The cup of Mrs. Mitten's happiness was not yet full. In less
than a month after Captain Thompson's return from Willington, he
embraced religion and joined the Methodist Church; and in the
course of a week his wife followed his example. The story which
he told at the first Love Feast which he attended after his conversion,
is worthy of being recorded:

“I have had,” said he “for many years before me, a most beautiful
example of the Christian character in my dear sister. I never
could see but one fault in her, and that was `a fault which leaned
to virtue's side:' too much indulgence of her son. She embraced
religion early in life; and often when I have seen her at her devotions,
my conscience has smitten me sorely. But I always managed
to silence its reproofs, for a time at least. Oh, how eloquent is the
godly life of a sister! Whether because she was my sister, that the
inward monitor would not forsake me, although repelled a thousand
times; or because I have had for many years a secret leaning towards
religion, which prolonged his visits, or some unknown cause, I cannot
tell; but a month never rolled over our heads, that I did not
observe in her the gleaming or broad out-shining of some heavenly
virtue, which came “like lightning to my soul.”

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“As some of you know, about a month ago my sister dispatched
a servant with some comforts for her boy at school in South Carolina.
Knowing that I would bitterly oppose the measure, she kept it secret
from me. I found it out, however, and posted off after the
servant in a great rage. The blunders of the negro increased my
rage. I stopped at a house to enquire for him. A plain illiterate
man came out and informed me that he had left the plain large road
and gone off on a by-way. In my wrath I cursed outright, and on
the trip, I repeated the sin oftener, I believe, than I had in the
whole course of my life before. As I turned to leave the good
hearted man, `Stranger,' said he to me, `have you ever reflected
upon the sin of profane swearing?' I was in no frame of mind for
reflecting upon any thing, and in the worst possible, for receiving
religious lectures; but a flash of respect for the good man came
over me, which kept me from insulting him, and I replied, that I
was not in the habit of profane swearing.”

“My pursuit ended and object gained, I now set my face homeward,
and on the way had nothing to do but to reflect. My mind
had hardly resumed its accustomed tone, when the question of my
road-side friend, in the rude accents in which he put it (for I have
not given it in his own terms) forced itself upon my memory. Associated
as it was, with the ignorance, the artlessness and innocence
of the propounder, I smiled, and endeavored to divert my thoughts;
but the question would control them, so I let it have its way: `Have
you ever reflected upon the sin of profane swearing!' No, honest,
untutored yeoman, I never have! What a sin it is! Every other
sin has something to plead in its behalf. The gamester, the cheat,
the swindler, the thief, the robber, the pirate, sin in the hope of
gain. The assassin for the gratification of revenge—the drunkard
to appease a raging thirst—the prodigal, for many gratifications.
But thou, oh, profane swearer! what have you to plead in the extenuation
of thy offence? It is purely gratuitous. In one single,
short imprecation, you embody sins enough to damn a world. You
insult the Almighty, you trifle with his Holy Name, you violate the
law of reverence, the law of love, the law of humanity, the law of
peace! You set God's power at defiance and invoke God's power
to crash your neighbor and your brother! And all for what?
What momentary gain do you derive or promise yourself from your
sin of sins? Often, most commonly, you have not even the flimsey
plea of passion to gloss over your crime. You mingle it in your
sports, your revels, your banquets, and horrify it with a laugh!”

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“You will not wonder, brethren, that I became alarmed, and resolved
never to swear another oath while I lived. This was as far
as I wont at the time; but it was not as far as I felt, by a long, long
way. Thenceforward my sins were more constantly and vividly
before me than ever, until I sought the pardon of ther in God's
own way, and as I believe found it—I am strongly tempted to say,
`I know I found it.”'

In religion, the captain was as he had been in every thing else that he
undertook: open, active, liberal, ardent, zealous, laborious, untiring.
What some Christians call a cross, such as holding family prayer,
particularly before strangers of rank, praying in public, and speaking
in public on proper occasions, was to him no cross at all; and we
advise those Christians who cannot perform these offices, (and there
are such) not to dignify them with the name of crosses.

Captain Thompson and his wife led off a great revival in the village,
upon which Mrs. Glib took occasion to deliver her theology
very freely.

“Well, well, well!” said she to Mrs. Lark, this is what you call
getting religion, is it? Sinning all your life, and then kneeling
down there two or three days and then jumping up a Christian!”

“But, Mrs. Glib,” said Mrs. Lark, “you don't remember what
they say. They say that under Peter's preaching three thousand
were converted and joined the church in one day.”

“Well, is old Howell, Peter, or is old Sherman, Paul?”

“No, but they say that they preach the same gospel that Peter
and Paul did—”

“Oh yes, they say, they say, and they'll say anything to get up
an excitement, and to scare people. Now I love religion—real,
genuine religion—that kind of religion which a person goes to work
calmly, soberly, and deliberately to get. When I get religion, this
is the sort I mean to get; but this wild-fire sort of religion I don't
believe in at all.”

“But they say you don't get it when and as you want it.”

“They do! I should like to know how they know what I can do,
and what I can't. Now, mind what I tell you, nine out of ten of
these flashy converts will back-slide before the year's out—you mark
it! You remember we had just such a fuss as this five years ago,
and old Groat and John Dunn and Sally Nix, and Polly Pines all got
religion and were mighty happy; and where are they now?”

“But Mrs. Glib, you must do them the justice to say that a great
many more of them than that, held on to their religion.”

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“Yes, such holding on as it was. Holding on like Sam Strap;
who is mighty sanctified all day Sunday, and slandering people's
children all the week—saying that genteel people's children are little
better than a den of thieves. That's what you call holding on, is
it? That's what you call religion, is it? And there's old Turner
prosecuting little boys for a little harmless sport—and he a preacher
at that! Don't tell me anything about any such religion as that!
You'd kill yourself laughing if you could see my Flor Claudia Lavinia
take them off. Now you know Mrs. Lark, that I don't allow
my children to make game of religious people of any sort. But some
nights when we come home from these night meetings, she begins
before I have time to stop her, and when she begins I get in such a
laughing fit, I can't stop her. She takes off old Howell to perfection—
his very voice, action, and words—then old 'brother' Mc Boon's
praying—the very twang. And old 'sister' McRea, creeping about
among the mourners. And 'brother' Wilson's singing! It seems
to me sometimes she will kill me. I always reprove her for it. I
said to her last night, Flora, you naughty girl, you really must quit
this, if you don't I shall get right angry with you—they mean well,
poor things, and you must not make fun of them.”

Nine weeks after this conversation, Mrs. Glib was brought to
death's door with the bilious fever; the first man that she sent for to
pray for her was Captain Thompson; the second was “brother”
McBoon. The first woman she asked to pray for her was Mrs. Mitten,
and the secon was “sister” McRea—charging every one of
them, while they prayed for her, to pray for her children, also, and
for Flora in particular. She professed conversion in two days from
the date of the first prayer that was put up in her behalf, and died.
Flora never professed conversion. She married, in three weeks after
her mother's death, a worthless, silly fellow, named Curt, who administered
upon Mrs. Glib's estate because no one else would, took
the guardianship of the boys, because no one else would; hired a
man of some property and no principle, named Carp, to go upon his
bonds, sold out all the property of the estate, except the negroes,
as soon as he could, and moved off with his security, and the whole
tribe, white and black, to the frontier of Alabama, to the great relief
and greater delight of every body. Nine years afterwards, the
younger Glib (Ben.) came back to the village to learn something
about the estate. To the amazement of all who knew the family, he
was a decent, pious, but ignorant man. His story was that Curt and
Carp settled near each other in Alabama. That in a very few years

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after they got out there, Carp had got from Curt every negro that
belonged to the estate, and then moved still farther West. That the
elder Glib got into a difficulty with a gambler, who shot him. Of
his sister, he could be got to say no more than that he did not know
where she was. That his other brother was thrown from a horse in
a quarter race and killed. That he himself, seeing nothing but poverty
and ruin and disgrace all around him, had sought and obtained
religion. That as soon as he did so, a good Baptist man of considerable
wealth took him by the hand, gave him employment on his
farm, telling him that if he would do well, he would give him
good wages till he came of age, and then give him a little start in
the world. That his friend had been as good as his word, and that
he had now enough to live on comfortably, though he was not rich.

The records showed of what the estate consisted. He took copies,
went to the old family mansion, sauntered round it for a time, wept,
and left the village forever.

Having gone thus far with the Glib family, we had as well dispose
of it finally—it is replete with moral lessons. Carp had played his
cards adroitly to avoid responsibility. He knew the character of
the boys, and judged that none of them would live long enough to
call him to account. He knew, too, it would be an easy matter to
wheedle Curt out of all that he was worth individually or representatively,
and conjectured that as soon as poverty began to stare her in
the face, Mrs. Curt would be setting lawyers upon his trail. He
therefore, from the day that they left Georgia, became exceedingly
kind and exceedingly attentive to her ladyship. He would often
speak to her playfully of her husband's inefficiency and bad management—
declare that but for her, nothing could have induced him to
become his security; “but I saw,” said he, “every body hanging off,
nobody seemed to care anything for you or your poor orphan brothers;
and I said to myself, well, as for the boys, they will soon be big
enough to shirk for themselves—they can rough it; but what is to
become of Mrs. Curt? I can't see her suffer, and I'll be her friend
if it costs me every dollar I have in the world.”

He used a thousand seductive arts to entoil, and he succeeded.
He loaned money liberally to Curt, often advising him in the presence
of his wife not to take it. “Mr. Curt,” he would say, “two
per cent. a month will ruin you. I can get that from other people,
and, therefore, I don't like to loan for less, and I will not lend it to
you unless Mrs. Curt says so.”

“How much,” said Mrs. Curt, “is two per cent?”

“Two dollars on every hundred dollars,” said Carp.

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

“Two dollars on every hundred dollars! why that is very little
indeed! I'd borrow all the money in Alabama at that price, if I
could get it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Curt, but you will not like to see your negroes under
mortgage to secure the debt.”

“Mortgage! What's that?”

“Its a pledge of a negro to secure the debt.”

“Oh, that's nothing—surely Mr. Curt can pay the little sums that
he borrows with only two per cent. on them.”

The “little sums” ran up so fast that in a few years every negro
that Curt had in his hands was under mortgage. Not all for money
loaned, but for corn, fodder, pork, bacon, and other things sold; and
for large balances in horse-swaps, carpenters' bills paid, and large
outlays for Curt, in erecting a mill; for Mr. Curt having a fine mill
seat on his land, said it would never do to let such a fine water-power
be lost; so he commenced building a large mill when, as yet, there
was nobody in the neighborhood to patronize it, and when his brain
was about as well suited to manage a mill, as a claw-hammer is to
maul rails with.

About the time that the last mertgage ripened to maturity, Mr.
Carp concluded to go “and take a view, as he said, of the Louisiana
country.” He went, and came back so delighted with it, that he
must needs move there forthwith. But he could not go until he collected
his Alabama debts. Curt and he came to a settlement, when
it was found that Curt owed him more by three hundred dollars than
the negroes were worth by Curt's own valuation; he agreed, however,
as Curt was a particular friend, to take the negroes at Curt's estimate,
and give him a receipt in full. Curt felt very grateful for the
kindness, and promptly signed a bill of sale of the negroes, drawn up
by Carp himself, in which he took every precaution to guard against
“after claps” as he called them, and which, in aftertimes gave a western
lawyer very great annoyance. Here it is:

“Whereas, on settlement this day made between myself and John
Carp, it appears that I am in his debt for monies advanced to me on
my own account, and also as administrator of Mrs. Brigita Glib, and
also as guardian of the children of said Mrs. Glib, to the amount of
ten thousand dollars; and whereas, I did execute a mortgage to said
John of the within fourteen negroes to secure the said debt, said negroes
not being worth by three hundred dollars as much as said debt,
at my own valuation, which mortgage is given up on my signing this
bill of sale, and whereas said John did become my security as

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administrator, and guardian aforesaid, and I being willing to make him safe
from any loss or losses for becoming my security as aforesaid, do
make this bill of sale for that purpose also, for all these considerations
I do sell and convey to the said John the following negroes
namely:” (naming them, their sizes, sexes, and ages.) “And I
warrant them to said John against all claim by me or any body claiming
the same as heir of Mrs. Glib or any other person whatsoever,
&c., &c.”

This remarkable bill of sale Mr. Carp required should be signed
by Mrs. Curt as well as her husband, and that Curt should sign it
“for himself and as administrator and guardian.” Curt expressed
his readiness to comply with all these requisitions but the first. As
to this he said, “he doubted whether his wife could be induced to
sign it.” “Well,” said Carp, “ask her, and if she refuses, all well,
it will make no difference.”

Curt went to her with downcast looks and told her all the circumstances.
To his astonishment she expressed her perfect readiness to
sign it. “Sign it,” said she, “yes, that I will. Mr. Carp has been
so kind to us, that I can refuse him nothing.” The bill of sale was
executed to Mr. Carp's wishes. “And now, friend Curt,” said Carp,
“what are you going to do with no help here? You'd better bundle
up and go with me to Louisiana. I'll befriend you to my last dollar.”

“What am I to do with my mill and my little household plunder
and farm?”

“True,” said Carp, pondering—“you can't well leave them—oh,
I'll tell you how to manage it. Advertise them for sale two months
hence. I'll take your wife and child on, and fix her up by the time
you get there. When you've sold out all but your best horse, mount
him and come on. Sell for cash, for it will be inconvenient for you
to come back to collect money. Pity when I was selling my land to
Watson I did not think to put yours in the trade too. May be you
can sell it to him yet. By this plan you can come on with no trouble
or expense hardly.”

Curt said he liked the plan mightily, but doubted whether his wife
would agree to it. It was submitted to her, and she assented to it
readily; only charging her husband to come on as soon as possible.
In four days after this interview, Carp and all his negroes were
ready to take the road. He had provided a nice little Jersey for
Mrs. Curt and her child, and for fear of accidents, he promised to
drive it himself all the way to Louisiana. Just as the caravan was

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about setting out, “Stop,” said Curt, “where shall I find you in
Louisiana?”

“Sure enough!” exclaimed Carp, “Now didn't we like to make
a pretty business of it! You will find us in Chuckiluckimaw Parish
on the Sabine river. Here, I'll give you the name on a piece of paper—
Tonnafoosky is the town where the Post office is. If you write
before you hear from us, direct your letter to Tonnafoosky Post office,
Chuckiluckimaw Parish, Louisiana. There, it is all written out
so you can't miss it.” So saying, the whole caravan moved forward,
leaving poor Curt in loneliness, wifeless, childless, helpless, and in
money penniless. Carp settled on Buffalo creek, Wilkinson county,
Mississippi, where he and Mrs. Curt lived as man and wife for many
years. Several children were the fruit of this union. Mrs. Curt
had been dead about three mouths when Glib traced Carp to his
hiding place. Her death was awful. When the Doctor told her
that she could not possibly live more than twenty-four hours, she
raised a scream that was terrific. “Doctor,” cried she, “I am ruined,
I'm lost. Lost, lost, lost forever!” A minister was sent for and
came. “You needn't talk to me, sir—you needn't pray for me, sir—
I thank you—but if you knew—oh what shall I do!—”

“If I knew what, ma'am? Is it too bad to be told—”

“It might be told, but telling it will do no good and much harm—
It isn't passed, it's now—yes, it has been for years, it's now, it's all
the time.”

“Can't you tell it to your husband, or some of us?” said one of
the several ladies at her bedside.

“He knows it—he knows all about it. No, my husband doesn't
know it—he's innocent, poor man—yes, he knows part of it, but not
all of it—not half of it, not a quarter of it, not a thousandth part
of it—wasn't it a shame to treat him so?” (another scream.) “Her
mind's gone,” said one. “No, it isn't! I know all that I am saying—
I know you, I know everybody here. It isn't anything passed,
I tell you. It's now, I'm dying in it, and what good can praying do?
It's too late to get out of it. If I were to get well I couldn't get
out of it. My children scare me, my husband scares me, the negroes
scare me; my thoughts scare me, everything—send for Mr Carp
here, and you all go out of the room. Go clean away, send all the
children away, and all the servants, and I'll tell him all about it.”

It was done, and Carp entered the room.

“Mr. Carp, see what you've brought me to! I never would have
thought of it, if it hadn't been for you—”

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“Haven't I treated you well, Flora?” “Yes, better than I deserved;
but what does it all amount to? You've brought me to everlasting
ruin. It was bad enough in me to leave my poor husband;
but to leave him as we did—with nothing to live on—to fill his ears
with lies—to make fun of him—to send him all over the country
hunting for us!”

“Oh, Flora, don't take on so! Try and compose yourself. Everything
depends upon it. Think of your children! The thing's past
and gone now, and fretting over it can't mend it—”

“Our children! Our children!—Look there!—Look there!
Mr. Carp! Mr. Carp! Mr. Carp”—Another scream—and her
mind was gone. She lay for a few minutes in a stupor, during which
the company were called back. Then she began in a low, calm tone
of voice:

“Ma!—Ma!—Ma, did you tell them—? you're scared—
`Pray for Flora!'—You laughed—No—No—yes, both—
In the Pulpit—Mrs. McRae (a wild laugh!) Mr. Wilson! (another)
There, its bed time—All dead but me! Ben's alive—we'll
all meet in heaven—He was so stupid—Sabine!” Another
convulsive laugh—and she died.

Carp was asked repeatedly what it was that distressed his wife so
much in her last moments. He said she had told him all about it,
but that it was nothing of any consequence—she was out of her
head.

Benjamin Glib soon explained the mystery. After satisfying himself
fully that Carp was in Wilkinson, he went to a lawyer in Natchez,
and unfolded the whole history of his case from the death of his
mother to Carp's elopement with his sister. Mr. Stark, his Attorney,
advised him to remain in Natchez until he (Stark) could go to
Wilkinson, and ascertain all the particulars of Carp's history from
his settlement in Mississippi to the time present. Two days were
amply sufficient to assure him that Glib's story was true in every
particular. He immediately took the preliminary steps necessary to
the institution of suits against Carp, in behalf of both Glib and
Curt's daughter Sarah, now going under the name of Sally Carp.
The child's interests could not be secured without letters of guardianship;
and Stark assisted in procuring them. He did not allow Glib
to apply for them until he had fortified himself with proofs impregnable,
to sustain his application. As soon as it was made, all Woodville
was thrown in a ferment. Carp's infamy was exposed, and the
horrid death of his putative wife disposed everybody to believe it.

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Sarah caused some difficulty at first, but as it was much more agreeable
to her to pass for a legitimate than an illegitimate child, it was
easily removed. The suits were instituted and recoveries had which
swept away nearly the whole of Carp's estate. But we must not
suppress the history of the bill of sale.

As soon as he was served with process, Carp went to Mr. Smith, a
great Attorney of Woodville, to engage his services. “Well,” says
Smith, “let us take up one case at a time; what have you to say to
Glib's ease?”

“Lord bless your soul, squire,” said Carp, “I've got 'em tied so
fast that they can't kick. Turn which way they will, they're headed.”

“Well, Carp, I'm glad to hear you say that, old fellow, for public
prejudice is very strong against you.”

“Just look at that bill of sale, squire, and tell me how they're to
get out of that, will you?”

Smith read it, and while reading it, his countenance assumed
nearly every variety of expression that the human countenance can
assume. When he had finished—

“Well,” said he, “of all the Bills of Sale that ever I laid my
eyes upon, that beats. If you had come to me and told me to draw
up an instrument, in the form of a bill of sale, that at all times, and
in all Courts would be equal to a confession of judgment by you, in
any suit brought against you, by any person claiming under Mrs.
Glib, I couldn't have come within gun-shot of this for that purpose.
Burn it up immediately—destroy it—what's your wife's name doing
to that bill of sale? Isn't Flora Curt the woman you've been living
with as your wife? But it's not worth while to talk about it—destroy
it, I tell you, immediately!”

“And then what title will I have to show for all these negroes
and—”

“None; trust to the defects of Glib's title, or to his not being able
to identify them—”

“Is that the best advice that you can give me?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'll get another lawyer. Stark would give me the same
advice; I understand it!”

“What do you mean, you cheating, swindling, adulterous rascal?”
said Smith, moving to the back room with a stick hunting motion.
Carp was gone before his return.

Carp employed a young attorney of Woodville, who confirmed his
views of the bill of sale, in every particular. “There's the title,”

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said he, “plainly and distinctly set forth—not simply upon a good
consideration, which would have been all-sufficient, but also upon a
valuable consideration, and, to make assurance doubly sure, upon divers
other considerations. This title, like the resistless torrent, is
sustained by various tributaries from perfectly pure sources. Then
it is fortified by a rampart of truth and generosity on your part, Mr.
Carp, that must forever protect it from the imputation of fraud. All
else is mere surplusage. How such a profound jurist as Mr. Smith
is, could have advised you to destroy this all important document, I
cannot conceive, unless he overlooked that sterling legal maxim:
Utile per inutile non vitiatur.”

Carp was enraptured with this impromptu display of legal ability,
rejoiced at his change of Attornies, and highly flattered at finding
his skill in guarding against “afterclaps” so fully avouched.

Far as we have digressed from the direct path of our narrative, we
are strongly tempted to follow this bill of sale through the several
Courts in which it made its appearance, but in charity to the reader's
patience we forbear. Suffice it to say, that as soon as Stark saw it,
he took a copy of it, served notices to produce it in all the cases, and
never let it get out of Court until it had, as we have said, turned
over nearly the whole of Carp's estate to Glib and his niece. This
is but one of a thousand instances in which rascality has over-reached
itself, and been made subservient to justice.

Glib and his niece returned to Alabama, rich, and both prosperep
in life. Curt was lucky. Watson purchased him out entirely, in less
than two months after Carp's departure, at tolerably fair prices, and
he set out in quest of his wife with three thousand dollars in his
pocket. He had not gone far in Louisiana before he learned that
there were no such places in the State as Chuckiluckimaw and Tonnafoosky:
so coming upon a valuable piece of land, he purchased it
cheap, and settled down upon it with two negro women, proceeds of
his surplus funds. His land grew in value and his negroes in number,
and thus when he died, (a little before his wife,) he left a right
pretty little estate, which went to swell the fortune of his daughter.
It would have been lost to her, but for a letter which he wrote to a
friend in Georgia, just before his death, who three or four years afterwards
went to visit Glib.

CHAPTER XVII.

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As soon as Captain Thompson joined the Methodists, his sister expressed
a wish to attach herself to the same church to which he and
his wife belonged.

“No, Anna,” said the Captain, “I advise you against it. I am
sure you cannot be a better christian in the Methodist Church than
you have proved yourself to be in the Presbyterian Church. If I
can be as bright an ornament to my Church, as you are to yours, I
shall deem myself greatly blessed—”

“Brother, you greatly over-rate my piety. I have a great many
faults and weaknesses which your eye never sees, but which I see
and mourn over, and struggle against, every day.”

“I shall hardly be convinced of my error by that kind of proof,
my dear sister. One brazen sin would bring your piety in question
with me more than a hundred faults and weaknesses hidden in the
heart, and mourned over and struggled against every day. But
enough of this—stay with your people, with whom you have long held
sweet communion, to whom you are endeared by a thousand ties, and
who are entitled to the benefit of your influence and example. I am not
sure that the division of the Church into seets is not of God's appointment.
Some good results from the division, obviously. It secures
the Scriptures from interpolation and mutilation, stimulates
the several churches to good works, liberality, generosity, and activity
in the advancement of the Redeemer's Kingdom; brings truth to
the test of open, fair and able discussion, guards the church from
new heresies, if it cannot eradicate old ones, and effectually prevents
a union of Church and State in this blessed country, at least. So
much good does it, and much more would it do, if each sect would
practice, as it should, the heavenly precepts of love and charity
taught them by their common Head. If others will not practice
them let us do it, my dear sister; and be assured, if our example
passes unobserved on earth, it will not be overlooked in Heaven.”

“Those are sweet counsels, my dear brother, and they have already
banished from my mind every thought of quitting my church.
It is strange, very strange, but I cannot disposses my mind of the
thought that some heavy calamity is going to befall us. I am too
happy for earth. I question whether there is this day a human being
this side of Heaven as happy as I am. You once said to me

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sportively, `turn Methodist and shout,' and now I could do it with
right good will. I can hardly keep from it—”

“And why should you wish to keep from it? It is one of the
means which Providence has appointed for relieving the overcharged
heart, and I do not see why it should be repressed. I know why it
is repressed, very well. It is regarded by most people as very undignified—
only, however, when most people are devoid of the feeling
that provokes it. Let the people, dignitaries and all, witness a
closely contested election of deep interest; at one moment it seems
to be going one way, at the next the other, and thus the contestants
alternately pass each other, until they stand abreast with but two
votes in the box—they come out for the same man. What do you
see, then, among the victors? One weeps outright with joy, another
laughs frantically, another vents the long suppressed breath, and
smiles; but all applaud, and nine-tenths raise a shout that may be
heard for miles. There is nothing at all undignified in this! It is
perfectly natural. Now they are all moved by the same spirit; but
it manifests itself in different ways according to the different temperaments
of the crowd. I suppose if a battery of artillery were
bearing upon them, and they were forbidden to shout, under pain of
being fired upon, they might suppress it (doubtful if all would); but
what would be thought of the man who would recommend such a
measure, or any milder one, to prevent this honest outburst of feeling?
When General Washington passed through the country on his
Southern tour, he was met by multitudes at every town and village
at which he stopped. As soon as the throngs caught a glimpse of the
approaching hero, they made the welkin ring with their shouts. As
he passed through the streets, women waved their handkerchiefs,
and wept; old soldiers wept, but most waved their hats, and shouted
again and again, loud and long. He would have been regarded as a Tory
who gave no outward demonstration of joy at such times. The very
next day these same people would go to a Methodist meeting, and
sneer at a new convert for shouting. And what has Washington
done for any one of us, compared with what Christ has done for the
new convert? What the liberty which Washington gained for us,
compared with `the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free?' What
can we promise ourselves from this great Republic, compared with
the Savior's legacy to the soldiers of the Cross? At His birth the
angels of heaven shouted. His second coming to earth will be heralded
by a shout. At His triumphant entry into Jerusalem, the
whole multitude of His disciples shouted. The Phraisee (strict re

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ligionists) begged him to rebuke them. What was His reply? `I
tell you, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately
cry out.' But He had not yet died for these disciples. No one is offended
at a shout from the dying Christian! In the times of David and
the Prophets, it was not regarded as undignified in holy men to
shout. I used to laugh at the shouting Christians, myself. I used
to be provoked with them, until I learned something of their feelings,
and then I was very ready to excuse them. From excusing I went
to thinking, and from thinking to reading upon the subject; and the
result of my deliberations and research is what I have delivered to
you. Now, do not misunderstand me. I do not say that Christians
ought to shout, much less that shouting is an infallible test of
Christianity; and least of all, that there are not just as good
Christians who never shout, as there are who do. I do not believe
that there is a better shouting Christian in our Church than you are;
but I do say that it is the most natural thing in the world that
Christians of some temperaments should shout, if I understand anything
about religion; and that ridicule of it comes with ill grace
from a shouting world, or a non-shouting Church.”

“But brother, how does it happen that there is shouting in no
other Church in the world but the Methodist?”

“Just because the Methodist is, (in one sense) the newest church
in the world. When we join a church we as naturally drop into the
ways of its people as we do into its eroed. I know very well where
they all began; it was in such a scene of excitement and clamor as
amazed the lookers-on, and led them to mock, and to say that the
converts were full of new wine. But all churches will, in process
of time, conform themselves to the opinions and manners of the
world, just as far as they can, without compromising their principles.
Prudence or policy may dictate this course—to avoid persecution,
ridicule and contempt, or to gain popularity. Never did the
world show any mercy, not to say charity to religious excitements.
The Methodists have hardly yet passed the fiery ordeal through
which all zealous, self-denying God-serving, world-defying Christians
must pass. The marks of violence are still upon their humble
meeting houses, and derision meets them at all their services. As
yet, they have no church etiquette (if you will excuse the term), no
thought, and very little knowledge, of the world's dignities; for they
are mostly poor and illiterate; no idea that joy should be disciplined,
or transports suppressed. They, therefore, give the rein to their
feelings just as nature prompts them. They are happy, very happy,

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and they express their happiness in the natural way, without fear of
startling their brethren, offending their pastors, or provoking sinners.
But it is not to be supposed that our church will be exempt
from the common lot of churches. With a penniless Ministry, fervid,
zealous, devout, persecuted, traversing the country from the
mountains to the seaboard, and preaching the Gospel to every creature,
white, black, bond, free, rich, poor, at their own doors, it must
grow, and as it grows it will increase in dignity, science, fine preaching,
fine dressing, fine eating, fine stations, fine circuits, fine music,
fine churches, and strong voting. Of course, it will then become,
especially with the most respected office holders and office seekers,
very respectable. There will be religion in it, sterling religion in
it still—religion armed for giant work, and well employed; but there
will be no shouting in it, no fraternal embraces in it, no out gushing
of hymns from a thousand voices, eloquent of the heart's heavenly
inspirations, no `brothering' between great preachers and poor
members. Or if these distinctive features of primitive Methodism
be not entirely effaced, you will have to seek them, to find them, in
some poor brother's circuit, in the gorges of the mountains, the
wilds of the West, or the negro quarters of the rich.”

“Verily, brother, you have said more in defence of shouting, than
I supposed could be said; and most certainly, if I never shout myself,
I shall always, hereafter, look with the greatest indulgence
upon those Christians who do.”

“That is the lesson that I would inculcate, my sister. And when
you learn what may be said in defence of it, tell me, what think you
of that Pastor of a church who requested a good sister of his flock
to leave the church, because, under his own glowing description of
Heaven, or under something else he said, that filled her heart with
joy, she relieved it with a shout. Think of her, if you please, perchance
the holiest of his charge, retiring from the house of worship—
from the sermon which refreshed her, under the eye-shot of the
congregation, shamed, subdued, depressed, disgraced!”

“Oh, my dear brother! Surely such a thing never happened?”

“Surely such a thing did happen, if a credible witness is to be
believed. It may be that that woman paid more, for her means, to
build the church from which she was ordered—paid more, for her
means, to support the Pastor who so deeply wounded her, than any
other member of his congregation. She never shouted again, in
his church, you may be sure, nor did any other one of his flock; and
the consequence was, (I conjecture, not without some reason), he

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had ever afterwards a very quiet, orderly, Laodicean Church. Charity,
my sister! let there be charity among the churches. Instead of
looking for faults in each other, let them be looking for what is good
in each other, and let them reciprocally interchange the good, and
reject the faulty. In this way, all might be improved—all would be
more endeared to each other than they are.”

“You have so well defended shouting among Christians, that perhaps
you can give me some new views upon another usage of your
church, which has always seemed to me much more objectionable
than shouting. I allude to your altar scenes in times of revival.
Some are singing, some are talking to mourners, and two or three
are praying aloud at the same time, and when to all this is added the
shouts of the converts, the whole scene is one of utter confusion, it
seems to me. What can you say in defence of all this?”

“Nothing. It is not only indefensible, but it is positively unscriptural.
Each and all of these exercises are proper in their
place; but to have them all going on at one and the same time is
little better than to set all the rules of order, human and divine, at
defiance. The honesty of intention and benevolence of purpose
with which it is done, are all that make it tolerable, even to the
most charitable; but these are very poor excuses for those who are
presumed to have read Paul's Epistles, and yet encourage such things.
And here, a very pertinent illustration of what I have just said, presents
itself: If at revivals in your church, your people would borrow
a little more fervor from ours, and ours in like circumstances would
borrow a little more order and solemnity from yours, I think both
would be improved. Dignity, gravity, and order well become the
christian; but love, joy and zeal, much better become him; and if
they cannot all be harmonized, why, let the first give way, I say, and
let all give way to love, if it be possible to separate joy from it! And
when love and joy abound in him, let him be indulged in his nature's
way of manifesting them, even to the interruption of a sermon for a
time; and if the feeling become general among the flock, why, let
the sermon go; there is no better preaching, at times, than the rejoicing
together of many happy Christians. These are my crude notions,
sister; take them for what they are worth.”

“I thank you for them, my very dear, dear brother, and I am
sure that they will be of service to me. Oh, how much happiness I
have lost from your delay in embracing Christianity!”

“Not so much, perhaps, from want of my counsels and religious
opinions, as from want of that deference and respect which I should

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have shown to your piety, and that tenderness of address that I should
have shown to a sister.”

In the main, things went on smoothly and happily in the two
families, during the vacation; but before its close, both the Captain
and his sister had their quiet a little disturbed by William's over
attention to Snap-dragon. It was a natural curiosity that prompted
him to enquire carefully into Snap-dragon's capabilities, accomplishments,
predilections, and tractability. By close observation and experiment,
he discovered that a little needless whipping improved him
wonderfully—(such the difference between a teacher and a disciple.)
It made him move airily, and infused life, grace and activity into
both his extremities; that he could trot eight miles an hour—that he
could beat Billy Figg's Nicktail, Billy Pine's Catham, and Bob
Maston's Flying Nelly easily; that he stood the firing of a gun on
him very well; that he could clear a six-rail fence at a leap; that
by tickling him in a particular way in the flank (which he called
the “grabble-tickle”) he could make him kick amusingly, that by
applying the “grabble-tickle” to his back-bone, just behind the
saddle, he could carry him through a variety of most interesting
evolutions—tail-switching, warping, biting, (backwards, at nothing,)
polka-dancing, and furious kicking. One thing he taught him which
was perfectly original, and that was to stop at the cluck or chirp,
and go at the word “wo!” To teach him all these accomplishments
William had to devote nearly his whole time to him. He had to
ride him far and near; and in so doing it was just as well to call
and see all the planters within seven miles of the village, and rest
awhile with them, and entertain them with all the wonders of Doctor
Waddel's school, as to ride that far and return without dismounting.
Every gathering in the county he was certain to attend; by
means whereof he had a fine opportunity of studying human nature,
in some of its most interesting aspects. He saw how petty elections
were conducted—how electioneering was carried on—how much
rum it took to elect a Captain and a Justice of the Peace. He
saw justice administered by magistrates in their shirt-sleeves, and
heard stiff quarrels between them and the suitors—he saw card
playing in its most unpretending humility and simplicity, to-wit,
by a couple of the sovereignty, seated cross legged on the ground,
with a dirty cotton handkerchief between them for a table, and
a half deck of dirtier cards. (Here was the introduction of
`squatter sovereignty” into the country; but who could have supposed
that it would ever make such a fuss in the world as it has

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made!) He saw cock-fights occasionally, dog-fights often, and men-fights
regularly—now and then he was entertained with a quarter
race and a foot race—upon one occasion he took up a banter of “the
universal world” for a foot race, by a youth both older and larger
than himself, and gained the victory handsomely. His competitor
said, “if he couldn't beat him a running, he could whip him.”
Bill “pitched into him,” as the saying is, without a parley, and
flogged him, beautifully, and to the delight and admiration of everybody,
who thought it mean in him to pick a quarrel with a boy who
had fairly beaten him, just from shame of his defeat. These feats
gave William great renown in the county. Perhaps no youth in the
land ever made greater progress in “the study of human nature”
than William did in the short space of two months. But without
Snap-dragon, where would he have been? Confined to the darkness
of his own village! And whoever heard of any human nature in a
village, save at Court times, general elections, and general parades?
The Captain often heard of his progress, and often counselled him.
“William,” he would say, “I fear I committed a great error in giving
you that horse; I am sure I did. It was one of the most imprudent
acts of my life.”

“Why, uncle?”

“For many reasons. He takes up all your time. I never see a
book in your hand; you have hardly attended a religious meeting,
except on Sunday, since the vacation commenced. You are too
young to have control of a horse. He is a spirited horse; and if not
managed with care he may break your neck—”

“Uncle, he can't throw me to save his life.”

“I'm glad to hear that; my main design in giving him to you,
was to make you a good horseman; but he may run away with you,
carry you under the limb of a tree, and knock your brains out. If
you will be careful with him, there is no danger, for I know him to
be a very gentle horse, though spirited—but youths of your age are
so thoughtless. I hardly ever see you in the day time; where do
you keep yourself?”

“Just riding about in the country, Uncle.”

“But sometimes you're gone the live long day, and surely you
are not riding all the time without your meals?”

“Oh no, sir! sometimes I take dinner at Mr. Love's, sometimes
at Mr. Tod's, sometimes at Squire Mattoxes, sometimes at Mr.
White's, and Curtis King's—”

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

“Why, William, my son, you ought not to visit people's houses
in that way—”

“Uncle, they always tell me they are glad to see me, and always
beg me to come and see them again.”

“To be sure they do; but because they are kind, you should not
tax their hospitality all the time. At times, I am sure you must fall
upon them very unseasonably, and give them no little inconvenience.
When they see you in town here, and ask you to come and see them,
why, then go; but don't thrust yourself upon them at all hours, uninvited.

“I'll obey you uncle.”

Again the Captain would renew his complaints and advice:

“William, your mother is very uneasy about you. She says you
constantly come home charged with news from all the gatherings in
the county. Surely, you don't frequent such places? What interest
can you take in them? What do you promise yourself from such
resorts? I charge you under pain of my sore displeasure to abandon
them.”

“I will do so, uncle.”

William's victories happened to be reported to the Captain by Mr.
Moore, in the presence of William, and in the way of congratulation
to him!

“Why, William!” exclaimed the Captain, “is it possible that you
have been running foot races and fighting—”

“Oh, don't blame him,” said Mr. Moore; “I supposed you knew
all about it, since it is talked about everywhere. But don't blame
William, for he never did a better thing in all his life, and never will
do a better while he lives. He was at the Court, at old man Haralson's,
and there was an uncommonly large gathering for the occasion.
There was a fellow there, a forward, noisy chap, named Jake Black,
who was cutting up high shines. He said he could beat anything
of his weight and inches in the universal world at a foot race. `I
can beat you,' said William. `You!' says Black. `I can run round
you three times in fifty yards and then beat you.' `Well,' says
William, `suppose you try it.' The match was made up, a hundred
yards were stepped off, and all on the Court ground went to see
the race. At the word they started, and William beat him a clear
light of at least seven yards. There was a general shout as they
came in, and many had something digging to say to Black. One
told him he oughtn't to run against anything but grub-worms and
terrapins. Another told him his belly didn't give his legs fair play.

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

`I saw your thighs,' says he `hit your belly every step you made.
If you can only manage to hook up your belly just three quarters of
an inch before you run, so as to give your legs full sweep, you'd beat
Bill Mitten thirty yards in the hundred, I know you would.' `Oh,'
says a third, `his stomach had nothing to do with it—at least it
wouldn't have had, if he had been in good keep; but he was in no
order to run. I saw him eat two water millions and a peck of peaches,
not an hour before the race. Take that weight off of him, and
where would Bill Mitten have been?' `Well,' said the second,
`that's just what I say. He only lacks three-quarters of an inch of
beating `the universal world,' I thought his belly was nat'ral.'

“This kind of chat,” continued Moore, “made Jake very mad, and
as William stood laughing with the rest, Jake stept up to him, and
said, `If you can beat me running, I can whip you mighty easy.'
You know that hard place in the road between old man Haralson's
house and the Court room? He was standing there; and the words
was no sooner out of his mouth than William seized him, fetched
the hip lock upon him, and gave him the hardest fall that I ever
saw a boy get in all my life. Before Jake could recover from his
fall, William was on him, giving him bringer. He very soon `told
the news' (cried `enough!') and William got off of him without a
scratch. I don't suppose there ever was a people more rejoiced and
surprised than they all were at William's doings. Jake had no idea
that a boy dressed as fine as William was, could fight at all, nor did
anybody else believe it; but, Lord bless your soul, Captain, he walked
over Jake in the highest style of fighting! I tell you what, sir,
he's as active as a cat and as bold as a lion. So you see he was not
to blame.”

“And now came the tug of war,” (intestine war) with the Captain.
Before Moore had proceeded four sentences in his narrative,
Captain Thompson's countenance lost every trace of amazement and
indignation, and assumed a rather unchristian placidity. The next
transition was to a benignant smile; then to an expression of wonder
and delight; then to a laugh of triumph; and so it went on, stronger
and stronger, to the end of the chapter; so that when Moore concluded,
it was manifest that “brother” Thompson had no more
thought of religion in him, than he had of the tattling of his countenance;
and no more thought of the tattling of his countenance,
than if he had been all the time in profound sleep. But the time
had come for him to speak, and what could he say? Bill had followed
his counsels to the letter, and had exhibited the very fruits

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from them that he had anticipated and desired. Should he now rebuke
him? That would not do. Should he applaud his conduct?
That would not do from a Christian. Should he remain silent?
That would be a tacit sanction of all that William had done. But
say something he must, and that something must be extemporized;
so he began, in a very cool tone, that might be taken for the composure
of religion, or the composure of gratification:

“Why, William, I'm astonished at you!”

Very true, but very equivocal.

“I don't think, in any view of the case, that his saying simply,
that he could whip you, justified you in attacking him—”

“But, Uncle, I saw that he was mad, and bent upon picking a
quarrel with me, or hacking me before all the company, and I thought
that as I would have to fight or back out, I'd best take a running
start on him; for the first blow in a fight is half the battle, they
say.”

“Well, that is true—that is—arguing upon worldly principles;
and supposing fighting in any case to be justifiable; for by that
course you are certain to get some advan—However, worldly principles
are not always to be trusted; indeed, never to be trusted when
they come in conflict with religious principles. The longer I live
in the world, the more dissatisfied I become with its ways and notions.
Four or five months ago, I would have given advice that I
would not now give—at least without very considerable qualifications.
Vigor of body, strength of constitution, unflinching courage—moral
courage—are certainly great things—great things in many points of
view—but then, like all good gifts, they may be abused. And here,
William, let me give you a caution. You have a very good apology
(our friend Moore thinks) for engaging in those contests with Black.
Now, take care that your victories over him do not lead you to seek
contests merely to show your prowess—merely for the praise of victory,
and the terror of your companions. Oh! of all the disgusting
things in this world, a mere bully—a man who forces his fellow being
into a fight with him, merely for the vile fame of whipping him,
is the most disgusting. I have seen such men, and I have despised
them. They pretend to take as insults what they know was meant
in friendship, or in fun. They wantonly assail feelings, play insufferable
pranks with men, and then assail them for speaking harshly
of what they say they meant as innocent sport. They take occasion
from a man's dress, his features, his person, his carriage, to worry
him into resistance of some kind, and then flog him for resisting.

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

Can anything better mark a devil than such conduct as this? Now,
William, I don't blame you for fighting (that is, upon worldly principles)
under the circumstances; but I do blame you for going to
such places—not for going to Mr. Haralson's, for he is a very worthy
man, and has a very worthy family, but for going there in Court
times. I have been there often and I don't remember ever to have
seen one of his sons in the crowd of Court days, in my life. And
I blame you for running a race, at such a time and place.”

Now if the reader can extract from this long harangue, what
were the Captain's views of the case of Mitten vs. Black, upon
Christian principles, he is certainly much wiser than the writer.
Whether it was becoming in him to discuss the case so generally
upon “worldly principles,” without drawing a line of distinction between
them and Christian principles—whether it was right in him
to say what he would have advised four or five months ago, that he
would not now without any specifications that might enlighten his
nephew, as to whether he meant to take back any of his counsels
upon universal excellence, are questions which we will not undertake
to settle. But we will venture to say, that Master Mitten inferred
from it, that the Captain was highly delighted, (but of course
only on worldly principles) with his achievements, and that he need
never fear the Captain's wrath for fighting, provided he would always
fight at the right time, in the right place, and for good reasons in Mr.
Moore's judgment.

In the course of his observations, Master Mitten discovered two
other things through the aid of Snap-dragon, which we must not
omit to mention; the one was, that six or seven months abstinence
from strong drink, had not entirely abated his relish for it; and the
other was, that the squatter sovereigns committed many errors in
their games that he could have rectified with success. It was the
custom of not a few heads of families at this time, to make up a
mint-julep of peach or apple-brandy, every morning, and to give a
little to every member of the family, old and young, blacks excepted.
It was a much more invariable custom to make a large bowl of egg-nog
every Christmas, of which the whole family were expected to
take a little more freely, and it was considered rather a laughing
than a serious matter if some of the children got intoxicated. No
one ever entered a house to tarry for a half hour, without being asked
“to take something to drink,” and with the plainer people of the
country, this invitation was extended to boys hardly in their teens,
and was accepted without exciting any surprise. Not many years

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before the times of which we are speaking, probably down to the
very times, a still more remarkable custom prevailed among some,
if not all Methodist Preachers;—which was to ask a blessing upon
every glass of toddy they took. Should this statement be questioned,
we have authority for it, at hand, which no man in Georgia will
question. How this custom originated it is easy to divine; the discipline
of the Methodist Church enjoined upon its members to do
nothing upon which they could not invoke God's blessing, and as
they never dreamed that there was anything sinful in taking a glass of
toddy, or as it was more commonly called a little sweetened dram,
they “said grace over it.”

While such customs were rife in the country, it is not to be wondered
at that Master Mitten had frequent opportunities of indulging
his early formed relish for ardent spirits, even without the help of
Snap-dragon—with his help they were quintupled. He however
took care never to appear at home, or in the presence of his Uncle,
“disguised with liquor.” But as the Captain saw that he was doing no
good, he feared that he was doing much harm, and he rejoiced greatly
when the time arrived for his return to school. A little before
this time, the Captain informed William overnight that he wished
to borrow Snap-dragon for a short ride the next morning, as all his
own horses were in use. William gave a cordial assent, of course.
“Send Tom over with him directly after breakfast, I'm only going
to Doctor Wingfield's,” said the Captain.

The Captain lived on the street that led directly to Doctor Wingfield's
and near the edge of the town. As William had never seen
his uncle on Snap-dragon, and felt a deep interest in his performance
under the saddle of his kind benefactor, he took his position in the
inner lock of a fence on the street, under cover of some high weeds,
whence, with a little change of position, he could have a full view
of the Captain's house, and two or three hundred yards of the street
and road leading from it. Tom got to the house with Snap-dragon,
about the time that William got comfortably seated. Snap was soon
saddled, and the Captain was nearly as soon by his side, ready to
mount him. Snap showing signs of impatience to get off. “What
makes that horse do so, Tom?” asked the Captain. “I don't like
his motions.”

“He's gentle, Mas' David,” said Tom. “He only do so till you
start him.”

The Captain placed one hand on Snap's neck and the other on the
back of the saddle to mount; this hand happened to slip and fall a

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

little rudely on Snap's back. Snap, nothing doubting that this was
the beginning of the “grabble tickle,” commenced with the preliminaries
of the polka.

“Why, that horse is ruined,” said the Captain. “I wonder he
hasn't knocked William's brains out long ago.”

“Mas' David I tell you the' an't nothin' the matter with him.
This is nothin' but some little foolnish Mas William larn him. He's
gentle.”

In the mean time Bill was rolling in the weeds, “enthused”*
with delight.

The Captain made a second attempt, and mounted.

“Tom, tell your Mistress—Wo!” said he to fidgetting Snap, and
away went Snap “to the tune of eight miles an hour!” “Wo!”
repeated the Captain more emphatically, and Snap put off at half
speed, at which gait he passed Bill in an agony of laughter. The
Captain immediately conjectured that Bill had been running Snap,
and that the horse took “wo” for “go!” and he did not repeat the
word again. Snap soon became pacified, and the Captain brought
him to a halt. He studied awhile whether it would be best for him
to go on or return. He concluded he would try Snap a little farther
any how; so he clucked to him to proceed; but so far from proceeding,
Snap settled himself in more dignified composure than he had
exhibited during the whole morning. He clucked again, with no
better success. He chirped, but these changes of note operated upon
Snap like a seranade.

“Why, did ever anybody see such a fool horse since the world
was made!” mused the Captain. “What's a body to do with him?
How is he to be made to go on, or stop? If I ever give another
chap a fine horse, he may give me a thousand lashes, and I'll thank
him for it. It certainly was the unluckiest act of my life to give
Bill this horse!”

Upon the whole, the Captain concluded it would be best for him
to get out of temptations as quick as possible, by returning home.
Just as he made up his mind to this course, Mr. Foster met him:

“Good morning, brother Thompson!” said Foster.

“Good morning, brother Foster,” said Mr. Thompson.

“Which way are you going?”

“I was going to Doctor Wingfield's, but I've got on my nephew's
horse, which the boy has so completely spoiled, that there is no doing
anything with him, so I'll go back with you.”

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All of the proceedings up to this moment convinced Snap-dragon
that he had been brought out that morning for no other purpose in
the world, than to beat Mr. Foster's horse in a quarter race. His
conjectures were fully confirmed, when in answer to Mr. Foster's
question “don't you own him?” the Captain, as he paced about,
answered emphatically “No!”

At the word, Snap dashed. The Captain soon took him up, and
waited till brother Foster came up. As he approached, the Captain
clucked to Snap, and he stopped crustily.

“Bless your soul, honey,” said brother Foster, “that's a mighty
good looking horse, but he's a mighty foolish one.”

“He was one of the finest horses in the land— Wo!” cried the
Captain, (forgetting himself,) to Snap, in rage to beat Foster's horse,
and away he dashed again. He was stopped as before.

“Why, brother Thompson, that horse seems to go when he ought
to stop, and stop when he ought to go.”

“Exactly so,” said the Captain; and Snap bristled considerably at
the last word, but was chirped to a halt instantly.