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THE MOTLEY BOOK.
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An author stands in the portal of a Third Edition,
like a prosperous host, smiling a welcome to
the public. To have gratified the palate of the
readers of former impressions gives him confidence
in spreading his table again for another round of
customers, and warrants him in the presumption
of swinging cut a new preface, like a new sign, to
catch the eye, and inform those who read as they
run, that there is entertainment within for man and
woman.
To leave metaphor for the plain level of historical
narrative, the author must express his deep
sense of the flattering manner in which the Motley
Book has been heretofore regarded by the public.
The kindness with which his earliest effort is
received, seizes hold on the heart of the young author,
and can never be loosened thence or forgotten:
it is then that enemies are hardest and friends
most doubtful, when his hopes are at best questionable,
and when to question his success or his
powers is neither slander nor sacrilege. If the little
light which he ventures to set up can be blown
out, it accomplishes a double end; proving the
power of a malicious critic, and furnishing a clearer
firmament for such false orbs to twinkle in as he
may be pleased to summon into existence. The
present author must be considered, however, as
speaking more for the sake of others who may be
struggling than for himself, for he has the great
satisfaction of adding, that praise has been bestowed
by the critics of the Motley Book with an
open and liberal hand.
In the present edition, the author has amended
the work, he believes, by substituting the sketch
entitled “Noadiah Bott,” in place of that which
formerly opened the volume.
New York, October 1, 1839.
The two most delightful and exciting pursuits
an ordinary citizen can be engaged in, in time
of peace, are certainly office-seeking and courting
a widow—combining as they do the excitement
of bloodshed, and the more animating
prospect of quiet and unobstructed plunder.
In the year of our Lord —, it fell to the
portion of Noadiah Bott to embark in this double
undertaking, with great advantages of mind and
person. He was a little corpulent man, slightly
asthmatic, and generally clad in garments about
one size too small for his person, which of course
gave him very much the appearance of a stuffed
penguin promenading for exercise after dinner.
Noadiah had derived his knowledge and experience
from several professions, for he had been
in succession a hardware-merchant, a market-gardener,
and a pawn-broker. During his continuance
in the first business he had learned a
very singular fact in natural history, which gave
him a strong prejudice against the traffic in
andirons and table-knives—namely: that native
rats, particularly the species indigenous to
New York, possessed tremendous powers of digestion;
for he found they had discovered a
passage into his money-drawer, and were in the
habit of carrying off, and actually made way
with quarter-dollars, half-dollars, sixpences, and
sometimes were even so famished as to fasten
on husky dry bank-bills, and counterfeit coppers
and five-cent pieces. At least, this was the
explanation given by an ingenious clerk, and so
he broke up his establishment.
Reserving a few spades, rakes, and coulters,
from the general sale of his goods, he made his
next experiment with a small garden in the suburbs,
from which he proposed to raise vegetables
for the supply of the city market. Never
was such a season known as the one in which
Noadiah Bott undertook the management of
four acres of kitchen esculents. Tornadoes
rushed down from the North and played the
devil with his apple and plum-trees; scorching
dry zephyrs came sighing and stealing from the
South and wilted his asparagus and cabbage.
What the tornadoes failed to blow away and the
freshets to wash away, was nothing but a heap
of dry sand, which would have been very well
in the centre of the Arabian Desert, but was
rather out of place in a kitchen-garden under
actual cultivation. Then he had a left-handed
mule, that kept turning the wrong way in the
furrow, and who made himself so impracticable
and disagreeable that Bott thought he might as
well introduce the hippopotamus as a plough-horse
at once, and sow his four acres with trade-winds
and hurricanes. Besides all this, every
thing noxious and pestiferous and destructive
was put down in the almanacs for this year. First
came an army of locusts, which took quarters on
the neighboring trees and fences, and after electrifying
Bott for two nights and a day with their
pleasant martial music, made an onset, and left
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his garden so stripped of leaf, twig, and every
green thing, that it looked like a ship with its
sails tattered into ribands by a stiff nor'wester.
Directly upon the track of this greedy swarm,
came a mad dog, that one half the population of
the city thought proper, for the sake of their own
exercise, and the conservation of the public
health, to hunt with great racket and outcry
through Bott's garden into a neighboring poad,
where the poor animal ended his troubles by
committing suicide. Then there were ground-moles
and midnight thieves, and the greenworm,
and—the Lord knows what else. Poor
Bott was almost distracted, and resolved to quit
market-gardening for life, and return to town
with what small capital remained, and invest it
in “dead stock,” for as to vegetables, he said
“he had no faith in 'em, either as a medicine
or a means of living.”
Abandoning his lease and making up a wagon-load
with old ploughshares, harness, hoes,
rakes, and a second-hand bureau, he started for
town, and with this miscellaneous stock of
trumpery opened a pawn-broker's shop. He
was now entirely out of his element, for he
had been in the habit of carrying about under
his jacket a little piece of curious mechanism
which was infinitely more in his way in his present
line of business than an idle partner, a bad
season, or a dishonest clerk. What could poor
Bott do? Dilapidated old men, who had been
in the revolutionary war, would come to his
shop to pledge the very musket that had figured
at Yorktown, and the very sword that had cut
off the head of a Hessian at Trenton, and how
could he refuse to add this to his collection of
venerable relics, and just loan a few shillings to
the poor old veteran? And then the widow of a
sailor that was with Decatur off Algiers, hadn't
seen a loaf of bread for the past fortnight, and
all she asked was to be saved from starving by
a small advance on a model man-of-war that
her dear Jack had built when he was at home
the last—last time. Every cloak that was left
in pledge with him—every rusty beaver, every
baby's cap, and every pair of plated candlesticks,
had some little pathetic history connected
with it that would have gone to the heart of
a stone. So that, after being in business about
nine months, Mr. Noadiah Bott had as pretty a
collection of good-for-nothing rubbish as an
auctioneer could wish to stand over in the dog
days. In fact, his shop was a perfect limbo,
haunted by the ghosts of cracked fiddles, feeble
flutes, disbanded earthen jars, and wine-bottles
with holes in their bottoms. With a few old
wine-flasks, a curious lizard in a vial, and two
or three stout beaches, and a train of out-of-the-way
utensils clattering at his heels, Noadiah,
like a conqueror from a ravaged territory,
marched out of the sterile region of pawn-broking,
into a more promising field of labor.
He was, therefore, at present, the proprietor
of a political tavern, consisting of a bar and fixtures
down stairs, and a room, twenty-five by
twelve and a half, in the second story, where
meetings were held for the purpose of settling
the politics of the ward. It was the business
of Bott to light up this apartment once or twice
a week; to arrange the platform for a speaker;
and, on extraordinary occasions, to embellish it
with a wooden eagle perched on a staff or a
banner, stretched over an entire side of the
room. Sometimes, in the absence of the regular
speaker, Bott had been known to mount the
platform himself, and puff away at a speech of
considerable length and power. Besides these
regular duties, he was expected to get an audience
together, and, if it fell short, to treat loafers
enough till the room was tolerably crowded;
to get up all extraordinary rounds of applause,
and, finally, to preside over the crackers and
beer which are frequently furnished to the democracy
at the close of an exciting and thirsty
debate. It was a very entertaining spectacle to
see Bott on a night of meeting, bustling up and
down stairs, now at the bar and now at the ear
of some leading politician, commenting on the
news from Ohio or North Carolina, or discussing
the effects of the new law regulating the
size of pint-pots, on the habits of sailors, or
some other abstruse and recondite topic. When
the business of the meeting had commenced,
you might see him every now and then rushing
up from the bar-room, and thrusting his corpulent
little body in at the mouth of the door,
with considerable effort and puissance, as if to
ascertain whether the audience were well
packed or not.
Bott had kept these quarters for several
years. In that time he had grown stout and rubicund,
and had formed a large circle of politial
acquaintance. By dint of listening at the
key-holes, when committees and juntos were in
session at his house, and by looking grave whenever
trifles were discussed, he at length attained
such importance in the political world as to
venture to invite the Honorable the Corporation
of the city to visit, in a body, a remarkable
tortoise that had been discovered in his
yard, where it had lived twenty-three weeks
under a stone, without a particle of food. They
accordingly came, headed by his Honor the
Mayor, and when there, Bott gravely asserted,
before the assembled magistracy of the city,
that this identical tortoise had been recently
heard, at midnight, when not a soul nor a sound
was stirring in the neighborhood, to cry “Bah!”
very distinctly, which (Bott whispered to an
Alderman, a particular friend of his) certainly
portended the dissolution of the Union and the
rise of bread-stuffs!
Strengthened by the popularity he deservedly
acquired by this bold and sagacious movement,
Bott determined to apply to the Governor for a
small office. It was some time before he could
fix upon one which was suited in all respects to
his habits. He had a list of all the offices in the
State, from Governor itself down to licensed
master sweep, with the salaries or perquisites
annexed; and at length he concluded to take
the humble station of inspector of staves—twelve
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hundred a year. He was getting too corpulent,
and this out-door business would bring him
down. Besides, the sea-air would be good for
his health, for he thought, and so he intended
to represent to his Excellency, that drinking so
much beer nightly for the good of the party,
had somewhat impaired his constitution. Inspector
of staves—that was the office; and he
must bustle about, bustle about—and move the
very foundations of the island but he would
have it.
About this time it was that Bott cast an eye
of affection upon a black-eyed little widow,
whom he discovered one day by chance, sitting
in an upper window over a coffin warehouse
into which he had made his way to engage a
coffin for one of his customers that had fallen
down that morning in his bar-room with his
glass in his hand. What was very singular
about this case of sudden death was, that the
man had infused a third more water in his
brandy than he was in the habit of using; so
that it was a capital question for discussion,
whether he had died of cold water or alcohol.
After chaffering awhile for the cheapest
coffin in the shop (for Bott buried his own
customers, and liked to underbid himself), Noadiah
set about sounding the proprietor as to
the black-eyed lady up-stairs. He began by
expressing a profound anxiety as to the health
of the coffin-maker's family, and a deep conviction
of the manifold benefits of living over the
store.
“His own people,” the coffin-maker, however,
informed him, “lived in a different part
of the city. His wife was a woman of weak
nerves, and couldn't bear the sight of a coffin,
it reminded her so much of her little Bartemus
who was dead and gone.”
“I haven't the pleasure, then,” continued
Bott, “of knowing the lady with black eyes,
that lives above you. I wonder who she is?”
“Not know her!” exclaimed the coffin-maker,
“not know the widow Bobbin—the gayest
widow in this city! Why, Mr. Bott, if I wasn't
a married man with two small children, I'd
soon know who's who, and what's what.
I'm often surprised at myself that she hasn't
driven me from this melancholy business of
coffin-making, into ladies' hair-dressing, or
French shoe-making, or some such light and
cheerful occupation.”
This was enough for Bott. She was unmarried,
and just such a gay, joyous soul as he
needed to keep his spirits up in these gloomy
times. He accordingly went home, buried the
poor customer, and made up his mind to marry
the widow, and obtain the office of inspector
of staves forthwith.
Bott, without difficulty, obtained an introduction,
through his friend, the coffin-maker,
to Mrs. Bobbin, the gay widow. He found her
to be a sly creature, as full of fun as a snuffbox,
and, in fact, a woman exactly after his
own heart. It is true, she had one child—a
boy about thirteen. This was a slight objec
tion, but the widow prevailed upon Bott to remove
it by taking the boy under his own
charge, and supplying him with food, lodging,
and clothes, with a few quarters' schooling;
for the boy, as the widow cunningly insinuated,
had a good deal of his mother in him, and it
would be a pity to allow so much natural smartness
to run to waste. Things advanced so swimmingly,
and Bott managed with so much skill,
that, before a month was over, he had not only
pledged himself to provide for the widow's son,
(who, he had by this time discovered, enjoyed
a tremendous appetite, wore his pantaloons at
the rate of about a pair in a fortnight, and was a
little fond of tippling,) but had also engaged the
pleasure of the widow's company to the Cartmen's
Fancy Ball, to be given in a short time.
To make the matter still more pleasing, Bott
had the satisfaction of meeting, at the house of
the widow, an agreeable gentleman, whom he
was delighted to be introduced to, by Mrs.
Bobbin, as her “uncle Jonas, from Androscoggin.”
He seemed to have the same pleasant
turn as the widow herself, and was constantly
employed, when Bott was present, in
saying or doing some amusing thing or other.
How could Noadiah be otherwise than happy,
while the current ran so sparkling and clear?
In the mean time, he devoted himself assiduously
to his application for the inspection of
staves. He had a petition drawn up, setting
forth his claims and services; his three years'
untiring opposition to the other party; his ardent
devotion to his duties as retailer of spirits
to his political friends; his zeal in gathering
audiences and preparing inflammatory hand-bills,
and his declining health, occasioned by
these extraordinary labors. With this in his
hand, he scoured the city; and, presenting it
firmly, he brought every man to a stand as summarily
as if it had been a pocket-pistol instead
of a petition. His enthusiasm was considerably
quickened when he learned that a competitor
was out before him, and had a start of
twenty-seven names.
Besides signatures to his petition, Bott rushed
hither and thither, obtaining letters recommendatory
from every person of note or standing
who had the slightest claim of acquaintance
with his Excellency, the Governor of
the State. Among others, he procured an invaluable
and pressing epistle of recommendation
from a gentleman who had enjoyed the
extreme felicity of beholding the skirts of his
Excellency's coat, as he passed through Onondaga
county, during a violent storm.
The day had, at length, arrived, the evening
of which was to be signalized by the celebration
of the Cartmen's Fancy Ball; and Bott
was hurrying through his political toils, in order
to be in good time to wait on the widow.
With this view he was making rapid progress
past a certain market on the East River side,
when his eye caught a crowd. Now, a crowd
was a perfect harvest to Bott, and he had
scarcely ever plunged into one without
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bringing out one or two first-rate names to his paper.
The widow would be impatient, he feared;
and, though the temptation was great, he
determined to hurry by, when he beheld a distinguished
functionary, whose name would be
an all-important acquisition. He accordingly
resolved to run the risk, and make up lost time
by additional speed in his after-movements.
“Your signature, if you please,” cried Bott,
pushing boldly through the crowd, toward the
Coroner (for it was that officer, preparing to
hold an inquest), whose ruddy countenance
was a conspicuous beacon for the office-seeker.
As Noadiah rushed forward, the crowd, supposing
him to be some near relative of the deceased,
come to take possession of his chattels
and moveable funds, parted; and, just as he
had succeeded in breaking the inner circle, the
Coroner stepped aside, and Mr. Noadiah Bott
found himself presenting his petition to an upright
corpse with a most doleful countenance,
and a faded blue handkerchief about its neck.
“Get his name, by all means, Bott,” said
the Coroner, whose office, after he had held it
three months, had, somehow or other, made
him remarkably facetious. “To him, Bott, to
him; he can say a good word for you in the
next world, though he plays dummy in this.”
“The poor gentleman,” cried a voice in the
crowd, to several of whom Bott seemed known,
“has been down drinking your health, Mr.
Bott, in salt water, and success to your application.”
“Look in the defunet's pockets, Mr. Coroner,”
urged a second voice; “p'r'aps he's got
a petition up for surveyor-general of sharks and
codfish.”
“More likely,” said a third, “a special bill,
for privilege to bathe in the docks below the
lamp district.”
“No such thing,” retorted the first citizen;
“I'll bet he's a quack-doctor, been in to try a
new pill that he's been inventing to keep water
out of the stomach.”
“Come, gentlemen,” said the Coroner, “the
corpse begins to look melancholy. We must
have a jury on the poor fellow, whoever he is;
and Mr. Bott, you will make a good foreman,
and I've no doubt, if you render a true verdict,
provided the poor man can serve you by a good
word with the devil, he'll do it with all his
heart.”
Bott entreated his friend the Coroner to excuse
him from service. The Coroner discovered
his extreme urgency—was inexorable,
and the inquest proceeded. The body was
laid at full length on the top of a fish-stall, and
the jury took their seats on market-benches on
each side. With a word or two from the Coroner,
they proceeded to examine witnesses, as
to the manner of death of the gentleman in the
faded blue handkerchief. The first that was
produced was an old fishmonger, who looked
as dry and withered as a salted haddock:—
“It was about two o'clock, he guessed, it
mought be more, or it mought be less, for he
recollected there was a little blast of cloud jist
over the sun—when what should he see but
the dead one there walking, melancholy-like,
up and down the wharf (as true as he lived),
with a piece of rope and the tail of a dried herring—
(herrings was now a shilling the dozen;
if the season set in earlier, it mought so be
they would be down to nine-peace ha'penny)—
sticking, for all the world, out of his coat
pocket behind. He guessed at once, and without
help, the moment he got sight of the herring
and the rope-end, that something was
wrong with the poor gentleman's head. He's
loose in the attic, thinks I; but how he'll use
that rope to any advantage, with this high
wind, I can't guess. If he tries a spile, he's
sure to be interrupted unpleasantly; and if he
goes into the market and gets possession of a
hook, why, some butcher or other'll come next
morning, and be offended mightily at the liberty
he's took. `What will the poor gentleman
do?' says I, almost in convulsions to see how
he was put out, as he rambled up and down
the wharf, looking one time on the ground
and then gazing up at the mast-heads, and
then stopping, and taking a melancholy view
in a basket at some fresh black-fish, just out
of the water. This put him in a doleful train;
and what does he do next, but makes right
down to the river, all of a sudden, and spoils
his herring and rope's-end, and his own dear
body, by jumping straight into the tide.”
An idle fellow, a sort of wharf vagabond,
was next produced, to furnish his evidence as
to the mode of death of the deceased. All that he
could testify to was, that he differed from the
first witness; for that the herring and the rope,
according to his best belief, were in different
pockets: that the herring was in the right
pocket, and the rope's-end in the left. This
witness was followed by a match-spirit, another
river loafer, who was “as sure as veal
was dead calf, that the rope's-end was in the
right pocket, and the bit of herring in the left.”
This brought out his predecessor, and a furious
altercation sprang up between the two minute
and accurate observers, as to the particular
depository of the fish and cord. They battled
it out for some time without interruption,
when, being ordered off by the Coroner, they,
in a very gentlemanly spirit, locked arms, and
marched away together to a neighboring porter-house,
there to discuss the question over a
pot of pale ale, and, after an hour's enthusiastic
debate, to come to the conclusion that they
were both right, and that “that old curmudgeon,
the fishmonger, had parboiled (perjured)
himself.”
Bott, all this time, was suffering under the
most hideous state of feeling. Time was flying;
the sun was down; the widow must, by
this, be dressed; she had put on her hat; in
a rage she had torn out of the house, and gone
to the ball alone! This was the masterly picture
that Bott's mind painted for its own amusement,
while he sat at the head of the corpse.
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All the customary evidence had been examined,
and a pretty palpable case of self-drowning
was made out; when who should
rush forward, to increase his discomfiture, but
half a dozen medical worthies, in breathless
haste, panting, and covered with sweat. They
all eagerly approached the body, felt its temples,
its wrists, and its ankles, with the most
affectionate tenderness, and unanimously pronounced
it—dead! Here was a discovery for
the Coroner and jury. The corpse was decided
to be a corpse; but, as all their names
could not appear in the next morning's report,
the Coroner allowed a couple of them to unbutton
the jacket of the corpse, put their fingers
in its mouth, and hand their names to
his clerk.
Bott was now allowed to escape, and, choosing
the most direct route, started for home.
He had successfully accomplished several
blocks, when he heard a tremendous noise, resembling
the approach of a furious army, the
bursting of a volcano, or the thunder of a cataract;
it was a New York fire engine. With a
horrible uproar, dragged forward by a hundred
men, and with a tail of boys—black, white,
and piebald—as long as that of a comet, it rushed
on. It neared the place where Bott was
hurrying along; it approached a cross-walk
that Bott must pass to the opposite side of the
street. He undertook to achieve it before the
engine came up; but, mistaking his time, he
was caught in the current and hurried along.
He had got entangled in the rope at the head
of the machine, and it was under such headway
that he must go with it, or be trodden under
foot, and furnish a mournful casualty or
melancholy accident for next day's papers. It
was a dreadful situation for a gentleman of a
rather corpulent habit, and slightly asthmatic!
He entreated the foreman to put his trumpet
to his mouth and stop the engine; he offered
him two shillings if he would do it—a new hat,
his watch! It was all in vain; you might as well
attempt to arrest the progress of a herd of buffaloes
on the prairie; and they swept on—one
long block, two, three. At length they came
to a square, where there was a large heap of
dirt; and chance accomplished what a new
beaver hat, a watch, and the amazing sum of
twenty-five cents, had failed to do—it arrested
the engine; and Bott, with his hair almost on end
with fear and anxiety, disengaged himself, and,
retracing his steps at a hard gallop, reached
his own door.
Composing his spirits with one glass, he proceeded
to arrange his toilet in another; and at
last stood, in full trim, before the widow's door.
With trembling hand he knocked, and was answered.
She had gone to the ball an hour before,
with her uncle Jonas, from Androscoggin.
“The devil take uncle Jonas! (and heaven be
thanked it's no worse!)” thought Noadiah;
and he speeded to the scene of festivity.
Bott soon arrived at a large room, lighted
with mould candles; and from a box, in the
centre of which, where a negro and five white
men, like so many captive Troubadours of the
feudal time, were imprisoned for the evening,
proceeded certain instrumental sounds, of a
very spirited and melodious character. On
the floor thereof he discovered, besides the customary
number of well-dressed ladies, about
one hundred and fifty men, apparently in the
enjoyment of robust health, and endued in
cartmen's frocks, every soul of them. This
was the Cartmen's Fancy Ball—the fancy of
the thing lying entirely in the frocks. After
he had somewhat recovered from the dazzling
effect of the refulgent mould-candles, and the
gorgeous apparel of the gentlemen, so that he
could look about with tolerable composure,
nearly the first object his eye fell upon, was—
as true as Bott wore a ruffle!—uncle Jonas, of
Androscoggin, clad also in a cart-frock, and
dancing away, at a very vigorous rate, with
the widow. They appeared to be enjoying
themselves charmingly; and Noadiah thought
he had never seen, in his whole life, a more
affectionate uncle, or a more delightful niece.
He, however, advanced into the centre of the
room, where he was stared at by the frocked
gentry as if he had been a Turk in a turban,
or a Mohawk in his blanket, and accosted the
worthy pair.
The widow playfully rebuked him for his
tardiness and irregularity, adding, with a sly
look at her partner, that “uncle Jonas had
been so kind as to drop in and wait upon her,
in his absence, with the ticket he (Bott) had
left.” She added, in a whisper in Bott's ear—
“Uncle Jonas is one of the best men living;
and, to tell you the truth, Bott, it's the remarkable
resemblance between yourself and him,
that made me take such a liking to you.”
At this, Bott laughed in his sleeve, and uncle
Jonas, who somehow or other had over-heard
the substance of the whisper, roared
right out. Bott glanced stealthily at uncle
Jonas, very often, throughout the evening, and
satisfied his own mind that he was one of the
best looking men it had ever been his happiness
to behold.
The fancy ball proceeded merrily; and every
time the hundred and fifty male dancers
jumped up and cut a pigeon's wing, or struck
their heels in the air, they made a noise with
their cart-frocks like the sails of a whole fleet
of merchant-ships flapping in the wind. But
what astonished Bott most, in the career of
their proceedings, was, that although he was extremely
anxious to dance with the widow Bobbin,
yet, by some marvellous combination of circumstances,
he was deprived of that pleasure
through the whole evening; and what was, if
possible, still more miraculous, uncle Jonas,
by equal good luck, seemed to dance every individual
cotillon with that lady. Sometimes
he was pleasantly requested by the widow to
bring her a lemonade from the saloon; and
before he could return, she was engaged, and
dancing in high spirits with her respected
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relative. Then he would be courteously entreated,
by one of the managers, to snuff a chandelier,
as his frock was in the way, and he was
afraid of a general conflagration if he attempted
it. Then a polite invitation would be sent
down from the musicians' box, requesting Mr.
Bott to come up the ladder, and give the orchestra
his opinion on the rumble of the drum,
and to pronounce whether it wasn't a trifle too
harsh for the ears of the very genteel company
below. In this way the evening glided by,
without giving Bott an opportunity to distinguish
himself on the floor; till, just as the
ball was about to break up, Mrs. Bobbin prevailed
upon him to exhibit himself in a sailor's
hornpipe, in which, she slyly informed the company,
he was a most capital hand. A ring was
accordingly formed by the rest of the assembled
gentry, and Bott executed a hornpipe in
most brilliant and comic style; in fact, his performance
was so pregnant with humorous motions
of the leg and swayings of the person,
that, at the conclusion, a general complimentary
laugh was raised for Bott's especial benefit.
Upon the whole, Bott was pleased, and his
pleasure was increased by uncle Jonas informing
him that he must go another way, and that
he (Bott) must see the widow home. Bott readily
accepted the agreeable trust, innocently
(and like the primeval Adam, before the days of
omnibuses and licensed hacks) forgetting the
coach-hire. A hack was therefore called, and Noadiah
and the widow, bidding uncle Jonas good-night,
mounted in—the widow giving Bott the
back seat, and taking the forward one herself,
remarking, that she preferred riding backwards,
she had been in the habit of rowing so much
on a pond, when a girl. During their progress
through the streets, Bott observed that the widow
every now and then looked just over the
top of his hat, and smiled; but he didn't observe
that uncle Jonas was standing up behind
the carriage, and making numerous pleasant
signals and indications (now and then tapping
his forehead significantly) to Mrs. Bobbin
through the coach window. Having deposited
the widow and discharged the hack, (for he
preferred to walk home, and chew the cud of
amorous fancy at leisure,) about three o'clock
that morning Noadiah stretched himself to pleasant
dreams!
The inspection of staves now engrossed a
large portion of the thoughts of the sagacious
Bott, and he left no influence unasked, and no
politician unannoyed, but that he would obtain
the office. He was, by this time, in possession
of the autographs of more than fifty important
and respectable men, twenty tolerably great
men, and twelve actually great men, that expected
to be members of Congress, before they
yielded the ghost. To strengthen his claim,
and bring himself more prominently before the
party, he resolved to abandon the comparatively
private theatre where he had heretofore performed,
and exhibit on a larger stage—in a
word, he determined to make a speech at Ma
sonic Hall, which bears the same relation to
the political taverns of the wards, as a primate's
cathedral does to the little chapels connected
with it. After forming this resolution,
Noadiah strenuously devoted himself to the perusal
of the newspapers, and the orations of Patrick
Henry, as given in the “American Speaker,”
and to the practice and cultivation of his
voice by a strict regimen of table-beer and lozenges.
In accordance with his design he prepared
an elaborate speech, beginning, “Fellow-citizens,
unaccustomed as I am to public
assemblies”—and ending with an ecstatic description
of the “blood-stained Genius of Liberty,
wrapped in a winding-sheet of stripes
and stars”—which was a tolerable figure,
considering that Bott had no interest in an incorporated
cemetery, and was not a tailor by trade.
The eventful evening having at length arrived,
Bott disposed of an early tea, and ascended
to the public room up stairs, and locked himself
in with a tumbler of brandy-and-water,
and a fourth-size tallow candle, having given
strict orders to Master Bobbin to cry “fire!” if
any one attempted to interrupt him. He then
recited his harangue, from beginning to end,
with great vigor addressing a group of large barrels
that stood in a corner, as his “fellow-citizens,”
and a small barrel on his right hand,
with “Old Rum” branded on it, as “Mr.
Chairman.”
Master Bobbin (although, like a true son of
New York, strongly disposed so to do) had no occasion
to cry “fire,” and if the non-interruption of
Mr. Bott's speech was to be taken as evidence of
no conflagration, any company might have ensured
all the property, as far as his voice could be
heard, with perfect safety, and at a very trifling
premium. Having gone through his speech to his
own perfect satisfaction, and without any symptoms
of animation having manifested themselves
either in the brandy-keg or the sturdy group of
barrels, Mr. Bott descended, endued his stout
little person in a rough over-coat with tremendous
pearl buttons, and thrusting his manuscript
speech in his hind-pocket, sallied forth. It was
a clear, moon-light evening. Bott was in capital
spirits, and he dropped into a cellar and took
a couple of dozen of York Bank oysters, just to
strengthen his voice. He had not gone far,
however, (reciting to himself favorite passages
from his harangue,) when he was unconsciously
followed by a slight youthful figure, which glided
cautiously behind him, took a peep into his face,
and extending its right arm, withdrew from the
pocket of Bott a white roll which, in all human
probability, contained the speech of the evening.
The purloiner then stole off, and turning a corner,
halted a moment under a lamp, opened the
roll, laughed quietly, and then made way for a
political club or association of the opposite party
to Bott's, and there finding a numerous assembly
of choice spirits gathered, he regaled them
with the recitation of the able and eloquent harangue
of Noadiah (or Noddy, as the reader
took the liberty of calling him) Bott, Esq.,
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which you may be sure was interrupted with
frequent exclamations like these—“Well done,
Bott!” “Good, for the inspector of staves!”
“Equal to fifth-proof with five-fifths water!”
In the mean time the hilarious and innocent
Noadiah was wending joyously toward the scene
of his glory, stopping now and then, however,
when he was reminded by a hydrant, or some
other upright and stationary object, of an attentive
listener, to get into the shadow of the
buildings and recite some striking passage with
appropriate extension of arms, contracting of
brows, and planting of the foot.
An immense crowd had assembled; the meeting
was called to order; a Chairman and seventeen
Assistant Chairmen (to help the presiding
officer look grave) were appointed, and five or
six speakers, ranging from three feet and a half
to six feet high, and from twenty years of age
to seventy, with every variety of voice, from the
kettle-drum to the fife, addressed the audience—
and Bott listened to them all, sometimes
pleased that his own time had not arrived, and
sometimes eager to take the platform at once.
At length the cry of “Bott!” “Bott!” was
heard rising from different quarters of the room,
(for certain vagabond friends of his, there by
his special invitation, were on the alert,) and
swelling into a perfect tempest of acclamation,
Bott came forward, aided in the rear by two or
three sturdy scamps, and helped in the van by
a couple of the secretaries, who seized him forcibly
by the collar and drew him forward.
“Three cheers for Bott!” shouted one of his
vagabond friends the moment his nose became
visible as he assumed the stand. Three cheers
were accordingly given, and Bott began.
Through the first half-dozen sentences of his
harangue he marched in triumphant style, keeping
his eye fixed keenly on a bald-headed man
in about the centre of the crowd, to steady his
nerves—when suddenly the bald-headed man,
prompted by a current of air that came in at a
broken pane, clapped on his hat, and Bott stopped
short as if he had been struck with the apoplexy.
“Go on!” was the universal cry. But
Bott had lost his self-possession, and stared
around like a frightened rabbit, first at the
Chairman, then at each one of the seventeen
Assistant Chairmen, then into the bottom of his
hat, and then he thought of his manuscript. A
smile gleamed over his face, and he thrust his
hand behind him, found nothing, brought it
back again, and the sickly smile went out. At
last he stammered—“Beer three cents a glass—
nutmeg extra—no trust in this shop”—and he
was hurried off the stage by the two benevolent
secretaries who had dragged him on by the
collar.
Recovering himself from the shock as well as
he might, and making his way through the
press as speedily as possible, he rushed into the
open air and aimed at once for the widow's.
There he was sure to find one respectful auditor
at least, and ample consolation for the miscarriage
of his oratory.
To his utter and unqualified astonishment, he
was there informed that the widow had gone
out with her uncle an hour before, and wasn't
expected back in a week! What could this
mean? His mind was filled with dreadful
forebodings—horrible surmises! It could not
be that they had left home to drown themselves
together? that they had gone out to fight a
promiscuous duel because the widow had seen
fit to show more partiality and affection for him
than for her own uncle? that they had ascended
the top of the shot-tower to study astronomy
for a short time, and then to plunge for ever
from its dizzy height? Notwithstanding these
conflicting conjectures, Noadiah went straight
home, and immediately examined the Table of
Consanguinity in the Bible, to ascertain whether
uncle and niece were within marriageable degree.
Next morning's paper explained the whole
matter in the most artless manner. It was
neither drowning, murder, nor aerial precipitation—
but simply matrimony. The announcement
set forth the parties as Jonas Tupp, cartman,
and Mrs. Amelia Bobbin, “both of this
city.” The relationship appeared to have been
perfectly imaginary—a merely playful hypothesis.
As to the inspection of staves, it was considered
so far beneath Bott's dignity and the
worth of his services as to be given to one Zacchias
Bull, or Bullwinkle, or some such zoological
fellow; and Bott was informed by private
letter that his application had been hotly opposed
by his very good friend, the Alderman
who had tendered his invitation to the Common
Council to visit a remarkable tortoise twenty-three
weeks under a stone, &c., on the ground
that said invitation (the most serious operation
of Bott's life) was a deliberate imposition, as
he was satisfied, on the understanding of the
Honorable the Corporation!
I stand upon the graves of the poor. Over
this simple field, unvaried by mark or monument,
I cast my eye and feel the power and presence
of death more than in the tombs of kings,
or standing beside those huge mausoleums, the
pyramids. Here the grim phantom stalks naked;
not skulking as in the cemeteries of the
rich and prosperous, behind funeral piles, or
stealing away from the gaze amid masses of carved
marble. Every step of the tyrant falls
clear and distinct upon the grave of some lowly
son of earth and poverty. How many of the
children of sorrow have tottered into this humble
burial-place, and thrown down the weary
burden of grief and wretchedness under which
they had fainted in the sun.
All-accordant must be the trumpet-blast that
can melt into one harmonious web of life these
motley elements. What a pageant of
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wretchedness, and rags, and penury would the habitants
of this single acre form, could they be summoned
from their rest. Moscow's bell should ring
to raise the awful curtain, and bring upon the
stage the parti-colored company.
An archangel's peal alone could startle back
into life, (from which their suffering was so deep
and piercing,) the various multitude. An omnipotent
edict in truth it would require to force
them once more upon a scene where anguish
and tears were their only legacy, and the grave—
the quiet, rent-free grave, their reversion!
Many as the citizens that people the bottom
of the deep, are the myriads that have sunk silently
as into an ocean billow, into the bosom
of this green earth. I will try a simple spell
of my own: perchance it may bring them up,
at least in phantasy.
“Re-appear, ye sad tenants of the narrow
house, once more on the earth where ye suffered!
I here establish a court of death. Ye, are summoned
to the trial; answer ye to your names.
Hear ye! hear ye!”
“Saul Rope? Saul Rope?” Slowly from the
earth, near at my feet, a pale, shrunken being
shakes off the green mould, and feebly aiding
himself with his hand on his grave's side, steps
into the twilight.
His dress is an entire suit of gray, coarse
linsey-woolsey, with a plain, cheap hat, without
nap or buckle. “I was a saw-filer,” said the
poor apparition, “and kept a small shop in
Doyer street. When I set up there I had a few
friends at first, but they soon dropped off. The
street was so crooked that nobody could find
their way to me, even if they wanted my services;
no one except an old bachelor with a
twist in his neck, who seemed to have a natural
facility in threading the windings of the alley,
and who came not on business, but to enjoy my
pleasant conversation! Besides, a middle-aged
lady, who was born in the street, and who had
a praiseworthy fondness for her place of nativity,
and who visited me annually the day before
Christmas, to have her carving-knife put in order
for the holydays. By-and-by the old lady
died off—the bachelor bought a little farm and
retired into the country, and I was forced to
abandon my thankless trade of saw-filing and
go upon the watch. Of a feeble frame, I soon
caught a cold, fell into a galloping consumption,
and you see me here. Thank God! there was
no wife nor little child to weep the day that the
simple saw-filer died.”
The next dead defendant was a corpulent,
hale fellow, who answered to the name of Robert
Drum, and was clad in tattered and ragged
garments, without hat, shirt, or boots, whose
story in brief was, that “he had been a beggar,
and had died of good-living and repletion.”
After him Peter Packhorse and family were
called. At first no one appeared, but on a repetition
of the summons, a small middle-aged
man was seen making his way from a remote
part of the field, with a sickly woman hanging
on his right arm, and a train of twelve or thir
teen thinly clad, pale girls and boys following
them.
The tale of Peter's distresses was touching
and pathetic.
“Upon the banks of the sunny Bronx, in the
sweet and cheerful village of White Plains,”
said Peter, “God cast my lot. I owned a few
patrimonial acres, and in my early youth took
to myself a buxom and bonny wife, and together
we made a little Paradise of our farm, for every
thing was abundant and in good order. The
seasons were our friends, and the clear stream
that ran by our door kept us close to our home
by its cheerful voice and its ever delightful, rippling
music. In summer I gathered in my harvest,
with my first-born boy and girl at play
between the swathes and winrows, and when
the autumn came, and the winter was provided
for, I would take my gun or my angle in my
hand, and strolling away into the rich crimson
woods or along the mossy streams, meditate upon
the autumn and blessings Heaven had given
me in my fertile farm, my bonny wife, and my
sweet-featured boy and girl. Thus three joyous
years glided by, and prosperity made me a
Christian in the open fields, and a devout worshipper
in the church. On the last day of the
winter of —, a cousin of mine, a blackbrowed,
thoughtful man, arrived in the mail
coach from the city on a visit of friendship.
He stayed little more than a week, but made so
good use of his time, as to persuade me to sell
my farm, turn it into cash, and, carrying my
family with me, settle in New York, and become
a broker—a sorry shaver of notes. The profits
that he conjured up before me seemed so rapic
and sure, the business so light, airy, and gentleman-like,
(who is it that has never been fired
with the passion of becoming a gentleman!)
that I fell in with his proposition, and early in
spring, disposing of my farm and stock at vendue,
hastened to town. Here I soon lost the
better half of my ready cash; my dark-browed
city cousin absconded with the balance, and I,
with a family which had doubled, was upon the
town. In a short time, even my darling children
(yes, the bright fairy boy and girl of my
country days too!) were snatched from me by
an envious fever, and I was alone with my wife
in the vast city without bread. I obtained employment,
precarious and cheap employment it
was, as a journeyman shoemaker: for every
farmer in the parts where I was born knows
something of the trade. Thus I sustained myself
for a few years, a new family of children
having sprung up and died at my side in the
mean time. My wife followed her thirteenth
child, (a pretty, lovely girl!) My staff of life
was broken. The trade at which I toiled bent
me double, and in the ninth year after I had
left that little Eden on the banks of the Bronx,
a disease of the spine fastened upon me. I lay
sick for months, in a low, vile shed, racked by
intolerable pain of body, and worse anguish of
mind, until I died and came here to lie with my
wife and children in everlasting rest! I would
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[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
that a river ran by our graves—something like
the Bronx!”
I could hardly refrain from tears at the recital
of Peter's simple story, but mastering my
emotion, and turning my face toward another
quarter of the field, I cited—
“Paula Hops?”—At this summons, a light
female form, endued in a black bombazine gown,
with a white vandyke about the neck, stepped
cut of her grave upon the earth, with something
of natural grace in her gesture, and gave the
following history of herself.
“I am a poor seamstress,” said the fair vision,
a hectic glow shining through her pale
cheek, and a doubtful brilliancy kindling her
eye, “I was born to that vocation. My mother
and grandmother before me were seamstresses,
and lived in comfort and plenty; but that was
in different times from these. Tailors did not
ride in carriages then, that poor girls might
starve.
“Their labor was at least worth the candle
they burned far into the night to pursue it by;
but I do them wrong, they never burned the
midnight lamp. Their hours were at the worst
from sunrise to sunset. I toiled often from the
first streak of morning till the neighboring
clock tolled twelve at midnight, or one on the
morning of the next day. And see! this is my
reward—these are the wages for which I
wasted my young blood, health, and spirits, and
finally my life!” and saying this, she took from
her bosom and handed me a soiled and rumpled
paper, containing the following particulars:
“Seamstresses' Prices:—Six hours work
on a common vest, six and a quarter cents.
Twenty-four hours work on Baboon coats of
kersey, fifty cents. Twelve hours work on Navy
shirts with star-collars, twelve and a half cents.
Two days work on blanket coats with fourteen
buttons, fifty cents. Frocktees of duffle-cloth
for stout-bodied men, twenty-four hours labor,
thirty-seven and a half cents. Pantaloons with
fly fronts and straps, eleven hours, twenty-five
cents, &c.”
And leaving this guilty and barbarous catalogue
in my hands, the fair victim disappeared.
Next, I called up in succession and heard the
elegiac histories of poor Joe Crutch, an old
pauper, with a red bandanna about his head;
Susan and Sarah Sparkels, a pair of spinster
sisters, withered and sad, who came up arm-in-arm,
as if they occupied a joint grave; Sam
Weatherly, a paralytic poultry-merchant; Moll
or Mary Jones, huckster; two red-faced butchers
that died of apoplexy within a day of each
other (the old co-partnership), Bull and Bullock;
a pauper negro, Nick Johnson; five or six sickly-looking,
crook-backed wood-sawyers; Quibble,
a rusty attorney, with the dirty end of a
declaration in covenant sticking out of his
breeches' pocket, &c., &c.
“Call into Court!” I exclaimed, in a voice
of command, to a feeble old crier of the Common
Pleas, that had appeared (privilege of his
former office) without summons to tell his tale
of wo—“Call into Court all those that have
died of harsh usage and broken hearts!” and,
feeble as was the voice of the tottering beadle,
at his summons an innumerable company of haggard
creatures started up and swarmed in every
part of Potters' Field. A countless throng of
faces was before me, men, women, and children—
but all of them wearing a certain proof of
the deep anguish that had cut to the heart and
brought them to the grave. Who knew their
malady, as they pined away day by day, like
fruits that perish internally, and drop from the
tree without seeming frost or blight? None!
not one!
Some of them died off abruptly—others lingered
along for months, and a few, to whom nature
had furnished stout masculine hearts,
weathered it for a year or two; and then the
undertaker (such a one as poverty could afford)
was called in; the hearse stood at the door;
the neighbors' children gathered wonderingly
about the house and walk; a few of the better-hearted
neighbors dropped in; more of them
looked out at their windows, or put their caps
together and discussed the dead one's disease—
some calling it pleurisy, and some, nearer the
truth, an affection of the heart, but none, not
one, (unless some single sister or shrewd aunt
that lived with the poor family,) dreaming it
was that terrible and crushing form of the disease—
a broken heart. Thus the poor-house
train passes from the door; the corpse in its
plain pine-coffin is deposited in the grave; and
henceforth the dead is dead to all the earth!
There is nothing by which to remember the
poor that are gone! It is only over them as a
multitude, whose combined sorrows and sufferings
assume to the fancy a huge and dreadful
aspect, that any one mourns.
As individuals, while living, none cares for
them but death;—dead, none regards them but
God!
Smooth, unctuous, fish-faced being! that sittest
duck-like, perched on the oil-barrel's edge,
ready to make a plunge into the sea of business
that roars at thy feet—Calmness personified,
holy Peace, Placidity, and Quiet descended to
earth in the guise of a green-grocer! Greasy
Peterson, vulgar mortals have named thee,
knowing not the true sweetness and blessedness
of thy life in its even flow. Judged by thy garments,
thou art in truth a poor devil. A blue
coat patched like the sky with spots of cloudy
black, oil-spotted drab breeches, cased in coarse
overalls of bagging, are not the vestments in
which worldly greatness clothes itself, or
worldly wisdom is willing to be seen walking
streets and highways. True, thou hast a jolly
person and goodly estate of flesh and blood under
such habiliments. Glide on, glide on,
Oleaginous Robert—like a river of oil, and be
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[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
thy taper of life quenched silently as pure spermaceti!
Robert Peterson, Esq., green-grocer and tallow-chandler,
possessed the most incongruous
face that ever adorned the head of mortal.
His nose thrust itself out, a huge promontory
of flesh, at whose base two pool-like eyes sparkled
small, clear, and twinkling, while a river
of month ran athwart its extreme projection,
flowing almost from ear to ear, with only a narrow
strip of ruddy cheek intervening.
Within, greasy Bob possessed a mind as curiously
assorted as his countenance. It was
composed of fragments of every thing, bits of
knowledge of one kind and another strangely
stitched together, and forming an odd patchwork
brain, whose operations it was a merry
spectacle to observe.
“Good morning, neighbor Peterson,” said a
small, snipe-nosed fruiterer from next door,
“Good morning!—I hope we shall have fine
weather now the wind has shifted his tail to the
Nor'-west.”
“Hopes it may be so, Mr. Tart—the stars
were precious clear last night, the sky was a
healthy red this morning—and farmer Veal
brought in his poultry to be ready for sale by
noon. I hope the bank will give me a lift to
day, for I didn't know but we should lose our
little girl last night—with the measles; she was
sickly, very sickly. Perhaps peaches are cheap
now? aren't they, Mr. Tart?, How is the little
widow, Mr. Tart? I bought a firkin prime butter
Wednesday afternoon, Mr. Tart, only one
and six per pound. That dress of the young
parson's is horrid taste, bright buttons and rainbow-colored
neckerchief!” And so Mr. Peterson
would ramble on by the hour, touching on
every imaginable subject, exhausting none,
adorning all by a placid and inimitable face, and
a peculiar, emphatic, jerking delivery. It is
calculated by an acute and accurate neighbor
of his, (a patent astronomical instrument-maker,)
that in one day Greasy Peterson touched on one
hundred and twenty-three distinct subjects without
devoting more than two seconds and a quarter
of remark to any one.
There was a flavor of this same grotesque
humor in every thing that he said or did.
The store in which he carried on trade presented
the same parti-colored confusion and variety
as his conversation. It was a congregation
of an infinite diversity of wares and merchandises;
a piebald assemblage of boxes, candles,
loaves, dried fish, fresh fish, green cabbage, red
roses in pots in the window, scales, antique
hatchets, pyramidal and cone-shaped loaves of
sugar in blue-paper caps, cinnamons and cloves
in flaunting frocks of yellow, and Greasy Peterson,
presiding in the midst, mounted on keg or
counter, like a Turkish Muezzin, in a rusty
cocked beaver.
The outside of this singular edifice answered
aptly to the interior. Originally it was a low
stone building, with a tile roof, occupied as a
powder-house, with small square windows, pro
tected by iron gratings. About the twentieth
year of the present century the tile roof had
been shattered by a heavy thunder-clap, and for
a time the little powder-house remained tenantless,
unless the landlord chose to collect his rent
from a ghost in goggle eyes that was said to occupy
the premises. In the year twenty-five (I
think it was) it fell into the hands of Mr. Peterson,
who immediately set about converting it
into a store and dwelling. The first step in this
important undertaking was, to build upon the
stone-work that had survived the storm, an upper
story and attic of wood; and when this was
completed, the innocent little powder-house
looked very much like a stiff old maid that has
weathered half a dozen changes of fashion, and
chooses to wear an under-gown of the last century,
topped with a boddice and head-dress of the
newest gloss.
Next, the windows were enlarged in length
and breadth, the bars removed, and a noisy pair
of shutters given to each.
But the finishing-stroke remained. The fantastic
tenement was yet to be painted, and here
the riant humor of Mr. Robert Peterson broke
away from rein and bridle, and fairly galloped
off with all the plain sense of the worthy chandler.
He entered into contracts with no less
than six painters for the painting and ornamenting
of his new-fangled edifice, believing that no
less a number could furnish a sufficient assortment
of colors. And to each one of the six he
gave special directions as to the compounding
of novel and unheard-of varieties of tint.
And now that Peterson's powder-house has
left the brush of six painters, it shines upon the
adjacent streets, a many-colored meteor! rivalling
the sky itself in the brilliancy and variety
of its tints. It is sunset imbodied in stone and
wood, only with new and greater accessions of
gorgeous hue. An enormous dot of paint, as it
were, planted at the corner, saying, “Stop
here!” A vasty exclamation-mark of red and
blue and yellow, dashed down at the junction
of the streets, demanding the wayfarer's pause,
and the wagoner's mounted admiration.
As in a hero everything is (or should be) horoic,
so, as I have before noted, every thing connected
with the worthy green-grocer assumed
some color of the humorous.
The eleventh year from his opening store and
establishing his family in the powder-house,
Mr. Peterson, by dint of large profits and small
expenditures, was able to set up a snug equipage
for family use. This was a light vehicle
with a green leather cover, extending over the
whole length, so that it resembled an airy market
wagon, fixed upon high stout springs, and
containing four seats within. Drawn by a single,
sleek, shining nag of very moderate size and
stature, the Peterson family were accustomed to
visit certain kindred of theirs living at Pelham
and West Farms. It was a rare sight to see
them setting forth from the front-door of their
gaudy dwelling: in front sat Greasy Peterson
himself, smiling in a new sky-blue coat, with
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bright buttons, tightly fastened up to his chin,
light plush pantaloons, and an unctuous face
and a pair of buckskin gloves; the whole person
surmounted by a glossy black beaver hat;
driving his way forward with considerable
speed, by the aid of sundry encouraging chirrups
and admonitory, “Ge-ups,” and “Get-a-longs.”
By the side of him was discovered the
slim, upright form of Robert Peterson, jr., his
eldest son, holding a black-handled coach-whip
in his hand, with which he greeted, in the progress
of travel, innumerable vagrant curs, that
hailed him open-mouthed at the doors by which
they passed. On the seat immediately behind
these two worthies sat Messrs. Eliphalet and
Bildad Peterson, holding transverse across their
breasts a child white and slim as if cast in a
candle-mould, recently baptized Thalia, (softened
by the same monsters that christened her
sire “Greasy,”) into Tallow Peterson. On
the next seat rearward were disposed two interesting
children in calico frocks—Moses and
Johnny Peterson, and supporting the uttermost
rear reposed Mrs. Sophia Peterson, the corpulent
spouse of Robert, and Sophia Peterson, jr.,
a girl with a large head and beautiful set of delicate
small teeth.
With this burden behind him, the little nag
ambled on quietly and in good cheer, although
the vehicle that he drew was elevated so high
above him, that the tenants of the wagon and
the sleek horse, seemed to belong to altogether
different planets. Their return from these visits
was still more grotesque, for their family-carriage
generally trundled into town garnished
with baskets of fresh, sweet-scented apples, and
a pair or two of tender poultry, presented by the
kindly farmer friends whom they had visited,
hanging at the sides, enlivened at times by a gay
string of onions, or an ambitious head of cabbage.
If I were called upon to name the prevailing
characteristic of Mr. Peterson's mind, I should
say, with deference to better judgments, it was
a certain, practical, business shrewdness, that
never allowed itself to slumber or to be overreached.
Whenever trade was the subject, or
bargain the object of conversation, all the incoherence
I have spoken of disappeared, and his
mind flowed forth in a quiet, steady stream of
plain good sense and useful knowledge. Those
outward limbs and flourishes were instantly
lopped off by the exacting knife of business and
gain, and the simple, unadorned trunk of the
matter stood disencumbered. Many are the
prime bargains Peterson has entrapped unwary
boatmen and butter-merchants into, by help of
his rude garments and vagabond presentment.
“How much do you ask a pound for these
firkins, squire?” asked Greasy Peterson one day,
dressed in his roughest suit of clothes, and a hat
with only half a rim.
“Why, loafer,” replied the captain of the
loop, to whom this question was addressed in
slouching, careless tone, “why uncle oily-reeches,
I guess you may have it at six pence
a pound the lot.”
“I'll take it, sir!” said Greasy Peterson,
throwing an air of considerable seriousness and
dignity into his remark, which startled the rash
butter-merchant slightly.
“But mind ye, neighbor—it's cash down at
that price! Come, fork over the solid, Old
Rags,” said the boatman, with a loud laugh,
and turning with a quizzical leer to a group of
captains, and sloop-boys that had gathered to
see the fun.
“Here it is!” responded Peterson, coolly,
taking out a dirty buckskin bag, and counting
down in hard silver the sum to which the twenty-five
firkins of butter amounted; ordered the
whole upon a cart, and jumping on himself,
touched his hat very politely, and bade the astounded
crew of boatmen, “Good afternoon!”
The rash captain lives to this day, and indulges
in a curious half-laugh, when he is engaged
in bargaining, that is known along the wharves
as the famous Greasy Peterson chuckle.
About the forty-third year of his age, the
worthy grocer was visited by apoplexy which
dried up his vital juices, and withered his person
like an apple blown from the tree, nipped by
autumn frosts. The physicians straightway
hurried in, and bled him so freely, that the fresh
gloss and old smoothness departed from his
countenance, and left him a sorry spectacle
compared with the former galliard and jovial
creature that answered to his name. He however
recovered so far in a few weeks as to be
able to hobble out towards noon, and plant himself
on a stool, on the sunny side of his store,
to air his constitution, and receive the congratulations
and good wishes of his friends and neighbors
as they passed or paused awhile to inquire
more minutely after his health. In a short
time (despite his careful diet and the skilful
practice of his physicians), a second and heavier
stroke of the disease fell upon him and carried
him off, at two o'clock in the afternoon of the
same day on which the celebrated fat ox, Billy
Lambert, arrived in town.
Gentle, charitable, benevolent reader! if
thou feelest disposed to aid thine author in a
sore perplexity, and to dispense unto him, out
of the abundance of thy geographical erudition,
permit him to address to thee (humbly confessing
his manifold ignorance) a single interrogatory:
Where is the city of Peth? Many
times have I journeyed along the highway, that
runs through Greenwich, in the state of Connecticut,
and heard some learned traveller that
rode with me say, “Yonder is the city of Peth!”
pointing to the northeast: and looking thither,
I have discovered nought but a common hill-side,
with a single low tenement feebly sustaining
itself amid a score of rocks, and three or
four straggling apple-trees.
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Nevertheless in that illustrious city, wherever
it be, the city of Peth, of whose inhabitants
the country doggerel says—
“Half ran away, and half starved to death,”
did the equally illustrious Solomon Clarion find
a dwelling-place.
Humanity never assumed a more joyous and
gladsome form than thine, blithe Sol. Clarion!
Ah! why didst thou leave the tumbling haymow,
and the fresh stream, to become a pilgrim
to this Babel of ours? Why didst thou abandon
the festal company of rustic youths and
maidens, to mingle with the tide of dark or care-worn
faces that flows through our streets?
In his earliest prime, young Clarion lost his
mother (a golden woman—full of the delicacies
and rich fruits that belong to her sex, dashed
with something of a wilder savor), and was
brought to yonder poor dwelling to be a housemate
with his mother's parents.
Young Solomon's character soon developed
itself, and proved to be of a mingled yarn.
None was gayer at school or in the orchard at
play than he: and yet, at times, none was sadder
or more thoughtful.
Some holydays he passed in merry game and
wild frolic with his little school companions,
others he spent far away in the woods, or wandering
through the green meadows, or loitering
slowly by the babbling brook. It was Solomon
Clarion (that fear-nought boy) that rode the
wild colts, and ran at the heels of every mad
bull that roared in the county! It was Solomon
Clarion that was caught in an attitude of
breathless and reverential regard, watching the
glorious sunset or the stars climbing the sky!
In front of his grandfather's dwelling, and by
the road-side, stood a dry, dead old cherry-tree,
which had been barren of fruitage for many
years. It had been planted by a quaint old
bachelor uncle, and was considered a precious
family relic; and as such, Sol. himself regarded
it until one day, a clear April holyday, in a
gamesome mood he doomed its overthrow. Gathering
a noisy band of school-fellows, he issued
his warrant against old uncle Cherry (the name
by which it was known throughout the neighborhood),
and, producing a coil of rope, ascended
the tree, and fixed a halter round its mossy
old neck. At a signal the boys gave a hearty
pull (none heartier than Clarion!) and,
with a clamorous shout, it fell to the earth. In
a moment or two Solomon was missing, and his
comrades, after considerable search, discovered
him over the fence, with tears in his eyes, sliding
a fragment of the mouldering bark of old
uncle Cherry thoughtfully into his pocket. So
strange a creature was Clarion!
Sol's chosen friend and boon companion, was
a simple fellow by the name of Will Robin—
or Foolish Will, as he was better known, and
whose general character, although brightened
and improved by occasional flashes of wit and
shrewdness, justified the epithet. He was the
butt and target of all the boors for twenty miles
around. If any farmer, or farmer's son, or serving-man,
wished to be witty at the very cheapest
rate and smallest possible expenditure of
thought, no better luck could betide him than
to chance upon foolish Will. If a gallant was
anxious to obtain the reputation of vast facetiousness
and great brilliancy of intellect with
his mistress, his fortune could be no sooner
made than by having poor Robin drop in to
have a few small, innocent jests thrust into his
pin-cushion brain without reply.
But Solomon Clarion found better matter and
better services in Will than these. He saw in
the poor varlet concealed veins of feeling and
odd streaks of fancy, checkering what the world
considered his vacant heart and blank intellect.
He saw in him innocence and purity, a sense of
love, and a deep sense of attachment wasted
(unless some human being like himself chose to
garner them for the simple owner) on dogs, and
birds, and horses, and others of the thoughtless
tribe.
Conversation with Will, too, though sadly
strange and disjointed, occasionally let the light
in, as it were through the chinks of a disordered
brain, upon curious trains and passages of
thought. At times, he garnished his remarks
unconsciously with rare conceits that might
have gained for a wiser man the reputation of
a bountiful wit.
“As true as I'm Will Robin,” he exclaimed,
one clear, fair evening, as they were returning
together through a meadow, from a long summer's
day ramble, “yonder's Preacher Purdy's
new white beaver hat—nailed up by the rim—
Look!”
Sol. Clarion gazed in the direction to which
he pointed, and answered, “Why, Will, I see
nothing where you point but the plain, old moon
in her first quarter.”
“You may well call her plain,” replied Will,
catching a new thread of thought; “if it be the
moon (I'm not clear on that point yet), she is
the only decent planet in the sky. She behaves
something like, and keeps up a good bright light
when it's wanted, and is dressed in good, homely,
clean linen in the bargain; while your
fiery old sun capers up and down in crimson velvet,
making everybody lecherous and apoplectic—
I don't care who knows it.”
“It's Preacher Purdy's hat, is it, Will?” said
Clarion, anxious to bring him back to his original
suggestion, and to see what he would make
of it.
“Yes, it is Preacher Purdy's hat, I'm sure of
that; for don't I see the woolly nap on it now I
look closer”—clapping his hand, folded like a
telescope, to his eye, and watching as two or
three fleecy clouds crossed the disc of the planet—
“what a beautiful wren-house and place
for swallows and martens! I wish my little flock
of blue-coated beauties had as good quarters—
it's softer and nicer than an old black hat. But
the preacher'll have to go bare-headed to meeting
next sabbath—that'll be funny!” And poor
Will burst into a boisterous roar of laughter,
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in which Sol. was forced to join, for the sake of
good fellowship.
In all Sol. Clarion's jovial doings and merry-makings,
Foolish Will was a faithful squire and
attendant; and, simple as was the brain of the
strange creature, it always had sufficient sagacity
to comprehend the drift and purpose of a
joke of Sol's., and to furnish its little tribute of
suggestions to help it forward. One day (it
was Sunday, in June), it came into Sol. Clarion's
head to make a pilgrimage, with rod and
line, to Rye Pond or Lake Westchester, some
five or six miles distant from his home. He lay
under an apple-tree, cogitating some method of
safe and easy conveyance, when Foolish Will,
in one of his wild capers, came rolling down the
hill into the orchard, and directly against the
ribs of the thoughtful Solomon.
“Heigho!” cried he, “this is a new style of
salutation on a Sunday morning. I have full
confidence, Will, in your affection, without
these heavy tokens. Be pleased to take off your
carcass, and give me a comfortable morsel of
advice.”
“Advice! Sol., if you want that, it is but a
stone's-throw to friend Bloom's, and he has
enough to turn his own mill and some over for
his neighbors. That's a fine owl of a fellow,
his oldest son—I'm sure of that, Solomon!” and
he twisted his face as nearly into an outline of
the bird's visnomy, as his smooth features would
allow.
“Never mind Booby Bloom, Will,” continued
Clarion, “I'm bent for a fishing excursion to-day.”
“And want me to hang on, as a poor worm,
for a bait I suppose;” and an altogether unnecessary
tear filled the eye of the gentle-hearted
fool.
“No, no, Will, not for that,” returned Solomon,
in a persuasive accent. “No, Willie, you
must borrow some good neighbor's horse and
wagon and ride with me.”
“Black snakes and tree-toads take me if I
will,” exclaimed poor Robin, “I'll ride without
loan or purchase. There's old Bloom's black
nag running at large in the woods; all the
family's away to meeting, save blind Dick and
deaf aunt Sally. Come, I'll bring down gran'father's
rusty saddle, and we'll mount and shog
off. Come,” he concluded, taking Clarion by
the hand, and drawing him up from his recumbent
position, “come, Master Solomon, it's the
best thing we can do.” And so Master Solomon
seemed to think too, for he leaped up, ran
into the house, and in a trice brought forth a
dusty demipique saddle and broken bridle,
which latter he handed to Foolish Will. They
soon reached the woods together, the black nag
was speedily caparisoned, and they were on
their way to the Fond.
That was a delicious day to the soul of Sol.
Clarion. Grave joys, if I may so speak, and
pleasing sadness blended together, and steeped
him in a stream of pure delight. Nature on the
one side opened her fair page, and on the other
side sat Will Robin, a most rare and queer
commentator, turning all things into fantastic
shapes, and startling the woods and the waters
with fancies never before heard. Before Sol.,
as he sat upon a jutting rock embowered in
trees, the cheek of the sweet pond swelled with
the curve and fulness of beauty itself; kissed by
forest shadows, that here and there fell like caresses
from the waving trees. Now and then a
stray duck started out from the shore, and flew,
like a silent thought, to an opposite quarter of
the lake; or a water-snake slipped, from its
sunny covert on the margin, back into its native
element. Afar the meadows stretched and
swelled into gentle hills, which lay basking in
the sun, with an ox or horse now and then stealing
quietly across the landscape. Behind them
(the Prince of Darkness must have a foot-hold
somewhere!) Bloom's black nag is tethered
in the bushes, munching a handful of
fresh clover.
“See yonder thick-skinned philosopher!”
said Will Robin, pointing to an old turtle that
had perched himself upon a rock in the middle
of the pond, “I suppose he has mounted that
dry pulpit to hold forth to his watery congregation.
D'ye know Solomon (Master Solomon,
I mean), that I sometimes think that these turtles
are evil spirits, that haunt ponds and marshes,
in the same way as bad men run up and down
the world with wicked designs. That fellow's
like a watchman in his box, that I've heard tell
of in the city, he sees everybody, but no one
(unless the great Jehovah) can see the workings
and twistings of his ugly face in his shell. I
believe that vile turtle yonder is Satan,” concluded
Will, his eyes gleaming with supernatural
light, and his frame trembling with some
sudden fear suggested by the allusion, “for I
saw him snap a poor sinner of a fly in his jaws;
and now see he's going to bear him down with
him to hell—to hell—to hell!” And poor Robin
mumbled the last phrase over and over, as the
turtle glided slowly from the rock and disappeared.
About sunset they returned home, and
loosed the black nag in the woods from which
they had taken him.
The next morning, just after breakfast, a man
about forty-five years of age presented himself
at the door in a brown, quaker-cut coat, low
shoes, and a pair of loose, gray pantaloons, that
flaunted about his ankles. Furthermore, he had
a short nose, and a broad-brimmed hat, from underneath
which a stiff, bristling shock of hair
spread out over his coat-collar like the tail of a
young wren.
“A good morning to thee, my friends,” said
this personage, through his short organ, “and
a very good morning to thee, my young friend,
after that pleasant ride of thine on the Lord's
day, and on a stolen horse!”
These latter words were more particularly
addressed to our friend Solomon, who sat on a
bench at the feet of the old people, his grandfather
and grandmother. Clarion blushed, and
the old people turned pale at the heinous and
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[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
diaboheal enarge. They were so completely
astounded, that they sat silent.
“My young friend,” continued Mr. Bloom,
giving a not very amieable look at Solomon,
“I'll tell thee what, I will not put thee in the
White Plains' jail this time, but I will give thee
some wholesome advice.” Perhaps Sol. Clarion
would have chosen the jail rather than the advice;
but Friend Bloom gave him no option,
and proceeded: “Abandon that crack-brain
William Robin to his fate; go to thy school
many more times than thou dost; spend thy holydays
nearer at home; and ride not my black
mare to the Pond without my permission.” He
then addressed a solemn chapter of advice and
admonition to Sol's. grandfather and grandmother,
and wiping the corner of his mouth with
his coat-sleeve, placidly disappeared through
the same door that introduced him to the reader.
Solomon Clarion was now fast verging toward
manhood. In a few days, he would be entitled
(besides a moderate sum of ready money)
to enter upon whatever right he possessed in a
small cantle of property (three or four acres,
with a house) that his mother had bequeathed
to him. An uncle of Solomon's—this was the
present situation of the property—had purchased
or paid a mortgage upon it given by Mrs. Clarion,
and taken possession and enjoyed it ever
since her death, upon that barren title. Possession
he still maintained, and refused to hold
any conversation with young Clarion on the
subject. A neighboring farmer, into whose
land the acres in question made an awkward
elbow, was anxious to buy Solomon's title, and
dispossess the unlawful occupant. In this perplexity,
Sol. thought he would have recourse to
a legal gentleman whom he had heard Will
Robin often mention. This was Lawyer Doublet,
a strange old man, some fourscore years
old who lived upon the road, not far from the
city of Peth: and upon him he resolved to call.
Accordingly, one morning about a week before
his minority expired, Solomon set out, in
company with Will, for the residence of Counsellor
Peter Doublet. In a short time, they
reached an ancient-looking stone house; and,
poor Robin knocking at the door, and inquiring
for the legal genius of the place, they were ushered
up stairs: and here Clarion was introduced
by his friend Will to Lawyer Doublet, and was
particularly struck with his appearance. As
that venerable advocate rose and came forward
with a very graceful bow to welcome them, he
presented to Sol's. eye a well-preserved model
of mortality, with a flowing while wig, like
that in the portraits of Sir Isaac Newton, curling
over his shoulders; a black velvet coat,
with silver buttons, and skirts stiffened with
buckram, covering a very moderate set of
limbs; a scarlet vest beneath the same; a set
of white small clothes joining black silk hose,
and shoes with huge silver buckles.
The personal history of this antique-looking
member of the bar dwelt under a haze of considerable
obscurity. It was rumored that he
had taken an active part on the royalist side
during the revolutionary war, and now lived
upon a pension which he received from the
king's coffers. He still preserved and strictly
maintained the vesture and habits of the last
century, and obstinately refused to lay aside the
smallest tittle or thread of his dress, or to abate
a single jot of the severity of ancient manners.
In truth, he was a creature of past times. The
best part of his life had lain in the eighteenth
century, and he was, in a manner, a trespasser
upon the territory of the nineteenth. All his
thoughts and feelings dated back forty years.
He saw every object through time's telescope
inverted. The books that he read and quoted,
the cogitations that he cogitated, the opinions
he delivered, were all musty with age.
The apartment into which Clarion had been
introduced was in character with its curious
proprietor. From the windows hung old damask
curtains, with gold-lace borders, which permitted
a mild twilight to creep through the
room, part of which fell upon an ancient case
of books fastened against the opposite wall.
Every volume was black with years. Behind
a little low table, strown with pieces of parchment,
silver-hilted pens, and curious old pipes
and snuff-boxes, stood a high-backed chair with
a red leather cushion, ornamented with a pair
of raised cock-pheasants fighting a duel under
an oak-branch similarly executed, and striving
to pick each other's eyes out: a very happy illustration
of the benefits of sprightly litigation!
When the whole party was seated, Sol. Clarion
briefly opened his case, and stated his
strong desire to sell the land to Farmer Bull,
who had offered a fair price: mentioning at the
same time Farmer Bull's reluctance to pay a
very large sum for making and drawing the
deed, and his own unwillingness to become a
party to an ejectment suit against his uncle.
“I see the remedy, Mr. Clarion,” said Lawyer
Doublet, rising under considerable excitement,
and pacing to and fro between his high-backed
chair and the window; “I see it, sir,
as clear as a plea in chancery with twelve
branches!”
“And pray what is it, if you please, sir?”
asked Solomon, in breathless expectation.
“Nothing less, sir, than livery of seisin!”
and he looked earnestly into Clarion's face, expecting,
no doubt, to see it brighten with joy at
this fortunate and profound suggestion.
“Will that cost much?” inquired Sol. Clarion.
“No, sir; a mere trifle. It is the cheapest,
and plainest, and wisest, and noblest, &c., &c.
process ever devised by brain of man for conveyance
of lands!—If I knew the author of it,
my young friend, I would plant his bust up
there: and you, my good old king”—addressing
himself to a bronze head of George II., standing
on the top of his book-case—“you would
have to tramp!—`when the sage comes up, the
king goes down,' Mr. Clarion, as the Baker's
broadside of 1790 hath it.”
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“Yes,” humbly suggested Poor Will, “`and
ten to one both have a cracked crown.' Your
sage addles his in attempting to stuff it too full
of reading, and your king breaks his in attempting
to stretch it larger!” and Will burst into a
hearty laugh, while Sol. Clarion smiled.
This sally, however, was not quite so well
received by Counsellor Doublet, who assumed
a portentous look of professional consequence;
and thrusting his hands into his hinder coat-pockets,
strided up and down the room, rebuking
the unfortunate Robin for his audacity
in trying wits with Peter Doublet, Esquire,
counsellor, who had Touchstone at his finger's
end, and was so profoundly read in the Twelve
Tables, as to sometimes believe himself to have
been one of the framers of the same.
Will apologised humbly (Clarion aiding him),
and they relapsed into business.
“I will prepare the papers that are necessary
between yourself, Mr. Clarion, and Mr. Obed
Bull,” continued Counsellor Doublet, with more
gravity and weight of manner than he had at
first exhibited, “and next Wednesday (I think
Tuesday is your twenty-first birthday, Mr. Clarion:”
Clarion nodded acknowledgment), “next
Wednesday morning we will ride to the property,
myself and you, Mr. Clarion, and Mr. Bull;
and this poor creature may go with us; perhaps
he may minister some trifling service: and there
we will deliver possession by livery of seisin
under the old law (thed—I taking, if he please,
lease and release, and such modern traps and
tricks of pettifoggers).”
An hour was named for the parties to assemble
at the house of Lawyer Doublet; Clarion
and Will Robin arose to depart, and with them
rose the counsellor himself, and opening the
door, he heralded the way down stairs, unfastened
the front-door, and, standing uncovered
upon the stone porch, he bowed twice or thrice,
and ceremoniously bade Solomon Clarion “a
good day—with God's blessing!”
Promptly at the appointed hour, Sol. Clarion,
on a bright bay horse, borrowed from a neighbor,
and Foolish Will Robin on a rough colt,
obtained in a similar manner, wheeled up to the
door of Lawyer Doublet. In a short time, the
counsellor came forth, dressed as we have described
him, with the additional personal ornaments
of a sword at his side, with a silver hilt,
a cocked hat, fringed with gold lace, on his
head, and a blue bag, containing his papers and
documents, under his arm. As he stepped from
the porch, a high, raw-boned steed, of a mixed
sorrel complexion, was brought up, tricked out
in an antique martingale, old double bits, a
horse-cover in the style of the revolution, and
a saddle about fifty years old. With the aid of
Foolish Will, Counsellor Doublet, having carefully
attached the blue bag to the saddle-bows,
mounted into the broad shovel-stirrups, and being
in a few minutes joined by Mr. Obed Bull,
in a buff coat, the party set out for the scene
of action, which was about three miles up the
road. They formed a gallant spectacle for
the dames of King street, as they galloped
along. Each moment a head was thrust out
from some shrewd post of observation, and
some new face broadened with wonder at beholding
Counsellor Doublet riding between Bull
and Clarion, the representative and memento
of times that they had heard grandsires and old
women only speak of. The rustics in the field
paused in their labor, and leaned upon their
rakes or plough-tails to gaze with dilating eyes.
The horses turned their heads in the furrow
and stared; the oxen licked their hairy cheeks
in admiration; and it was said, with some show
of truth, that a tin pigeon, acting as weathercock
on Farmer Barley's farm, wheeled about
on its pivot, in spite of the wind, and rolled its
painted eye-balls and shook its painted tail in
wonder and astonishment.
It was a glorious day in mid-August; serene,
tranquil, beautiful. The sky was without spot
or wrinkle of cloud on its clear, blue surface.
On each side of the road tall pear-trees stood,
swarming with rich, ripe fruit; near every house
lay an orchard, enamelled with countless colored
apples, red, green, damask, yellow, and
white, of every kind. In one field that they
passed, half a dozen fresh-looking countrymen
were at work laying the stout grass upon the
ground, like files of proud soldiers, gay with
green feathers flaunting in the wind in the
morning—at eve to be dry and withered. In a
neighboring meadow, a sportsman in a fustian
hunting-coat, and white hat, with shot-pouch,
powder-flask, and gun, was creeping along the
fence to obtain a shot at a meadow-lark sitting
on a rock in the middle of the meadow. He
steals closer and closer. In a moment, the
merry-maker of the skies will lie stretched on
the cold stone. Peal-it! peal-it! peal-it! is
the sound issuing from a stout throat in yonder
tree. It is the cry of a sentinel lark, and that
is his watchtower. His winged brother takes
notice, and in a twinkling curves far along the
air, beyond the reach of gun or sportsman.
Away the four horsemen gallop; Will Robin
dropping a little in the rear, to dismount and
catch a woodchuck, which was perambulating
a fence by way of exercise, after a hearty meal
of clover.
This enterprise is nipped in the bud by Sol.
Clarion's falling back with poor Robin, and
asking what he was slipping out of his saddle
for.
“It's our duty, Master Sol., to look after the
belly,” said Will, “and I was thinking that
woo'chuck, which has nothing to do, now that
he's taken his breakfast, but to be cooked
would make a nice pie for supper when we got
home.”
Foolish Will's anxiety about provender was
very soon allayed, by Clarion's announcing to
him that they expected to dine at Farmer Bull's
as they returned, and that a fat young turkey
was in preparation. Will's eye sparkled at the
savory announcement, and they speedily regained
their places in the cavalcade.
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On a scaffold in front of a weather-beaten,
yellow farm-house which they passed, a gay
party of travelling carpenters were at work.
There is something charming to the fancy in
the strolling life of these country Chips. They
ramble about pleasant villages and country
places—your only modern Amphions and Troubadours—
singing their cheerful catches, and
building as they sing. Half a dozen choice
journeymen cluster together, and form a merry
crew, plying the chisel and mallet in rural
neighborhoods; repairing, like these, some time-worn
farm-house, or raising up in more bustling
parts a snug cottage, to be the harbor of happy
spirits for many blooming and fragrant years, or
like a flock of piping swallows chirping about a
breach in the roof of some venerable old church.
Now and then bandying a jest with the plump
kitchen-wench (it matters not whether she be
black or white—they will have their joke!), or
indulging in a sly inuendo among themselves
at the expense of the blushing; young-married
couple, whose home they are finishing. Everywhere,
too, they are reguled with grateful viands—
healthful breakfasts—hearty dinners—
genial suppers; “We must have something
good,” says the housewife, “for to-morrow the
carpenters are coming!”
Shortly after they had passed this jovial company
of workmen, they reached a small wooden
house, with a dry, dull aspect, as if it had been
pelted with all the winds and weathers of half
a century, without the defence of paint or color
of any kind. It stood upon a knoll facing the
north, and had a solitary, lonely appearance, as
they came upon it. In front was a small court-yard
with barn-yard and poultry-yard blended
with it, and tying their horses to the rough
bar-fence that surrounded it, they all dismounted,
and entered a clumsy gate, which opened
into the enclosure, except Foolish Will, who,
under a direction from Counsellor Peter, scampered
off up the road. The counsellor then
unhooked his blue bag from its place at the
saddle-bows, and hugging it under his right
arm, marched with great solemnity up to the
door of the house, accompanied by Bull in a
buff coat, and Clarion in green pantaloons.
Here he planted himself upon the steps leading
to the same, and laying down his cocked hat
and blue bag with great deliberation upon a
neighboring bench, he stood erect and surveyed
the three acres and a half of arable land to be
conveyed to Obed Bull, farmer, with monstrous
complacency and inward satisfaction. In a few
minutes, Will Robin came dashing down the
highway with great expedition, and heat, and
announced to Counsellor Doublet that “none
was to be got!” meaning that he could obtain
no persons to attend the important ceremonies
about to take place, as witnesses. “Then off
your horse,” cried out Mr. Peter Doublet in an
cestasy of authority, “blow this vile tin horn!—
that will make our proceedings public—and,
perhaps, answer as well!” At this behest,
Foolish Will dismounted, and seizing the abject
piece of metal, sounded a dozen or two of round
blasts; and in answer, one lazy-looking young
negro was brought out of the fields (mistaking
it innocently for the dinner-blast, although it
was now only about ten in the morning), and a
limping old farmer from across the way, who
came hobbling into the yard, staring at Lawyer
Doublet as if he had been a genuine phantom
in a velvet coat, flowing wig, and white small-clothes.
Fortunately, there was no one in the
house, or they would have been brought down
upon the party in a twinkling by this uproarious
summons: the barbarous uncle of Clarion
being some distance down the road, helping a
farmer get in his hay, and the lazy-looking negro
boy alone having charge in his absence.
“Now we will proceed to livery of seisin, as
settled in Madox and Craig!” said Peter Doublet,
fumbling in his blue bag, “and first, I will
read in the presence of these many good witnesses
the warrant of attorney, whereby I am
empowered to fulfil feoffment of this house and
land.” And saying this, he recited, in a good
old-man's voice, the contents of a paper which
he had disinterred from its azure sepulchre, containing
power, authority, warrant, &c., to convey
said house and land in the name and stead
of Solomon Clarion, of the city of Peth, to Obed
Bull, of King street; and then, drawing forth a
second paper from the same blue receptacle, he
proceeded to declare the contents thereof—describing
the tenement, with all the appurtenances,
standing thus and thus, and the lands
belonging to the same, running with this brook,
and under that tree, with a white flint-stone at
its extreme corner.
He then said, descending from his elevation,
“Neighbors and witnesses! leave these grounds,
while I do deliver seisin and possession of the
same to worthy Obed Bull!”—and, after they
had retired into the road, and stood looking
over the fence at the further progress of this interesting
ceremony, he continued, plucking up
a huge clod in his hand, “Mr. Obed Bull, I do
hereby, in the name and by the authority and
attorney's warrant of Solomon Clarion, deliver
to thee seisin and possession of these lands, and
all rights thereto appertaining, as described in
the within deed.”
At this precise stage of their proceedings,
Mr. Uriah Bloom, the short-nosed Quaker,
chanced that way on a rusty-gray nag, and,
wheeling up to the fence, turned about in his
saddle, with a face wonderfully full of a magnanimous
pity, and portentous of a very speedy
discharge of comment and denunciation.
“Why friend Obed Bull,” said he, through
his short organ, “I did not truly expect to see
thee, a man of much worldly sense and uprightness,
engaged in this heathenish folly, with that
old white-wigged, silly-pated tory, Peter Doublet!
Thou knewest better, Obed, thou knewest
better! But I will leave thee to thine own
practices, and punishments sequent thereon!”
Saying this he turned and cantered at considerable
speed on his journey down the road. Not
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more than five minutes had elapsed before the
broad-brimmed hat and short nose of the quaker
again came in view, hurrying back with an additional
rider behind him on the rusty, gray nag.
When the face of this new actor made itself
visible, it struck considerable alarm in the bosom
of Will Robin, and Mr. Solomon Clarion. It
was the barbarous uncle. The approaching
steed, thus doubly freighted, was however hidden
by the house from the gaze of Mr. Obed
Bull and Counsellor Doublet; which latter
worthy was proceeding with great vigor in the
process of livery of seisin.
He had again mounted the stone steps, searched
the house to find whether it was wholly
empty, and fit for delivery, and laying his hand
upon the iron hasp of the door, exclaimed, “I
do hereby, in the name, and by the warrant of
Solomon Clarion, deliver to thee, Obed Bull,
seisin and possession of this house and all unto
it that appertains! Enter into this tenement
and God give thee joy of it.” At that moment
a large red rooster who had stood a long time
upon the barn-yard fence, in patient expectation
of a hearing, and who seemed inclined to perform
the part of clerk in these services, opened
his throat and made the responses to Counsellor
Doublet, in a clear, audible voice: Mr. Obed
Bull seized the hasp, opened the door, and had
just thrust his foreleg across the threshold to
enter, when, lo! he was met full in the face by
the barbarous uncle (unlawful occupant of the
premises), with a stout oak cudgel in his hand,
who dealt the said Obed Bull, donee, &c.,
several very hearty tokens of admiration of the
conduct he had pursued in purchasing said land,
and obtaining livery of seisin as aforesaid. “I'll
give your liver-a' seasoning—you lout!” cried
the barbarous uncle, as he plied the flail. “I'll
mark your title down in black and white!” and
he dealt him a sore blow over the bridge of the
nose. By this time Mr. Obed Bull had evaded
the cudgel, and the next object that fell into the
clutches of the barbarous uncle was Peter
Doublet, Esquire, who in consequence of his
age, was not ribroasted and bastinadoed after
the fashion of Mr. Bull, but was taken by the
collar of his velvet coat, and quietly kicked
through the garden-gate into the road. Meanwhile
Friend Bloom had found his way silently
into the front room of the tenement, and half
opening a window shutter, looked cautiously
on the scene; his short nose and broad-brimmed
hat being skilfully concealed in the shadow of
the shutter. The barbarous uncle tossed Doublet's
gold-laced cocked hat over the fence, with
the blue bag. The Counsellor picking up the
former, and placing it upon his head, and Foolish
Will gathering the scattered papers and
parchments and thrusting them into the latter,
the party mounted their horses (Mr. Bull with
great difficulty), and turned their heads expeditiously
homeward. They had not travelled
far, however, in this direction, before they
slightly slackened their pace, and Mr. Peter
Doublet muttered, “By the head of King George,
and the Pandects of Justinian! Mr. Clarion, I'll
have revenge and satisfaction on that scurvy
uncle of thine before the week wanes! yea
will I!” and he struck his sorrel a smart blow
across the foreshoulder, “I'll to the Supreme
Court of Justice at once, and attach him with a
mandamus writ of privilege!” The little lawyer
hereupon lifted his cocked hat from his head,
and, carefully shaking the dust from its border,
replaced it with an air of much dignity, in its
original position. Then turning upon Sol.
Clarion, he asked in a tone of surprise, as if it
had just crossed his mind, “Why, Mr. Clarion,
didst thou not come to our rescue? being young
and strong sinewed we might have justly looked
aidment and reinforcement from thee!”
To this Solomon simply replied, that, however
much he might dislike his uncle, he was
unwilling to come to blows with his mother's
brother.
At length Foolish Will rode up to the side of
Sol. Clarion, and the conversation took a new
channel.
“I'm getting tired of this region of country,”
said Foolish Will, “the people about here are
growing cold-hearted toward poor Will; and
poor Will's getting to be a man,” sitting bolt
upright in his saddle, “and must go travel and
make voyages and see a little of the world?
What say you, Master Solomon, Will Robin
leaves you to-morrow, and perhaps for ever!”
At this announcement the innocent creature
shed a tear upon the mane of his rough colt,
and stretched out his left hand toward Sol. Clarion;
and Sol. Clarion, bringing his horse close
to his side, grasped it warmly with his own, and
said, while tears gushed to his eyes, “Never!
Will, never!—Though I am robbed of my rights—
there's yet enough left for us both; and, Will
Robin, long as the world lasts, though all the
world else may turn you from their hearts and
hearths, there's always a warm corner for you
here!” And Sol. Clarion, in the genuine honesty
of nature, struck his hand upon his bosom.
“But whither did you purpose to go, Will!”
said he, mastering his emotion, and resuming
the discourse, while he looked earnestly in the
face of Foolish Will for a reply.
“I thought,” responded Will, “I would take
the coach for New York; and see if I could find
anybody in that big city, which I've heard tell
swarms with people just like a hive in summer,
that looked like Will Robin; all the folks in
these parts despise the poor vagrant!”
“Why Will,” replied Sol. Clarion, “I'm going
to the city myself to-morrow; will you bear
me company?”
“I will! I will!” exclaimed that worthy,
greatly excited, and almost jumping out of his
saddle with the violence of his delight.
“To-night, then, pack up our garments in the
old portmanteau; yours, Will, in one end, mine
in the other, and we'll take the stage with the
first cock that crows!”
“Yes!” said Will, still in an ecstasy of enjoyment
at the brilliant prospect of travel, “and
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I'll go to York in a new dress; something
fine. I guess it will astonish the natives.”
Hereupon Will discharged a heavy peal of
laughter, and at that moment they found themselves
in the renowned city of Peth, at the door
of Sol. Clarion's home; those twin martyrs,
Mr. Bull and Counsellor Doublet, having in
the meantime galloped down the road and out
of sight.
The next morning Will Robin was awake
with the dawn; and the sun had no sooner exhibited
his jolly face from his eastern tipplingshop,
than Will Robin's corresponding feature
shone through the portals of Sol. Clarion's
dwelling, upon the whole subjacent region.
Will was all smiles and complacency; bustling
from spot to spot; now taking up the dinnerhorn
and blowing an idle blast and laying it
down again; and now dashing into the house
to obtain some trifling commodity, and again
bursting through the door into the open air, to
stuff it into the capacious portmanteau. At the
hour when the stage arrived Foolish Will presented
himself as a passenger, tricked out in a
short brown coat, with something of the quaker
lurking about the collar, though it had altogether
fled from the skirts, which were swallowtailed;
close homespun pantaloons; a monstrous
pair of jack-boots, borrowed from Sol.
Clarion's grandfather, and, upon his head, a
sugar-loaf, white felt hat, picked up in some
random pilgrimage to the garret of Counsellor
Doublet. Sol. Clarion, who lingered behind
Will Robin, having affectionately parted with
his grand-parents, and received God-speed, came
forth modestly attired in a plain, country-made,
black hat, a dark-blue coat with metal buttons,
and other parts of dress to correspond. They
both took up their position on a high back seat,
outside, which overlooked the whole vehicle,
turned their faces for a last look at the old
homestead, the driver cracked his whip, the
stage whirled off, and in a moment the city of
Peth, and all that it held, was lost from their
gaze.
They had not travelled far down the turnpike
before a new and unexpected object arrested
their progress. This was nothing less than that
learned and sagacious legal authority, Peter
Doublet, clad in his black-velvet coat, white
small-clothes, and gold-laced cocked hat, with
his sword at his side, three or four musty volumes
under one arm, and under the other the
portentous blue bag, with an appearance of unusual
rotundity and repletion. Sol. Clarion was
not a little surprised at this apparition, at this
peculiar time, particularly as Mr. Doublet exclaimed
to the driver, “I will take a seat, sir,
with my friends on the outside; more especially
as I shall need their services when I get into
town, and wish, therefore, to keep my eye upon
them!” Saying this, he passed his three or four
dull looking volumes and well stuffed blue bag
up to Will, and very speedily mounted after
them, into the third seat in the rear.
“How is this, Counsellor Doublet?” asked
Sol. Clarion, shaking him by the hand, as the
mail-stage again started off. “Whither are
you travelling, Mr. Doublet, if I may put so
bold a question?”
“I am travelling, Mr. Clarion,” replied the
counsellor, solemnly, “in quest of my lost professional
honor. Yesterday morning I had it—
this morning I awoke, and where was it? Where
was it?” he asked again, lifting his voice as if
addressing a jury. “You ask me, sir, whither
I travel. I journey to the city of New York to
obtain a mandamus writ of privilege as an officer
of the court!” With this answer to Clarion's
interrogatory, Lawyer Doublet sunk into
a dignified silence, which was steadily preserved
for almost the entire remainder of the journey.
Onward the stage-coach rolled, here disgorging
a heavy leather bag, filled with letters, like the
moon, that planetary night-coach, discharging
acreolites, pleasant missives of her goddesship;
there taking up a chance passenger, and again
rumbling on its way for miles without pause or
diversion, unless the hurling of a brown-paper
parcel, or some other slight token from friends up
the road, like a bomb, into an open door or window
be so considered. In this way they rolled
down into the pleasant village of Rye, and
through that Huguenot stronghold, New Rochelle,
taking a bird's-eye view of Mamaroneck,
Pelham, and sundry other towns and townlets,
as they glanced along.
Ever and anon Will Robin enlivened the journey
by carolling forth fragments of rare and
reverend ditties, such as “As I walked forth on
a morning in the month of May,” or imparting
to his selections an air of greater sententiousness
and profundity, as in the following scrap
of shrewd rhyme:
“A man of words and not of deeds,
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow,
He's like a garden full of snow,” &c.
At Eastchester, a spruce, spare man, in a fur
cap, with a large white cauliflower stuck in the
button-hole of a purple frock-coat, and a slate-colored
game-cock under his left arm, came
forth. There was something peculiarly queer
and quizzical about this person's nose and
mouth; a playful smile that rippled about the
corners of the latter feature, like a rivulet with
the sun shining on its surface, and a red glow
hovering over the tip of the former, which seemed
to be the humorous smile lingering above its
birthplace before it disappeared from the odd
little countenance for ever.
The spruce spare man was a new passenger,
who, seeing the single vacancy in the high outside
occupied by Doublet, Clarion, and Will,
said, “I'll take that seat, driver, as I'd like to
make an observation or two on nature as we
go along. P'r'aps, gentlemen,” turning to the
worthy trio, “it'll not be inconvenient to have
some pleasant conversation on natural wonders
and such like, as we travel. Besides, young
Joseph,” affectionately ogling his game-cock
with one eye, and a brace of young ladies with
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
in the stage-coach with the other, as he mounted
into his seat, “might be inclined to play the
physician inside there, and draw blood from
the hands of those fair creatures without being
reg'larly called in!”
At this sally the indescribable smile kindled
about the mouth of the spruce passenger—the
corresponding glow lit up the extremity of his
nose, and, patting the slate-colored creature under
his arm kindly on his crest, he sat for a
moment intensely silent.
“Gentlemen,” said he, warming into a fine
flow of talk as the stage-coach rattled on, “the
sooner we're known to each other the better.
My name,” bowing at each branch of the announcement
to one of the King street travellers,
“my name is Paul—Hyaena—Patchell; but
you'll oblige me when you call upon me—for I
intend to invite you all to my house before we
part—by inquiring for P. Hyaena Patchell. I
prefer that style, as you'll perceive it's more
ferocious, and better suited for the keeper of a
wild-beast show, and the greatest collection of
natural wonders now extant in the four quarters!
I have been,” continued the smart showman,
“scouring the country for a five-legged
calf, to complete my collection; or a cow, with
the horns growing upon her flanks. Confound
the stupid creatures! they put me out. I couldn't
as much as find one with even a moderate swelling
to pass for a dromedary. Nevertheless I've
met with a little success,” brushing down the
feathers of young Joseph cautiously, “gentlemen,
I've picked up a game-cock with a face just
like General Jackson. See!” holding up the
slate-colored bird, “every line's distinct—here's
the warlike nose, the warrior eye, and,” at this
moment one of the legs of the interesting creature
slipped from his hand, and dashed two thirds
of a spur into the smart showman's wrist, who
exclaimed, smiling faintly, “by the Bengal lion,
the general has just drawn his sword!” The
conversation of the showman had been sustained
in so high a pitch of voice as to be generally
overheard, and a loud roar of laughter shook the
mail-stage as he uttered this last remark.
“Can you tell me, sir, as you seem to be summ'at
of a philosopher, why horses aren't born
asses?” asked Foolish Will, of the smart showman.
On the latter gentleman's expressing a
doubt of his ability to accommodate Mr. Robin
with an answer, Will replied, “It's mainly, sir,
for the want of ears!” And the smart showman
fell into a thoughtful silence of several
minutes' duration.
They were now rattling over Harlaem bridge.
The smart showman had again opened the floodgate
of discourse, and a vast deal of good conversation
passed between him and Will Robin
on the subject of natural wonders; a mermaid,
with bowels of straw, belonging to him, that had
been “burnt out” one night by an accidental
spark falling upon her tail; a famous Bengal
lion, in his show, with the finest mouth of any
animal of that species in christendom; all of
which closed with the observation that he
thought that the arrival of the general would
create a great excitement in town, and a fervent
invitation to Will and his friend Mr. Clarion,
to call at 9 1-4 Bowery, and see his collection.
Meantime, Clarion and Doublet were silent,
until they came opposite. Gallows hill, where
an execution was taking place at that very time,
and as Doublet beheld the poor victim dangling
in the last agonies, he exclaimed—“My God!
what sight is yonder!—A man by the neck! If
man,” continued the counsellor, after a thoughtful
pause—“if man were a poor dried pear or
salted flitch of bacon, it would beseem well
enough. It is bad enough to hang wolves and
weasels, and other carrion. What a contempt
must I have for my humanity, my young sir,
when I see a part of it strung up yonder like a
bunch of foul garlic or hetchelled flax!” These
observations on the part of Mr. Doublet were
very sensible and true-spirited, and if he had
ended there he would have deserved the name
of a sober and thinking man, but in a moment
he added, “Would to heaven! Mr. Clarion, our
law-makers might re-establish the noble trial by
combat!” The erudition of the smart showman
was here sadly at fault, and he was obliged to
put two or three questions as to the character
of this process, to Sol. Clarion, who replied that
“it was a method of settling murders (he believed)
wherein the party accused of the homicide
fell pell-mell, with bare fists, case-knife or
other convenient weapon, upon the next of kin
to the deceased, and the next of kin fell pell-mell
in a similar manner upon the party accused,
and they belabored and thrust at each other until
one or the other's business accounts with
this world were finally closed up and legered,
and the party thus disposed of was held to have
been altogether in the wrong; and thus, you
see,” concluded Solomon, “the whole matter
was settled without the expense of rope, judge,
or jury; sheriff, gallows-tree, or new breeches
and bonnet to see the hanging in: the surviving
combatant was fully satisfied, and the dead man
never walked the earth at unseasonable hours!”
By the time this judicious explanation was
ended the coach had halted opposite a pleasant
yellow house, with a slim, round cupola stuck
on its roof, like a high-crowned Dutch hat, and
a back-door, with a portico looking out into a
cheerful graveyard. “I think this is the house,”
said Sol. Clarion to the driver, and a meager
friend of the driver's jumped from the box,
knocked at the door, and inquired if Dr. Nicholus
Grim lived there. At this, a pretty, blushing
face was thrust out of a second-story window,
smiled softly at Solomon, and replied that
he did, and disappeared in great haste. Sol.
Clarion and Will Robin now dismounted, the
former urging Counsellor Doublet to join them,
who steadily refused, saying he must look after
his mandamus at once; the smart showman
bowed and smirked, and set his slate-colored
game-cock a-crowing—the driver cracked his
whip over the ear of his near leader, and the
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stage-coach whirled away. In a moment, the
door of the yellow house opened, and a healthy,
fat man, in a suit of black broadcloth, projected
himself headlong almost into the arms of
Sol. Clarion, exclaiming, “My dear Sol., is this
you? I am heartily glad to see you! This is
better than a new patient, or even a consultation
at the rich widow's. Why Sol., my dear
fellow!” shaking him by the hand again at
arms' length, “you look pale—a little fever,
occasioned by riding in the wind. Come in!
come in!” putting one arm about his waist,
and motioning toward the door, “oh! here's
your cousin Grace!” At this, the proprietor
of the pretty blushing face that was thrust out
of the second-story window came forward from
behind a white pocket-handkerchief, and extended
her hand to Sol. Clarion, who received
it with a similar demonstration, exclaiming, as
he gave it a gentle pressure, “Ah! Grace, you
didn't visit poor Peth this year!”
And she, smiling archly upon Mr. Clarion,
replied, “Oh! Sol., I am glad I did not; for I
imagine it has brought you down!” Then
streaks of crimson and deep red flushed all over
her neek and brow, as if she thought she had
said more than it was proper for a maiden to
disclose, and at the first opportunity she glided
silently away, leaving the discourse with Dr.
Nicholas Grim and his worthy nephew.
Six short months had rolled around from this
period, and Sol. Clarion was domiciliated with
his good-hearted uncle—taking the place and
fulfilling the duties of an apothecary, who had
been his uncle's former assistant, and who had
unfortunately died of the fumes of a new pill
he was on the eye of discovering only a week
before Sol. Clarion's arrival. Sol's. journey
had been undertaken in consequence of a letter
from Dr. Nicholas, warmly tendering the situation;
and Sol. Clarion had accepted it, on condition
that he should be allowed to bring Foolish
Will with him, to serve prescriptions, use
the pestle and mortar, and perform other simple
services of a similar nature. Six pleasant
months have slipped from the calendar, and
now it becomes our duty, however painful, as
faithful chroniclers, to open a strange and singular
chapter in the history of the generous son
of æsculapius in whose house our adventurer
has found a cheerful home.
CONTAINING THE CONCLUSION OF THE ADVENTURES
OF SOL. CLARION.
“Titty and Tiffin, Suckin
And Pidgen, Liard and Robin!
White spirits, black spirits, gray spirits, red spirits,
Devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and devil-dam,
Why Hoppo and Stadlin, Hellwain and Packle!”
The Witch: a Tragi-comedy, by Thos. Middleton.
The pleasant yellow house of Dr. Nicholas
Grim, with its slim, round cupola, stood in the
skirts of the city. It was surrounded by a
grassy door-yard, with a carriage-gate opening
into the road on one side, another gate leading
into a well-stocked garden in the rear, and a
third facing the northeast, giving access to an
orchard which had been transformed into a place
of burial. The dwelling, with its appurtenances,
had formerly belonged to a dry old curmudgeon,
who had sold the fruit-ground in question, for a
handsome consideration, to an undertaker—reserving
to himself, his heirs and devisees, a
privilege through the orchard-gate. The study
of Dr. Nicholas Grim looked directly forth upon
this graveyard; and recollecting that not a few
of his own patients were slumbering there, it is
singular that the worthy practitioner had not
chosen some other quarter of the building for
his own use. Contemplating those little green
hillocks, and those peculiar, square-cut stones,
unpleasant thoughts might arise in the bosom
of Dr. Grim; particularly as it was hinted that
the patients of Dr. Grim were allowed to enjoy
the pleasure of that worthy Galen's acquaintance
but a very short time after it was formed,
and after he had administered his first prescription,
and were forced by some urgent necessity
to bid him an eternal farewell, and take their
departure, post-haste, for another world.
The truth is, that Dr. Nicholas, as fine-hearted
and jovial a man as ever lived, was regarded
by some people as an arrant quack and
pretender. However this might be, Dr. Grim
was, and boasted himself to be, the discoverer
of that invaluable catholicon, “The Patent
Pioneer Pill.” The ingenious inventor of
this wonderful medicine never asserted that it
could raise a man from the dead, by being administered
to his corpse nine weeks after burial,
nor that the cause of Methuselah's extraordinary
longevity was the fact of his having taken
a handful of the Patent Pioneer Pills in his
coffee every morning at breakfast. But Dr.
Nicholas Grim did profess that this astonishing
pill could cure every shade and variety of disease;
and that, in effecting a cure, it had a mode
of operation peculiar to itself.
“The Patent Pioneer Pill,” said the doctor
one day to Sol. Clarion, with a grave and solemn
face, in explanation of its properties, “descends
into the stomach like an ordinary, medical
prescription or dose: when there, acted upon
by the gastric juice, it loses its original shape
and character, and becomes metamorphosed
into a small apothecary, with a hard, granite
complexion—that being, as you know, the original
color of the bolus—and a lilliputian medical
scalpel or shovel in his hand. Armed with this
instrument, the little apothecary casts about the
stomach to discover any impurities or obstructions
that may there exist, and at once sets about
removing them with said scalpel or shovel into
the great duct or caual, the rectum, which,
acting like a sewer, carries them off. After
having thus cleansed the grand chamber of the
human body,” continued Dr. Nicholas Grim,
“the pill-apothecary commences travelling up
the different alleys and by-ways of the system,
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
fulfilling the part of a philanthropic reformer
wherever he travels—applying suitable remedies
while on the spot (you see the advantages
of this mode of practice, Solomon!) to scrofula,
apoplexy, plethora, emaciation, dropsy, consumption,
rheumatism, and every other conceivable
malady.—So that by administering this
renowned pill,” concluded Dr. Grim, “we in
fact despatch a pocket-physician, as it were, a
kind of deputy where we are unable to attend
in person”—here I must confess something of a
sly smile crept over the features of the celebrated
inventor—“on a tour of scientific investigation
through the human constitution—a miniature,
medical Hercules, to knock in the head
any monster of a malady that dares to show itself.
It was the proudest day of my life when
I discovered the ingredients of the Patent Pioneer
Pill!”
What was most singular, notwithstanding the
doctor's lucid and philosophical exposition of
the character and operation of the Patent Pioneer
Plll, its reception into the human stomach
was, in nineteen cases out of twenty, followed,
as I have before suggested, by the speedy transfer
of the recipient from his own snug fireside,
and comfortable suit of broadcloth or homespun,
to a cold basement, without windows, under
ground, and a disagreeable mahogany or cherry
overcoat, furnished by that tailor to the corpse,—
a sexton. In other words, a large majority
of the patients of Dr. Nicholas Grim died upon
his hands: so that his little apothecary with the
granite complexion, who travelled interior, must,
as Sol. Clarion insinuated, have very often lost
his way!
Now opens that strange chapter in the history
of the doctor to which we have referred.
It was a pleasant, tranquil afternoon in the
latter part of July. Over all the region within
view of the white round cupola of Dr. Grim, an
unbroken silence hung. Within the house,
there was perfect calm; Sol. Clarion and Grace
Grim were gone to the city in the doctor's gig,
and their laughing dialogue and cheerful tread
were not heard as was wont. Will Robin was
out rambling along the river, practising that
merry device of his, of catching shrimps with
a shot-bag. Without, whatever there was of
life, by its motionless silence, added to the perfect
quiet of the scene. In his stable stood a
plump, sleek, bay-colored nag, quietly whisking
his tail; while a mouse, noiseless as a Pythagorean
disciple in the first years of his pupilage,
was foraging about the edge of the door on a
few oat-grains that had fallen from an over-stocked
bin above. A mottled cat, in glossy
condition, sat couchant upon the half-opened
stable-door, looking down with an air of sleepy
indifference upon the careful little plunderer.
In the door-yard the grass waved slowly, swayed
by the lazy wind that just buoyed a thistle-down
in the air, and prevented its falling too swiftly
to the earth. At a little distance from the
house might be heard the feeble tinkling of a
brook, that earned its channel through the hard
soil by slight but steady labor. The sun was
just disappearing in the west, and Dr. Nicholas
Grim sat in his leather-backed arm-chair, in his
study, with his feet resting upon a stool covered
with a soft cushion of lamb's wool, indulging in
the after-dinner revery of a corpulent man. As
the sun's last ray came in at the window, it east
the shadow of the doctor's enormous bulk upon
the opposite wall, where it assumed a new and
fantastic appearance every moment, as the angle
at which the sunlight entered the apartment
varied. Now, his protuberant paunch was
thrown into bold relief, like the moon thrusting
its portly front forth from a partial eclipse;
now, as one side of the coat was brought into
the picture, resembling a huge ship of war with
her fore-sail spread; now the broad, good-natured
countenance of the doctor was caricatured
into a lion's head, or again into a long, thin,
grotesque human face. Dusk crept in, and gave
new touches to the picture—filling the room
with odd shadows, and travestying the appearance
and character of every object: a slim,
wide-lipped vial, casting from the shelf upon
the floor the likeness of a prim, tall Quaker,
with a broad-brimmed hat; a little gallipot assuming
upon the wall the counterfeit presentment
of an oily Dutchman with a peaked nose,
while said nose was, or seemed to be, fastened
upon by the shadowy fingers of a pair of
tweezers, hung up by a string. In the centre
of the apartment stood a stout, circular stand,
from which a number of long-necked bottles,
filled with medical preparations, towered up,
surrounded by a swarm of small vials and pillboxes—
flanked with a bowl of jelly, near which
a chubby watch, with a heavy gold chain and
seals, lay, and indolently ticked the time. In
another quarter stood an old-fashioned book-case,
over the top of which a plaster-of-Paris
Galen and æsculapius exhibited their dusty
faces. The windows were hung with heavy
curtains, and every other appointment of the
room denoted competency and comfort. Not
many minutes after the twilight had become
tinged with the deeper colors of advancing
night, a tread was heard in the hall—a muffled
knock at the door: and as Dr. Grim exclaimed,
“Come in!” the door opened slowly, a large
man in stout boots, with a round-topped country
hat, entered, and bowing with a smile, glided
across the room without any of the noise which
might be expected to accompany the motion of
so heavy a body, and silently took his station
in an extreme corner, with his face-turned toward
Dr. Nicholas. The doctor recognised in
this mysterious personage one of his own patients,
and would have taken him kindly by the
hand, had he not remembered that he had buried
him about twelve months before.
A second muffled knock was heard at the
door; and a bold-faced man, in green spectacles,
another patient of Dr. Grim's, entered,
crossed the apartment, and took his station
quietly beside the first. Again the ominous
sound was repeated, and a man with an oval
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
face joined the others. This third apparition
left the door standing ajar; the mysterious, muffled
knock was heard no more; but there glided
in, without notice or warning, a stream of some
dozen or twenty ghost-like personages, in each
one of whom Dr. Grim, who was rapidly turning
into a vast petrifaction, discovered some recent
patient that had been shot down by that fatal
ball, the Patent Pioneer Pill. Among others,
he recognised a dapper bank-clerk, who had
signalized himself by having outlived double
the number of that celebrated preparation of
any person on record; and—horrid spectacle!—
John Simple, his late apothecary. What might
be the purpose of this singular and voluntary
visit, Dr. Nicholas Grim had not sufficient sagacity
to conjecture. In a short time, however,
the bank-clerk and the apothecary laid their
ghostly heads together, and after a few minutes'
consultation, the bank-clerk drew from his pocket
a scroll of paper, and pondered over it about
a second: the spare apothecary bustled about
among the shadowy assembly, and, at a nod
from the bank-clerk, the impudent man in green
spectacles advanced from the throng.
“I commend these to thee as fresh!” said the
impudent man, seizing Dr. Nicholas by the nose
with one hand, and opening his mouth, and
thrusting down the contents of a large pill-box
with the other. The impudent man then adjusted
his green spectacles and fell back into
his place.
The nod of the bank-clerk was repeated: and a
personage built like a junk bottle, having a small
head and long neck, with a stout round body
and square shoulders, came forward and subjected
the worthy physician to the identical
operation of the impudent man in green glasses,
and retired.
Next a doughty brewer with an immense fist
stalked forth, and crushing the pill-box with
which he was furnished between two fingers,
he filled his huge palm with its contents, and
poured them, with an asseveration, down the
doctor's throat, as if he was using a barleyscoop.
“This must be dry work,” said the first apparition
that had entered, the large man in
stout boots, and drawing from his side coat-pocket
a bottle of paregoric, he thrust the neck
into the mouth of Dr. Grim (who began to make
awful contortions of face), and, giving the bottle
a smart jerk, discharged the whole of the
fluid into his stomach.
“I think I'll bag the balls this time!” said
the fourth operator, who had been a noted billiard-player,
shooting the contents of an enormous
box into the open mouth of Dr. Grim.
“And I'll charge home!” said a fifth patient,
formerly an artillery-man, stepping out as
the billiard-player drew back, placing the contents
of a similar box upon the tongue of the
inventor of the Patent Pioneer Pill, and forcing
them with his fingers down the overcharged
throat of the doctor.
“What if I throw all the balls at once!” said
a sixth, the keeper, in his lifetime, of a ninepin
alley, and he bowled a handful of pills by
main force into the distended features of the
terrified Dr. Grim.
Then a modest little man came forward, and,
like the stout countryman, moistened this dry
provender with a second infusion of fluid from a
bottle which he produced.
At length the bank-clerk ceased giving nods,
thrust his scroll into his pocket, and came forward
himself, his skirts stuffed out to an almost
horizontal position by the materials that were
crammed into them.
“There's nothing like the Pioneer Pill, Dr.
Grim!” said he, with a horrid smirk upon his
countenance, drawing from his pocket another
of the awful chip boxes, which disappeared in
a trice between the jaws of Dr. Nicholas: a
second from the same source soon followed it;
a third, a fourth, a fifth. At length, even the
inexhaustible pockets of the bank-clerk were
exhausted, and he turned to the apothecary for
a fresh supply—and that worthy handed over to
him some dozen boxes more; the last two or
three stuck in the throat of the doctor, and the
bank-clerk was obliged to give him a smart
punch in the bowels to open his larynx. The
bank-clerk now, with large drops of sweat on
his pale brow, drew back, and John Simple advanced,
with a grave, doctorial air, to take his
place.
Baring the arm of Dr. Grim, he took him deliberately
by the wrist with thumb and finger,
and gently feeling his pulse, said, “Dr. Nicholas,
you appear to have something of a fever;
your face is flushed, too, and there appears to
be a slight flutter in the region of the heart. I
am afraid you are suffering from repletion;—
have you any nausea?” To this question Dr.
Grim involuntarily shook his head, and Mr.
John Simple proceeded: “I think we had better
send down a box or two of our Patent Pioneer
Pills; perhaps the little apothecary with his
shovel may remove the obstruction or impurity.”
There was a gentle laugh among the assembled
apparitions, and the same lively process of
administering pills was carried into effect as
the bank-clerk had practised, the latter gentleman
taking the position formerly occupied by
Mr. Simple, and handing out innumerable boxes
from some invisible reservoir.
As box after box followed each other rapidly
into the capacious stomach of Dr. Grim, he
might have thought, if thought was permitted
to his awe-stricken mind, “What the devil! it
can't be that that rascally apothecary, John
Simple, is preparing the Patent Pioneer Pill,
from my recipe in the other place—for exportation?”
Each one of the shadowy party had now administered
in turn to the terrified Grim; and
yet they seemed to think that the course was
not quite complete: for, huddling about the
stand in the centre of the room, each one seized
upon vial, powder-paper, or long-necked
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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
bottle, and despatched its contents after the drugs
and fluids that had already travelled down the
free highway of Dr. Grim's throat. The bowl
of calves'-feet jelly was, however, quaffed off
at a draught by the doughty brewer himself.
The apothecary, casting his eye upon the fatfaced
watch, exclaimed, “Our time is up!”—
and, resuming their places, they glided out of
the apartment in the same order and with the
same silent tread as they had entered.
In a few minutes, Foolish Will came in from
practising his ingenious exploit by the river,
and advancing cautiously into the study of Dr.
Grim, he discovered that worthy practitioner
with his feet spread out upon the floor, his
hands clinging fast to the arms of his chair, and
his face going through a series of singular and
rapid changes, to which the rollicking motion
of his whole body seemed to lend variety and
vigor. Will Robin, as might be reasonably
expected, thought that the doctor was playing
off his countenance in a sportive way upon
him; and unwilling to be outdone in so capital
a diversion, he drew up a chair directly opposite
Dr. Grim, and planting himself upon its
edge, placed his hands upon his knees, and
commenced reciprocating faces with that corpulent
gentleman.
Some of the doctor's exhibitions were, however,
so entirely original and astonishing, that
they put at defiance Will Robin's herculean
efforts to rival them; and the doctor rolled his
eyeballs in a manner so picturesque and expressive,
as to render every attempt to imitate
their movements utterly fruitless. To these
numerous and inimitable divertisements, the
doctor now began to add certain indescribable
motions of the hands—waving them in repid
curves toward the door—joining them significantly
upon his stomach—and again brandishing
both, first toward Will Robin, and then
toward the hall. As they sat thus contemplating
each other, and as Will began to suspect
something more than amusement lay at the bottom
of the matter, Sol. Clarion entered, with
his gig-whip in his hand, to greet the doctor,
and communicate the result of his city visit as
to certain small messages that had been intrusted
to him by Dr. Grim. As he drew near, he
discovered that something had gone wrong with
the doctor in his absence; and instinctively
seizing his pulse, and finding it to beat at an
unusual rate, he begged the doctor to speak.
But the doctor was silent as a stone.
“For God's sake!” exclaimed Grace Grim,
rushing into the room at that moment, from a
brief conversation with Will Robin in the hall,
“for God's sake, what is the matter with my
father?”
Dr. Grim smiled upon her faintly, but made
no answer. He was carried to his bed, and
there he lay sick for about two weeks, articulating
not a word distinctly during that time,
but mumbling over, sometimes to himself, sometimes
aloud, broken phrases, from which the
foregoing narrative was gathered. At the end
of the time, he died in an apoplectic fit, which
seized him about midday. The third day after,
he was buried, and the warm tears of two affectionate
and simple mourners, at least, wet the
sod upon his grave.
And yet the world remains, although those
whom we love and reverence are buried from
sight, and life must go on in its old courses after
it has leaped the temporary obstruction—the
pebble in its channel.
Obeying this wise, though seemingly selfish
instinct, some twelve months after the death of
Dr. Nicholas Grim, two fair beings in the youth
of life stood up hand in hand, and before them
a reverend man in sable garments likewise
stood, and he pronounced before them a solemn
form of words, and—they were man and wife.
A week or two after his marriage with Grace
Grim, Sol. Clarion received the following epistle
by the hand of a country neighbor from the
city of Peth; and as he perused it, he thought
he heard each line ring with the peculiar nasal
twang of its author:—
Greenwich, Conn.,
6th Month, 2d Day, 18—.
Friend Solomon:
It grieveth me much to communicate by this,
tidings that thine uncle is deceased. He departed
this life on first day morning, of a malignant
fever, as I am informed by Dr. Slanter, who attended
him during his last sickness. His malady
wrought much change in thine uncle's
looks, as I can state from personal observance,
having inspected them with great care immediately
after his lamented decease. The funeral
takes place third day morning, but too early
for thee to come up; thou hadst better not undertake
the journey, as it may overweary thee,
thou being of a feeble constitution (as I know),
from a boy. Thine uncle hath left no heir, as
thou knowest he was never in wedlock; consequently
thou art his successor in the homestead,
and whatsoever cash, moveables, and
stock, he hath left. I would advise thee to
plough the meadow behind the house, and to
sow timothy in the blue grass meadow. The
garden needs to be looked after, and the fruit-trees,
as they are at present well-stocked, should
be thinned out. Perhaps I had better use the
kitchen herbs and early apples for my own
family use, until thou comest hither. My spouse
Deborah says they make exceeding good pies.
Zekiel can pluck them, and it will be no great
trouble; if it be, a small commission will make
all right between me and thee. Zekiel proposes
to gather the vegetables and fruit for us in consideration
of thy letting him have a little of the
live stock; a pair or two of the fowls, and a
well-looking calf that is just cast by the spotted
cow. I regret to add that Gideon Barley's fine
red heifer hath strained her off shoulder, and he
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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
may lose the crittur. I recommended salt and
water for the animal; whether Gideon will use
it yet is not decided. The old people are well
and ask the stagedriver daily (as I have observed
from the kitchen window) questions concerning
thy welfare. I would bring this news
to thee in person, and be enabled to satisfy thy
grandfather and grandmother touching thy progress
and behavior in the Babylon where thou
art, but there is much ploughing to be done, and
I am deprived of Zephaniah's aid, he being sore
of a foot with a seythe wound. Leonard hath
gone over to tend the mill for Miller Kirby, and
Zekiel will be busy running to and fro betwixt
us and thy garden and orchard. Advising thee
to keep from the snares that beset the feet of
youth in the ungodly city, and recommending
thee to pay thy tailor's bill, and avoid the night
air:
Thine,
Uriah Bloom.
It is thought that Doublet, the old-fangled
tory lawyer, will not last the summer out. I
have called upon him a score or so of times in a
neighborly way, and do verily believe that the
old man hath lost his wits, for he ceases not to
cry out for one Mand Hamus, a king's counsel
I judge, from such words as he delivers with the
name. However on this point I will inform
thee further in a short time, as I intend to watch
with him to-night, to see what further hints he
may drop in his fever, touching this and other
matters.
U. B.
Happening a short time after this in the
neighborhood of 9¼ Bowery, Sol. Clarion's eye
was attracted by a gorgeous painting, exhibiting
a great variety of monsters in fanciful colors,
and observing the words, “Wonderful Wild
Beast Exhibition,” he stepped in and asked for
the proprietor, Mr. P. Hyaena Patchell. But
Mr. Patchell came not forth. In answer to his
inquiry, he learned that the smart showman had
had his head bitten off by the famous Bengal
lion, in an attempt to investigate the lungs and
bronchia of that interesting animal, for the
amusement of a very pleasant assemblage of
apprentices, maid servants, children under thirteen
at half price, and a musty medical gentleman,
who was very curious to learn the physiological
effect of a full grown man's placing his
cranium within the jaws of a Bengal lion in
robust health.
Counsellor Doublet, he ascertained, had bustled
about the clerks' offices for a day or two, and
been laughed at by all the clerks and scriveners
in the same; was told the supreme court no
longer granted the writ of privilege—and returned
to the country and took to his bed.
By the next mail after that which brought the
epistle of Friend Bloom, he learned that the little
lawyer had died over night, demanding a “mandamus
writ of privilege!” in a voice of authority;
and threatening an appeal to parliament
if it were not granted!
It was a clear October morning. The hum
of the city was just beginning to swell into a
distinct sound; the sun, like a cheerful face
smiling from amid doubt and adversity, was
pushing aside the clouds in the east, and exhibiting
his broad, rubicund features in full glow
and freshness; sloops, here and there, and other
trim vessels were starting out from the shore,
and gliding up or down the river; and in the
middle of the stream two men occupied a weather-beaten,
red fishing-boat, motionless and
silent. One of them sat in the stern with his
hands clenched upon his knees, and a wo-begone
expression of countenance; and the other occupied
the middle seat with an oar in each hand
dipping in the water.
The first had a dry, shrivelled face, was short
of stature, and was attired in a tattered gray
overcoat, stretching from chin to heel, with a
woollen cap, fashioned very much like a nightcap,
on his head. The second was a round,
beef-fed personage, built like a duck, with an
immense bill and corresponding mouth, and
amply filled every inch of his garments with his
person. He was clad in a long-tailed clay-colored
coat, mud-colored vest, colorless pair of
breeches, and dusty hat.
“Don't you feel any sort of a freshness from
the morning air, Neddy?” asked the duck-featured
gentleman, pulling a stroke or two down
the river.
“No, none at all, no how; there's something
here, Nosey,” laying his right hand upon his
heart, “a dead sickness I'm afeard that breeze
nor physicianer can cure!” He then heaved a
sigh, and joining his hands together again, exclaimed
in a still more pathetic voice, “Ah!
you knows not, Nosey Bellows, tho' you be's a
father, what it is to have a ungrateful dau'ter!
To have a girl what marries throw herself away
against her daddy's will.”
“Per'aps we'd better pull for the fishing
ground, Neddy,” said the duck-faced man, “the
sight of the cheerful porgies comin' up on the
hook may sort o' revive you, and make you
forget your suff'rin's. A bit of nature now and
then is very pleasant to the spirits! Come,”
concluded the duck-faced man, “we'll try a
stroke for the island!—what say you, Neddy
Budge?”
“Neddy Budge can't go, Nosey, no how;
you'd better pull to shore and land me, for somehow
or other I always feel more melancholy on
water. So I'll turn rudder,” giving the tiller
a turn feebly, “and go ashore and take a stroll
along the banks!”
“Well, if you will, you will!” said Mr. Bellows,
drawing his oars smartly through the
water, and the red boat shot swiftly toward
land. In a few minutes they struck the shore,
Budge jumped out, and Bellows turning again
scudded down the river, took in another friend
of his, and pointed prow for Governor's island.
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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
The history of Neddy Budge up to this period
was simply this. He had opened life as a constable
in a fifty-dollar court. From his humble
position on the floor of a court-room, clearing
the bar and bawling “to order!” he had, one
lucky day, by a sudden change of parties and
favor with political leaders, found his way to
the justice's seat, and there he presided for
many years a legal dark-lantern, by whose uncertain
and wavering light many an unfortunate
plaintiff or defendant was plunged into a pit of
costs. Again the wheel of fortune turned.
Again he handled the marshal's truncheon for
a time; but even that simple staff of authority
was wrested from his hand, and he became an
idle hanger-on upon the court, without business
or profit, until the sweeper of the court-room
died, and then, in consideration of his former
luminous services on the bench, Neddy Budge
was inducted into that modest office. He soon
became a poor devil, and slipping rapidly through
those nice gradations which are known only
in low life, he settled into the character in
which he has appeared before the reader, namely
that of a vagabond fisherman.
After Neddy Budge had abandoned Bellows
and his boat, he directed his steps along the
shore indulging, as he walked, a melancholy
vein of thought and meditation.
“Who'd have thought it,” said Neddy, torturing
his face into an expression of refined
suffering, “a girl as was bro't up so kindly—and
so well edecated as Nancy—poor Nan!” and a
small drop of fluid distilled from the eyes of the
Melancholy Vagabond, “and then to marry sich
a tripe! a mere dog-queller.”—Here Mr.
Budge's feelings of indignation became too
strong for oral expression, and he accordingly
plucked his woollen cap from his brow and
crushed and twisted it between his hands until
all semblance of its character as an ornament
for the human head had entirely disappeared.
“I can't stand it no how any longer,” at length
uttered Neddy Budge, stamping his foot fiercely
on the ground, “I'll wring his neck off, and
they may take the law of me! I don't care no
how!—I'll choke him with soot afore he shall
live with my daughter! Yes I will!” and the
evil-minded Budge doubled his fist and shook it
in the air as if the powerful proposition he had
just made had been assailed by some invisible
casuist. Upon the delivery of this emphatie
threat, Mr. Budge directed his steps with considerable
speed toward the city. He had not
walked many paces in this direction before he
resumed his original course with more moderation,
falling again into a strain of dolorous reflection.
“But I ha'n't the spirit to murder a man,
though he be a dog-killer, and as helpless and
feeble as a puppy just whelped. If he'd have
been a rag-picker, or a horse-doctor, or a master
chimley-sweep, or any sort of a thing but a
dog-killer, Neddy Budge could have stood it.
But then, he's a despisable murtherer of poor
curs! and knocks 'em in the head for the cor
poration, a dollar a-piece. I hope Nancy 'll
starve afore she coats bread earned by sich practices!”
As he uttered these words, with his eyes cast
sadly upon the ground, a laughing fellow, with a
crimson complexion, slapped Neddy Budge heartily
upon the shoulder.
This worthy was a jolly constable, a former
companion of Budge's, and always known and
addressed as “William.” And here, kind reader,
allow me to drop a pithy apothegm, founded
on much observation and experience. There is
a class of persons whose full name is as difficult
to get at as to discover the longitude, or the
meaning of a Hebrew commentator. They are
known simply as Johnson, or Hodges, or Smith;
or as John, Bob, Philip, or Dick. Hostlers,
coachmen, negroes, errand-boys, constables, and
park-keepers, are generally known in this way.
They seem to constitute a kind of half-humanity,
which is sufficiently honored and recognised
by a single appellative. Why clergymen are
put to the inconvenience of christening them
into full names, is a mystery I could never
fathom.
“Good morning, judge!” said the jolly constable,
touching his hat with a mock air of profound
reverence, as Neddy Budge looked up,
“how does your honor feel this morning!”
“Miserable, William, miserable. I'm in sich
low spirits, and have sich a ringing in my head
I can't hardly live.”
“Why, how is this, Neddy?” continued the
jolly constable, “your mind ought to be as light
as a lark, now; you've got no cases to try, no
juries to panel”—
“You say true, William,” interposed the
Melancholy Vagabond, “but I'm afeard a jury
'll be panelled on me afore long that will give
in a final verdict; and my case will be tried
beyond appeals to higher courts!” And the
Melancholy Vagabond let fall a tear upon his
coat-sleeve.
Hereupon the jolly constable looked very solemn,
and said, “Neddy Budge, you didn't use
to be this way in the old court; there, Justice
Budge was as laughing a fellow as ever sat on
the bench. Don't you recollect,” he concluded,
smiling, and nudging Mr. Budge under the small
ribs, “the case of Wright vs. Passnips, where
you threatened one of defendant's witnesses, if
he didn't stop snivelling in court you'd send
him up to the dry dock to be new calked!”
Upon the delivery of this funny reminiscence
the jolly constable exploded in a horse-laugh,
which, however, produced only a sickly smile
upon the countenance of ex-Justice Budge. At
this, Catchpole was slightly disconcerted, and,
shaking Neddy hastily by the hand, hurried off
to court, saying he “must take out a fresh summons
in the case of the huckster woman, who
always puts her head out of the garret-window,
saying, she's just gone out of town!”
Neddy Budge thereupon seized his woollen
cap by the top, gave it two or three uneasy
turns upon his head, settled it with a new part in
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front, and, plunging both hands in his deep coat-pockets,
proceeded on his way more thoughtful
and melancholy than ever.
The gloom which now pervaded the bosom of
Mr. Budge, had been gathering over it for more
than a twelvemonth. It had, at length, become
insupportable. The poor fellow as he now travelled
along, keeping the river in view, burst
forth at times with some heavy passage of complaining,
or sitting down upon the stump of a
tree, or a rock, or any chance object, wrung
his hands and indulged in a copious discharge
of tears. The man's only and darling daughter
had married a dog-killer! Thus Neddy
Budge rambled about the whole morning, sometimes
keeping upon the road, but oftener straggling
through the fields or along the shore. At
length he formed a desperate resolve. He had
reached an old, deserted granary, standing near
the river, with a door, over which swung a
rusty iron crane, looking forth upon the water.
Into this Neddy Budge easily made an entrance.
For a long time he seemed to be searching
about the building for some object in vain. At
length, discovering a stout piece of cord, his object
seemed to be attained, and, forming one end
of the same into a noose, he proceeded calmly
and thoughtfully into the upper story of the granary.
Here he threw open the door, drew in the
crane, and attached to its extremity one end of
the rope. In a moment the other end was about
his own neck, he had given the crane an outward
swing, and Neddy Budge hung dangling
in the air!
Nosey Bellows, his companion of the morning,
had been unsuccessful in his fishing venture
at Governor's island, and had glided up the
river, and dropped anchor off the Long island
shore, opposite the very building from which
Neddy Budge had just thrown himself. He was
sitting on the landward side of the boat, with
his line carelessly dipping in the water, and
looking over toward the city. The sun was
sunken low in the west, and brought out the
object upon which his gaze was now fastened,
with great distinctness against the sky.
“As sure as a fish is a water animal,” exclaimed
the duck-featured gentleman to his
friend in the boat, “there's a man hanging from
Astor's old granary by the neck!”
At this his friend turned, and, looking in the
direction to which he pointed, replied, “Poh!
Nosey, it's nothing but a sack of wheat that
they're swinging in, or a sheaf of straw!” and,
looking more earnestly, he seemed to doubt
something the report of his own vision.
“Sheaf of straw nor sack of wheat has passed
that door or hung on that crane this twenty
year; never sin' the dead pedler was found
in the loft. I'm sure its a man, and what's more,
we'll pull over and cut him down; there may be
some snuff o' life in him yet.”
Instantly they took in their lines and anchor,
and, each seizing an oar, they pulled with main
and might straight across the river. As they
drew nearer, Bellows, observing the long gray
overcoat, exclaimed, “It's Neddy Budge, as I
live!” and he threw greater strength into every
stroke. They soon landed, and both ran at full
speed toward the old granary. In a moment
they drew in the crane, but, finding him
stone-cold, the duck-featured gentleman remarked,
with considerable trepidation in his
accent, that “It wouldn't do to cut him down
till the crowner came. It was agin the law!—
So I've heard poor Neddy himself say many a
time!”
Nosey Bellows soon despatched his friend in
quest of that functionary, and, allowing the body
of Neddy Budge to swing back to its original
position, he descended below stairs and stood
underneath the crane looking up, with singular
expression of visnomy, into the shrivelled face
of his deceased friend. He was there joined
by a second party, namely, the jolly constable,
who had come that way to try the inaccessible
huckster (who lived near by) with a “fresh
summons.”
They now observed, for the first time together,
that Neddy Budge held his woollen cap in
his hand, which was extended forward as if in
the act of tossing it from him, when it was
arrested by the death-pang. The philosophy of
neither could solve this mysterious position of
the dexter arm, and there they stood wondering
till the coroner arrived. He very speedily,
with the aid of the constable, summoned a
jury from the neighborhood; who, hearing the
testimony of Nosey Bellows and jolly William,
as to his morning's conversation with each of
them, rendered the verdict, “died of his own
act, in consequence of melancholy and depression
of spirits.” The jolly constable thereupon
departed in search of the ingenious huckster;
the body of Neddy Budge was lifted into the
red fishing-boat, and Nosey Bellows and his
friend rowed sorrowfully down the stream. The
next day the Melancholy Vagabond was buried.
THE MERRY-MAKERS IN QUEST OF A DINNER;
AND THE COSTUME IN WHICH THEY INTRODUCED
THEMSELVES TO CHICKEN PIE AND
CIDER.
Everywhere, all over the face of the earth,
are scattered, like dimples, crews and companies
of droll fellows, to keep the world in humor,
and preserve the arts of laughter and
frolic from total oblivion. Here and there,
some two or three of them will obtain a foot-hold,
and, practising their mad pranks, and uttering
their witty sayings, make whole counties
and townships ring with the echo. These are
your wild blades, roaring boys, with something
of the goosecap, something of the swaggerer in
their composition, whose exploits are part of
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the history, and their mirthful speeches part of
the vernacular of country villages and neighborhoods.
In the chronicles and traditions of
such places, they fill the posts of Robin Hoods
and court-jesters; every old woman in a cap
takes their fame into keeping, and it is handed
down from chimney corner to chimney corner,
sometimes even as far as the third generation!
God bless the jovial tribe! for they have saved
many a good face from becoming mouldy and
wrinkled, and sent a cheerful ray down into
many a fine heart that would otherwise have
become dull and torpid.
Some thirty miles from the good city of New
York, a pleasant road winds through the bosom
of a cheerful range of low hills, covered all the
way with rich woods and pasture-lands. In the
very heart of these hills stood a dilapidated and
ancient out-house, in which were assembled,
early on a clear midsummer morning, some six
or eight laughing fellows, shabbily dressed, and
engaged in earnest conversation.
“Well, my lads!” said one of them, a good-sized
man, in a hawk nose, “I think we had
better forego the project of tapping uncle
Aaron's cider-barrels to-day. The liquor will
be better a month or two hence. I have a better
game to propose, that I think you'll like to
have a hand in.”
“What is it, Bobbylink?—let us have it,”
was the general acclamation and question of
the party, as they gathered eagerly about the
speaker.
“As many as would as leave as not have
clean rigging and a hot dinner to-day, will
please to not keep their mouths shut!” and a
universal “Amen!” burst from the throats of
the persons assembled.
“If so,” continued the speaker, who seemed
to be master of the revels, “report yourselves
and your condition as I call your names.”
Saying this, he drew a dirty piece of paper
from his hat, and called “Habbakkuk Viol.”
“Here: breeches open as Deacon Barker's
mouth when he's praying; coat with tails fighting
agin each other, and suing for separation;
shirt turned into ribands, and gone into boots
which are on a visit to the cobbler's; belly in a
state of insurrection.”
“John Smally.”
“On the spot, sir, and has a faint recollection
of a breakfast he eat 'bout a month ago;
believes there was such a meal as dinner once
in vogue in these parts. Garments similar-like
to Mr. Viol's.”
“Sam Chisel.”
“Your sarvant!” said a stout-built fellow,
with a slight hump on his shoulders, throwing
a somerset and lighting in front of Mr. Bobbylink
with a solemn expression of face. “Has
attended three house-raisin's, two weddin's, and
one christenin'; come off with a dry belly from
all six. For why? One man fell down dead
with an opoplexy, the furst mug of cider he
swallered; 'cordingly, the barrels was all
spiked, for fear of fudder accidents. The oth
er two raisin's was on the rock crystal, cold
water plan: the baby at the christenin' was too
small herself for to eat, 'cordingly they giv'
nothin' out. The two weddin's was over when
I got there—'cause why? 'Bak. Viol told me
the wrong hour.”
“That will do, Mr. Chisel,” said the good-sized
man; “fall in with Smally there, and
save your stories for next twenty-first of June.
“Harry Harvest.”
“Overcoat in good condition. Hat, coat,
breeches, and breakfast, missing.”
After these, one or two other very similar personages
gave corresponding responses, and the
roll-call was completed.
“Follow me, my lads!” said Mr. Bobbylink,
taking up the line of march toward a crumbling,
old-fashioned building, of which the outhouse
was an appurtenance. The edifice which
they now approached had been unoccupied and
gradually falling into decay for several years.
The owner of the lands on which it stood had
erected a new tenement on a different part of
his farm, and abandoned this to bats and owls,
and such companions of owls as Mr. Bobbylink
and his club of wild fellows.
There was a part of the building, however,
into which even these dare-devils were afraid
to intrude, and that was an upper chamber
which was said to be tenanted by the ghost of
a Jew who had died there at the close of the
last century. In that room it was currently rumored
that the spirit of the Hebrew kept bachelor's
chambers in a very ghostly manner—taking
his meals, clinking and counting his silver,
and retiring to bed, with all the regularity of a
gentleman in the flesh. To confirm this state
of things, Mr. Sam Chisel said that he had seen
a man in a thin face and Roman nose stand at
the window several times “atween daylight and
dark, his hand stroking a dry tuft of whisker,
like a goat.” And Habbakkuk Viol asserted,
on his own personal hopes of salvation, that he
had heard a graveyard-voice distinctly enunciate,
when Joshua Jolton, Esquire, was ringing
his barrow shoats, “Dem those shwine!” Into
this chamber, notwithstanding the terrors which
guarded it, Bob Bobbylink now boldly advanced,
followed by Smally, Chisel, Viol, and their compatriots,
in a state of considerable trepidation
and paleness.
“Yesterday afternoon,” said Bob Bobbylink,
in explanation of this sudden intrusion into the
haunted apartment, “I was crossing the open
garret in search of an old firelock: all at once
the casement of the north window rattled, one
of the window-frames fell out, and a gust came
roaring through the building—swept my hat
from my head—the little Jew's door burst open,
through rolled my hat, and I stood shivering,
bareheaded, in the wind. In a trice, however,
I was filled with huge promptings of valor and
adventure, and pushed forward toward the little
Jew's bed-chamber. I found nothing but an
old high-backed chair, a bedstead with the cords
mouldering to pieces, and this black
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
clothes-press standing against the wall. The little
Jew had quit the premises, and as I was the
first one to make a voyage into these unknown
parts, I claim a right in all that is found, as
first discoverer. I searched diligently, my good
fellows, every nook and cranny of the room, for
cash and hard silver, and, to my utter astonishment,
found not a farthing. Nevertheless, I have
fallen upon something, that, if it be well managed,
will purchase a prime dinner for us for
to-day, at least.” At the conclusion of this
brief narrative, Mr. Bobbylink advanced to the
clothes-press, turned a rusty key in the lock,
and the doors flew open, and disclosed to the
starting eyes of the party a great number of curious
dresses, carefully folded up and laid in
order on the shelves, interlarded here and there
with old-fashioned swords, matchlocks, and
pistols.
“I don't see how a dinner is to come out of
this,” said Habbakkuk Viol, after gazing upon
the apparel a reasonable length of time, “unless,
Bob, you propose to feed us, like ostriches,
on rags and iron. Jack Smally here has a
stomach, I doubt not, that would digest one of
those antediluvian matchlocks for a breakfast,
and despatch a pair of those odd-looking pistols
between meals. Otherwise, I see no meal nor
mutton in a case of old clothes.”
“Poh!” retorted Bobbylink, with an air of
hearty disdain, “Viol, you see nothing but that
which is plainly before your eyes; yea, and it
must come somewhat in contact with your nose
before you can thoroughly smell out its meaning.”
“I agree with Viol,” interposed Mr. John
Smally; “I see no purpose to which you can
put these fantastic dresses, unless it be to peddle
them at the weaver's, a penny a pound, and
the works on the firearms for old iron, a penny
and a half.”
“You are a pretty fellow, Johnny Smally,”
replied Bob Bobbylink, with an air of still greater
superiority than he had adopted toward Viol,
“a pretty fellow, indeed, to tell what use may
be made of these instruments. Your conceits,
Smally, are parcel of your brain—patchwork
and rusty. Your skull is quilted with the very
odds and ends of your grandmother's rag-box,—
stuffed, like an old saddle, with tow and
feathers—”
Mr. Bobbylink would have prolonged his reprimand,
had he not at this moment cast his eye
upon John Smally, who hung his head, played
with the fragment of a jacket-button, and exhibited
other indisputable signs of penitence and
contrition.
Now it should be understood that the shirtless
Smally was the factotum, humble servant
and parasite of Robert Bobbylink; that he had
discovered, at a very early period of life, that
Mr. Bobbylink possessed the finest pair of
skirts of any gentleman of his acquaintance;
that he had attached himself to said skirts very
shortly after such discovery, and had clung to
the same up to the present period, with the te
nacity of a genuine mastiff. He accordingly
made it his special business to circulate Mr.
Bobbylink's jocose sayings far and wide; to repeat
his stories, with the prefix, “Mr. Bobbylink
said,” at all the convenient inns and public
places within a dozen miles' walk; and to perform
similar other small duties which a vassal
should of right render unto his liege lord. He
was Bob Bobbylink's humble shadow. If Bob
expanded into importance, Mr. Smally felt it
his duty to dilate in a corresponding manner;
if Mr. Bobbylink at any time, from the force of
circumstances, or detection in some prank or
project, was made to look dwarfish, John Smally,
according to the charter by which he lived, was
forced to look as small as a grasshopper. From
all these causes, a rebuke from Mr. Bobbylink
was no less than a thunder-clap to the ears of
Mr. Smally, and he was profoundly hushed and
silent until it rumbled by; though he had wit
at will against any other antagonist than his
patron.
“Gentlemen and good fellows,” continued Bob
Bobbylink, “east of this building, about five
miles, a wedding takes place this morning; the
wedding-dinner will be on the table at one
o'clock, precisely. I propose that we eat that
dinner. We shall entitle ourselves to the
poultry, vegetables, boiled tongue, and apple-sauce,
which will figure there, by right of a
device that I will open to you, if you will be
quiet just three minutes and a quarter.” At
this passage of his address, a solemn tranquillity
rested over the apartment. “I have examined
this wardrobe carefully, aud with an eye
to our project. I find a suit of the little Jew's,
including the tall blue cap and long blue coat
in which he was so well known in these parts;
that I shall don myself: a ghost may do something
for flesh and blood sometimes. Here also
is the dress of a Hessian horseman; and as old
aunt Anderson (who says she lost an ear by a
trooper's blade during the old war) will be at
the wedding, she will undoubtedly aid us a little
with her owl's voice when we appear.
Habbakkuk, you have something of a ruffian
trooper's air; may you not browbeat a passage
to a dinner with the butt-end of this blunderbuss?”
producing a rusty article of that description
from a drawer of the clothes-press. “Let
the others,” he concluded, “fall in our rear,
properly caparisoned, and all is safe. If clowns
and boors can withstand the ghost of a Jew,
and the blunderbuss of a mad Hessian, there is
more sustenance in beans and buttermilk than
I have dreamed of!”
The old building echoed with a hearty shout
as Bob Bobbylink ended, and, under his direction,
they speedly doffed their ragged dresses,
and set about accoutering themselves in the
new equipments thus aptly and unexpectedly
furnished. The articles forming an entire and
complete suit, were luckily found carefully
pinned together, and this rendered the task comparatively
easy and brief. Besides mere garments,
they discovered wigs, boots, firearms
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
swords, guns, &c., all of which might be rendered
of service in the approaching exploit.
“While I was rumaging a private corner of
the press,” said Bobbylink, as he produced the
habiliments, “I fell upon a history of the queer
little Jew, written by his own hand, in a parchment-book,
from which it appears that he was
originally an old-clothesman in England; after
a while, like a grub, he turned from that calling
into an anti'kary and dress-fancier, which, you
see, is only a better sort of an old-clothesman.
Following up this sort of a profession, he gathered
wherever he travelled the rarest and most
curious kinds of dress and armor—guns, carbines,
muskets, and dragons, as he calls 'em.
He says, at one time he was accused of having
stolen a couple of dresses from a nobleman's
collection; but this he stoutly denies, in the
name of Father Abram, Isaac, and Jacob. Finally,
he came over to this country about the
year seventeen thirty-five; lived in the city a
great many years; and at last came out to these
parts during the revolutionary war, and added
a little to his wardrobe;—there his parchment-book
breaks off: and I conclude about the year
eighteen hundred he turned from a dress-fancier
into a ghost.”
In the course of two or three hours the party
was completely apparelled, and defiled from the
old bed-chamber in the following order: First,
Mr. Robert Bobbylink gravely stalked forth in
the guise of the defunct Israelite, which consisted
of the tall blue cap and long blue coat
already mentioned, the latter being ornamented
with hieroglyphic buttons; beneath it a rich
white silk vest, with gay figures and devices;
black pantaloons, which, from their brevity,
seemed to exhibit a reluctance to join a pair of
low shoes, surmounted by two lively buckles of
brass. In his hand Mr. Bobbylink bore a maple
cane, the property and customary travelling
companion of the deceased gentleman whom he
represented. It was with intense difficulty that
Bob Bobbylink forced himself into these garments,
which were about three sizes too small
for his person; and he was obliged to chalk his
face freely, to take down the color, and give it
something of the paleness which is proper and
decent for a ghost.
Next to him, in order, marched Habbakkuk
Viol, wearing upon his brow a ferocious helmet
of jacked leather, guarded by rusty steel hoops;
on his broad-shouldered back he bore a long-waisted
fiery red coat, with fierce metal buttons;
his nether limbs were snugly encased in chamois
leather breeches, of an indescribable complexion,
the lower extremities of which disappeared
in a couple of heavy boots, enlivened at the rear
with a pair of jingling iron spurs. Over his
breast, in a leathern belt, an open-mouthed
blunderbuss swung, sustained at one end by his
right-hand, at its muzzle by his left.
Behind him slowly and thoughtfully waddled
along the redoubted John Smally; clad in a
broad-skirted Dutch coat, with awful cuffs;
legs buried in trunk hose, which swelled above
and beneath the knee into separate inflations,
ending in peaked shoes that cut the ground like
scythes; upon his head sat a jaunty cocked-hat,
from beneath which a brown queue streamed
like the tail of a kite or a comet. In his
hand he sustained (terrible anachronism!) a
dragon pistol, as old as the age of Elizabeth—
an old-fashioned weapon, with a long handle,
its works in the centre, and the ornament of a
dragon's head at its muzzle. Having three dresses
underneath his outer one, Mr. Smally moved
with great solemnity and slowness, and indulged,
at times, in singular expressions of viznomy, and
strange gesticulations of the body.
Treading close upon the heels of Smally, came
Sam. Chisel. How can I (unless in truth inspired)
describe the jovial figure that now
sidled through the chamber door? Stuffed monster!
elephant in broadcloth! balloon that hast
taken two taper legs, dancing inflated on the
earth! Mr. Samuel Chisel was endued, on the
present occasion, in the habiliments of a famous
clown, who had cast his clothes in the city of
New York, during the war; thrown aside his
cap and bauble, and, in fine, sold out his wardrobe
to the little Jew antiquary. Upon his brow,
then, Sam. Chisel wore a singularly constructed
hat, having a towering steeple of felt for its
centre, with a small, white feather peeping
from its points, and two flaming angles of painted
paste-board for its sides. The steeple was
garnished with innumerable glittering spangles,
and yards of gold cord coiling about to its very
spire, and from one angle hung a silken tassel
of considerable size, in peril, every moment, of being
devoured by a monstrous painted lion, rampant
on the neighboring pasteboard corner, with
his mouth agape. Around the base of this triple
hat a lively belt was fastened by an immense pewter
buckle; and from beneath the whole a red wig
depended, under cover of a linen bag, which was
adorned with a portentous purple rose, or swinging
cabbage-plant. The hump of Mr. Chisel reposed
beneath a brilliant green jacket, adorned
down its whole front by vast wooden buttons,
painted white, which held it closely fastened to
the breast. This was stuffed out to portly dimensions
by the aid of three goodly sheaves of
straw, that had been stowed into their place by
the united strength of Viol, Bobbylink, and Harvest.
The same favor had been likewise conferred
on a pair of black silk breeches, whose
extremities, however, tapered off so unexpectedly
at the bottom, as to make it seem that Mr.
Chisel had lost the best part of his legs in some
hot engagement, and was walking upon segments
or slices of the same. Nevertheless, immense
buckles denoted the place where knees
should have been, and a huge pair of jack boots,
that threatened to swallow Mr. Chisel's whole
person, monstrous as it was, were the only positive
evidences of such members that could be
discovered. In the neighborhood of the knee-buckles,
long knots of yellow riband curled
about his person, like a nest of playful garter-snakes,
and at the heels of the huge jack-boots,
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
two spurs, with rowels somewhat less than
small coach-wheels, thrust themselves forth.
Under his right arm the valiant Chisel sustained
an awful two-handed sword (fabricated
of lath and painted the color of steel), with a
green grip; and at his left side a gaping scabbard
of calf-skin dangled as he walked.
After Mr. Chisel, at an humble distance, and
bearing about the same relation to him as a
lean, starveling sexton, following at the heels
of a round-bellied, well-kept rector, came a
withered little man, christened Tommy Snipe,
by his parents, but rebaptized by the vulgar,
Dried Snipe. This gentleman possessed a paper
face, with a thin nose, that very unjustly
inclined to the right ear, and a person which
might be reasonably expected to correspond
with such promising upper-features. He took
upon himself the task and burden of personating
the age of George II.; wearing a dark
brown pigtail, a wide-skirted coat, reaching to
the knees, with ruffles at the wrist; a long vest
with large pocket-flaps underneath, and snug
pantaloons ending in pumps, adorned with knots
of riband. But he was sadly out in his costume,
by mounting on his head a sugar-loaf hat, and
bearing in his hand a clumsy old pistol, managed
by a wheel-lock, with its works all at the muzzle,
like the brains of a garrulous fellow, all in
his tongue. I doubt whether the throats of those
old iron orators ever spoke to much purpose.
Into one of his coat-pockets he slyly insinuated
a half filled powder-flask and shot-pouch, for the
purpose, perhaps, of practising with his resuscitated
pistol, upon a few of Mr. Joshua Jolton's
tame pigeons on the way home, if the adventure
should chance to miscarry.
Behind Mr. Snipe, Harry Harvest strutted the
ambitious representative of a still earlier reign.
His head was covered with a low, broad-brimmed
beaver, cocked on one side, one corner of
which had been knocked out by a roundhead
broadsword, with a dull, dirty feather winding
about its crown. The expressive countenance
of Mr. Harvest shone out from amid a fertile
perriwig that flowed in a complete torrent of
hair down his shoulders, like the man in the
moon in a cloudy night. In his left hand he
wore a smart sword, crossing a gay doublet,
reaching to the top of a pair of wide stockings,
tagged up with points: a set of petticoat
breeches, and a few yards of lutestring, completed
the dress.
Thus accoutred, they glided noiselessly from
the old building, and stole around a ledge of
rocks, into a green lane, which was shaded by
trees and straggled along the margin of a brook
for something like a furlong. Here the pleasant
by-way ended, and they found themselves
in the edge of an oak woods, pursuing an obscure
footpath, which sometimes broadened into
an open space, and again narrowed to a track
scarcely sufficient for the passage of Mr. Samuel
Chisel.
As they travelled, the journey was lightened
by occasional extravagantly authentic stories,
narrated to the worthy just named, by Bob Bobbylink—
interspersed now and then, with a
rough cudgel-play of wits between Dried Snipe
and Hank Harvest; enlivened still more at intervals,
by a series of mutual tricks, practised
upon each other all round. At times Habbakkuk
Viol, the mad Hessian, would discover as
he stooped to drink of some passing stream, an
ominous goose-quill stuck in his jacked leather
helmet, vying with his more regular trooper's
feather. Again a rapid series of sudden and
invisible kicks would descend upon the swelling
flank of Sam. Chisel, with such velocity and
fury, as to shake his physical commonwealth to
its centre. Dried Snipe being a tetchy little
fellow, was frequently set upon and sorely badgered
by some one of the party.
“I think,” said the gentleman who represented
the seventeenth century on this occasion,
addressing himself to Tommy Snipe, “when I
undertook to rob a henroost, I wouldn't mistake
a patriarchal cock, for a maiden pullet; you are
so valiant, Snipe, you should have known him
by his spurs!”
“I knows what I know,” retorted Mr. Snipe.
“If it had been you, I might have known you to
be a tender bird by your soft coxcomb!”
“Well answered, Dried Snipe!” quoth the
company halting in a cleared space, and gathering
about the disputants (Bobbylink advancing
alone on a lookout). Quip and reply now rapidly
passed between the contending parties,
until at length the tetchy Mr. Snipe was exasperated
beyond endurance, by Harry Harvest's
alluding to his features, in connexion with the
appearance presented by the physiognomy of a
dried codfish suddenly animated. At this unsavory
and pointed insinuation the gentleman
representing the middle of the eighteenth century,
in his style of dress, grew exceeding wroth,
and would have done terrible damage to the
person and habiliments of him of the seventeenth,
by drawing from his pocket his small
powder-flask, and proceeding to load his venerable
pistol, had not fate interposed, and by the
hand of John Smally, forcibly plucked the
brown wig from the head of the valorous Snipe:
whereupon his sugar-loaf hat slid over his face,
very much like an enormous extinguisher. In
this tomb his valor was effectually buried for
the present. Meantime Mr. Harry Harvest had
drawn his trusty rapier, but was prevented
from a very dexterous employment of the same,
by the sudden descent of Sam. Chisel's trenchant
blade of lath upon his head, which caused his
eyes to emit sufficient sparks and flashes, to fire
a whole field of artillery.
And now the gentlemen of the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries were completely at the
mercy of their more modern comrades, and
might have been speedily put to death by the
numerous ingenious tortures practised upon
them, while thus doing penance in the dark,
had not Bob Bobbylink at that moment returned,
exclaiming, with sparkling eyes, “the signal
is hove out!” which being readily
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understood by the party, caused a supple adjustment
of all difficulties, a general and generous forgiveness
of injuries, and they resumed the
march.
In a moment or two they had emerged from
the woods, and casting their eyes toward the
east, discovered a long stripe of red flannel flying
at the head of a well-pole. The sight of
this signal inspired the freebooting varlets with
feelings similar to those which filled the breast
of the adventurous Vasco de Gama, on obtaining
the first view of the Pacific from a peak of
the Andes; for to Viol, Bobbylink, & Co., it
opened visions of whole seas of cider, and
mountains of mutton and roast beef. They had
now arrived in an orchard in the rear of the
dwelling, whose roof covered the wedding-dinner,
which was the grand object of their adventure,
and the wedding-party had just seated
themselves at the table to do justice to its various
excellence. While the dinner-hunters are
discussing the most expedient order of entrance
and assault, we will appropriate a few words
of description to the objects we have mentioned.
At the head of a long table, then, in a comfortable
sitting-room, looking out upon a garden,
was seated a round-faced, short man, in a new
brown coat, with light brass buttons, and at his
side, a red-cheeked, dumpy girl, in a new pink
frock, and a pair of blue eyes, in capital order.
At the opposite extremity of the board sat two
aged females, old Aunt Anderson, the grandmother
of the bridegroom, and at her left, Aunt
Frewell Tomkins, the corresponding relative
of the bride. Along the sides of the table were
seated Parson Hob, a Methodist clergyman, in
an ill-cut suit of black, in the centre, with the
mothers of the bride and groom, and two or
three rustic female cousins, as wings; opposite
the preacher sat the bride and bridegroom's
grandfathers, flanked in like manner on each
side with the male parents of the interesting
couple, whose individual interests had been
merged in a co-partnership for life, with a like
number of male cousins to tally with the females
mentioned. This interesting company
had just arranged itself, as we have described,
about a well-filled board, when a loud knock
was heard at the door, and, without further
warning, a man with an iron-bound military
cap on his head, and a heavy blunderbuss in
his hand, stepped into the apartment.
He grounded his arms with a martial air,
and, leaning over the muzzle, looked around
upon the wedding-party with great coolness and
severity of countenance. The first one to speak
on the appearance of this unexpected figure
was Aunt Anderson. “My God!” said she,
“I believe it's a Hessian!” and suddenly seizing
her spectacles from the table and placing
them to her eyes, she shrieked, “It is! yes, it
is one of those wild war-fellows of the revolution!”
and dropping her glasses upon the floor,
she rushed precipitately out of the room.
By this time, a second figure had made itself
visible. This was a pale, sepulchral person
age, in a blue cap and coat, who tottered feebly
into the apartment with a cane in his hand, and
took his station a little in advance of the military
apparition. “Good gracious!” now shrieked
Hetty Steddle, a pretty servant-girl, who was in
waiting, “Lor' bless me, if that ben't the ghost
of old Shekkels!” and with a hideous noise she
followed the example of withered Aunt Anderson.
“It must be the spirit of the old Jew
Shekkels!” said the two old grandfathers almost
in the same breath, rising from the table,
placing their hands upon the cloth, and peering
anxiously forward into the face of the man in
the blue coat and cap. A general panic had
now seized the company; the dumpy bride succeeded,
after two or three ineffectual attempts,
in fainting, and was borne in the arms of the
short man in the round face, aided by two or
three stout boors, into the fresh air. The clergyman
had taken advantage of the open door,
and suddenly disappeared, none could tell (if
they cared) whither. The females in a body fled
the haunted table, followed by the bridegroom's
father between the two venerable grandsires,
dragging them out by the collar with main
force. Just as the last one of this fugitive
party of weddeners had vanished through one
door, their places were supplied at another by
our friends Sam Chisel, Harvest, Snipe, and
Smally, who were equally disposed, with them,
to do justice to the yet untasted meal before
them. First, the Merry-makers then indulged
in a sort of subdued horse-laugh all round.
Next, the door was secured by John Smally and
Sam Chisel with two short bayonets thrust an
inch deep or more in the lintels; and then they
arrayed themselves with all despatch about the
smoking board.
According to an ancient custom that prevails
in that region, the wedding-company had established
themselves at the table before the
knives and forks were laid at the plates: that
being a service generally rendered by a negro
or maid-servant immediately after grace. Our
bold adventurers accordingly found themselves
sadly at a stand for lack of these indispensables:
all except Mr. Harry Harvest, who plied
his rapier, of the middle of the seventeeth century,
with great dexterity at the ribs of a roasted
turkey, and Mr. Chisel, whose lath-sword
did serviceable execution upon pudding and
apple-sauce—shovelling huge streams of the
latter down his throat, seasoned with draughts
from a neighboring cider-pitcher. But the exploits
of these two trenchermen scarcely satisfied
the clamorous bellies of Dried Snipe, Smally,
Habakkuk Viol, and Bob Bobbylink.
The latter worthy, therefore, rising, and catching
a brace of fine broiled woodcocks by the
legs, and thrusting them into his coat-pocket, exclaimed,
“Clear the deck, my lads!—we'll adjourn
the dinner to head-quarters!” And saying
this, he seized upon two bottles of currant-wine
and a fat fowl, and thrust them into a long bag
that he had secretly brought with him, to show
them what he meant.
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Thereupon a scene of awful and indiscriminate
pillage ensued. Habakkuk Viol first filled
his blunderbuss with cider to the muzzle, plugging
it in with a roll of hot bread, and afterward
stuffed a duck into either pocket. Sam
Chisel next cast out two sheaves of straw from
his bosom, and basted his green jacket with a
monstrous chicken pie, a dish of apple-sauce,
and a leaden-covered pitcher of fresh-brewed
ale; filling the steeple of his hat with hot rolls
and other dainties, his jack-boots with radishes
and roasted apples, and his calf-skin scabbard
with pudding-sauce and drawn butter. An
enormous turkey was severed and shared with
Dried Snipe, who, besides this moiety, lined his
gaberdine with bread and cakes, and clapped a
blackberry pudding in his sugar-loaf hat, with a
small plate at bottom to sustain it. The immense
vest-pockets of John Smally were forthwith
freighted each with a comely loaf of potcheese,
and into the skirts of his Dutch coat he
slid a goodly tongue, whispering to Bobbylink,
“This, you and I will secretly divide!” As for
Harry Harvest, he was desperately fond of
greens, and took charge of the vegetable department;
and accordingly crammed his Charles Second
doublet and petticoat-breeches between the
lining with beans, peas, asparagus, and ears of
early corn. Thus armed and provisioned, these
gallant cruisers cautiously undid the door, and
stole warily from harbor without being seen;
for the whole wedding-party had fled into the
crib, which was on the other side of the house,
and there they kept themselves in a state of
siege—the short bridegroom having ascended
into the loft of the same, and planted his round
face at a loophole in the end, maintaining a
brilliant and steady lookout, with all his eyes,
toward the front of the building.
The Merry-makers soon attained the woods,
and Bob Bobbylink, looking cautiously back,
saw the pretty serving-girl, Hetty Steddle,
standing under a cow-shed in the road, holding
her hips, and ready to burst with laughter, as
she gayly winked and waved her hand to him.
The next morning, the same shabbily-dressed
crew to which we introduced our readers might
have been seen lurking about the old out-house,
basking in the sun as before, but with improved
visages, sleek with the fruits of their yesterday's
adventure.
ILLUSTRATING THE CONNEXION BETWEEN PATBIOTISM
AND SILK STOCKINGS, AND CACOGRAPHY
AND POPULAR RIGHTS.
There is a particular season of the year in
the city of New York, when ragamuffins and
vagabonds take a sudden rise in respectability;
when a tarpaulin hat is viewed with the same
mysterious regard as the crown of an emperor,
and the uncombed locks of a wharf-rat or rivervagrant
looked upon with as much veneration
as if they belonged to Apollo in his brightest
moments of inspiration. At this singular and
peculiar period in the calendar, all the higher
classes, by a wonderful readiness and felicity
of condescension, step down from their pedestals,
and smilingly meet the vulgar gentry, half
way up, in their progress to the beautiful tableland
of refinement and civilization.
About this time gloves go out of repute, and
an astonishing shaking of dirty fists takes place
all over the metropolis. It is a sight to electrify
the heart of a philanthropist, to behold a whole
community in a state of such perfect Arcadian
innocence, that all meet on terms of familiar
affection, where smile responds to smile, with
equal warmth—though one may dimple a clean
countenance, and the other force its pellucid
way through a fog of earthy particles. Happy,
golden time!
Reader, if you chance not to comprehend
philosophically this sweet condition of things,
be informed that a charter election comes on
next month!
The charter contest of the year eighteen hundred
and —, is perhaps the fiercest on record
in the chronicles of New York. Several
minor skirmishes took place with regard to aldermen,
assessors, and constables; but the main
brunt and heat of the engagement fell upon the
election of a mayor to preside over the portentous
destinies of the metropolis during a twelvemonth.
It seemed, from the grounds on which it was
fought, to be the old battle of patrician and plebeian.
On one side, the candidate was Herbert
Hickock, Esquire, a wholesale auctioneer, and
tolerably good Latin scholar: a gentleman who
sallied forth every morning at nine o'clock from
a fashionable residence in Broadway, dressed in
a neat and gentlemanly suit of black, an immaculate
pair of gloves, large white ruffles in
his bosom, and a dapper cane in his hand.
Opposed to him, as a candidate for the mayoralty,
was a master shoemaker, affectionately
and familiarly known as Bill Snivel. He was
particularly celebrated for the amount of unclean
garments he was able to arrange about
his person—a rusty, swaggering hat, and a rugged
style of English with which he garnished
his conversation. The great principles on
which the warfare was waged were, on the one
hand, that tidy apparel is an indisputable evidence
of a foul and corrupt code of principles;
and on the other, that, to be poor and unclean,
denotes a total deprivation of the reasoning
faculties.
So that the leading object of the Bill Snivel
party seemed to be, to discover Mr. Hickock in
some act of personal uncleanliness or cacography;
while the Hickock party as strenuously
bent all their energies to the detection of Mr.
Bill Snivel in the use of good English or unexceptionable
linen. The names with which they
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
mutually christened each other exhibit the depth
and strength of their feelings on this point. The
one was known as the Silk-stocking Gentry:
the other by the comprehensive appellation of
the Loafers.
At the approach of a New York charter election,
it is truly astonishing how great a curiosity
springs up as to the personal habits of the
gentlemen presented on either side as candidates.
The most excruciating anxiety appears
to seize the community to learn certain little biographical
incidents as to their birth, parentage,
morals, and the everyday details of their life. In
truth, on this occasion, the wardrobe of one of
the nominees had been so often and so facetiously
alluded to by two or three of the newspapers,
that the Bill Snivel general vigilance
committee had felt it their duty to furnish one
of their members with a large double telescope—
which he planted, by resolution of the committee,
every night and morning directly opposite
the chamber-window of Herbert Hickock,
Esquire, with the laudable purpose of discovering,
in an authentic way, what were that candidate's
habits of dress. A manuscript report
of his ingenious observations, it is said, was circulated
freely among the members of the committee.
No copy, that I have learned, has ever
found its way to the press. As every one knows,
the advent of an election creates a general and
clamorous demand for full-grown young men of
twenty-one years of age. To meet this demand,
a surprising cultivation of beards took place
among the Hickock youth who happened to
want a few days or months of that golden period.
Furthermore, a large number of the Bill Snivel
voters in the upper wards of the city, became
suddenly consumptive, and were forced to repair,
for the benefit of their health, to the more
southern and genial latitudes of the first, second,
and third wards; and the Hickock men
residing in those wards were seized as suddenly
with alarming bilious symptoms which compelled
them to emigrate abruptly to the more vigorous
and bracing regions in the northern part of
the island. Pleasant aquatic excursions, too,
were undertaken by certain gentlemen of the
Bill Snivel tinge of politics (whose proper domicils
were at Hartford and Haverstraw), and
they came sailing down the North and East
rivers, in all kinds of craft, on visits to their
metropolitan brethren, and dropped their compliments
in the shape of small folded papers,
in square, green boxes with a slit in the top.
To keep up the spirit of the contest, several
hundreds of the silk-stocking men packed themselves
regularly every night into a large, oblong
room, and presented a splendid collection of fine
coats and knowing faces—like a synod of grave
herrings in a firkin—to the contemplation of sundry
small men, with white pocket-handkerchiefs
and bad colds, who, in turn, came forward and
apostrophized a striped flag and balcony of boys
on the opposite wall.
Certain other hundreds of the Bill Snivel
men regaled themselves in a similar way, in
another large, oblong room, except that the gentlemen
who came forward to them served themselves
up in spotted silk handkerchiefs—voices
a key louder—noses a thought larger—and faces
a tinge redder than their rivals. The former
occasionally quoted latin and the latter took
snuff. With regard to the noises which now
and then emanated from the lungs of the respective
assemblages—there was more music
in the shouts and vociferations of the Hickock
meetings—more vigor and rough energy in the
Bill Snivel. If a zoological distinction might
be made, the Bill Snivel voice resembled that
of a cage-full of hungry young tigers, slightly
infuriated; while the Hickock seemed to be modelled
on the clamor of an old lion after dinner.
Each meeting had some particular oratorical favorite.
In one, a slim man was in the habit of
exhibiting a long, sallow face at 8 o'clock every
evening, between a pair of tall sperm candles, and
solemnly declaring that—the country was ruined,
and that he was obliged to pay twelve and
a half cents a pound for liver! At the Bill
Snivel, a short, stout man, with an immense
bony fist, was accustomed, about half an hour
later, to appear on a high platform—and announce
in a stentorian voice that “the people
was on its own legs again,” which was rather
surprising when we know how fond some people
are of getting into other people's boots;
and that “the democracy was carrying the
country before it,” which was also a profound
postulate, meaning—the democracy was carrying
the democracy before it— they constituting
the country at all times, and the country at all
times constituting them!
In the meantime, committee-men of all sorts
and descriptions are at work in rooms of every
variety of wall and dimension. The whole city
is covered with hand-bills, caricatures, manifestoes,
exposures, pointed facts, neat little
scraps of personal history, and various other
pages of diverting political literature. Swarms
cluster about the polls; banners stream from
windows, cords, and housetops. A little man
rides about on the box of an enormous wagon,
blowing a large brass trumpet, and waving a
white linen flag with a catching inscription—
and he labors at the trumpet till he blows his
face out of shape, and his hat off his head, and
waves the flag until it seems to be a signal of
distress thrown out by the poor little man with
the brass trumpet, just as he has broken his
wind and is sinking with exhaustion. Scouring
committees beat furiously through the wards in
every direction. Diving, like sharks, into cellars,
they bring up, as it were between their
teeth, wretched, scarecrow creatures, who stare
about when introduced to daylight as if it
were as great a novelty to them as roast-beef.
Ascending into garrets, like mounting hawks,
they bear down in their clutches trembling old
men, who had vegetated in those dry, airy elevations
apparently during a whole century.
Prominent among the bustling busy-bodies of
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[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
the hour is Fahrenheit Flapdragon, member of
the Hickock general committee, the Hickock
vigilance ward committee, the advertising committee,
the wharf committee, the committee on
flags and decorations, the committee on tar-barrels
and tinder-boxes, one of the grand general
committee on drinking gin-slings and segar-smoking,
and member of the committee on noise
and applause. By dint of energetic anœu
vering, Flapdragon had likewise succeeded in
being appointed chairman of a single committee,
viz., that on chairs and benches. He attained
this enviable elevation (the performance of the
arduous duties of which drew upon him the
eyes of the whole ward and the carpenter who
furnished the benches!) through the votes of a
majority of the committee of five—one of whom
was his brother-in-law and the other his business
partner. The casting vote he had himself given
judiciously, in his own favor. Fahrenheit
Flapdragon bore a conspicuous part in the great
charter contest, now waging between Hickock
and Snivel. In fact, he was so embarrassed
with engagements during this hot-blooded election,
that he was compelled to furnish himself
with a long-legged gray horse early on the
morning of the second day, to carry him about
with sufficient rapidity from point to point to
meet them as they sprang up. The little man, of
a truth, was so tossed and driven about by his various
self-imposed duties in the committee-rooms,
streets, and along the wharves, that he came well
nigh going stark mad. During the day he harried
up and down the streets, from poll to poll, bearing
tidings from one to the other—distributing
tickets—cheering on the little boys to shout,
and placing big men in the passages to stop the
ingress of Bill Snivel voters; I say during the
day he posted from place to place on his lank,
gray nag with such fury that many sober people
thought he had lost his wits and was hunting
for them on horseback in this distracted
manner.
At night, what with drinking gin-slings and
brandy-and-water at the bar to encourage the
vagabonds that stood looking wistfully on—
talking red-hot Hickock politics to groups of
four or five and six—and bawling applause at
the different public meetings he attended—he
presented, at the close of the day's services,
such a personal appearance that any one might
supposed he had stayed in an oven till the turning
point between red and brown arrived, and
then jumped out and walked home with the utmost
possible velocity to keep up his color.
There are seventeen wards in the city, and every
ward has its Fahrenheit Flapdragon.
While these busy little committee-men are
bustling and hurrying about, parties of voters
are constantly arriving on foot, in coaches, barouches,
open wagons, and omnibuses, accompanied
by some electioneering friend who brings
them up to the polls. Every hour the knots
about the door swell until they fill the street.
In the interior of the building, meanwhile, a
somewhat different scene presents itself. Be
hind a counter, on three wooden stools, three
men are perched, with a green box planted in
front of the one in the centre, and an officer
with a staff at either end. The small piece of
green furniture thus guarded is the ballot-box,
and all sorts of humanity are every moment arriving
and depositing their votes. Besides
the officers, two or three fierce-looking men
stand around the box on either side, and challenge,
in the most determined manner, every
suspicious person of the opposite politics. “I
dispute that man's vote,” says one, as a ragged
young fellow with a dirty face and strong odor
of brandy approaches; “I don't believe he is
entitled to vote.” “Yes, he is,” replies another,
“I know him—he's a good citizen; but you
may swear him if you choose!” At this the
vagabond is pushed up to the counter by one of
his political friends—his hat is knocked off by
an officer—the chief inspector presents an
open bible—at which the vagabond stares as if
it were a stale codfish instead of the gospels—
a second friend raises his hand for him and places
it on the book, and the chief inspector is
about to swear him—when the Hickock challenger
cries out, “Ask him if he understands
the nature of an oath!” “What is an oath?”
asks the inspector, solemnly. “D—n your
eyes!” hiccups the young Bill Snivel voter.
“Take him out!” shouts the inspector, and
the officers in attendance, each picking up
a portion of his coat-collar, hurry him away
with inconceivable rapidity through a back-door
into the street, and dismiss him with a hearty
punch with their staves in the small of his
back.
All over the city, wherever a square inch of
floor or pavement can be obtained—in bar-rooms,
hotels, streets, newspaper offices—animated
conversations are got up between the
Hickock gentry and the Bill Snivel men.
“If dandy Hickock gets in,” says a squint-eyed
man with a twisted nose, “I've got a rooster
pigeon—I'll pick his feathers bare—stick a
pipe-stem in his claw, friz his topknot—and offer
him as a stump candidate for next mayor.”
“Can your rooster-pigeon spell his own
name, Crossfire?” asked a tall Hickock street-inspector—
“if he can't, you'd better put him a
quarter under Bill Snivel; it would be as good
as an infant school for him!”
“I think I'd better take my little bantam-cock,”
retorted the squint-eyed man, “he's got a
fine comb, which would answer for shirt-ruffles;”
and the Bill Snivel auditors gave a clamorous
shout.
“If he's got a comb,” said the tall inspector,
stooping toward the shouters, “it's more than
what Bill Snivel's head has seen this two and
forty years!” The Hickock gentry now sent
up, in turn, a vigorous hurrah; and a couple
of ragamuffins in the mob, who had been
carrying on a little under-dialogue on their own
account, now pitched into each other in the
most lively manner, and after being allowed to
phlebotomize each other very freely, were drawn
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
apart by their respective coat-tails and carried
to a neighboring pump.
The battle by no means ceases at the going
down of the sun; for, besides the two large assemblages
to which we have before alluded,
there is, in each ward, a nightly meeting in
some small room in the second story of a public
house, where about one hundred and fifty miscellaneous
human beings are entertained by
sundry young attorneys and other spouters,
practising the English language and trying the
force of their lungs. At these meetings you
will be sure, whenever you attend them, to
meet with certain stereotyped faces—which are
always there, always with the same smiling expression,
and looking as if they were a part of
the wainscoting, or lively pieces of furniture
fixed there by the landlord to please his guests.
The smiling gentlemen are office-seekers. In
the corner, sitting on a small table, you may
observe a large puffed-out man with red cheeks;
he is anxious to obtain the appointment of beergauger
under the corporation. Standing up by
the fireplace is a man with a dingy face and
shivering person, who wishes to be weigher of
coal, talking to a tall fellow who stoops in the
shoulders like a buzzard, with a prying nose and
eye, and a face as hard and round as a pavingstone,
who is making interest for reappointment
as street inspector. There is also another, with a
brown-tanned countenance, patriotically lamenting
the decline of the good old revolutionary
spirit—who wants the office of leather inspector.
The most prominent man at these meetings
is orator Bog, a personage whose reputation
shoots up into a wonderful growth during the
three days of election, while his declamation is
fresh, but which suddenly withers and wilts
away when the heat of the conflict has cooled.
His eloquence is the peculiar offspring of those
sunny little republican hotbeds, ward meetings.
He has just described the city as “split like
a young eel, from nose to tail, by the diabolical
and cruel knife of those modern Catilines,” the
aldermen of the city, they having recently run a
main street through it, north and south.
“These are the men,” he exclaimed with an
awful smile on his countenance, “these are the
men that dare insult democracy by appearing
in public—like goslings—yes, like goslings!—
with such articles as these on their legs!” and
thrusting a pair of tongs—heretofore dexterously
concealed under the skirts of his coat—into
his hat, which stood upon the table before him—
he drew out a pair of fine silk stockings and
swung them triumphantly over the heads of the
mob, which screamed and clamored with huge
delight at the spectacle. “And such articles as
these!” he shouted, producing, from the same
receptacle, a shirt about small enough for a
yearling infant, with enormous green ruffles
about large enough for a Patagonian.
“Look at it!” cried Bog, throwing it to one
of the mob.
“It's pine-shavin's, painted green,” shouted
the mob.
“Smell of it!” cried Bog.
“It's scented with assy-fetid-y!” vociferated
the ecstatic Bill Snivel men, and a hearty burst
of laughter broke forth.
Several lusty vagabonds came near going into
fits when Orator Bog facetiously, though
gravely, stopped his nose with his thumb and
linger and remarked, “I think some one has
brought a skunk into the room!”
The last hour of the last day of the great
charter contest has arrived. Every carman,
every merchant's clerk, every negro with a
freehold, every stevedore, every lamplighter,
every street-sweeper, every vagrant, every vagabond,
has cast his vote.
Garret, cellar, sailor's boarding-house, shed,
stable, sloop, steamboat, and dockyard, have
been ransacked, and not a human being on the
great island of Manhattan has escaped the
clutch of the scouring and district committees
of the two great contending parties. At this
critical moment, and as the sun began to look
horizontally over the chimney-tops with a broad
face as if he laughed at the quarrels of Hickock
gentry and Bill Snivel men, two personages were
prowling and prying along a wharf on the East
river, like a brace of inquisitive snipe.
At the self-same moment the eyes of both
alighted on an object floating in the water, at
the self-same moment both sprang forward with
a boat-hook in his hand, and fastened upon the
object of their mutual glances, one at the one
extremity, the other at the other. In a time far
less than it takes the north star to twinkle, the
object was dragged on shore and proved to be
the body of a man, enveloped in a fragmentary
blue coat, roofless hat, and corduroy pantaloons.
“I claim him,” said one of the boat-hook
gentlemen, a member of the seventh ward Hickock
wharf committee; “I saw him first! he's
our voter by all that's fair!”
“He wants a jugful of being yours, my lad,”
retorted the other, a member of the Bill Snivel
wharf committee. “He's too good a Christian
to be yours—for don't you see he's just been
baptized?”
“He's mine!” responded the Hickock committee-man,
“for my hook fastened in his collar,
and thereby saved his head—he couldn't vote
without his head!”
“A timber-head he must have if he'd vote the
shirt-ruffle ticket,” retorted the Bill Snivel committee-man.
By this time a mob had gathered about the
disputants, who stood holding the rescued body
each by the leg, with its head downward to let
the water drain from its windpipe.
“Why, you land-lubbers,” cried a medical
student, pushing his professional nose through
the throng, “you'll give the man the apoplexy
if you hold him that way just half a minute longer.”
In a trice after, a second medical student
arrived, and, hearing what the other had said,
exclaimed, “It's the best thing you can do—
hold him just as he is, or he's sure to get the
dropsy.” The mob, however, interfered—the
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man was laid on his back—and one of the medical
students (who was propitious to the Hickock
code of politics) taking hold of one wrist—
and the other (who advocated the Bill Snivel
system) seizing the other, they commenced chafing
his temples, and rubbing the palms of his
hands.
The wharf committee-men, meantime, felt inclined
to renew the dispute as to their claim on
the body of the half-drowned loafer, but, by
advice of the medical gentlemen, it was deferred
to be settled by the man's own lips,
whenever he should recover the use of them.
The medical students chafed and rubbed, and
every minute leaned down to the ear of the
drowned body, as if to catch some favorable gnosis.
“Hurrah for Hickock!” shouted the man,
opening his eyes just as one of the medical students
had withdrawn his mouth from his ear.
The Hickock portion of the mob gave three
cheers. “Hurrah for Bill Snivel!” shouted the
resuscitated loafer as the other medical student
applied his lips to his organ of hearing.
The loafer was now raised upon his legs,
and marshalled like some great hero between
the medical students and the two members
of the wharf committees—and borne toward
the polls—having each hand alternately supplied
by the Hickock people and the Bill Snivvel,
with the tickets of the respective parties.
They arrived at the door of the election
room, with the body of this important and
disputed voter, just one minute after sundown,
and, finding him thus to be of no value,
the Hickock medical student and committee-man,
and the Bill Snivel student and committee-man,
united in applying their feet to his flanks
and kicking him out of the building!
In two or three days the votes of the city
were duly canvassed, and it was found that they
stood, for Bill Snivel, 13,000—for Herbert Hickock,
13,303—scattering, 20. Three hundred
and three learned Bill Snivel gentlemen having,
in consequence of their limited knowledge
of orthography and politics, voted for Bill Snivel
for constable instead of mayor! Herbert
Hickock, Esq., was, therefore, declared duly
elected Mayor of the city and county of New
York.
A DEACON WITH A HEART LIKE A WHIRLPOOL,
AND A GOBLIN WITH A TAIL LIKE A FISH.
During the close of the seventeenth century
the prince of darkness made several very hot
inroads into different quarters of the righteous
old colonies of New England. In truth, there
was so “prodigious a descent of devils upon
divers places near the centre of this province,”[1]
and it suddenly swarmed in every nook and
corner with such crowds of spectres and goblins,
that the good people were in a fair way
of being ejected to furnish them a settlement.
Never was the devil supplied with so great a
variety of recruits. The fierce incursions of
which I have spoken were sometimes headed
by one captain, sometimes by another. In one
quarter the troops were led on by a black man,
of a gunpowder aspect, and more than human
dimensions. This fellow generally skirmished
about the edges of woods and timber-lands,
clutching up straggling old beldames and tame
Indians. Then there was your tawny-colored
goblin, short of stature, who was sometimes
seen with a whole pack of spectres hovering at
his heels; your pugnacious devil, whose chief
sport it was to distribute dry blows liberally about
the ears of the poor wretches who came within
his jurisdiction; your high-flying devil, who
snatched people out of their chambers, and
horsed them away miles through the air, over
trees and hills, free of postage; beside a large
assortment of menial imps, who were drubbed
heartily by their employer if they failed to do
their vile work to his satisfaction. To these
were sometimes added a better-bred class of
goblins, who acted as secretaries and book-keepers
(at a liberal salary I presume) to the
devil, and who had charge of the great red
muster-book to which new recruits were forced
to put their hands.[2] Never was a campaign
of old Nick better arranged, or carried on with
more spirit.
It was on a night in the year sixteen ninety-seven,
and after the smoke and heat of the
main engagement at Salem had died away, that
a tall woman, about sixty years of age, was
crossing a stone fence in the choleric little village
of Rye. It was a still, cheerful night, in
the close of August, and the moon shone down
into the field upon which the aged woman was
entering with a brightness so pure that it seemed
almost unnatural.
Before her lay an enclosed space of about
four acres, stretching up from the edge of a
quiet little brook to the brow of a hill, and
covered with bushes, shrubs, and herbs, of every
description. Near the water's edge a whole
company of braggart bulrushes thrust up their
heads, and lorded it over the inoffensive and
unambitious little stream with an air of vast
superiority, while around these topping pretenders
a few humble water-cresses gathered
themselves, and modestly vegetated and blossomed.
Farther on, and along the fence, a
testy crew of blackberry bushes had assembled,
and stood wagging their heads in every wind
that stirred, and near them a malignant poisonvine
crept along the rails like a serpent.
As she old woman stepped into the field out
of a piece of woods that overhung it from the
west, she startled a garter-snake from the bank,
and the timid creature, with its light streaks
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of yellow dashed with spots of blue, twinkled
away through the grass toward the brook,
leaving behind it, or seeming to leave behind
it, as it glided swiftly along, a trail of mixed
orange-colored light.
“A better night heart could not wish,” muttered
the old woman, as she strided into the
field; “but where Dick delays I can not guess.
He promised to be about through the village
with the basket before I could be here by the
woods. A slow foot gets a light supper, Dick.”
Uttering this sententious saying, she bustled
about the ground, plucking here and there a
handful of some herb or other, and laying it
carefully in the lap of her gown. In a few
minutes she was joined by a low, strange looking
young man, about twenty years old, who
had upon his head a hat which had been perhaps,
originally, of the shape of a bell, but
which was pinched by time and weather, at the
top, until it now resembled a withered winterpear.
On his arm he bore a dilapidated oaken
basket.
“Richard, wherefore didst thou tarry?
Thou knewest the business was pressing hitherward.
The ale you might have tippled at
another time!”
“I have not tarried,” replied the strange-looking
young man, “to guzzle ale in the village,
nor to quaff of old Zickland's cider-casks;
nor has old Zickland's watch-dog held me, as
he did the other night, by the coat-tail.”
“What was it, then, that kept thee?” asked
the old woman, peering into his face with a
look of considerable anxiety and interest.
“No less than that church mastiff, Deacon
Brangle, and his yoke-fellow Fishtyke, the elder.
They fastened on me with tongue and
teeth as I passed the parsonage—and demanded,
whither I was going? for what purpose that
basket was meant? and whether you was at
home to-night?”
“A curse be on the tribe!” said his aged
companion lifting her head up until her bowed
form was almost crect, and striking a staff
which she bore in her hand sharply upon the
ground. “An old woman's curse light on the
meddlesome interlopers, the children of Belial
that will not let the musty taper of an old body's
life go out without helping it with a devilish
whiff of their pious breath!”
“Curse not so loud, if you please, Aunt Gatty,”
said the young man, “the big-eared dogs
are not far off, I reckon; for I saw them sneak
up into the shadow of the fence, as I left 'em,
with their faces turned this way.”
“If the evil will hear, let them hear,” continued
Aunt Gatty in a still louder voice in
spite of her companion's remonstrance, “I
have been hunted like a paynter from Salem to
Weathersfield—from Weathersfield to Harford—
through every hole and corner of the
colonies—and now they would worry me out of
this abiding-place with their horns of Jericho
and false shoutings and clamors at my heels?”
The wrath of Aunt Gatty now sunk into a sul
len silence and they proceeded quietly in their
labor.
“It's strange, Dick,” she said at length in a
calmer tone, “that men who spend an hour,
morning and arternoon, one day out of seven to
tell how much they love their brethren, will
harass an old woman who spends her time in
doing the same thing without sayin' anything
about original sin or her pious intentions—
curing bodies more nor they cure souls, I'll
warrant!”
“It's the cock that mounts the fence and
splits his throat with crowing that lays no eggs,
you know, Aunt Gatty,” replied Dick, with a
subdued laugh.
“Yes,” returned Aunt Gatty, adopting the
same strain, “and you know, Dick, how often
deacon crow in the woods, visits about, in his
black coat, among the birds to see that they're
all in a plump, healthy condition”—“Particularly
'bout killing-time!” interposed Dick.
Another brief pause now ensued, which was
interrupted again by Aunt Gatty's remarking—
“I trow, Richard, here is the finest plantain-leaf
I've found this many a day: it's broad
enough to kiver any galled horse's haunch that
ever smarted, or to cure the pinch of the worst
witch that ever rode a bean-pole!”
This observation was followed up by a long
and elaborate lecture on the various uses to
which plantain might be judiciously applied.
“What's this?” asked Dick at the close of
her shrewd observations, presenting an herb
with a small crooked root, and a smooth green
leaf something in the shape of an Indian arrowhead.
“Thou art a pretty fellow, Dick Snikkers, to
gather yerbs!” said the old woman taking the
plant and giving it a hasty examination—
“Why, this is nothing more nor less than colt's
foot. It 'udn't take a witch to tell thee that,
Dick! Come this way, Richard,” she continued,
sitting down upon a rock in the middle
of the field, laying her crutch across her lap,
and placing the basket at her side, “it's time
that you know'd the properties of yerbs:
eighteen, last shearing time, and not able to tell
old colt's foot!”
Dick Snikkers at this bidding took a seat at
her side, and culling from the basket, herb after
herb, the old woman expatiated on its qualities
with a learned spirit.
“Here's wild yisup, Dick,” she said, “you
must be kerful to tell it from balsam; which is
shorter and more bunch-like at top. It has a
pleasant smell, and is a very nice yerb, Dick.
Well should I know thee, yisup!” holding a
bunch of it up and contemplating it with a fixed
and thoughtful eye, “for they gave thee to
the poor girl, Maggy Rule, of Salem, that was
possest by evil angels. They said, Richard, I
was her evil spirit!—poor thing, she's in Heaven
now, and can tell whether old Gartred Heerabout
ever harmed her life, in thought, word, or
look!” “Hush!” said Dick Snikkers, “I heard
some one over there by the sassafras tree.”
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At that moment the shadow of a man glided behind
the trunk of a monstrous black walnut,
which overhung the brook; but the shade of
the tree prevented his being discerned by either
of the parties.
“Pooh!” said the old woman, listening anxiously
for a moment, “It's nothing but a dead
nut that fell from a dry limb.”
“'Tis more than that, Aunt Gatty, I'm sure,”
responded Dick, “for I heard something cough
like a man—and—hark—there's some one answering
him over here by the elder-bushes!”
“I hear no noise, Dick; the moon has put the
whim into your head—or else—it's nothing more
than a couple of hoarse crickets playing under
a sorrel patch!”
From some source of other, however, Aunt
Gatty had been impressed with the necessity of
quitting the spot as speedily as possible and obtaining
the shelter of a good roof. She therefore
hurriedly closed her lecture, hooked the
basket upon her arm, seized her crutch, and, followed
by Dick Snikkers, hastened away.
The next morning the sun, at an early hour
as it shone or rather struggled through a single
dusky pane in the eastern side of the vestry room
of the old Rye church, fell upon three men
seated at a triangular table, each at a side.
The silver-mounted cane of one of them lay
obliquely across the table, and the hats of all
three hung upon wooden pins fixed about the
apartment. One of the party was a middle-aged
man with a long, dry countenance and a
complexion like a mulberry. His coat was buttoned
up, in a threatening manner, from waistband
to chin, and about his whole person and
bearing there was an air of pompous authority.
“This matter must be looked to,” said he,
throwing his head back into his coat collar, advancing
his respectable paunch, and placing his
hands knowingly under the tails of his coat.
“The Lord will not suffer the evil to triumph—
nor will I. Blessed be the name of God, he
hath given unto us his inspired statutes; and as
first deacon of the Congregational meeting-house
in Rye, Philip Brangle, will enforce
them, even unto the hanging of witches and
sorcerers!”
“There I differ from thee, Brother Brangle:
I hold that witches should be exterminated by
fire and fagot, for thereby the evil angel or
spirit is conquered with his own element, yea,
even hell-fire!”
This heroic suggestion proceeded from the
mouth of Mr. John Fishtyke, elder, and a most
singular mouth it was, and still more singular
was the whole countenance to which it belonged.
Nature, from some unaccountable whim or
other, had seen fit to group all the features of
Mr. John Fishtyke in the very centre of his
face: his nose, eyes, and mouth, were huddled
closely together, leaving a very extensive suburb
of unsettled visnomy to lie barren beyond.
The elder's head from a front view was thus
made to resemble the human lineaments painted
in the bull's eye of a large target.
“I fancy not,” continued the owner of this
paradoxical countenance, “being dragged twice
through the pond by the same cat. Hanging
hath been tried and found of none effect. Were
not sorcerers and witches strung up like onions,
at Weathersfield and Salem, Deacon Brangle—
and what did it avail? Did not withcraft
increase? Did not the lions and bears of hell
abound greatly thereafter?—This is pulpitnews!”
“I care not to argue the question at this
present season,” replied the mulberry-complexioned
deacon. “Hung she shall be—If I am
Philip Brangle, Deacon—like a dead skunk!”
“If she be not burned, by the grace of God,
I will yield up my eldership: burned to a black
crust, the foul hag!”
“I have picked the gallows tree: therefore
disquiet thyself no further, Elder Fishtyke!”
retorted Brangle.
“And I have chosen the fagots for her
burning, and they are now cleft in my door
yard—so be at ease!”
“Thou art in league with the wretches, I
verily fear, Mr. Fishtyke: thou so strongly
urgest fire, in which thou knowest (being their
natural element) they may live like salamanders!”
“Has it come to this!” exclaimed John
Fishtyke, advancing one leg before the other
and dashing his fist furiously upon the triangular
table, while a general conflagration raged
in the unsettled outskirts of his physiognomy,
which gradually extended inward kindling his
eyes, nose and cheeks until his whole countenance
was fairly a-blaze. “Ha! ha! has it
come to this, I am colleague of witches—am
I?—As true as the Holy One of Israel liveth”—
he was proceeding to utter some terrible threat
when he was interrupted by the gentleman who
occupied the third side of the triangle, who
mildly remarked, “Before we proceed to hang
or burn the accused, would it not be well to
have evidence of her guilt?”
Here was common ground for Brangle and
Fishtyke, who were not to be cheated of their
victim by the mere want of proofs, and they
both broke out together. “Did I not see her
last night with her familiar, in Lyon's black
meadow,” said Brangle, “Giving him hellish
instruction in drugs,” continued Fishtyke, “confessing
that she was Margaret Rule's evil
angel,” said Brangle, “and that she was the
worst witch that ever rode a bean-pole,” continned
Fishtyke. “What was it she averred
concerning the lameness of Lyon's colt's foot?”
“That she had a hand in it,” answered Fishtyke.
“Pause, if you please, my friends,” said
the mild man who was the clergymen of the
cure or parish—“What look and person had
her familiar?”
In reply to this question, Deacon and Elder
again broke forth in a common cry—“A huge
black man with hair like white wool,” said
Fishtyke.
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“A small white man with black hair,” said
Brangle.
“He bore an enormous matchlock in his
hand,” said Fishtyke.
“It was a slim fishing-rod,” said Brangle.
“Horns like an ox,” continued Fishtyke.
“A sailor's cap close to his head, methought,”
said Brangle.
“A long tail behind him like a whale.”
“A round-about and tight breeches.”
“Hold, gentlemen,” interposed the mild
clergyman—“Be seated, an it please you.
Your testimony differs so widely as to the personal
appearance of the woman's familiar or
goblin, I doubt whether it would be possible
for you ever to identify the supposed sorceress
herself. We had better proceed to the business
of our cure.”
“If you please,” said the mulberry-faced
Brangle, rising with much solemnity, embedding
his head in his coat collar, advancing his
swag-belly and adjusting his hands beneath his
coat-tail as before,—“If you please: the Lord
in his righteous and inscrutable providences
hath made Philip Brangle a Deacon and head
of the Rye Congregational settlement. The
duties, the cares, the labors, the anxieties of
that station he intends to fulfil until `Philip
Brangle' is indorsed on a silver plate upon his
coffin. As to this witch—this vile bosom-friend
and ape of the devil—if ocular proof be not
sufficient, is there not enough—yea, more than
enough of other evidences?”
“As brief as convenient, Deacon Brangle,”
interposed the mild clergyman.
“Was it longer ago than last Sabbath day,”
continued Brangle, “that I saw her, at a public
meeting—leave the church in haste and forcibly
put to the door as she passed out. The
devil had sent for her and she must come!”
“It might have been the colic,” suggested
the mild clergyman.
“On the twenty-second of June last,” resumed
the Deacon, referring to a gilt-edged
note-book that he held in his hand, “did I
not hear the sound of a trumpet, from her hovel,
late in the evening, summoning a meeting of
witches and sorcerers at that place?”
“It was the horn of the stage-driver,” said the
mild clergyman, “for I received a letter by the
same mail. He was detained beyond his hour
by a break in the Harlæm bridge.”
Nettled by this summary disposal of his
charges, he at length exclaimed, as if he expected
to settle the question beyond dispute in his
own favor, by so cogent an evidence—“Do you
tell me, sir, that the fowls of Mr. Deliverance
Lyon have not been under diabolical possession
ever since this Gad Heerabout came into these
parts? Have not many of them gone off the
roost and disappeared, none could tell whither!
What hath become of that fine cock-turkey—
the pride of his yard? Whither have gone his
fatted geese and his noble brood of short-legged
hens? Evil angels have made way with them, I
fear; they have suffered sorely from spectral
visitation.”
“More probably converted into chicken-pie
and roasted birds, by Mungo Park, his head
slave: with Richard Snikkers as an accomplice,”
suggested the mild clergyman.
“Will you have the woman examined in our
presence?” cried Philip Brangle, as a last resort.
“I saw her just pass the door.”
“To that there can be no reasonable hindrance,”
answered the clergyman, “if it be done
soberly.”
Thereupon Messrs. Brangle and Fishtyke
prepared to sally forth, arrest Gatty Heerabout,
and bring her before the parochial court.
It may be as well to observe in this place,
that Dick Snikkers, before the session of the
court began, had found his way under the floor
of the church—lifted a board, and climbing over
the pulpit, landed himself in a little terra incognita
of an attic or garret above the small
vestry-room, in which it was assembled. Here,
through a knot hole, he had listened to all their
proceedings and enjoyed the inexpressible pleasure
of observing the combustible countenance
of Fishtyke, and the mulberry complexion of
Deacon Brangle, in their various striking
phases.
As soon as the apprehension of Dame Heer-about
was named, he had made his way back
into the open air—leaped two or three fences—
stood in the road before Aunt Gatty—and announced
to her their purpose of questioning her
in person.
“Let them question,” she replied, in answer
to Dick's information, standing erect and turning
her face toward the church—“I fear no
man, face to face, to answer unto the deeds
done in the body; as far as man may rightly
question. On to the meetinghouse: they shall
not be leg-weary nor arm-weary in dragging
me to the trial!” Mastering her crutch with a
strong hand, and adjusting her bonnet carefully
to her head, she marched with a haughty step
toward the vestry-room. She arrived at the
door just as Brangle had planted his cane upon
the ground to take his first step towards her
apprehension.
“How is this, Jezebel!” he exclaimed, taking
her violently by the wrist; “hast thou the
effrontery to approach the sanctuary so nearly
as this after leaving it as thou didst last Lord's
day.”
“Take off that hand,” she exclaimed in turn,
“or an acquaintance will be gotten up forth-with
betwixt my staff and thy head.” And so
saying she raised her crutch in token of the
promised introduction; but Deacon Brangle,
unwilling to trespass on her kindness in that
particular, speedily dismissed her hand from his
grasp.
The whole party was now assembled in the
vestry-room.
“Gartred Heerabout,” said the mild clergyman,
“you have been suspected of witchcraft
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by Deacon Brangle and Elder Fishtyke. Whatever
I may think of the charges which have
been made against you, I was willing that you
should be examined in vestry before you were
called to answer for your life to the civil magistrate.
Deacon Brangle, you may examine her—
temperately, if you please!”
“Woman!” began Brangle, mounting to his
feet and serewing his countenance into a hard,
inquisitorial expression—“Woman! were you
not out last night culling drugs, for hellish purposes,
in the black meadow? and instructing
your familiar goblin in the art of applying those
drugs to purposes of sorcery and witchcraft?
Answer as you value your soul!”
“Oh God! God!” exclaimed the woman in
reply clasping her hands and raising them above
her head in an attitude and with an expression
of intense supplication—“Merciful God! the
very bread that a poor old woman eats, turns
bitter in her mouth! My masters,” she continued,
dropping her hands heavily upon her breast,
and turning her gaze upon the party about the
table, “My masters, I am nothing but a poor old
herb-gatherer. If to soothe the lonely hours of
some broken, sickman, with a simple medicine—
a plantain-leaf, a bit of birch bark, or a drink of
wild yisup tea, makes Gartred Heerabout a witch,
be she a witch to time's end and yea, for aught
I care, to eternity's end—if such might be!”
“A confession as to the drugs,” cried Deacon
Brangle.
“Palpably,” responded Elder Fishtyke—
“what says the woman, touching the familiar
goblin, with her in the meadow?”
“It was Dick Snikkers, please your worship,”
replied aunt Gatty, with a smile that betrayed
something of contempt, “helping me
gather the yerbs—and I was telling him the
yerbs' qualities.”
“A fine fable, thou old brass-jawed hag; her
soul is in a hopeful way, is it not, think you,
brother Fishtyke?” said Brangle, turning to
the elder; “she exhibits observable symptoms
of a new creature!—Poor wretch, thou hadst
better recal what thou saidst last night about
the bewitching of Margaret Rule of Salem! out
with it!”
“May the gracious One pardon thee for this
mistreatment of an old, friendless woman. I
never harmed thee—why shouldst thou persecute
me? I never laid hand's-weight on child
or chick of thine—why wilt thou smite me with
hard words? I am no witch, God knows, but
a simple, sarviceful old body, with a soul like
yourself, Deacon Brangle, believe it or not as
you choose!”
The old woman dropped her head upon her
bosom and sobbed audibly and heavily; and the
mild clergyman was so much affected by her
emotion, that he was forced to turn his head
away to conceal a tear.
“A soul like Deacon Brangle!” cried the vestryman,
horror-struck with the supposition. “A
soul like Deacon Brangle!—thou art fool as
well as witch. Begone—it is folly to waste
words in examining such as thee. The rope of
the hangman will settle the matter before sundown—
begone!”
In spite of the remonstrance and entreaty of
the clergyman, he enforced his command by seizing
the old woman and dragging her forcibly
toward the door. Her spirit was aroused by
this unexpected insult, and, exerting a strength
not supposed to belong to her, she threw off his
grasp, and, standing proudly erect, exclaimed,
“Wo upon thee and thine!—henceforth for ever—
wo and wailing without end! Or ever
the sun sinks, Gatty Heerabout, mayhap, will
be beyond reach of judge or deacon.” With
these words she strided calmly and haughtily
away.
As she gained the door, Deacon Brangle said,
in a hushed and trembling voice, “She is aided
by devils, I do believe; Satan, I verily fear,
wrenched her arm away from my hold;” and,
as she disappeared, he lifted his voice and cried
out after her—“Avoid, thou she-devil, in the
name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost, avoid!”
As Deacon Brangle wended homeward from
the vestry-room, after the close of the morning's
business, he discovered Dick Snikkers sitting
upon the fence of Rye bridge, whistling with
all his might.
He presented to the vision of the deacon a
very singular and novel spectacle, having on
the upper part of his person a gay white roundabout
and pear-shaped hat, and, on his nether
extremities, a pair of tight pantaloons, and low,
red shoes; and possessing, withal, a nose turned
up slightly at the end, which gave a humorous
appearance to his visage, and a set of twinkling,
black eyes, that kept a bright lookout upon
the little, hooked feature just mentioned.
Add to this, that he now had both hands forced
vehemently into his pockets, and that both
cheeks were inflated with the blasts of wind
which supplied the clamorous music that reached
Deacon Brangle's ear, and, we may honestly
say that he furnished a rare and original object
of contemplation.
“Good morrow, your worship,” said Dick
Snikkers, pausing just long enough in his labor
to utter these words, and resuming his musical
vocation as soon as they were delivered.
“Good morning, Mr. Snikkers,” responded
the deacon, darkening his mulberry complexion
with an incipient frown, with the expectation
of awing Mr. Snikkers into silence or a petrifaction,
“you seem to be in fine spirits this
morning!”
“Only whistling a little for the consumption,”
replied Dick.
“Whistling for the consumption!” exclaimed
Mr. Brangle, moderating the severity of his
manner, considerably, for his curiosity equalled
his pompousness every day in the week, except
vestry-meeting days and Sundays, “that's a very
singular remedy, Richard,” said he familiarly.
“Not at all, your worship,” answered Dick,
charmed with his style of address, and throwing
-- 051 --
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a queer look out of the corner of his eye—“not
at all, your worship—we poor folk can't afford
to pay the doctor—so we must needs make natur'
our mediciner. Now, in the matter of a
cold, Deacon Brangle, you'll obsarve, if you
was ever passing through a lane in a mornin'
after a chill, rainy night—you'll obsarve a bird
on the end of every stake blowing it out strong
through his throat, like a young harry-cane—
and what's it for? Why, they've all cotcht colds
over night, and they're a whistling 'em away!”
At this profound and philosophical explanation,
the mulberry countenance of Philip Brangle
because amazingly thoughtful—he cast his
eyes in meditative glances upon the ground—
and his chin sank inquiringly upon the silver-mounted
extremity of his walking-stick.
“It's so, your worship,” said Dick Snikkers,
“there can be no doubt on it. I've heard aunt
Gatty tell what I've told your worship more than
fifty times!”
“A strange woman, that Dame Heerabout,”
said Brangle, lifting his mulberry features,
through which an altogether new expression
had suddenly shot. “She's always observing
nature, I suppose, Richard? Night and day,
are, no doubt, all the same to her in pursuit
of this useful knowledge—is it not so, Mr.
Snikkers?”
“Does your worship observe anything green
in my left orb?” responded Mr. Snikkers, employing
a very elegant species of interrogatory,
which is ignorantly supposed to have sprung up
in these latter days, whereas, it was a common
topic of conversation in Æsop's time, between
the currant-bush and the gooseberry.
This question seemed to be so peculiarly pointed
and pertinent, as to awaken Mr Brangle's most
powerful feelings in reply; and, hastily converting
his mulberry into a deep red, he exclaimed—
“Thou beggarly scamp! how darest thou
talk in this way to Philip Brangle, first Deacon
of the Rye Congregational church? I'll teach
thee what becomes such fellows:—You are
hereby summoned to appear before the parochial
vestry of our church on Thursday afternoon
next, at ten o'clock in the morning, to
answer for contempt of one of its officers,” and
he handed to Mr. Snikkers a printed summons,
regularly filled up, with his own name inserted.
Mr. Dick Snikkers received the document,
and immediately, tearing two circular holes in
it, placed it in a very expressive manner across
his nose to mimic spectacles, and commenced
whistling a psalm-tune. Deacon Brangle had
cast his eye back to see how his decisive service
of a church-warrant had operated on the
nerves of Dick Snikkers, just as that young gentleman
had opened his concerto in glasses.
The sight was too much for the pious Brangle,
and, striding swiftly back, he cried out—
“I'm the vestry myself; I'll settle the contempt
on the spot; boy, I will wring thy nose!” Saying
this, he darted upon that organ of Dick
Snikkers like a pike-fish upon a fresh bait.
“And I'll wring yours!” retorted Dick Snik
kers, darting upon the same feature of Mr. Brangle.
Of the two, Snikkers might be considered
the more successful, as he did fasten upon the
knob of Mr. Brangle's face, whereas, Mr. Brangle
merely managed to pass his thumb and finger
over the extremity of a smooth willow whistle,
which hung at one of Dick Snikkers' button-holes.
However, he performed the whole
ceremony on it with the same hearty honesty
as if it had been the genuine organ, Dick Snikkers,
meantime, pulling away at the real nose
in admirable and muscular style.
At length Snikkers drew off, and Brangle
drew off, carrying with him a nose as red as a
brick with pulling, and Dick Snikkers' willow
whistle between his fingers.
“Egad!” said the deacon, with a horrible
chuckle, as he drew out the latter article, which
he had unconsciously thrust into his coat-pocket—
“I believe I've pulled the fellow's nose off.
Ah!” starting back with a monstrously chopfallen
countenance, “what have we here—the
fellow's baby-whistle. It can't be that I was
tugging at this all the time,” and an awful sensation
thrilled through his mind; “it must be,
I thought the seamp had got a strange notch in
his nose!” With this last observation he abruptly
pitched the toy over a stone fence into
the bushes, and hurried away meditating revenge,
and still more resolved to push the matter
against Gatty Heerabout, in whose plans
this irreverent dog seemed to be an accomplice.
It may be well, however, to observe, that in carrying
his schemes into effect he was doomed to
lose the valuable aid and co-operation of Mr.
Fishtyke; for that exemplary gentleman had
refused to have anything further to do with the
affair, when he found it impossible to obtain a
compromise suggested by him, by which Gatty
Heerabout was to be “first burned to a crispy
or roasted-pig brown, and then hung by the neck
till dead!” He therefore broke off all connexion
with Deacon Brangle, vaunting that he
would, before long, get a witch to prosecute on
his own account!
As the sun sloped toward the west on the afternoon
of that same day, and as broad masses
of its light entered the open door of a crumbling
cottage, or rather hovel, which stood upon the
brow of a hill, overlooking Rye, they fell upon
the form of old Gartred Heerabout, sitting in
a rush-bottomed chair, with a bible spread open
on her knees. The excitement of long-continued
persecution and the sense of insult attached
to the charge of witchcraft, together with a
strong natural sensibility of character, appear
to have at length affected her reason, and as
she sat lonely and unfriended in her hovel, her
mind poured itself out in reminiscences of an
earlier and happier period of life, mingled with
bitter denunciations and gloomy forebodings of
some dreaded event near at hand.
“The Lord will deliver him that is spoiled
out of the hand of the oppressor!” she exclaimed,
adopting the phraseology of scripture. “He
is against thee, oh inhabitant of the valley!
-- 052 -- p265-055
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
Go up to Lebanon, and cry; and lift up thy
voice in Beshan. Wo be unto the pastors that
destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture!
saith the Lord. Do no wrong, do no violence
to the stranger, the fatherless”—and then she
broke abruptly into a different strain.
“Ah Dick, Dick, would that Enoch Heerabout
were now living—he was a comely man,
Dick, and would have been a good father to
thee, and thou shouldst have borne his name,
witch's son or no—those were brave days when
Enoch came a-wooing:
“Were he as poor as Job,
And I in a royal robe---
Made Lord of all the globe,
He should be mine!”
“It's a long day that has no sunset—the sun
looks blood-red—what can that mean?” she
exclaimed, starting to the door and gazing with a
wild and fixed eye upon the declining luminary,
which was just wheeling its broad and lurid
orb into the bosom of an oak forest that crowned
a distant height.
At that moment an ominous sound reached
her ear—the long, shrill whistle of Dick Snikkers
or more properly Dick Heerabout, followed
by the tramp of horsemen and the hurtling,
confused noise of a multitude drawing near. In
an instant more, a large crowd of men, women,
and children, appeared at the foot of the hill
with fiery and eager faces turned towards her,
and foremost among them she described Philip
Brangle with two officers on horseback. The
old woman stood rooted and motionless on the
threshold, gazing down upon the populace with
a look where madness and a certain native
heroism of character mingled, partly in wrath,
partly in scorn. For a moment the undaunted
front and noble mien of the accused old woman
held them silent and immoveable, but this feeling
soon vanished.
“Seize the hag!” cried Deacon Brangle,
“tie her hand and foot—see if she will beard
the vestry again!”
At this order two muscular and fierce-looking
men dismounted and led the way up the hill,
followed by Brangle, who had cautiously thrown
himself under the protection of this advanced
body. As they approached the house Gatty
Heerabout withdrew into the interior and they
gained an entrance without opposition or difficulty.
When they were within the apartment
they discovered her standing erect in its extreme
corner holding on high in one hand her
bible, while the other was concealed in the
folds of her garments; a fierce, supernatural
fire kindling in her eyes.
“Execute your warrant on her person!” For
a moment they paused again until Deacon
Brangle cried out, “Have her in custody forthwith.
We must be before the justice ere sun
down or we will have no hearing to day!”
Thus urged on, the officers approached the
supposed witch, and in an unguarded moment,
while her eyes were turned thoughtfully on the
setting sun, they sprang upon her and held her
in a firm and apparently invincible gripe.
“Once more vouchsafe thy strength,” she
exclaimed, after she had recovered from the
sudden shock, casting her eyes toward heaven.
“Once more only!—Away, ye devils!” she
shouted, exerting a giant's strength, casting the
stout men from her like children—“I will render
my account to God!” And before they
could recover their hold she had plucked a
dagger from her girdle, plunged it hilt-deep
into her bosom—so that its point pierced her
heart—and she fell heavy and lifeless to the
floor!
Balked of this victim, thus unexpectedly,
Deacon Brangle, now gave orders for the apprehension
of her accomplice, Richard Heerabout;
but he, who had disappeared during the
confusion, was nowhere to be found, nor was
he ever after seen or heard of in those bewitched
and bloody regions!
eaf265.n1[1] Cotton Mather.
eaf265.n2[2] For authority as to these abstruse points, consult
“More Wonders of the Invisible World” (1700), tracts
pamphlets, and surviving aged females
It is a fact, I suspect by this time, pretty generally
circulated throughout Christendom, that
when an American politician gets to be a great
statesman; when he has achieved fame for himself
and everlasting glory for his country, and
when nothing more can be done to complete
his renown, he takes his—dinner! When
his constituents have heaped upon him every
honor—elected him to the common council—
the state legislature—and, finally, expanded
him into that full-blown flower of human greatness,
a member of Congress—they express their
incapacity for any further bestowal of dignities—
their sense of the utter hopelessness of any
higher elevation of the man in the esteem and
admiration of the world, by furnishing him with
as much roast-beef and salad as he can eat.
Adroit rogues! they manage to be present with
the great man at this his public ordinary and
masticating exhibition—though absent.
His heavy constituent is served up by proxy,
in a surloin; his loquacious one in a calf's head;
and his busy, little, young admirer, the clerk
or the jeweller's apprentice, in a dish of eels.
His mechanical friend comes there in the guise
of a stuffed, brown duck, with its back to the
plate, sticking up its rough, hard web-feet, as
if it would take him stoutly by the hand. Thus
do his countrymen incorporate themselves with
the mighty statesman, and enjoy the proximate
delight of forming the future substance and
bulk of their idol.
The dinner to a great man is generally got
up by two newspaper editors one lean man, with
a long, sagacious nose, and a small boy. The
editors announce that “It is the intention of a
large number of the constituents of the Honorable
Mr. — to give a public dinner to that
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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
eman, at the earliest opportunity.” The long-nosed,
lean man hires the room, and the small
boy distributes circulars.
A long-nosed lean man—two editors—and a
small boy had performed their part of the business,
and the Honorable Abilemech Blower
was expected hourly by the afternoon boat, to
partake of a public dinner.
The newspapers were in an agony of announcement
and expectation; the sun was on
fire with impatience; the streets were literally
parched and thirsty with suspense. The ticket-holders
assumed clean collars and handkerchiefs,
and a crowd of anxious expectants was
on the wharf straining their optic nerves and
exhausting their nautical knowledge in deciphering
the craft that came up the bay, and
distinguishing butter-sloops from steamboats.
The study of river navigation seemed to have
become an epidemic.
Several times the crowd thought fit to throw
itself into a state of intense and unnecessary
excitement.
“There she is—there's the Aurora High-flyer,”
said a large vagabond, who was bursting
from every part of his dress, like an enormous
monthly rose.
“It is the Highflyer—Blower's in the High-flyer—
I know the Highflyer by her pipe and
the way she cuts the water—the committee
engaged the Aurora Highflyer to bring on Blower
and twelve baskets of Amboy oysters for the
dinner!”
The great vagabond had concluded his explanatory
comments; the mob stood with its
nose in the air and its mouth agape, stretching
forward to catch the first glimpse of the distinguished
member: the Aurora Highflyer was
hidden from view by a brig which was sailing
in the same direction and which kept such
equal progress as to conceal it for more than
ten minutes.
When the brig had arrived nearly opposite
the wharf; the supposed steamboat dropped
behind her stern and a fellow in a har-rim
standing in her bows, bawled out, “Dash my
vitals! them chaps has come down to see the
race! Moses and Melchizedec, who'd ha'
thought it, Bill?” This facetions personage, in
the ardor of a very lively and agreeable fancy,
supposed the crowd had collected to witness a
match between his mud-scow and the brig Caroline,
which had been advertised in one of the
penny papers!
At length the Aurora Highflyer did make
herself apparent: the mob caught sight of a
small man with a mysterious head, who very
obligingly stood on the upper deck with his hat
off making the most singular and condescending
faces at a huge, wooden spile, and bowing
obliquely toward the mob.
The mob were of course, excessively delighted
and expressed their feelings as every welltrained
mob does, by an extraordinary shout
and a still more extraordinary exhibitions of hats
and caps. The great man landed.
The crowd grew more affectionate and admiring;
they pressed closer and closer.
The committee were obliged every minute
to exclaim, “for Heaven's sake, gentlemen!
don't—you'll crush Mr. Blower!” The great
man was finally thrust into a hack—by a broad-handed
member of the committee in so forcible
a manner that he came very near going through
the coach-window at the other side.
A portion of the mob, apparently anticipating
this movement, had planted itself on the opposite
side of the hack, and obtaining a view of
the countenance of the honorable M. C. as it
bobbed that way, successfully executed three
cheers in a masterly style; the committee
mounted in—the door closed, and the hack
dashed up the street. When they arrived at
the saloon, where the dinner was in waiting,
they found the doors surrounded by a dense
throng who had assembled to take measure of
Mr. Blower's person with their eye and greet
him with their most sweet voices. His foot
had no sooner struck the pavement than a general
“Hurrah for Blower!” split the air, and
gave an old woman who was sitting in a
window across the way, a very vivid idea of a
small earthquake. “Nine cheers and an onion,
for Blower!” shouted a discordant gentleman
of the opposite politics.
“Give him a smellin'-bottle—the little gentleman's
a-fainting!” bawled a second, as Mr.
Blower turned pale at the thought of forcing
his way to the door through the well-packed
mass of people.
“Fan him with a chip!” cried a third.
“Loosen his corsets!” shouted a forth.
By dint of the active exertions of twelve police-officers
with heavy sticks, and four private
friends of Mr. Blower, who marched before
him kicking the mob on the shins, the Honorable
Abimelech Blower was at length safely
landed in the room provided for his reception,
with the loss of only one gold key out of the
bunch at the end of his watch-chain, and one
committee-man, who swooned at the presentation
of a butcher-boy's fist directly under his
nose, and was obliged to be carried home.
Meantime the ticket-holders had rushed into
the saloon, and organized themselves by calling
a man with a small voice to the chair, and appointing
fourteen vice-presidents, each one of
the fourteen having a pair of bushy whiskers,
and a gold chain slung like a bandit's carbinebelt
over his breast. Only a single difficulty
arose in arranging the meeting to the entire
satisfaction of every one in it, and that was
simply that the room was intended to hold one
hundred and fifty, and exactly three hundred
purchasers of tickets were present. If they
should attempt to foist off upon them the amount
of dinner they were accustomed to serve up to
the number which the room held alone, it was
quite clear that some one hundred and fifty
good manly voices would be raised to the tune
of “Give me back my dollar!” These three
hundred gentlemen being concentrated in so
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[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
moderate a space, it was rather difficult to decide
by what process the Honorable Abimelech
Blower was to be established in the chair left
vacant for him at the right hand of the President.
In fact, this very question came up for
discussion in the reception-room.
A significant stamping, like that given at the
theatre for the performers to come on, was
heard from the saloon and considerably accelerated
the deliberations of the committee.
Time was pressing. The dinner was spoiling.
The Hon. A. Blower began to grow black in
the face. A messenger was sent round to learn
whether a passage could be made or obtained
through the main entrance. He returned, and
almost breathless with haste and horror, reported
that the fat twins (two celebrated and
eminent feeders) were at the door, clamoring
to be admitted with their tickets. The committee
now began to despair, when a little
man timidly suggested that Mr. Blower might
be got in, if he would consent, under the stage
by the way which the waiters adopted to hand
up their wine to those on the platform. Two
of the most influential members of the committee
ventured to break it to Mr. Blower.
At first he was staggered, but recovering
from the shock, and after a brief consultation
with his appetite, he agreed to practise the
device.
A rumor now reached the saloon that Mr.
Blower was approaching. The three hundred
hungry gentlemen were awed into silence,
and every eye was turned eagerly toward the
door of the committee-room, when—unexpected
vision—a head—a good sized Sphinx-like oracular
head, was put out of a trap-door immediately
behind the president's chair. Astonishment
seized the three hundred ticket-holders.
The head smiled. It was conjectured,
by some half dozen among the meeting, to be
the head of the Honorable Abimelech Blower.
The meeting shouted: the head smiled again.
The meeting cheered; the head was followed
by a pair of spare withered legs, and the Honorable
Abimelech Blower stood before them.
The committee under the platform hurraed
and thumped the boards with their canes, as if
they were overjoyed at its successful delivery
of so great a birth. The rumbling noise under
the stage and the sudden appearance of the distinguished
M. C. made it seem as if the earth
had gaped like another whale, and cast up from
its bowels a second Jonah: a very prophet.
Now that Mr. Blower was duly installed in
his place of honor, the dinner commenced after
a vigorous fashion. Sundry gentlemen in the
body of the saloon, appeared to adopt Mr.
Blower's countenance as a sort of seasoning for
their dishes; for they stole a glance at his expressive
features and then took a mouthful; a
second glance, a second mouthful, and so on to
the end of the course. It gave a relish to their
viands. Mr. Blower, himself, fed in gallant
style. About him in a semi-circle—a kind of
reverential, Druid's stone-arrangement—the
choicest dishes were assembled. A private letter
had been addressed to him at Washington by a
confidential friend to learn whether he preferred
fresh shad or trout; oysters pickled or
in the stew, red pepper or black; and also conveying
a general inquiry as to the game, wines,
&c., which would be most agreeable. In reply
he returned a double epistle written twice
across giving full and explicit information.
With that important state document in their
hands, a committee of three had made a circuit
of the markets, and been guided by it as strictly
and peremptorily as its author professed to be
by the sacred charter of the constitution.
The tour of all these edibles Mr. Blower made
with the solemnity and thorough self-devotion
which befitted the occasion. In his victorious
progress he spared no dish; he entered into no
truce or compromise with fish, flesh, or fowl;
he refused, with a sturdy love of self-enjoyment,
to negotiate with anything that stood before
him whatever winning shape it might assume.
It was a glorious spectacle to behold Abimelech
Blower at his dinner. No wonder, three
hundred human beings were willing to be packed,
like damaged dry goods, into a small saloon.
No wonder they volunteered a dollar a piece to
get in. No wonder, they patiently endured the
heat and suffocation—in truth, almost purgatorial,
of a close, narrow room! Abimelech
Blower at his dinner was a sight Jupiter might
have left his thunder, and Bacchus his cups, to
look upon.
Extravagant and improbable as it may seem,
the Honorable Abimelech Blower did at length
finish his dinner—he absolutely brought it to a
close! The wine was then introduced. The
President thereupon arose, and, in his peculiarly
small voice, said that “he felt himself highly
honored”—“Louder!” shouted an impudent
fellow who had stolen an advance upon the
meeting, of three glasses, “he felt himself
highly honored in being the instrument to convey
to that respectable and intelligent audience,
a sentiment which he knew would meet a
cordial response in the bosom of every gentleman
present. In presenting it, he should say
no more than to simply add that the subject of
it was a patriot, a scholar, an orator, and a citizen,
unrivalled in the four quarters of the
globe (cheers). As a patriot he had given
his time to his country for the last twenty-five
years, at the very moderate rate of eight dollars
per day (enormous applause); as a scholar,
his pamphlet on the Tonawonda system of cultivating
the prairies had gained him immortal
honor throughout the whole state of New York
(ecstatic vociferations); as an orator, his great
speeches on the Panama mission and on the
question of conducting the debates in both
houses of Congress in the Iroquois, have placed
him in an enviable position before the world,
beside Demosthenes and Cicero (hysterical hurrahs);
as a citizen, you all know him, and
love to know that his manly form is the growth—
a true native plant—of your own soil!” At
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the close of this catalogue of Mr. Blower's excellences
irrepressible cheers broke out, like
an erysipelas, all over the meeting. The native
plant, however, sat rooted to its chair,
very quiet and self-composed under this pleasant
irrigation; or rather his face seemed to bud
forth certain complacent smiles and twinklings
which shot about his eyes and the corners of
his mouth, like garden fire-works.
“Gentlemen,” continued the President in
his small, small voice, “I have the honor to
offer you, THE Honorable Abimelech Blower.
The phœnix of his party, he springs,” “louder!”
shouted the impudent fellow again,—“The
phœnix of his party he springs,”—“louder!”
cried the inexorable, impudent man, “I can't,”
exclaimed the President, pale with smothered
rage: nevertheless he proceeded, “he springs
from the ashes of corruption which surround
him, and, like Hercules tears his” (sh-i-r-t
suggested the impudent, drunken man as the
president paused in doubt over his paper) “his
De-janeiras garment from him and springs into
the flame to save his country.”
This admirable and explicit toast was received
with unbounded demonstrations of applause,
and in about two minutes after they
had subsided, the meeting took to their bottles
and Mr. Blower to his legs.
“Fellow-citizens,” said he, calmly withdrawing
a large bandanna from his left coat-pocket,
“no event of my life is more gratifying
to me than this reception: it is the proudest—
the very proudest moment of my existence.
The sentiment which you have had the kindness
to receive so warmly—is only too complimentary,
too flattering. To be a phœnix under
any circumstances, gentlemen, must be highly
gratifying to any man's feelings, but to be the
phœnix of the party of which I am an humble
advocate, is an honor too great—too overwhelming—
for any human being. I thank you,
Mr. President and fellow-citizens, for the kind
compliment, I thank you with all my heart,
and from the bottom of my heart—but I feel—
I fear—I am not sure but that I am unworthy
of the eulogy.” He then proceeded to handle
the allusion to Hercules in a similar manner,
and in due time came to his system—the great
system of which he was the father and promulgator.
“As to the system which I have had the
honor to advocate, for the last three years—and
which I have at length succeeded in carrying
through both Houses of Congress by a triumphant
majority (cheers)—I allude to the system of Short
Commons (continued cheering)—the system
which has routed beershops from the capitol and
banished gingerbread establishments from the
halls of legislation (vociferous applause); as to
this system, gentlemen, which I victoriously
brought to a third reading, and pushed to a successful
decision after a hard-fought and exciting
debate of two days and two nights—I shall not
enter into its amazing results and consequences
at the present time! Its moral bearing upon the
destiny of the world—its influence upon the
business of Congress—and the support which it
indirectly and collaterally lends to the constitution
of the United States—are too obvious to
require explanation.”
Here the fourteen vice-presidents sprang upon
their legs in a body and cheered in magnificent
style—a fat reporter in a small gallery behind
the speaker grinned—the meeting clamorously
hurraed—and an elderly gentleman who couldn't
get a seat and wanted exercise, put his hat
upon his cane and whirled it around in the air,
in a most fascinating manner.
“Mr. President, in urging this great measure
upon Congress, I invoked the spirit of liberty
to come to my aid—I felt it my duty to invoke
that spirit; I called upon the fathers of the
Revolution to appear before me, to stalk forth
in their grave-clothes upon the floor of the
House and animate me in the glorious cause.”
At this moment a noise of cracked bells and
harsh voices from without volunteered to mingle
itself with the sound of the speaker's eloquence.
“`Appear before me,' I exclaimed,” continued
Mr. Blower, “`ye heroes and sages, in your
funeral shrouds and ghastly visages, and infuse
the vigor of your presence into my bosom!”'
A tumult was heard at the door—a slight crash,
as if a panel or two were resigning their places
in the door-frame—an officer's voice was raised
in the uproar—and a dozen or two hard-featured
fellows rushed in—followed by a miscellaneous
throng. They distributed themselves quietly
through the gallery, and the speaker, somewhat
astonished at this rough parenthesis in the proceedings—
continued, suddenly abandoning the
track of apostrophe, which he perhaps thought
had been full speedily and promptly answered.
“My learned friend,” said he, smiling upon
the small-voiced President, “has spoken of me,
in terms of kind commendation, as a patriot, a
statesman, and an orator. But, gentlemen,
whatever gratification it may afford me to know
that I have been able in my time and in the
course of my life to render some service to my
country in these capacities (“Cut that man's
head off!” shouted the impudent man, who
was in his fifth bottle); I feel—I know that
my deepest source of satisfaction—that which
gives me most consolation and solace, is that,
amid all the corruptions and debaucheries of
party, I have been enabled to sustain my purity
and remain an honest man!” An uproar of applause
now burst from every quarter of the
room, slightly seasoned and qualified however
by the voice of a big, pale man in the gallery.
“Pay me for them Wellingtons you've got
on, Blower,” shouted the big, pale man, who appeared
to be a cobbler, from his complexion and
the earnestness with which he demanded an
equivalent for the nether integuments of Mr.
Blower's person.
“The character of our country, fellow-citizens,”
continued Blower again rapidly abandoning
his train of remark to get on less perilous
ground—“The character of our country has
been to me a source of anxious attention.”
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
“I'd like to have you settle for those plushes
and silk vesting!” modestly suggested a little
tailor who was leaning over the railing.
“This principle I brought from my cradle
and shall carry to my grave—sustaining it here
and everywhere while life is granted me.”
“Couldn't you arrange our small bill for
groceries, Mr. Blower,” shouted the impudent
man, who proved to be the out-door partner of
the firm of Firkin & Muzzy, retail grocers—
“it's been running more than four years.”
This was too much for the admirers of the
Hon. Abimelech Blower—“Turn him out—
hustle him!” shouted fifty voices all at once.
“Pass him down!”
Now when it is considered that the doomed
man had established himself in the remote upper
corner of the room, and that the door
through which he was destined to make his exit
was at the opposite extremity, it will be readily
perceived how pleasant a prospect of travel Mr.
Muzzy might reasonably indulge in.
An assemblage of human beings is often compared
to a sea.
Boisterous and dreadful, indeed, was the
ocean on which the ill-fated Muzzy was now
embarking. God assoil thee, poor man! if
thou passest safe through yonder narrow straits,
yeleped the outer door.
“Pass him down!” shouted a dozen voices
at the lower end of the room.
In a trice, the call was answered by the sudden
elevation of Mr. Muzzy some six feet in
the air. Being let down by this billow he fell
into a horrible vortex of stout-handed men, who
whirled him round and round, and then yielded
him to the current which set toward the door.
He next struck in a gulf-stream of muscular fellows,
who hurried him forward at something
like fifteen knots an hour. Thus he pitched
from one raging wave to another, sometimes
being borne toward the right wall and sometimes
toward the left, as the fanciful humor of
the channel varied. Sometimes he landed
among a party of quiet, elderly gentlemen over
their wine, where he rested a moment, as it
were, between two breakers, and looking around
him with pallid visage, thought the tempest was
past. In a second, the gale would spring afresh,
and he would be clutched up, and vexed dreadfully
between two tides which both set against
him with rapacious fury. At length he was
caught up by a mighty billow, in the shape of
two master bakers and a brewer, and dashed
through the dangerous gut toward which he
had been making such perilous progress. On
taking an observation, he discovered that he
was stranded on the curbstone, with his timbers
considerably loosened and his rigging
damaged. In fact, he found himself in a round
jacket (instead of a long tail dress coat, in
which he had entered) and frightened half out
of his wits. Without stopping to fabricate any
moral reflections on the event or to calculate
the extent of his loss, he made a very rapid
pair of legs down the street.
The Honorable Mr. Blower resumed, and continued,
without further interruption, to entertain
the assemblage with an able and eloquent address
in which the words—my country—patriotism—
our free institutions—(three cheers)—down to
our posterity—received from our ancestors—
(applause)—humble advocate—public career—
the constitution—the glorious constitution—(six
cheers)—enemies of human freedom trampled
under foot—(nine cheers)—occurred at regular
intervals, variegated with allusions to the personal
determination of the speaker to stand by
his principles, and all that. The honorable
gentleman sustained an even flight of this kind
for about two hours, during which the fat reporter
in the small gallery took the liberty to
cultivate his somnolent powers, with no despicable
degree of vigor and enthusiasm.
Mr. Blower was proceeding to introduce his
peroration, with nine apostrophes to liberty,
and four distinct and astounding interrogatories
to the crowned heads of Europe, when suddenly,
and without notice, the gas-lights extinguished
themselves in a body. Upon this, several
clear and musical yells were raised by the
hard-featured gentlemen in the gallery, and innumerable
missiles began to be distributed pretty
freely through the saloon. From the number
that reached the Honorable Abimelech
Blower, that gentleman formed a sudden conception
that he was becoming the general centre
of attack, and that the whole meeting had
risen to a man and was bestowing its favors upon
his person.
The committee having likewise arrived at
a somewhat similar conclusion, they thought it
came within their powers to smuggle the person
of Mr. Blower through the door in the platform,
and they accordingly did so, with such a
degree of precipitancy as to draw the port-winecolored
coat which he had on, entirely over his
majestic features. The small-voiced president
they threw in to make sure that all was packed
snug below. The rioters not having learned
the abduction of the Honorable gentleman, continued
to play their missiles toward the spot
which he was supposed to be occupying, until,
at length, a misdirected bottle struck the fat reporter
directly upon the nape of the neck, and
sent him home to write out the speech he had
and had not heard—to say that, “everything
went off in capital style”—that “the address
of the Hon. Mr. Blower was brilliant and thrilling;
and surpassed all his previous masterly efforts”—
and to have a mustard plaster applied
to his occiput! Champaigne-bottles, wine-glasses,
and broken noses, were meantime dealt
about with the most astonishing prodigality, in
the body of the saloon, till daylight looked in at
the windows—when the survivors adjourned.
Two of the committee of reception, who had
become personally responsible for the bills, on
looking over the account which was handed in
the next morning, and in which “to breakage”—
doz. champaigne-glasses; —doz. wine-bottles
(best green glass); fifty window-lights;
-- 057 -- p265-060
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
gas-fixtures; one large chandelier (entirely destroyed
figured conspicuously—and on receiving
a note from the fat reporter, stating that he
should immediately commence an action of damages
for the “disablement of two arteries and
one spinal marrow,” unless some satisfactory
arrangement was made—absconded.
When it is suggested that they left behind
them two tailor's bills—a running account with
a butcher and baker a-piece—and no chattels,
real or personal, save two or three walking-sticks
and seven small children, it will be at
once conjectured how enchanting a prospect
there was of these new demands being met by
cash payments!
Harvey Lamb was a poor druggist in the
city. He was very poor—his life ebbed on in a
meager channel, with a scanty tide that barely
kept him from sinking. He was not born poor,
nor had he become poor through unthrift or improvidence,
but by one mischance and another—
a misfortune—a Ioss at sea—an unexpected
turn of events, he had been gradually brought
down the fair mountain-side, into the low vale
of sorrowful and barren poverty where he now
dwelt. Whatever of flickering splendor—of
past pomp or glory of condition had been left to
him after all this, sickness, like a hard creditor,
had stepped in, and with her pale, slow, but
inevitable hand, swept from the stage. The
lights were extinguished—the curtain was torn
down—the scenery (which, in truth, had been
to him scarcely more than imaginary)—the fairy
coloring and decoration of his boyhood, were
vanished from his view. He was very poor,
but not without consolation. His treasury of
mere money, it is true, was exhausted—but
there was one that presided over the exchequer
whose resources scarce ever ran low. Fancy,
a true poet's fancy, made a noble mistress of
the mint. She was ever ready to meet his demands—
smilingly to give him bills and drafts
(such as they were) upon the future. It was
sufficient luxury for Harvey Lamb to live under
the bounty of this generous dispenser. Grant
him but life—life in its poorest, frailest form—
and the free indulgence of his fanciful humor,
and he was content. In the dungeon or the
prison he would have slept at case—give but
fancy, sweet, radiant creature, for his jailer!
He would ask no wider limits than she could
grant.
He was very poor—but he had a faithful,
fond wife. Mary Lamb was all that the wife
of such a man should be. She was not a copy
of her husband in every quality; her faculties
were not necessarily matched, head and head
with his. On the contrary, Mary Lamb, was,
as it were, a continuation of Harvey Lamb—
a pleasant supplement, almost equalling in
value the original volume itself—in which,
whatever was dark in the first, was cleared up—
whatever obscure, expounded—whatever weak,
strengthened and sustained. She was just what
a wife should be—not a rival to her husband—
for that would be harsh and unmeet—a source
of jarring discords and unfriendly sounds—but
a sweet possessor of other powers—some lighter,
some deeper—by which the double joy—the
twin being of wedded life, was made complete.
Oh! what a blessing is poverty, to spirits like
these! It wrought upon them its triumphant
miracles. It revealed to them the great secret
how all-in-all two beings may be to each other,
when they become nothing to the world, and
the world is nought to them; for poverty, like
fame, holds a trumpet in her hand, and with it
summons from the breast the noblest strength
and kindliest feeling of our nature. From
the deep places of the heart, great emotions—
heaven-like attachments, come flocking to the
call of its sad music, like sea-nymphs from the
vast ocean, at the sound of “Triton's wreathéd
horn.”
Harvey Lamb, with his wife, lived in an obscure
street, in a single, small room, in the
front of which he kept his little shop—a scanty
assortment of drugs and vials. This was their
only source of revenue. The business which
was there carried on was of the most trifling
sort; a fanciful old neighbor would now and
then send over for a pennyworth of saffron for
her canary-bird; or a dry, shrug-shouldered
Frenchman, up the street, would send down for
a little brimstone for his dog—on, heaviest of
his professional undertakings, he would be
called upon to bleed an apoplectic alderman,
who lived round the corner, fronting the square.
Thus year after year passed away. Harvey
Lamb heard the din and tumult of the money-making
world, but remained unmoved. Strange
man! he saw the rich merchant crash by in his
equipage, his face all wrinkled with care, and
erect with importance—and yet felt no ambition
to take the road for wealth, to pant upon the
course for the prize of plate!
Poor fool! he sat behind his counter scribbling
poetry or dreaming it.
At length Harvey Lamb was taken sick. At
first it was mere weakness; but in a short time
it assumed the pale-red guise of a decline. He
was brought to his bed and bound there by the
disease; and yet it was wonderful how fancy
still held her sway—wearing her crown of flowers,
and waving her ivied sceptre with the same
galliard and daring air as in his hour of perfect
health. His thoughts ran more sparkling than
ever; his dreams were more populous with golden
creatures; his visions came to him freighted
more and more with the perfume of the pleasant
world of faery.
“Mary,” said he, one morning to his wife,
who stood by his bedside, ministering to his illness—
“Mary, I shall leave you no child as a
legacy by which to remember me! When I
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
depart, you will be alone in the world—alone,
without friend or comforter!”
“Oh! talk not so, my dear husband! talk
not so; you are child and father to me now,
and I trust will remain so, ever and ever while
we are on earth. Tinge not your thoughts, my
dear Harvey, with these sad colors of death!”
She sank upon his face, and, bestowing on his
lips a fervent kiss, she sat down in a chair and
wept.
“This is folly, Mary,” answered her husband,
“utmost folly. I fear not death, why
should you? Nothing can be pleasanter and
sweeter than death. To lie down in a retired,
country grave-yard, in a cheerful sleep, like
that which the violets enjoy before they show
their glad, fragrant faces upon the earth; to listen
with a calm ear—if the dead may listen—
to the thousand busy sounds that nature makes
along the round surface of the globe; to hearken
to these—the faint, gentle whisper of the
spring grass, as it first shoots from the mould
(noise heard only by dead and immortal beings)—
the rustling of the lark's wings as he takes
his morning farewell of the earth—the snake's
gliding noise,—the crickets chirp—the fountain's
bubbling harmony—these are the entertainments
provided for us in our last home!
Blessed—thriee-blessed tenement!”
“Long, long may it be ere you remove from
this home to that—dingy though it be!” sobbed
his wife, taking him by the hand, and gazing
earnestly and kindly in his face.
“Oh, Mary, fear not,” he replied, “I shall
visit you again. When I have left the flesh,
nothing will please me more, as a disembodied
spirit, than to revisit my old haunts and my
old friends. I shall come back, you may be
sure, to see how you bear your widowhood. I
shall look into the money-drawer, and learn if
it has grown heavier or lighter since I left. You
must leave the old, dark sign, with my name on
the door, Mary, so that I can find the shop!”
“You are talking wildly, I fear, my dear husband!”
said his wife, who, in spite of her reason,
was carried along on the stream of his fastflowing
fancies.
“It will be so, it will be so,” he continned,
“I shall come back to see whether you grow
old and sorrowful when I am away—to learn
how time passes with you. I shall visit you in
spring, for that is your cheerfullest season of
the year. You must be in a joyous mood, so
that I can tell how near like heaven a pleasant
face may make a little corner of the earth like
this—look!—I shall return to find how our little
neighbor improves with his violin; whether
Mrs. Pegg's canary has got well of his new,
everlasting cold—and to learn whether the moss,
in the caves of the house, preserves its green
old youth as fresh as ever!”
Thus, the sick man kept climbing an endless
Jacob's-ladder, building pile of fancies upon
pile, and deseending each time, as it were, with
a face glowing with the hues of one who had
for a while breathed a heavenlier climate, and
enjoyed a nearer access to the mysteries of the
life that is to come.
The next day after this, it was evident that
the disease was beginning to triumph over his
frame. He refused to allow a physician to be
summoned. He wished to die in peace, with
none to look upon his face but his fond wife,
and no face to mar the quiet scene of departure
but hers. When the discovery of the fatal
character of his illness first broke upon her
mind, she was overwhelmed. For a time she
was stunned—and then, almost frantic with
sorrow. But she was unwilling that one so
near and dear to her should leave the world beholding
her agony and distress. She would not
disquiet his last moment (if she could) with a single
uneasy or repining thought.
She restrained her grief and listened in silence,
as her dying husband spoke of the parting
which he felt to be near at hand.
“Mary,” said he, looking fondly, and with a
melancholy smile upon his wife—“Mary, I hear
the bell tolling for the departure of a poor man.
For a day there will be a black thought upon
the memories of a few kindly neighbors—my
gravestone, as the newest in the yard, will be
read for a week or so—and I shall have closed
all my account with the world!”
As he spoke, a long, lean, spectral cat glided
in at the door, and the sound of children at play
upon the walk, came in through the opening—
and the beat of a drum, rumbling in a far-off
street, was faintly heard.
“I will close the door,” said Mary, rising to
accomplish her purpose.
“No, no,” said he, “let me hear the sound
of human voices. Let me have all the stir of
life without, in its most joyous noises, as I
leave; for where I go I shall find them all, only
in purer and gayer shapes. Throw open the
door, and the casement too, my dear, I wish to
look upon the flowers in the window across the
way.”
She stepped to the casement to gratify the
dying man's wish—she lifted the window half-way
up—heard a faint sigh—and turning, found
herself a lone widow in the desolate chamber!
That same day, toward the evening, Mrs.
Lamb had been seen leaving the shop, with her
bonnet and shawl. That night passed, and she
returned not. A poor boy, living in the neighborhood,
had closed the doors, and put up the
shutters of the shop windows. The next day
passed away, and the next, and no tidings were
heard of the absent woman. On the third day
it chanced that an uncle of Harvey Lamb had
come into town from the country, and calling
at his drug store was astonished to find it closed,
and an air of gloom hanging about it and the
whole street. When he learned that Harvey
Lamb was indeed dead, he was still more astonished,
no word of his illness having ever reached
his ears before.
And now that the sad story was told, in all
its completeness, his duty was clear. He had
the body properly prepared and provided with
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
a coffin, and, departing, took it with him into
the country to lay it in his old, ancestral grave-yard,
beside his mother, his sister, and his little
brother, that had died many, many years ago.
On the Sunday of the next week, Mary Lamb
returned, her hair dishevelled, her dress soiled,
and her face haggard with fatigue, hunger, and
exposure. To many questions she answered
not a word; but entering the house, and finding
the corpse removed, she gave one loud, piercing
shriek, and with a small bundle of clothes in
her hand, again departed. Choosing a street
which led directly into the suburbs of the town,
she hurried forward as if some matter of life
and death hung upon her steps.
Crowds of people were on their way to church,
and as she mingled with the stream and passed
on, every eye was turned upon her in pity and
wonder. Some of the more thoughtful and compassionate
would have stopped her, and inquired
into her trouble and suffering; but there was
that of wildness and mad resolve about her
look, which too plainly told that she would
not be questioned, or that questioning would
be fruitless.
The next morning she was seen crossing the
fields beyond the skirts of the city, having passed
the night God only knows where! Alas! how
many poor wretches are there who appear in the
morning and disappear at night-fall, whose hours
of rest and slumber go by in unknown and pitiless
places! How many to whom the sun seems
to be their only friend, and who skulk away
when he has set—care-worn, heart-broken—
and hide themselves in haunts which the wild
beast itself would shun!
Early spring was beginning to gladden the
earth, but the poor, desolate woman walked on,
taking no heed of the sweet-scented buds that
smiled forth along the road, upon which she
was now travelling.
She had left the beaten turnpike for a moment,
and taken the high bank which skirted
close to the fence, and was strolling along the
foot-path when she saw two or three boys in a
tree over the stone wall, fixing a bird-cage among
its branches. Getting over, she came under the
tree, and exclaimed, looking into the face of a
smiling little boy—the youngest of the three—
“Can you tell me, child, where Harvey
Lamb was buried?”
The little boy instantly came down, and going
up to the questioner, took her hand and said,
“No, ma'am, but grandfather is buried over in
that orchard;” and the child turned and pointed
to a gravestone in the far part of the orchard,
a tear starting meanwhile into his sad little
blue eyes.
“But Harvey Lamb's grave,—child, I must
find that!”
“Grandfather's grave is the only one near
here,” replied the boy. “He died before mother
and sister and my two aunts—so he lies all
alone over in the field.”
The little boy's genuine kindliness had won
the poor widow's heart and drawing him to her
bosom, she gave him a fond embrace, and wept
warm tears to think that no such blessed pledge
had been ever granted to her.
“There's a graveyard by the church, good
woman,” said the boy, in answer to a second
question of Mary Lamb, “come, I'll show you,
ma'am, it's only up the road a little ways.”
Saying this, the child took her again by the
hand—led her through the bars (which he let
down) into the road, and up the road they
journeyed about half a mile, when they turned
down a lane, and in a moment more were in
sight of the tombstones of a country church-yard.
It stood upon a point of land around
which a calm current flowed, lending to the
neighboring graves a type of that rest which
none but the dead can know.
The little boy threw open the graveyard
gate, and exclaiming, “The sexton's in there
now, digging a grave for old Billy!” seampered
off back to his companions.
As Mary Lamb entered the burial-place, she
heard a voice, apparently issuing directly from
the bosom of the earth, singing—
“Care not I
How deep they lie—
Five feet or five feet ten.
They've served their time upon the earth:
They've had their wedding and their birth;
Their frolie, holiday and mirth:
They'll serve their time below.
Care not I
How deep they lie.”
On approaching the particular spot from
which it seemed to bubble up, and looking down
into a pit some four feet deep, she beheld a
little, bald-headed man, with his jacket off,
toiling away, like a mole, in the earth.
“Can you tell me where Harvey Lamb is
buried?” said the widow, asking her perpetual
question.
“Not in my yard!” answered the little sexton
gruffly, not deigning to look up.
“Pray, sir, can't you tell me where Harvey
Lamb's grave is?” persevered the poor woman,
something betraying itself in her tone which
touched the little sexton's feelings.
“There's no Lambs buried in my yard,” answered
he; “nor there hasn't been a Lamb
laid in, since old Billy Hubbard's father's grave
was dug, and that was the first grave that was
ever made here. And now I am making a house
for old Billy No. 2—old Billy's son. They was
very quarrelsome in their lives, but now they're
a-going to lay next to each other, as quiet as
young sparrows. Death's a mighty leveller,
madam,” said the little sexton sententiously,
now, for the first time, looking up.
“Gracious, my dear,” exclaimed the gravedigger,
as his eye fell upon the trouble-worn
and mournful features of the poor widow, “you
look very pale. Have you lost any dear friend?
Old Billy's no kin, I hope: if so, I beg your
pardon.” By this time he had lifted himself
out of the unfinished grave. “Come along
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[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
with me, whose grave was it you wanted to
find?”
“Harvey Lamb's.”
“Harvey Lamb's—some old uncle or ancestor's,
I suppose,” continued the garrulous and
really good-humored little sexton. “Come
along—my wife may be can help you—she's
kept a book of all the deaths and burials in
these parts for twenty-years, beginning with
old Daniel Hubbard (Billy's father), and running
down to an unweaned babe that died this
morning of a small brain fever. Come along.”
Across the disordered mind of Mary Lamb a
hope now gleamed, that she might be able to
find the object of her painful search—the grave
of her husband. She was received very kindly
by the sexton's wife, who, when she learned
the melancholy nature of the poor woman's
visit, immediately produced a soiled old blankbook,
which she handed to her visiter.
Eagerly was it seized by the anxious woman,
and hastily was it examined. “There's no
such name there!” said she, giving it back to
the sexton's wife, with a tone and look as if
her very heart was breaking. “It's not there—
I must begone on my business.” She would
have immediately gone forth and perilled the
exposures and the damp and the darkness of
another night spent in the cold air, had not
the good old couple entreated her, with almost
tears in their eyes, to stay with them until the
morning at least. She did at length—taking
her evening meal with them—and enjoying a
slumber (broken indeed with strange images
and phantasies of the brain) under their roof—
but when the morning came she was up and
had stolen away before any one was stirring of
the sexton's household.
Day after day did Mary Lamb ramble over
the country, putting to every one her constant
question. The death's bolt which had stricken
down her husband, had pierced her heart beyond
all remedy. From the moment when she
had found herself a widow in the silent chamber,
thought, reason, and restraint, seemed to
have abandoned her—desolate as she was before.
The husband that she loved appeared to
be ever gliding before her, beckoning her forward
with a shadowy hand, and with that pale,
sad look which was upon him when he died—
upon the pilgrimage she had begun. Onward
she rambled with hasty steps—making herself
familiar with the names of the dead in every
village and country church-yard, and perusing
the silent pages on which their departure was
recorded with a mournful eagerness.
Sometimes, in the different parts of the country
she had visited, a rumor prevailed that a
mad woman had broken into a church and carried
off the sexton's register. At others, that a
wild female had been seen strolling about the
fields, or sitting under the trees, earnestly perusing
papers which she held in her hand, or
tearing them piecemeal and scattering them
along the lanes and highways.
One day she came to a quaker place of burial,
and entering it through the gate, began her
customary examination of the head-stones, sitting
upon the green graves and reading the inscriptions,
while her face was pale and flushed
by turns as hope or fear predominated.
She had at length grown weary and, for a
moment pausing from her task, sat down under
the fence and commenced chanting,
“In the cold earth my love lies cold;
Oh tell me gently where he lies?
Is it beneath a flowerless turf—
Or do the blue-bells' smiling eyes
Spread o'er his grave their cheerful dyes?
Where buttercups in golden colors glow
There lies my love asleep.
Lie still, my love! and till I come,
A calm, unbroken slumber keep!”
It chanced, while she was singing, that there
was another person in the farther part of the
graveyard—a venerable old quaker, who had
come there to visit the grave of an only daughter,
that had been buried the day before. The
plaintive voice of Mary Lamb reached his ear.
“Daughter, why dost thou weep?” said the
old man, approaching her. “I have cause to
mourn, for I have lost my only child—my dear,
sweet Anna, the stay and comfort of my old
age—but wherefore dost thou, so young and so
lovely, weep?”
Mary lifted her eyes, and answered him with
her customary old question, “Can you tell me
where Harvey Lamb is buried?”
“It was of him, then, daughter, that thy
verses spake! Lamb—Harvey Lamb—there are
none of that name buried here; but, let me
consider—there was a Lamb buried somewhere
lately. Oh! it was over at Mount Pleasant! a
young man, I think, brought from the city—
there was a strange story told of him.”
“It was my husband—my dear, dear husband!”
cried the widow. “It was Harvey—
he came from Mount Pleasant—strange that I
never thought of it before, was it not?”
This was the first time that the idea of her
husband's being buried among his fathers had
crossed her bewildered mind, and she would
have set out for the spot at once, had not the
old quaker delayed her almost by force, and insisted
upon her going home with him, and taking
rest and food.
It was in the close of the afternoon, and the
sky began to be overcast. In a few moments,
Mary Lamb and her companion were within
his dwelling, just as the first drops of the shower
pattered upon the door-steps. The benevoolent
old quaker introduced her to his wife, and
they sat down to the evening meal. The meal
was finished, and Mary said that she felt wearied,
and wished to lie down. The old quaker's
wife thereupon conducted her up stairs, and led
her into a neat, clean room, furnished with a
bed, every appointment of which was as fresh
as April snow. Bidding her a kind good-night,
the quakeress withdrew. She had no sooner
left the apartment, than Mary Lamb slipped on
her bonnet—cautiously opened the door—and,
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gliding gently down stairs, stole out of a sidedoor
which led into the garden, and hastily surmounting
the garden fence, found her way into
the open fields.
The rain was falling in torrents—and a cold,
damp, dreary night was before the wanderer.
Broad flashes of lightning glared over the
whole western horizon, and the thunder boomed
and bellowed fearfully along the sky. Now and
then a peal would begin far off, and rolling
nearer and nearer with a heavy sound, as if a
great chariot were driven across the heavens,
burst with awful distinctness directly over the
head of the lonely woman. A deluge of rain
followed every discharge, and beat upon her
person with pitiless strength.
Nevertheless, she steadily pursued her course.
She had, at length, rambled into a portion of the
country with which her childhood had been familiar.
She knew every road, and turnpike, and
bypath, as well as if she had travelled them
but yesterday, and thus was enabled to make
rapid progress on her perilous adventure. Thus
for many hours she kept on, despite the rain,
the lightning, and the horrid thunder. Nothing
was before and around her but the darkness,
and yet a great, an animating, and liberal hope
lured her on. Friendless and storm-beaten,
she pursued her dangerous path, without fear,
without misgiving or doubt. She was not alone—
though she seemed to be—for that shadowy
form, which had been the guide of her pilgrimage,
was with her still, and with its sweet, sad
face, invited her forward and encouraged every
step. God bless thee, noble woman! for there
will be an end to the weary journey—strange—
mournful—but lovely and touching.
Morning at last broke upon her path. The
storm had passed away, and the cheerful face
of nature was before her. The sky sparkled
above her head with a clear brilliancy, as if it
had been purified by the flood that had descended.
Tree and verdure, bird and blossom, bathed
in the shower, assumed a new color of vigorous
and pleasant spring-time youth.
The genial rays of the sun shot through the
air, and made the atmosphere soft and balmy,
operating like a well-tempered bath upon the
limbs, and bracing the traveller for her journey.
With the new aspect of the morning, a brightness
had come over the spirit of the poor widow,
and she hastened on her way with a speed that
seemed every moment to increase. She reached
a road along which she had often trodden to
school in her girlish prime of life; she saw the
old school-house, and her heart beat with many
fond remembrances. She came in sight of her
own mother's house, where she had been wooed
and won by the lover of her youth; her emotions
were almost too great to bear.
She flew past it! She reached the old grave-yard—
hastily and tremblingly she entered its
sacred domain. Her eye fell upon a newly
erected gravestone bearing the name of Harvey
Lamb. It was his—her own dear husband's!
She fell down upon the earth and wept.
There, for a long time, she lay senseless.
At length a passer-by entered the graveyard,
and looking into her face—for she had raised
herself, by a convulsive effort, upon her knees,
and turned it toward the inscription—with her
hands firmly clasped—he found that she was,
in truth, dead! Her heart had broken in delirious
joy at the fulfilment of her hope; and
she knelt before the plain, homely gravestone,
like a devotee at the shrine of his saint. With
many tears for her sorrow and her beauty, they
laid her beside the husband of her youth!
The friends of the N. A. Society for the Encouragement
of Imposture mustered in strong
force at the Chapel gates at ten, on a fine Monday
morning, in the month of April. It was delightful
to see the number of sharp, shrewd
faces that pressed for the doors the moment
they were opened. There was a stamp on almost
every countenance that proclaimed its
owner a stanch, true friend of the cause whose
first anniversary was about to be celebrated
within.
The chair was taken by “our esteemed and
respected fellow-citizen” Mr. Solomon Chalker,
whose long, saint-like visage is pretty generally
familiar to the community, and, in fact, impressed
upon the memories of many of them, so
thoroughly blended and associated with keen
bargains and certain sly tricks of trade, that it
might fairly be considered a stereotype. When
Mr. Chalker deposited his person in a chair
upon the platform, a murmur of applause arose
from the assembly. In a few brief words he
expressed his thanks for the distinguished honor
the board of managers of the N. A. E. I. Society
had conferred upon him, in calling him to
preside over their deliberations.
Still deeper was his pleasure, still higher his
gratification, in occupying the chair in the presence
of an audience so remarkable for their
intelligence, their integrity, and their respectability,
as he had no doubt was the one before him!
He should endeavor to conduct the proceedings
of the day temperately, firmly, and in such
a manner as he hoped would meet the approval
of the audience, the members of the society, and
the board of managers.
During the delivery of this address (which
was received with flattering demonstrations),
the chairman kept his two hands sturdily thrust
into his side-pockets—apparently to be assured
that his finances were in due order and safety—
and a very judicious disposition of his hands
it was, considering the company he was in.
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He was surrounded by the board of managers
themselves. At times, too, a soft sound was
heard issuing from the mouth of his pocket, like
the noise of metals clashing and jingling together,
as if to keep the audience advised that the
speaker was a respectable man, and well-to-do
in the world! Mr. Chalker arose a second time
and stated that the first annual report would
be immediately read by the corresponding secretary,
Mr. Boerum. Mr. Boerum accordingly
dislodged himself from a high-backed chair, and
exhibited to the meeting a short man, with a
heavy, solemn countenance, and unrolling a
bundle of papers, satisfactorily established, the
moment he opened his lips that he had a voice,
whose tones could roll like low, distant thunder—
growling and muttering over the heads of
the audience. The board of managers instantly
cast themselves into attitudes of profound attention,
both hands griping their knees, and
their ears turned obliquely toward the corresponding
secretary—as if they had not heard the
report read over by that identical pair of lips
twelve distinct times!
The Board of Managers of the North American
Society for the Encouragement of Imposture,
in presenting to you this, their first Annual Report,
can not but be devoutly thankful for the
degree of success which has attended their labors
during the past year. The board of managers
at a recent meeting resolved “That the
prosperity which, notwithstanding contending
difficulties, has characterized the society, affords
encouragement to prosecute its objects with increasing
energy.” Before we proceed to speak
of the various efforts which have been made to
promote the cause, your board can not but advert
with pleasure to the spirit of harmony that
has pervaded the different friends of imposture
in every quarter. The conduct of the retail
dry-goods dealers during the past twelve months
has been highly cheering and refreshing. They
have sold, as appears by statistics in the hands
of your recording secretary, during that comparatively
brief space of time, no less than twelve
thousand common ten-dollar red shawls at twenty-five
dollars a-piece, as actual merinoes! In addition
to this, they have disposed of two hundred
and fifty pieces of sky-blue homespun as sea-green
broadeloth, by the proper arrangement of
the light in the back part of their stores!
Furthermore, so thoroughly have they been
animated by the great principles of this society,
they have within the last three months, by unanimous
consent, reduced the yard measure another
inch, so that their customers are now furnished
with thirty-four inches for a yard instead
of thirty-five, as had been the practice for
some years past! The consequences of this
measure, in the opinion of your board, can not
be too eagerly and enthusiastically anticipated.
It is destined to create an entire revolution in
the manners of the community! The male mem
bers of it, instead of walking about our streets
in those extravagant, long-tailed coats and flowing
pantaloons, will now, by this dexterous
change of measurement, be reduced to small-clothes!
And the female portion, who have
been so long habituated to fifteen yards per
dress, will now be forced to exhibit their wellturned
ankles and snow-white bosoms to the
gaze of the world in fourteen yards and a quarter,
short measure! Your board are very happy
to be able to state, that this movement of the
retail dry-goods dealers has been cordially met
and responded to by the merchant-tailors and
mantuamakers. No resistance to this wholesome
innovation has been made from that quarter;
on the contrary, they have given it their
hearty and emphatic co-operation. The former,
as soon as they learned this important movement
on the part of their brethren, immediately
enlarged their cabbage-holes; and the latter,
the lady mantuamakers, such of them as were
single, wer instantly married, and made preparation
for two girls a-piece, to be dressed in
such fashionable silks as their customers may
furnish during the next eighteen months!
The shoemakers throughout the city, and, as
far as has been heard from, throughout the
State, your board have been gratified to learn,
adhere with praiseworthy tenacity to their old
and established habit of delivering their fabrics
(such as boots and shoes) precisely two weeks
after the time promised! While these particular
cases have afforded to your board subjects
of the most lively contemplation, they have been
pleased to observe that the cause of imposture
is going forward with rapid strides in every
part of our dearly-beloved country. Its standard
is planted in every road and thoroughfare,
and flies from every house-top. Its drum-beat
is heard all over the land, summoning recruits,
and rallying together the friends of sharp trade
and large profit. Your board are deeply penetrated
with heart-felt pleasure in being able to state
that several interesting cases, illustrating the
principles of this society, have occurred in the intercourse
of the United States' government and
the red men, and in which the latter have been so
signally overreached and out witted, that it is sincerely
feared by your board that they will never
again furnish an example of the superiority of
the white man over the Indian in natural eunning
and profound roguery. The board have
had it under serious consideration for the past
six months, to establish agencies and branches
of this society among the Indian tribes for the
purpose of promoting the cause of imposture,
and supplying the aborigines with the elegant
amusements of trade and trickery which are of
so much more elevated a character than their
untutored pursuits in the forest. It is the opinion
of your board that the Indians would make
very good milliners, deputy-sheriffs, and auctioneers.
Their taste in feathers—their keenness
of scent, and their exquisite voices, would
amply qualify them for these employments.
From reports which have already reached
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[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
your board they have reason to believe that the
great cause in which we are engaged is making
rapid progress among the native tribes. “The
Choctaws,” writes a firm friend of the cause, in
April last, “The Choctaws have established a
fashionable boarding-school among them for
Choctaw young gentlemen. In this school I
saw five Choctaw youths engaged in learning
the Greek language—and going into a consumption.
The cause is prospering; all that
is wanted is more brandy, more benevolence.”
With these flattering prospects before them
your board can not but feel renewed zeal in the
great cause in which they have embarked. On
every side cheering and delightful evidences of
the rapid spread and success of our principles
present themselves to the eyes of your board.
One source of unmingled gratification your
board can not with justice omit to notice—the
vast increase of physicians and attorneys. From
this increase they augur the most favorable results
to the cause. Whatever can be done to
promote its advancement by administering
wrong medicines and improper advice, by purging,
as it were, the system and the pocket, and
by fabricating respectable and not too moderate
bills of costs and charges, will, they are assured,
be done by the efficient and important auxiliaries
to whom they have alluded. The number
of mortgages galloped into foreclosure, of consumptive
patients to whom stiff catharties have
been administered and of children who have
been physicked indiscriminately without reference
to the disease, is truly cheering and encouraging
to your board.
The efficiency and activity with which the
master-builders have come up to the support of
the cause also requires some notice at our
hands. From an extensive and thorough inquiry
set on foot by one of your board we have
learned that a method of building is now in
practice throughout this city by which one
whole side of the house is contrived to fall
down some morning about two months after its
erection, leaving the family pleasantly taking
their tea on the remnant of the ruins. This
system furnishes a very agreeable diversity in
the monotonous course of married life, and meets
the cordial and sincere approbation of your
board. The master-builders have humbly inquired
of your board, whether the objects of
the N. A. Society for the Encouragement of Imposture
would be best accomplished by having
the defect in the timber or the brick-work. To
enlighten your board they suggested that when
the timber shrinks, in nine cases out of ten, a
mere collapse takes place, a wall here and there
sundering and a floor giving way, but that when
the brick-work is laid with sufficient haste and
feebleness, there is a very good likelihood of the
roof falling in, as the foundations are pretty sure
of yielding. Your board, with due deference
to the objects of the Society and the wishes of
its members, after mature deliberation, decided
in favor of the latter plan, as it furnishes the oc
cupants of the building with a ready made
coffin and saves the expenses of a funeral.
Your board regret to state that, in the midst
of all this prosperity, a cloud has obtraded;
two of the members of your board having been
unfortunately hanged during the past year, in
consequence of miscarriage in two or three innocent
schemes; one, a resident member, having
been detected in an arson of a building containing
a deed of a valuable piece of property,
given by him, but not on record. The other,
who was a respected corresponding member of
your board, in the great valley of the West, had
the misfortune to be lynched one morning before
breakfast, having been detected with a
large bundle of the “Impostor's Primer” upon
his person, which he was preparing to distribute.
Brother Snufflight fell a martyr to the
cause, with the certificates of his zeal and his
character in his hands! Thus have two of our
associates been snatched from our midst, in the
very prime of their usefulness. Brother Snufflight
was twenty-seven the very morning he
was subjected to martyrdom, as appears by an
entry in his journal: “Twenty-seven this day;
Heaven willing, I shall consummate it by circulating
the primer in large numbers—and distraining
on the widow for the rent of the small
brick-front in Scrabble street.” Your board
have now brought their first annual report to a
conclusion. They think they see enough in the
results of the past year to animate you to renewed
effort. The work truly is great; it is a
mighty and gigantic one. Contemplate it in all
its length and breadth, its depth and height—its
majesty and beauty. And now that we have
arrived at the commencement of another official
year, will we not resolve that our course shall
be marked by activity—zeal—fury—madness!—
yes, we repeat, madness and insanity in the
great cause of imposture! “Will we not,” in
the words of the lamented Snufflight, “will we not
live, eat, drink, sleep, with the mighty cause of
imposture ever present to our minds? Will we
not give ourselves up, body, soul, and spirit,
nerves, marrow, and fingers, to the giant business
in which we have embarked? Will we
not give our right hands to the altar whose sunlight
has poured its torrents upon our benighted
minds—that others may also see and be blessed?”
Your board can not do better than commend
these remarkable words of the dying
Snufflight to your understandings, and request
you to contribute liberally to the cause of which
he was so distinguished an ornament, as there
is a deficiency in last year's account (as appears
by the treasurer's report) of one thousand
one hundred and eleven dollars and twenty-three
cents.
In behalf of the Board of Managers,
T. Boerum, Cor. Sec.
The reading of the report was frequently interrupted
by intense and enthusiastic applause,
and at its close the audience gave a fresh round
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[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
more vigorous and enthusiastic than ever. The
chairman now rose and stated that the treasurer's
annual report would be read by Brother
Pawket, treasurer of the society, and, adjusting
his spectacles he looked about the platform for
the countenance of that excellent and skilful
financier. To his astonishment, the face of
Brother Pawket did not at once present itself to
his view. Several members of the board of managers
now joined Mr. Chalker in the search,
and the eyes of the whole audience were directed,
with fearful anxiety, toward the spot from
which they expected the treasurer to emerge.
Brother Pawket was not in the house; a lad
was instantly despatched to his residence to tell
him that the audience were waiting for him
and his report. In the meantime, to occupy the
attention of the meeting, about fifty females in
bonnets, and half as many males in red, brown,
white, and auburn hair, stood up behind the
president's chair and began bellowing in concert
the touching and effective melody “All
round my hat,” or something that sounded very
much like it. Just as they concluded, the boy
came running back, and rushing, breathless, up
to the meek Mr. Chalker, cried out, “Mrs.
Pawket says as Mr. Pawket's gone to Halifax—
and sends her compliments and hopes the
S'ciety'll make provision for 'er, as she's left a
destitute wider!” Mr. Chalker was thunderstruck
at this figurative announcement of the
fact that the treasurer had absconded—the
board of managers turned pale with horror—
and gloom pervaded the whole audience. The
meek and solemn chairman, however, soon recovered
the tone of his mind, and, rising again,
notified the audience that Brother Bibby was
present and prepared to give them an interesting
account of the state of imposture in foreign
lands. With this, a middle-sized gentleman,
with sable hair hanging over his back, like a
hank of black yarn on a spinning-wheel head,
and brushed back smartly from his forehead—
stepped forward and smiled agreeably to the
meeting. He forthwith threw himself into the
proper attitude in front of the desk. “Within
the past year he (Mr. Bibby) had visited Kamschatka—
the northern part of Russia—Hindostan,
and several of the Pelew islands. From
what he had seen, he was well satisfied the
cause was triumphing in those regions of the
earth. Dogs was horses, he was very happy
to state, in Kamschatka still; and in Hindostan
widows was firewood. As to Russia he (Mr.
Bibby) thought that Siberia was a delightful
place, and continued to have an uncommon number
of visiters; Siberia was so solitary and retired
like, that it was just the spot for philosophers
and gentlemen who loved meditation and
spare diet. The Pelew islands continued to
maintain their well-established character for
native tact and a certain adroit style of entering
ship's cabins and coat-pockets, which was
still epidemical in that quarter of the world.
But in Siam (continued Bibby, with great enthusiasm),
in Siam, it was that he had been
most profoundly astonished, gratified, and overwhelmed
at the success of the great principles
of imposture. He (Mr Bibby) had seen, in that
favered country, elephants which would have
done honor to this society, to any society! He
had seen them apply their trunks in such a manner
to the pilfering and purloining of fruit and
other articles, as to give him the highest delight,
and which he should remember to his dying
day. He (Mr. B.) thought this interesting
animal might be introduced into different human
employments with great advantage. They
were possessed of natural powers which would
fit them for many stations of trust and importance.
Why (Mr. Bibby would ask), why
could not several grown elephants be imported
and dressed in leather hats and petershams, and
substituted in the place of our city watchmen?
This was an age of improvement and he thought
they would be very effective. Two or three
large ones, placed on wheels and intoxicated
with cold water, might be carried to fires instead
of the corporation engines. He would not suggest,
at present, that any of them should be converted
into hackney-coachmen, although he
thought they had a bullying air, which would
enable them to extort liberal fare from their customers,
and they were also furnished with large
ears to keep off the rain. He however, (Mr.
B.), before he took his seat, had one favor to ask,
which he trusted the board of managers would
grant. He hoped he would not be trespassing
upon their kindness in making this request. He
was sure that in making it he was actuated by
the best of feelings and the noblest of motives.
(Intense anxiety now manifested itself among the
audience.) He was confident that he had the
good of the society at heart in so doing. While
in the lower part of Siam he had seen a white
elephant, with a grave face, throw his trunk
gracefully over the shoulder of a missionary and
pick his pocket of two bibles, three small testaments,
a bundle of tracts, and a gin-flask! He
wished to have that elephant elected an honorary
member.” (Thunders of applause, for more
than ten minutes, in the midst of which Bibby
sat down.)
The chairman next introduced to the notice
of the meeting, Gustavus Cobb, Esq., one of
those tall, slim, high-shouldered young gentlemen
in whose formation the necessity of a body
has been entirely overlooked, and who are, consequently,
described as being—all legs. Gustavus
Cobb was all legs, and looked like a lean
ninepin in reduced circumstances. Judging
from the slow, drawling manner in which he
delivered himself, one might have sworn that
Mr. Cobb had been brought up in the postoffice.
“He (Gustavus Cobb, Esq.) appeared
there as the representative of the postmaster-general.
He was the nephew of the postmaster-general.
He knew that his uncle was a
friend of this society. He himself was a superintendent
of mail-routes. In the performance
of his duty he had often ridden with the drivers,
and, from what he had observed, he was mor
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ally certain that his uncle, the postmaster-general,
was not hostile to the society. Attempts
had been made to turn the postmaster-general
from his track; they had proved fruitless. The
P. M. general, firmly convinced that a certain
calmness and solemnity should be observed in
transporting the mails, had not allowed himself
on any occasion to pass any one else on the
public roads. He (the speaker) had, however,
seen one alarming case where an attempt had
been made to fall behind the mail-stage in coming
into a post town, and which proved successful.
It was a decrepid old woman, with a bag
on her shoulder, travelling at a snail's pace on
the Maysville turnpike.
“`What are you carrying there, old lady?'
shouted our driver.
“`The mail!' answered the old woman.
“`I carry the mail!' answered the driver,
firmly, endeavoring to drop behind the old creature.
“`Yes!' screeched the awful hag, `your's
the regular, mine's the express!' And, do all
we could, the driver was forced to get into the
town some ten minutes before the old female
opposition.
“From a very extensive series of experiments,
the P. M. General is satisfied that spavined old
horses, between fourteen and fifteen years of
age, make the best kind of mails. The liberal
introduction of the use of this animal has had
a charming effect on the mail arangements
throughout the country. The only objection
that has arisen to them is, that they are sometimes
too expeditious, and evince a disposition
to get through within the hour. I have heard
it hinted, I will not say by my uncle exactly,
that to obviate this objection, the P. M. G.
contemplates introducing donkeys throughout
the department—superannuated donkeys. He
thinks a superannuated donkey mail (judging
from the comparative success of his old horse
mail) world become extremely popular.
“The deliberation, the safety and circumspection
with which letters might be carried by
a donkey mail, would recommend it to merchants
and men of business; and the regular
tardiness of its arrival and the slow moderation
with which it would travel, would make a superannuated
donkey mail an object of special
favor among young gentlemen and young ladies,
who are so fortunate as to be in love, and corresponding.
“His voice (Gustavus Cobb's voice) was decidedly
and peremptorily in favor of a donkey
mail! He was convinced that the whole country
would rise to a man, in favor of a donkey
mail, in preference to the present post office
system!”
At the conclusion of the address of Mr. Cobb,
a lively gentleman in a green silk vest and
nankeens, was brought forward by the chairman
and announced as Brother Windbolt—the
distinguished professor of all the arts and
sciences, and proprietor of the Universal Institute
of Knowledge.
“Sir,” said the accomplished Windbolt, throwing
back the right breast of his coat and delicately
inserting his thumb in the armhole of his green
silk vest, “Sir, I challenge the world to question
my attachment to the North American Society
for the Encouragement of Imposture! My
fidelity to its great objects has, throughout my
life, been kept in view with a steadiness which
would make a bet of one thousand dollars (which
I hereby offer) a very unsafe one for him who
should doubt my devotion to its interests. Sir,
it is well known to you, and I presume to this
community, with what assiduity I have labored
for the last ten years, to lighten the pockets—
to simplify the financial concerns of the inhabitants
of this city. Heaven be thanked! the
startling announcements which I have made in
the public prints and by placards, of sciences to
be taught by me in an incredibly brief space of
time, have not been unattended with success.
The incredibility of those announcements has
been my salvation. The very impossibility of
communicating knowledge as expeditiously as
my advertisements promised, brought crowds to
my door.
“Ringing the changes along the whole gamut
of imposture—from the doubtful—the absurd—
the improbable—up to the impossible and the
hideously monstrous and incredible, I have
found the number of my patrons to swell steadily
at each advance! Or rather, I should say, that
in running the higher keys of the scale, I
found my patronage to increase at an enormously
accelerated ratio!
“On looking over my accounts, sir, in July
last, I discovered that my profits during the preceding
nine years had been so great, as to justify
my signalizing the event by some public
celebration. Accordingly, on the tenth of August,
having provided ample and liberal accommodations,
I threw open the doors of my
house, and gave (I hope I am not exaggerating
in saying) the celebrated Windbolt Writing
Festival!” Here the speaker was interrupted
by thunders of applause, which pealed from
every quarter of the building, and which conclusively
testified that the audience there present,
considered the said W. W. Festival the
most triumphant imposture of the day.
“Of that festival, sir, I feel it my duty on
this occasion to render some account. We all
have a common interest in it. It was given for
the benefit of our common principles. On the
evening of the tenth of August last, then, at
half-past seven, sir, four large rooms—in the
Universal Institute—two square and two oblong,
were thrown open for the Festival. In
one oblong room were stationed on stools at a
large counting-house desk, twenty elderly gentlemen,
in white inexpressibles and swallowtails,
prepared to exhibit in double entry, daybook,
and ledger practice: and an equal number
of young gentlemen, in blue roundabouts,
actively engaged in algebra. In the square
room adjoining this, five-and-twenty elderly
ladies were seated at pianos, harps, and
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harpsichords. The second oblong room was occupied
by the three Miss Windbolts, in cottage
hats and yellow frocks, representing the three
graces, with their hair in curl: with a full bevy
of young ladies prepared to perform various
elaborate steps and figures which had been
communicated in two lessons of an hour each.
But the third room, sir, held the wonder of
wonders—nineteen select youth who were to
play one hundred tunes, square the circle, solve
the longitude, and lunch twice in the singularly
brief space of twelve minutes, by the watch.
I will not conceal the fact, that there was another
smaller room, sir, and, in that room that
Master Robert Windbolt (my youngest son)
was elevated on a music stool, prepared to eat
gingerbread held in his right hand and scribble
away with his left at a prodigious rate for any
given length of time!
“The festivities of the evening commenced.
Twingle, twangle, thrum went the instruments:
away flew the twelve couple of young ladies
in a new highland reel—dash—like so many
mad knight-errants scampered the goose-quills
of the twenty elderly gentlemen over their
ledgers—furiously the young gentlemen in azure
jackets flourished their pencils—square the circle—
lunch—solve the longitude—lunch, went
the nineteen select youth to the sound of their
own flutes and French bugles. Round and
round, like a crazy planet, whirled Master
Windbolt, despatching small text by the sheet
and gingerbread by the square yard. Hilarity
and animation pervaded the rooms: everybody
was delighted. The great festival bid fair to
go off in glorious style, when suddenly sounds
of merriment, mingled with cries for mercy,
reached my ear. They proceeded from one of
the oblong apartments. I hastened to the spot
and there, sir, I discovered a spectacle at which
I was literally horrified. Solitary imprisonment
is nothing, sir—is a mere luxury—compared to
the awful vision—oh, that it had been a mere
creation of the brain!—which met my eyes.
Sir—I discovered the twenty elderly gentlemen,
on their hands and knees—running the gauntlet
in their white pantaloons, between the wide-spread
legs of the twenty algebraic youth who
were bestowing inky ferules upon their vertebral
extremities. Through the dreadful strait
they navigated and wriggled like so many cels
with their tails cut off; with my astronomical
eye I discovered dusky orbs floating through
clear skies of white jean, which skirted those
middle-aged flanks! Sir, there was something
captivating though still dreadful, in watching
those venerable serpents—those respectable
milk-snakes, creeping in at one end of their
fated maze, and twinkling through, with nimble
expedition, mapped all over with pitch-black
rivers, torrents, and ink-falls! I had
scarcely recovered from the shock of this fearful
spectacle, when I heard shrieks and shrill
voices pitched in a high key, and a confused
pother and tumult emanating from the remotest
square room. Rushing breathlessly to that
quarter, I found all the two-and-twenty of the
elderly ladies engaged in a promiscuous conflict
with each other, aided and abetted on both sides
by large numbers of the claborate dancing
misses. I was completely stunned, Mr. President,
I will candidly confess, by this horrible
uproar on all sides. I stood stock still between
the two apartments, where I could look upon
the progress of events in both, and dialogue and
observations like the following, fell upon my
ear.
“`Go it Jehosaphat!—Jehosaphat against the
course! There's a flank, there's bottom for
you, my boys!' from the oblong room.
“`This is my third quarter, Kate Slocum, deny
it if you dare! Pa paid Windbolt thirty dollars,
in advance, in timber lands at Neversink!'
“`My husband had some schooling, I guess,
afore he was forty! I didn't teach my man his
abs and babs, Mrs. Duncecombe! no I didn't—
tho' some people—you know!'
“`'Sicore Windbolt says you thought the harpsicord
was a patent oven, when you first came
here; and told her what a big box of dominoes
she had there, when she opened the piano!'
These, elegant specimens of objurgatory eloquence
issued from the square room, followed
in each case by a manual attack on the fair
physiognomy of the speaker, and the involuntary
discharge of certain facial ducts and
arteries.
“`Easy, easy—striped bass! hard on, Darby—
lay on the tiller Jack—so, now we're through
the Narrows!' cried a nautical voice in the oblong
room; and the separate directions were
accompanied with sharp, clicking sounds, as of
some thin, solid parallelogram of wood lighting
on a certain quarter of the human body encased
in tight smalls.
“`Ten to one on the Leopard! Golly, Joe, he
goes it like a tiger through a jungle of lightnin'
rods!' shouted a second voice, which was followed
by a scrambling noise like that of a body
in excessively rapid motion.
In this way the confusion and clamor was
every minute increased. The great Windbolt
Writing Festival assumed the exhilarating aspect
of being metamorphosed into a Saturnalian
battle of elderlies and youngsters. It is but
fair to add, that three elderly ladies, who had
been taking music lessons at the Institute for
thirty-nine quarters, were serenely seated in a
corner of the square room during the affray,
assiduously strumming on a broken harpsichord
and two single-string harps, with the benevolent
purpose of calming the agitation of the parties
engaged. I was also highly gratified, sir, on
strolling into the small room where Master
Windbolt occupied a stool, to find his three
sisters, the Misses Windbolts, laboriously engaged
in assuaging his grief; for, as he himself
informed me, his gingerbread was all out,—he'd
got the cramp in his right hand, and the screw
had worked through the top of the stool, and
bored his hide and breeches ever so much!
After a while the tumult subsided; the young
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gentlemen in azure jackets had tired of their
sport; two of the elderly gentlemen in inkstriped
white jean had rushed headlong out of
the house (“stop that span of zebras!” I heard
shouted in the street shortly after their disappearance);
the old and young ladies had gradually
subsided into that dead calm, into which
the high winds of female passion are accustomed
to fall after tempest. Thus concluded the Windbolt
Writing Festival. I shall leave it with
you and with this intelligent auditory, to decide
my claims of fidelity and devotion to the interests
of the N. A. Society for the Encouragement
of Imposture, when I have stated, that of
these numerous performers, the elderly gentlemen
had taken four quarters' instructions, one
hour and a half constituting a Windbolt quarter—
in book-keeping; the select youth twelve
lessons a-piece (twenty minutes making a full
Windbolt lesson) in bugle-playing, lunching,
&c.; the young ladies as many in the reel, fling,
and gallopade; and the algebraic young gentlemen
seven quarters a-piece in equations, fluxions,
and trigonometrical science—all at the unprecedented
rate, sir, of ten dollars the hundred
lessons, and five dollars for twenty quarters—
payable in advance! I close, sir, by thanking
this audience for their kind attention, and defying
any person present to produce man, woman,
or child, that has ever profited a single quaver
or fraction by attendance at the Windbolt Universal
Institute of Knowledge!”
The speaker that followed Mr. Windbolt was
a dark, heavy-browed, serious-looking individual
who had spent the last half-dozen years of his life
in the elegant amusement of passing people to
their graves through an agreeable process of
steam. “He (Mr. Bludgett) had certificates
and affidavits by which he could show, to the
entire satisfaction of the board of Managers of
the N. A. Imposture Society, that he had been
in the habit, for a good number of years past, of
steaming to death, at the rate of one old woman
and two small children every week. It might
not always,” remarked Mr. Bludgett, with an
amiable contortion of countenance that might
have been borrowed from the devil's scrapbook,
“It might not always be a literal old
woman and two literal small children; but then
the vitality extinguished by him, each week,
would amount to about that. Sometimes it
would be two consumptive young men, with
tolerably good constitutions: sometimes three
sickly married females; and sometimes his
week's work would consist in disposing of a
stout, healthy-looking man laboring under the
delusion that he was deadly sick. He was
quite sure—he was morally certain that, with a
sufficient share of public patronage, he (Bludgett)
could despatch three grown men and an infant,
or perhaps he might venture to say, three
grown men and a tailor—per week. His baths
were now in such admirable order—the steam
was let off, and the fresh air let on—and the steam
was let on and the fresh air let off, with such delightful
precision and promptness that the busi
ness could be done in no time! He would venture
to turn any number of patients the Society for
the Encouragement of Imposture might see fit
to place under his charge, out of this world into
the next, at the rate he had mentioned. If
there should happen to be a surplus in the board
of Managers itself, he would be very happy
to convince any gentlemen that chose to tender
themselves, of the efficacy of his system of
practice!” Here Mr. Bludgett cast an awful
leer upon Mr. Solomon Chalker as if nothing
could be more perfectly captivating to his mind,
than the idea of submitting his person to the
steam process; the audience laughed; and Mr.
Bludgett sat down with applause.
The chairman now arose, and thanked the
audience for their attendance and attention to
the exercises of the occasion, and named the
day and place at which and on which the next
anniversary would be celebrated.
Then followed “Anthem by the choir, and
collection in aid of the funds of the Society!”
and the crowded audience dispersed. It is but
justice to the Society for the Encouragement
of Imposture to mention that a number of tin
sixpences and sanded half-dollars were found in
the plate, which were supposed to have been
put there by the honorary members and friends
of the cause who were distributed through the
house.
CONTAINING A CRITICAL PASSAGE IN THE LIFE
OF MR. BOBBYLINK, AND A DELIGHTFUL
AQUATIC EXCURSION WHICH THAT GENTLEMAN
TOOK IN COMPANY WITH MISS HETTY STEDDLE.
Nature furnishes, now and then, a genuine
comedy as full of love, bustle, and intrigue, as
one of Farquhar's or Congreve's. Seated by
the side of a babbling brook that pays tribute
to a delightful lake of sparkling water, with a
varied woodland sloping up from its banks, on
a fragrant morning in June, you may see enacted
a gay drama, pregnant with lively scenes and
noisy dialogue. Near by, on some neighboring
rail, two amorous catbirds chatter away in
animated discourse, hopping along the fence in
flight and pursuit—a precious pair of ill-dressed,
vagrant lovers: while, far off on the edge of
the lake, so that their puny heads are just visible,
bobbing up and down, two friendly little
snipes are paying their respects to each other
over a dead water-fly. In a thorn-bush a sweettempered
brown thrasher hurries through his
joyous and flute-like song, as if he were afraid
the day would be over ere he could disburden
half his music. The love-lorn king-fisher hangs
on a dry bough over the stream, and brawls in
his harsh, startling voice, determined to outroar
the current, and keeping an eye fixed sharply
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on its surface: the moment an unhappy fish
becomes visible this aquatic bailiff springs upon
him, fastens a talon on his shoulder, and hieing
to a required quarter consoles himself for the
absence of his mistress. Meantime, far up in
the depths of a wood in a green glade, a tall
crow, gloomy and self-absorbed, stalks about—
the artful villain of the pastoral scene; and
midway, in the crumbling body of a dead ash
tree sits an old owl, with his broad, goggling
eyes, and the dry, white moss gathered about
his politic pate like a full-bottomed tie-wig,
looking as wise and grave as a judge—apparently
deliberating in his own fusty mind what
penalties to inflict on the cheerful creatures that
are flitting and chatting and making themselves
happy about him. If from his position, the observer
could cast a glance towards a low fence
that runs along a flat meadow to his left, he
might discover a sleepy night-hawk dosing on
a rail, blinking out of one eye and striving, like
a conceited politician, to make it appear that
he sees more with his single optic than most
people with two. Over this profound thinker
a troop of piratical blackbirds are on the wing—
hovering a little in their flight, perhaps to
watch the erudite Sir Hawk knocked in the
head by the first country boy that passes with a
gad—with a mill-pond hard by in view, screaming
and babbling and uttering all kinds of discordant
noises, for all the world like a band of
roving musicians twangling and sounding their
way to a fashionable watering-place. To complete
this little rural entertainment, in a buckwheat
field beyond the lake, a single stouthearted
quail sits calling (as if giving the
prompter's cue for a favorite performer to come
on) loudly and enthusiastically for “Bob
White!” Of course Bob White, although thus
earnestly invoked, disdains to appear; but Bob
Bobbylink is reclining in the midst of the many-colored
scene I have described, with Mistress
Hetty Steddle, the pretty serving-girl, at his side.
They were seated on the bank of an impetuous
little torrent, with a light fishing-boat near
at hand, fastened with a cord to the stump of a
tree in a cluster of bushes, and straining on its
cable, with the heady current that rushed into
the lake, like a violent horse dragging at his
bridle. A pair of oars were lying on the bank.
“Come now, Hetty,” said the fascinating
Bobbylink seizing the young lady's hand, and
giving it a fervent pressure, while he arranged
his face in a melancholy, half-smiling oblong,
“Come now, Hetty, don't refuse,—say next
Thursday and make me as happy as a robin in
a cherry-tree.”
“But why not wait, Robert, till your grandmother
is dead?” responded the young lady
with an arch look, “You know you'll have a
nice little property then, and that will make us
comfortable. What odds are a few days or a
few weeks?”
“Good heavens! how you talk, girl!—my
grandmother's only seventy, and her mother,
my great-grandmother—lived till she was a
hundred and one, within a day. Why they're
a regular brood of she Methusalahs!”
“Old women can't live for ever,” retorted
Hetty, “and when you heard from her the other
day they thought an east wind would carry her
off.”
“You can't depend on that race of old
ladies a minute: to day they'll be looking thin
and ghastly, with a `good-by to you all,' written
as plain as large text on their features—and
a whole mob of cousins and grand-nevys and
nieces swarm round the old woman, peering into
her face like a parcel of farmers in harvest,
staring at a wet moon: every one thinking the
old lady's passport for the next world is made
out and filled up. The pretty nieces run over
in their mind how many yards—she being a
long-limbed body—it will take for her shroud,
and the charming grand-nevys and cousins are
busy putting out their legacies on compound interest.”
“Dreadful, inhuman wretches!” interposed
Mistress Steddle, with a look or horror.
“The next day,” concluded Bobbylink, “she
gets up from her dying bed and says, with a
smile, that she can't leave this world until she
has seen some of her great great grand-children
(that are now infants) grown up and married:
and 'gad I believe the old creature will keep
her word!—so, Hetty, you must say next week,
or postpone it till we're both gray!”
“Now, Robert,” said Hetty, “I am going to
ask a great favor of you. Do you think you
can be liberal enough to grant it, mind—it's a
very great favor, I give you warning!”
“Anything, my dear Hetty—you can have
anything of mine you ask—even my life.”
“No, I don't want that—I shouldn't know
what to do with it—my own little wicked life is
as much as I can manage.”
“What is it—ask quick, and I grant at once!
What's the mighty favor you desire of Bob Bobbylink?”
“To tell the perfect truth without a joke,”
answered Hetty smiling, “isn't this entire story
about your Jersey grandmother made out of whole
cloth—spun on your own wheel, with your
head for the distaff and your tongue for the
spindle? And didn't you contrive it from fear
that young Jolton would carry off Hetty Steddle
from you on the back of his property—and
as you were pennyless, you matched him by
throwing in a snug piece of a farm in the Jersies?—
Out with it, Robert—don't let the truth
choke you, although it isn't used to trav'ling
the Bobbylink turnpike.”
“Hetty, you're a shrewd girl, and you've
guessed right,” answered Bob Bobbylink laughing.
“If I have any grandmother in Jersey
she ha'n't much love for her kin, for she's never
notified me of her existence and I've had two
grandmothers buried already. That's as many
as I'm entitled to by law—'specially as my
parents never married but once a-piece!”
At the conclusion of this honest confession
the young gentleman and young lady burst into
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a hearty fit of laughter, which having lasted
the proper time, Hetty Steddle exclaimed, with
an air of great seriousness, “Bobbylink!—
now what do you think you deserve for deceiving
a poor girl in this way? Do you suppose
I'll have you without your property? in this
part of the country cows aren't bought for the
sake of their horns, but we're willing to take
the horns because we can't get the cows without
'em.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Bobbylink with a rueful
aspect; “if you can desert me now, Hetty—
there's Polly Todd will take me without a
copper and bring me hard cash besides!” Robbert
Bobbylink, Esq., chief of the clan of merry-makers
was, by reason of a tolerably goodlooking
person and a sprightly wit, a great
favorite among the rural young ladies, and the
one in question, Miss Polly Todd, had conceived
a desperate attachment to our worthy. She
was a professed rival of Hetty Steddle, and the
mention of her name produced a fluttering sensation
in the bosom of the latter.
“What if Pol. Todd can bring you a few dollars,”
she said, “perhaps others has got money
as well as her. There's old Hetty Pease is
worth twice Polly Todd and her whole generation.”
“What of that?” asked Bobbylink.
“Perhaps Hetty Pease didn't die last night—
and didn't leave all her earnings, by will, to
her poor good-for-nothing name-sake and foster-child,
Het. Steddle!”
“You don't say so, Hetty?—it can't be—it's
too good to be true!” exclaimed Bob Bobbylink
rapidly.
“But it is so,” answered the young lady
bursting into tears, throwing herself into the
arms of Bobbylink, “the poor kind old woman
is gone! and it's all yours, Robert—take it all
and me with it!”
Robert Bobbylink was not a little affected
by these marks of affectionate tenderness both
towards himself and the dead, on the part of
Hetty Steddle, and pressing her to his breast,
and imprinting several eager kisses on her fair
face, he said, “Cheer up, my dear girl—all will
be right, pennyless or rich—in health or in sickness—
I'll take you, Hetty—as to Mrs. Pease,
you needn't grieve about that—`old women'
you know, according to a high authority `can't
live for ever!”' At this unexpected quotation
of her own sagacious apothegm, Hetty could
not refrain from laughter, and in a few minutes
her pretty countenance entirely cleared up and
wreathed itself in its wonted smiles. After this
they conversed a long time earnestly together.
Hetty, at first, urged that respect to her deceased
friend demanded the solemnization of their nuptials
should be postponed at least a twelvemonth.
To this Bob Bobbylink responded, that in her
present situation, immediate marriage would
be perfectly proper; she had come into the possession
of considerable property, and could not,
he insisted, with any degree of self-respect, re
main longer at service. If she abandoned her
present home, where in the wide world could
she find another—now that her last relation had
gone the way of death.
By arguments like these, Hetty's repugnance
was finally overruled.
“Now, if you'll grant me a single favor,
Robert,” said she, “I'll consent that the—” here
Hetty blushed like the goddess of Liberty on a
village sign-board, painted by an artist, whose
palette lacks all the other colors of the rainbow
but red, “that the—the—it shall be next Thursday
week.”
“Certainly,” said Bob smiling and highly delighted;
“I'll grant anything Mrs. Bobbylink
asks. What is it, my pretty yellow-bird?”
“Your pretty yellow-bird, Robert, how is
that? I hope I haven't the jaundice this morning!”
said Hetty, laughing. “But, here's the
point—you must discard that clusmy fellow,
Sam. Chisel!”
“What that great dunce! why it's done before
it's asked; a heavy, woodcock-pated lout,
that has attempted my life any time these past
three years by his infernal long stories and stupid
jokes. Sam. Chisel! I'll make a horse-block
of him, Hetty, if you want me to, and
cut his long ears into patterns for saddle-covers
if you ask it.”
“And Habakkuk Viol.”
“Let him go, too.”
“And Harvest.”
“Off with his head—they're a pair of barren
knaves, that for some mysterious purpose have
been born with mouths, without the wit to get
anything to put into 'em; and backs that would
go bare, begging your pardon, as a new-laid
egg, if they hadn't had a friend in Bob Bobbylink.
Let them shirk from this time forth, for
themselves!”
“Well,” continued the inexorable and victorious
Hetty Steddle, “There's Tom Snipe. He
goes of course—the poor wretch that he is.”
“Tommy, why Tommy's a harmless critter,
and might be useful in doing chores about the
house.”
“Don't mention him!” exclaimed Hetty. “I
can't bear the sight of him; he reminds me so
much, with his warped visage, of a lean kitten
in a fit. The scamp absolutely attempted to
kiss me once!”
“Away with him then! away with him!”
cried Bobbylink with animation.
“Discharge Smally, now, and you've done a
good morning's work.”
“Poor John! never—never,” said Bob Bobbylink
with sudden enthusiasm, “he has been
always true to me, and it's but fair that I should
be always true to him. You may strip every
branch and limb off of the old tree—and welcome,
but that leaf hangs, and all the tempests
in the sky may blow, and the old tree may rock
and quiver to its very roots, but I tell you that
leaf shall cling to the last. John Smally—my
own right hand man—it's impossible, Hetty!”
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“He is always flinging his jokes at one; and
he has even snickered at you, before now,” continued
Hetty, hoping to touch Bob's personal
feeling.
“I don't care for that,” he answered firmly;
“he has a right—for many's the crack I've had
at his expense. Come, Hetty, spare me one!
You had better try to drive Burdock's brown
mare in single harness, or knit stockings out
of bulrushes, than get me to forego my old
friend, John!”
Hetty had by this time discovered, from his
tone and manner, that Bob would not relinquish
this last of his merry comrades, and desisted
from the attempt, for the present, but not without
a further request.
“Now to finish the weeding and make a
clean garden of it, there's another promise to be
made: you must leave off Shekkels, the man in
the mask, the bull's horns, and all your other
mad capers and carryings-on. D'ye understand—
if you don't I shall have you a'vertised
as a `stray,' the first thing.” They both laughed
heartily over the pleasant reminiscences
which Hetty's allusions conjured up, and Bob
Bobbylink (with a liberal mental reservation in
favor of stone-frolics, christmas shooting, and
black-fishing) granted her reasonable request,
that he should become “a good, sober man
about the house.”
“But stop, my dear,” said he, “there's a
favor you must bestow on me in return for all
this.”
“What's that, Robert?” said Hetty, blushing,
and supposing he hinted at a kiss.
“You must let all these poor dogs come to
the wedding; it will be for the last time, and
it would break their hearts to shut them out!”
“Well, well,” answered Hetty complacently,
“I suppose it must be so—although I think it
would be a slight waste of cheap crockery if
all their hearts were broken in a row.”
“Now,” said Bobbylink, rapturous with the
unexpected success of his suit, capering about
the grass, and ever and anon kissing and embracing
his fair mistress, “now, Hetty, I think
we can take our sail down the lake with some
comfort; come, jump in!”
Obeying his injunction, she sprang lightly
into the boat; at this moment the cable was unloosed
by an unseen hand from its fastening and
Bob Bobbylink, gasping with astonishment and
surprise, beheld his ladye-love floating, alone,
down the rapid current. Hurrying along the
bank, and keeping even with the boat, he reached
a rock that jutted into the water, and as the
vessel glided by, he succeeded in throwing himself
on board. A violent eddy seized it and
hurried it out into the middle of the lake, and
bore it swiftly away towards the opposite shore.
In his trepidation and haste Bobbylink had
forgotten the oars, and they were in a light and
feeble craft without any means of directing its
course, or providing against accidents that were
likely to occur. To render their situation still
more dismal and perplexing they heard every
now and then, a hoarse laugh sounding in the
woods and echoed and re-echoed by the cliffs
along the shore of the lake. A superstition
prevailed in that quarter of the country, that a
spectral personage whom they styled the Laughing
Devil, roamed constantly about these woods,
and gave token, by a harsh startling laugh or
chuckle, of danger impending over the neighboring
inhabitants. Plough-boys on their way
home through the woods, after nightfall, pretended
to have seen a short, burly creature, with
a grisly beard and stiff shock of jet-black hair,
standing in the shadow of a stunted ash-tree,
or dwarf-oak, holding both his sides, with his
face distorted by laughter which he seemed to
suppress by main force; and which, when they
reached the edge of the forest, would burst from
him with great violence and startle them like
a near peal of thunder.
An idle fellow, who spent much of his time
in wandering about the swamps and lowgrounds
of this region with his gun, asserted
that more than once, when he had raised his
fowling-piece to his shoulder and was on the
point of levelling it at a wild-pigeon or a graysquirrel,
he had been horribly alarmed by seeing
the bird or animal suddenly moult its feathers
or hide, which fell to the ground like the
cast-off slough of a copperhead, and, in the
twinkling of an eye, become transformed into a
robust goblin, who leered upon him from amid
the leaves with a countenance distended with
laughter, while tears of mirth flowed copiously
down his wrinkled cheeks. His gun, this vagabond
sportsman added, would inevitably be
out of order in a day or two after the vision,
and miss fire a dozen times or more in succession,
if the powder was in the least damp! However
this might be, it was a well-known fact,
that just after a thunder-storm this mysterious
sound was sure to be heard loudest, and they
often found immense trees riven to the very
roots, and lying maimed and prostrate upon the
earth, in the quarter of the woodland whence it
had issued. If the grain was blighted, or a foal
cast before its time, or a sheep missing, that
long, fiendish peal of laughter was heard echoing
and ringing through the woods, and the
birds took to flight as if from some dreadful object
of terror and alarm.
The sounds which reached the ears of Bob
Bobbylink and his companion at the present
time seemed, therefore, peculiarly awful and
ominous. To increase their anxiety, they
thought they saw faces, ever and anon, thrust
from among the bushes and grape-vines which
overhung the banks, grinning and moping with
aspects more like those of malicious spirits than
of men. This might have been phantasy, but they
swept straight onward, and were in the utmost
peril of being dashed headlong against a rock that
projected into the lake, when suddenly a boat
shot from within its shadow, and, making for
that in which Bobbylink was seated and running
close by their side, one of the persons that
occupied it gave Bobbylink's boat a forcible
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turn by the bows, and pushed her out into
mid-channel. Bobbylink now observed that the
strange boat was held by four men. On closer
inspection he discovered that they were persons
with whom he was acquainted, and with regard
to whom he had been making sundry very
liberal promises during the morning, to Miss
Hetty Steddle.
The boat of the four new-comers now began
to play about Bobbylink's; and its occupants
threw out, as they flashed athwart her bows or
alongside, observations like the following—
much in the same way as a frigate skirmishes
about a crippled seventy-four, firing a broadside
at each evolution—reloading, and coming up
on the other quarter with a fresh discharge.
“Ha! ha!” cried one of them, exhibiting a
broad countenance, distorted with laughter,
“that stupid dunce, Sam. Chisel, sends his
compliments to you, Mr. Bobbylink, and hopes
it's a fine morning for sailing. He presents
you a brace of heavy woodcocks,” giving Bobbylink
a blow on either side of the head with
his open hand as they crossed the stern, “and
sends you a tumbler of the fresh fluid to wash
'em down!” He followed his last observation
with the discharge of a boat-horn full of water
from the lake; each one of the four being supplied
with a short weapon of that kind, which,
as every one knows, consists of the horn of an
ox attached to the extremity of a wooden handle,
and is used in sloops and other river-craft,
to wet the sails.
“Any word to send to your friend 'Bak Viol?”
said another of them, “he's in a famishing
and dreadful state, having a mouth, without
the wit to get anything to put in it. Do send
him a drop of water and a kind word, if no
more.” And this gentleman playfully repeated
the baptismal ceremony performed by his friend
Chisel.
“Take that,” exclaimed a third, a little man
with a dry visage, punching Bobbylink with the
butt-end of his boat-horn in the back and ribs,
“take that from that harmless critter, Tommy
Snipe! and this, mistress,” dashing a hornful
of water into the face of Miss Steddle, “there's
something to cool your kitten with, when she's
in a fit! ha! ha!”
“As for Harvest, let him shirk for himself,”
said a fourth, “he's a poor, barebacked animal,
and is of no more value than an old rainspout,”
accompanying his words with a copious
commentary of an aquatic nature.
Wheeling the boat about, and discharging
small-shot like this, they at length seemed to
have wrought the sport to a climax, and at a
signal given by Habakkuk Viol, they prepared
for its consummation by each filling his boat-horn
to the brim.
“There, Bobby,” cried Habakkuk, discharging
his piece, “put that in your pocket, and
keep it to sprinkle your firstborn with!”
“Young lady,” shouted Sam. Chisel, “them
nice, buddin' roses on your cheeks, wants wa
terin' a little,” and he supplied the deficiency
forthwith.
“Linkem!” exclaimed Harvest, “I don't believe
your coat's ever been sponged, that,”
throwing the contents of a boat-horn on the
collar and skirts of his upper-garment, “that
does the business for you!—and there's a little
of the rock-crystal to drink your tailor's health
in!”
“Miss, how's them colors on your gown—
will they stand the water?” said Tommy Snipe,
instantaneously applying the test to which he
alluded.
“May-be your pockets is dry,” suggested
Sam. Chisel, insinuating a couple of hornsful
adroitly into that quarter of Mr. Bobbylink's
dress, “they're gapin' like oysters for a drop o'
drink.”
“What a nice water-proof Robert's got on,
this morning!” exclaimed Viol, testing the hatter's
assertion recorded in the lining, by a small
artificial shower. “Warranted against thunder,
lightning, and rain!”
“Why, Bob, you look like a pond-duck in
the equinoctial!” said Sam. Chisel, “is that
your mate, Bobby?—if so it be, her feathers
want purifying!”
“Judging by the crook of his nose,” continued
Hank Harvest, “he looks more like a fishhawk,”
and again emptying his boat-horn, “he
should get used to his adopted element.”
Now, with a grand and general discharge of
their pieces, as they discovered that they were
nearing the opposite shore, and the idea flashed
across their minds that if Bobbylink and his companion
were once landed, they might annoy them
pretty seriously from the banks, they altered their
boat's course, and, shooting athwart his bows,
plied their oars for the other end of the lake.
“There, Mr. Bobbylink,” exclaimed Viol,
as they parted company, tossing him a farewell
beaker of the fluid, “I advise you to save that
to wash your face with the first time it's clawed
by Mrs. Hetty Bobbylink.”
“And don't forget to make me a pair of saddle-covers
out of Sam. Chisel's ears—when you
catch him!” shouted the proprietor of said ears,
grinning monstrously, and playfully projecting a
jet of water into the mouth of Bob Bobbylink,
which stood agape with astonishment and terror.
During all these manœuvres, which had been
executed within a brief space of time and with
admirable dexterity, Bobbylink had retained his
seat, half inclined to kindle into a horrid passion,
and half determined to burst into a hearty
laugh, and take it all as a good joke. To be
sure, when he looked upon his fair mistress,
and saw her new figured-silk dress drenched
with water, he was sorely vexed and discomforted;
but he had brought, he well knew, the
whole catastrophe upon them by his hasty
promise to discard his old friends and cast them
loose, in the very first hour of his prosperity
and success.
He therefore felt bound, in conscience and
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honor, to bear it cheerfully, and accordingly he
had no sooner handed Hetty from the boat than
his lungs exploded in a genuine and honest
cachination, in which he was instantly joined
by Miss Steddle, that young lady enjoying a
very pretty sense of the ludicrous, and feeling,
with her worthy associate, that she deserved
it all.
Pleasantly laughing over the whole scene,
they seated themselves on a wall in the sun,
and speedily drying their garments, started off
to gather blackberries instead of tempting, a
second time, the unlucky element.
CONTAINING THE UNLAWFUL IMPRISONMENT
OF AN OLD GENTLEMAN; A POPULAR BATTLE
BETWEEN TWO ATTORNEYS, AND A FEW
PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS AS TO THE IMPROPRIETY
OF OLD GENTLEMEN BEING OUT AFTER
DARK.
The village of Plumpitts stands at the head
of a vile little creek, which runs in and out
from the Sound with the tide. Unfortunately,
the tide has a propensity to be out oftener than
in, so that Plumpitts, for the better part of the
day, sits like a great duck stranded in the middle
of the mud. The inhabitants of Plumpitts
are of two classes; those who belong to the
river interest, and those who belong to the inland
interest. The former, consisting of two
rival sloop captains, half a score of vagabond
boys and idle-looking men, who assist the said
captains in navigating their craft to the city;
and the inland interest, consisting of half-a-dozen
shopkeepers, and as many pestilent old women,
the former of whom spend their time in retailing
sugar and starch to customers from the
interior, and the latter in wholesaling scandal
and small-talk to each other—and a very thriving
trade they make of it. The standing population
of the village is composed of about twenty
blue-nosed topers, who hover about a place
called the Point, like so many noisy gulls, during
the early part of the morning and toward
night, and pass the rest of the day in dirty fishing
boats along the shore of the Sound, solemnly
engaged in capturing black-fish and bass for
their present wants, and providing a stock of
cramps and rheumatisms for their old age.
About three miles back of Plumpitts, there
lay, once upon a time, an ill-conditioned piece
of land and a dilapidated old house, which, altogether,
was entitled the homestead; and in a
small room in the old house, a sharp-faced,
gray-eyed little woman, and a red-visaged man,
some two sizes larger, were seated at a breakfast-table.
The little woman sat erect and was
engaged with toast and coffee, and the man was
bent nearly double over a bowl of sour buttermilk,
and a white, earthen plate, holding a single
small perch or sunfish, burnt to a crisp.
“Drudge!” cried the little woman, sharply.
“Ma'am,” answered the red-visaged man,
timidly.
“You know I own this farm?”
“Yes.”
“And this house?”
“Yes—and the span of horses and the family
carriage!”
“Very well—and all the ready money—do
you know that?”
“Oh, yes,” responded Mr Drudge, in a faint
voice.
“And that you brought nothing but an old
saddle when I married you?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“How dare you, then, eat fish and buttermilk
together, contrary to my express orders?
Yes—how dare you—you miserable pauper!”
shouted Mrs. Drudge, working herself into a
sublime phrensy.
“Dear Tishy, I thought there was no harm
in it”—
“Don't Tishy me—don't dear me—you object.”
“You know I caught the perch myself,”
humbly suggested her red-visaged victim.
“I know you did—you poor creature—when
you ought to have been at home minding your
business. You hav'n't split your day's ovenwood
yet, nor milked, nor brought water, nor
churned—you've done nothing this morning,
Drudge, worse than nothing—oh, you poor, lazy
thing!” and she gave the poor man a glance,
which, if it had been half a degree fiercer, must
have inevitably scorched him to a cinder. At
this moment, a heavy-headed country boy thrust
his face in at the door, horribly distorted with
terror and bad news, and cried out, “Buzbee's
red bull, missis, has just busted into the corn,
and our sheep has just busted out of the longlot
into Buzbee's woods—and the devil's to pay
all over the farm!”
“There's more work for you, Drudge!”
“Oh yes!” rejoined that gentleman, adopting
his customary reply when he had nothing
better to say.
“Why didn't you look after that fence? I told
you Buzbee's bull would be over before a week's
time. And why hav'n't you penned the sheep,
as I ordered you a month ago?”
The heavy-headed boy here returned and interposed.
“I forgot to say, missis, that the storm last
night 'as washed away the little barn—and missis'
carriage is buried in Blind brook, half full
of mud, and two thirds o' water.”
“My God!” cried Mrs. Drudge, in a sudden
paroxysm of anxiety, “I thought it would be so,
Drudge, I thought it would be just so. You
wouldn't move that barn further up on the bank—
no, you wouldn't—though you might have
done it, if you'd strained yourself a little, with
Moe's help. Good heavens! I'm afraid the
carriage is ruined, and I wanted to use it this
very day—good Lord!”
“I think it might be got out, missis,”
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continued the heavy-headed youth, if Mr. Drudge
would be so good as to give me a lift.” The
heavy-headed youth smiled profoundly, as if he
thought it would be a very brilliant stretch of
fancy to suppose for a moment that Mr. Drudge
could escape the necessity of furnishing his assistance,
manual and bodily.
“Drudge, do you hear!” cried his sweet-tempered
spouse, “go along with Moses, and help
him get the carriage out, this instant!”
Moses had left the room. “Moses!” shouted
Mrs. Drudge, “Moses!”
“Here, ma'am, here I be,” responded the
youth, pushing a segment of his broad face over
a corner of the lintel.
“You may help Drudge a little while, Moses,
only five minutes, be back here by that time. I
want you to cut some 'sparagus to put in the
front parlor, and a nosegay for the fireplace—
I expect aunt and sister to tea, Moses,” she
concluded, bestowing a bland smile upon the
heavy-headed juvenile.
Moses and Mr. Drudge thereupon departed,
the latter muttering, as he turned a corner of
the house, a fervent prayer for the immediate
demise and interment of the amiable lady whom
he had just left. As they crossed the fields on
their way to the scene of labor, Drudge was
the first to open a conversation with his companion.
“Underhill,” said he, “have you got the
money by you for those muskrat skins?”
“No, I hav'n't just now,” replied the boy,
“Fields told me if I'd come over to the tanyard
to-morrow he'd settle with me.”
“And what have you done with the bag of
fresh feathers?”
“Them—why, put them aboard the marketwagon.
I expect you'll have returns by next
Tuesday, or the day arter,” responded the youth,
with a very intricate and complicated expression
of countenance, which might have been construed
to mean half-a-dozen things at once.
“I want that money very much,” said
Drudge, partly to himself and partly to his
companion. “There's Quimby's bill, on the
P'int, and John Merritt's account for clothing,
ought to be paid the first time I go to Plumpitts.”
“I think they ought, by all means,” echoed
master Moses Underhill, with the same ambidexter
look.
They had now reached Blind brook, and discovered
the family carriage up to its waist in
the middle of the channel, the water dashing
over its dark top like that of some huge, black
monster which was struggling for its life up the
stream.
“Moses,” said Drudge, after surveying it for
a moment, “you'll have to strip and go in.”
“Catch me!” exclaimed master Moses, retreating
backward up the bank, “if you say
two words about that again, Drudge, I'll go
home and tell missis, and then you'll catch it I
reckon!”
Mr. Underhill accompanied this tender threat
with a complacent grin, which had the singular
effect of throwing old Drudge into a violent
fever, which lasted some three minutes and a
quarter.
“Well, Moses,” said he at last, finding the
youth intractable, “I suppose I must do it myself,
or else (lowering his voice) there'll be the
devil out of the pit to pay up at the house!”
Directing his companion to bring a coil of
rope and a couple of lengths of rail, old Drudge
stripped stark naked and plunged in.
The first discovery he made was, that Blind
brook was some two feet deeper than he had
imagined, and, consequently, over his head.
His first movement after making this pleasant
discovery was to grasp the limb of a tree which
overhung the stream. This he succeeded in
doing, and sustained himself by it some five minutes,
bawling all the time to Moe Underhill for
help; and when, at length, that charming youth
came forward to his assistance, his zeal and eagerness
to rescue Mr. Drudge were so overpowering
that he rushed headlong against the tree from
which that gentleman was suspended, with such
precipitancy as to shake Mr. Drudge directly into
the water as if he had been a shrunken russet-in-apple,
in want of nothing but moisture. At
the very moment when he fell, a heavy swell
of the freshet came tumbling and raging down
the brook, and, striking Mr. Drudge obliquely
over the shoulder, carried him under; he rose
for a minute to the surface, and threw out his
hands convulsively toward the outstretched
limb, Mr. Moses Underhill ran up and down
the bank, shouting to him to “dive for the
coach!”—when a second billow, heavier than
the first, rushed upon him and bore him from
the sight. The injunction of Moe Underhil (in
whatever spirit it was given) was not lost upon
the submerged Drudge, for, aiming with considerable
skill, he succeeded in permitting himself
to be borne in at the carriage-door, which
was swung open by the tide. Shortly after, a
long, melancholy-looking head was put out at
the top of the coach-door, and Moses discovered
that old Drudge stood upon the back seat of the
family carriage, and was safe.
After waiting something like an hour, until
the swollen torrent had subsided, Old Drudge
and his companion renewed their attempt, and,
with many struggles, by the aid of rope and
crowbar and bar-post, they succeeded in rolling
the carriage upon the bank—the greater
share of the labor falling, of course (out of deference
to his years), upon the patient Mr.
Drudge.
In the course of a couple of hours more, the
carriage was cleaned and partially dried, and
stood before the door awaiting Mrs. Drudge's
orders. The horses that were harnessed to it
were a notable couple, being sorrel twins, having
long, ghastly necks, short tails, and punchy
bodies, with small mouths and mournful eyes;
and, to complete their character, lean and feeble,
with a look of over-work and ill-usage.
“Drudge!” screamed the amiable female
bearing that name, standing in the door and
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directing a withering glance towards Mr. Drudge,
who was slowly shambling up the lane completely
exhausted and toil-worn. “Drudge,—
I want you to get in the carriage and go down
to Plumpitts at once!”
“Oh yes!” said the poor man, meaning “oh
no,” a thousand times repeated with an emphasis.
“Get in immediately, and I'll tell you what I
want.” Drudge mounted in, almost mechanically,
under the talismanic influence of that inexorable
voice. “And now turn the key,
Moses: there—sit still now, Drudge, and mind
me?”
These words had been accompanied by the
closing of the carriage-door, the insertion of an
iron key in a lock attached to the same (which
Mrs. Drudge had placed there, knowing old
Drudge's propensity to indulge in potations and
forget his errands when he visited the thirsty
and drinking village of Plumpitts) and Mr.
Drudge's assuming a quiet, martyr-like demeanor,
as if he had been put in jail and expected
every minute to be brought out to instant execution.
“In the first place, Drudge, you'll get me a
pound of Mr. Slimfink's best tea—best young
hyson: try it yourself, Drudge, you're a good
judge of tea, Joel, though you don't get it but
once a week!”
“Oh yes!” murmured Drudge, softly.
“You needn't get out there; Slimfink will
bring a sample to the door, I gave him directions
when I was there last about that. Next,
Drudge, you'll go over to Wringold's shop, and
purchase two yards of his small spotted calico—
just in. Mind Drudge—small spotted red
calico—spots very small.
“Can't he get me a new jacket, missis, while
he's there?” suggested Moe Underhill from the
box seat, smiling pleasantly on his mistress.
“You deserve a jacket—don't you—you villain,
for minding me so well this morning, and
coming back in just five minutes. You good-for-nothing,
you ought to have the jacket you've
got on well-trimmed, instead of a new one.—
And Drudge, you can stop at Slimfink's as you
come back, and buy me seven pounds of Havana
sugar, and a quarter of starch; and, mark me
(raising her fist clenched in warlike fashion),
don't you venture to leave the carriage till
you've made every one of the purchases! Purchase
by the sample, Drudge, and let 'em understand
you pay in silver!”
The sorrel twins, now, after repeated admonitions
from a whip in the hand of Mr. Moses
Underhill, succeeded in getting themselves in
motion. The carriage wheels had scarcely revolved
more than twice or three times, before
the voice of Mrs. Drudge was heard, calling
after them, and the person of Mrs. Drudge was
seen in pursuit of the vehicle. Moe Underhill,
allowed her to enjoy a delightful little trot on
the highway before he condescended to arrest
his promising span.
“Stop, Moses, stop, stop, stop!” cried Mrs.
Drudge, in an ascending musical voice. “Here's
the key: you've forgotten the coach-door key!”
At length she overtook the fugitive vehicle,
and handed the key up to the youthful worthy
on the driver's seat, “Do you hurry back, Moses,
to cut that asparagus and make that nosegay.”
“Yes, misses, I'll make you a very nice nosegay
when I come back—a very nice one,” answered
Mr. Underhill. Whether he ever lived
to come back and make that nosegay is a matter
about which the reader's mind will be placed
perfectly at rest at the sequel.
“Drudge!” cried his amiable spouse once
more, conveying her little sharp face and vicious
gray eyes inside of the carriage window. “You
may bring me a bunch of black-fish, if Tom
Haddock has any fresh from the water: and
don't you get out till you've brought the fish as
you value your life;—and as for the starch—
recollect—it's for my own personal collars, and
not for yours—so you'll get first quality.”
Hereupon Mrs. Drudge departed, Mr. Drudge
fell back in his seat from the awful state of suspense
in which he had listened to the last injunction
of his charming lady, and the carriage
trundled or crawled along the road.
They travelled on quietly at a moderate pace
for the first mile and a half of the distance to
Plumpitts, when suddenly, as they were turning
a corner of the road and driving close by the
side of a stone-wall, Moe Underhill was shot
softly from the carriage-box over the fence and
landed on his feet, in the neighboring field.
Old Drudge was slumbering at the moment, but
waking up a little while after and looking out
at the window, he discovered a heavy-headed
apparition bearing a marvellous general resemblance
in outline and movement to Mr. Moses
Underhill, scudding rapidly across the fields.
It was, however, only the thought of a moment
with Drudge—and as the sorrel twins made no
such discovery, they journeyed forward at their
old pace the same as if nothing had happened.
At length, they reached the brow of Plumpitts'
hill, and feeling no restraining hand at the rein
they scampered down the declivity in lively
style, like a span of runaway spectres; and
rushed into the village with the old family carriage
clattering at their back, at such speed as
to bring the best part of the population into the
road, and the remainder to their doors and windows.
The horses being without guidance aimed for
a public horse-trough, in the centre of the village,
at which they had a chance of obtaining
a few stray oat-grains, left there by more fortunate
and better-fed quadrupeds that came to
water.
The eyes of every adult inhabitant of Plumpitts
were levelled forthwith at the family carriage
of Mrs. Drudge, which was well known in
the village; and on the discovery of Mr. Drudge
in one corner of the same, conversation like the
following arose:
“Ah! ha!—there's Tishy's private prison
again, and her poor-travelling jail-bird!” said
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an idle tailor, who had abandoned his shopboard
and gathered with a group of men and
women in front of the post-office.
“How old Drudge is beginning to look!”
rejoined the post-master's wife, with her hands
under her apron. “Upon my word he looks
ten years older than uncle Si Purdy—and he's
sixty last Christmas, ten o'clock at night!”
“Enough to make a man look old, madam,”
said the tailor, who was a consequential little
personage with a figurative turn of mind and a
firm expression of mouth, “to be riding about like
a lobster in a stew-pan with the lid on, in that
horrid box of Tishy Drudge's. If I was Joel
Drudge I'd kill her—yes! I'd maul her to death:
I'd hold her up to the sun on a three-pronged
pitchfork, and toast her to a cinder and go into
a regular state-prison at once as an incendiary!
I'd commit some dreadful crime—that would I—
rather than be confined in that close crib. It
breaks a man's spirits like pie-crust, such a
thing does! He can't work—he can't do anything—
he can't pay his debts! it incapaci'ates
him!”
The name of this tailor happened to be John
Merritt, and the reader will at a thought, discover
the happy pertinency and deep feeling
with which these remarks must have been delivered.
“Why,” said Tom Haddock, the fisherman,
who had paused with his wagon in front of the
post-office, to join in the conversation, “he's
just as silly in there—Old Drudge is—as a consumptive
mackerel, in my big fish-car. But
where, in the name of the great Striped Bass
that Bill Horley caught last week, where is Moe
Und'rill? I saw the carriage come rattlin' in,
without pilot or helmsman, or a man at the
sculls, as I was crossin' the P'int. `There
must be something the matter,' says I to Harry
Shaddle, `or, you may depend on it, the boy
would have hold of the tiller!' ”
“You say truly, Thomas,” said the tailor,
“something must be the matter, or Moses Underhill
would be in his place on the carriage
seat. Joel Drudge couldn't have driven the
horses down, sitting inside the vehicle, unless
his neck was as long as a crane's and he had
arms to match! Underhill is a wild youth and
may have pitched himself headlong from the
seat out of despair!”
“What the devil would he do that for?” asked
Tom Haddock.
“Because his master can't pay his honest
debts?” answered Mr. Merritt.
“That's more than likely,” said a small, thinshouldered
old man, with a pair of smart, sparkling
eyes that constantly gave the lie to the rest
of his countenance, which was dull, heavy and
devoid of meaning. “That's more than likely,
for didn't Dolly Hiedlebrook's cat hang herself
in a boot-jack, because her mistress got too
poor to keep a cow?”
“Cats love cream, and Moses Underhill loves
money, and I shouldn't be surprised if he had
got off and drowned himself out of mere respectability,”
added Mr. Merritt. “It isn't respectable
for a man to owe a tailor's bill.”
“It isn't, Mr. Merritt—by no means it isn't,
and Tishy Drudge ought to be ashamed of herself
for not keeping her husband in good clothes
and them paid for—her owning as she does—the
Hum'stead—and ready moneys out at interest
too!” asserted the postmaster's lady, with an
air of virtuous indignation.
“He shall pay mine, I know!” cried the little
tailor, in as towering a passion as a little
tailor can be supposed, by the liveliest stretch
of imagination, capable of elevating himself to.
“If it costs me all the thread and thimbles in
my shop—and a year's beeswax too—I'll bring
him up to the mark. John Merritt won't be
trifled with any longer.”
“You're right, Merritt,” said the thin-shouldered
man. “I wouldn't submit to it!”
“Merritt! Merritt! who are you talking
to?” asked the little tailor, ferociously, looking
down from the eminence to which the tempest
of passion had whirled him. “My name is Mr.
Merritt—Mr. John Merritt!”
While this dialogue was passing, a new personage
was approaching the grand centre of attraction—
Mrs. Drudge's family carriage. This
was a broad-built, heavy gentlemen on horseback,
with a marvellously well-developed person,
presenting about the same breadth of surface
to the eye, from whatever point he might
be viewed: whether from the north, the south,
the east, or the west. In a word it was Harry
Shaddle, the fat landlord of the tavern on the
Point. He rode up to the window of the carriage
and looking in, exclaimed, “What, Joel, in the
old squirrel cage again!—Why ar'n't you out, and
trotting down to the P'int to take a cup with us?
eh! solitary confinement's dry work as the gad-fly
thought when he was corked in an ounce vial!”
With this the portly landlord gave a hearty
laugh, which shook not only his own wide domain
of flesh but even reached the nag upon
which he was riding, and nearly shook the little
animal off his legs. This self-same laugh
had made his fortune. “Where's Moe?”
“Where is the boy?” cried Drudge, after
thrusting his head out of the carriage, and now,
for the first time, investigating the driver's seat.
“I heard that you come in without a driver,
Joel, or else the Old One was setting up there
unsight, unseen—for your horses did come down
the hill, as if they had the very devil at their
heels!”
“I'm afraid the boy's thrown off and killed—
my God! what will Tishy say?” exclaimed
Drudge, elevating his hands and eyebrows and
speaking from the very bottom of his ventricle.
“I thought I saw him pitched from the seat,
but it's like a dream.”
“Oh, don't disturb yourself, my old boy, I
don't believe Moe's dead—or like to be: he
knows too much for that. But have you heard
the news, Joel?”
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“No—what news? nothing dreadful I hope.”
“Nothing very dreadful: only Quimby's
broke and blown up on the P'int, as I prophesied.
I knew he couldn't last long again' the
Old Stand with Harry Shaddle behind the counter—
though a few of his friends flew off to the
new perch—and you among the rest, Joel, I'm
sorry to say!—Quimby's blown up like a smack
with a pound of gunpowder in the hold, and a
dropsical vagabond on deck: a limb of the poor
devil is scattered here and a limb there. Here
his rotten liver and lights; there, a decayed leg—
and for his brains—the harbor-master may
find them if he can and lay a duty on 'em!”
“He has made a sad time of it!”
“Yes; he's exploded entire, and made an
assignment out and out; whereby he assigns
and sets over to Smith Plevin—assignee, attorney
and creditor in chief—five live topers, a
row of broken-necked brandy bottles, an uncollected
account against Joel Drudge, Esq., a pair
of musty boots, two odd slippers, a tap-room
without a customer, and a fishing boat without
a bottom!”
“Smith Plevin's the assignee, is he?” asked
Drudge, with a pretty thorough knowledge of
the character of that same Smith Plevin.
“Yes, Smith is the assignee—and devilish
tight work he'll make of some of you!—You'd
better fight shy of Plumpitts, for he'll be sure
to snap you up the first time he catches you in
the county!”
With this friendly caution Harry Shaddle
touched his whip to his horse—and rode off,
sitting erect in his stirrups, and trying to make
a spectacle of himself, as every fat man does,
and—to the credit of their efforts be it spoken—
they generally succeed! Old Drudge threw himself
back in the carriage, and began to cogitate
with all his power of mind (which was by
no means unlimited) over Quimby's unsettled
bill—and the fate of Moses Underhill—striving
to devise some plan to pay the one and imagine
what had become of the other, when he suddenly
descried a man and a boy approaching
by one of the cross roads that led into the village,
and, at the same moment, two other men
advancing on the other side, from the opposite
extremity of the same road.
He soon discovered that the former were Mr.
Smith Plevin, the attorney, and Moe Underhill;
and the latter, John Merritt, in company with
a man, whose person was unknown to Drudge.
Smith Plevin, was a middle-sized man, with a
hard livid countenance, without a drop of blood,
and a low, bony forehead, made to look still more
villanous by having his stiff black hair combed
down over it.
“You are my prisoner!” said this personage,
stepping up to the carriage with a heavy bundle
of papers in his left hand, thrusting his
right hand in at the coach window and grasping
old Drudge rudely by the collar.
“You lie, sir, he's mine!” shouted a voice
from the opposite side of the vehicle, and another
hand was placed at the same instant upon the
collar of Drudge's coat.
“Haul him out, law or no law!” cried a
second voice from the same quarter. “Drag
him out, Mr. Skinnings—drag him out—like a
weasel from an egg-basket!—he has owed my
bill long enough, and I will have satisfaction,
cost what it may.”
At this peremptory direction, which proceeded
from Merritt the tailor, his companion gave
Drudge a violent jerk, and attempted to pull
his person through the window of the vehicle.
“Hold there, Skinnings, or you'll get in trouble!”
bawled Smith Plevin. “You've been
breaking the man's close—frangit clausum.
Stir an inch further and I'll bring an action for
him myself! He's our prisoner!” and Mr.
Smith Plevin twitched the body of old Drudge
with great energy towards himself. “You're a
malefactor, a plagiendo, and d—d fool, Smith
Plevin!” shouted Skinnings, “and you may
take that as your counsel-fee in this case!” and
he passed a pound weight of hard knuckles to
the account of the small ribs of Attorney Plevin.
“See that, Moses!” cried Plevin, with quivering
lip and knees that quaked with apprehension.
“An assault, with intent to kill! mark that, Underhill!
you're good evidence—over fourteen, I
believe, Moses?—understand the nature of an
oath?”
“Yes, sir!” answered master Moses, readily,
“yes, sir!”
“All right,” said the attorney, withdrawing
his hold from Drudge's collar, “that's the second
case I've picked up to-day: now get your
prisoner out, if you can, Skinnings!”
In accordance with Plevin's ironical advice,
Skinnings first tried the carriage door; finding
that impregnable, he next attempted to draw
Drudge's body out at the carriage window, but,
after several strenous trials, he discovered that
it was impossible to get more than the head of
the terrified debtor through, and, as his writ required
and authorized him to take “his body,”
he was obliged to abandon the attempt.
Meantime, Smith Plevin stood by, indulging a
sarcastic laugh, punching Moe Underhill with
the end of his law-papers, and inviting him to
observe the “smart practice of Sim Skinnings,
the best lawyer in the county!” When Skinnings
withdrew from the carriage, muttering “it
wouldn't be safe to break the cursed old door!—
let's see what this bright young attorney has
got to do.” Plevin stepped forward with a complacent
smirk on his countenance, and placing
his hand upon the coach-door, turned toward
Moe Underhill, and, smiling, said, “Moe, advance
with your iron argument, in other words,
bring the key. I think we'll introduce a document
here that will effectually remove this
stupid plea in bar.”
At this summons, Mr. Moe Underhill inserted
his right hand in his right breeches-pocket; and
it is singular what a wonderful effect that simple
insertion produced on the whole expression
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of the boy's broad face; his lower-jaw fell, his
cheeks were monstrously elongated, and he, all
at once, looked strikingly like a Shaker in a
brown study.
His hands immediately and swiftly penetrated
into every conceivable pocket about his person;
he cross-questioned every nook and corner of
his clothing, and subjected his hat and boots to
a series of most searching interrogatories.
The universal and stunning return from every
quarter was an unmitigated non inventus,
so that Master Moses Underhill had enjoyed
a beautiful travel on foot, of some half-dozen
miles in the bracing country-air, over to— —,
the capital of the county, and notified
Smith Plevin that “Now old Drudge was to
be caught out of his own county”—all to no purpose.
The horrid reflection crossed his mind,
that he might have lost the key in jumping from
the carriage, or in his scamper over the fields.
That this enterprising young gentleman might
not be alone in his peculiar style of face, Mr.
Plevin obligingly drew out his countenance to
the requisite length, and stood opposite Moe
Underhill with a responsive extent and sadness
of feature. At this moment, to increase the
joys of the worthy couple, Drudge suddenly
assumed a scruple of courage, and, thrusting
his red visage out of the coach, familiarly
charged Moe Underhill with being “a thief
and a runaway!”
To which the boy familiarly returned, “Hush
your jaw, you old victim! I'll have my pay
out of you yet, for the beatin' you guv me last
Thanksgivin'-day!”
That no single incident might be wanting to
complete the overwhelming catastrophe, Mr. Sim
Skinnings, at this juncture, marched up to Mr.
Smith Plevin, and with a determined manner said,
“Sir, you were insolent, just now!” and, without
further parley, Mr. Skinnings commenced
an active assault on the person of the aforesaid
Mr. Plevin. Now, Skinnings was a tall man,
with an immoveable face, which looked as if it
had been carved out of seasoned pine-timber, or,
rather, as if all his features had been tied up,
very early in life, in a hard knot, and he had
found it impossible, ever since, to disentangle
them. He therefore formed no very pleasant or
playful belligerent, and, accordingly, began to
drub his little antagonist horrible at arm'slength.
Plevin, who, although not framed exactly
on the heroic model, had some sparks of
manhood in him, thought the game altogether
too much on one side, and hastily imagining that
the bargain would be vastly improved by introducing
a second party into it, plunged his head
directly into the waistcoat of Mr. Skinnings,
and commenced plying his arms up and down
into the face of that eminent gentleman, in a
parallel line like the pistons of an engine; and
Mr. Skinnings began to batter the dorsal possessions
of Mr. Plevin, with a high, long sweep
of his arms, after the manner of a smith's largest
sledge-hammer.
Mr. Skinnings would have inevitably succeeded
in breaking in sundry ribs of his antagonist,
had it not been for a fortunate bill in
chancery, of a monstrous solidity and thickness,
which was slumbering in the little lawyer's
hind coat-pocket; and Plevin would have
undoubtedly disfigured the face of Skinnings
had he not, in an early stage of the attempt
made his knuckles sore by knocking against
the hard bronze thereof. While this professional
battle was proceeding, and general attention
was attracted to its progress, Drudge
thought it afforded a good opportunity for him
to attempt a release from his imprisonment.
With this purpose, he cautiously put his head
out of one of the openings of the windows, and,
shrinking his body to its smallest dimensions,
endeavored to coax it through. He succeeded
in passing it as far as his third rib, by forcible
struggles, and there, for some time, he hung, neither
able to advance nor recede, like a rash
pickerel that has been caught in a net, and,
plunging into one of the meshes, imagines it
may glide through—fixed midway, its glassy
eyes looking out upon a glorious prospect of escape,
while its tail and the better part of its
body quiver and wriggle with all the horror of
confinement and fruitless toil! At length, by
a sudden wrench, Old Drudge succeeded in restoring
himself to his former position on the
back seat of the carriage—and there he sat,
shaking with the dampness of his prison—and
shaking as if his only remaining chance of enfranchisement
lay in bursting his prison to
pieces by the violence of his tremors.
During all this time the combatants kept
steadily at their business—growing more heated
and furious every minute. Suddenly a cry
of “fire! fire!” was heard in the upper part
of the village, and the village engine was seen
rattling along the main street, and bearing down
directly upon the mob, gathered about Plevin
and Skinnings, and, without a moment's delay,
it began playing, under the direction of Tom
Haddock, upon the belligerent attorneys. The
thumping of the engine-arms, the clamors of the
mob, and the shouts of the brawny fishermen,
alarmed the hitherto quiet sorrel twins of Mr.
Drudge, and thinking, perhaps, they had tarried
long enough in the disagreeable village of Plumpitts,
they wheeled about, and clattering past
the mob, just in time for Old Drudge to receive
a discharge of the engine-pipe upon his person,
they scampered off up Plumpitts' hill, on the
road to the Homestead.
Through these various events, the day had glided
nearly to its close. Large, heavy shadows
began to fall from the trees by the roadside,
and, crowding nearer together, and dilating
more and more every moment as the sun rapidly
declined, they darkened the track upon which
the driverless horses were travelling. Now and
then the shadow of a locust or wild-cherry-tree,
that stood solitary in the centre of a field would
blink in, like some monstrous goblin, at the
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window of the carriage, and remind its occupant
that night was swiftly approaching. A
tree-toad or cricket would repeat the tidings in
a doleful voice, and Old Drudge, trembling with
the chilliness of his prison and apprehension of
some peril or other, chattered in reply.
They passed a swamp—and the wind came
sighing and roaring through it like a mad devil,
and a swollen stream rushed dismally through
the tufts of dark grass and bog-weeds. Just as
he had fairly passed this gloomy spot, he heard a
rattling noise upon the roof of the coach, as if the
branches of some overhanging tree were raking
over it. He put out his head, timidly, to discover
what it was—and received a violent stroke
from some unseen object obliquely over the face.
Thinking it might have been a straggling
limb, as soon as he recovered from the shock,
he thrust his face out of the opposite window.
Again he received a stroke, heavier than the
first, and a gruff voice exclaimed, “Now out of
the other!” Poor Drudge, terrified and trembling,
and not daring to disregard the behest of
the invisible, fearfully exhibited his head from
the other window. A third blow made his sconce
ring again—and the voice bawled, “Now the
other!” He obeyed again—thwack!—thwack!—
thwack! and a shower of violent blows rained
about his ears and face until they brought blood.
This game was kept up for a quarter of an hour—
when the voice dismounted, and, thrusting
into the carriage, whispered grimly, “Moe
Und'rill's compliments to Mrs. Tishy Drudge,
and tell her she can roast you for Thanksgivin',
as you've been pounded tender!” A smart succession
of sharp, quick strokes lit upon the
backs and flanks of the sorrel brethren, and
they hurried away as if they thought Mrs.
Drudge herself was at their heels.
This unusual speed soon brought them to the
door of the Homestead, and, in attempting to
turn rapidly into the large gate that led to the
corn-crib, they overturned the disastrous and
ill-fated vehicle. At the point which they had
selected for its overthrow, there was a huge,
sharp-cornered rock, planted there to guard the
gate-posts, and the overturn was accompanied
with a loud crash. The work of the moment
accomplished the grand purpose of the day; it
shivered one of the carriage-doors, and left Old
Drudge sprawling at the opening, with one leg
sticking out of the opposite window in mid air.
The sudden display of a light at the door of the
house startled the animals, which had stopped
and stood stock-still when the catastrophe occurred;
they moved forward a few steps, and
Old Drudge was detected crawling forth.
Bruised, frightened, and hungry as he was,
he was glad to hobble up stairs and sneak supperless
to bed, rather than encounter one of
those domestic tempests which had so often
rattled about his head, and given him, although
not an aged man, the aspect of a weather-beaten
sea-captain, and the familiar title of Old
Drudge.
“Lost Beauty, I will die,
But I will thee recover.”
Sir R. Fanshaw's Querer Por Solo Querer.
About midway between Long island sound
and the Hudson, there is a gloomy ravine called
Dark Hollow, which ploughs, as it were, a broad
and deep furrow between two high ridges of
land. The Hollow itself is filled with sombre
woods, and constitutes a sort of legendary womb
of earth, in which tradition has for many years
bred its monsters; supplying the neighborhood
with a brood of as lusty and good-for-nothing
fables, as gossip could wish to chirp over at a
winter's fireside. Among others, there is the
story of the spectre of the stranger that was
drowned in the neighboring pond (whose body
was never discovered), walking in this dim valley
in his sleeves, with his yellow vest thrown
open, with one short boot and one long one, and
without a hat, just as he appeared before his
fishing-boat was overturned—the very costume
in which he went to the bottom.
Then there was the Yankee that hung himself
on the great black walnut-tree, by the brook,
with an empty cider flask in his pocket, and whose
ghost has so unquenchable a thirst, that it has
been heard, any time the last twenty years, crying
(in a thick voice, and apparently half-over
seas) for “more cider!” and “another pull at
the jug—only one more!” and to the thirsty
propensities of which ghost, the owners of the
land below the Hollow attribute the frequent
dryness that afflicts the channel of the brook.
Then, on the side of the Hollow, and under
the shelter of rugged and sturdy oaks, that clamber
up in the dim light, as if eager to breathe
a purer air, lies nestling, away from the observation
of the keenest eye, Gaby's Hole; a mysterious
nook, in which, the story goes, a gang
of hardy counterfeiters, many years ago, established
a mint, and spouted forth thence, as
from a fountain, their streams of impure
coinage.
It is said that ruffian forms are even now
sometimes seen flitting about the mouth of the
Hole, and that the glare of lawless fires lit
up so long since, is in cloudy nights reflected
against the sky. The noise of hammers, too,
often mingles with the puffing of a huge bellows,
and, combined, they startle the damp
cricket from his low pallet on the earth, and
the fire-bug from his light-house elevation in
the mountain pine.
It was near this haunted region, and reclining
on a slope of the opposite ridge, that Francis
Whortle gazed into the Hollow. It was a summer's
afternoon and he had lingered on that particular
spot, thus questioning the depths of the
mysterious realm, he knew not why, for several
hours.
There was something in his past history that
might explain this brooding habit, which was
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[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
wont to seize and bind him as with a spell by
the side of running streams, in the twilight of
thoughtful sunsets, or beneath the melancholy
boughs of mighty trees.
Francis Whortle was a youth in the very
prime and spring-time of life, and yet clouds
came and passed across his brow as if it had been
that of an aged man, or one on the remotest
verge of suffering and care-stricken manhood.
The story of his sorrow was simple enough,
though with a touch of almost romantic singularity.
He had loved a beautiful girl—and, as
he thought, had won her affection in return;
when, suddenly, and without any hint or token
of such an event, she had vanished from the
neighborhood—vanished like a spirit, none
could tell at what precise moment, from what
spot, nor whiter. Hope exhausted itself in
hoping, and dreaming visions of her return, and
Invention fell dead at the anxious feet of the
bereaved man's friends—but she never more
came back. At night a light form, beautiful
with the hue and the grace of youth, stood often
at his bedside, and smiled upon him with a delicate
finger on its dewy lips—and vanished silent
and smoothly as the air. Spring came, the
bright season of expectation and promise, and
still she tarried. Summer perished in the deepgreen
woods and was buried beneath the Autumn
leaves, yet the lost one was not found.
Thus time chased hour on hour, and the skies
smiled and threatened, and after long lingering,
the swallow and the pigeon returned them their
strange absence far away, but the sweet girl
came not in their track, returned not to haunt
her own familiar dwelling nor to build her
bower under the calm old eaves of her childhood's
home. From the hour of that sad disappearance,
Whortle had yielded himself to an
unseen influence which led him about from
place to place, as in a dream. From that moment
he had rambled hither and thither, through
wood and field, and placing himself on some
chosen spot, with the soft meadow-brook's murmur
in his ear, or the gentle sound of waving
branches, he would strain forward with an
eager gaze and anxious look, as if he awaited
the sudden presence of the vanished Creature
from earth or air.
So busy was his brain with the image of the
lost one, so nimble and restless his fancy in
forging comfort for his poor, lone heart, that
every object in nature at times assumed the
fairy shape and seemed to walk forth from amid
surrounding things, palpable to the eye, fresh
and lovely as in the moment before she had
gone for ever. That young man's single grief
brought back for a time all the fair “humanities
of old religion,” and often in the deep wood he
started at a gentle form gliding swiftly, like a
dryad, before his view; or gazed wildly on a
sweet face smiling responsive to his own from
the untroubled fountain, a nymph-like countenance,
perishing with the first breath of the
gazer. It had become his sole employment to
people all the fields, and meadows, and mar
gins, and woodland glades, with the spiritual
likeness of his vanished mistress.
With this hope warm at his heart he peered
earnestly into the deepening shadows of the
Hollow. In a few moments an airy and graceful
shape sprang, as if from the covert of a
wild vine; it was the accustomed gentle form;
it turned its face upon the lover; it smiled—
and—as the young man lives—it beckons him
from his lofty seat. He doubts—it pauses—a
sorrowful look darkens its fair countenance—
again it smiles and renews the token. This
time he will not doubt nor waver. He gains
his feet, and with unusual speed hurries after
the fair apparition. Within a few paces of
her, however, he slackens his steps, and follows
in awe and wonder. Straight through the
Counterfeiters' dark defile she takes her way,
without hindrance from stone, bush, or tree:
following, as he may, he pursues her till she
winds through a clump of tall, gloomy trees,
and steps out upon an open space. He has
stumbled but once, and that was a little way
back, upon a rusted spade, standing against the
remains of an old forge or rural fire-place. The
gentle apparition crosses the glade; she reaches
a white object that stands out boldly against
the dark earth, and turning once more upon him
with a sad smile, she melts, like a dew or a
snow-flake into the earth. For a moment he
pauses like one who has seen some strange object
in sleep; but quickly surmounting fear and
wonder, he hastens to the spot where the visionary
Creature was lost to his gaze, with a
high hope beating at his heart, and rising up
and looking out at his gleaming and eager eyes.
He discovered a mouldering heap of bones, and
as his eye wandered about here and there, they
fell upon something that glimmered in the grass:
a quick, faint splendor, as of some lightningbug
or cricket trailing about his little lantern
from one blade or one green hillock to another.
But it shone too steadily for their transitory
light, and as his thoughts were fixed upon it as
if it had been the lurking eye of a serpent, he
stooped and took it in his hand. It was a plain
gold ring, soiled slightly by the weather, and,
with the inscription “Ruth Greenleaf.” Holding
the relic in his hand, he stood like one lost
in revery, gazing by turns on it and on the
mouldering bones at his feet.
Where he had found the ring the fragment
of an arm-bone lay, but the hand to which it
had belonged was crumbled and gone. He now
felt that he was standing by the mortal remains
of the fair creature who had disappeared so
long ago, and borne with her his heart into the
deep forest. It too had mouldered like the
bones before him; though it had a living tomb,
his own breast. The apparition had guided
him kindly to this spot to fulfil a sweet and
sacred duty: the burial of these fair, white
relics. How she had perished there, in that
strange, lone place, he could not guess; whether
by swift stroke of lightning, by serpent's poison
tooth, by the sharp pointed pain of sudden
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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
malady, or by a deadly hand. The last seemed
probable, and he thought at once that she had
been murdered by the ruffian counterfeiters,
upon whose guilty labor she may have come in
some one of her girlish rambles through the
gloomy hollow. They had slain her lest she
should disclose their hiding-place, and had fled.
The disordered condition in which he had observed
Gaby's Hole, as he passed rapidly
through it, strengthened and justified this dim
conjecture. But though she had lain long in
the chill air, while the green trees were looking
down upon her and shaking their green glories
in vain as a shroud over her, the hour of her
sepulture had come. Kneeling at the foot of
the relics, and breathing forth a brief prayer,
Whortle stepped back a little, and returned with
a rusty spade in his hand. Selecting a spot on
which the sunlight fell in the pleasant hours of
the day, and where no gloomy nor ill-boding
tree cast its shadow, he struck his spade into
the mould. As he delved the earth, many
thoughts swelled into his heart and moistened
his eyes.
Here have you lain and crumbled, thought
he, while I have lived framing idle fables,
dreaming vainly over the past, and questioning
the future. The soft spring-shower descends,
and the wild-rose takes off its infant mask in
the meadow, and discloses its blushing face to
the sun, and air, but in vain have those gentle
drops fallen on you, pale, passionless relics.
The Winds and the Elements have swept the
earth, and the air, and the waters quickening
all things into life; but you, even the loud
thunder has passed by, and left dull, slumbrous,
and motionless as ever. Here the fresh dawn
has poured its ray, and kindled voices and harmonies
without number in the breast of this
wild wood; silent, mournful, and dismantled it
has found, and left you, once the glorious residence
of speech and music. Shrunken from a
fair and fruit-like beauty, where all eyes once
dwelt, you have rested here—visited by all
things in nature—the wind, the sunbeam, the
shower and the evening glory, unknown, honorless,
and unadored. With emotions and fancies
like these he shaped the grave.
Simple as was the whole scene, it was a subject
for the painter's finest pencil—for it was
tinged with many colors of the true sublime.
A spade, a youth, and a few crumbling bones.
What is there in these to awaken deep feeling
or reverential thought? It is a spiritual picture
in the midst of busy life. On the high
ridge they are gathered with the setting sun
streaming full upon them, while on one side
husbandmen, joyous with the spirit of plenty,
are turning their winrows; on another, nearer
by, on the margin of the pond, a boisterous
group are dragging their well-laden fish-net
ashore, blessing Fortune and the favoring tide.
Beyond the hollow, up on the by-road that passes
through the woods, a country school is just
let loose, and Childhood tumbles with its
satchel and sportive face into the open air, and
looks up laughingly to the clear sky. And
there into that neat farm-house, with its newlypainted
front, a troop of weddeners is hastening.
On Whortle delves, and the grave is finished.
Gently he lays the relics in its bosom, and ere
he casts back the damp earth on its kindred
earth, he stands, leaning on his simple companion
in the labor, and gazes long and earnestly
down into the hollow mould.
He has buried the hallowed bones, and planted
an evergreen at their head, and as the mellow
light of the dying day streams through the
trees, borrowing a new hue, to add to its thousand
colors, from them, he turns his steps mournfully
away, as if he had laid his own heart there
with his mistress' dust.
At the close of a day in the early part of
autumn, a small-built gentleman, in a black
suit and snowy neckerchief, was sitting in the
desk of Chatham chapel, with his head resting
upon his folded hands. From the tall side-windows,
the purple shadows of evening fell upon
his person, and thronged about his elevated
place of repose, as if they would bury him entirely
from the gaze. The whole vast body of
the building began to be filled with darkness
and gloom, and the different objects—the pews—
the galleries and aisles, were blended together,
and assumed whatever shapes the fancy
chose to give them. The black-clad gentleman,
the sole tenant of this realm of shadows
and confusion, was the Rev. John Huckins, a
righteous man of God, who was born with the
happiest possession that one who intends to
make piety the business of his life can fall heir
to, and that was, an indescribably meek and
evangelical length of feature. He was, at the
present time, the clergyman of a Christian congregation
that worshipped in the chapel, and
at the particular moment when he is introduced
to the reader, was reposing after the fatigues
of the afternoon Wednesday service, and at the
same time awaiting the attendance of a few
professors on a prayer-meeting, which was to
be held there preparatory to an evening discourse.
In the slumber which he was enjoying,
images of past scenes—of times long bygone—
vanished away, far away in the dim regions of
youth, mingled with the events and things and
creatures of yesterday, and at length he dreamed
that the very chapel, in which he was seated,
was touched by the strange magic of sleep, and
was passing through one of those wild and wizard
changes which occur only in dreams. He
beheld before him two beings, with something
mortal in their garments and bearing, mixed
with more that was unearthly and spectral in
their look and the tones of their voice.
One was short and round-shouldered, with a
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long-waisted roundabout on, and the other a
pale meager figure, with sweat upon his brow,
which seemed as if it might be the death-damp,
which he had neglected to wipe away in his
hurried emergence into light. They both busied
themselves in unhinging the pew-doors, and
with huge piles of them upon their shoulders—
far greater, it seemed, than mere mortals could
stagger under—they tottered down the aisles,
and, disappearing at the preacher's feet, returned
in a few minutes empty-handed, and bore
away a second load. While they were engaged
in this singular task, they now and then interchanged
a word with each other.
“What do we have to-night?” asked the
round-shouldered man.
“The `Devil's Due Bill,”' answered his
companion.
“What! `The Devil's Due Bill Honored'—
in which old Roberts is so capital in Wiggle?”
“The same, the very same!” returned the
meager figure, “and I thank Heaven we've got
possession again. It was a shame to let these
canting dogs bark so long in old Chatham; and
I could not lay easy in my grave till I helped
get up another good old piece in her walls!”
“You're right, Bill—prompter snuff me out
if you a'n't!” assented the round-shouldered
personage. “I wonder if they'll all be here
to-night?”
“The whole company, in full force, you may
depend upon it, and we'll go through it in less
time than we ever did before—music and all—
take my word for it.”
When they had completely disposed of the
doors, they commenced sacking the pews themselves,
and carried off the red and brown cushions,
muttering, “Bare benches is good enough
for the half-price bottoms of the pit!” After
this they swept the hymn-books, testaments,
&c., which they found on the pew-shelves, into
a green-baize, and hurried them away with
the same eagerness, grumbling forth something
or other about the “saints in the playhouse!”
While these two personages were engaged
in this way, as many as half-a-dozen sallowlooking
men were perched about the floor of
the building, on ladders, with painters' jackets
on, and employed in swiftly executing miniature
scenes from Shakspere and other dramatists,
on the naked panel-work of the galleries. In
the meanwhile, hammers were plying in every
quarter of the house; nails were drawn and
driven, parts of the building taken down and
parts renewed, with all the dexterity and despatch
of jugglery. Presently, all the artisans
disappeared, whither, no one could guess; and
Huckins, astonished at what he saw, and every
moment expecting some greater wonder, now
discovered men and women in gay dresses,
laughing, and full of frolic, entering the first
gallery, while instead of the humble believers
and penitents whom he had expected to detect
creeping up the aisle to prayer-meeting, whole
hosts of robust sinners, and boisterous boys and
'prentices poured in upon the floor of the house,
and took possession of the seats directly before
his face. In a moment more he heard the faint
tinkling of a bell, and, turning round, discovered
an immense curtain, with the picture of a huge
woman, with flowing robes and a yellow crown
on her head, rolling gradually toward the ceiling;
and now, for the first time, as he took his
seat among the spectators, the conviction entered
his mind that he was in Chatham theatre,
a wild, wicked boy, yet with some germes of
childish innocence and purity blossoming about
his heart, and not the hard, hypocritical man,
seemingly holy and pure in outward act, while
all within was barrenness, guile, and a dull,
gloomy heathendom. The first scene that
opened upon the audience, exhibited what
seemed to be the committee-room of a church,
in which were assembled some seven or eight
men, transacting business connected with their
office of trustees or deacons. In dress and demeanor
they resembled men with whom Huckins
was familiar, although their size and lineaments
in some respects were different. The
prominent personage of the group was a turtleshaped,
middle-sized man, with a brown wig
and wrinkled countenance, expressive of a dogmatical
temper and sturdy self-will.
“It shall be so!” cried this magnate, striding
up and down the stage, and flourishing a heavy
walking-stick. “I have made up my mind to
that point, gentlemen. He has the genuine
evangelical spirit, I am confident, and that's
enough for me.”
“And for me,” added a second committee-man.
“He's not a bad speaker, too, for I sat
beneath the back gallery, and heard distinctly
every word that he uttered.”
“I stationed myself behind a post,” said a
third, “and took the exact gauge of his voice.
It is a high tenor, and suits an oblong, lowroofed
building like ours, exactly. He has my
vote.”
“The spirit is all that is needed,” rejoined
a fourth, “the pious, Bible spirit. This is
arms, legs, and voice, to a godly preacher.”
“You are right, my friends,” resumed the
first speaker, smiling complacently upon his
supporters, “very right, and if he had a voice
as rough as the Rocky mountains—”
“But consider, Mr. Huff,” interposed a tall,
lantern-faced man, “we have learned from his
confidential servant, Wiggle, that he writes his
sermons in an overcoat, with his hat on, and a
small bundle always packed up and lying on
his table. He isn't in the missionary service
and liable to be summoned away to Burampooter
or Burmah at a moment's notice, and what
do all these travelling preparations mean? Eh?”
“Genius!” answered Mr. Huff, peremptorily.
“Genius and the Holy Ghost! Look
what a face he has, too. Why the exhibition
of that face alone at the gate of heaven would
obtain his instant admission. It's the face of
a cherub, Higgs!”
“As Higgs, my senior partner, says,” began
a timid little man, who was rather short of
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wind, and, consequently, always cut short in
his attempted observation, as in the present
case. “Wiggle, his confidential—”
“Vexation take Wiggle!” cried Mr. Huff.
“Gentlemen, shall we put it to vote? Are
you ready?” In a few minutes, after the circulation
of a respectable black beaver hat
among the members of the committee, the
Rev. John Huckins was announced as duly
elected pastor of the—Church.
The previous astonishment and wonder of
the parson was not a little increased at beholding
his own election thus passing before his
eyes, very much in the same manner as it must
have passed in private, when he was a candidate
before these self-same gentlemen, who
were thus mysteriously presented to him in the
full possession of their official functions.
The scene now shifted, and in the place of
the deacons in their committee-room, Huckins
beheld the parlor of a respectable private
dwelling in which were assembled about twenty
females, of all ages, old, young, and many in
the middle period of life.
“What a powerful discourse!” exclaimed
one of them, a large woman, with an ugly expression
of countenance.
“So earnest, too!” said a young lady.
“Brother George counted the strokes of his
arm upon the cushion, and thinks he rose a
hundred in the course of his sermon: besides
the two prayers. He is a divine preacher!”
“This fiery zeal of his will keep us busy furnishing
pulpit covers it is true,” said an aged
female, “but the Lord be blessed! my eyesight
continues good, and my right hand hath not
yet forgot its cunning: I can be serviceable to
the church even in my old age in this matter.
Smite the sinner like a strong man, and we'll
supply the red damask, or plush of good quality,
as long as the Lord continues our brother
in the ministry.”
“I propose,” said the large lady, “that we
make the Reverend John Huckins a life member
of the `Pottawatomy Society,' and that a
committee be named to wait upon the distinguished
gentleman to notify him of his election,
and request him to deliver a series of discourses,
on the importance of clothing juvenile Indians
in slops and dickies, in aid of the funds
of the Pottawatomy Association!” This motion
was unanimously carried, and the large lady
was named as said committee. Much further
general conversation occurred, followed by a
scriptural banquet of hot rolls and preserves,
and the “Society” dispersed to their respective
residences.
To his utter astonishment, the next scene
represented a room, in every respect corresponding
with his own study; and to his great horror,
he felt himself suddenly lifted from his
seat in the pit, and by some unseen agency
placed by the side of a small table upon the
stage and fronting the gaze of an immense audience.
In a moment after his abrupt metempsychosis
from the pit, a little man in a buff com
plexion and buff-colored pantaloons to match a
bob-tailed coat and skull-cap, with a brown loaf
under one arm, and a bowl in his hand, entered,
with a comic salutation to the audience and an
irresistible grin on his visnomy, and was greeted
on his appearance, as if he were a favorite performer.
It was Roberts, Old Roberts, the droll
and comedian of Old Chatham theatre, and
Huckins at once recognised in him one of the
actors whom he had seen on that same stage
many long years ago when a boy. The character
which this quaint performer at present
personated, was that of the confidential servant
of the Rev. John Huckins, over whom he
seems to have possessed a singular mastery,
which he had an equally singular mode of exhibiting.
“Well, Wiggle,” said Huckins, constrained
by some mysterious influence to take part in the
play that was, or seemed to be, performing:
“Salary, three thousand—house-rent free, besides
an open account with every member of
the congregation. That's a handsome business!”
“Rather handsome, I should say!” replied
Wiggle. “Summ'at better than looking through
a noose, like a starved steer through an ox-yoke,
in this fashion.” And running a rapid noose
in his pocket-handkerchief, he threw it over
the head of the Reverend gentleman, and drew
it up till his face reddened like an autumnal
sunset, while the audience encouraged the
manœuvre by the most clamorous applause.
“There,” continued Wiggle, loosening his
halter, “I'll let you off this time, but mind, I'm
to have twenty per cent, and marriage fees!”
“I thought,” returned Huckins, “it was to
be the naked twenty per cent. Nothing was
said about the fees before.”
“Oh, the fees—I must have the fees, or do
you see,” said Wiggle, knocking the parson's
broad-brimmed hat over his eyes, “you'll be
furnished with a night-cap that admits no
waking, and when it's drawn on you, go to sleep
for good and all.”
“Well, well,” said the parson, “take your
own way, but be careful and not a word about
the—”
“A—r—”
“Hush,” said Huckins, “don't breathe the
word in this hemisphere, or we're done for!”
“You must pay me the fees too,” continued
the remorseless Wiggle, “as you receive them.
They're generally paid in gold, and there's a
premium you know. D'ye understand?”
And to awaken Mr. Huckins to a lively perception
of what he meant, he punched him
playfully in different parts of the person, and
concluded by placing his hand gathered like a
trumpet at his ear, and uttering, in a portentous
whisper, the word “Arson!”
Now whether the terror and paleness which
invariably afflicted Hackins at the mention of
this dissyllable arose from the retrospect and
reminiscence of some past conflagration in
which he had participated, or from his looking
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[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
forward, with prophetic eye, to the “great
burning,” in which he might, perhaps, reasonably
expect to participate more deeply, it would
not be wise, to conjecture at this early stage of
the business.
“Do you think there's the slightest—the
faintest chance of detection?” gasped Huckins.
“None at all, not as much as would convict
a grasshopper of wearing pumps, I warrant
you, if you'll keep your face stretched out to the
right length. Do you practise as I told you?”
“Yes twice a day.”
“Mornin' and evenin' I suppose, before a
glass. You'd better stretch it in a boot-jack
than let it dry and shrink up—for you'd look
like the very devil if it wasn't for that smooth
face of yours, Jack.”
“You haven't said anything of the overcoat
and so forth—have you?” asked Huckins.
“Only hinted a little of it to Higgs, one of
the committee—who was rather unfavourable to
your election—thinking it might give him an
idea of what a great preacher you was, and
what wonderful talent you had to write your
sermons in a box-coat!”
“Be careful, Wiggle—for Higgs is a sharp,
keen man, and already suspects something:
and it's safest to be ready for travel at short
notice, isn't it?”
“By all means. Be prudent, and we'll feather
our nests and fill our pockets out of these innocents
yet. Preach stanch sermons—strong
flavor of brimstone—make long prayers and
loud ones, and live on vegetables in public—
and our fortunes are made!”
“Ay, ay,” said the parson, “don't fear me;
and hark, Wiggle, be particularly careful not
to have anything to say to that fellow Morfit.
I believe he knew me when I was here before.”
“What, the lean affidavit-maker?—I wouldn't
speak to the starveling, if we two were on a
desert island famishing—if he had a broiled
woodcock in his hand, basted in its own drippings,
and would divide it for the asking.”
Here the facetious Wiggle slipped his scullcap
into his coat pocket, perched the bowl upon
the crown of his head, took a huge mouthful
from the brown loaf under his right arm, lifted
his coat-tails in a playful manner toward the
audience with his left, and amid a tempest of
huzzas and shouts of “Old Roberts for ever!”
made his exit. The tall woman with her flowing
robes and yellow crown, gradually emerged
from the eanvass as the curtain fell, and Parson
Huckins seated, he could not tell where, in the
confusion of his dream, heard the free comments
of the audience on what had passed.
“He's a desperate villain,” said a young
man in a pea-jacket, crushing a play-bill in his
hand as he spoke. “But Wiggle's too much
for him!”
“I've seen many just such weasel-faced fellows
as this parson!” said a dry, little old
man, “And I wouldn't trust one of 'em with
my finger parings.”
“What do you think will become of Huc
kins?” asked a sharp-nosed man, with eyes that
projected like a lobster's; leaning forward into
the face of the dry old man.
“Why, he'll be hung,” answered the little
old man, emphatically, “or turn politician,
which will amount to the same thing in the
end!”
“I think he'll marry the old lady of the Pottawatomy
Association,” suggested the young
gentleman in the pea-jacket.
“We shall see!” said the old man:—the bell
tinkled—the curtain rose, and exhibited the
same seene as the last, with Huckins at the
small table, and Mr. Huff seated opposite.
“If it could be made out scripturally, it
would afford me great satisfaction,” said Mr.
Huff.
“It can be, sir, I assure you; I shall be able
to show beyond doubt or controversy, that every
human being now on the face of the earth must
suffer the flames, except my humble self, and
the majority of the deacons of — church; in
which number, Mr. Thomas Huff, I am happy
to say, holds no mean position.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you; but have you
sufficient texts and apposite passages?”
“Ample, my good sir, ample,” answered
Parson Huckins. “Excerpts and quotations
from Isaiah and the Revelation, as long and
heavy as the weaver's beam, wherewith Golias
went forth against the children of Israel.”
“Really,” continued the pharisaical little Mr.
Huff, rubbing his hands and clucking quietly
like a hen—“Really, this will be the happiest
event of my life since my election as deacon.
What a pleasant time WE will have in heaven,
Brother Huckins! a little select company of
saints, feeding on the pleasant pastures of the
skies, like the remnant of a countless flock of
ewes and sheep, scattered hither and thither by
a storm; while hundreds of thousands of poor
wretches will be groaning and burning and
crying out in Tophet: provided you get them
there scripturally.”
“It shall be done, sir!” said Huckins, confidently.
“Mark me, I deny the doctrine—though I
must confess it looks reasonable—unless you
support it stoutly by texts and bandages of Holy
Writ!”
“Fear not,” again answered the parson, “I
will bring the Bible to bear directly upon the
point, as if it had been shot from the mouth of
a cannon: and many will be the poor sinner
that would like to come under our blanket,
when the tempest and lightning, and bombs
and hand-grenades of Almighty wrath are falling
about his ears!”
“We are safe?” asked Mr. Huff, with an
anxious wrinkle on his brow. “You are sure
of that?”
“Beyond peradventure—as secure from hell
as if we were insured in a fire company,”
answered Parson Huckins, somewhat profancly;
but it was in a dream, and perhaps the poor
man knew not what he spake. Anyhow, the
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two grave and pious gentlemen here sat quiet
about the space of a minute, casting their eyes
toward the roof, and indulging in inward
laughter, which at length overflowed, and ran
out at their eyes and over their faces like tears.
After this, the parson produced a Bible and
a map of the world: and proceeded to illustrate
his views.
“This,” said he, pointing out one text, “this
carries off all the heathen—all these lands
around which I have drawn a black line: African,
Patagonian, Indian, Bedouin Arab, dwarf
Laplander—and the whole brood. This,” selecting
a second, “despatches the Catholic
countries—marked red in the map—and this
undoubted passage,” taking a third, “deals the
fire upon Protestant Europe and Botany Bay.”
“Botany Bay!” exclaimed Huff, in astonishment.
“Yes—there's a special clause for New
South Wales in this text. Nothing else could
be intended. As for America, there's no need
of scriptural denunciation, for we know from
our own eyes' testimony that it deserves no
less. The state of moral destitution in this
country, Mr. Huff, is absolutely awful! Sodom
and Gomorrah!—Sodom and Gomorrah!”
“Will the town of Greenwich, Connecticut,
be saved, think you?” asked Huff.
“Not a soul, from the town clerk to the
county judge!” answered the parson, who knew
that said town of Greenwich was Huff's birthplace,
and that he had been handled rather
severely there by the county court, in a little
affair of apportioning money from his pocket
for the support of a hedge-born child.
“Thank God!” thereupon cried the deacon,
when Huckins had uttered this verdict, and
showed him where he had entirely blotted out
the irreligious borough with a huge ink spot.
“I feel grateful to you, Parson Huckins, for
these comforting doctrines,” said Huff, taking
the parson warmly by the hand. “Continue
steadfast in preaching and upholding them—
and that matter of the increase of salary—
you understand?” And with this broken suggestion
he departed.
The curtain dropped, and the next scene discovered
Mr. Higgs, solus, striding up and down
the stage, apparently laboring under high excitement.
“This is not to be borne,” said he. “Here
comes a fellow, the Lord knows whence, and
exhibits a furlong of feature one day over the
pulpit top, and consigns the whole audience
peremptorily to the pit, as if they were a basket
of spoiled salmon, and the next day, as the Lord
liveth, he is chosen paster of the congregation.
Why I would rather hear a fire-bell ring in
midsummer than his voice: his tones are those
of a radish-girl, and his gestures the contortions
of a rheumatic sailor undergoing the bastinado.
I hate such fellows worse than a stone-mason
hates a rat about his foundations. He deals his
brimstone about as freely as if the whole audience
were infected with the bilious fever, or were a
parcel of scoundrel dogs with the distemper.
He seems to have constituted himself a sort of
eternal watchman to cry in the great burning.
His discourse is stuck full of pitch and cinders,
and one could not be reasonably surprised to
see him spit flame. But somehow he hath obtained
strange mastery over Huff (a eredulous,
ignorant old man, who believes everything he
hears, and a self-willed one, who strives to impose
his novel discoveries on every one he
meets) and other of our people. The Pottawatomy
Association is again in motion—and
Heaven knows what absurdity these cackling
old women will give birth to!”
Mr. Higgs now made his exit, and the next
scene displayed a cobbler's stall, in which a
long lean man was seated on a bench at work,
and standing by his side our old friend Wiggle.
“So you find this a profitable business,” said
Wiggle, “this affidavit making?”
“It helps a little in hard times,” answered
the cobbler. “I can turn off at the rate of
three affidavits and two pairs of boots a week,
and that pays pretty well.”
“But Mr. Morfit, I should think there would
be no limit to the amount of business you might
drive in the former line. If I understand it, all
you have to do is to sign your name and kiss
the book.”
“Ah! you know very little of the profession,”
said Morfit, with a sigh; “I have found, from
considerable experience, that I can't stand more
than one affidavit a day. I tried for a little
while after I commenced, but I found the oaths
lay heavy on my conscience at night, and I put
it on regimen, one a day.”
“Who are your chief employers, Mr. Morfit?”
“The quack doctors: I supply them with
sworn certificates. A politician now and then
engages me just before an election; and I occasionally
go into court, in important cases, to
help out the evidence.”
“What are your terms? So much a folio,
or such a per centage on the profits?”
“I see, Mr. Wiggle, you are entirely ignorant
of this branch of business,” said Morfit, with a
ghastly grin. “A gentleman wants something
in my line, he comes in, `Morfit,' says he, `an
affidavit on the virtues of the “Buffalo Embrocation,”
and a pair of light boots, both ready by
Saturday.' Very well, say I. `In Court,' says
an attorney—I have an extensive acquaintance
among attorneys—`In court, Morfit, Saturday
morning, case of Borrowe vs. Bustard, action
of libel, swear bad character for Bustard—and
two pairs of best made French slippers for
plaintiff.”'
“Well,” said Wiggle, “when will you have
this affidavit of mine done, about Huckins?”
“Let me see, this is Wednesday; two certificates
for Dr. Spike, that his pills are valuable
in clarifying cider—swear to two barrels cleared
of sediment by a single box; affidavit for the
politician, that Quirks, opposition candidate,
knocked his cartman in the head with a cart
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
ng, and destroyed four square inches of skull,
because said cartman refused to vote his employer's
ticket!—This is a busy week, Wiggle,
just before the fall election, but as you're an
old friend, I'll have this of yours for you to-morrow
noon.”
“Do you understand what its contents are
to be?”
“That deponent was acquainted with said
Huckins in Massachusetts, while he was studying
theology; knew him to be pious, correct in
deportment, highly esteemed, &c.”
“That's it, Morfit,” said Wiggle; “it's only
to satisfy the private scruples of one of the
deacons, who says he never heard of Huckins
before. To-morrow noon.”
“True as a heel-tap!” answered the cobbler.
“What's the number of the parson's dwelling.”
“Oh, I'll call for it,” said Wiggle; “but
our number's— —street.”
“Very good. Good day, Wiggle.”
“Good day to your honor!” and Wiggle departed,
with an entirely original grin, which
drew his whole countenance into a single wrinkle,
by some mysterious motion of the muscles,
in the same manner as an old lady's work-bag
is drawn into a snug ball of silk, by aid of the
string.
The audience encored; he returned, and renewed
the wonderful face, again departed—the
scene shifts—and enter the ugly old lady of the
“Pottawatomy Association,” and Mr. Higgins.
“As I was saying, Mr. Higgins,” said the old
lady. “I am to wait upon Parson Huckins tomorrow,
and notify him of his life-membership
in the Pottawatomy, and solicit him to deliver
a course of lectures, or a single lecture, on the
present indelicate style of Indian dress, and the
propriety of substituting trousers and body-coats
in its stead. You will accompany me, will you,
Mr. Higgins?”
“Higgs, my senior partner, says—” proceeded
Mr. Higgins.
“Oh, yes, I understand,” interposed the old
lady. “If the medal was ready we might call
upon him to-day. Whether to present it to him
standing or kneeling—”
“I should think,” again said the unfortunate
Higgins, who seemed destined never to finish a
sentence, “as Higgs—”
“Or with my hat on or off,” continued the
old lady, not heeding her companion; “in my
new calico, or my cloth habit. I must consult
the society. I never would have undertaken this
task if I had known how many difficulties and
perplexities would attend it. Anyhow, we must
elect Parson Huckins a member of our `Short-stitch
and Long-stitch Benevolent Union;' and
then I shall resign!”
“Mrs. Furbelowe!” exclaimed Higgins.
“He's a sweet man—a pious, sweet man; I
could almost worship him—Oh, Huckins, it's
too good for my soul!”
“Mrs. Furbelowe!” again cried Higgins,
“at what hour—”
“To-morrow noon—to-morrow noon!” ex
claimed Mrs. Furbelowe, waving him away;
“meet me at the parson's—sweet Parson
Huckins!”
The act curtain fell, and as the music (which
had a wild, unearthly tone in that building,
where it had been so long silent) played its full
tide of melody upon the audience from its airy
tubes, the groundling critics again indulged in
strictures on the performance.
“The marriage will surely come on in the
last act!” said the young man in the pea-jacket.
“Mrs. Furbelowe sighs like a brokenwinded
bellows, and means to trap the parson.”
“There'll be a riot yet,” said the sharp-nosed
man with the lobster eyes, “don't you think
there will?”
“No such thing!” answered the dry, little,
old man. “Huckins will be made a bishop or
secretary of state before the play's done. Wiggle
wasn't as good in this act.”
“He'll brighten up in the next!” timidly suggested
the young man in the pea-jacket.
“He will!” answered the dry, little, old man,
sententiously.
A shrill whistle was heard, the bell tinkled,
the curtain rose, and disclosed the worthy Mr.
Morfit, in an open street, eagerly eyeing a respectable
two-story house, with the name of
“John Huckins” on a broad silver door-plate.
“This is the house,” said the affidavit-maker,
“and I must get a sight of the reverend
gentleman—so as to know his person if I should
be confronted with him. That must be him,”
casting his eye down the street, towards a person
approaching in that direction—“black suit
of broadcloth—auburn hair (making entries in
a note-book)—a slow, cautious gait—limps a
little—about the middle height; now for his
face—long featured, pious—good heavens! it's
my old friend—hush! I won't mention it in the
street, or we'll have a hanging on the nearest
lamp-post—ho! here comes Wiggle, too—I must
tell him some lie about my being here, though I
needn't swear to it. How are you, Wiggle?”
“Ah! my man of oaths and French slippers,
my pink of swearing and sole-leather—how are
you, and what are you doing in this quarter of the
town?” said Wiggle, striking the open palm of
his broad hand upon his back, like the fluke
of a Norwegian sperm-whale of the largest
class.
“Merely looking out for a few subjects for
affidavits,” answered Morfit. “Two of the aldermen,
opposed to our party, live in those two
double-houses.”
“Well, what can you swear of them?” asked
Wiggle; “that they are four feet about the
girth, and split the seams of their coats open
with fat, like a full peascod in the month of
August?”
“No; but one of them has purple embossed
paper in his fanlights—and the other, a span
of high-headed light bay horses.”
“Suppose you could swear one of them
kept a stud of wild tigers, and had a polar-bear
for a coachman—would it help you any?”
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“To be sure, I'd give any amount of money
if I could swear to that effect, without being
set down by the whole city for as great a liar
as the town-clock!”
“How so, my worthy fellow?”
“Why, you see,” responded Morfit, with a
sly leer, “quadrupeds and villains is intimately
connected; if a man rides on horseback, he's a
rogue; in a one-horsed vehicle, he's a scamp;
and if he ventures in a coach or barouche of
his own—God save us!—he's a desperate rascal.
Let him trudge on foot, and wear out
sole-leather—and, Heaven bless him! he's an
honest man; poor, but honest. That's our
creed!”
“Well, I must in, in spite of your wonderful
new discovery in ethics,” said Wiggle, working
his eyeballs with his thumbs, so as to impress
Morfit with the conviction that it was all
there—namely, in his eye. “We're to have grand
times at our house, this morning. Two of the
trustees is to call—the Botherwhatamy Society
presents a pewter dining-set to the parson, and
I'm to serve up a basket of the `pure juice of
the grape'—good day, Morfit—another time—
happy to see you—good day—good day!”
And he glided in at the hall-door, with both
hands extended, as if in the act of swimming
out of reach of further dialogue with the affidavit-maker.
“Well,” said Morfit, when left alone, “I
may as well disappear too, and I'm afraid I
shall be obliged to adulterate your `pure juice'
with a few drops of that unpleasant elixir called
justice. Here's for the police.” Stretching his
neck, like some meager bird of prey, bringing
his coat close together, and knocking his hat
over his brows, he put off at full speed, down
the street.
In a few minutes the stage was occupied by
the ugly old lady of the Pottawatomy Association,
who came in puffing and blowing, and looking
like Vesuvius on the eve of an eruption,
with Higgins running at her side.
“A sultry day, Mr. Higgins,” said she, pausing
and unfurling a white pocket-handkerchief,
wherewith she wiped her picturesque face. “A
very sultry day—be careful, or that medal will
melt—see that it's snug in the basket, if you
please, Mr. Higgins.”
“Yes, ma'am,” answered the little gentleman,
uttering the first sentence that he had
been allowed to finish since his appearance in
the performance.
“I wish I had thought to pack it in ice!”
said Mrs. Furbelowe, looking wise, “it would
be so cooling and grateful to John's hands.”
“What John?” gasped Higgins, in amazement.
“What John are you speaking—”
“Oh, the parson—I meant the parson,” answered
the old lady, blushing slightly, “I was
too scriptural, that was all. In the New Testament,
the apostles and disciples are so familiar,
it's really a picture to the mind, Mr. Higgins.
I wish Mr. Huckins would allow me to call him
John; it would be delightful, wouldn't it?”
Before Higgins could furnish an answer,
they were within Parson Huckins's hall, and
the door had closed.
In a moment or two more, the two deacons,
Messrs. Huff and Higgs, were discovered passing
through the street, in the same direction.
“What think you of our new parson, now?”
said Huff, with a smile on his wrinkled visage.
“Worse and worse,” answered Higgs; “I
have not seen the certificates he promised, yet,
and, from the violent language of condemnation
that he uses in the pulpit, toward others, I doubt,
more and more, his own Christian character.
Anyhow, I should like to have some evidence
of it.”
“You are on your road to it,” said Huff. “If
certain proofs that he is to lay before me, are
not sufficient, you must be, in truth, hard of belief—
strong, overwhelming, gospel proofs!”
“Some, such, I need,” said Higgs, firmly, “and
nothing less will serve my purpose. Christian
churches, Mr. Huff, are getting too much in the
habit of selecting their pastors as showmen
choose their lions, for the loudness of their roar,
or, like jugglers, for the quantity of false fire
they can spit from their lips.”
“Ah!” interposed Huff, “there you are,
Brother Higgs, on your old heresy. You were
always in favor of packing away Christians
coolly and comfortably, and despatching them
from this world as if the journey to heaven were
no more than a pleasant excursion by water, to
a country-town, in September. But nothing, in
my mind, can supply the Lord's household with
purified and holy occupants but fire—fire—fire;
the beginning, the middle, and the end of Scripture!”
“Why men, Mr. Huff, are surely something
more than mere vessels of potter's clay, whose
bad qualities are to be burat out by the
flame.”
“Never mind, come in, come in, and your
scruples will melt the moment Parson Huckins
opens his mouth,” said Huff; and at that moment
they were ushered into the same building
that had received Mrs. Furbelowe and her companion.
The next scene disclosed the parlor of Parson
Huckins's dwelling, with the parson, the two
deacons, Mrs. Furbelowe, of the Pottawatomy
Association, and Mr. Higgins assembled therein.
“Well, how stands our case?” said Mr.
Huff.
“All as I told you,” answered Huckins.
“Our brother Higgs's condition is desperate—
is it?” asked Huff, with a sweet sardonical
smile.
“What's that you say of me?” roared Higgs.
“Pray what is it, Mr. Huckins?”
“I'd rather not,” answered the parson, “I
have too much regard for your feelings.”
“Out with it, sir, if you please,” again cried
Higgs; “I must know what matter concerns
me, that you and Mr. Huff are so secret with.
Will you be so good as to inform me?”
“If you will know, then,” answered Huckins,
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prefacing his remarks with a long-drawn and
meek expression of countenance, “it is my unpleasant
duty to inform you, that it is your inevitable
destiny to go to hell!”
“To go where?” exclaimed Higgs, in an incipient
rage.
“Be not agitated, my good sir!” said the
parson soothingly, “I merely said to hell. Be
calm—for my sake—be calm. I regret it—I
sincerely regret it, and wish to alleviate your
misfortune as much as possible. Is there anything
I can do for you in a secular sense: are
you in want of meat? clothing? coal? I truly
commiserate with you, my fellow-mortal!”
“No more of this, if you please,” cried Higgs;
“I will look at your certificates.”
“Here, sir, is one—which must satisfy you
fully,” said the parson, and he handed him Morfit's
document, with which Higgs immediately
busied himself.
Mrs. Furbelowe took advantage of the pause
to gain her feet, and advanced within a yard of
the parson, with a very solemn smile on her
countenance, and the basket on her left arm;
she there stopped short, and began to hold
forth. “Sir,” said she, “the `Pottawatomy
Association' highly appreciating your numerous
Christian virtues—”
“How is this,” broke out Higgs, remorselessly
cutting short the proffered harangue.
“This affidavit is sworn to by my own shoemaker!”
At that moment, and before the parson could
reply to this pertinent query, Morfit himself
entered with a little grim man with a staff.
“Ah!” cried the little grim man, the instant
his eye fell upon the reverend gentleman, “Ah,
my good old friend!—how are you, Peter—how
are you?” he continued, grasping the parson's
reluctant hand, and wringing it with a hard
gripe.
“Gentlemen,” he added, seizing Huckins by
the collar, and turning to the company, “allow
me to introduce you to my worthy friend—Peter
Williams—the notorious incendiary!”
“Peter Williams!” gasped Huff. “Fire and
flames!”
“A house-burner!” said Higgs. “I thought
as much from the combustible character of his
sermons!”
“Take me home!” shouted Mrs. Furbelowe,
“I'm fainting, I shan't survive this long! it's
too much for my constitution!” And she let fall
the basket, from which the Pottawatomy medal
rolled upon the floor. Wiggle availed himself
of the confusion to slip from the room, with a
most voluminous and expressive grin on his
queer features.
“As Higgs, my senior partner, says—” proceeded
Higgins.
“Come,” said the officer, interrupting him,
“come, Peter, you must go to prison. You'll
die yet like an old horse at the rack, with your
head through a halter.”
“If I do,” cried the parson, “I'll be—” He
struck his hand forcibly upon the desk frame,
to give emphasis to his asseveration: the shock
awakened him. The whole scene had vanished,
and instead of the pit audience, his eyes
rested upon the up-turned faces of two or three
humble Christians on the front benches of the
chapel, gazing upon him with dilating eyes.
He convulsively grasped his hat, rushed madly
up the middle aisle, out of the building—and,
like all heroes of this humbler kind of romance,
has never been seen or heard of since.
THE END OF THE MOTLEY BOOK.
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BEHEMOTH: A LEGEND OF THE MOUND-BUILDERS.
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It was the main design of the author in the following
work, to make the gigantic relics which
are found scattered throughout this continent, subservient
to the purposes of imagination. He has,
therefore, dared to evoke a Mighty Creature from
the earth, and striven to endow it with life and
motion. Coeval with this, the great race that preceded
the red men as the possessors of our continent,
have been called into being. With whatever
success the author may have accomplished this
portion of his task, the venerable race which struggled
and endured in these fair fields, ere they became
our home and dwelling place, must be allowed
to awaken our feelings and share our generous
regards. In describing the Mound-builders, no
effort has been made to paint their costume, their
modes of life, or their system of government. They
are presented to the reader almost exclusively under
a single aspect, and under the influence of a
single emotion. It matters not to us whether they
dwelt under a monarchical or popular form of polity;
whether king or council ruled their realms;
nor, in fine, what was their exact outward condition.
It is enough for us to know, and enough for
our humanity to inquire, that they existed, toiled,
felt, and suffered; that to them fell, in these pleasant
regions, their portion of the common heritage
of our race, and that around those ancient hearth-stones,
washed to light on the banks of the farwestern
rivers, once gossiped and enjoyed life, a
nation that has utterly faded away. We are moved
deeply in looking upon their mortuary remains—
those disinterred and stately skeletons—for we
know that they once were men, and moved among
men with hearts full of human impulses, and heads
warm with mortal schemes and fancies. Of this,
history could make us no surer. Over the earth
where they repose, purple flowers spring up, and
with the brilliancy of their hues, and the sweetness
of their breath, give a splendor and fragrance to
the air. This touches him as deeply, the author
must confess, and seems to his untravelled eyes as
beautiful as anything he can read of Athens, of
cloudless Italy, or the sunny France. Humanity and
nature are all with which the heart wishes to deal,
and we have them here in their naked outlines and
grandeur. There is enough here for author and
reader, if they be of strong minds and true hearts.
A green forest or a swelling mound is to them as
glorious as a Grecian temple; and they may be so
simple as to be well nigh as much affected by the
sight of a proud old oak in decay near at home, as
by the story of a baronial castle tottering to its fall,
three thousand miles off.
The author is a ware of the difficulty and magnitude
of his undertaking. He knows as well as
any one can know, the obstacles to vanquish and
remove; and he also knows the obstacles that will
not be vanquished nor removed. Notwithstanding
all this, he feels assured, if he has contended in any
degree successfully with the greatness and majesty
of the subject, he will have accomplished some
slight service for the literature of his country, and
something, he ventures to hope, for his own good
name.
New York, January, 1839.
Upon the summit of a mountain which beetled
in the remote west over the dwellings and defences
of a race long since vanished, stood, at
the close of a midsummer's day, a gigantic
shape whose vastness darkened the whole vale
beneath. The sunset purpled the mountain-top,
and crimsoned with its deep, gorgeous tints
the broad occident; and as the huge figure
leaned against it, it seemed like a mighty image
cut from the solid peak itself, and framed
against the sky. Below, in a thousand groups
were gathered, in their usual evening worship,
a strange people, who have left upon hills and
prairies so many monuments of their power,
and who yet, by some mighty accident, have
taken the trumpet out of the hand of Fame,
and closed for ever, as regards their historical
and domestic character, the busy lips of tradition.
Still we can gather vaguely, that the
Mound-builders accomplished a career in the
west, corresponding, though less severe and
imposing, with that which the Greeks and Romans
accomplished, in what is styled by courtesy
the old world. The hour has been when
our own west was thronged with empires.
Over that archipelago of nations the Dead sea
of time has swept obliviously, and subsiding,
has left their graves only the greener for a new
people in this after age to build their homes
thereon. But at the present time, living thousands
and ten thousands of the ancient people
were paying homage to their deity; and as they
turned their eyes together to bid their customary
solemn adieu to the departing sun, they beheld
the huge shape blotting it from sight. The
first feeling which sprang in their bosoms as
they looked upon the vision was, that this was
some monstrous prodigy, exhibited by the powers
of the air or the powers of darkness, to astonish
and awe them.
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But as they gazed, they soon learned that it
had a fixed and symmetrical form, and possessed
the faculty of life.
When they discovered that the huge apparition
was animate indeed, a new terror sprang
up in their soul. They gathered about their
mounds, their places of worship, and on the
plain, in various and fearful groups.
In one spot were collected a company of
priests and sages, the learned and prophetic of
the race, who with straining eyes watched the
mighty spectre; and to gain a clearer conception
of its proportions, scanned its broad and
far-cast shadow, and marked the altitude of the
sun. Each one searched his thoughts for some
knowledge applicable to the sudden and vast
appearance.
Not far from these was drawn together a
group of women, who still retained their devotional
posture and aspect, but yet casting sidelong
and timid glances toward each other's
countenances, as if hoping to discover there an
interpretation of the spectacle. Children clung
to their garments, and looking up piteously,
seemed to ask “if that was not the God whom
they were taught to fear and worship?” Each
moment the awe increased and spread; from
lip to lip the story ran across the plain and
through the walled villages, until the spectre
embraced in its fearful dominion a circuit of
many leagues.
Each moment conjecture grew more rife and
question more anxious and frequent.
In the opinion of many of the wisest—for
even from their souls superstitious misgivings
were not wholly banished—the apparition which
crowned the mountain was the deity of the nation,
who had chosen to assume this form as the
most expressive of infinite power and terrific
majesty.
Other nobler spirits, and who drew their
knowledge rather from the intellect than the
feelings, believed it was the reappearance of
a great brute, which, by its singular strength,
in an age long past and dimly remembered, had
wasted the fields of their fathers and made desolate
their ancient dwellings.
A tradition still lingered among them, that of
that giant race, which had been swept from the
earth by some fearful catastrophe, one still lived
and might, from a remote and obscure lair, once
more come forth, to shake the hills with his
trampling, and with the shadow of his coming,
darken the households of nations.
In the more thoughtful minds of these theorists,
the vivid and traditionary descriptions of
the mighty herd of brutes which had once tyrannized
over the earth, had left an impression
deep, abiding, and darkly colored. The memories
of their progenitors had handed them
down as a Titanie tribe of beings, who in their
day excited a terror which kindled human fear,
and with it, the best growth of fear, human ingenuity.
They remembered that in that distant
age, as the history ran, a new and majestic race
of heroes, moulded of nature's noblest clay, had
sprung into life, to battle with and finally vanquish
these brute oppressors of their country.
Day faded fast. Its last streaks died away
in the west, and yet the solemn shape stood
there in its vast, unmoving stillness. And still
the people retained their postures of wonder
and fear, while in hushed voices they spoke of
the occupant of the mountain. Gray, cold twilight
at length cast its mantle upon the vision,
and they scattered in anxious parties toward
their homes. But with them they bore the image
of the huge visitant. They could not shake
it from them. A general and deep awe had
fallen on the multitude; and even when they
sought their slumbers, that giant shape passed
before their sealed lids in a thousand forms, assuming
as many attitudes of assault and de
fence; for from the first, by a strange instinct,
they had looked upon it as their foe. To watch
its movements, for it could be yet seen, in the
clear distinctness of its immense stature, calm,
majestic, silent; to sound the alarm; if need
be to meet it face to face, should it descend
from its pinnacle, the chieftains of the Mound-builders
thought fit to station armed sentries at
various corners of the streets and highways of
their towns and cities, on the walls of their
fortresses, and, as a more commanding position,
on the summit of their mounds, and in the
square stone observatories which crowned a
portion of them.
The relics of the fortresses and observatories
that night manned by the sentinels of that peculiar
people, still stand and moulder on the
soil of the far west. They are constructed on
principles of military science now lost or inexplicable.
But, whatever the code of tactics on which
they were fashioned, we can not but admire, in
the midst of our conjectures, their peculiar symmetry,
their number, and their duration. Parallel
with the foundations of Rome these walls
went up, far back in the calendar of time, and
time-defying, they seem destined to pass down,
as far from the present into a misty and pregnant
future, as the actual history of a populous
and mighty race. Like the lost decades of the
writer, some passages are wanting to their completeness,
but in what stands we may read the
power, the strength, the decay, and the downfall
of our own American ancients. They were
men of war and those ramparts first built
against a human enemy were now occupied to
keep at bay a new and untried foe. From
time to time, along the line of guardsmen went
the watchword; the sentries of different posts
occasionally whispering to each other that the
apparition was still visible on the mountain.
Not a few, overwearied with their fears, slumbered.
The middle watch of the night had come.
The air was dark and still. Not a breath nor
voice broke the universal quiet: when, clear
and sharp, there fell upon the ears of the sleeping
populace, a sound like the crash of sudden
thunder. The earth shook as if trodden by
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heavy footsteps, and through the air came a
noise like the rushing of some mighty bulk in
violence and haste. Ponderous hoofs trampled
the earth and drew nigh. It was he—the traditionary
brute—Behemoth—and before his irresistible
force fell whatever strove to gainsay
his advance. The whole region trembled as
when a vast body of waters bursts its way and
rolls over the earth, ocean-like, wave shouting
to wave, and all crowding onward with thunderous
tumult. In vain was the solid breast-work;
the piled wall was in vain; in the armed
and watchful sentry. Like some stupendous
engine of war, he bore down on them, rendering
human strength a mockery and human defences
worse than useless, for as wall, bastion
and tower fell, they redoubled death and ruin
on their builders. With a speed of which no
common celerity can give us a conception he
swept through the towns and villages, the tilled
fields and pleasure gardens of the Mound-builders—
desolating and desolate—none daring
to stand before his feet thus dreadfully advanced.
The trepidation of the day grew a hundredfold;
from the dark, dim light which the stars
forced through drifting and solid clouds, they
could but guess vaguely at his bulk, yet out of
their fears and the darkness they wrought an
awful image of vastness and strength. Night
banded with the monster, and terror walked in
their train.
The morning dawned, and its light fell upon
the face of an early-wakened and fear-stricken
people. On every countenance was graven the
clear and visible imprint of terror; but the expression
was by no means that of ordinary
alarm, such as is engendered by siege, or battle,
or death; nor did it stamp the countenance
with the characters of a daily and familiar fear.
A dread which changed the whole aspect,
such as distorts the features and takes from
them their old, household look, was upon all.
In the consternation and imbecility of the moment
messengers were speeded forth and hurried
to and fro through the many villages of the
Mound-builders bearing tidings to which as
answer, they received—the same tidings in return!
The visitation had been universal; in
each one of their five thousand villages were
left like marks of brute ravage and strength!
Behemoth had been with them all; and his
large footsteps were traced wide over the plain
until they broke off abruptly at its extreme
bounds, and wheeled heavily into the mountains.
When their dismay had subsided from
its first flood-tide, they began to compare observations
and consult with each other. The
memories of most were bewildered in endeavoring
to recall the occurrences of the past night;
but from what with their confused faculties,
they could grasp, they were well assured that
the whole circuit of desolation had been accomplished
within the passage of a single hour.
And now the time was come for them to look
forth and measure that desolation—to what
side shall they first turn? Everywhere is some
monument of that irresistible force. In one
brief hour he has overthrown what Time, with
his centuries, could not touch. There at the
track of his first foot-prints is a crushed wall—
driven through by some powerful, and to them
as yet unknown, weapon of strength, which has
left its dints upon the shattered fragments.
Massive portions of it have fallen to powder
beneath his weight. Across the path which he
seems to have chosen out to stalk in rude triumph,
through the very heart of their dwellings,
lies a dead guardsman whom his might must have
first dashed to the earth by some other unconjectured
instrument of power, and then trampled
upon, for at every pore the blood issues in torrents.
Against a dwelling, pinned to its wall,
is the corpse of a second sentinel which seems to
have been hurled with scorn by the brute invader
into its present abiding-place. On the threshold
of her own home lies a mother with her child
closely clinging to her neck, its little lips pressed
to its parents—both smitten into death by a
single blow.
Look forth from this narrow scene and read
the map of a broader ruin—the traces of a more
fearful mastery! Yonder mound, consecrated
by the entombed dust of a generation of sages
and heroes is embowelled, and its holy ashes
laid open to the vulgar air and the strumpet
wind. And yonder gardens, once the resort of
blooming beauty and gentle childhood—its walls
strew the ground and its flowers, broken and
withered, are sunken by the massy weight which
has spoiled them, deep into the earth. And
lo! that trodden and miry field, shut in by the
standing fragments of two oblong walls—yesterday,
it was a fair greensward where strength
wrestled kindly with strength and age looked on
approvingly. In another quarter behold a tall
tower of stone is cast down before the same incomprehensible
might! The enclosure which
surrounded and guarded it is battered to the earth,
and about it is collected at this morning hour not
a few of the chiefs of the Mound-builders, deeply
lamenting the overthrow of so scientific and regular
a muniment. Sad words pass from each to
each and they look despondingly into each other's
faces, and find no hope, but rather a triumphant
despair. From among the group which hung
thus powerless and complaining over the shattered
battlement boldly stood forth Bokulla, the
most fearless and energetic chieftain of the nation—
Bokulla—a man of singular and prompt
courage, greatly earnest and energetic in purpose:
yet calm and self involved.
In every enterprise keeping himself aloof
until the resources of all others were exhausted,
and then, when every eye was turned toward
him as the last sustainer of hope, springing
with alacrity to the front, prepared to match
the emergency with some new and vigorous
suggestion. Bokulla was a thinker no less
than a soldier; not artificially framed by filling
his mind with learned apothegms and pithy instances,
but with a philosophy, the growth of a
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meditative spirit that brooded over all things
and created wisdom from most. He possessed,
nevertheless, a thoroughly martial and energetic
mind, and found in every path of life, an
accessory to strengthen and adorn that character.
Unlike, however, the majority of professed
militants, he rarely exhibited the gay
buoyancy which is so generally considered in
them an essential. On the contrary, even
in the maddest onset and in the high flush of
triumph, his brow was saddened, oftentimes
with a passing cloud of gloom; the mark which
distinguishes too often those who are born to
be the leaders and benefactors of their race.
The mind of Bokulla partook of another peculiarity,
in common with many men of masterly
genius. Defeated, or foiled in any attempt,
his heart plunged, awhile, in the profoundest
and most torturing despair—but only for the
instant—and then, reassuming its lofty strength,
an eagle, unchained, or slipped from its darkened
cage, he rose into the clear, broad sunshine
of a worthier condition.
Such was Bokulla; and, when those grouped
around him had each offered his several remark,
and they had mutually mourned over the
present desolation, he stood forth from their
midst and said, “Men! the day is spent with
repining, and the night comes, and with it, perchance,
our dread enemy. Let us rebuild the
wall, and show, at least, that we can oppose
our old strength to his inroads. He has but the
instinct of a brute, we have the reason of men.
Let him not,” he cried, “let him not find us,
for our souls' sake, let him not find us greater
cravens than yesternight!”
With these words, and with the consent of
the chieftains who stood about him, he ordered
the rebuilding of the rampart, and the crection
of an inner one to flank it. Before the passages,
which had been previously left free of egress
and ingress, he directed the construction of
short and solid walls, which should suffice to
arrest access, if made in full front, leaving, however,
side-passages between the extremities of
the main and those of the newly-erected ramparts.
Under the authoritative and cheering
voice of Bokulla, the building-tool and the
trenching-iron ply busily. Parties of laborers
hurry from quarter to quarter of the work,
and something like a manly and worthy spirit
seems again to fire their bosoms and lighten
their toil. While some gather together the broken
portions of earth, and remould them to their
purpose, others bring from the distance new
supplies, and still others quarry and shape the
stone to crown their summits. Under his quick
and commanding eye, the tower of observation
goes up and its defences are restored.
But, while Bokulla and his aids build up the
strong wall to guard the living, is there no duty
and service due to the dead? There is; and,
under other guidance, the manly forms which
were laid in the recent encounter, are stretched
for their last repose.
Devoted hands compose their discolored limbs,
and bathe them with embalming drugs, while
their kindred, those nearest and dearest in life,
collect—to accompany them in this, their last
journey—whatever can consecrate or dignify
their sepulture. Those who have fallen, fell in
the defence of the nation, and are, therefore,
worthy of the nation's honors. Let them be
buried, then, as becomes heroes of the Mound-builders—
bearing away with them, into the unknown
land, tokens of merit and badges of high
desert. Their bodies are swathed in fine raiment;
at their right hand are placed the weapons
of war, grasping which they fell; at their
sides are arrayed mirrors of glass or metal (according
to their rank) in which they were wont
to look for the reflection of their own martial
features, when set for the stern service of war.
At their heads are disposed the helms which
covered them in the day of battle, and on their
now pulseless breasts lie polished pieces of copper,
in the form of the cross.
Can it be that those antique warriors were
Christian men?—that, among them, they thus
cherished trophies of the crucifixion, and upheld
the ark of that reverend creed?—or, at
least, some stray fragments of the holy structure,
obscurely delivered over to them by paternal
or patriarchal hands? I know not; but
this is the language which their discovered relics
speak to us of the present generation.
Slowly, from each dead hero's dwelling,
winds forth the solemn procession, with its weeping-troop
and its religious mourners. Gathering
at a central spot, they unite into one body,
and, thus collected, take their way toward the
funeral-mounds. Attendants send forth, from
marble instruments, shaped like crescents and
highly polished, a slow and mournful music.
Beside the bier of each fallen soldier, walk his
wife and children, while, at its head, marches
solemnly the priest, who, in life, was his spiritual
father.
Winding through the villages, over the meadows,
and along the stream-side, they reach the
bank, right opposite the mounds in which the
dead are to find their final slumber. Descending
into the limpid and shallow stream, the bearers
gently dip each corpse beneath the waters,
thus purifying it, by a natural sort of baptism,
from every earthly grossness, and then they resume
their way—all following, with bared ankles,
through the placid rivulet. At length they
reach the sacred mound. At its side, toward
the east, the earth is removed, and, turning
their faces to the sun, while the marble breathes
forth a higher strain, the bearers of the dead
enter the hollowed mound.
As they enter, the throng chant together a
simple ballad, reciting the virtues and the valor
of the departed, and, at its close, recommending
them to the Giver of life and the God of the
seasons. The bier-bearers place the mortal remains
of the heroes whom they have borne,
within the cavity, upon the earth, with their
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faces upward, their feet pointing to the northeast
(perhaps the home of their progenitors) and
their heads toward the more genial southwest.
Thus were the common-soldiers, among those
who had fallen, buried; but one of that number—
he who had been captain of the guard, and a
man of note among the people, received separate
and more especial rites.
His remains were borne apart, to a distinct
mound, and there, when they were laid out with
the honors of a chief who had lost his life in
battle, martial music, breathing from the instruments,
and the whole multitude joining in a
chant, commemorative (like those recited over
the common soldier) of his valor and character,
they proceeded to burn his body and gather his
ashes into their separate tomb. They then
closed the mouths of all the mounds, and, when
the priests had offered a prayer for the peaceful
repose of their dust, the multitude turned
toward their homes.
All was hushed and silent save the gentle
tread of the homeward-tending people. The
mourning relatives of the dead had lulled into
a temporary calm their troublous feelings, and
wept with composure. The spirit of peace was
over all. Suddenly a shrill voice was heard to
cry, “He comes! he comes!” It proceeded
from a child, who, unobserved, had climbed to
the upper window of one of the stone observatories.
The multitude were arrested by the
voice, and, turning to the quarter from which it
issued, saw the finger of the alarmist pointing
to a body of woods which lay a short distance
west from the path which they were taking
to their homes. As at the bidding of a god,
the whole people, with one accord, swerved
round and gazed toward the forest, and there
they beheld—Behemoth. Fixed in an attitude
of astonishment and dread, they stood gazing—
and still gazing upon the spectacle—a boundless
and motionless gallery of faces. It was
near the sunset. Overhead, in its level light,
a grey bald eagle, just flown from its neighboring
eyry, hung poised in wonder, as if turned
to stone by the novel sight of so vast a creature.
In its motionless suspension, it seemed as if
sculptured from the air, while its wings were
gilded, like some remains of the old statuaries,
by the golden touch of the sun.
Visible above the woods, moving heavily
through the sea of green leaves, like leviathan
in the deep, appeared the dark and prodigious
form of the Mastodon; an awful ridge rolling
like a billow, along the tops of the pine and
cedar which grew beneath him. The boundless
bulk moved through the trembling verdure,
like an island which, in some convulsion of nature,
shifts itself along the surface of the sea.
The forest shook as he advanced, while its
scared and barbarous denizens, the prairie
wolf, the gopher, and the panther, skulked silently
away.
As yet his whole mighty frame was not visible.
Even amid the trepidation and fear of the
Mound-builders a curiosity sprang up to behold
the sum of his vast proportions: to see at once
before them and near at hand the actual dimensions
of that shape whose shadowy outlines
had, when first seen, wrought in them effects
so boundless and disastrous.
Occasionally as the Mastodon glided along, a
green tree-top wavered for a moment in the
wind, leaned forward into the air—and fell to
the earth as if pushed from its hold by the
chance-exerted strength of the great brute.
Again, they heard a crash, and a giant oak
which had just now lorded it over its fellows
was snapped from its stem and cast far forth
over the tops of the forest. His very breath
stirred the leaves till they trembled, and every
step of his march denoted, by some natural appearance,
the possession of monstrous and fearful
power.
After stalking through a large tract of woodland
without allowing any greater portion of
his bulk to become apparent, he wheeled through
the forest and descending into a wooded valley
disappeared, each step reverberating along the
earth with a deep and hollow sound. It was a
long time ere the Mound-builders resumed their
old, homeward progress, and when they did it
was with alarmed and cheerless spirits. The
awe of the great shadow was upon them.
Now more than every they felt the folly of gainsaying
or attempting to withstand a power
which shrouded itself in a form so vast and inaccessible.
From that day forth a gloom settled upon the
minds of the Mound-builders—deep, rayless
and full of fearful omens; for though personal
energy may rescue individuals from that desperate
condition, it is a hopeless and a dreadful
thing when nations become the victims of despair.
All the mighty wheels of life are stopped;
all the channels through which the soul
of the people once coursed are now closed, and,
in most cases, closed for ever. The arteries
through which the life-blood gushed are
deadened, and the warm current is arrested as
if the winter had descended upon it in its very
spring-tide. The Mound-builders were now
fallen into that sad estate. Neither the spiritstirring
voice of Bokulla, nor the trump of
war, nor the memory of their fathers' fields or
their fathers' valor, could awaken them to a
sense of what was due to their manhood or
their duty. The Mastodon seemed resolved to
preserve the spell by an almost perpetual presence.
Day after day in the same gray twilight
did Behemoth cast his shadow from the
summit of some near elevation; and midnight
after midnight, at the same cold and sullen
hour, did he descend and force his huge bulk
through the villages of the Mound-builders:
breaking their walls in pieces, rending their
dwellings, disclosing their mounds and despoiling
their pleasure gardens from end to end.
He had become the spectral visitant of the nation;—
the monstrous and inexorable tyrant
who, apparently gliding from the land of
shadows, presented himself eternally to them,
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the destroyer of their race. He seemed, in
these terrible incursions, to be fired with a
mighty revenge for some unforgiven injury inflicted
on his dead and extinct tribe by the human
family. In the calm and solemn quiet of
night, when fretted labor sought repose and
anxious thought craved slumber, he burst down
from the mountains like thunder and bade them—
Awaken! awaken!
The internal and external influence of an
harassment like this could not be otherwise
than large and disastrous. First came the dire
change in the mind itself: when this terrible
shadow glided among its quiet emotions, its familiar
habits, and its household and national
thoughts. All objects that had hitherto occupied
a place in the mind of the people now assumed
a new color and complexion as this
portent fell upon them, in the same manner as
everything in nature catches a portion of the
gloom of twilight when it suddenly approaches.
No angle of the wide realm of the Mound-builders
escaped from the darkness of fear, and
everywhere the fountains of social life became
stagnant and ceased to issue in healthy currents,
like streams that are silent and still when light
has departed from their surface.
The voice of joy died away into a timid and
feeble smiling; proud and stately ambition fell
humbled to the earth, and love and beauty trembled
and fled before the gloomy shadow of the
general adversary. Men shunned each other as
if from a consciousness of their abasement, and
skulled away from the face of day, unwilling
that the heavens should look in upon their desolation
and shame.
Some abandoned their homes and took refuge
in cliffs and inaccessible precipices, preferring
poverty and exposure to wind and tempest and
hostile weather, rather than encounter with a
foe so dreadful and triumphant. The great
mass, however, lingered in their customary
dwellings; but so thoroughly was every motive
to action numbed and paralyzed, they neglected
to repair the roof that had fallen, the
beam that had decayed, or the foundation that
had yielded to the summer's rain, and innumerable
buildings, throughout the whole realm,
tumbled into ruin, and many that stood on the
borders of rivers, undermined by the motion of
their currents, tottered and fell into the stream,
while their terror-stricken inmates, in many
cases, perished without a struggle.
The ordinary occupations and duties of life
were performed with feeble hands and vague
thoughts, or entirely deserted.
This mighty and puissant nation, whose
strength was that of a giant, and whose glory
rivalled the sun, was stricken by terror into a
feeble and child-like old age. All its proportions
were diminished; its heart was shrunk,
and it dragged on a slothful and decrepid existence
amid the cold and monumental ruins of
what had once been its beautiful domain, and
its house of honor and joy. That salient and
almost motiveless energy which drives a nation
on through toils, battles, and discomfitures, to
prosperity and triumph; that hazardous and alladventurous
daring which pushes doubt aside,
and which, while it questions nothing, strives
at everything, was utterly departed.
From the silence and quiet of his studied retirement,
Bokulla beheld the shadow as it slowly
and fearfully crossed the national mind.
From the first he saw the change which was
coming over it, and knew that human wisdom
was too weak to arrest or avert it, unless the
great first cause could be removed. And yet,
while others yielded thus submissively to a
meek despair, he, keeping himself invisible to
the general eye, tasked his bold and liberal
mind for some remedy for the evil. In the calm
and dead quiet of his private chamber he sat,
from day to day, brooding over plans and enterprises
whereby to rescue the nation.
Bokulla entertained a deep-founded confidence
in the human character. Himself equipped
with an indomitable will, and faculties stout
and resolute as iron, he was assured that by similar
qualities the nation was to be redeemed
from thraldom. Amid a thousand changes of
nature, man had endured; mountains had been
cleft asunder; seas had leaped upon continents,
and marched triumphantly over every barrier
and obstacle; great orbs had been extinguished,
like tapers of an evening, in the skies, yet man
stood, steadfast amid the shock and the mutation.
Along the bleak coasts of inhospitable time, he
had voyaged in a secure and upright vessel; on
this ridge of earth he still stood, while the visible
universe passed through changes of season,
through increase or diminution of splendors, and
through worlds created or worlds destroyed.
Was man, who thus outlasted seas, and stars,
and mountains, to be crushed at last by mere brutal
enginery and corporal strength?
Reflections like these wrought the mind of
Bokulla to a condition of fearless and manly
daring, and he brought his whole soul to the
labor of discovering or contriving the means of
triumph or resistance. It may well be supposed
that, tower as his thought might, it strove in
vain to overtop the stature or master the bulk
of the Mastodon; what were fosses, and bastions,
and battlements, to him that moved like
a mountain against opposition? No wall could
shut him out; seas might interpose in vain to
cut off his fearful pursuit of a fugitive people.
Resting or in motion, that terrible and far-reaching
strength would overtake them, and accomplish
its purposes of desolation and ruin.
With this stupendous and inevitable image
the whole might of Bokulla's soul wrestled for
a long time. An untiring invention, that kept
steadily on the wing, started suggestion on suggestion,
but all unequal to the mighty necessity
of the occasion. He gathered facts on which
to build the fabric of opposition, huge enough
to countervail a superhuman foree, but they
tottered and fell to the earth before the ideal
presence of Behemoth. He surveyed mountains,
and, in imagination, linked them together, with
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wide arches and empyreal bridges, and compassed
the people round about with rock-built
circumvallations and ramparts of insurmountable
altitude and strength. But it would have
required ages to complete the defences, suggested
by a swift imagination, which would have
been equal to their object; and others, which
great labor might have more readily erected,
would have been swept away in a single night
by the barbaric invader.
When this conclusion forced itself upon him,
Bokulla felt, for a moment, the pangs of a hopeless
and overwhelming despair. A midnight
darkness came over his mind, and it was, for a
time, as if the sun and the heavens were obliterated
from his view, and as if he were doomed
to travel, henceforth, a gloomy turnpike, where
all was sorrow, and wailing, and terror without
end. But the light gradually broke in upon his
soul, and his palsied faculties began to awaken
and cast off the slumber and the delusion. His
reflections, it is true, had taught him that his
countrymen could act in defence against their
vast oppressor with but frail chance of success.
He was satisfied that a weight and bulk as monstrous
as that of Behemoth would burst their
way, by their mere impetuous motion, through
any barier or redoubt they might erect. There
was another thought, however, worthy of all
consideration—could not the Mound-builders,
a naturally adventurous and valiant people, act
on the offensive? Abandoning passive and barbarous
suffering, was not battle to be waged,
and waged with hope against the despoiler?
This question Bokulla had put anxiously to himself,
and he watched, with an eager eye, for
some favorable phase of the national feeling,
ere he addressed it to the people.
From one crisis of fear to another, the Mound-builders
passed rapidly, and, as the shades
of night thicken one upon the other, each
aspect of their condition was gloomier than
the former. At length, as darkness deepened
and strengthened itself, light began to dawn
in the opposite quarter. Hardened by custom,
and familiar, in a measure, with the object
of their dread, they now ventured to lift
their pale, white countenances, and gaze with
some steadiness of vision upon the foe.
Naturally of a noble character and constitution,
the Mound-builders needed only that the
original elements of their temper should be
stirred by some powerful conviction to excite
them to action. A new spirit, or rather the
ghost of the old and exiled one, had returned to
the nation, and they now saw before them, unless
they resumed their manhood and generously
exerted strength and council, ages of desolation
and fear for themselves and their children.
Were they men, and should no hazard be dared,
no toil or peril endured, to break the massive
despotism that held them to the earth? Were
they the possessors of a land of sublime and
wonderful aspects, the dwellers amid interminable
woods and lakes of living water, and were
no glorious nor resolute energies matured by
these, capable to cope with that which was
mighty and awful?
At this fortunate stage of feeling Bokulla appeared.
He clothed the thoughts of the people
in an eloquence of his own. He painted the
portrait of their past condition in life-like and
startling colors. He told them that from the
apparent size and solidity of the Mastodon, and
the uniform analogy of nature, he might endure
for centuries, yea, even beyond the duration of
mankind itself, unless his endless desolation
could be arrested. If they suffered now under
his irresistible sway, they might suffer for a
thousand years to come. That vast frame, he
feared, decay could not touch. And in a stature
so tremendous must reside an energy and stubbornness
of purpose, endurable and unchanging.
Next, addressing them from the summit of a
mound, around which many of the people were
grouped in their old worship (some faint image
of which they had kept up through all their
terror) he appealed to them by the sacred and
inviolate ashes that rested underneath his feet.
If old warriors and generous champions, never
dishonored, could awaken from the slumbers of
death, and breathe again the pure air of that
glorious clime, what voice of denunciation or
anger would they utter!
“Are these men, that creep along the earth
like the pale shadows of autumn, Mound-builders
and children of our loins? What hath
affrighted them? Look to the mountains, and
lo! an inferior creature, one of the servants
and hirelings of man, hath the mastery. Arouse!
arouse our sons! Place in our old, death-withered
hands the swords we once wielded—crown
us with our familiar helms, and we will wage
the battle for you. Victory to the builders of
the mounds! victory to the lords and masters
of the earth!”
The national pulse beat true again, and Bokulla
hastened from village to village, quickening
and firing it. Everywhere the hour of renovation
seemed to have come. Everywhere
ascending their high places, he appealed to
them by memories to which they could not but
hearken. Everywhere an immense populace
gathered about him and listened to his words,
as if they were the inspired language of hope.
And when their souls were fired, as it were,
under the fervent heat of his eloquence, he
skilfully moulded them to his own plan and
purpose. He recounted to them the mode, the
time and course he thought fit for them to adopt
in seeking battle with Behemoth.
After consultation with their chieftains, the
levy expected and demanded of each was soon
settled.
They were to venture forth with an army
(easily collected in that populous nation) of one
hundred thousand strong. Bokulla was to be
the leader-in-chief. Approved men were to be
his counsel and aids. The day of setting forth
on the great campaign was fixed; not far distant.
In the meantime, all diligence and labor were
to be employed in disciplining, equipping, and
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inspiriting the troops: in burnishing and framing
the necessary armor, and in constructing
certain new engines of war, which Bokulla had
invented, and which might be of use in the encounter
with the terrible foe.
Every village now presented a picture of
busy preparation and warlike bustle. The
forges, whose fires had smouldered in long disuse,
were again rekindled, and their anvils rang
with the noise of a thousand hammers rivalling
each other in the skill with which they moulded
the metals into heroic shapes. While one
wrought out with ready dexterity the breastplate,
with its large, circular bosses of silver,
another, with equal, but less costly felicity,
framed the brazen hatchet, and the steel arrowhead.
In every workshop there were employed
artisans in sufficient number to not only begin
with the rude ore and shape it into form, but
also to carry it through every stage of labor—
tipping it with silver—burnishing—ornamenting—
completing them,—affixing leathern handles
to the bosses by which to grasp and hold
the shield, and arranging them in due order for
inspection by the appointed officers.
At another and higher class of laboratories
they were employed in framing and fashioning
weapons for chieftains and warriors of note;
swords of tempered steel and scabbards of silver,
capped with points of other and less penetrable
material: and helmets of copper and shields,
with ornamental and heraldic devices. Some
busied themselves in furnishing large shields of
brass, which they polished with care until they
glittered again—while still farther on, they
wrought out large bows of steel, from which to
speed the barbed arrows prepared by their fellow-workmen.
Farther up, near the mountainside,
there lay a range of shops, in which a
thousand operatives constructed military wagons
and other vehicles for the expedition; for they
knew not how far it might extend, nor through
what variety of hill and dale.
To the right of these were gathered artisans
under the immediate superintendence of the
commander-in-chief, who labored at certain vast
and new engines of battle, more especially contrived
for conflict with the vast brute. These
were large and ponderous wooden structures,
something like the towers known in Roman
warfare, but, as the strength and stature of
the foe required, of far greater height and stiffness.
They were to be planted on heavy wheels
and of great circumference—placed far apart,
so as to furnish for the whole edifice a broad
and immoveable base. On the outer side, they
were armed with every sort of sharp-edged weapon,
cutlass, falchion, and spearhead, so as to
be, if possible, unassailable by Behemoth. Internally,
they were furnished with great store
of vast bows and poisoned shafts, with which, if
such thing might be, to pierce him in some vulnerable
point, or at least to gall him sorely and
drive him at a distance. Besides these, there
were suspended in copious abundance, divers
ingenious implements, each contrived for some
emergency of battle, to strike, to ward, to
wound, and to destroy.
Others were building, taller and stronger, at
the summits of which were suspended great
masses of metal and ponderous hammers, tons
in weight, with which to wage a dreadful battery
against the mighty foe. By some internal
machinery, it was so contrived, that these solid
weights of metal could be swung to and fro with
fearful swiftness and violence, by the application
of a small and apparently inadequate power.
Another structure, like these, was prepared,
from which to cast, by means of capacious instruments,
large quantities of molten metals,
kept in fusion by mighty furnaces, to be hurled
upon the enemy from afar, and to descend upon
him in sulphurous and deadly showers, like
those which fell on Sodom and Gomorrah of
old.
Day and night, night even to its middle
watches, were devoted to the construction and
fabrication of engines and implements like
these; for their minds were now so anchored
on this great enterprise, that all other ties were
cast loose, and in this alone they embarked
every thought and purpose. The hours hitherto
given to repose and sleep, were now made vassals
to the new adventure.
It was a magnificent spectacle to see a whole
nation thus gathered under the dark wing of
the midnight, working out battle for their dread
adversary. Athwart the solid darkness which
pressed upon their dwellings, the gleams of
swarthy labor shot long and frequent. Far
through the hills echoed the clangor of armorers,
and the sharp sounds of multitudinous toil, laboring,
each in its kind, toward the redemption
of a people.
Grouped thus about their forges, and hurrying
from one task to another with rapid and
quiet tread, they might have seemed to the eye
of imagination, looking down from the neighboring
heights, to be employed in infernal labor,
and vexing the noon of night with unearthly
and Satanic cares.
But over the wide scene there rested a blessing;
for Heaven always shines upon the oppressed
who nobly yearn and vigorously strive
to break their chains. The long and bright
hours of day, too, were crowded with their
peculiar duties. The gardens and the enclosed
plains, again restored to their old symmetry
and beauty, were now filled with a soldiery
which, under the eye of dexterous leaders,
were drilled, deployed, marshalled, and schooled
into new manœuvres, before this unknown
in the wars of the Mound-builders, and adapted
to the character of their unwonted antagonist.
They were taught to wheel with
novel evolutions, to retreat in less orderly but
more evasive movements and marches than of
old, and to attack with a wariness and caution
hitherto unpractised in their encounters with
mortal enemies. Over all the eye of Bokulla
glanced, giving system to the orders of the
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chieftains, and confidence to the obedience of
their legions. Apparently performing duty nowhere,
he fulfilled it everywhere, with a calm
and masterly skill, which, while it was unobserved
by the populace, was an object of admiration
to another order of men, who were
made the immediate channels of his influence,
and who were therefore brought more directly
under the spell.
“Upon my soul,” cried one of two officers,
who stood near the trunk of a withered cedar,
which overshadowed a wide and deep sunken
well, looking upon one of these novel parades,
“upon my soul, Bokulla hath the power and
the knowledge of a God. Out of these men,
but yesterday dumb and torpid with fear, he
has struck the spirit of life, and that with the
same ease as my sword-blade strikes from this
dull stone at my foot, sparks of fire.”
“Who can withstand the giant machines
which tower yonder, like mountains, above our
dwellings?” cried his companion. “The Spirit
of Evil himself, if imbodied in the frame of the
Brute, must fall before those whirlwind hammers
of brass and tempests of molten copper!”
While he spake, one of the vast oaken structures
had been wheeled out, and his ponderous
enginery set in motion, and brought to bear
upon a crag that projected from the mountain
near which it rested. To and fro they swung
with fearful force and velocity, at each blow
shattering vast masses from the rock, and bringing
them headlong down the mountain. At the
same time, not far distant, tons of crude ore
were cast into the furnaces, affixed to the other
towers, and hurled forth upon the prairie in
clouds of fire, which, as they fell upon the
earth, scathed and withered everything before
them.
Although the multitude entertained hearts of
favor and hope toward the project of meeting
Behemoth in battle, there were a few who
doubted its wisdom and foreboded a gloomy result.
“The dinging of those anvils,” said an aged
man who sat at the sunset in the front of his
dwelling, to his spouse (no less stricken in
years), who leaned out at the window, “the
dinging of you anvils is to my ears a mere
death-dirge. Wherefore are the youth of our
land to be led forth on this vain pilgrimage?
They are fore-doomed by the hooting of the
owl, which has been ceaseless in our woods
since first it was planned. The dismal bat and
the brown vulture flap their wings over our
bright day-marshallings in expectancy of a banquet.”
“And as for the chieftain, Bokulla,” continued
his wife, prolonging the dolorous strain of
conversation, “his defeat, if not death, is already
doomed in heaven. The star which fell
but yesternight luridly athwart his dwelling,
foretold that sequel too well. And his spouse,
stumbled she not essaying but this morning to
cross its threshold and greet the home-return
of Bokulla from the distant villages?”
“This army, five score thousand in numbers,”
reiterated the old man, “will be but as
the snow in the whirlwind before the breath of
Behemoth. They have forgotten, senseless
men! the story of our fathers. They recollect
not how in ancient days the fellow of this vast
Brute (perchance this living one himself) was
met by our hunters in the mountain gorge:
that his roar was like thunder near at hand,
and his tread like the invasion of waters! that
they shrunk before him into the hollows of the
rocks as the white cloud scatters before the
sun!”
“I pray Heaven the wife of Bokulla be not
widowed,” echoed his spouse. “The chieftain
is a bold man, and submits but poorly to the
lording of any, be it man or brute.”
“I fear this spirit pricks him on too far in
this adventure; I have warned him secretly,”
concluded the old mound-builder, in a deep and
solemn tone of voice; “I have warned him, but
he scorns my warning. He will not be stayed
in his purpose. I will warn him yet once more,
for he dreams not that he goes out to war with
one who is a giant in instinct as well as in
strength!”
The eventful morning of going forth against
the Mastodon came: it was a morning bright
with beautiful auspices. The sky overhead
glittered with its fresh and airy splendors: no
cloud dimmed the world of indescribable blue
which hung calm and motionless like heaven
itself on high. Occasionally against its clear
canvass a passing troop of wild-fowl painted
their forms, and vanished; or, a tree-top here
and there stood out, pencilled upon it, with its
branches and foliage all distinct. The sun
rode just over the horizon, and through the innumerable
villages of the Mound-builders the
martial trumpet sounded the spirit-stirring alarum.
At the call, one hundred thousand rightgood
men of battle seized their arms and marched
through the territory of their brethren in
solid array.
At the head of the van, drawn in a two-wheeled
chariot of wood, studded with iron and
ornamented with an eagle at each of its four
points, front and rear, and drawn by a single
powerful and jet-black bison, came Bokulla
himself. He stood erect in the vehicle, while
his burnished armor and towring helm flung
their splendor far and wide. In his hand he
held no rein, but guided the noble beast by his
mere intonations of voice.
Behind Bokulla followed a company of menat-arms,
each bearing a long and stalwart club,
armed, at its heavier extremity, with a four-edged
sword or falchion, to the point of which
was affixed a spear-like weapon, stiff and keen.
Of these there were one hundred each cased in
a mail of elk-skin, which, while it was flexible
and yielded to every gesture of the body, was
yet a sufficient defence against any ordinary assault.
These were expected, beside guarding
and sustaining Bokulla, to close with Behemoth,
and, taking advantage of the unwieldy motions
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of his frame, to wound his legs, or otherwise
annoy and disable him. Behind these followed
an equal phalanx of spearmen, whose allotted
duty it was, with a longer weapon, to gird the
brute at a distance, and draw his attention from
any quarter to which it might appear directed
with too much vigor and chance of danger. In the
rear of the company of spearmen marched a
strong body of common soldiers, bearing the
customary Mound-builders' instruments of war,
namely, vast steel bows, six feet or more in
length, and quivers filled with corresponding
shafts, tipped with poisons, and on their left
arms bearing the usual shield of copper, with
bosses of silver. In the rear of these heavily
rolled on two of those newly-invented machines,
which rose like pyramids above the array.
These were drawn by scores of yoked bisons,
and driven forward by private soldiers, who
walked at their sides. The earth shook under
their lumbering weight. Their bowels were
filled with captains and privates, who had
charge, each in his station, of their implements
of death. Following these, in order, marched
a numerous squadron, sustaining, over their
sinewy shoulders, heavy axes of steel with edges
sharp as death, and handles of immoveable oak.
Drawn by a thousand beasts of burden, behind
these, came innumerable provision and baggage
wagons, provided for the emergency of a protracted
search for the enemy, and a long delay in
vanquishing and destroying him. These were
accompanied with troops and officers. Behind
these walked countless varieties of battle; soldiers,
the very conception of whose armor and
weapons is lost in the oblivious and mouldering
past. Rearmost came six other towers, bearing
their immense hammers and fiery furnaces,
with ten thousand troops to guard, to guide
them; to select even roads for their progress,
and, lastly, to wield their vast forces in the hour
of conflict.
Over the whole floated a hundred bright and
emblematic pennons, while the sonorous metal
kept time to their waving folds as the morning
wind dallied them to and fro. It was a glorious
thing to see ten times ten thousand, thus equipped
and embattled, going forth, on that gay
morning, to the war.
Wherever their course lay, it was thronged
with the multitude pushing to gain a sight of
Bokulla and his compeers, the solid soldiery and
the stupendous structures. Every window was
filled, every elevation seized on, every house-top
covered by spectators straining their vision
to gather in every appointment and device, banner
and sword, bison, chieftain, and all. Ah!
well might their eyes ache to look upon that
numerous chivalry! Well might they hang with
lingering gaze upon the fair cheeks of that
youthful array! Well might their hearts keep
time with the onward steps of that glorious
host! Happy is it for mortals that they can enjoy
the pageant of the present, and have no power
to prefigure in it the funeral-procession and the
mournful company into which the future may
change it!
As the foot of the last soldier left the territory
of the Mound-builders, the drums and trumpets
sounded a farewell, and the army, taking
the right bank of a rapid stream which ran due
west, pursued its march. The ground over
which their course lay, was a smooth and pleasant
green-sward, the verdure of which was still
wet with the dews of the night. Occasionally
it rose into a gentle elevation, which, for the
first few miles, brought the advancing army
once again in sight of the expectant gazers,
who still kept their posts upon housetop, tower,
and mound. At length, from one of these eminences,
they descended into a valley which bore
them altogether from the view of the most favorably-stationed
looker-out; and yet, even when
their banners and tall structures had passed
wholly from the sight, gushes of music, fainter
and fainter at each note, reached their ears,
and reverberated from the neighboring cliffs
and hill-sides.
Onward they passed, through the long vale
which stretched before them, choosing out the
clearest paths, and still keeping their march
toward the occident. In selecting this route they
were guided by large tracks which appeared
at remote strides in the earth, and by frequent
signs of devastation—fallen trees and crushed
underwood.
Once they came to a river of great width,
on the near margin of which, at the water's
edge, appeared two large footprints, while on
the opposite bank were discovered indentations
equally vast but impressed deeper in the soil,
as if the monstrous beast had reared on his
hindermost feet, and, with supernatural strength
and agility, thrown himself across the intervening
breadth of waters. As there were no
bridges near at hand, they were forced to compass
the river by a circuitous route, to regain
the tracks which had been espied on the other
bank.
After attaining the utter extremity of the
vale through which the stream poured its
tide, they pursued their chosen way into a
thick wood, the path of the Mastodon through
which seemed to have been created by sweeping
before him, with a flexible power, whatever
obstructed his progress. On every side of
the huge gap into which the army now entered,
lay prostrate trees of greatest magnitude—oak,
pine, and sycamore. Some, apparently, had
been cast on high, and, descending into the
neighboring forest, left their roots naked in the
air, unnaturally inverted and exposed. And yet,
save in the immediate path of the desolator,
nature smiled, unalarmed and innocent in its
primeval and virgin beauty. Here and there
shone out, in the forest, bright green patches,
rising often into gentle slopes, or softening
away into vales as gentle. Frequently the upland
was crowned with groups of small trees,
and the vales were tesselated with sweet wild
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flowers. Then they crossed babbling brooks
and rivulets, which ran across their march with
a melodious murmur, eloquent with reproaches
on the warlike task they were at present pursuing.
Again, a large stream, which had gathered
volume from the neighboring mountains,
came rushing down the declivities, and seemed
to shout them on to battle.
At times, in the course of this variegated
march, they fell upon open spaces where, for a
small circuit, no tree was to be seen; rich meadows,
the chosen pastures of the wild beings of
the prairies, pranked with red and white clover,
and fragrant as the rose, in their unmown
freshness.
Sometimes they passed through sudden and
narrow defiles, overhung by frowning cliffs, and
clothed with a dank verdure which seemed to
be the growth of a century. One gorge, in particular,
of this kind, they encountered, whose
beetling rocks in their dark and regular grandeur,
looked as if they might have been wrought
out by the hands of the old Cyclops or Pelasgians
strange. They seemed to be the solemn
halls of a great race which had its seat of empire
there (beyond even the age of the Mound-builders),
and chambered in its tabernacles of
everlasting stone. But Nature alone built these
halls for herself, and through them, toward the
west, she walks at the twilight and morning
hour in pomp and majesty. I see her, her skirts
purpled with evening, and flowing forth in the
fresh breezes of that untainted clime, now
pacing those mighty avenues, and recalling, in
their awful stillness, the nations which slumber
at her fect. Her face brightens like a sun, as
she meditates over the empires which have
faded from earth into the dust beneath her;
she thinks and kindles in knowing and remembering
that, while man is mortal and perisheth,
she is eternal and thrones with God.
The glittering and long-extended host of the
Mound-builders marched on through this cliffwalled
passage, and passed next from all glimpse
of the sun, into dense and almost impervious
woods; impervious but for the way hewn out
by the mighty pioneer, in whose tracks they
continued to tread. Gloom, with its midnight
wings, sat on high and brooded over the boundless
thicket.
The very leaves seemed dipped in a deeper
hue of green, and the grass was thick and matted
underneath, as if, in that desolate region, it
clung closer to the earth. Above, stood in their
ancient stillness, apparently unvoiced for ages,
the tall, sombre trees, while about their trunks
venerable ivies and mosses clung desperately,
and mounted far up toward their topmost branches.
Athwart the solid darkness no wing, save
that of a melancholy owl or bat, clove and furnished
to the tenebrous realm the sign of life
or motion. On the earth no living thing was
to be seen, unless, amid the dank grass, an occasional
toad or serpent, sitting or coiled on the
cold stone. And yet, though life seemed ex
tinct, or exhibited itself only in reptile and
hateful forms, the Mound-builders, as they
marched on through the gloomy quiet, in pursuit
of their mighty prey, saw, in the dimly discovered
foot-marks which they still followed, a
token of vast and inexplicable power which
deepened the darkness about them, and infused
a portion of its weird influence into their souls:
and yet, with purpose unshaken, they advanced.
Again the blessed sunshine greeted them, and
the low mist rolled heavily from their minds—
and again their purpose stood out to their inward
eye, clear and determinate.
Emerging from the awful woods they came
to a broad prairie, across which the large footsteps
were deeply visible. On every side, as
far as the eye could reach, the ample plain was
desert and unoccupied. The innumerable herds
of bison which had once been its tenantry, had
now, before the terror of Behemoth, fled away;
and the wild wolf, which once lurked amid the
rank grass, skulked from a power which seemed
to overshadow the earth. Still there was a
province of animated nature into which the
alarm scarcely ascended: for on high, as in the
quiet and fearless hours of earlier times, the
brown vulture and the bald eagle flew, silently
sailing on, or sending through the air their
shrill notes of ecstacy and rapture. The boundlessness
of those mighty mendows was in itself
calculated to strike an awe through the bosom
of the advancing army; before it they lay, a
vast table, on which, as on the tables of stone,
the fingers of an Omnipotent had written majesty,
power, and eternity. Contemplations
like these were sufficient in themselves to fill
the mind of the armed host with feelings of awe
and humility; but when, over the immense
prairie, they saw evidences that something had
passed which for the moment rivalled Deity;
more palpable in its manifestations, nearer in
its visible strength, and less merciful in its
might; when the tracks about them and the
desert solitude which Behemoth had created,
became thus clearly apparent, they shrunk within
themselves and doubted the wisdom of their
present enterprise.
This feeling however reigned but for a moment.
More manly and martial thoughts soon
took their place, and they pressed on in the
path pointed out with alacrity and courage.
The verge of the plain, which they had now
reached, bordered on a long and high ridge of
mountains, which stretched from the margin
of the prairie far west. Upon these summits
they now advanced. Arrayed in broad and
solid columns the army moved on over the
mighty causeway, their trumpets filling the air
with novel music; while the echo of their
martial steps, sounding through the wildern—,
affrighted Silence from his ancient throne.
Against the clear sky their bright banners
flaunted, and high up into the heaven aspired
the warlike tower flashing death from every
point. The gleam of ten thousand swords
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streamed from those broad heights far into the
depths of air—above, around, below—lighting
the solitude like new-risen morning-stars.
The pride of war now truly kindled their
breasts—fear skulked aside from their heroic
way, and Death, could he have come forth a
personal being, on those clear summits, as their
pulses freshened in treading them, would have
been no phantom.
Through the ranks a soldierly joy prevailed,
and with the rousing drum their spirits beat
high.
They had reached the extreme limit of the
mountain ridge, and were preparing to descend
into the plain broadening at its foot, when,
afar off, they espied, slowly heaving itself to
and fro in the ocean, which sparkled in the
mid-day sun beyond the plain, a vast body
which soon shaped itself to their vision into
the form of Behemoth.
The army halted and stood gazing. The
giant beast seemed to be sporting with the
ocean. For a moment he plunged into it, and
swimming out a league with his head and lithe
proboscis reared above the waters, spouted
forth a sea of clear, blue fluid toward the sky,
ascending to the very cloud, which, returning,
brightened into innumerable rainbows, large
and small, and spanned the ocean. Again he
cast his huge bulk along the main, and lay,
island-like, floating in the soft middle sun,
basking in its ray, and presenting, in the grandeur
and vastness of his repose, a monumental
image of Eternal Quiet. Bronze nor marble
have ever been wrought into sculpture as grand
and sublime as the motionless shape of that
mighty Brute resting on the sea.
Even at the remote distance from which they
viewed him they could catch at times through
the ocean-spray, the sparkle of his small and
burning eye. Once, it seemed for a moment
steadily fixed upon their host as it stood out
conspicuously on the height, and, abandoning his
gambols, Behemoth urged his bulky frame toward
the land. Breasting the mighty surges which
his own motion ereated, he sought the shore,
and as he came up majestically from the water,
a chasm ensued as if the Pacific shrunk from
its limits. With a gurgling tumult the subsiding
waves rushed into the broad hollow, and
continued to eddy about its vortex.
Meantime Behemoth stood upon the earth,
and rearing on his hindmost feet his foremost
were lifted high in the air, and with a roar
loud and fearful (like the gathering of an
earthquake with its powers of desolation in the
bowels of the earth) he brought them to the
plain with a weight and energy which made it
tremble to its utmost verge. He moved on;
making straight toward the army of the Mound-builders.
To the eyes of the astonished host,
as he shouted with his fearful voice, he seemed
like a dread thunder-cloud which gathers tone
and volume as it rolls on assaulting with its
hollow peals the very walls of heaven. Bokul
la was undismayed and calm. He saw that the
hour for action had arrived, and marshalling
his troops in proper order, he led them down a
winding and gentle slope which descended to
the plain. A short time sufficed and they
reached the level ground. Disposing themselves
in the preconcerted order, they awaited
the on-coming of Behemoth. The towers were
planted firm on the earth; the pioneers put
forth and the instrumental sounds began. As
an additional thought a battalion of troops was
placed on a level ledge of rocks, on the side of
the mountain, and in advance of the main army,
to gall him as he passed.
On his part there was no delay: with strides,
like those of gods, he stalked forward. And
still he seemed, to the Moung-builders, to grow
with his advance. His bulk dilated, till it came
between them and heaven, and filled the whole
circuit of the sky. The firmament seemed to
rest upon his wide shoulders as a mantle. As
he neared upon their view, they saw more of
his structure and properties. His face was
like a vast countenance cut in stone, hewn
from the hard granite of the mountain-side,
with features large as those of the Egyptian
sphinx. Before him he bore—terrible instrument
of power! a mighty and lithe trunk,
which, with swift skill, he coiled and darted
through the air, like a monstrous serpent, arteried
with poison and death. Guarding the
trunk were two far extending tusks, which
curved and flashed in the sun like scimitars.
Over his huger proportions fear cast its shadow,
and they saw them as through a cloud darkly.
He moved forward, nevertheless, a vast machine
of war, containing in himself all the muniments
and defences of a well-appointed host. To the
cool and courageous sagacity of the leader he
seemed to join the strength and force of an embattled
soldiery: to sharp and ready weapons
of offence he added the defence of a huge and
impenetrable frame. Through his small and
flaming orbs, his soul shot forth in flashes dark
and desperate. His neck was ridged with a
short and stiff mane, which lent an additional
terror to his bulk.
On he came. He neared the host of the
Mound-builders. His fearful trunk was uplifted,
and his tusks glanced in the broad beam of
day over the heads of the army. Not a sword
left its seabbard. Not an arrow was pointed.
The brazen hammers and vessels of molten copper,
which had alone been raised, fell back to
their places, powerless and ineffective. The
palsy of fear was upon the whole host. The
near and unexpected vastness of Behemoth
awed their souls. Bokulla alone retained his
self-possession, and shouted to the affrighted
squadrons: “Onward! Mound-builders—cheer
up, and onward! the battle may yet be with
us!” It was in vain. The vast proboscis descended,
and crushed with its descent a whole
phalanx. A second sweep, and the mighty
wooden towers, with their hammers of brass,
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their molten copper, and their indwelling defenders,
were hurled on high, and, rushing to
the earth, strewed the plain with their wreck.
Ten thousand perished under his feet as he
trampled onward. Ten thousand fell stricken
to the earth by the mere icy bolt of fear. The
legion, stationed on the level ledge, were swept
from their post, as the whirlwind sweeps the
dust from the autumn leaf. Twice ten thousand
and more fled up the mountain; across
the prairies; and some, in their extreme of
trepidation, sought shelter in the sea. With
infinite ruin the main host lay scattered upon
the prairie, shield, sword, bow, wagon, wagoner,
spearsman, and pioneer. Over the plain,
maddened by terror, the bisons, with their vehicles,
following in clattering haste, galloped,
they knew not whither. Of a body of about
fifteen thousand men, Bokulla, collected as
ever, took command, and marshalling them
through a narrow defile, led them up the mountain,
from which the whole army had a few
hours before descended in pomp and glory.
Guiding them along the ridge by new and wellchosen
paths, he hurried them forward. In the
meantime Behemoth had accomplished his work
upon the squadrons which were left. When
the task of death and ruin was completed, he
stood in the middle of the wreck, and, gazing
about, seemed to seek for some portion of the
host on whom desolation was yet to be wrought.
With sagacious instinct he soon discovered the
path which the missing legions had taken. Instantly
abandoning the plain, he pressed toward
the gap through which the retreating
troops had fled.
Rushing through the defile, he was soon
standing on the steps of Bokulla and his flying
troops. Through each narrow pass of rocks
the chieftain skilfully guided them, taking advantage
of every object that might be an obstacle
to the monstrous frame of their pursuer.
Sometimes they mounted a sudden ascent, sometimes
hastened through a narrow vale, or
around a clump of mighty sycamores and cottonwoods.
Nevertheless Behemoth pressed on.
Behind them, terrible as the voice of death,
they heard his resounding roar, and turned
pale with affright. They had reached the
crown of a hill, and were compassing a tall
rock, which stood in their way, to descend,
when they heard heavy, trampling steps behind
them, and looking back, they beheld the ponderous
bulk of the Mastodon urging rapidly up
the ascent. Trepidation fastened on the ranks.
Their knees smote together, and many, in the
weakness of sudden fear, fell quaking to the
earth. Some, in their alarms, cast themselves
headlong from the height; some escaped into
the neighboring woods, and two or three, bereft
of sense by terror, fled into the very jaws of
the huge beast himself. A small band only
kept on their way with Bokulla.
Surging up the steep, and down the opposite
descent, Behemoth pushed forward, trampling
to the earth those who stood rooted in his path—
statues of despair—and was soon at the rear of
the small flying troop.
He was at the very heels of the pale fugitives,
and Bokulla, placing a trumpet at his lips,
blew a long, loud, and what, in the hour of battle
and under other auspices, would have been
an inspiriting blast, and endeavored to arouse in
them sufficient sprit and strength to bear them
to the shelter of a gigantic crag which stood in
their path. Past this the velocity and impetus
of the brute would inevitably force him, and
they might rest for a moment, while he rushed
down and reascended (if reascend he should)
the declivity. The attempt was successless;
the trumpet-blast, vainly blown, was borne far
away into the forest, and, echoing from cliff to
cliff, seemed only to vex the idle air.
From Bokulla, one by one, his followers fell
off and perished by Behemoth, or crept into the
grass and underwood to die a more lingering
death. At length the chieftain was alone before
his mighty pursuer; and yet he bated not
a jot of heart or hope, but still bore up and
steered right onward. With the emergency his
courage, resolution, and forethought, arose.
He kept his way steadily, and the bison which
drew him nobly seconded his purpose, and exhibited,
as if inspired by the greatness of the
occasion, the power of reason in comprehending,
and a giant's strength in carrying out, the
most expedient means for the rescue of his master.
He seemed to apprehend every direction
ef Bokulla's at a thought. “To the right, between
yon stout oaks! to the left—onward—
Bokulla is at your mercy!” shouted the rider,
and they swept along like the prophet and his
chariot of fire. The night had gradually come
on. Palpable twilight now overspread the
scene, and, in a moment, the moon glided to
her station in the zenith.
The woods through which Bokulla passed
were now filled with shadows, which, crossing
and blending with each other, would have confused
mere human skill in selecting a path, but
the bison dexterously steered on. With cumbrous
but swift steps Behemoth still pursued,
over hills, vales, mountains.
At length Bokulla reached that very summit
where first the gigantic phantom had appeared,
and where the impress of his steps was yet
clearly left. He had just commenced his descent
toward the villages of the mound-builders
(thousands of whom looked toward his chariot
as he sounded another call) and Behemoth
stood behind him. The mighty brute, from some
unconjecturable motive, paused. He saw the
chariot of Bokulla rapidly verging toward
its home. He abandoned the pursuit, but yet
yielded not his purpose of destroying the last
of the army of the Mound-builders; for, loosening
from its base a massy rock, which hung,
threatening, over the village, he lifted it with
his tusks, and, pushing it forward, urged it
with tremendous force directly in the career of
the chieftain. Thundering it followed him. It
neared his chariot. Another turn and Bokulla
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is crushed; but the Mound-builders shout in
one voice, “To the right, Bokulla! to the
right!” and, turning his chariot in that direction,
he escapes the descending ruin, though
enveloped in the dust of its track. Emerging
quickly from the cloud, and avoiding the rocky
mass, which rushed past him with terrible fury,
Bokulla now reached the bottom of the mountain,
and was surrounded instantly by innumerable
Mound-builders, each with a fearful question
on his lips, and the dread of a yet more fearful
answer written in his countenance. Bokulla,
alone and in flight, was a reply to all their
thoughts could imagine or dread of what was
terrible. Gazing upon him for a while in motionless
silence, they at length burst the stupor
which made them dumb, and each one asked for
husband, brother, son, who had gone forth, a
few days since, full of life and vigor, against
Behemoth. “Death, defeat, and flight!” were
all that escaped from Bokulla, and, breaking
his way through the multitude, he sought his
own home. Gathering about the house of the
chieftain, men, women, and children, in large
crowds, they cried out through the live-long
night, while their tears fell, for their relatives
who had ventured to the battle, and asked
wherefore they came not back?
The next day, about noon, there rushed into
the village, covered with foam and quaking
with fear, troops of bison, followed by the frame-work
on which the towers and machines of war
had been raised, and, clattering through the
streets with their enormous and lumbering
wheels till they reached their stalls, they fell dead.
To some of them a handful of men clung tenaciously,
though pale and terror-stricken; and
to the rear of one, hung by his feet, which were
entangled in the leathern strap that had bound
the frame together, a lifeless body, the scull of
which was broken by rude and hasty contact
with the earth, while the tufts of hair which
remained were matted with grass, thorns, and
mire, gathered as it was drawn swiftly along
through the different varieties of verdure, marsh,
and brambles.
The next day after that, at about night-fall,
there came down the mountains which Bokulla
had descended under circumstances of so much
peril, a lean and tattered company, marshalled
forward by the ghostlike figure of a chieftain,
with a broken helm, husky voice, and swordless
scabbard. They were a portion of the army
which had gone forth with Bokulla, and had
been reduced to their present pale and ragged
condition partly by fear and partly by the want
of food for the two days during which they had
wandered in search of home. Many a wife and
mother shed tears of mingled gratitude and pity
as she looked upon the shattered wreck of her
son or husband, thus cast up from the waves of
war. Two or three days after this, and day by
day, for some week or two, came into the villages
of the Mound-builders, single fugitives or
in pairs, when they had coupled themselves together,
that, in this sorrowful fellowship, they
might aid each other in bearing up against terror,
hunger, and death.
And even after a month had rolled round,
and tears had been shed and rites performed for
the absentees, two or three strayed home lunatic—
poor idiots, whose brains had been crazed
by the triple assault of fear, famine, and the
dread of instant death under the hoofs of the
enemy. From the account that could be gathered
from their own wandering and confused
wits, they had fled every inch of the way from
the battle-ground under the terrible apprehension
that Behemoth was at their heels. Through
brake and through briar they hastened. They
had scrambled over rocks and waded wide
ponds; they had climbed trees and rested a little,
and then, swinging themselves from the
branches, had run miles over hot and streamless
prairies, until they had reached their native
villages, sad, witless idiots!
The catastrophe now stood out before the
Mound-builders, drawn in bold, strong, and
fearful strokes; painted in colors borrowed
from the midnight, and dashed upon the canvass,
it almost seemed, by the hand of destiny
itself. The malignant planet, which had so long
lowered in the atmosphere, had now burst, and
poured from its womb all that was dreadful,
pernicious, and enduring. The earth was now
to them a cold, comfortless prison, into which
they were plunged by an inexorable power, and
where they were doomed to drag through their
allotted portion of life under the eye of an
eternal and terrible foe, joyless, hopeless, and
prostrate. The multitude gave themselves to a
quiet and passionless despair, Bokulla was silent
or invisible.
Great occasions beget great men, while
they have also a tendency to nurse into life
petty spirits, which take the opportunity, uninvited,
to push themselves into prominent
posts. Thus the same emergency which elicited
the resources of Bokulla's large and fruitful
mind, also drew out the vagaries and absurdities
of a puny intellect, Kluckhatch by name.
On account of his dwarfish size and an unlucky
curvature in the legs, this valorous gentleman
had been rejected from the military companies.
Nevertheless he kept a drum on his own account,
with which he was wont to regale a rabble
crowd of urchins and maidens; making a
monthly tour through the villages and refreshing
them with the dulcet sounds. He also
wore in this itinerant and volunteer soldiery of
his a small sword; a bright pyramidal blade of
steel with a handle of elk's horn, the tip of
which was surmounted with a clasp or circlet
of silver and ornamented with the device of an
owl hooting. The person of Kluckhatch was,
as I have hinted, pigmean rather than otherwise.
He had a low forehead with prominent
cheek bones, and a broad full-moon face with
large eyes, in which idiocy and self-conceit predominated,
though they were occasionally enlivened
with an expression of mirth and goodfellowship,
and sometimes even brightened with
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a humorous conception. On the crown of his
head, to complete his garniture, Kluckhatch
bore a cap of conical figure, with a flattened
circular summit, ending at the apex with a
round button of copper. Attached to the sides
of the cap were two large ear-flaps of deer-skin,
or that of some other indigenous animal,
made to cover ears as large.
“I believe,” said this self-constituted champion,
when every plan suggested and acted
upon had proved fruitless, “I believe,” said he,
“I must take this huge blusterer in hand. I
look for a mound of the largest size at least for
my memory if I lay him at length, and a patent
of nobility for my family. Kluckhatch is no
fool—is he?” asked the vainglorious militant,
turning with a cocked eye to a shock-headed
youth who stood gaping at his elbow. The
boy replied with a similar squint, and Kluckhatch
ran on, detailing at length, like a crafty
plotter, the whole course of strategy he intended
to put in practice against Behemoth, naming
the time when, and the place where, he expected
to achieve his capture at least, if not
his death.
In accordance with this carefully matured
plot, one bright and cold autumn morning
Kluckhatch sallied forth accoutred to a point
with dagger, hat and sword-belt, to which was
attached, special ministrant in the anticipated
capture, his little drum, with the melodious
sounds of which he expected to quell and mollify
the mighty rage of Behemoth. Over his
right shoulder he bore a light ladder of pine of
great length, with which he intended to mount
to Behemoth's neck and inflict the fatal wound
with his trenchant blade.
Thus armed and accoutred Kluckhatch set
forth. Fortunately on the morning which he
chose for his adventure, the Mastodon was not
far off but pastured in a broad open meadow
within sight of the Mound-builders' villages.
When Kluckhatch first beheld him opening and
closing his mighty jaws as he cropped the tall
verdure, his soul trembled within him and vibrated
to and fro, like a mariner's needle, between
the determination to retreat and that to
advance. At length however it settled down
true to its purpose. He marched forward
beating a reveillé on his dwarfish drum, while
he whistled faintly as an accompaniment. He
was now within stone's throw of the monster.
He had lowered the ladder from his shoulder,
that he might be better prepared to scale the
sides of the Beast. Behemoth ceased from the
labor of feeding; a moment his eye twinkled
on the puissant Kluckhatch, and the next, unrolling
his trunk, he coiled it about the slender
body of the adventurer, and lifting him gently
from the earth, as gently tossed him some
score of yards into a neighboring pond, which
was about five feet deep, and mantled with a
covering of stagnant water. Into this Kluckhatch
descended and fell amid a noisy company
of large green bull-frogs who were holding a
meeting for general consultation and the ex
pression of opinion. Amid the blustering assembly
the valiant little hero fell. For a time,
as he hung balanced in the air, it was doubtful
which portion of his person would first penetrate
the water.
The levity of his head and the weight of his
splay-feet, at length brought the latter first to
the pool, and dividing the stagnant surface, they
sank through and reached a bottom of mud;
still they sank and continued to settle down
deeper and deeper. Kluckhatch knew not
where his descent would stop, nor where in the
end he might arrive. His feet at last found
support just as his chin reached the waters'
edge, and, looking up, the first object that
fell upon his vision was a household of venerable
and contemplative crows who, seated on a
dry tree at the edge of the pool, seemed to be
philosophizing over his mishaps, in their most
doleful discords. One, an old rake, with only
an eye left in his head, appeared to Kluckhatch,
as he leered knowingly upon him, to be a desperate
quiz. When, after many vain efforts, he
had brought his scattered senses into something
like order, reaching forth one hand he grasped
his drum, which floated at a distance on the
pool, and held it up tremblingly, while with the
other he drew from his belt a drum-stick which
survived his fall. Stretching out the hand that
held the stick, he struck up a faint tatoo on the
parchment, with the double purpose of driving
off those accursed and hard-hearted crows, and
also to draw help from the nearest village.
To the instrumental sounds thus elicited he
added an humble vocal effort. Here was a scene
for a painter: Kluckhatch, the drum, and the
crows, all in unison, running down the scale
from lofty bass to shrill treble.
The hero soon tired of his toilsome essays at
the two kinds of music under his charge, and
putting forth all his strength in a desperate
venture, he succeeded, scrambling, floundering,
and paddling, in reaching the shore endued in a
coat-of-mail, composed of black slime and green
ooze, with long locks of eel-grass dangling at
his heels, as trophies of his exploit. Satisfied
with this valorous attempt at the capture
of the huge blusterer, Kluckhatch skulked
home.
It was two hours before sunrise. Through
the wide realm of the populous west not a soul
was stirring, save a single human figure, which
threaded its way through the streets of one of
the great cities of the Mound-builders. This
solitary object moved at a slow, measured pace,
as if its progress was actually retarded by the
weight of the thoughts with which it labored.
The eyes gleamed as if they beheld, afar off,
some enterprise of magnitude and obstinacy
sufficient to call up the whole soul of the man,
and the lines of the countenance worked, and
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the hands were clenched, as if he was already
employed in the struggle. If one could have
looked into his bosom, he might have seen all
his faculties mustering to the encounter; and,
among other passions, aroused and assembling
there, he might have noted discomfiture and
mortification thrusting in their hated visages,
and lending a keener stimulous and quicker motion
to the current of his thoughts. He might
have also discovered an heroic resolution, almost
epic in its proportions and strength, towering
up from amid the ruins of many cast-down
and desolated projects, and assuming to contend
with unconquerable might.
The solitary figure was that of Bokulla, who
was thus venturing forth, self-exiled and alone,
to discover, in the broad wilderness toward the
sea, whatever means of triumph he might, over
a power that had hitherto proved itself more
than a match for human strength or cunning.
A great spirit had taken possession of the chieftain,
and the shame of an inglorious defeat aided
to kindle the energy of his passions. Over
that defeat he had already pondered, long, and
anxiously. He confessed to himself that he had
formed but a vague opinion of the hugeness and
strength of Behemoth when he had proposed
the battle. But he dwelt in the midst of a terrified
and perishing people. As a man he was
touched by the sufferings and alarms of his nation.
Danger and death were before them, and
no gate of safety or mercy opened. He saw
this people, not only in the present time, but
through a long futurity, scourged and suffering;
the old tottering into a hasty grave, pursued by
a hideous phantom that increased its terrors;
the young growing up with images and thoughts
of fear interwoven with their tender and pliant
elements of being.
Was there no one man, in this whole nation,
who would go forth, in the spirit of martyrdom
and self-sacrifice, and seek, even in the desert
itself, the knowledge that would bring strength
and safety in its wings? It was he that was
now passing away from his country, for a while,
and launching himself in the boundless wilderness
of the west. Championed by doubt and
solitude, he was plunging into a region which
stretched, he knew not whither, and to a fate,
perchance, his heart dared not whisper to itself.
What fruit might spring from this hardy enterprise,
it was vain to conjecture; but he was
determined to gather some knowledge of the
habits, and some information as to the lodgment
of this terrible scourge of his people.
With rapid and firm step, he therefore proceeded
on his way. By secret paths, and through
dark woods, he advanced, and midday brought
him to a spot which overlooked the whole of
the wide territory of the Mound-builders.
He stood upon a cliff which pushed out boldly
from the wooded region that lay behind it,
and hung, like a platform, over a valley and
river that wound round its base. It was covered
in patches with verdure and earth, from
which a few stately trees threw up their branches,
and underneath these Bokulla now stood.
Casting his eye abroad, he beheld a scene
which the boldest fancy of our time can scarcely
conceive, accustomed as we are to think of
the prairies as tenantless and houseless deserts,
and the whole broad west as a wild, unpeopled
region, never disturbed unless by bands of straggling
Indian hunters, or a mad herd of buffalo,
sweeping, like a tornado, over their bosom.
From his lofty stand the self-exiled chieftain
looked down upon a country belting a hundred
leagues, swelling or declining through a glorious
variety of hill, and vale, and meadow, with a
thousand streams intersecting the whole, sometimes
mingling with each other, occasionally
ploughing their way through a genial valley,
or cutting deep into the heart of a mountain,
whose slope was covered with forests. A numerous
population lined their banks, or hovered
on their eminences, whose dwellings and national
edifices reared themselves in the air and
darkened the land with their number. Over
those vast, verdant deeps, the prairies, were
scattered, like islands, countless cities, in whose
suburbs tall towers of granite and marble sprang
to the sky, and resembled the masts of ships of
war just putting out from the shore. In another
direction, a mighty bastion of earth, with its
round, green summit, heaved itself into view,
like the back of some huge sea-monster; and
the long grass of the prairies, swept by occasional
winds, rolled to and fro and furnished
the ocean-like surges on which all these objects
rode triumphant.
Upon this scene Bokulla gazed long and
earnestly, while many dark thoughts, and sad
emotions followed each other like the clouds of
summer through his mind, and darkened his
countenance as they passed. Beneath him he
saw a hundred cities devoted to ruin; tower,
and temple, and dwelling, crumbled to the earth,
and no hand lifted to arrest their fall. A wide
populace was wasting away from a robust and
manly vigor, into a pale and shadow-like decrepitude.
Day by day the august majesty of
a prosperous and ambitious nation dwindled
into a shrunken and counterfeit image of itself.
To them there was now no alternation of sunshine
or shadow; seasons passed without their
fruits; the golden summer no longer smiled in
their midst, and generous autumn departed without
a blessing and unheeded.
To these miserable and suffering realms Bokulla
now bade farewell. His present enterprise
might be without fruit, or fraught with
disastrous and fatal results to himself; yet, in
the strength of nature, he would once more presume
to cope with the dreaded enemy, for he
still believed that man must be triumphant, in
the end, over this bestial domination. To man
the earth was given as his kingdom, and all
tribes and classes of creatures were made his
subjects and vassals. In this faith he turned
away from a scene which suggested so many
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fearful topics of thought, and bent his course
toward the west, guided by such knowledge as
he already enjoyed, and such marks as occurred
to his observation, determined to avoid the face
of man, and to be familiar only with solitude and
danger, until some new means of triumph were
clearly discovered. Pursuing this resolve, he
pushed forward with speed and energy; plucking,
by the way, wild berries and other natural
fruits as food, and drinking of the cool, shaded
rivulet, his only beverage; for, from the first
moment that he had conceived the thought of
this venturous self-exile, he vowed to cast himself
on nature, and to be received and sustained
by her as her worthy child, or to perish as an
alien and an outcast on her bosom. He had,
therefore, come forth unprovided with food, and
trusting entirely to her bounty for supply.
Hand in hand thus with liberal Nature, Bokulla
pressed onward until night-fall, when he
halted, and, sheltering himself safely within the
hollow of a rock, he gathered himself for repose.
Thus for many days did this solitary pilgrim
journey on, seeking no other couch but the
overhanging cliff or the sheltering bank, and
finding no other canopy but the broad, open
sky and the green roof of the branching tree.
A constant grandeur of soul sustained him in
the midst of many pressing hardships, and a
noble purpose bore him forward as the winds
propel the eagle that trusts to their strength.
Guided by apparent tracks and obvious landmarks,
about the middle of the afternoon of
the second day he reached a solemn wood, into
the heart of which he made his way.
He was wearied with travel, and seeing the
remains of a large old oak thrusting themselves
up from the tangled and chequered shade, he
seated himself upon them. The wild underwood
and smaller foliage were twisted into a
thousand fantastic shapes, which wreathed
themselves round, and the prodigal forest-flowers
had scattered their colors here and there
so profusely over the seat which the self-exile
had chosen, as to furnish somewhat the appearance
of a cushioned throne. What wonder
if the resemblance struck the excited imagination
of Bokulla, and his eye glanced about the
forest as if in search of attendants that should
hedge this seat of honor round. “Am I alone
here!” half-muttered the chieftain. “Is all
this pleasant realm of air, and this verdurous
spot of earth void and barren! No, no; I am
not in an unpopulous solitude even here. Airy
citizens throng about me in this remote and unfrequented
wood. Busy hopes, immortal desires,
passions, longings, and aspirations that
lengthen like shadows the nearer we approach
the sunset of life. Mighty and tumultuous
wishes and emotions gather around me in this
pathless and woodland region, and tell me I am
not, that I can not be, alone. Shadowy creatures!
which sway us beyond all corporal powers
and instruments—ye swarm now in these
shaded walks—and foremost Ambition and
Fame, glorious twins! stand forth and tower
in cludy stature, grasping at impossible objects
and plucking at the heavens themselves! Immortal
powers and faculties! in these retired
and natural chambers, I know you as the internal
and silent agencies which are to guide
and sustain me through this hardy and venturous
pilgrimage.”
In this wood he found a suitable shelter and
stretched himself for sleep. Notwithstanding
the great cares with which he was oppressed,
the mind of the chieftain was visited by pleasant
dreams; and he was borne far back from
the gloomy and troubled present, into an old
and cheerful time, where everything wore a
countenance of joy, and a golden atmosphere
floated about all. He wandered along the
banks of mighty streams, watching the careless
flight of birds, or the idle motions of their currents,
on which many vessels of gallant trim,
with every sail set, were hastening toward the
sea. Around him a thousand familiar sounds
made the common music of day; trumpets
were sounded in the distance; citizens were
hurrying forth or home on errands of business,
or pleasure, or tender sorrow; and all was
human and delightful. The chieftain himself
seemed to have the heart of youth, and to ramble
onward amid these pleasant scenes of life
as if no morrow was coming, as if the sun that
was now in mid-heaven would never set.
Near the close of the night, this pageant
passed away, and the slumbers of the champion
were interrupted by a loud sound, like that of
a storm gathering in the distance, and which
drew nearer by, increasing every moment
Presently it seemed to cross the western quarter
of the wood with a clashing and tumultuous
noise, resembling that of a great cataract,
and then it passed far to the northwest, and
died away after a long time, like rattling thunder,
among the distant peaks of the mountains.
Nothing could be more alarming to the imagination
than this midnight tumult, and Bokulla
felt that his situation was like that of the
wretched mariner, whose bark is dashed on
the rocks of some inhospitable shore, where
night and the raging winds press on him behind,
and darkness and the wild beast prepare
to fasten on his weather-beaten body as he
strikes the land. But no sound that Bokulla
had ever known could represent the character
of that which rebellowed, and thundered, and
died away. The stormy shouts of a warlike assault,
the furious outcry of popular rage, the
howling of winter winds, all commixed, would be
an imperfect image of its depth, and strength, and
varying loudness. In the morning, disturbed and
perplexed, he girded himself again to his task, and
shaped his course toward that region of the forest
by which the indescribable tumult had
swept. An hour's swift travel brought him to
a large wooded slope, which presented to his
view, in the uncertain light of a sun obscured
by the gray mist of morning, an astonishing
spectacle. A thousand vast old trees, each
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large enough for the main column of a temple,
were dashed against the upland and lay there,
leaning half-way down, as if they had contested
against overthrow, like mighty ships, blown
over in the harbor of some great city, when the
north has burst upon them and commanded
that they should veil their pennons and highaspiring
standards.
From obvious footmarks he easily discovered
the course which the strength that caused this
desolation had taken, and pursuing the indications
thus furnished, he was soon out upon an
open plain. The region that now spread before
him was a wide and trackless waste, barren,
void of vegetation, and apparently deserted
of nature. Such herbage as lingered about its
borders, was small, scanty, and withered, and
crept gloomily along the dusty banks of dried-up
brooks and rivolets. Over this arid desert,
as Bokulla slowly plodded, he discovered the
same large foot-prints as he had followed all
along, crossing and re-crossing each other,
sometimes diverging and again keeping straight
on, in a manner so irregular and wandering, as
to bewilder him and set any attempt to pursue
them entirely at nought.
In some places the earth was ploughed up
and rent with seams recently made, and in
others it was scattered far and wide, in irregular
and broken heaps. The whole wilderness
presented an appearance as if it had been recently
trampled by some angry and barbaric
puissance, that had swept it from end to end,
like a storm.
What now rendered his situation still
more perplexing, was that which would seem
at first a source of self-gratulation and comfort,
after the fearful sounds of the preceding
night. A dead silence hung all around him,
which was, if possible, more dreary and depressing
than the unearthly noises of midnight.
A soundless and voiceless quiet filled the air,
the sky, and brooded over the inanimate sea of
sand slumbering at his feet.
Through this confused and desolate region,
the chieftain resolved to make his way to the
summit of some one of the mountains that dominated
this arid plain at its farthest extremity,
and thence, as from a citadel, look abroad and
make such discoveries as he might.
Bokulla at length reached the summit of a
high mountain, and looking forth toward the
east, he beheld a mighty region of hill and valley,
whose immensity astonished and overwhelmed
him. In one direction, a hundred
peaks towered one above the other, until the
farthest was lost, it seemed, on the very threshold
of the sky. In another, torrents dashed
through numerous declivities, tearing down
mountains, it almost seemed, in their rage, and
threatening to wash away the very foundations
of the earth, as they leaped over rocks, and
crags, and rugged precipices. Huge passes
and defiles that ploughed their way through the
bosoms of solid mountains, and led down, as it
were, to the central fires, were visible in other
quarters, and exhibited more or less of their
dreary turnpikes, as the sunlight fell upon one
or the other. As Bokulla looked forth, he descried
a dark object moving slowly along a distant
peak. Sometimes it paused, and then again
advanced; at length it plunged down the mountain-side
into a deep and dark valley, but still
some portion of it was apparent; and at intervals,
as it crossed a seam or gap that intersected
the valley, the whole figure came into view.
Thus it wound through the immense region, almost
the whole time conspicuous to the eye of
the gazer, who, however, was unable to discover
its character, so remote was the distance
at which it moved. At length it emerged from
the many defiles and declivities, among which
it had passed, and came out upon the open
plain.
As a numerous fleet of war-ships, all their
canvass spread, double some one of the Atlantic
capes, and come within the ken of the
anxious watcher on shore, so did this vast object
steer round the mountain-base and stand
before the eye of Bokulla. Like a huge fog
that has settled in autumn upon the ground,
and creeps along until it has mastered the earth
with its broad dimensions, so did the stature
and bulk of the Mastodon tower and enlarge as
it drew nigh. Among those mighty peaks, and
along that immeasurable plain, he seemed to
move the suitable and sole inhabitant. Rocks
piled on rocks, and rivers, the parents of
oceans, calling unto rivers as large, and dreadful
summits that hung over the earth and
threatened to crush it, were not its massy plains
and platforms broad enough to uphold mountains
a hundred fold vaster, this was the proper
birth-place and dwelling of the mightiest creature
of the earth.
Amid these great elements of nature, Bokulla
beheld the motions of the Mastodon as he trode
the earth in gigantic sway; and thought swelled
upon tumultuous thought, as waves that break
over each other in the middle ocean, at each
step of that unparalleled and majestic progress.
What wonder, if at that moment he deemed the
great creature before him unassailable and immortal?
Behemoth passed onward, and for the
first time in many hours was lost to the gaze
of the chieftain, as he entered a dark gap in a
great mountain-range far to the east. Intent
on the daring and venturous purpose which
had drawn him forth into the wilderness, he
descended from his lofty station, and shaped his
course to the barriers within which the unconquered
brute had passed. With incredible labor
he toiled over a thousand obstacles; clambering
high mountains, plodding through gloomy
valleys, and compassing, by contrivance sometimes,
sometimes by sheer strength, broad
streams, he found himself at length, as the
night approached, fixed on a lofty ridge, whence
his eye fell upon a spacious amphitheatre of
meadow, completely shut in by rocks and mountains,
save at a single narrow cut or opening.
In the centre of this he beheld Behemoth
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couchant (his head turned toward the chieftain
himself) like a sublime image of stone in the
middle of a silent lake. Bokulla exhibited no
symptoms of terror or trepidation, and the beast
lay motionless and quiet. Great emotions filled
the breast of the chieftain as he looked upon
the Mastodon reposing in this fortified solitude.
He closely scrutinized the whole circle of mountains,
and took an accurate survey of the gate
which led out into the open country beyond.
Among other circumstances, he observed large
hollows, here and there, in different quarters of
the plain, as if worn there by the constant habitation
of Behemoth; and also, that as the
wind sighed through the branches of trees that
stood in its centre and along its border, the
Mastodon moved up and down the amphitheatre
with a slow and gentle motion, as if
soothed by the sound.
While he was thus engaged, night descended
upon the scene; and the dark hours were to be
passed by Bokulla alone in that far-off wilderness,
and within reach of the mighty and terrible
foe. As well as he might he addressed
himself to sleep; but it was almost in vain, for
it seemed as if the fearful strength beneath was
slumbering at his side, and as if its tall, cold
shadow fell upon him and froze the very blood
in his veins. Armed beings of an inconceivable
and superhuman stature passed and repassed
before his mind; and the vision of a
conflict mightier than any that his mortal eyes
had ever witnessed, in which huge trumpets
brayed and enormous shields clashed against
each other, swept along. Then it changed,
and it seemed as if the mountains rocked to and
fro, and pent winds strove to topple down peaks
and pinnacles, while in their midst one mighty
Figure, neither of man nor of angel, stood
chained, and, in a deep and fearful voice, cried
to the heavens for succor. Perplexed by images
and visions like these, Bokulla wakened
before the dawn, and turned his steps, with
scarce any guide or landmark, toward his own
home.
And now an appalling fate was before the
champion, for he was without food in the very
centre of the desert. The liberal fare upon
which he had at first subsisted, was gone long
ago, and the scanty supply which nature had
lately furnished from hedges and meadows, had
entirely ceased. Barrenness, barrenness, barrenness,
spread all around. After toil and exertion
of body and mind, almost beyond mortal
strength, he seemed likely to perish in the
wastes with the great project that his soul had
conceived unknown to living man. Interminable
and gloomy disasters lowered over his
country if he should perish in the wilderness.
He struggled onward with anguish and hunger
at his heart.
At last, when his strength was fast ebbing,
he came at night-fall upon a vast open plain,
and dragged himself, with a pang in every step,
to a crag that jutted, like a great fang, in its
very centre. Upon this he raised himself, and
with features sternly set against the darkness,
awaited his fate. Narrower and narrower the
great circle of the horizon closed upon him,
binding him where he sat in an inexorable
grasp. A black universe pressed upon him on
every side, and seemed eager to smother him
up in gloom. Against hunger and terrible darkness
and death, he folded his arms. Even then
he strained his gaze through the thick night,
toward the quarter of the sky under which lay
the homes of the Mound-builders, as if to learn
by some light that flickered up in the distance,
whether any, the faintest hope, kindled a fire-side
among them yet. Blackness and infinite
gloom alone swelled about him, and filled the
whole heaven.
No sleep came to his eyes that night, nor
was he altogether wakeful, but lingered in a
middle world, where the images of the new
being and the old held him fast, or yielded him
for a time to the other. At one time, a voice
was at his ear, whispering peace and tranquil
hours henceforth for ever; a voice that came
he knew from a shining face. At another, a
cry, as of one shrieking in excess of pain,
came booming through the dark, and cut all
his human sense of suffering to the quick.
At length the slow morning dawned again,
and looking forward, where he thought he had
discerned a dull marsh stretching to bar his
way, he found instead a long green line of
verdure, smiling freshly in the eye of the light.
In its very midst there stood a calm, brown
bird, reposing with an infinite quietude, with
an eye obliquely turned upward, contemplatively
regarding the sun, and stretching its wings
to catch the warm breeze that rippled past.
A new pleasure shot into the soul of the
champion, beholding this easy mirth of nature—
this so-great repose: the bird heaving itself
sluggishly on the wing, crept lazily off through
the air; and, regarding it, while his mind was
thus gently moved, a sound, as of a beautiful
hoof set upon the earth, struck upon his ear.
He turned back, and at the spot from which
the bird had taken flight, there stood a steed,
so young, so smooth, so shapely in every limb,
and so like a happy creature of darkness in
every line of its glossy black, that Bokulla
mused upon it as upon a vision.
Tranquil as the air it stood, its head uplifted
only and drinking in the sky, with its neck
stretched far away toward the home of the
champion. Bokulla knew the omen, and with
a spirit fresh and unbroken he stood beside the
steed, and at a bound was his master.
Away they flew—the crag, the plain, the
sky dying behind them at a thought. Gently
through fair green glades—at a bound over vales
and rugged steeps—swiftly past stupendous
peaks, that held aloft their dazzling snow-sheets,
as with a mighty tented staff—along a heavy
river that strove to run an even race with
them,—past cataracts that burst on the wilderness
in crashing peels—they speeded on. Over
hills, through forests, and along stream-sides,
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the wondrous flight kept on all that day and all
that night too (Heaven in its deep providences
knew how), when, at the next day's dawn, upon
a mountain-brow the steed stayed his steps,
and a populous city burst upon the gaze of Bokulla,
directly at his feet. The steed stood
still in the immoveable quiet in which the chieftain
first beheld him—silent, gentle, beautiful,
the calm counter-image to Behemoth. Wide
upon the plain below the scattered Mound-builders
stood about, striving to worship as of
old; and as their lifted look fell upon the new
vision, they clapped their hands for joy, and
shouted like men before whose shipwrecked
gaze land suddenly springs to view. It showed
to them fair, beautiful indeed, but when,
breaking the spell of silence and quietude that
held him, the steed hastened down the mountain-side,
and galloped through their streets,
they beheld the rider—his features gaunt and
unearthly, his hair streaming wildly to the
wind—they fled from his steps with a new
fear.
Some sought refuge in their dwellings,
while others rushed out to gaze upon him
as he scampered, wild and spectre-like, along
the distance; and others gathered together,
and, in subdued voices, conjectured or canvassed
the character of the sudden apparition.
Many wild guesses and shrewd suggestions
were ventured.
“This is a fiend of the prairie,” said one, “he
that rambles up and down the big meadow,
blowing his horn, and who calls the wolves and
goblins together when a carcass is thrown out
or a traveller perishes in crossing them.”
“It is a lunatic, escaped from his friends,”
said a second, “who has been out, seeking his
wits in the mountains.”
“You are wide of the mark, my good sirs,”
said another, a sharp-eyed little man, glaring
about and looking up at the windows, as if
afraid of being overheard; and the group
pressed more closely about him, as if expecting
a communication of great weight and shrewdness—
“a whole bowshot wide of the mark—it
is the keeper of Behemoth!”
At this they all turned pale and lifted up their
eyes in astonishment, and admitted that nothing
could be nearer the truth.
By this time Bokulla had reached his own
door, and, throwing himself from his steed of
the desert, prepared to enter in; but, ere he
could effect this object, several stout citizens
pressed before him and arrested his steps.
“Wherefore is this?” said the foremost,
“will you rush into a house of mourning in
this guise? Know you not that this is the
mansion of Bokulla the champion—and that his
widow is in sackcloth and tears within? Begone
elsewhere, madman!”
This remonstrance was seconded by another,
and a third, until it swelled so high that the
crowd would have seized him, and wreaked
some injury upon his person, had he not succeeded
in obtaining a moment's pause; and,
standing on an elevation, he shouted out,
“Peace, Mound-builders, it is Bokulla before
you!”
At this declaration many began to recognise
in the shrunken features and toil-worn frame
before them, their great champion and chieftain,
and a shout was raised, “Life and health
to Bokulla, the father of his country!” “Pleasant
dew fall upon him!” “Long may he tread
the green earth under his feet!” and many national
invocations and blessings.
The rumor now spread rapidly abroad, and
the cry was taken up, wherever it reached, and
renewed with hearty goodwill, for all were rejoiced
at the return of their great leader, whom
some had considered lost for ever, and who all
admitted was the only one that could contend,
with any chance of success, against their barbaric
foe. Even the little group of gossips that
had construed him into a fiend, a lunatic, and
the keeper of Behemoth, but a moment before,
now rushed eagerly forward, and were among
the first to welcome him back, the sharp-eyed
little man invoking a special blessing on his
pleasant countenance, which looked, he said,
“like that of a saving angel!” Escaping from
these numerous tokens of admiration and regard,
Bokulla withdrew into his dwelling, and
the crowd, after lingering about for many hours
to glean such information as they might of his
absence and to catch a view of his person, at
length dispersed, each, he knew not why, with
a lighter heart, and more joyous look, than
had fallen to his lot for many long and weary
months.—
From the dwelling of Bokulla let us turn our
steps, for a while, toward the suburbs of the
city, and enter the sick-chamber of Kluckhatch,
the blusterer. The adventure of that valiant
pretender against Behemoth had been accompanied
with serious, and, from the aspect they
at present assumed, perhaps fatal consequences.
The alarm of spirits which he had
suffered, together with the dreary submersion
in the pool, had thrown the adventurer into a
violent ague. Day by day the malady became
more tyrannical, and the mind of Kluckhatch
more fretful and restless. His soul seemed,
like the sun, to expand as it approached its final
eclipse, and nature, who, at his birth, had
exhibited the art and skill of a bottle-conjurer
in crowding so puissant a spirit into so narrow
a body, now seemed at a loss to drive the obstinate
tenant from its residence. The little man
clung more desperately to life the more forcible
the attempt made to wrest it from him. The
pale ague assailed him with its whole band of
forces; throttling him by the throat, as it were,
it essayed, by rough and uncourteous usage, to
shake the vital spirit from him, but it adhered
closer and closer, and the attempt of nature to
cast off the pigmy militant, resembled that of
a horse, in whose flank, on a midsummer's day,
a burr has chanced to fix itself; he feels annoyed
and irritated—he whisks the hairy brush
to and fro—he runs—he gallops—he rears—he
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plunges, but all in vain, the barbarous annoyance
clings to him with the more zeal, until, at
some quiet moment, it drops gently from its
hold, and disturbs him no more. Thus stood
the account between nature and Kluckhatch.
In his bed he lay, trembling like an earthquake
or an ocean, under the coverlid. After a while
the ague relaxed, and the fever came on; and
then he sat up in his couch, and grasping a
wooden sword, which had been made to amuse
his sick and distempered fancy, he made airy
thrusts and lounges, and called out as if he
were plunging it deep in invisible ribs, or hacking
at the head of some monstrous chimera.
Then, again, he would appear to seize the end
of some palpable object, and, drawing it along,
would measure and cut off pieces of a yard in
length at a time. It was evident, from the whole
tenor of his strange action, that the Mastodon
was in his phantasy; and this was amply confirmed
by his breaking out, after the fever had
partially subsided, into the following wild invectives,
with a gasp between each, into which
his soul seems to have thrown its whole collected
powers.
“This huge bully; this fleshly continent;
this vagabond traveller; this beast mountain;
this tornado in leather; this bristly goblin;”—
“Pray be calm, Kluckhatch,” whispered the
shock-headed youth, who stood at his bedside,
terrified and quaking.
“This huge, moving show; this two-horned
wonder; this tempest of bull's-beef; this land-leviathan;
fiend; wood-elf; this devil's ambassador;
this territory of calves'-hide, stretched
on a mountain; this untanned libel on leather-dressers;
this unhung homicide;”—
“Uncle Kluckhatch,” again interrupted his
attendant, “Uncle Kluckhatch, wherefore do
you rail after this fashion? you but madden
your fever.”
“This empire of bones and sinew; this monstrous
government on legs; this tyrant with a
tail; this rake-helly; this night-brawler; this
measureless disgust; this lusty thresher, with
his endless flail; this magnified ox; this walking
abomination; this enormous discord, sounding
in base; this huge, tuneless trombone;”—
The sick dwarf fell back on his pillow, exhausted,
his lips still moving as if laden with
other bitter epithets of denunciation. His hour
now rapidly drew nigh; his strength gradually
ebbed away, and, at length, the conviction
that he must die forced its way into the heavy
brain of Kluckhatch. In a few words he made
his humble, and, of course, lean will. “I leave,”
said he, to his gaping companion, “I leave to
you my fame, my virtues, and my drum!” He
then gave directions for his burial, which, if
obeyed, would make it a spectacle rare and unexampled;
and, rising once more in his bed,
he said he wished to expire in a sitting attitude.
The last sinking wave of life was dying upon
the shore. His simple attendant had taken
in his hand, to survey its fashion and its prop
erties, the testamentary bequest of his departing
friend.
“Strike up! strike up, once more!” exclaimed
Kluckhatch, as his eye kindled with the
gleam of death, and as the first sounds rolled
from the drum under the obedient hand of its
new possessor, the spirit of the pretender, mingling
with them, left the earth.
The second morning after his death, at an
early hour, the funeral procession set out from
the domicil of Kluckhatch for the tomb of his
forefathers, a snug family vault, just beyond the
skirts of the town. Under the direction of the
shock-headed youth, who enacted the master of
ceremonies, the solemn cavalcade was drawn
up, and proceeded in the following order:
First, led on by the legatee himself, in front
of whose person hung suspended the testamentary
drum, hobbled slowly along a sorry and
cadaverous jade, which had been the pack-saddle
of Kluckhatch in his strolling tours. One
eye of the sad creature was wholly closed and
useless, but the other, as if to make amends,
was a sea-green orb of twice the ordinary dimension,
and, with its ample circle of white,
blazed like the moon crossing the milky-way
in the sky. His lank, hollow body bore clear
evidence of the neglected meadows and scant
mangers of the Mound-builders; for he had
been on fast, broken by occasional spare morsels,
for more than a month, and glided along
in the procession like a spectre. Behind this
monkish-looking beast followed a low wagon
or four-wheeled cart, drawn by a pair of venerable
and spiritless bisons, in which sat the
blusterer himself, erect and in the costume of
every-day life, his strange red coat shining like
a meteor, conspicuous from afar, while his conical
cap nodded gayly to the one side or the
other, as the wind swayed it. The strange
whipster held the reins firmly between his skeleton
fingers, and exhibited on his countenance
a broad, ghastly grin, which, at the first view,
startled the beholders, but after they had recovered
from the shock, caused them to burst into
a hearty laugh. On each side of the vehicle
thus strangely driven, marched, in serious order,
six sturdy men, each bearing a huge rustic
pipe or whistle, wrought of reed, on which
they blew soft and melancholy music. Behind
the wagon, the favorite dog of Kluckhatch,
crestfallen and whining, was led in a string.
In the rear of this faithful mourner followed the
friends and admirers of the deceased, and after
these scrambled a promiscuous rout of his town'speople,
of every variety, age, sex, and hue.
Creation itself, both overhead and on the
earth, was something in unison with the grotesque
obsequies. In one quarter of the sky,
which resembled the bottom of a rich sea, suddenly
disclosed, a vast cloud, like a whale,
floundered and tumbled over the azure depths.
In another, the clouds lay piled in heaps of
shining silver; here they assumed the form of
a shattered wreck, fleecy vapors standing out
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as mast or bowsprit, with evanescent bars for
rigging, and there a black and jagged mass of
them, stretched along like a reef of dangerous
and stubborn rocks. Lower down, a small, dismantled
fragment, mottled with white, sunlit
scales, represented a mackerel, at full length,
opening his mouth and biting at the tail of a
cloudy grampus that stood rampant just over-head.
In the midair, drawn thither by the strangely
exposed remains of Kluckhatch, a sable-coated
troop of ravens kept the procession company,
occasionally demanding, in coarse, rude clamors,
their reversionary right in the deceased.
Now and then a timid bird put forth his head
from the trees and bushes at the roadside, and
twittering for a moment, and seeming to smile
at the defunct rider, hopped back into its cool
hiding-place.
In a little while they reached the place of
burial, a small, suburban vault, the passage to
which, through a wooden door, led down to a
score of cells or apartments, all of which, save
one, were occupied. Over the entrance to the
vault stood the weather-bleached skeleton of a
robustious ancestor of Kluckhatch, balancing
on one of his short, stout legs, flourishing
the other as if in the act of going through a
pirouette, and holding, in his outstretched right
hand, the effigies of an owl, the favorite family
bird and device.
For what reason, or whether for any, the little,
queer skeleton occupied this position, it
would be now difficult to decide. Perhaps, in
his lifetime, he had been a hard, weather-beaten
hunter, who preferred to be left thus in the
free, naked air, and under the open sky, which
during life he had enjoyed without stint or circumscription.
Passing underneath the figure
of this portentous guardian, and through the
passage, they bore the mortal remains of the
last of the Kluckhatches, and placed them in
their upright posture in the only cell which remained
untenanted. The moment it was known
that the corse was deposited in its final place
of rest, the twelve stout whistlers let off four
successive volleys of their peculiar music; the
dog came forward and howled, and the shock-headed
youth stood at the entrance of the vault
sobbing and weeping, while the beast, whose
halter he held in his hand, silently devoured
the drumhead and looked inside for further viands.
A few moments more and the door was
closed for ever between the world and Kluckhatch.—
The unexpected departure of Bokulla from
their midst had been a source of fruitful and
anxious speculation to the Mound-builders.
They were conscious of his absence, as if the
great orb itself had left the skies and deprived
the earth of its light and influence. His presence
diffused among them the only cheerful ray
that enlightened their gloomy condition; and
although his recent enterprise had proved disastrous,
they were satisfied that the great chieftain
would promptly grasp the first favoring cir
cumstance, and energetically use it against the
fearful foe.
Of the causes of his absence none were advised,
nor as to the direction his steps had taken.
Some dreaded lest he had gone forth to
perish by his own hand in the wilderness; and,
by these, scouts had been dismissed in every
quarter, to bring back the fugitive warrior, or
his body, for honorable sepulture, if he had perished.
The agitation and fear, excited by the
causeless and unexplained absence of Bokulla,
were only less than those occasioned by the terrible
presence of the Mastodon. His return,
therefore, was welcomed with every demonstration
of rejoicing. Lights were displayed,
as glad signals, from every tower; processions
and cavalcades were formed to make triumphal
marches through the realm, and bodies of citizens
constantly gathered under the window of
the chieftain, to express their delight at his return.
During a whole week this universal festivity
was sustained, and it seemed as if the
flower of national hope once more blossomed
in their midst. Merry games were celebrated
in their gardens; religious worship again assumed
its robe, and walked forth with serene
and placid features in the traces of its early
duty.
What gave additional animation to this unwonted
scene was, that Behemoth, during its
continuance, ceased to sadden or alarm them
with his presence; it may have been that the
dazzling splendor of the illumination, and the
loud sound of innumerable instruments all
playing together, kept him back.
About two weeks after the return of the self-exiled
chieftain, and at the close of their joyous
celebrations, he appeared before the Mound-builders,
and declared “that his strange and
unexplained absence had not been without its
uses. Nature,” he said, “had put forth her
mighty hand and generously furnished the
means of deliverance. Liberty was now before
them, but it must be attained through many
perils and through toil, sanctified, perchance,
with blood. Like the swimmer that nears the
shore, they must now buffet the wave of hostile
fortune with their sternest strength. It might
be that once more the firm and smiling continent
of joy, of honor, and peace, could be
reached. If so, Heaven should be praised with
a deep sense of gratitude, and the realm should
ring through all its borders with sounds of glorious
triumph!”
He then stated that he had discovered in his
wanderings a mighty meadow where Behemoth
was wont to pasture; and that if they would
choose a delegation to visit it in company with
himself, he would endeavor to point them to a
sure and safe method of subduing the enemy.
At this suggestion the populace shouted
loudly, and echoed the name of Bokulla with
the most eager and fervent expressions of admiration.
They readily appointed three eminent
citizens to accompany him. The next
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morning they set out, and having in due course
of time reached the locality, they selected an
elevation which commanded the whole prospect
at once.
All admitted, as they looked upon the high
walls that girt the broad and spacious meadow,
and on the single narrow opening which led
from the enclosure, that nature had furnished
an extraordinary aid toward the capture of the
invincible brute. Far around on both sides
from the central position which they occupied,
the stupendous upright battlement of mountains
stretched—a peak here and there shooting
up an immense tower, and a crag occasionally
thrusting itself forth from the general mass of
perpendicular rocks, like the quaint head of a
beast, or the rugged and ugly features of a human
being, as the fancy chose to give it shape
and likeness. The whole hedged in a meadow
covered with a fertile growth of tall, rich verdure—
dotted by a few scattered trees—and intersected
by a stream of considerable breadth
and depth, which flowed through its centre,
and formed an outlet in a narrow passage underneath
the mountains. The natural opening
leading from this broad enclosure, was about
five hundred feet wide, and walled on either
side by gigantic fragments of stone, from whose
huge posterns it seemed as if in an earlier age
of the world an immense gate may have swung
and shut in captives of mighty size and fearful
guilt. Nothing could be conceived a more secure
and dreadful prison than these vast walls
of rock: and no solitude could be more dreary
than one thus fortified as it were by nature,
and made sublimely desolate by barriers and
enclosures like these.
All felt, thus gazing, the grandeur of the
thought presented to their mind by Bokulla,
and they turned and looked upon the countenance
of the chieftain, as if they expected to
discover there features more than human. Bokulla
stood silent.
“The thought is mighty and worthy of Bokulla!”
at length, exclaimed one of his companions,
a man of generous and ardent heart;
“here we triumph or the story of our life closes
in endless defeat, and our fate makes us and
ours perpetual bondmen.”
“Who is it,” interposed a second of less sanguine
temper, “who is it that dare visit the
panther in his den? or grasp the thunder from
its cloud on the mountain-top?—It were as safe
to climb into the eagle's nest as disturb this
monstrous creature in his lair!”
“Terrible as the north when it lightens and
is full of storms—inexorable as death, will be
the encounter!” cried a supporter of the second
speaker—“I would sooner plunge headlong
from a tower, than venture within this guarded
enclosure!”
“What say you, my friends!” cried Bokulla,
springing to his feet, “what say you to an embassy
to the brute on bended knee? I doubt
not if we came as humble worshippers and suppliants,
and consented to choose him as our na
tional idol, he would abate something of his
fierceness!”
“Now heaven and all good planets forbid!”
cried his companions with one accord.
“Nothing better and nothing nobler, then,
may be tried, than the great suggestion of Bokulla!”
said the first speaker. “Here let us
wrestle with fate and die, then, if die we must,
in this broad and open arena, where the heavens
themselves, and the inexorable stars, shall be
witnesses of our struggle!”
Taking up their position on an elevated rock,
shaded by trees which overlooked the whole
scene, they consulted as to the most proper and
speedy method of accomplishing their purpose.
After a consultation of several hours, during
which the sun had fallen far in the west, and
after weighing anxiously every circumstance
that could have bearing or influence on the
event, they determined in their open councilchamber,
amid the solemn silence of the wilderness,
that an attempt must be made to imprison
Behemoth in the vast, natural dungeon
at their feet, by building a stout wall across its
present opening.
And furthermore, that it would be matter of
afterthought to decide, if successful in the first,
by what means his death was to be wrought.
Their resolves had scarcely taken this shape,
when a heavy shadow fell suddenly in their
midst, as if a thick cloud had covered the sun;
and looking forth for its source, they beheld
Behemoth walking silently and ponderously
along the ridge of the opposite mountains.
They arrested their deliberations, and rising in
a body, watched the progress and actions of the
brute. In a short time he descended from the
summit, and attaining its foot by a sloping and
broad path, in a moment presented himself at
the gap, which conducted into the mountainous
amphitheatre. Stalking through, he advanced
to its far extremity, and stretching himself on
the bank of the stream, and in the cool shadow
of the mountains, he prepared for repose.
His companions had already learned from
Bokulla, that the Mastodon was in the habit of
paying long periodical visits to this place, and
of feeding, for considerable periods of time, on
its abundant and savory verdure. Nothing
could have been more opportune to their consulation
than the arrival of Behemoth. His
sudden coming was an argument for activity
and despatch.
The fifth day from this, the Mound-builders
arrived in considerable numbers, in a wood
near the amphitheatre, bringing with them in
wagons the tools and implements required in
the proposed labor. They immediately set
about the task, and commenced hewing large
blocks of stone and dragging them to the mouth
of the gap, but not so near as to obstruct it.
The whole body of workmen that had come
from the Mound-builders' villages had labored
at this task for a week, and they found that in
that time sufficient stone had been hewn to
build the wall from base to summit. Each
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block was more than twelve feet square, and
through its centre was drilled a hole of some
six inches diameter, in which to insert bars of
metal, to bind them more firmly together.
As soon as they were prepared to commence
the erection of the wall, which was the most
critical part of their labors, four or five separate
bands of musicians were stationed at the farther
end of the enclosure, and near to Behemoth:
for they knew, from Bokulla's report,
that the Mastodon, mighty and terrible as he
was, could be soothed by the influence of music,
adroitly managed.
The moment the work of heaving the vast
square blocks one upon the other began, the
musicians, at a given signal, commenced playing,
and during the progress of the labor, ran
through all the variety of gentle tunes: so that
the wall, like that of Amphion, sprang up under
the spell of music. So cunningly did the
different bands master their instruments, that,
at three different times, when the Mastodon
had turned his step toward the gap at which
the Mound-builders labored, they lured him
back, and held him spell-bound and motionless.
The blocks were hoisted to their places by
cranes, and the utmost silence was observed in
every movement; not even a voice was lifted
to command, but every direction was given
with the pointed finger. No one moved from
his station during the hours of toil, but each
stood on his post and executed his portion of
the task like a part of the machinery. And yet
there was no lack of spirit; every one labored
as if for his own individual redemption, and
one who beheld them plying amid the massive
fragments of granite, silent and busy, might
have thought that they were some rebellious
crew of beings brought into the wilderness by
a genius or necromancer, and there compelled,
speechless and uncomplaining, to do his bidding.
They labored in this way for more than a
month, and at the end of that time, Bokulla
proclaimed from its summit that the wall was
completed. At the announcement, the whole
host of artisans and laborers, and innumerable
women and children, who had come from the
villages, sent up a shout that rent the air. Behemoth
heard it, and, listening only for a moment,
browsed on among the tall grass as if
regardless of its source and its object. In a
few days, however, after the music had ceased
its gentle influence, and the supply of pasturage
began to be less luxuriant, the Mastodon
made progress toward the old outlet, with the
determination of seeking food elsewhere.
He, of course, sought an outlet in vain, and
found himself standing at the base of an immense
rampart, which shot sheer up two hundred
and fifty feet in air. He surveyed the
structure, and soon discovered that it was no
trifling barrier, but a mighty pile of rocks, that
showed themselves almost as massive and firm
as the mountains which they bound together.
At first, Behemoth thought, although it would
be idle to attempt to shake the whole mass at
once, that yet the separate parts might be removed
block by block. With this purpose he endeavored
to force his white tusks between them,
but it was in vain; they were knit too firmly
together to be sundered. At length, the great
brute was maddened by these fruitless efforts,
and retreating several hundred rods, he rushed
against the wall with tremendous strength and
fury.
The Mound-builders, who overlooked the
structure, trembled for its safety, but it stood
stiff, and the shock caused Behemoth to recoil
discomfited, while the earth shook with
the weight and violence of the motion. Over
and over again these assaults were repeated,
always with the same result. Wearied with
the attempt, the Mastodon desisted, and returned
to feed upon the diminished pasturage,
which he had before deserted. He had soon
browsed on it to its very roots, and began to feed
on the commoner grass and weeds, scarcely palatable.
In a day these had all vanished, and he
turned to the trees which were here and there
scattered over the meadow. These he devoured,
foliage, limb, and trunk.—In a few
days they were wholly exhausted, and the enclosed
plain was reduced to a desert—pastureless,
herbless, and treeless.
The impatience and wrath of Behemoth now
knew no bounds. He saw no possible mode of
escape from this dreary and foodless waste.
Around and around the firm colosseum which
enclosed him, he rushed, maddened, bellowing,
and foaming.
At times, in his fury, he pushed up the almost
perpendicular sides of the mountains and
recoiled, bringing with him shattered fragments
of rock and large masses of earth, with fearful
force and swiftness. Around and around he
again galloped and trampled, shaking the very
mountains with his ponderous motions, and filling
their whole circuit with his terrible howlings
and cries. The Mound-builders who stood
upon the wall, and on different parts of the
mountains, shrunk back affrighted and awe-stricken
before the deadly glare of his eye, and
the fearful and agonizing sound of his voice.
Day by day he became more furious, and his
roar assumed a more touching and dreadful
sharpness. All sustenance was gone from the
plain; the whole space within his reach furnished
nothing but rocks and earth, for he had
already drunk the stream dry to its channel.
The mighty brute was perishing of hunger in
the centre of his prison.
His strength was now too far wasted to admit
of the violent and gigantic efforts which he
had at first made to escape from the famine-stricken
enclosure, and he now stalked up and
down its barren plain, uttering awful and heart-rending
cries. Some of the Mound-builders
who heard them, and who saw the agonies and
sufferings of Behemoth, although he had been
their most cruel enemy, could not refrain from
tears. So universal is humanity in its scope,
that it can feel for everything that has life.
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Howling and stalking like a shadow, momently
diminishing, he walked to and fro in this
way for many days. Hunger hourly extended
its mastery through his immense frame. At
about midday in the third week of his imprisonment,
he cast his eye upon the cavernous
and dusty opening through which the river
that watered the plain had been accustomed
to find its way. It was broad and open and of
considerable height. Into this Behemoth now
turned his steps. Its mouth was larger than the
inner passage, for time and tempest had worn
away the rocks which once guarded it.
As he advanced it diminished, and ere his
whole bulk had entered the channel, it became
so narrow and confined that he was forced to
sink on his knees, in order to make further progress.
This labor soon proved vexatious and
toilsome, and the Mastodon, willing to force
a way where one was not to be found, or to
perish in the endeavour, raised himself slowly
toward an upright position.
The remnant of his strength proved to be
fearful, for, as his broad shoulders pressed upon
the rocks above him, the incumbent mountain
trembled, and when he had attained his full stature
by a last powerful effort, the impending
rocks rolled back and forth, and fell with a resounding
crash and in great fragments to the
earth. The whole cone of the mountain had
been loosened from its base, and, leaning for a
moment, like a lurid cloud in midair, fell into
the plain with terrible ruin, bearing down a
whole forest of trees and the earth in which
they had taken root.
Fortunately for Behemoth—unfortunately for
the object of the Mound-builders—the rocks
which immediately overhung Behemoth, though
rent in several places, did not give way, but so
interlocked and pressed against each other as
to form a solid arch over his head and leave
him unharmed amid the ruins. Passage through
the channel was, however, wholly arrested by
the large masses of earth that had fallen into
it, and Behemoth, finding it vain to attempt to
pass farther onward, withdrew.
The fatal time drew nearer and nearer. Hundreds
and thousands of the Mound-builders gathered
from every quarter of the empire to look upon
the last hour of the mighty creature which lay
extended, in his whole vast length, in the plain.
A catastrophe and show like that was not to be
foregone, for it might never (and so they prayed)
come again. Death and the Mastodon held a
fearful encounter in the arena below. Nations
looked down from the wall and the mountains,
on the strange and terrible spectacle.
To and fro the whole famished bulk moved
with the convulsions, and spasms, and devouring
agonies of hunger. At times the brute
raised his large countenance toward heaven,
and howled forth a cry which, it seemed, might
bring down the gods to his succor.
On the fortieth day Behemoth died, and left
his huge bones extended on the plain, like the
wreck of some mighty ship, stranded there by a
deluge, to moulder, century after century, to be
scattered through a continent by a later convulsion,
and, finally, to become the wonder of
the present time!
THE END OF BEHEMOTH.
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Mathews, Cornelius, 1817-1889 [1843], The various writings (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf265].
