Some ten or twelve years agone, one Summeval Dennis kept the “Union Hotel,” at the seat of Justice of the county of Tallapoosa. The house took its name from the complexion of the politics of its proprietor, he being a true-hearted Union man, and opposed, as I hope all my readers are, at all points, to the damnable heresy of nullification. In consequence of the candid exposition of his political sentiments upon his sign-board, mine host of the “Union” was liberally patronized by those who coincided with him in his views.
In those days, party spirit was, in that particular locality, exceedingly bitter and proscriptive; and had Summeval’s chickens been less tender, his eggs less impeachable, his coffee more sloppy, the “Union Hotel” would still have lost no guest, its keeper no dinners. But, as Dennis was wont to remark, “The Party relied on his honour, as an honest man, but more especially as an honest Union man, he was bound to give them the value of their money.”
Glorious fellow was Summeval! Capital landlady was his good wife, in all the plenitude of her embonpoint! Well-behaved children, too, were Summeval’s, from the shaggy and red-headed representative of paternal peculiarities, down to little Solomon of the sable locks, whose “favour” puzzled the neighbours, and set at defiance all known physiological principles. Good people, all, were the Dennises. May a hungry man never fall among worse!
Among the political friends who had for some years bestowed their patronage, semi-annually, during Court-week, upon the proprietor of the “Union,” was Captain Simon Suggs, whose deeds of valour and strategy are not known to the public. The Captain had “put up” with our friend Summeval, time and again; had puffed the “Union,” both “before the face and behind the back” of its owner, until it seemed a miniature of the microcosm that bears the name of Astor; and, in short, was so generally useful, accommodating, and polite, that nothing short of long-continued and oft-repeated failures to settle his bills, could have induced Summeval to consider Suggs in other light than as the best friend the “Union,” or any other house, ever had. But, alas! Captain Suggs had, from one occasion to another, upon excuses the most plausible, and with protestations the most profound, invariably left the fat larder and warm beds of the “Union,” without leaving behind the slightest pecuniary remuneration with Summeval.
For a long time, the patient inn-keeper bore the imposition with a patience that indicated some hope of eventual payment; but year in and year out, and the money did not come. Mrs. Dennis at length spoke out, and argued the necessity of a tavern-keeper’s collecting his dues, if he was disposed to do justice to himself and family.
“Suggs is a nice man in his talk,” she said; “nobody can fault him, as far as that is concerned; but smooth talk never paid for flour and bacon;” and so she recommended to her leaner half, that the next time, summary measures should be adopted to secure the amount in which the Captain was indebted to the “Union Hotel.”
Summeval determined that his wife’s advice should be strictly followed; for he had seen, time and again, that her suggestions had been the salvation of the establishment.
“Hadn’t she kept him from pitchin’ John Seagroves, neck and heels, out of the window for sayin’ that nullification warn’t treason, and John C. Calhoun warn’t as bad as Benedict Arnold. And hadn’t John been a good payin’ customer ever since? That was what he wanted to know.”
The next session of the Circuit Court after this prudent conclusion had been arrived at in Dennis’s mind—the Circuit Court with all its attractions of criminal trials, poker-playing lawyers, political caucases and possible monkey shows, found Captain Suggs snugly housed at the “Union.”
Time passed on swiftly for a week. The judge was a hearty liquor-loving fellow; and lent the Captain ten dollars “on sight.” The Wetumpka and Montgomery lawyers bled freely. In short, everything went bravely on for the Captain, until a man with small-pox pits and a faro-box came along. The Captain yielded to the temptation, yielded with a presentiment on his mind that he should be “slain.” The “tiger” was triumphant, and Suggs was left without a dollar!
As if to give intensity to his distress, on the morning after his losses at the faro-bank, the friendly Clerk of the Court hinted to Suggs, that the grand jury had found an indictment against him for gaming. Here was a dilemma! Not only out of funds, but obliged to decamp before the adjournment of the Court—obliged to lose all opportunity of redeeming his “fallen fortunes,” by further plucking the greenhorns in attendance.
“This here,” said Simon, “is an everlastin’ fix! a mile and a quarter square and fenced in all round. What’s a reasonable man to do? Ain’t I bin workin’ and strivin’ all for the best? Ain’t I done my duty? Cuss that mahogany box. I wish the man that invented it had had his head sawed off with a cross-cut, just afore he thought on’t. Now thar’s the sence in short cards. All’s fair, and cheat and cheat alike is the order; and the longest pole knocks down persimmon. But whar’s the reason in one of your darned boxes, full of springs and the like, and the better no advantages, except now and then when he kin kick up a squabble, and the dealer’s afeard of him.
“I’m for doin’ things on the square. What’s a man without his honour? Ef natur give me a gift to beat a feller at ‘old sledge,’ and the like, it’s all right! But whar’s the justice in a thing like farrer, that ain’t got but one side! It’s strange what a horrir I have for the cussed thing. No matter how I make an honest rise, I’m sure to ‘back it off’ at farrer. As my wife says, ‘farrer’s my besettin’ sin.’ It’s a weakness—a soft spot, it’s a—a—let me see!—it’s a way I’ve got of a runnin’ agin Providence. But hello! here’s Dennis.”
When the inn-keeper walked up, Captain Suggs remarked to him, that there was a “little paper out,” signed by Tom Garrett, in his official capacity, that was calculated to hurt feelins’, if he remained in town, and so he desired that his horse might be saddled and brought out.
Summeval replied to this by presenting to the Captain a slip of paper containing entries of many charges against Suggs, and in favour of the “Union Hotel.”
“All right,” said Suggs; “I’ll be over in a couple of weeks and settle.”
“Can’t wait; want money to buy provisions; account been standing two years, thirty-one dollars and fifty cents is money these days,” said Dennis, with unusual firmness.
“Confound your ugly face,” vociferated Suggs, “I’ll give you my note! that’s enough among gentlemen, I suppose?”
“Hardly,” returned the inn-keeper, “hardly; we want the cash; your note ain’t worth the trouble of writin’ it.”
“Dam you!” roared Suggs, “dam you for a biscuit-headed nullifier! I’ll give you a mortgage on the best half section of land in the county; south half of 13, 21, 29!”
“Captain Suggs,” said Dennis, drawing off his coat, “you’ve called me a nullifier, and that’s what I won’t stand from no man. Strip! and I’ll whip as much dog out of you as’ll make a full pack of hounds. You swindlin’ robber!”
This hostile demonstration alarmed the Captain, and he set in to soothe his angry landlord.
“Sum, old fel,” he said, in his most honeyed tones, “Sum, old fel! be easy. I’m not a fightin’ man—” and here Suggs drew himself up with dignity, “I’m not a fightin’ man except in the cause of my country! Thar I’m allers found! Come, old fellow—do you reckon ef you’d been a nullifier, I’d ever been ketched at your house? No, no! you ain’t no part of a nullifier, but you are rather hard down on your Union friends that allers puts up with you. Say, won’t you take the mortgage?—the land’s richly worth a thousand dollars, and let me have Old Bill.”
The heart of Dennis was melted at the appeal thus made. It was to his good-fellowship and his party feelings. So, putting on his coat, he remarked that he “rather thought he would take the mortgage. However,” he added, seeing Mrs. Dennis standing at the door of the tavern watching his proceedings, “he would see his wife about it.”
The Captain and Dennis approached the landlady and made known the state of the case.
“You see, Cousin Betsey,”—Suggs always cousined any lady whom he wished to cozen—“you see, Cousin Betsey, the fact is, I’m down just now, in the way of money, and you and Summeval bein’ afraid I’ll run away and never come back—”
“T’aint that I’m afraid of,” said Mrs. Dennis.
“What then?” asked Suggs.
“Of your comin’ back, eatin’ us out of house and home, and never payin’ nothin’!”
“Well,” said the Captain, slightly confused at the lady’s directness; “well, seein’ that’s the way the mule kicks, as I was sayin’, I proposed to Sum here, as long as him and you distrusts an old Union friend that’s stuck by your house like a tick even when the red-mouthed nullifiers swore you was feedin’ us soap-tails on bull-beef and blue collards—I say, as long as that’s the case, I propose to give you a mortgage on the south half of 21, 13, 29. It’s the best half section in county, and it’s worth forty times the amount of your bill.”
“It looks like that ought to do,” said Summeval, who was grateful to the Captain for defending his house against the slanders of the nullifiers; “and seein’ that Suggs has always patronized the Union and voted the whole ticket—”
“Never split in my life,” dropped in Suggs, with emphasis.
“I,” continued Dennis, “am for takin’ the mortgage, and lettin’ him take Old Bill and go; for I know it would be a satisfaction to the nullifiers to have him put in jail.”
“Yes,” quoth the Captain, sighing, “I’m about to be tuk up and made a martyr of on account of the Union; but I’ll die true to my prinsipples, see if I don’t.”
“They shan’t take you,” said Dennis, his long, lank form stiffening with energy as he spoke; “as long as they put it on that hook, hanged ef they shall. Give us the mortgage and slope!”
“You ain’t got no rights to that land; I jist know it, or you wouldn’t want to mortgage it for a tavern bill,” shouted Mrs. Dennis; “and I tell you and Summeval both, that Old Bill don’t go out of that stable till the money’s paid—mind, I say money—into my hand,” and here the good lady turned off and called Bob, the stable-boy, to bring her the stable key.
The Captain and Summeval looked at each other like two children school-boys. It was clear that no terms short of payment in money would satisfy Mrs. Dennis. Suggs saw that Dennis had become interested in his behalf; so acting upon the idea, he suggested:
“Dennis, suppose you loan me the money?”
“Egad, Suggs, I’ve been thinkin’ of that; but as I have only a fifty dollar bill, and my wife’s key bein’ turned on that, there’s no chance. Drott it, I’m sorry for you.”
“Well the Lord’ll purvide,” said Suggs.
As Captain Suggs could not get away that day, evidently, he arranged, through his friend Summeval, with the Clerk, not to issue a capias until the next afternoon. Having done this, he cast around for some way of raising the wind; but the fates were against him, and at eleven o’clock that night, he went to bed in a fit of the blues, that three pints of whiskey had failed to dissipate. An hour or two after the Captain had got between the sheets, and after every one else was asleep, he heard some one walk unsteadily, but still softly, up stairs. An occasional hiccup told that it was some fellow drunk; and this was confirmed by a heavy fall, which the unfortunate took as soon as, leaving the railing, he attempted to travel suis pedibus.
“Oh! good Lord!” groaned the fallen man; “who’d a thought it. Me, John P. Pullum, drunk and fallen down! I never was so before. This world’s a turnin’ over and over. Oh, Lord! Charley Stone got me into it. What will Sally say if she hears it? Oh, Lord!”
“That thar feller,” said the Captain to himself, “is the victim of vice. I wonder ef he’s got any money?” and the Captain continued his soliloquy inaudibly.
Poor Mr. Pullum, after much tumbling about, and sundry repetitions of his fall, at length contrived to get into bed, in a room adjoining that occupied by the Captain, and only separated from it by a thin partition.
“I’m very—very—oh, Lord!—drunk! Oh! me, is this John P. Pullum that—good Heavens! I’ll faint—married Sally Rugby, oh! oh!”
“Ah! I’m so weak!—wouldn’t have Sally—aw—owh—wha—oh, Lord!—to hear of it for a hundred dollars! She said when she agreed for me to sell the cotton, I’d be certain—oh, Lord! I believe I’ll die!”
The inebriate fell back on his bed, almost fainting, and Captain Suggs thought he’d try an experiment. Disguising his voice, with his mouth close to the partition, he said:
“You’re a liar! you didn’t marry Widow Rugby; your some thief tryin’ to pass off for something.”
“Who am I then, if I ain’t John P. Pullum, that married the widdow Sally Rugby, Tom Rugby’s widow, old Bill Stearns’s only daughter? Oh, Lord! ef it ain’t me, who is it? Where’s Charley Stone—can’t he tell if it’s John P. Pullum?”
“No, it ain’t you, you lyin’ swindler; you ain’t got a dollar in the world, and never married no sich widow,” said Suggs, still disguising his voice.
“I did—I’ll be hanged if I didn’t. I know it now; Sally Rugby with the red head, all of the boys said I married her for her money, but it’s a—oh, Lord I’m very ill.”
Mr. Pullum continued his maudlin talk, half asleep, half awake, for some time; and all the while Captain Suggs was analysing the man—conjecturing his precise circumstances, his family relations, the probable state of his purse, and the like.
“It’s a plain case,” he mused, “that the feller married a red-headed widow for her money—no man ever married sich for anything else. It’s plain agin, she’s got the property settled upon her, or fixed some way, for he talked about her ‘agreein’ for him to sell the cotton. I’ll bet he’s the new feller that’s dropped in down thar by Tallassee, that Charley Stone used to know. And I’ll bet he’s been down to Wetumpka to sell the cotton—got on a bust thar—and now’s on another here. He’s afeard of his wife too; leastways, his voice trembled like it, when he called her red-headed, Pullum! Pullum! Pullum!” Here Suggs studied. “That’s surely a Talbot county name—I’ll venture on it, anyhow.”
Having reached a conclusion, the Captain turned over in bed and composed himself for sleep.
At nine o’clock the next morning, the bar-room of the “Union” contained only Dennis and our friend the Captain. Breakfast was over, and the most of the temporary occupants of the tavern were in the public square. Captain Suggs was watching for Mr. Pullum, who had not yet come down to breakfast.
At length an uncertain step was heard on the stairway, and a young man, whose face showed indisputable evidence of a frolic on the previous night, descended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression was a mingled one of shame and fear. Captain Suggs walked up to him, as he entered the bar-room, gazed at his face earnestly, and slowly placing his hand on his shoulder, as slowly, and with a stern expression, said:
“Your—name—is—Pullum!”
“I know it is,” said the young man.
“Come this way then,” said Suggs, pulling his victim out into the street, and still gazing at him with the look of a stern but affectionate parent. Turning to Dennis as they went out, he said:
“Have a cup of coffee ready for this young man in fifteen minutes, and his horse by the time he’s done drinking it.”
Mr. Pullum looked confounded, but said nothing, and he and the Captain walked over to a vacant blacksmith’s shop across the street, where they could be free from observation.
“You’re from Wetumpka last,” remarked Suggs with severity, and as if his words charged a crime.
“What if I am?” replied Pullum, with an effort to appear bold.
“What’s cotton worth?” asked the Captain, with an almost imperceptible wink.
Pullum turned white and stammered out:
“Seven or eight cents.”
“Which will you tell your wife you sold yours—hers for?”
John P. turned blue in the face.
“What do you know about my wife?” he asked.
“Never mind about that. Was you in the habit of gettin’ drunk before you left Talbot county, Georgy?”
“I never lived in Talbot; I was born and raised in Hanis,” said Pullum, with something like triumph.
“Close to the line, though,” replied Suggs, confidently relying on the fact that there was a large family of Pullums in Talbot; “most of your connexions lived in Talbot.”
“Well, what of all that?” asked Pullum, with impatience; “what is it to you whar I come from, or whar my connexion lived?”
“Never mind—I’ll show you—no man that married Billy Stearns’s daughter can carry on in the way you’ve been doin’, without my interferin’ for the intrust of the family!”
Suggs said this with an earnestness, a sternness, that completely vanquished Pullum. He tremulously asked:
“How did you know that I married Stearns’s daughter?”
“That’s a fact ’most anybody could have known that was intimate with the family in old times. You’d better ask how I knowed that you tuk your wife’s cotton to Wetumpka—sold it—got on a spree—after Sally give you a caution too—and then came by here, got on another spree. What do you reckon Sally will say to you when you get home?”
“She won’t know it,” replied Pullum, “unless somebody tells her.”
“Somebody will tell her,” said Suggs, “I’m going home with you as soon as you’ve had breakfast. My poor Sally Rugby shall not be trampled on in this way. I’ve only got to borrow fifty dollars from some of the boys, to make out a couple of thousand. I need to make the last payment on my land. So go over and eat your breakfast quick.”
“For God’s sake, Sir, don’t tell Sally about it; you don’t know how unreasonable she is.”
Pullum was the incarnation of misery.
“The divil I don’t! she bit this piece out of my face,” here Suggs pointed to a scar on his cheek, “when I had her on my lap a little girl only five years old. She was always game.”
Pullum grew more nervous at this reference to his wife’s mettle.
“My dear Sir, I don’t even know your name.”
“Suggs, Sir—Captain Simon Suggs.”
“Well, my dear Captain, ef you’ll just let me off this time, I’ll lend you the fifty dollars.”
“You’ll—lend—me—the—fifty—dollars! Who asked you for your money, or rather Sally’s money?”
“I only thought,” replied the humble husband of Sally, “that it might be an accommodation. I meant no harm; I know Sally wouldn’t mind my lending it to an old friend of the family.”
“Well,” said Suggs, and here he mused, shutting his eyes, biting his lips, and talking very slowly, “ef I knowed you would do better.”
“I’ll swear I will,” said Pullum.
“No swearin’, Sir!” roared Suggs, with a dreadful frown; “no swearin’ in my presence!”
“No, Sir, I won’t any more.”
“Ef,” continued the Captain, “I knowed you’d do better—go right home,” (the Captain didn’t wish Pullum to stay where his stock of information might be increased); “and treat Sally like a wife all the rest of your days, I might, may be, borrow the fifty, (seein’ it’s Sally’s any way), and let you off this time.”
“Ef you will, Captain Suggs, I’ll never forget you; I’ll think of you all the days of my life.”
“I ginnarally makes my mark, so that I’m hard to forget,” said the Captain, truthfully. “Well, turn me over a fifty for a couple of months, and go home.”
Mr. Pullum handed the money to Suggs, who seemed to receive it reluctantly. He twisted the bill in his fingers, and remarked:
“I reckon I’d better not take this money; you won’t go home, and do as you said.”
“Yes, I will,” said Pullum; “yonder’s my horse at the door. I’ll start this minute.”
The Captain and Pullum returned to the tavern, where the latter swallowed his coffee and paid his bill.
As the young man mounted his horse, Suggs took him affectionately by the hand.
“John,” said he, “go home, give my love to cousin Sally, and kiss her for me. Try and do better, John, for the futur’; and ef you have any children, John, bring ’em up in the way of the Lord. Good-bye!”
Captain Suggs now paid his bill, and had a balance on hand. He immediately bestrode his faithful “Bill,” musing thus as he moved homeward:
“Every day I git more insight into things. It used to be, I couldn’t understand the manna in the wilderness, and the ravens feedin’ Elishy; now, it’s clear to my eyes. Trust in Providence—that’s the lick! Here was I in the wilderness, sorely oppressed, and mighty nigh despar, Pullum come to me, like a ‘raven,’ in my distress—and a fat one, at that! Well, as I’ve allers said, honesty and Providence will never fail to fetch a man out! Jist give me that for a hand, and I’ll ‘stand’ agin all creation?”
After my sleigh-ride last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the woman again in a hurry. To hear me rave and take on, and rail out against the whole femenine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never so much as look at one again, to all etartinity. Oh, but I was wicked! “Darn their ’ceitful eyes,” says I, “blame their skins, torment their hearts, and drot them to darnation!”
Finally, I took an oath, and swore that if I ever meddled, or had any dealings with them again—in the sparking line I mean—I wish I might be hung and choked. But swearing off from woman, and then going into a meeting-house chockfull of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and going into a grog-shop—it’s all smoke.
I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays, forenoons, a’ternoons, and intermissions complete: on the fourth there were strong symptoms of a change of weather. A chap, about my size, was seen on the way to the meeting-house, with a new patent hat on, his head hung by the ears upon a shirt-collar, his cravat had a pudding in it, and branched out in front into a double-bow knot. He carried a straight back, and a stiff neck, as a man ought to when he has his best clothes on; and every time he spit, he sprung his body forward like a jack-knife, in order to shoot clear off the ruffles.
Squire Jones’s pew is next but two to mine, and when I stand up to prayers, and take my coat-tail under my arm, and turn my back to the minister, I naturally look quite straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has got a face not to be grinned at in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty, some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part, I think there is not much boot between them. Anyhow, they are so well matched that they have hated and despised each other like rank poison, ever since they were school-girls.
Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to read the great Bible, when he heard a rap at his door.
“Walk in. Well, John, how der do? Git out, Pompey!”
“Pretty well, I thank you, Squire; and how do you do?”
“Why, so as to be crawling. Ye ugly beast will ye hold yer yop! Haul up a chair and set down, John.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Jones?”
“Oh, middlin’. How’s yer marm?”
“Don’t forget the mat there, Mr. Beedle.”
This put me in mind that I had been off soundings several times in the long muddy lane, and my boots were in a sweet pickle.
It was now old Captain Jones’s turn, the grandfather, being roused from a doze by the bustle and racket; he opened both his eyes, at first with wonder and astonishment. At last, he began to halloo so loud that you might hear him a mile; for he takes it for granted that everybody is just exactly as deaf as he is.
“Who is it, I say? Who in the world is it?”
Mrs. Jones, going close to his ear, screamed out:
“It’s Johnny Beedle!”
“Ho, Johnny Beedle; I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.”
“No, no, father; bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that’s been dead and gone this twenty years!”
“Ho! But where does he come from?”
“Daown taown.”
“Ho! And what does he foller for a livin’?”
And he did not stop asking questions after this sort, till all the particulars of the Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs. Jones’s last screech. He then sunk back into his doze again.
The dog stretched himself before one andiron, the cat squat down before the other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snow-storm, till nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping time with a sappy, yellow-birch forestick. Sally sat up, prim as if she were pinned to the chair-back, her hands crossed genteely upon her lap, and her eyes looking straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten herself too, and laid her hands across in her lap. But they would not lay still. It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work, and they were out of all patience with keeping Sunday. Do what she would to keep them quiet they would bounce up now and then, and go through the motions, in spite of the Fourth Commandment.
For my part, I sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to say something, the more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over the left, and said, “Hem!” Then I changed, and put the left over the right. It was no use, the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker. The drops of sweat began to crawl all over me. I got my eye upon my hat, hanging on a peg, on the road to the door, and then I eyed the door. At this moment, the old Captain all at once sung out:
“Johnny Beedle!”
It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I started right up an eend.
“Johnny Beedle, you’ll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did, if you live to the age of Methuseler. He would toss up his drumstick, and while it was whirlin’ in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then ketch it as it come down, without losin’ a stroke in the tune. What d’ye think of that, ha? But scull your chair round close alongside er me, so you can hear. Now, what have you come arter?”
“I arter? Oh, jist takin’ a walk. Pleasant walkin’, I guess. I mean, jest to see how ye all do.”
“Ho, that’s another lie! You’ve come a courtin’, Johnny Beedle; you’re a’ter our Sal. Say, now, d’ye want to marry, or only to court?”
This is what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump, and landed in the middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping-cough, was put to bed.
Then came apples and cider, and the ice being broke, plenty chat with Mammy Jones about the minister and the “sarmon.” I agreed with her to a nicety upon all the points of doctrine, but I had forgot the text and all the heads of the discourse, but six. Then she teazed and tormented me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery, that day. But, mum! there was no getting that out of me.
“Praise to the face, is open disgrace,” says I, throwing a sly squint at Sally.
At last, Mrs. Jones lighted tother candle, and after charging Sally to look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered up his shoes and stockings, and followed.
Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in, with a steady stream of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past, and also made some pretty ’cute guesses at what it was like to be in future. At first, I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop; then, growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma and semicolon; and at last, it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by the side of her.
“I swore, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to-day, that I wanted to eat you up!”
“Pshaw! get along you,” said she.
My hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and begun to scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home again, with a desperate jerk. Try it again—no better luck.
“Why, Miss Jones, you’re gettin’ upstropulous; a little old-maidish, I guess.”
“Hands off is fair play, Mr. Beedle.”
It is a good sign to find a girl sulky; I knew where the shoe pinched—it was that are Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her that I had never had any notion after Patty, and to prove it, I fell to running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with me; and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I now not only got hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip an arm round her waist. But there was no satisfying me; so I must go to poking out my lips after a buss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap in the face, that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a quarter of an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, tho’ out of the wrong side of my mouth, which gave my face something the look of a gridiron. The battle now began in the regular way.
“Ah, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha’ done with it, now.”
“I won’t, so, there: nor tech to—”
“I’ll take it, whether or no.”
“Do it if you dare!”
And at it we went, rough and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now commenced: the bow of my cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the next bout, smash went shirt-collar; and at the same time, some of the head fastenings gave way, and down came Sally’s hair in a flood, like a mill-dam broke loose, carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of Sally’s elbow, and my blooming ruffles wilted down to a dish-cloth. But she had no time to boast. Soon her neck tackeling began to shiver; it parted at the throat, and whorah came a whole school of blue and white beads, scampering and running races, every which way about the floor.
By the hookey, if Sally Jones is not real grit, there’s no snakes. She fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite or scratch; and when she could fight no longer, she yielded handsomely. Her arms fell down by her sides, her head back over her chair, her eyes closed, and there lay her little plump mouth, all in the air. Lord, did ye ever see a hawk pounce upon a young robin, or a bumble-bee upon a clover top? I say nothing.
Consarn it, how a buss will crack of a still, frosty night! Mrs. Jones was about half way between asleep and awake.
“There goes my yeast bottle,” says she to herself, “burst into twenty hundred pieces; and my bread is all dough agin.”
The upshot of the matter is, I fell in love with Sally Jones, head over ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds me rapping at Squire Jones’s door; and twenty times have I been within a hair’s breadth of popping the question. But now I have made a final resolve, and if I live till next Sunday night, and I don’t get choked in the trial, Sally Jones will hear thunder.
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By W. J. McClintoch. |
It was my Aunt Nabby’s birthday, and she was bent upon having a stewed goose, stewed in onions, and with cabbage and salt pork to match.
“Pollijah,” said she to me, “ain’t we got a goose ’bout the farm?”
“No,” said I, “we eat the old gander at Christmas, and he was the last of the patriarchs.”
Aunt Nabby went down to Sue, who was getting breakfast.
“Susanna,” said she, “the boy tells how we ain’t got a goose in creation. Now what shall we do?”
“Go without,” replied Susanna, with that amiable tone which father said had worn off her teeth to the gums.
But Aunt Nabby was bent upon a goose, and when such a stiff and straight person gets bent upon anything, you may consider the matter settled, and I saw that a goose of some kind would be had at some rate or other.
“Here, you crittur,” cried Aunt Nabby to the little black specimen of the human family which was digging potatoes in the garden, “here, I want you to go along to the neighbours, and borra a goose.” Cato laid down his hoe, got over the fence, and shovelled off on his broad pedestals to get a goose.
The first house that Cato came to was that of Sam Soap, the tailor, commonly called Soft Soap. Into the shop went the Yankeefied negro, and making a leg to Mr. Soap, who sat like a Hindoo idol, busily employed in patching an old blue coat with still older brown rags, and humming most mournfully the air of “Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon,” giving it a nasal twang that came direct from Jedediah Soap, who was a member of the Long Parliament.
“Soap,” says Cato, “you haan’t got no goose, nor nothin’, haan’t ye, for Aunt Nabby?”
Soap was a literal (not literary) man, who as he called his daughter Propriety, and having but one eye, was likewise called Justice, that is by some that were classical. “Priety,” says he, “gin Cato the largest goose.”
Priety, like a good girl, went into the other room, and arter some time returned with one, well enveloped and carefully wrapped up in paper, telling Cato to be as careful as everlasting not to get it wet; and away went the web-footed mortal to deliver his charge to Susanna.
“My gracious!” said Sue, “if that are niggar ain’t brought me a tough feller to stew!”
But nevertheless, as her business was to stew the goose and ask no questions, at it she went, and pretty soon the tailor’s treasure was simmering among onions, and carrots, and cabbages, and turnips, and spices, all as nice as need be. After breakfast, Aunt Nabby had gone abroad to ask in the neighbours, and when she came home, she went of course directly into the kitchen to see how the goose came on.
“Is it tender, Susanna?” said she.
Susanna smiled so sweetly, that the old house-clock in the corner next the cupboard stopped and held up its hand. “Oh, Ma’am,” replied Susanna, “it’s so tender, that I guess it won’t be the more tender arter being biled.”
“And fat?”
“Oh, bless you! it’s so broad across the back.”
My Aunt’s mouth watered so, that she was forced to look at Susanna, to correct the agreeable impression.
Well, noon came and the neighbours began to drop in. First came the parson, who being a man of vast punctuality, took out his watch as soon as he came in, and for the purpose of seeing how it chimed, as he said, with the old clock, walked into the kitchen, bade Miss Susanna good day, hoped she continued well in body, and snuffed up the sweet flavours of the preparing sacrifice with expanded nostrils. Next to the Minister came the Squire, he opened the front door, and seeing no one but me.
“Pollijah,” he said, “when ’ill that are goose be done? ’cause I’m everlastin’ busy, settlin’ that hay-mow case, and I’d like to know—”
“Ready now, Squire,” answered the Parson, opening the kitchen-door; “and I guess it’s an uncommon fine one too, so walk in and let’s have a chat.”
The Squire entered, and he and the Minister had a considerable spell of conversation about the hay-mow case. The case was this: Abijah Biggs got leave to carry his hay across Widow Stokes’s field to the road; well, this hay-mow had dropped off the poles, and Widow Stokes claimed it as a waif and stray.
“Now,” says the Squire, “I conceit the chief pint in the case is this here; has Widow Stokes a right to this hay? Now this ’ill depend, ye see, ’pon t’other point, to wit, videlicet, does the hay belong to Bijah? Now the Widow says, says she, ‘every man in this country’s free, and therefore every man in this country is a king, jist as far as his farm goes. Now the king, all allow, has a right to waifs and strays; and so,’ says Widow Stokes, ‘that are hay is mine.’ ‘But,’ says Bijah—and by jinks, it’s a cute argument; ‘but,’ says he, ‘tho’ every man in this land of liberty is a free man, yet that doesn’t prove that every woman is, and per contra, we know that women don’t vote, and of course ain’t free; so,’ says he, ‘the Widow Stokes ain’t a king; so,’ says he, ‘the hay ain’t hern.’ But’s a puzzlin’ case, ain’t it?”
“Well, now,” answered the minister, “it strikes me that hay ain’t astray.”
“Well,” said the Squire, “there’s a pint I never thinked of.”
Just then in came the Deacon, and after him the sexton, and so on till pretty much all the aristocratic democracy of the village had assembled. And then in bustled Aunt Nabby, awful fine I tell you; and then Susanna and Cato began to bring in dinner. And while they were doing that, the company all took a stiff glass of grog by way of appetite, and then stroked down their faces and looked at the table, and there was a pig roast and stuffed, and a line of veal, and two old hens, and an everlastin’ sight of all kinds of sarce, and pies, and puddins, and doughnuts, and cider, and above all, at the head of the table, the dish in which lay the hero of the day—that are goose, smothered in onions, and utterly hid beneath the load of carrots and cabbages. The seat next the goose was assigned to the Minister, and all sat down.
The Squire flourished his fork, and pounced upon the pig; the Deacon he tackeled to at the veal, while the sexton went seriously to work to exhume a piece of pork from amid an avalanche of beans. The Minister, with a spoon, gently stirred away a few carrots and onions, in hopes of thus coming at the goose.
“It smells remarkably fine,” says he, to Aunt Nabby.
“It’s particularly fine and tender,” says she; “I picked it myself from a whole heap.”
And still the Minister poked, till at last his spoon grated upon a hard surface.
“A skewer, I guess!” and plunging his fork into the onion mass, he struggled to raise the iron handle with which he had joined issue.
“Bless me!” cried Aunt Nabby, “what’s that are?”
“I should judge,” said the Squire, “that are was an old goose.”
“Gracious me!” exclaimed the Deacon.
Still the Minister struggled, and still the goose resisted. Aunt Nabby grew nervous, and the more the Minister struggled, the more the goose would not come. I saw my Aunt’s eye dilating, her hand moved ugly, and then pounce, just when the Minister thought he had conquered the enemy, my Aunt drove the round steel through the onions into the eye of the skewer as she thought, and dragging forth the tailor’s goose, held it at arm’s length before the company. The Squire had just raised the pig upon his fork, when seeing my Aunt’s discovery, he dropped it and the dish was knocked all to smash. The sexton had drawn his beans to the edge of the table, another pull as he saw the goose, and over it went. My Aunt dropped the cause of all this evil, and there went another plate. The company dined elsewhere, and the next Sunday the Minister declined preachin’, on account of a domestic misfortin. My Aunt Nabby died soon arter, and the sexton buried her, observing as he did so, that she departed, the poor critter, in consequence of an iron goose, and broken crockery!
In the spring of 1845, after the close of a long, tiresome session of the Pennsylvania Legislature, the writer was invited by Colonel A——, then Clerk of the House of Representatives, to accompany him to his home in the backwoods of Elk—a new county, that had been partitioned off from Jefferson, Clearfield, and McRean, that session. The object of the visit was twofold; first, to enjoy the fine trout fishing of that prolific region; and secondly, to assist the Colonel in getting the seat of justice where he wanted it.
The Colonel owned a mill and store at Caledonia, on one edge of the county, and a very fine mill at Ridgeway, but was not inclined to pay anything for it, as Mr. John Ridgeway, a millionaire of Philadelphia, owned nearly all the land about it, and the county seat would greatly increase its value. My friend’s plan was to put in strong for Caledonia; and he did. He offered to build the court-house and gaol, and gave bonds therefore, if Caledonia should be chosen.
Ridgeway became frightened, and made a similar proposition, for his town; which was of course accepted by the commissioners, who were all personal friends of the Colonel.
It was long before the ruse was discovered, and Ridgeway found he was sold.
One day, the Colonel and myself rode over to Caledonia, to see how things flourished there, and eat some of Aunt Sally Warner’s pumpkin pies, and venison steaks; and on arriving at the store, found a justice’s court in full blast. The suit grew out of a lumber speculation; and as near as I could tell by the testimony of the witnesses generally, the matter stood about six for one, a half-dozen for the other. One of the parties was a man of considerable ready cash, while the other was not worth a continental dime. Harris, the man of means, had not been long in these parts, and little was known of him except what had dropped from Seth Willet one night at Warner’s store. He was rather in for it at the time; but enough was said to make the good people of Elk form a bad opinion of Harris.
As the time of the trial drew nigh, some who were in the store when Seth was “blowing” about Harris, began to try to recollect what he said, and the other party in the case was informed that he had a first-rate witness in the green lumberman, as Seth was generally called.
Seth was forthwith waited upon, and pumped by a young man named Winslow, who acted as attorney for the prosecutor. All the information he possessed of Harris was freely and unsuspectingly given, and Winslow noted it down as correctly as he could.
The day previous to the trial, the prosecutor and Harris met at the store.
“Well, you’re goin’ on with the law-suit, I s’pose?” asked Harris.
“Tu be sure I am; and I’ll make you smell cotton.”
“Bah!” said Harris; “you can’t touch bottom.”
“Tech bottom? Ca—ant hey? Jest you wait till I git Seth Willet on the stand, an’ swore on the Bible, and see if I ca—ant. P’raps I ha’nt heer’d nothin’ about them sheep over to Tiog county, and the robbin’ of Jenkinse’s store, down tu Painted Post, hey?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Harris, apparently perfectly in a fog as to the purport of the language he had heard.
“I know, an’ that’s ’nuff;” said the plaintiff, “but let’s licker, anyheow.”
Harris lost no time in finding out Seth.
“Did you ever live in Tioga county?”
“Anything abeout sheep—?”
“No, no, I mean Painted Post.”
“Oh! Jenkinse’s store!” said Seth, with great gravity.
“Two hundred wouldn’t be a bad pile, Seth, here in Elk?”
“No—o, t’wouldn’t, that’s a fact. Get that amount tu lend on a slow note?”
“Well, I might scrape it up—could give you a hundred down and the rest after the Court’s adjourned.”
Harris counted out the hundred, and rolling it up, held it temptingly in his hand. Seth’s eyes stuck out like peeled onions, and his mouth fairly watered at the display. It was more money than he had ever owned in his life.
“Have you ever heard that I steal sheep in Tioga county, Seth?”
“Not’s I know on.”
“You’re sure? mind you’ll have to swear in Court.”
Seth looked at Harris, and then at the bills.
“Sure—parfectly sure.”
“Nor anything about my being implicated in the robbery of Jenkins’s store?” Still holding the roll of bills in his hand, and turning over the ends, exhibiting the V’s and X’s most tantalizingly.
“No; I’ll swear I never heeard nobody say you had anything to do with it.”
“You’re an honest man, Seth; here’s a hundred on account. The other hundred you shall have after the Court.”
The Court had been in session some time, when the Colonel and myself arrived, and Seth had just been sworn. He was to destroy the character of Harris, by testifying in regard to the sheep-stealing, and the robbery at Painted Post.
“Han’t no knowledge on the pint.”
“Have you never heard, while living at Painted Post, that he was suspected of being engaged in the robbery?”
“I do-no. I never take no notice about what people say suspiciously about their neighbours.”
“Really you’re a very singular witness. Let me jog your memory a little. Do you remember having said anything about Harris’s connection with the Tioga sheep-stealing, and the Jenkins’s store robbery, while you were at Gillis’s store one night last April?”
“As fer’s my reck’lection serves, I ha—ant.”
“Were you at Gillis’s store on the night of the 17th of April?”
“I do-no for sartin.”
“Were you in Ridgeway at all on the 17th of April?”
“Yeeas, I was.”
“How do you fix the time? Proceed, and tell the justice, (we shall get at the truth of this story yet,” aside to the plaintiff.) “Come Sir, proceed Sir.”
“Wall, on the mornin’ of the 17th, Dickson says he to me, says he, ‘Seth, go down to Mr. Dill’s, and get the nails clenched in the brown mare’s off-hind foot.’ So I jist put a halter on an’, cantered down to Ridgeway, and stopt tu Gileses’ store, an’ bort some thread an’ needles for Ant Jerusha, an’ Gilleses’ clark ast me ef I wouldn’t like to taste sum new rum he had jest got up from Bellefonte, an’ I said, ‘Yis,’ an’ he poured out abeout have a tumbler, an’ I drinkt it right deown.”
“Well, Sir, go on.”
“Well, then I led the brown mare over tu Dill’s, an ast Miss Dill—”
“You mean Mrs. Dill, his wife?”
“Yeas, Miss Dill. I ast Miss Dill ef Mr. Dill was tu hum, an’ she sed,
“ ‘No, he’s deown tu the lick b’low Andrewses’ mill, arter deer. What you want?’ says she.
“ ‘I want to get the nails clenched to the mare’s off-hind foot,’ sez I.
“ ‘Wal,’ sez she, ‘can’t yeu du it yerself?’
“ ‘Wal,’ says I, ‘I guess I can.’
“So she showed me whar the horse-nails war, an’ giv’ me the hammer, an’ I put on Dill’s leather apron, an’ at it I went. I got in three nails right snug, and clenched them, an’ was drivin’ deown the third, when the mare shied at suthen, and shoved her foot a-one side, an’ the hammer cum deown caslap! right on this there thumb-nail. You see” (holding it up) “it’s not growed eout yit.”
“But what has that to do with the talk at Gillis’s store?”
“I’m goin’ on tu tell you. Lor! heow I did yel! you’d a thought thar was fifty painters abeout. Miss Dill, she cum a-runnin’ out, an’ ast what was the matter.
“ ‘Look here,’ sez I, holdin’ up my thumb, which was bleedin’ like all Jehu. ‘What shall I do?’ sez I.
“ ‘I’ll tell you what,’ says Miss Dill, an’ she run an’ got a leaf of live-for-ever, an’ sez she, ‘peel off the skin, an’ put the peth on.’
“ ‘Peel it yerself,’ sez I, a-cryin’ with the exhuberant pain.
“So she peeled it and tied it on, an’ in tu days thar wan’t a bit of soreness in it; but the nail cum off.”
“But come to Gillis’s store. What did you say about Harris that night?”
“Wal, all I recollect is, that Thompson an’ a lot of fellers was thar; an’ Thompson and I shot at a mark for whiskey, an’ Thompson he win, and we drinkt at my expense. Then Bill Gallager and Dill they shot, an’ Dill beat Bill, an’ we drinkt at his expense. Then Charley Gillis he shot agin Frank Souther, an’ Frank win; and we drinkt at Charley’s expense; an’ then Frank he sung a song, an’ then Thompson he sung a song; and the next I recollect was—”
“Well, Sir, was what?”