Part 7

Still the Minister struggled, and still the goose resisted. Aunt Nabby grew nervous, and the more the Minister struggled, the more the goose would not come. I saw my Aunt’s eye dilating, her hand moved ugly, and then pounce, just when the Minister thought he had conquered the enemy, my Aunt drove the round steel through the onions into the eye of the skewer as she thought, and dragging forth the tailor’s goose, held it at arm’s length before the company. The Squire had just raised the pig upon his fork, when seeing my Aunt’s discovery, he dropped it and the dish was knocked all to smash. The sexton had drawn his beans to the edge of the table, another pull as he saw the goose, and over it went. My Aunt dropped the cause of all this evil, and there went another plate. The company dined elsewhere, and the next Sunday the Minister declined preachin’, on account of a domestic misfortin. My Aunt Nabby died soon arter, and the sexton buried her, observing as he did so, that she departed, the poor critter, in consequence of an iron goose, and broken crockery!

IX. DECLINE AND FALL OF THE CITY OF DOGTOWN.

Dogtown is a beautiful place, in the interior of this State. There is plenty of land around it, so that nothing can hinder it from growing in every direction, and thus becoming a great city. In fact, Dogtown has already a one-story church, part of a school-house, and an elegant pound. Nobody can see Dogtown without being reminded of that celebrated town in France, named Grandville, of which we have the following description:

Grandville, grand vilain, Une église et un moulin Voilà Grandville tout à plein.

Which we may translate thus:

Grandville, great Grandville, Has a meeting-house and mill. Nothing else in all Grandville.

Dogtown is finely and advantageously situated. It stands on Eel River, a stream of water which runs into another stream, and that into a third, which runs into Connecticut River, which running into Long Island Sound, finally reaches the Atlantic. Who does not see, therefore, that Dogtown may become a great sea-port?

The territory in the neighbourhood of Dogtown is remarkable for its fertility, bating that part of it which is covered with rocks, the salt meadow, the pine woods, the clay-ponds, and the swamps. It is past a doubt, therefore, that the territory, if well cleared, drained, peopled, and cultivated, would become a perfect garden, abounding with the richest productions of nature, and affording a mine of wealth to the country. As to the facilities of communication with the great Atlantic cities and commercial marts, they are admirable.

Dogtown has Boston on one side, and New York on the other: Montreal and Quebec are in the north, while in the east is the rich and thriving State of Maine, with Bangor and Owl’s Head to boot. Rail-roads can be made to connect Dogtown with all these places, and they will certainly form such a connection, _when they are built_. That the place will be a great focus of trade, when this is done, nobody, I think, will deny.

The neighbourhood of Dogtown has all the advantages that can be desired in a young country. There will be as many large towns within thirty miles of the place, as people choose to build. The population cannot fail to increase rapidly for a man can get married for seventy-five cents, town clerk’s fees included. The attraction for settlers must, therefore, be considered very great.

The Dogtowners are remarkably industrious, for they get a living, although constantly grumbling of hard times. They are moreover ingenious, for they manufacture axe-handles, wooden bowls, birch brooms, and white oak cheese, and invent mousetraps and washing machines. Last of all, the inhabitants of Dogtown are literary and intellectual; for they talk a great deal of the march of improvement, and the minister and the lawyer take the “Penny Magazine” between them.

All these attractions together, form a combination truly wonderful; but the reader will be astonished when I inform him, that the inhabitants of this favoured spot lived a great many years without the smallest suspicion of what I have been describing. They thought very little of themselves, or of the town they lived in, and continued to vegetate from year to year without imagining they were better off than other folks. In fact, the world might have continued to this day in utter ignorance that Dogtown was such a wonderful place, but for an accident—an accident I call it—for the Dogtowners having lived for so many years without opening their eyes, the fact that they _did_ open them of a sudden, on a certain day, in the year of grace 1834, must be considered purely accidental. Some people are inclined to ascribe it to the approach of the comet, which had a powerful influence in opening people’s eyes, to say nothing of its effect in driving them stark mad. But that is neither here nor there. The people of Dogtown opened their eyes, and _saw_; that was enough: they saw in an instant their immense advantages, and were astonished that they never had seen them before. They saw their advantages, I say, and were determined to turn them to account.

Straightway Dogtown was all alive: everybody was confident that Dogtown must become a great place; and as everybody told everybody else so, there was no doubt about the matter. Every man went to buying land who could pay for it; and those who could not pay, bought upon credit, sure of selling it at ten times the cost within the year. Nothing was talked of but the immense advantages of the place. The riches of Dogtown were indeed immense; and how they could have been overlooked so long, was a mystery that no one could understand. The land within the limits of the town was computed at seven hundred and twenty million square feet, which, at only one cent per square foot, which is cheap enough in all conscience, would amount to seven million two hundred thousand dollars. What a sum! But this was not all. Half of this land was covered with trees, at the rate of one tree to every five feet square, or quadrangle of twenty-five feet: this gave a computation of ten million four hundred thousand trees; and as each tree, on an average, contained seventy-five cubic feet of timber, it followed that there was actually within the town seven hundred and eighty million feet of timber, worth, on the lowest calculation, five cents per foot, which would amount to thirty-nine million dollars. This, added to the value of the land, as above, made a grand total of _forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars_!

The mention of these sums almost drove the good people of Dogtown distracted with joy; they could hardly believe their eyes or ears, but there it was in black and white; figures could not lie. They were amazed to think of their own stupidity and that of their ancestors in letting forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars lie totally idle and unproductive; but they were determined not to allow their wealth to be neglected any longer. A grand scheme of speculation and improvement was started, and all rushed headlong into it. Every man in Dogtown was now rich, or, what was the same thing, was sure of being so before long. Immense tracts were laid out in building lots, and speculators flocked in from all quarters; from Catsville and Weazletown and Buzzardsborough, and Ganderfield and Crow Corner and Upper Bugbury and East Punkinton, and Black Swamp and the Bottomless Bogs. Such a busy time as the Dogtowners had of it! Nothing was talked of but buying land, building houses, laying out roads, streets, squares, avenues, railroads, canals, &c. &c. &c. People left off ploughing and hoeing, because agriculture was too slow a method of making money; for who would think of raising turnips to sell, at twenty cents a bushel, when he could make a hundred times the profit by speculating in land?

First of all, it was determined that Dogtown should be a city. The want of population was found to be a serious obstacle here; the constitution of the state requires ten or twelve thousand inhabitants for a city; and as Dogtown, including the suburbs of Puppyville and Skunk’s Misery, contained a population of only six hundred and thirty-one, it was thought there might be some difficulty in getting a charter without anticipating the returns of the next census. However, a city it must be, some time or other, in this all were agreed, and it might as well have the name first as last, so they concluded to _call_ it a city. It is astonishing what a spirit of enterprise these prospects infused into the people of Dogtown. The school-house door was painted green: uncle Joe Stubbins mended the top of his chimney; and it was voted in town-meeting to purchase three wheel-barrows for the public use;—and all in consequence of these projected improvements. Nay, so widely did their views of business expand, that Aminidab Figgins, the grocer, determined to give up retailing, and declared he wouldn’t split crackers nor cut candles any longer.

Such was the thriving condition of the City of Dogtown when I left the place in the autumn of that year. I continued to hear of it through the medium of the Dogtown Daily Advertiser, a newspaper established there by an enterprising printer from Connecticut at the first dawning of the commercial prosperity of the city. It appeared to go ahead rapidly. The newspaper spoke of the Exchange, the Town Hall, the Bank, the New Post Office, the Railroad, Canal, &c. House lots were advertised in Washington Square, Merchants Row, State Street, Market Street, &c. Contracts were proposed for building churches, manufactories, &c. This was Dogtown in all its glory.

Last August I determined to make a visit to this celebrated place, in order to feast my eyes with the splendour of a city that had sprung up as it were by enchantment. When I reached the foot of Blueberry Hill, which overlooks the whole place, I walked eagerly to the top, in order to catch a view, at a single glance, of the city in all its magnificence. To my utter astonishment, instead of spires and domes, I saw nothing but Deacon Stumpy’s old mansion, with five other ragged and dingy-looking edifices, which stood exactly where I had always known them. I entered the city through State Street, but discovered nothing new except a small house without a chimney. Not a living thing was to be seen in Washington Square, but three geese, who were lazily picking a mouthful of grass among the mud-puddles. I inquired for the Exchange, and found it in use by the Deacon as a cow-pen. The new church, however, I was told had actually proceeded as far as the raising of the timbers; but it was subsequently sold by auction to pay for digging the cellar.

I had a cheque upon the Dogtown Bank for three dollars, and wishing to draw the money, I was directed to No. 19, Tremont Street. This turned out to be the identical building formerly occupied by old Kit Cobble, the shoemaker. It was bank hours, but the bank was shut, and there was not a soul to be seen. Just as I was going away, I spied a tin horn by the door, with a paper hanging over it, on which was written, “Persons having business at the bank, are requested to blow the horn.” I put the horn to my lips and blew a blast both long and loud. After waiting about ten minutes, I spied Isaac Thumper coming slowly down the road: he proved to be cashier of the Dogtown Bank, and after some difficulty I convinced him of the safety of cashing the cheque.

Upon inquiring of Isaac what use had been made of the forty-six millions two hundred thousand dollars, he informed me that most of it remained invested in notes of hand. Money was scarce, and was expected to continue so until the onion crop had been got in. It was easy to see that the city had sadly declined from its meridian splendour. In fact, Dogtown has suffered a complete downfall, for hardly anybody now speaks of it as a city. They have as much land as ever, and so long as it continued to be valued at their own price, they were as rich as Jews; but, unfortunately, it fell in value the moment they expected the purchasers to pay for it. The Dogtowners are poor enough at present, but they are not the first, and probably will not be the last people who have ruined themselves by building a city on speculation.

X. THE COON-HUNT; OR, A FENCY COUNTRY.

’Tis really astonishin’ what a monstrous sight of mischief there is in a pint of rum! If one of ’em was to be submitted to an analization, as the doctors call it, it would be found to contain all manner of devilment that ever entered the hed of man, from cussin’ and stealin’, up to murder and whippin’ his own mother, and nonsense enuff to turn all the men in the world out of their senses. If a man’s got any badness in him, it’ll bring it out, jest as sassafras-tea does the measles, and if he’s a good-for-nothin’ sort of a feller, without no bad traits in pertikeler, it’ll bring out all his greenness. It affects different people in different ways—it makes some men monstrous brave and full of fight, and some it makes cowards; some it makes rich and happy, and some poor and miserable; and it has a different effect on different people’s eyes—some it makes see double, and some it makes so blind that they can’t tell themselves from a side of bacon. One of the worst cases of rum-foolery that I’ve heard of for a long time, tuk place in Pineville last fall.

Bill Sweeney and Tom Culpepper is the two greatest old coveys in our settlement for ’coon-huntin’. The fact is, they don’t do much of anything else, and when _they_ can’t ketch nothin’ you may depend ’coons is scarce. Well, one night they had everything reddy for a regular hunt, but owin’ to some extra good fortin’, Tom had got a pocket-pistol, as he called it, of reglar old Jimmakey, to keep off the rumatics. After takin’ a good startin’ horn, they went out on their hunt, with their lite-wood torch a-blazin’, and the dogs a-barkin’ and yelpin’ like forty thousand. Ev’ry now and then stoppin’ to wait for the dogs, they would drink one another’s helth, till they begun to feel very comfortable, and chatted away ’bout one thing and another, without mindin’ much which way they was gwine. Bimeby they cum to a fence. Well, over they got, ’thout much difficulty.

“Who’s fence is this?” ses Bill.

“’Taint no matter,” ses Tom, “let’s take suthin’ to drink.”

After takin’ a drink they went on, wonderin’ what on yearth had cum of the dogs. Next thing they cum to was a terrible muddy branch. After pullin’ through the briers and gettin’ on tother side, they tuck another drink, and after gwine a little ways they cum to another branch, and a little further they cum to another fence—a monstrous high one this time.

“Whar upon yearth is we got to, Culpepper?” ses Bill, “I never seed sich a heap of branches and fences in these parts.”

“Why,” ses Tom, “it’s all old Sturlin’s doins—you know he’s always bildin’ fences and making infernal improvements, as he calls ’em. But never mind, we’s through them now.”

“Guess we is,” ses Bill; “here’s the all-firedest tall fence yet.”

Shure enuff, thar they was right agin another fence. By this time, they begun to be considerable tired and limber in the gints, and it was sich a terrible high fence!—Tom drapped the last piece of the torch, and thar they was in the dark.

“Now you is done it,” ses Bill.

Tom know’d he had, but he thought it was no use to grieve over spilled milk, so ses he, “Never mind, old hoss, cum a-head, and I’ll take you out,” and the next minit kerslash he went into the water.

Bill hung on to the fence with both hands, like he thought it was slewin’ round to throw him off.

“Hellow, Tom!” ses he, “whar in the world is you got to?”

“Here I is,” ses Tom, spoutin’ the water out of his mouth, and coffin’ like he’d swallowed something. “Look out, thar’s another branch here.”

“Name o’ sense, whar is we?” ses Bill. “If this isn’t a fency country, dad fetch my buttons.”

“Yes, and a branchy one, too!” ses Tom; “and the highest, and deepest, and thickest that I ever seed in my born days.”

“Which way is you?” ses Bill.

“Here, rite over the branch.”

The next minit in Bill went, up to his middle in the branch.

“Cum a-head,” ses Tom, “let’s go home.”

“Cum thunder! in such a place as this, whar a man hain’t more’n got his cote tail unhitched from a fence, fore he’s over his head and ears in the water.”

After gettin’ out and feelin’ about in the dark a little, they got together agin. After takin’ another drink, they sot out for home, denouncin’ the fences and the branches, and helpin’ one another up now and then; but they hadn’t got more’n twenty yards fore they brung up all standin’ in the middle of another branch. After gettin’ thro’ the branch and gwine about ten steps, they was brung to a halt by another fence.

“Dad blame my pictur,” ses Bill, “if I don’t think we is bewitched. Who upon yearth would bild fences all over creation this way?”

It was but a ower’s job to get over this one; but after they got on the top, they found the ground on tother side ’thout much trouble. This time the bottle was broke, and they come monstrous near having a fight about the catastrophy. But it was a very good thing, it was; for, after crossin’ two or three more branches, and climbin’ as many more fences, it got to be daylight, and they found out that they _had been climbin’ the same fence all night_, not more’n a hundred yards from whar they first cum to it.

Bill Sweeney ses he can’t account for it no other way but that the licker sort o’ turned their heads; and he says he does really believe, if it hadn’t gin out, they’d been climbin’ the same fence, and wadin’ the same branch, till yet. Bill promised his wife to jine the Temperance Society, if she won’t never say no more ’bout that coon-hunt.

XI. A RIDE WITH OLD KIT KUNCKER.

Our old friend, Kit Kuncker, as he put us to bed on the night of a big frolic at his house, exacted a promise that we would visit him again, shortly thereafter; promising us, on his part, that he would ride all over the settlement with us; and more especially, that he would go with us to the house of Jim Kent, whose sister, Beck, was so ugly “that the flies wouldn’t light on her face,” and about whose going to mill, he assured me, there was a very pleasant story to be told.

Poor old Kit! But the other day we saw him—and how altered by the lapse of a few years! His head has become white, his figure more bent, and his laughing old face—merry still!—was furrowed with an hundred additional wrinkles. His eye, too, was dull—had lost the twinkle that used so mischievously to light up his countenance. And then, too, he walked with a staff; and when he went to mount “Fiddler Bill,” he said, “Help me, Squire,” instead of vaulting into the saddle, as of yore! “Thank you, Squire. God bless your Union heart—old Hickory and the Union for ever! I’m gittin’ old now, Squire, and can’t git about, like I used to”—the old man sighed—“Fiddler Bill is old, too—notice how gray his face is—we’re all gittin’ old—yer Aunt Hetty as well’s the rest; and, God bless yer soul, Squire,” (here the old man warmed into animation), “_she’s uglier than ever—uglier than the devil_—he! he! ya! ya! It’s wuth while coming, jist to take a look at her! With that old long bonnet on”—here the old fellow bent down on his horse’s neck, in a paroxysm of laughter—“he! he! hea! ya! ya! and her mouth skrootched up, ya! ya! the go-to-meetin’ way; I’ll be cust, ef she ain’t so bad to look at, it’s enuff to fotch sickness in the family! But,” he added, wiping the tears from his eyes, “Squire, I’m old now, yer Aunt Hetty’s old, and Fiddler Bill is old—all old! old! old! Ah, me!”

But we are digressing. It was of our Ride with old Kit, in 1840, that we began to write—and not of his chattering in 1849.

We went to old Kit’s house on the day appointed, at a very early hour, and found the old fellow waiting for us, with “Fiddler Bill” hitched at the gate.

“You can’t see yer Aunt Hetty, Squire,” he said, “for she’s laid up with a pain in her jaw. It’s swelled mighty bad, enny how, and makes her look so much better, ’twouldn’t be no curiosity to see her now—so we may as well ride. Another time when she’s at herself—and her ‘ugly’ out in _full bloom_, I’ll show her to you—he! he! yah! That bonnet o’ hern, too, hit’s some. ’Tain’t like nothin’ ever growed, except the baskets the Injin wimmin makes to tote their young ones in!” And the old rascal laughed at his wife and her bonnet, until the woods rang again.

Walking our horses leisurely along the road leading down the creek to the river, Uncle Kit, tapping his steed lightly across the neck with his switch, began, as he had promised, to tell us how he obtained him.

“You see, Squire, me and my Jim was a haulin’ a load of whiskey up from Wetumpky, in the spring of ’36, and we had a mighty dull old horse under the saddle. The like of him never was on the yeth for hard trottin’. He was _powerful_ hard. You’ve set and watched a saw-mill gate jerk up and down, havn’t you—up and down, up and down, like it was goin’ into fits? Well, _that was his motion adzactly_. Ses Jim, one day, ‘daddy I’m gwine to swop ‘old Hoss’ off, fust chance I git.’ Ses I, ‘Nobody’s fool enough to give you anything better’n an old cow for him.’ Ses he, ‘You’ll see.’ Well ’twarn’t long afore we ketcht up with a traveller—it was in the piney woods ’twixt Oakfuskee and Dudleyville—walkin’ and leadin’ his horse, which was Fiddler Bill. I’ll tell you, Squire,”—old Kit raised his voice and gesticulated vehemently—“_he was a horse then_—none o’ your little grays—as Homer Hinds ses—but a reg’lar horse, with head and legs like a deer, a body like a barrel, and put up like a jack-screw. He wos jist risin’ four year old, fat, _and hilt his head like the Queen of Sheby_!

“So Jim bantered the stranger purty quick for a swap—but fust we found out he was walkin’ bekase he was afeard of his horse. He was a Norrud raised man and talked mighty proper—he said his horse was ‘very rested’—which you might see he had been layin’ by corn and fodder for some time—and had throwed him and disculpated his shoulder a’most! Then he axed us about the Injuns—this was jist afore the infernal devils began their devilment, and the thing had leaked out and was talked of, all over the country—and Jim seein’ he was _afeared of them_ too, let on like they was mighty thick and hostile in them woods.

“‘Stranger,’ says he, ‘what would you do ef you was to see a red-skin peepin’ from behind that big pine yonder—and you afeared o’ your horse?’

“‘God only knows,’ ses the Yanky.

“‘Well now I’ll tell you,’ ses Jim, ‘_thar’s_ a crittur under that saddle’—p’intin’ to ‘old Hoss’—‘that could take you outen the way like goose-grease! How’ll you trade?’

“The Yanky let on like he tho’t his horse was the most vallyble, but Jim out-talked him to deth. He praised old one, ’twell I had to go behind the wagin and laugh. Bimeby ses he, ‘ain’t that a _Injun holler_?’ and with that the stranger looked white, and axed Jim how _he’d_ trade?

“‘You must give me ten dollars to boot,’ ses Jim.

“‘But my horse is the most vallyble,’ ses the Yanky.

“‘He ain’t half-broke,’ ses Jim, ‘and I’d be most afeard to ride him—let’s see!’