Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“Right, right, Bill,” said Mike; “but we’ll open with a _licker_ all around fust, it’ll kind o’ save my feelin’s I reckon.”

“Thar, that’s good. Better than t’other barrel, if anything.”

“Well, boys,” commenced Mike, “you may talk o’ your scrimmages, tight places and sich like, and subtract ’em altogether in one all-mighty big ’un, and they hain’t no more to be compared to the one I war in, than a dead kitten to an old she-bar, I’ve fout all kinds of varmints, from a Ingun down to a rattlesnake, and never was willin’ to quit fust, but this once, and t’was with a bull!

“You see, boys, it was an awful hot day in August, and I war near runnin’ off into pure _ile_, when I war thinkin’ that a _dip_ in the creek mout save me. Well, thar was a mighty nice place in old Deacon Smith’s medder for that partic’lar bizziness. So I went down among the bushes to unharness. I jest hauled the old red shirt over my head, and war thinkin’ how scrumptious a feller of my size would feel a wallerin’ round in that ar water, and was jest ’bout goin’ in, when I seed the old Deacon’s bull a makin a b-line to whar I stood.

“I know’d the old cuss, for he’d skar’d more people than all the parsons in the ‘settlement,’ and cum mighty near killin’ a few. Think’s I, Mike, you’re in rather a tight place. Get your fixin’s on, for he’ll be drivin’ them big horns o’ his in yer bowels afore that time. Well, you’ll hev to try the old varmint naked, I reck’n.

“The bull war on one side o’ the creek, and I on t’other, and the way he made the ‘sile’ fly for a while, as if he war diggin’ my grave, war distressin’!

“‘Come on, ye bellerin’ old heathen,’ said I, ‘and don’t be a standin’ there; for, as the old Deacon says o’ the devil, yer not comely to look on.’

“This kind o’ reached his understandin’, and made him more wishious; for he hoofed a little like, and made a drive. And as I don’t like to stand in anybody’s way, I gin him plenty sea-room. So he kind o’ passed by me, and cum out on t’other side; and as the captain o’ the mud-swamp ranger’s would say: ‘’bout face for another charger.’

“Though I war ready for him this time, he come mighty nigh runnin’ foul o’ me. So I made up my minde the next time he went out he wouldn’t be alone. So when he passed, I grappled his tail, and he pulled me out on the ‘sile,’ and as soon as we were both a’top o’ the bank, old Brindle stopped, and was about comin’ round agin, when I begin pull’n t’other way.

“Well, I reckon this kind o’ _riled_ him, for he fust stood stock still, and look’d at me for a spell, and then commenced pawin’ and bellerin’, and the way he made his hind gearing play in the air, war beautiful!

“But it warn’t no use, he couldn’t _tech_ me, so he kind o’ stopped to get wind for suthin’ devilish, as I _judged_ by the way he stared. By this time I had made up my mind to stick to his tail as long as it stuck to his back-bone! I didn’t like to holler fur help, nuther, kase it war agin my principles; and then the Deacon had preached at his house, and it warn’t far off nuther.

“I know’d if he _hern_ the noise, the hull congregation would come down; and as I warn’t a married man, and had a kind o’ hankerin’ arter a gal that war thar, I didn’t feel as if I would like to be seed in that ar predicament.

“‘So,’ ses I, ‘you old sarpent, do yer cussedst!’

“And so he did; for he drug me over every briar and stump in the field, until I was sweatin’ and bleedin’ like a fat _bar_ with a pack o’ hounds at his heels. And my name ain’t Mike Fink, if the old critter’s tail and I didn’t blow out sometimes at a dead level with the varmint’s back!

“So you may kalkilate we made good time. Bimeby he slackened a little, and then I had him for a spell, for I jest dropped behind a stump, and that snubbed the critter.

“‘Now,’ ses I, ‘you’ll pull up this ’ere white oak, break you’re _tail_, or jist hold on a bit till I blow.’

“Well, while I war settin’ thar, an idea struck me that I had better be a gettin’ out o’ this in some way. But _how_, adzackly was the _pint_! If I let go and run, he’d be a foul o’ me sure.

“So lookin’ at the matter in all its bearins, I cum to the conclusion that I’d better let somebody _know_ whar I was. So I gin a _yell_ louder than a locomotive whistle, and it warn’t long before I seed the Deacon’s two dogs a comin’ down like as if they war seein’ which could get thar fust.

“I know’d who they war arter—they’d jine the bull agin me, I war sartin, for they war awful wenimous, and had a spite agin me.

“‘So,’ ses I, ‘old Brindle, as ridin’ is as cheap as walkin’ on this rout, if you’ve no objections, I’ll jest take a deck passage on that ar back o’ your’n.’

“So I wasn’t long gettin’ astride of him, and then if you’d been thar, you’d ’ave sworn thar warn’t nothin’ human in that ar _mix_; the sile flew so orrfully as the critter and I rolled round the field—one dog on one side and one on t’other, tryin’ to clinch my feet!

“I pray’d and cuss’d, and cuss’d and pray’d, until I couldn’t tell which I did last—and neither warn’t of any use, they war so orrfully mix’d up.

“Well, I reckon I rid about an hour this way, when old Brindle thought it war time to stop and take in a supply of wind and cool off a little! So when we got round to a tree that stood thar, he nat’rally halted!

“‘Now,’ ses I, ‘old boy, you’ll lose _one_ passenger sartin!’

“So I just clum upon a branch, kalkelating to roost thar till I starved, afore I’d be rid round that ar way any more.

“I war makin’ tracks for the top of the tree, when I heard suthin’ a makin’ an orful buzzin’ over head, I kinder looked up, and if thar warn’t—well thar’s no use swearin’ now, but it war the biggest _hornet’s nest_ ever built!

“You’ll gin in now, I reckon, Mike, case thar’s no help for you! But an idea struck me, then, that I’d stand a heap better chance a ridin’ the old bull than where I war. Ses I, ‘Old feller, if you’ll hold on, I’ll ride to the next _station_ any how, let that be whar it will!’

“So I jest drapped aboard him agin, and looked aloft to see what I’d gained in changing quarters; and, gentlemen, I’m a liar if thar warn’t nigh half a bushel of the stingen’ varmints ready to pitch into me when the word ‘go’ was gin!

“Well, I reckon they got it, for ‘all hands’ started for our _company_! Some on ’em hit the dogs—about a _quart_ struck me, and the rest charged old Brindle.

“This time, the dogs led off fust, ‘dead’ beat, for the old Deacon’s, and as soon as old Brindle and I could get under way, we _followed_. And as I war only a deck passenger, and had nothin’ to do with stearin’ the craft, I swore if I had we shouldn’t have run that channel, any how!

“But, as I said before, the dogs took the lead—Brindle and I next, and the hornets dre’kly arter. The dogs yellin’, Brindle bellerin’, and the hornets buzzin’ and stingin’! I didn’t say nothin’ for it warn’t no use.

“Well, we’d got bout two hundred yards from the house, and the Deacon hearn us and cum out. I seed him hold up his hands and turn _white_! I reckon he war prayin’ then, for he didn’t expect to be called for so soon, and it warn’t long, neither, afore the hull congregation, men, women, and children, cum out, and then all hands went to yellin’!

“None of ’em had the fust notion that Brindle and I belonged to this world. I jest turned my head, and passed the _hull_ congregation! I seed the run would be up soon, for Brindle couldn’t turn an inch from a fence that stood dead ahead.

“Well, we reached that fence, and I went _ashore_, over the old critter’s head, landin’ on t’other side, and lay thar stunned. It warn’t long afore some of ’em as war not so scared, come round to see what I war, for all hands kalkelated that the bull and I belonged _together_! But when Brindle walked off by himself, they seed how it war, and one of ’em said:

“‘Mike Fink has got the _worst of the scrimmage once in his life_!’

“Gentlemen, from that day I drapped the _courtin’_ bizziness, and never spoke to a gal since! And when my hunt is up on this yearth, thar won’t be any more F I N K S and it’s all owin’ to Deacon Smith’s Brindle Bull.”

IX.
OUR SINGING-SCHOOL.
A CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF THE TOWN OF
PIGWACKET.

My second cousin by the mother’s side, Benjamin Blackletter, A.M., who was born and lived all his lifetime in the ancient town of Pigwacket, has compiled, with scrupulous accuracy, the annals of that venerable town, in three volumes folio, which he proposes to publish as soon as he can find a Boston bookseller who will undertake the job. I hope this will be accomplished before long, for Pigwacket is a very interesting spot, though not very widely known. It is astonishing what important events are going on every day, in odd corners of this country, which the world knows nothing about. When I read over these trusty folios, which bear the title, “=The General History of the Town of Pigwacket=, _from its first settlement until the present day, comprising an authentic relation of all its civil, military, ecclesiastical, financial and statistical concerns, compiled from original records, &c._” and see the great deeds that have been done in that respectable town, and the great men that have figured therein, and reflect that the fame thereof, so far from extending to the four corners of the earth, has hardly penetrated as far as Boston, I heave a sigh for mortal glory.

Knowing that my readers must be impatient for the appearance of the three folios of the History of Pigwacket, and as they cannot be put to press for some months, I avail myself of this chance to feed their curiosity by an extract, as the cook at Camancho’s wedding gave Sancho a couple of pullets to stay his stomach till dinner-time. Take then the portion contained in Chapter CLXXXVIII., which begins as follows:

It becomes my lot at this period of the narrative, to chronicle
an event that formed quite an epoch in the history of the town,
or rather of that part which constituted our parish. This
occurrence may not be deemed by the world quite so momentous as
the Declaration of Independence, or the French Revolution, but
the reader may believe me, it was a great affair in our
community. This was no less than a mighty feud in church matters
about psalm-singing. The whole parish went by the ears about it,
and the affair gave the community such a rouse, that many people
feared we should never fairly recover the shock. The particulars
were these:

From time immemorial we had continued to sing psalms at meeting,
as became good Christians and lovers of harmony. But my readers,
accustomed to the improvements of modern days, have need to be
informed that up to this period, our congregation had practised
this accomplishment according to that old method of psalmody,
known by the designation of “read-a-line-and-sing-a-line.” This
primitive practice, which had first come into use when
hymn-books were scarce, was still persisted in, though the
necessity for its continuance no longer existed. Our church
music, therefore, exhibited the quaint and patriarchal
alternation of recitation and melody, if melody it might be
called, while some towns in the neighbourhood had adopted the
new fashion, and surprised us by the superiority of their
performances over the rude and homely chants of old.

But it was not long ere the wish to improve our style of singing
began to show itself among us. At the first announcement of such
a design, the piety of many of the old members took the alarm,
and the new method was denounced as heathenish and profane.

The chief personage who figured in the troubles which arose upon
this matter was Deacon Dogskin, a man of scrupulous orthodoxy,
highly dogmatical on theological points, and a leader of
powerful influence in the church. This dignitary, whose office
it had been to give out the several lines of the psalm as they
were sung, was one of the sturdiest opponents of the new-fangled
psalmody, and set his face against the innovation with all the
zeal and devotion of a primitive Christian. Unfortunately for
him, Deacon Grizzle, his colleague, took the opposite side of
the question, exemplifying the vulgar saying, “Two of a trade
can never agree.”

The discordancy, to tell the whole truth, between these two
worthies lay in more interests than one, and it is to be doubted
whether they would have come to a rupture in church affairs, had
not their mutual animosities been quickened by certain temporal
janglings; for so it happened that the two deacons kept each a
grocery store, and neither of them ever let a chance slip of
getting away the other’s custom. Sorry I am to record the
frailties of two such reputable personages, who looked upon
themselves as burning and shining lights in our community; but I
am afraid that the fact cannot be concealed, that the petty
bickerings which arose between them on these little matters of
filthy lucre were suffered to intrude within the walls of the
sanctuary, and stir up the flame of discord in the great
psalm-singing feud; whereby, as our neighbour Hopper Paul sagely
remarked, the world may learn wisdom, and lay it down as a
maxim, that church affairs can never thrive when the deacons are
grocers.

Deacon Grizzle, therefore, partly from conscience and partly
from spite, placed himself at the head of the innovators, and
took every occasion to annoy his associate with all sorts of
ingenious reasons why the singing should be performed without
any intermixture of recitation. The younger part of the
congregation were chiefly ranged under his banner, but the older
people mustered strong on the opposite side. To hear the
disputes that were carried on upon this point, and the
pertinacity with which each one maintained his opinion, an
uninformed spectator would have imagined the interests of the
whole Christian world were at stake. In truth, a great many of
the good old souls really looked upon the act of altering the
mode of singing as a departure from the faith given unto the
saints. It was a very nice and difficult thing to come to a
conclusion where all parties were so hotly interested, but an
incident which fell out not long afterward, contributed to
hasten the revolution.

Deacon Dogskin, as I have already remarked, was the individual
on whom devolved, by prescriptive right, the duty of giving out
the psalm. The Deacon was in all things a stickler for ancient
usages; not only was he against giving up a hair’s breadth of
the old custom, but his attachment to the antique forms went so
far as to embrace all the circumstances of immaterial moment
connected with them. His predilection for the old tone of voice
was not to be overcome by any entreaty, and we continued to hear
the same nasal, snuffling drawl, which, nobody knows how, he had
contracted in the early part of his deaconship, although on
common occasions he could speak well enough. But the tone was a
part of his vocation; long use had consecrated it, and the
Deacon would have his way. His psalm-book, too, by constant use
had become to such a degree thumbed and blurred and torn and
worn, that it was a puzzle how, with his old eyes, he could make
anything of one half the pages. However, a new psalm-book was a
thing he would never hear spoken of, for, although the thing
could not be styled an innovation, inasmuch as it contained
precisely the same collocation of words and syllables, yet it
was the removal of an old familiar object from his sight, and
his faith seemed to be bound up in the greasy covers and dingy
leaves of the volume. So the Deacon stuck to his old psalm-book,
and, by the help of his memory where the letter-press failed
him, he made a shift to keep up with the singers, who, to tell
the truth, were not remarkable for the briskness of their notes,
and dealt more in semibreves than in demi-semi-quavers.

But, on a certain day, it happened that the Deacon, in the
performance of his office, stumbled on a line which happened to
be more than usually thumbed, and defied all his attempts to
puzzle it out. In vain he wiped his spectacles, brought the book
close to his nose, then held it as far off as possible, then
brought his nose to the book, then took it away again, then held
it up to the light, then turned it this way and that, winked and
snuffled and hemmed and coughed—the page was too deeply grimed
by the application of his own thumb, to be deciphered by any
ocular power. The congregation were at a dead stand. They waited
and waited, but the Deacon could not give out the line; every
one stared, and the greatest impatience began to be manifested.
At last Elder Darby, who commonly took the lead in singing,
called out:

“What’s the matter, Deacon?”

“I can’t read it,” replied the Deacon in a dolorous and
despairing tone.

“Then spell it,” exclaimed a voice from the gallery.

All eyes were turned that way, and it was found to proceed from
Tim Crackbrain, a fellow known for his odd and whimsical habits,
and respecting whom nobody could ever satisfy himself whether he
was knave, fool, or madman. The Deacon was astounded, the
congregation gaped and stared, but there was no more singing
that day. The profane behaviour of Tim caused great scandal, and
he was severely taken in hand by a regular kirk session.

This, however, was not the whole, for it was plainly to be
perceived that the old system had received a severe blow in this
occurrence, as no one could deny that such an awkward affair
could never have happened in the improved method of psalmody.
The affair was seized by the advocates of improvement, and
turned against their opponents. Deacon Dogskin and his old
psalm-book got into decidedly bad odour; the result could no
longer be doubtful; a parish meeting was held, and a resolution
passed to abolish the old system, and establish a singing
school. In such a manner departed this life, that venerable
relic of ecclesiastical antiquity, read-a-line-and-sing-a-line,
and we despatched our old acquaintance to the tomb of oblivion,
unwept, unhonoured, but not unsung.

This event, like all great revolutions, did not fail to give sad
umbrage to many in the church; and as to Deacon Dogskin, who had
fought as the great champion of the primitive system, he took it
in such dudgeon that he fell into a fit of the sullens, which
resulted in a determination to leave a community where his
opinion and authority had been so flagrantly set at nought.
Within two years, therefore, he sold off his farm, settled all
his concerns both temporal and spiritual in the town, and
removed to a village about fifteen miles distant. His ostensible
motive for the removal was his declining age, which he declared
to be unequal to the cultivation of so large a farm as he
possessed in our neighbourhood; but the true reason was guessed
at by every one, as the Deacon could never speak of the
singing-school without evident marks of chagrin.

Be this as it may, we proceeded to organise the singing-school
forthwith, for it was determined to do things in style. First of
all, it was necessary to find a singing-master who was competent
to instruct us theoretically in the principles of the art, and
put us to the full discipline of our powers. No one, of course,
thought of going out of the town for this, and our directors
shortly pitched upon a personage known to every body by the name
of Hopper Paul. This man knew more tunes than any person within
twenty miles, and, for aught we knew, more than any other man in
the world. He could sing Old Hundred, and Little Marlborough,
and Saint Andrews, and Bray, and Mear, and Tanzar, and Quercy,
and at least half a dozen others whose names I have forgotten,
so that he was looked upon as a musical prodigy.

I shall never forget Hopper Paul, for both the sounds and sights
he exhibited were such as could hardly be called earthly. He was
about six feet and a half high, exceedingly lank and long, with
a countenance which at the first sight would suggest to you the
idea that he had suffered a _face-quake_, for the different
parts of his visage appeared to have been shaken out of their
places and never to have settled properly together. His mouth
was capable of such a degree of dilation and collapse and
twisting, that it looked like a half a dozen pair of lips sewed
into one. The voice to which this comely pair of jaws gave
utterance might have been compared to the lowing of a cow, or
the deepest bass of an overgrown bull-frog, but hardly to any
sound made by human organs.

Hopper Paul, possessing all these accomplishments, was therefore
chosen head singer, and teacher of the school, which was
immediately set on foot. This was a great affair in the eyes of
all the young persons of both sexes, the thing being the first
of that sort which had ever been heard of in our parts; for
though the natives of the town were a psalm-singing race, like
all genuine New Englanders, yet they had hitherto learned to
sing much in the same way as they learned to talk, not by
theory, but in the plainest way of practice, each individual
joining in with the strains that were chanted at meeting
according to the best of his judgment. In this method, as the
reader may suppose, they made but a blundering sort of melody,
yet as the tunes were few, and each note drawled out to an
unconscionable length, all were more or less familiar with their
parts, or if they got into the wrong key, had time to change it
ere the line was ended. But things were now to be set on a
different footing; great deeds were to be done, and each one was
anxious to make a figure in the grand choir. All the young
people of the parish were assembled, and we began operations.

How we got through our first essays, I need not say, except that
we made awkward work enough of it. There were a great many
voices that seemed made for nothing but to spoil all our melody:
but what could we do? All were determined to learn to sing, and
Hopper Paul was of opinion that the bad voices would grow mellow
by practice, though how he could think so whenever he heard his
own, passes my comprehension. However, we could all raise and
fall the notes, and that was something. We met two evenings in
each week during the winter, and by the beginning of spring we
had got so well drilled in the gamut that we began to practise
regular tunes. Now we breathed forth such melodies as I think
have seldom been heard elsewhere; but as we had no standard of
excellence to show us the true character of our performances, we
could never be aware that our music was not equal to the harmony
of the spheres.

It was thought a peculiar excellence to sing through the nose,
and take a good reasonable time to swell out every note. Many of
us were apt to get into too high a key, but that was never
regarded, provided we made noise enough. In short, after a great
deal more practice we were pronounced to be thoroughly skilled
in the science, for our lungs had been put to such a course of
discipline that every one of us could roar with a most
stentorian grace; and as to our commander-in-chief, no man on
earth ever deserved better than he, the name of Boanerges, or
Son of Thunder.

It was decided, therefore, that on Fast day next we should take
the field; so we were all warned to prepare ourselves to enter
the singing seats at the meeting on that eventful day. Should I
live a thousand years, I shall never forget it; this was to be
the first public exhibition of our prowess, and we were exhorted
to do our best. The exhortation was unnecessary, for we were as
ambitious as the most zealous of our friends could desire, and
we were especially careful in rehearsing the tunes before hand.

The day arrived, and we marched in a body to take possession. No
stalwart knights, at a tournament, ever spurred their chargers
into the lists with more pompous and important feelings than we
entered the singing seats. The audience, of course, were all
expectation, and when the hymn was given out, we heard it with
beating hearts.

It was amusing, however, in the midst of our trepidation, to
witness the countenance of Deacon Dogskin, who was obliged to
sit facing us during the whole service. His looks were as sour
and cynical as if he could have driven us out of the house, and
he never vouchsafed to cast a glance at us from beginning to end
of the performance. There was another person who had been a
great stickler for the ancient usage. This was Elder Darby, who
had been head singer under the Deacon’s administration, and
looked upon himself as dividing the honours of that system with
the Deacon himself. He accordingly fought hard against the
innovation, and was frequently heard to declare that the whole
platform of christian doctrine would be undermined, if more than
one line was suffered to be sung at a time. In fact, this
personage, being what is emphatically called a “weak brother,”
but full of zeal and obstinacy, gave us a great deal more
trouble than the Deacon, who was not deficient in common
shrewdness, notwithstanding his oddities. This was a bitter day,
therefore, to Elder Darby, who felt very awkward at finding his
occupation gone, and his enemies triumphant all in the same
moment.

But we were now called upon to sing, and every eye, except those
of the Deacon and a few others, was turned upward: the hymn was
given out, Hopper Paul brandished his pitch-pipe and set the
tune, and we began with stout hearts and strong lungs. Such
sounds had never been heard within those walls before. The
windows rattled, and the ceiling shook with the echo, in such a
manner that some people thought the great chandelier would have
a down-come. Think of the united voices of all the sturdy,
able-bodied lads and lassies of the parish pouring forth the
most uproarious symphony of linked sweetness long drawn out,
that their lungs could furnish, and you will have some faint
idea of our melodious intonations. At length we came to a verse
in the hymn where the words chimed in with the melody in such a
striking and effective manner that the result was overpowering.
The verse ran thus:

“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,
Beneath a burning sky,
Long for a cooling stream at hand,
And they must drink, or die.”

When we struck one after another into the third line, and
trolled forth the reiterations,

“Long for a cooling—
Long for a cooling—
Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”

we verily thought, one and all, that we were soaring
up—up—upwards on the combined euphony of the tune and
syllables, into the seventh heaven of harmony. The congregation
were rapt into ecstasies, and thought they had never heard music
till then. It was a most brilliant triumph for us; every voice,
as we thought, though of course the malcontents must be
excepted, struck in with us, and swelled the loud peal till the
walls rung again. But I must not omit to mention the strange
conduct of Elder Darby, who, in the midst of this burst of
enthusiastic approbation, never relaxed the stern and sour
severity of his looks, but took occasion of the first momentary
pause in the melody, to utter a very audible and disdainful
expression of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”

Deacon Grizzle was by no means slow in perceiving these
manifestations of the Elder’s mortified feelings, and did not
fail to join him on his way home from meeting, for the express
purpose of annoying him further by commendations of the
performances. All he could get in reply was a further
exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!” In fact, the
Elder’s obstinacy was incurable; he was seized during the
following week with a strange deafness in one of his ears, and
as it happened very strangely too, to be that ear which was
turned towards the singing seats when he sat in his pew, he
declared it would be impossible to hear sufficiently well on
that side of his head, to accompany the singers: as to altering
his position, it was not to be thought of: he had occupied the
same spot for forty years, and could no more be expected to
change his seat than to change his creed. The consequence was,
that on the day we began singing, the Elder left off. From that
time forth, he never heard the subject of church psalmody
alluded to, without a chop-fallen look, a rueful shake of the
head, a sad lamentation over the decline of sound christian
doctrine, and a peevish and indignant exclamation of “Chaff!
chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”

X.
WHERE JOE MERIWEATHER WENT TO.

“I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather,” said the old lady hostess of the sign of “The Buck” tavern, as attracted by the noise of a horse’s hoofs, she raised her eyes from her occupation of stringing dried slips of pumpkin, and descried, this side of the first bend in the road, a traveller riding a jaded horse towards the mansion.

“I do believe that’s Bill Meriweather. It’s about time for him to be round agin a buyin’ shoats. But whar’s Joe? Phillisy Ann,” continued Mrs. Harris, raising her voice, “catch a couple of young chickens, and get supper ready soon as ye can, you dratted lazy wench you, for here comes Bill Meriweather. But whar’s Joe? How do you do, Mr. Meriweather,” concluded the old lady, as the stranger arrived in front of the porch.

“Lively,” replied that individual as he proceeded to dismount and tie his horse. “How do you come on yourself, old ’omen.”

“Pretty well, Bill; how’s craps down in your parts?”

“Bad, uncommon bad,” replied Bill, “there’s a new varmint come around in our country, that’s got a mortal likin’ fur the tobacker crap. They looks a good deal like a fox, but are as big as a three year old nigger, and kin climb a tree like a squearl, and they steals a dozen or so ‘hands’ every night, and next mornin’ if you notice, you’ll see all the tops of the pine-oaks around the plantation kivered with them a dryin’, and the infernal chawtobacks—that’s what we call ’em—a settin’ up in a crotch, a chawin’ what is _cured_, and squirtin’ ambeer all over the country. Got any on ’em up here yet?”

“The goodness, Lord ha’ mercy, no, Bill! But whar’s Joe?” Up to this time Mr. Meriweather had been as pleasant and jovial a looking Green River man, as you might find in a week’s ride along the southern border of Kentucky, and had finished his lecture on the natural history of the chawtoback, and the unsaddling his horse at the same time; but no sooner had the old lady asked the question, “Whar’s Joe?” than he instantaneously dropped on the bench alongside the questioner, gave her an imploring look of pity and despair, let his head fail into his open palms, and bending down both until they nearly touched his knees, he uttered such a sigh as might a Louisville and New Orleans eight boiler steam-packet in the last stage of collapsed flues.

“Goodness, gracious, Bill! what’s the matter?” cried the old lady, letting her stringing apparatus fall. “Hev you got the cramps? Phillisy Ann, bring that bottle here outen the cupboard, quick, and some pepper pods!”

“Ah—h! no!” sighed the sufferer, not changing his position, but mournfully shaking his head, “I ain’t got no cramps.” However, Phillisy Ann arriving in “no time” with the article of household furniture called for, that gentleman, utterly disregarding the pepper pods, proceeded to pour out into a tumbler, preparatory to drinking, a sufficient quantity of amber coloured fluid to utterly exterminate any cramps that might, by any possibility, be secretly lingering in his system, or fortify himself against any known number that might attack him in the distant future; and having finished, immediately assumed his former position, and went into most surprisingly exact imitations of a wheezy locomotive on a foggy morning.

“Merciful powers! what can the matter be?” exclaimed the widow, now thoroughly excited, as Mr. Meriweather appeared to be getting no better, but was rocking himself up and down, “like a man who is sawing marble,” groaning and muttering inarticulate sounds, as if in the last extremity of bodily anguish. But Mr. Meriweather was for some time unable to make any reply that could be understood, until at length, at the conclusion of a very fierce paroxysm, the widow thought she could catch the two words, “Poor Joe!”

“Is there anything the matter with Joe?” asked the old lady. If it were possible for any _one_ man to feel and suffer, as far as appearances went, all the agony and misery that a half dozen of the most miserable and unfortunate of the human family ever have felt and suffered, and yet live, Mr. Meriweather certainly was that individual, for he immediately went off into such a state of sighs, groans, and lamentations, mingled with exclamations of “Poor Joe!” “Poor Brother Joe!” that the widow, aroused to the highest state of sympathy and pity, could do nothing but wipe her eyes with her apron, and repeat the question.

“Whar is Joe, Mr. Meriweather, is he sick?”

“Oh—h—no!” groaned his mourning brother.

“Is he dead then? poor Joe!” faintly inquired the old lady.

“I don’t know that,” was the broken reply.

“The Lord ha’ mercy on our sinful sowls! then _whar_ is he?” cried the widow, breaking out afresh. “Is he run away to Orleans—or gone to Californey? Yes, that’s it! and the poor boy’ll be eaten’ up by them ‘diggers’ that they say goes rootin’ round that outlandish country, like a set of mean stinkin’ ground-hogs. Poor Joe! he was a fine little fellow, an’ it was only the other day last year, when you was on your rounds, that he eat all my little bo——.”

“No, he ain’t gone to Californey as I know,” interrupted his brother.

“Then, for mercy’s sake! do tell a body what’s become on him!” rather tartly inquired the old lady.

“Why, you see, Mrs. Harris,” replied Mr. Meriweather, still keeping the same position, and interrupting the narrative with several bursts of grief, (which we’ll leave out). “You see, Mrs. Harris, Joe and I went up airly in the spring to get a boat load of rock from Boone county, to put up the foundation of the new houses we’re buildin’, fur there ain’t no rock down in them rich sily bottoms in our parts. Well, we got along pretty considerable, fur we had five kegs of blast along, and what with the hire of some niggers, we managed to get our boat loaded, an’ started fur home in about three weeks. You never did see anythin’ rain like it did the fust day we was floatin’ down, but we worked like a cornfilled nigger ov a Crismus week and pretty near sundown we’d made a matter ov nigh twenty mile afore we were ashore and tied up. Well, as we didn’t have any shelter on the flat, we raised a rousin’ big fire on the bank, close to whar she was tied up, and cooked some grub; and I’d eaten a matter of two pounds of side, and half of a possum, and was sittin’ on a log, smokin’ a Kaintuck regaly, and a talkin’ to Brother Joe, who was a standin’ chock up agin the fire, with his back to it. You recollex, Mrs. Harris, Brother Joe allers was a dressy sort of a chap—fond of brass buttons on his coat and the flaim’est kind of red neckerchers; and this time he had buckskin breeches, with straps under his boots. Well, when I was a talkin’ to him ov the prospect fur the next day, all ov a sudden I thought the little feller was a growin’ uncommon tall; till I diskivered that the buckskin breeches, that wur as wet as a young rooster in a spring rain, wur beginning to smoke and draw up kinder, and wur a liftin’ Brother Joe off the ground.

“‘Brother Joe,’ sez I, ‘you’re a goin’ up.’

“‘Brother Bill,’ sez he, ‘I ain’t a doin’ anythin’ else.’

“And he scrunched down mighty hard; but it warn’t ov no use, fur afor long he wur a matter of some fifteen feet up in the air.”

“Merciful powers,” interrupted the widow.

“‘Brother Joe,’ sez I.

“‘I’m here,’ sez he.

“‘Catch hold ov the top ov that black-jack,’ sez I.

“‘Talk!’ sez Brother Joe, and he sorter leaned over and grabbed the saplin’, like as maybe you’ve seed a squ’el haul in an elm switch ov a June mornin’. But it warn’t ov no use, fur, old ’omen, ef you’ll believe me, it gradually begun to give way at the roots, and afore he’d got five foot higher, it jist slipped out er the ground, as easy as you’d pull up a spring reddish.

“‘Brother Joe!’ sez I agin.

“‘I’m a list’nin’,’ sez he.

“‘Cut your straps!’ sez I, for I seed it was his last chance.

“‘Talk!’ sez Brother Joe, tho’ he looked sort a reproachful like at me fur broachin’ such a subject; but arter apparently considerin’ awhile, he outs with his jack-knife, an’ leanin’ over sideways, made a rip at the sole of his left foot. There was a considerable deal ov cracklin’ fur a second or two, then a crash sorter like as if a waggon-load of wood had bruck down, and the fust thing I know’d, the t’other leg shot up like, and started him; and the last thing I seed ov Brother Joe, he was _a whirlin’ round like a four-spoked wheel with the rim off, away overclost toward sundown_!”

XI.
GEORGIA THEATRICS.

If my memory fail me not, the 10th of June, 18— found me, at about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, ascending a long and gentle slope in what was called “The Dark Corner” of Lincoln. I believe it took its name from the moral darkness which reigned over that portion of the county at the time of which I am speaking. If in this point of view, it was but a shade darker than the county, it was inconceivably dark. If any man can name a trick or sin which had not been committed at the time of which I am speaking in the very focus of all the county’s illumination (Lincolnton), he must himself be the most inventive of the tricky, and the very Judas of sinners. Since that time, however (all humour aside), Lincoln has become a living proof “that light shineth in darkness.” Could I venture to mingle the solemn with the ludicrous, even for the purposes of honourable contrast, I could adduce from this county instances of the most numerous and wonderful transitions, from vice and folly to virtue and holiness, which have ever perhaps been witnessed since the days of the Apostolic ministry.

So much, lest it should be thought by some that what I am about to relate is characteristic of the county in which it occurred.

Whatever may be said of the moral condition of the Dark Corner, at the time just mentioned, its natural condition was anything but dark. It smiled in all the charms of spring; and spring borrowed new charms from its undulating grounds, its luxuriant woodlands, its sportive streams, its vocal birds, and its blushing flowers.

Rapt with the enchantment of the season, and the scenery around me, I was slowly rising the slope, when I was startled by loud, profane, and boisterous voices, which seemed to proceed from a thick covert of undergrowth about two hundred yards in the advance of me and about one hundred to the right of my road:

“You kin, kin you?”

“Yes, I kin, and am able to do it! Bo—oo—oo! Oh, wake snakes, and walk your chalks! Brimstone and fire! don’t hold me, Nick Stoval! The fight’s made up, and let’s go at it. My soul, if I don’t jump down his throat and gallop every chitterling out of him before you can say ‘quit!’”

“Now, Nick, don’t hold him. Jist let the wild cat come, and I’ll tame him. Ned’ll see me a fair fight, won’t you Ned?”

“Oh yes, I’ll see a fair fight, blame my old shoes if I don’t.”

“That is sufficient, as Tom Haynes said when he saw the elephant. Now let him come!”

Thus they went on, with countless oaths interspersed, which I dare not even hint at, and with much that I could not distinctly hear.

“In mercy’s name,” thought I, “what band of ruffians has selected this holy season and this heavenly retreat for such Pandemonian riots?”

I quickened my gait, and had come nearly opposite to the thick grove whence the noise proceeded, when my eye caught indistinctly and at intervals, through the foliage of the dwarf oaks and hickories which intervened, glimpses of a man or men who seemed to be in a violent struggle, and I could occasionally catch those deep-drawn emphatic oaths which men in conflict utter when they deal blows. I dismounted, and hurried to the spot with all speed. I had overcome about half the space which separated it from me, when I saw the combatants come to the ground, and after a short struggle, I saw the uppermost one (for I could not see the other) make a heavy plunge with both his thumbs, and at the same instant I heard a cry:

“Enough! my eye’s out!”

I was so completely horror-struck that I stood transfixed for a moment to the spot where the cry met me. The accomplices in the hellish deed which had been perpetrated had all fled at my approach; at least I supposed so, for they were not to be seen.

“Now, you old corn-shucking rascal,” said the victor (a youth about eighteen years old), as he rose from the ground, “come cutt’n your shines ’bout me agin, next time I come to the Court-House, will you? Get your owl eye in again, if you can.”

At this moment he saw me for the first time. He looked excessively embarrassed, and was moving off, when I called to him in a tone emboldened by my office and the iniquity of his crime:

“Come back, you villain, and assist me in relieving your fellow-mortal, whom you have ruined for ever!”

My rudeness subdued his embarrassment in an instant, and with a taunting curl of the nose he replied:

“You needn’t kick before you’re spurred. There ain’t nobody there, nor han’t been nother. I was jist seein’ how I could ’a fou’t.”

So saying, he bounded to his plough, which stood in the fence about fifty yards beyond the battleground.

And would you believe it, gentle reader, his report was true? All that I had heard and seen was nothing more or less than a Lincoln rehearsal, in which the youth who had just left me had played all the parts of all the characters in a Court-House fight.

I went to the ground from which he had risen, and there were the prints of his two thumbs plunged up to the balls in the mellow earth, about the distance of a man’s eyes apart, and the ground around was broken up, as if two stags had been engaged upon it.

XII.
TAKING THE CENSUS.

Our next encounter was with an old lady, notorious in her neighbourhood for her garrulity and simple-mindedness. Her loquacity knew no bounds; it was constant, unremitting, interminable, and sometimes laughably silly. She was interested in quite a large Chancery suit, which had been dragging its slow length for several years, and furnished her with a conversational fund, which she drew upon extensively, under the idea that its merits could never be sufficiently discussed. Having been warned of her propensity, and being somewhat hurried when we called upon her, we were disposed to get through business as soon as possible, and without hearing her enumeration of the strong points of her law case. Striding into the house, and drawing our papers:

“Taking the census, Ma’am,” quoth we.

“Ah, well, yes! bless your soul, take a seat. Now do! Are you the gentlemen that Mr. Fillmore has sent out to take the censis? I wonder—well, good Lord, look down! how was Mr. Fillmore and family when you seed him?”

We told her we had never seen the President; didn’t know him from a piece of sole-leather; “we had been written to to take the census.”

“Well now, there agin! love your soul! Well, I s’pose Mr. Fillmore writ you a letter, did he? No! Well, God be praised, there’s mighty little _here_ to take down; times is hard, God’s will be done! but looks like people can’t get their rights in this country, and the law is all for the rich, and none for the poor, praise the Lord! Did you ever hear tell of that case my boys has got agin old Simpson? Looks like they will never get to the end on it, glory to His name! The children will suffer, I’m mighty _afeard_, Lord give us grace! Did you ever see Judge B.? Yes! Well, the Lord preserve us! Did you ever hear him say what he’s agwine to do in the boys’ case agin Simpson? No! Good Lord! Well, Squire, will you ax him the next time you see him, and write me word, and tell him what I say? I’m nothing but a poor widow, and my boys has got no larnin’, and old Simpson tuk ’em in. It’s a mighty hard case, and the will ought never to a been broke, but—”

Here we interposed, and told the old lady that our time was precious—that we wished to take down the number of her family, and the produce raised by her last year, and be off. After a good deal of trouble, we got through with the description of the members of her family, and the “statistical table,” as far as the article “cloth.”

“How many yards of cotton cloth did you weave in 1850, Ma’am?”

“Well now, the Lord have mercy! less see. You know Sally Higgins that used to live in the Smith settlement? Poor thing! her daddy drove her off all on the ’count of Jack Miller, poor creetur! poor gal! she couldn’t help it, I dare say. Well, Sally she come to stay ’long wi’ me when the old man druv her away, and she was a powerful good hand to weave, and I _did_ think she’d help me a power. Well, arter she’d bin here awhile, her baby hit took sick, and Old Miss Stringer she undertook to help it. She’s a powerful good hand, old Miss Stringer, on roots and yearbs and sich like! Well, the Lord look down from above! she made a sort of a tea, as I was a tellin’, and she gin it to Sally’s baby; it got wuss—the poor creetur—and she gin it tea, and looked like the more she gin it tea, the more—”

“My dear Madam, I’m in a hurry—please tell me how many yards of cotton you wove in 1850. I want to get through and go on.”

“Well, well, the Lord have mercy! who’d a thought you’d a bin so snappish! Well, as I was a sayin’, Sally’s child it kept gittin’ wus, and old Miss Stringer she kept a givin’ it the yearb tea, till at last the child hit looked like hit would die anyhow. And ’bout the time the child was at its wust, Old Daddy Sikes he come along, and he said if we git some nightshed berries and stew them with a little cream and some hog’s lard. Now Old Daddy Sikes is a mighty fine old man, and he giv the boys a heap of mighty good counsel about that case.

“‘Boys,’ said he ‘I’ll tell you what you do; you go and—’”

“In the name of goodness, old lady,” said we, “tell about your cloth; and let the sick child and Miss Stringer, Daddy Sikes, the boys, and the law-suit, go the Old Scratch. I’m in a hurry!”

“Gracious, bless your dear soul! don’t git aggravated. I was jist a tellin’ you how it come I didn’t weave no cloth last year.”

“Oh, well you didn’t weave any cloth last year. Good! We’ll go on to the next article.”

“Yes; you see the child hit begun to swell and turn yaller, and hit kept a wallin’ its eyes, and a moanin’, and I know’d—”

“Never mind about the child—just tell me the value of the poultry you raised last year.”

“Oh, well—yes—the chickens, you means. Why, the Lord love your poor soul; I reckon you never in your born days see a creetur have the luck that I did—and looks like we never shall have any good luck agin; for ever since old Simpson tuk that case up to the Chancery Court—”

“Never mind the case, let’s hear about the chickens, if you please.”

“God bless you, honey! the owls destroyed in and about the best half that I did raise. Every blessed night that the Lord did send, they’d come and set on the comb of the house, and hoo, hoo; and one night in particklar I remember, I had just got up with the nightshed salve to ’int the little gal with—”

“Well, well, what was the value of what you did raise?”

“The Lord above look down! They got so bad—the owls did—that they tuk the old hens as well as the young chickens. The night I was a tellin’ ’bout, I heard somethin’s s-q-u-a-l-l! s-q-u-a-l-l! and says I: ‘I’ll bet that’s old Speck, that nasty awdacious owl’s got, for I see her go to roost with the chickens up in the plum-tree, forenenst the smoke-house.’

“So I went to whar old Miss Stringer was sleepin’, and says I:

“‘Miss Stringer! oh, Miss Stringer! sure’s you’re born, that owl’s got old Speck out’n the plum-tree.’

“Well, old Miss Stringer she turned over ’pon her side like, and says she:

“‘What did you say, Miss Stokes?’

“And says I:—”

We began to get very tired, and signified the same to the old lady, and begged her to answer us directly, and without circumlocution.

“The Lord Almighty love your dear heart, honey, I’m tellin’ you as fast I kin. The owls they got worse, and worse; after they’d swept old Speck and all _her_ gang, they went to work on t’others; and Bryant (that’s one of my boys), he ’lowed he’d shoot the pestersome creeturs. And so one night arter that we hearn one holler, and Bryant he tuk the old musket and went out, and sure enough there was owley (as he thought) a sittin’ on the comb of the house, so he blazed away, and down come—what on airth _did_ come down, do you reckon, when Bryant fired?”

“The owl, I suppose.”

“No sich thing; no sich thing; the owl warn’t thar. ’Twas my old house cat came a tumblin’ down spittin’, sputterin’, and scratching and the fur a flyin’ every time she jumped, like you’d busted a feather-bed open. Bryant he said the way he come to shoot the cat, instead of the owl, he seed somethin’ white—”

“For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Stokes, give me the value of your poultry, or say you will not. Do one thing or the other.”

“Oh, well, dear love your heart, I reckon I had last year nigh about the same as I’ve got this.”