Chapter 1

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NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK

AND

OTHER SKETCHES.

BY

GEO. P. GOFF.

* * * * *

Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli.

* * * * *

ILLUSTRATED.

* * * * *

LANCASTER, PENNA.:

INQUIRER PRINTING AND PUBLISHING COMPANY

1879.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by

GEO. P. GOFF,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

TO THE

"RAYMOND HALL" SHOOTING CLUB,

THIS

VOLUME IS INSCRIBED.

PREFACE.

THE KIND PARTIALITY OF INDULGENT FRIENDS HAVING INDUCED ME TO GATHER TOGETHER THESE SCATTERED FRAGMENTS, INDITED AS A RECREATION FOR MY LEISURE MOMENTS, I GIVE THEM THUS COLLECTED, WITH THE HOPE THAT THE SAME FAVOR WILL BE EXTENDED TO THEIR IMPERFECTIONS AS HAS SO OFTEN BEEN SHOWN TO THEIR AUTHOR.

CONTENTS.

NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK.

TRIP TO CURRITUCK--ILLUSTRATED.

HAUNTED ISLAND.

LEGEND OF BERKELEY SPRINGS--ILLUSTRATED.

NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK,

AND OTHER SKETCHES.

NICK BABA'S LAST DRINK.

It was Christmas Eve, and the one narrow main street of a small country town was ablaze. Extra lights were glowing in all the little shops; yet all this illumination served only to make more apparent the untidy condition of the six-by-nine window panes, as well as the goods therein. Men and women were hastening homeward with well-filled baskets which they had provided for the festive morrow. All the ragged, dirty urchins of the village were gathered about the dingy shop windows admiring, with distended eyes and gaping mouths, the several displays of toys and sweetmeats.

Their arms buried quite to their elbows in capacious but empty pockets, they cast longing looks and wondered, as they had no stockings, where Santa Claus could put their presents when he had brought them. To all this show and preparation there was one exception: one place shrouded in total darkness--it was the shop of Nick Baba, the village shoemaker. That was for the time deserted; left to its dust, its collection of worn-out soles, its curtains of cobwebs, and its compound of bad, unwholesome odors. This darkness and neglect was about to end, however, and give place to a glimmer of light.

Nick now came hurrying in and, quickly striking a light, placed between himself and a flickering oil lamp a small glass globe filled with water. He sat down upon his bench and commenced work in earnest on an unfinished pair of shoes. He hammered, and pulled, and stretched, and pegged, and sewed, and all this time, had there been any one present, they might have observed that, though Nick worked so diligently, he was unhappy, and a prey to the bitterest reflections. All in the village had commenced their merry-making, while he sat there alone, forgotten, and in despair. His neighbors had plenty--he was penniless, and could take nothing to his home but regrets for the past. The rickety old door now creaked on its rusty, worn-out hinges, and admitted a creature as strange looking as it was unexpected. It moved straight toward Nick, and perched itself upon a three-legged stool close beside him. This mysterious thing could not be pronounced supernatural, and yet it was as unlike anything human as is possible to imagine. It was more like some fantastic figure seen in a dream--the creation of a disordered brain. It may be that it was a goblin--Nick thought it one. It was only about two feet high; a mass of dark-brown hair streamed down its back, partially concealing a great hump, and thence flowed down to its heels. Its head was round as a ball and topped out by a velvet cap of curious shape and workmanship, with a broad projecting front which shaded a pair of lustrous red eyes, set far back beneath the forehead--almost lost there. Its breast was sunken, and the head settled down between the shoulders, created an impression of weakness, as if, for example, it should speak, that a small piping voice would come struggling up from below. Baba looked up with alarm, but the goblin greeted him with a smile, and said, "Merry Christmas, Nick," in a deep, strong and not unmusical voice, which came boldly up and out from its parted lips.

"How do you know my name?" inquired the cobbler, "and why do you mock me by such a greeting?"

"Baba, my friend," replied the Goblin, "I was just thinking that if all the acts of your life had been as good and as humane as your mechanical skill is perfect, you would not now be floundering in the meshes of vice and dissipation. You are making a good pair of shoes there."

The shoemaker worked away without raising his head, but responded spitefully, "Where is the use of making them good?--I get no pay for them."

"Why, who," inquired the occupant of the three-legged stool, "is so ungenerous as to want such shoes without paying for them?"

"They are," answered the busy workman, "for the owner of this miserable shanty, and he complains because I am only six months behind with my rent--a most unreasonable man. If he does not get his shoes to-morrow, he will turn me out; I must have some place to work, and so am forced to do the bidding of this grasping landlord."

"Ah, it is you who are unreasoning," exclaimed Baba's visitor, sorrowfully; "it is you who are in fault. If you would but remain away from the tavern and the vile associates whom you meet there, all would be well with you, you might redeem yourself."

Nick felt this rebuke so very keenly that he turned savagely toward the one who had dared to tell him so plainly of his degradation, and demanded. "Who are you, and why have you disturbed the quiet of this mean hovel to insult me in my misery?"

"Because I wish to serve you," answered it of the waving brown hair.

"You cannot serve me. I will drive you out," threatened the now infuriated cobbler; "I will throw you from the window--I will kill you."

The red eyes of the Goblin danced and twinkled in their caverns; a merry, careless laugh came bubbling forth as it answered, "I will not leave your shop, nor will you throw me from the window, nor yet kill me, Nick Baba. Why, you silly fellow, the sharpest tool on your bench cannot draw blood from me, and that blackened lapstone, if driven with all the force of your great arm through my seeming substance, would leave me sitting here still, not to mock, but to try and save you."

The baffled and stricken shoemaker looked up and muttered. "Then you are not human, you are a demon. But, after all," added Nick, softening, "whether you are of this world or of some other, you are right in what you say."

The Goblin made no reply, and Nick continued, "I have sunk very low, indeed, but I cannot shake this habit; it clings to me so firmly, that I have not only forfeited the regard of my neighbors and friends, but I even loathe myself."

"Why not make an effort, Nick? You can if you will."

"Yes, yes," responded Nick, "it is easy enough to say give it up, but you have never felt this accursed appetite for strong drink; this constant craving for more; this inward sinking sensation, as if the parts of the body were about to separate, impelling the victim on in a career of sin and shame. You know nothing of all this."

"No, I confess I do not," acknowledged the Goblin, "but I think any man may resist it, if he will make the trial."

"Ah, you might as soon expect," pursued Nick, "to see the starving man cast bread from him, as to hope for the drunkard to resist liquor when the frenzy of this appetite is on him."

"But you have not tried, Nick."

"Yes, I have tried and failed, and tried again and then failed."

"Keep on trying," said velvet cap.

"A glass of liquor," resumed Baba, "is a trifling thing, and it is very easy, you think, to cast it into the gutter. But I tell you, whoever and whatever you are, that this sparkling and seductive drink is the pygmy that binds the giant to the post with a thread, and lashes him with thongs of fire.

"Try again," urged the Goblin, "I am sure you can regain all that you have lost."

"No, no," moaned Nick, "I am too low down; I am an absolute slave to rum."

"Baba," commanded the Goblin, "take up the shoe you have nearly finished, look into the sole and tell me what you see there. It is a mirror of the past."

Nick took the shoe from the floor and gazed at it intently for a few seconds. He was agitated, and his powerful breast heaved as only a strong man may be moved--he wept.

"What do you see? Speak!" said his tormentor.

"I see," responded Nick, mechanically, "a scene of seven years ago. It is the image of a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl before the altar in her wedding garments. I am there also, vowing to protect her; to stand up and battle with the world for her; to be a barrier between her and want. But I have not done it--I have been recreant to every principle of honor or manhood, God help me."

"Now, Nick," said the conjuror, persuasively, "pick up the other shoe and tell me what you see there. That is a mirror of the present."

"I see," groaned Nick, "in place of that fair-haired girl at the church, then all happiness, a prematurely old woman, faded and disheartened. Three ragged children cling to her scanty clothing. They beg of her mere bread to keep off hunger. She has none to give them--she draws them closer to her, and folding them in her emaciated arms, kisses them. She gives them all she has--a mother's love."

"What more do you see," demanded the magician: "tell it all."

"Oh! maddening sight," sobbed Nick; "I see myself staggering from the ale-house and reeling into what should be a home, where gaunt starvation stalks the floor; where the hearth is fireless, and where a starving family die upon a pallet of straw."

"You have seen it all," said the wizard. "It is bad."

"Yes, and the picture is as true as it is terrible. What demon prompted you to come here to-night with your diabolical machinery, to show me to myself so much blacker than I thought I was?"

Nick's queer little companion peered through the misty, uncertain light of the cobbler's workshop with his sharp restless red eyes, but remained quiet.

Nick, his head in a whirl of excitement, then placed his face in his open palms, and resting his elbows upon his knees, looked down at the floor covered with scraps of soiled leather. Soon these scraps commenced to move and assume weird shapes. They changed to hundreds of little red, blue and green devils, no more than a few inches high, which capered over the floor in troops. They ran up Nick's back, and hiding in the mass of black hair, twisted and knotted it until their victim winced, and then with hilarious shouts dropped to the floor and went clattering away. Returning, they played hide and seek in and out of the old worn boots and shoes which littered the floor. Then the tub wherein the shoemaker wet his leather, burst its hoops and the water ran out over the floor in streams of fire. The light was out and darkness enveloped Nick and his companion. The wind went howling by, and flung gusts of hail against the cracked and broken windows. Baba, shivering from the cold, straightened himself up and looked for his patron.

He could not see him, but he did perceive two balls of fire close to him--the red eyes were still upon him.

Nick was thankful even for this, as any companionship at that moment was better than none. The silence was at length broken by the Goblin remarking, "You must have passed a fearful ordeal during the last few moments."

"Has the time been so short?" inquired Nick; "it seemed almost an age to me. This is not the first occasion, however, that I have passed through it, and I fear the time may come when nature will break down, and then I shall either do myself an injury or harm some one else--I know it."

"I hope not," said the wizard. "Good-bye, I must go."

"Do not leave," implored the half-frightened Baba, "but remain with me until I have quite finished my work. I believe I am growing to be a coward, for I dare not be alone to-night. You are such an odd-looking manikin," continued Nick, "and have spoken so fearlessly to me, that I am beginning to like you. Do stay."

"Well," consented the Goblin, "I will remain as long as you wish; my time is of no value; beside, if I can persuade you to reform and be a sober man, it will be worth an eternity of waiting."

Nick said, "Thank you, I will try," and went on with his work.

Neither spoke for some time, when Baba suddenly exclaimed, "There, they are finished at last, and are as good a pair of shoes as man ever trod in. I suppose now that I may occupy this den for a while longer."

"Baba, my good man," solicited Nick's friend, "as we are about to part, will you give me your promise never to drink rum again? You will then be happy, I am sure."

Hesitatingly the cobbler agreed that he would not taste the accursed stuff again; but made it a condition that his new-found friend should accompany him as far as where he lived in such wretchedness.

"I have no objection," replied the Goblin, "if you will not walk too fast, for I cannot keep pace with you."

"Why, I will carry you," said the grateful Nick, and seizing the little conjuror in his arms, walked off with him easily.

When they had proceeded about half the length of the street, at the other end of which Nick lived, they came to the village dram-shop. Forgetting all that had passed, the willing shoemaker stopped and listened. He could hear the clinking sound of glasses ringing on the night air, mingled with the maudlin shouts and songs of his boon companions. The old feeling returned; he grew weak in his resolution, and, turning to the Goblin, said, "Just come in and have one drink with me--the last one." Immediately the imprudent Nick was thrown violently to the ground, the houses trembled, and their shutters rattled from their fastenings. The whole town seemed falling into ruins. Nick was startled into wakefulness, and a sweet, cheery voice called, "Nick, Nick, are you going to lie in bed all day? It is a bright Christmas morning and the children are half frantic to show you the presents Santa Claus has brought them."

"My dear, are you sure I am Nick Baba, the village shoemaker, and that you are his wife?"

"Certainly. Why ask such a question?"

"Then I have had a frightfully vivid dream," explained he to his wife, "for I seemed to have fallen back into my old habits of intemperance and to have dragged you down with me, where I had hoped never to see you again."

"Nick, dear, it was but a dream. Remember you took your last drink just three years ago; do you feel strong enough yet to resist it?"

"Yes, I do; and now that I am sure it was only the nightmare, I will hasten and join you and the children at breakfast."

* * * * *

A TRIP TO CURRITUCK.

On a Monday, in the month of November, we started on our annual trip to the marshes of North Carolina. We left Washington armed and equipped, and met, at Norfolk, four of our party who had left New York the previous week. They had been spending a few days in Princess Anne County, quail shooting, where they had labored hard with no success to speak of--the birds were few, the ground heavy, and they quit that locality, perfectly willing never to return to it. They arrived in Norfolk heartily sick of that excursion. We got the traps all together and made a start for our favorite sporting grounds; where the merest tyro may do satisfactory execution, and come in at night with a keen appetite for the next day's sport.

While waiting for the quail party to return, we strolled through the old city of Norfolk, with its quaint houses and curiously-winding streets, and wandered into the old-time burial place surrounding St. Paul's church.

This is one of the oldest places of worship in the United States; it was erected before the Revolution, and is built of imported brick, laid alternately, red and black. The figures, giving the date of erection, 1739, are rudely worked into the wall--projecting far enough to make the design perfectly plain. When the town was burnt by the British, 1775, only the walls of this sacred edifice were left standing. The enemy relieved it of a very fine marble baptismal font, and also of the communion plate, which were carried to Scotland. On the gable end of the building, still fast in the wall, may be seen a cannon ball which was fired from the British ship, Liverpool. The church stands in the customary grave yard of those days, and contains the remains of persons interred as early as 1700. Near the door stands the tomb-stone of Col. Samuel Boush, who gave the land on which this house of worship stands. Many of his relatives also rest there. Some of the stones, marking places of interment, are covered with mosses and creeping plants; the inscriptions on others are almost obliterated by the ravages of time; still others have fallen or been broken, and now lean in every direction over the last earthly resting-place of those who thought to tell coming generations who reposed beneath. This is one of the weaknesses of mankind, but it is vain.

Let them pile up costly and lofty monuments--reaching heavenward; let the artist cut their names and virtues deep into the enduring granite; let the mechanic, with all his skill, set the foundations, yet the lettering will perish and the stone will crumble. Parasitic plants will fasten upon them; beneath their destroying grasp names and dates will disappear, and generations yet to come will be unable to tell whether they look upon the grave of a prince or upon that of a peddler--the narrow house of him who retired to the straw pallet of poverty, will not then be known from that of him who reclined upon the silken couch of affluence--

"Death levels all ranks, And lays the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre."

"On it, time his mark has hung; On it, hostile bells have rung; On it, green old moss has clung; On it, winds their dirge have sung; Let us still adore thy walls, Sacred temple, Old St. Paul's."

Our party assemble, and we find the little steamer Cygnet at her wharf, looking as neat and trim as the graceful bird after which she is named. Newly painted, she was about to start on the first trip of the season.

Half-past six was the hour of departure, but a heavy wet fog hung over this city by the sea, and we were obliged to await its disappearance. At length the sun struggled through the clouds, and the mist cleared rapidly away. We hauled out and steamed slowly up the Elizabeth River, then past the Navy Yard, with its tall smoking chimneys, its long rows of yellow buildings, its leaning derricks, its neat and trim little square, domineered over by a lordly flag-staff, whose base is guarded by cannon captured from the enemies of the Republic, and its dismantled ships--relics of past naval architecture. As we pass, the shrill cry of the boat-swain's whistle is heard on ship-board, piping all hands to breakfast, mingled with the music of the busy clinking hammers forging chains and anchors. A few miles above this naval station human habitations cease, scarcely a living thing greets the eye--we are in almost entire solitude.

The eagle is seen grandly floating on the air, or poised ready to strike a defenceless animal or crippled bird. The buzzard, of loathsome aspect, perched upon a blasted tree, waits for his gorged appetite to sharpen, that he may descend and fatten upon some putrid carcase. The river, narrow and tortuous, rolls its black waters between low and marshy banks, flat, and running back to thin growths of stunted pines and other badly nourished trees. As we go on, the senses are now and then refreshed by the sight of a clump of pines, which have persisted in growing tall and straight, with tufts of bright green foliage waving gracefully in the wind. For many miles this is about the description of country we pass through.

At Great Bridge we enter the locks of the Chesapeake and Albemarle Canal. A battle was fought here in 1775 and the British defeated. Here are the Company's houses, well constructed and neatly painted--a credit to the corporation as well as to the guiding spirit. The substantial locks and well kept dwellings and offices, like the gilded signs over the doors of the haunts of vice, are pleasant to look upon, but they do not tell of that which is within. If the passage up the river is dismal, what shall we say of the journey through this canal. It is a dreary sameness cut right through a great swamp, merely wide enough to admit the passage of two vessels, with only a dull damp settlement here and there--a country store and the inevitable porch, with its squad of frowsy, unkempt idlers.

The country store and post-office is the same everywhere: it belongs to every clime and nationality--it is a human device and speaks an universal language. It is generally overflowing with all sorts of commodities, from a hand-saw to a toothpick--is well stocked with calico and molasses, rum and candles, straw hats and sugar, bacon and coal oil, and gun-powder and beeswax. It is the rallying point for all the mischief-making gossips to collect, for the settlement of the affairs of the nation, and, failing in that, to set the neighbors by the ears.

Leaving the canal, we go out into another river: a bright spot breaks upon us--a lumber station with new, fresh-looking piles of sawed lumber. The banks of this stream are just as low, marshy and uninteresting as the one we have passed through, and more crooked. There are perhaps a few more trees--some oaks, and we observed a tree with its crimson and yellow autumn foliage, backed by a clump of pines, looking beautiful against the dark green, like sunlight illumining a gloomy spot.