cabing?”

“Yes Sir, I’ll kick you out of this cabin!”

“You’ll kick _me_, Mr. _Hitchcock_, out of this cabing?”

“Yes, Sir, I’ll kick _you_, Mr. Hitchcock!”

“Wal, I guess,” said the Yankee, very coolly, after being perfectly satisfied that it was himself who stood in such imminent peril of assault—“I guess’ since you talk of kicking, you’ve never heard me tell about old Bradley and my mare, there, to hum?”

“No, Sir, nor do I wish—”

“Wal, guess it won’t set you back much, any how, as kicking’s generally best to be considered on. You see old Bradley is one of these sanctimonious, long-faced hypocrites, who put on a religious suit every Sabbath morning, and with a good deal of screwing, manage to keep it on till after sermon in the afternoon; and as I was a Universalist, he allers picked me out as a subject for religious conversation—and the darned hypocrite would talk about sacred things, without ever winking. Wal, he had an old roan mare that would jump over any fourteen-rail fence in Illinois, and open any door in my barn that hadn’t a padlock on it. Tu or three times I found her in my stable, and I told Bradley about it, and he was ‘very sorry’—‘an unruly animal’—‘would watch her,’ and a hull lot of such things, all said in a very serious manner, with a face twice as long, as Deacon Farrar’s on Fast day. I knew all the time he was lying, and so I watched him and his old roan tu; and for three nights regular, old roan came to my stable about bed time, and just at daylight Bradley would come, bridle her, and ride off. I then just took my old mare down to a blacksmith’s shop, and had some shoes made with ‘corks’ about four inches long, and had ’em nailed on to her hind feet. Your heels mister, ain’t nuthing to ’em. I took her home, give her about ten feet halter, and tied her right in the centre of the stable, fed her well with oats about nine o’clock, and after taking a good smoke, went to bed, knowing that my old mare was a truth-telling animal, and that she’d give a good report of herself in the morning. I hadn’t got fairly to sleep before the old ’oman hunched me and wanted to know what on airth was the matter out at the stable.

“Says I, ‘Go tu sleep, Peggy, it is nothing but Kate—she is kicking off flies, I guess!’

“Purty soon she hunched me again, and says she:

“‘Mr. Hitchcock, du git up and see what in the world is the matter with Kate, for she is kicking most powerfully.’

“‘Lay still, Peggy, Kate will take care of herself, I guess.’

“Wal, the next morning, about daylight, Bradley, with bridle in hand, cum to the stable, as true as the book of Genesis; when he saw the old roan’s sides, starn, and head, he cursed and swore worse than you did, mister, when I came down on your toes. Arter breakfast that morning Joe Davis cum to my house, and says he:

“‘Bradley’s old roan is nearly dead—she’s cut all to pieces and can scarcely move.’

“‘I want to know,’ says I, ‘how on airth did it happen?’

“Now, Joe Davis was a member of the same church with Bradley, and whilst we were talking, up cum that everlastin’ hypocrite, and says he:

“‘Mr. Hitchcock, my old roan is ruined!’

“‘Du tell,’ says I.

“‘She is cut all to pieces,’ says he; ‘do you know whether she was in your stable, Mr. Hitchcock, last night?’

“Wal, mister, with this I let out:

“‘Do I _know_ it?’—(the Yankee here, in illustration, made a sudden advance upon the dandy, who made way for him unconsciously, as it were)—‘Do I know it? you no-souled, shad-bellied, squash-headed, old night-owl you!—you hay-hookin’, corn-cribbin’, fodder-fudgin’, cent-shavin’, whitlin’-of-nuthin’ you!—Kate kicks like a mere dumb beast, but I’ve reduced the thing to a _science_!’” The Yankee had not ceased to advance, or the dandy, in his astonishment, to retreat; and now, the motion of the latter being accelerated by an apparent demonstration on the part of the former to “suit the action to the word,” he found himself in the “social hall,” tumbling backwards over a pile of baggage, and tearing the knees of his pants as he scrambled up, a perfect scream of laughter stunning him from all sides.

The defeat was total: a few moments afterwards he was dragging his own trunk ashore, while Mr. Hitchcock finished his story on the boiler deck.

-----

[11] By J. M. Field.

XIV.
WHY MR. SELLUM DISPOSED OF THE HORSE.
A MATTER OF FACT STORY.

Mr. Sellum is a horse-jockey; that is, when he is not more profitably employed, he is not ashamed, so he says, to “try his fort’n in that very respectable callin’.” He dropped in at Bailey’s bazaar a few weeks since; and very soon after Sellum arrived, a superb-looking charger, mounted by a graceful rider, pranced up the court, and entered the arena, to be sold at public vendue.

“There he is, gents,” said the auctioneer; “there he is! a splendid beast! Look at him, and judge for yourselves. There’s an ear, a forearm, a nostril, an eye for you! That animal, gentlemen, was ‘knocked down’ to a gentleman under the hammer, less than three months ago, for two hundred and eighty dollars. But I am authorized to-day to sell that horse—let him bring more or less. He’s a beauty; fine figure, splendid saddle-beast, natural gait fourteen miles to the hour, trots a mile in 2′ 42″; and altogether he’s a great horse,” which last remark no one could doubt, for he weighed eleven hundred pounds. “How much am I offered for that beautiful beast?” continued the auctioneer. “Move him round the ring once, John. That’s it; elegant motion.”

There the horse stopped short, and refused to budge an inch, though John buried the rowels to the shoulder in his ribs.

“Give me a bid, gentlemen, if you please. The horse must be sold.”

“Twenty dollars,” was heard from one corner of the room.

“_Twenty dollars!_” screamed the auctioneer, with a seemingly ironical laugh. “I’m offered the stupendous sum of twenty dollars, gentlemen, for that horse. Are there no sausage-makers in this congregation? I’m offered only twenty dollars! But, as I said before, the horse is here to be sold, so I shall accept the bid. Twenty dollars. I’m offered twenty dollars—twenty—twenty—give me thirty? Twenty dollars—twenty—did I hear thirty? Twenty dollars—give _five_? Twenty dollars—say _one_? Shall I have twenty-one? If that’s the best bid, down he must go, gentlemen! Twenty dollars! going! Twenty, only. Who’s the fortunate buyer?”

“Sellum, John Sellum,” said our friend.

“John Sellum, twenty dollars,” says the auctioneer; “you’ve got a horse as is a horse, Mr. Sellum.”

And the fortunate John bore his magnificent charger away in triumph. A few days subsequently, an old acquaintance met John in the cars, and inquired about his purchase.

“Got that horse yet, John?”

“No, I sold him.”

“So soon—what for?”

“Wal, nothin’ in particular; but I didn’t fancy the critter, all things considered.”

“He was sound; wasn’t he?”

“Wall, I reckon he wasn’t; that is to say, I cal-k’late he wasn’t. Show’d very good pluck, till I got him down into Washington Street, after I left the baz-a-r, but just opposite the Old South, he fell slap down on the pavement.”

“Pshaw! you don’t say so!”

“Yaas. Blindstaggers—wust kind. But I didn’t mind that, so I took him home, and nussed him up a little. Put him in the gig next day; wouldn’t start a peg! Coax’d him, draw’d him, run a hot wire in his ear, wollup’d him, and so forth; and finally, I built a fire under him. All no use; cunning cuss, sot rite down on the pile o’ lighted shavins, and put it out.”

Here his friend smiled.

“That wasn’t nothin’ tho’. Went to git inter the wag’n, and he started ’fore I gath’red up the ribbins. Went ’bout three rods for’ard, and stopped agin quicker’n lightnin’. Brought him back, put him in the stall—low stable—got out of his reach, and then begun to whale him. Then he kicked up agin; knocked the floorin’ all through over head, stove his shoes off, broke his halter, and then run back inter the stable-floor. Trap-door happened to be open, and down went his hind legs, clear to the hips. There I had him foul.”

“Yes, you did,” replied his friend.

“I got a piece o’ plank, an’ I lam’d ’im for ’bout ten minutes, w’en, I be hanged, if he didn’t _git mad_! and kick hisself out o’ the hole. Next mornin’ found him swelled up big as four hogs-heads. Rub’d sperrets o’ turpentine all over ’im, an the ungrateful rascal kep tryin’ to kick me for’t. Give him nothin to eat for eight days, and the swellin’ went down. Took him out o’ the stable, and found him lame _behind_.”

“Very likely.”

“But on a closer examination, see he was full as lame for’ard; one balanced t’other, so’s he couldn’t limp. One eye had been knocked out in the fight, but the head-stall kivered that misfort’n. Brushed ’im up kerefully, and put on the shiny harness. Led him down the street, an’ met an old gent in search of a ‘spirited’ beast. Asked me if, I wanted to sell?

“‘No, Sir,’ sez I.

“‘Wot’ll you take for’m?’ sez he.

“‘He’s high strung,’ sez I.

“‘He is,’ sez he; ‘wot’s he wuth?’

“‘I never warrants hosses,’ sez I. ‘If you wa’t’m jest as he is. You’re a good judge o’ hosses, no doubt?’ sez I.

“‘Wal, I am,’ sez he.

“‘Very well, then; you may have’m for two hundred dollars.’

“The old gent pecked in his mouth, stroked his neck, looked very knowin’, and replied:

“‘I’ll give you a hundred and fifty.’

“‘Split the difference,’ sez I.

“‘Done!’ sez he.

“‘The hoss is yourn,’ sez I.

“He give me the money, took the animal, an’ that’s the last I’ve heene o’ him or that hoss.”

“Possible!” exclaimed his friend.

“Yaas, under all the circumstances, I thort it wan’t best to keep the beast, you see, so I let him go.”

“Where are you going now?” asked his friend.

“To York.”

“When do you return?”

“_Not at present_,” said Mr. Sellum, slyly; and I reckon he didn’t.

XV.
METAPHYSICS.[12]

Most people are of opinion that whatever is, is right; but, strange to say, an acquaintance with pen and ink and that sort of thing is very apt to reverse this opinion. No sooner do we begin to study metaphysics, than we find how egregiously we have been mistaken, in supposing that “Master Parson is really Master Parson.”

I, for my part, have a high opinion of metaphysical studies, and think the science a very useful one, because it teaches people what sheer nobodies they are. The only objection is, they are not disposed to lay this truth sufficiently to heart, but continue to give themselves airs, just as if some folks were really some folks.

Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in my youth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and could cavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities, nominalism and realism, free will and necessity, with which sort of learning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers, the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt to say with the old woman in Molière:

“Il parle si bien que je n’entend goutte.”

I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather’s, in which the Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all “as clear as preaching.” There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatest hand at raising onions in our part of the country, but “not knowing metaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad;” my Aunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings like all possest, but could not syllogize; Malachi Muggs, our hired man, that drove the oxen, and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who had dropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something was under discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but the Doctor said it was “metaphysically true.”

“Pray, Doctor,” said Uncle Tim, “tell me something about metaphysics; I have often heard of that science, but never for my life could find out what it was.”

“Metaphysics,” said the Doctor, “is the science of abstractions.”

“I’m no wiser for that explanation,” said Uncle Tim.

“It treats,” said the Doctor, “of matters most profound and sublime, a little difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooled capacity to fathom, but not the less important, on that account, to all living beings.”

“What does it teach?” asked the schoolmaster.

“It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching,” answered the Doctor, “as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whether things are, or whether they are not.”

“I don’t understand the question,” said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

“For example, whether this earth on which we tread,” said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and setting his foot slap on the cat’s tail, “whether this earth does really exist, or whether it does not exist.”

“That is a point of considerable consequence to settle,” said my grandfather.

“Especially,” added the schoolmaster, “to the holders of real estate.”

“Now the earth,” continued the Doctor, “may exist——”

“Who the dogs ever doubted that?” asked Uncle Tim.

“A great many men,” said the Doctor, “and some very learned ones.”

Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill up his pipe, whistling the tune of High Betty Martin, while the Doctor went on:

“The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyond all possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case is clear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it or not.”

“And how,” asked Uncle Tim, “is all this to be found out?”

“By digging down to the first principles,” answered the Doctor.

“Ay,” interrupted Malachi, “there is nothing equal to the spade and pickaxe.”

“That is true,” said my grandfather, going on in Malachi’s way, “’tis by digging for the foundation that we shall find out whether the world exists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find a foundation—why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, it is clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that it does not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason—”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the Doctor, “but you totally mistake me; I use the word _digging_ metaphorically, meaning the profoundest cogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way in which we may ascertain whether things are or whether they are not.”

“But if a man can’t believe his eyes,” said Uncle Tim, “what signifies talking about it?”

“Our eyes,” said the Doctor, “are nothing at all but the inlets of sensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we have a sensation of it; we are not sure that the thing exists. We are sure of nothing that we see with our eyes.”

“Not without spectacles,” said Aunt Judy.

“Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object is produced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits streaming off from the object to the organs of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs.”

“But does the world exist?” asked the schoolmaster.

“A good deal may be said on both sides,” replied the Doctor, “though the ablest heads are for non-existence.”

“In common cases,” said Uncle Tim, “those who utter nonsense are considered blockheads.”

“But in metaphysics,” said the Doctor, “the case is different.”

“Now all this is hocus pocus to me,” said Aunt Judy, suspending her knitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles. “I don’t understand a bit more of the business than I did at first.”

“I’ll be bound there is many a learned professor,” said Uncle Tim, “could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics.”

The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favourite science.

“That is as the case may be,” said he; “this thing or that thing may be dubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom.”

“No doubt of that,” said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire, “but when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin to build upon in the metaphysical way?”

“Why, he begins by taking something for granted,” said the Doctor.

“But is that a sure way of going to work?”

“’Tis the only thing he can do,” replied the Doctor, after a pause, and rubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that his foundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him with another question, but he poked the fire and let him go on.

“Metaphysics, to speak exactly—”

“Ah,” interrupted the schoolmaster, “bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it.”

“’Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essence of things.”

“Come, come,” said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, “now I see into it.”

“Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence or capability of being; for a man metaphysically, or to metaphysical purposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality and that of corporeity, which may be considered separate.”

“What man?” asked Uncle Tim.

“Why any man; Malachi there, for example, I may consider him as Malachi spiritual or Malachi corporal.”

“That is true,” said Malachi, “for when I was in the militia, they made me a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer.”

“That is another affair,” said the Doctor, in continuation, “we speak of man in his essence; we speak also of the essence of locality, the essence of duration—”

“And essence of peppermint,” said Aunt Judy.

“Pooh!” said the Doctor, “the essence I mean is quite a different concern.”

“Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still,” said my grandfather.

“Then I am all in the dark again,” rejoined Aunt Judy.

“By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract.”

“And what becomes of a thing when it gets into the abstract?” asked Uncle Tim.

“Why, it becomes an abstraction.”

“There we are again,” said Uncle Tim; “but what the deuce is an abstraction?”

“It’s a thing that has no matter; that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neither large nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short.”

“Then what is the long and short of it?” asked the schoolmaster.

“Abstraction,” replied the Doctor.

“Suppose, for instance,” said Malachi, “that I had a pitchfork—”

“Ay,” said the Doctor, “consider a pitchfork in general; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchfork or pitchforks divested of their materiality—these are things in the abstract.”

“They are things in the hay-mow,” said Malachi.

“Pray,” said Uncle Tim, “have there been many such things discovered?”

“Discovered!” returned the Doctor, “why all things, whether in heaven or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small or great, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whatever the eye can see, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch; finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in _rerum natura_, past, present or to come, all may be abstractions.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Tim, “pray what do you make of the abstraction of a red cow?”

“A red cow,” said the Doctor, “considered metaphysically, or as an abstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones nor flesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of these parts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no colour at all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidental properties of all the animals of its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews the cud, nor performs any other function of a horned beast, but is a mere creature of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy, and nourished by a conceit of the imagination.”

“A dog’s foot!” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “All the metaphysics under the sun wouldn’t make a pound of butter.”

“That’s a fact!” said Uncle Tim.

-----

[12] Anonymous.

XVI.
A TIGHT RACE CONSIDERIN’.

During my medical studies, passed in a small village in Mississippi, I became acquainted with a family named Hibbs, residing a few miles in the country. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Hibbs and son. They were plain, unlettered people, honest in intent and deed, but overflowing with that which amply made up for all their deficiencies of education, namely, warm-hearted hospitality, the distinguishing trait of southern character. They were originally from Virginia, from whence they had emigrated in quest of a clime more genial, and a soil more productive than that in which their fathers toiled.

Their search had been rewarded, their expectations realized, and now, in their old age, though not wealthy in the “Astorian” sense, still they had sufficient to keep the “wolf from the door,” and drop something more substantial than condolence and tears, in the hat that poverty hands round for the kind offerings of humanity.

The old man was like the generality of old planters, men whose ambition is embraced by the family or social circle, and whose thoughts turn more on the relative value of “Sea Island” and “Mastodon,” and the improvement of their plantations, than the “glorious victories of Whiggery in Kentucky,” or the “triumphs of democracy in Arkansas.”

The old lady was a shrewd, active dame, kind-hearted and long-tongued, benevolent and impartial, making her coffee as strong for the poor pedestrian, with his all upon his back, as the broadcloth sojourner, with his “up-country pacer.”

She was a member of the church, as well as the daughter of a man who had once owned a race-horse: and these circumstances gave her an indisputable right, she thought, to “let on all she knew,” when religion or horse-flesh was the theme.