LETTER XI.

Pineville, Ga., April 10th, 1844. Dear Sir,

I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout ritin’ a letter one of these days, but the fact is, sense last Febuary, I hain’t had much time for nothing. The baby’s been cross as the mischief, most all the time sense it had the hives, and Mary, she’s beep ailin’ a good deal, ever sense she got that terrible scare last month—and then you know this time of year we planters is all as bissy as we can be, fixin’ for the crap.

Nothin’ very uncommon hain’t took place down here sense I rit my last letter to you, only t’other day a catasterfy happened in our family that come monstrous nigh puttin’ a eend to the whole generation of us. I never was so near skeered out of my senses afore in all my born days, and I don’t b’lieve old Miss Stallins ever will git over it, if she was to live a thousand years. But I’ll tell you all about it.

Last Monday mornin’ all of us got up well and harty as could be, and I sot in our room with Mary, and played with the baby till breckfust time, little thinkin’ what was gwine to happen so soon. The little feller was jumpin’ and crowin’ so I couldn’t hardly hold him in my arms, and spreadin’ his little mouth, and laughin’ jest like he know’d everything we sed to him.

Bimeby, Ant Prissy cum to tell us breckfust was reddy, and we all went into t’other room to eat, ’cept sister Kesiah, who sed she would stay and take care of little Henry Clay, till we was done. Mary’s so careful she won’t trust the baby with none of the niggers a single minit, and she’s always dredful oneasy when Kesiah’s got it, she’s so wild and so careless.

Well we sot down to breckfust, and Kesiah, she scampered up stairs to her room with the baby, jumpin’ it up, and kissin’ it, and talkin’ to it as hard as she could.

“Now, sis, do be careful of my precious little darlin’,” ses Mary, loud as she could to her, when she was gwine up stairs.

“Oh, eat your breckfust, child, and don’t be so tarrified ’bout the baby,” ses old Miss Stallins—“you don’t ’low yerself a minit’s peace when it’s out of yer sight.”

“That’s a fact,” ses sister Carline, “she won’t let nobody do anything for little Henry but herself. I know I wouldn’t be so crazy ’bout no child of mine.”

“Well, but you know sister Kiz is so careless—I’m always afraid she’ll let it swaller something, or git a fall some way,” ses Mary.

“Tut, tut,” ses the old woman, “ther ain’t no sense in bein’ all the time scared to deth ’bout nothing. People’s got enuff to do in this world to bear ther trouble when it comes, ’thout studdyin’ it up all the time. Take some of them good hot corn muffins,” ses she, “they’s mighty nice.”

We was all eatin’ along—the old woman was talkin’ ’bout her garden and the frost, how it had nipped her Inglish peas, and I was jest raisin my coffee cup to my mouth, when I heard Kesiah scream out:

“Oh, my Lord! the baby! the baby!” and kerslash! it cum rite down stairs on to the floor.

Lightnin’ couldn’t knocked me off my seat quicker! Down went the coffee, and over went the table and all the vittles. Mary screamed, and old Miss Stallins fainted rite away in her cheer. I was so blind I couldn’t hardly see, but I never breathed a breth ’til I grabbed it up in my arms and run round the house two or three times, ’fore I had the hart to look at the poor little thing, to see if it was ded.

By this time the galls was holt of my coat tail, hollerin’ “April Fool! April Fool!” as hard as they could, and when I cum to look, I had nothing in my arms but a bundle of rags with little Henry Clay’s clothes on. I shuck all over like I had the ager, and felt a monstrous sight more like cussin’ than laughin’.

“April Fool, dingnation!” ses I: “fun’s fun; but I’m dad blamed if ther’s any fun in any sich doin’s,” and I was jest gwine to blow out a little, when I heard Mary screamin’ for me to cum to her mother.

When we got in the dinin’ room, thar the old woman was, keeled over in her cheer, with her eyes sot in her hed and a corn muffin stickin’ in her mouth. Mary was takin’ on at a terrible rate, and all she could do was jest to clapp her hands and holler.

“Oh, mother’s dyin’! mother’s dyin’! whar’s the baby? Oh, my poor mother! Oh, my darlin’ baby!”

I tuck Mary and splained it all to her and tried to quiet the poor gall, and the galls got at the old woman; but it tuck all sorts of rubbin’, and ever so much assafedity, and campfire and hartshorn, and burnt hen’s feathers to bring her too; and then she wouldn’t stay brung too more’n a minit ’fore she’d keel over agin, and I do b’lieve if they hadn’t brung little Henry Clay to her, so she could see him and feel him, and hear him squall, she never would got her senses agin. She aint more’n half at herself yit. All the gals kin do they can’t make her understand the April Fool bisiness, and she won’t let nobody else but herself nuss the baby ever sense.

As soon as I had time to think a little, I was so monstrous glad it wasn’t no worse, that I couldn’t stay mad with the galls. But I tell you what, I was terrible rathy for a few minits. I don’t b’lieve in this April foolin’. Last year the galls deviled me almost to deth with ther bominable nonsense, sowin’ up the legs of my trowsers, punchin’ holes in the water gourd, so I wet my shirt busom all over when I went to drink, and heatin’ the handle of the tongs, and cuttin’ the cowhide bottoms of the cheers loose, so I’d fall through ’em when I went to set down, and all sich devilment. I know the Bible ses there’s a time for all things; but I think the least a body has to do with fool bisiness at any time the better for ’em. I’m monstrous tired of sich doin’s myself, and if I didn’t think the galls had got ther fill of April foolin’ this time, I’d try to git a almynack next year what didn’t have no fust day of April in it.

No more from your frend ’til deth, Jos. Jones.

XXVI. DOWN-EAST CURIOSITY.[16]

On my voyage up the North River, I was seated in the cabin reading a newspaper, when I observed an odd-looking individual reading over my shoulder. I looked up in his face, when the fellow, with his hands in his pocket, and not in the least disconcerted at being caught in so impertinent and unmannerly an act, exclaimed:

“Any news in particular?”

“No, Sir; will you accept the paper?”

“Oh no! can’t; ain’t got time. It’s the first time I’ve been up this river, and I want to be looking reound. How can they take a fellow up this river for a dollar and found. They can’t dew it. It’s a take-in.”

“How is that?”

“Why they charge one dollar to take you in, and when you git up to Albany, you’ve got to pay another dollar to git eout. Got this place all fixed up so. Sophy’s all reound tew. I never use Sophy’s myself, but once courted a gal by that name, and it looks a kind o’ natural to see Sophy’s reound; and them stuffed-bottom chairs eout there. I thought I’d set deown on ’em; by thunder, I jumped up three feet. Oh, I’ll be darned if I didn’t think I was sitting down on somebody’s baby. You see I chaw tobacco; grandfather chawed, and father he chawed, and mother, she—eh—no, she didn’t she snuffed, so you see I have to keep running up to expectorate—as our doctor says, overboard. I expect I shall have to go again in about a minute.”

“You need not take that trouble, Sir,” said I “here are spittoons.”

“Spittoons! Oh yes, I know’d what them was for, but they’ve got ’em brightened up so, I didn’t like to nasty ’em. I went to the the-ater to see you t’other night. Didn’t you see me? I sot right in front of you.”

“No, Sir, I did not.”

“Wal, I don’t suppose you could; there was a hull lot of fellers there. I got jammed in. I had on a striped vest, the fronts were new, but the backs being made of cotton, sometimes will give eout. By golly, I got tew laughing, so away went the back, slitted right up to the collar. I was a little the tornest critter you ever did see.”

“I am very sorry for your misfortune,” I remarked.

“Oh, you needn’t fret abeout it, stranger. I shouldn’t a wore it much more nor three weeks longer, any how. You see I never wear my best clothes to sich places, ’cause it kind a rips them eout a leetle. I had a bet abeout you. Some feller said you was born on Long Island. I told him you wasn’t, you was born down-east.”

“You were right, Sir, I was born in one of the Eastern States.”

“There, I know’d you was, ’cause I know’d you couldn’t get along so well as you did, if you wasn’t born deown that way somewhere. Have you been in Massachusetts?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

“Been in the State of Maine?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Been in New Hampshire?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ah! Maybe you was born there? They’ve got a good many Hills.”

“No, Sir, I was not.”

“Wal, you might have been. Ever been in Vermont?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You know old Zeke Hill?”

“No, Sir.”

“Nor I nuther, but I’ve hearn tell there was such a feller, didn’t know but you might have known him tew.”

“Have you ever been in Connecticut?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ever been in Rhode Island? that little bit of a thing in there.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Have you ever been in Boston?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Having thus obtained nothing very satisfactory from me, in relation to my birth-place, he commenced asking me if I had been to the Capital of this State, and then the other, until he had got through the whole of them; he then, to my astonishment, commenced with the country towns, doubtless with the hope of hitting at last upon the one in which I was born. Getting a little out of patience, I said:

“I presume, Sir, you wish to ascertain where I was born?”

“Wal, yes, I shouldn’t mind knowing, if you have no objection to tell, and if you had told me before, you would have saved me a darned sight of trouble.”

“Well,” I said, “I was born in Boston, in the year 1809, on the 8th day of October, at six o’clock in the morning.”

“At six o’clock, eh?”

“At six o’clock precisely, down in Water Street.”

“Dew tell. But, stranger, _dew you remember the number of the house?_”

[16] By G. H. Hill.

XXVII. A SAGE CONVERSATION.

I love the aged matrons of our land. As a class, they are the most pious, the most benevolent, the most useful, and the most harmless of the human family. Their life is a life of good offices. At home, they are patterns of industry, care, economy, and hospitality; abroad, they are ministers of comfort, peace, and consolation. Where affliction is, there are they, to mitigate its pangs; where sorrow is, there are they to assuage its pains. Nor night, nor day, nor summer’s heat, nor winter’s cold, nor angry elements, can deter them from scenes of suffering and distress. They are the first at the fevered couch, and the last to leave it. They hold the first and last cup to the parched lip. They bind the aching head, close the dying eye, and linger in the death-stricken habitation, to pour the last drop of consolation into the afflicted bosoms of the bereaved. I cannot, therefore, ridicule them myself, nor bear to hear them ridiculed in my presence. And yet, I am often amused at their conversations; and have amused _them_ with a rehearsal of their own conversations, taken down by me when they little dreamed that I was listening to them. Perhaps my reverence for their character, conspiring with a native propensity to extract amusement from all that passes under my observation, has accustomed me to pay a uniformly strict attention to all they say in my presence.

This much in extraordinary courtesy to those who cannot distinguish between a simple narrative of an amusing interview, and ridicule of the parties to it. Indeed I do not know that the conversation which I am about to record, will be considered amusing by any of my readers. Certainly the amusement of the readers of my own times is not the leading object of it, or of any of the “Georgia Scenes;” forlorn as may be the hope, that their main object will ever be answered.

My intention is merely to detail a conversation between three ladies, which I heard many years since; confining myself to only so much of it, as sprung from the ladies’ own thoughts, unawakened by the suggestions of others.

I was travelling with my old friend, Ned Brace, when we stopped at the dusk of the evening at a house on the road-side, for the night. Here we found three nice, tidy, aged matrons, the youngest of whom could not have been under sixty; one of them of course was the lady of the house, whose husband, old as he was, had gone from home upon a land-exploring expedition. She received us hospitably, had our horses well attended to, and soon prepared for us a comfortable supper.

While these things were doing, Ned and I engaged the other two in conversation; in the course of which, Ned deported himself with becoming seriousness. The kind lady of the house occasionally joined us, and became permanently one of the party, from the time the first dish was placed on the table.

At the usual hour we were summoned to supper; after which the conversation turned upon marriages, happy and unhappy, strange, unequal, runaways, &c. Ned rose at last, and asked the landlady where we should sleep. She pointed to an open shed-room adjoining the room in which we were sitting, and separated from it by a log partition, between the spaces of which might be seen all that passed in the dining-room; and so close to the fire-place of this apartment, that a loud whisper might be easily heard from one to the other.

I could not resist the temptation of casting an eye through the cracks of the partition to see the effect of Ned’s wonderful stories upon the kind ladies. Mrs. Barney (it is time to give their names) was sitting in a thoughtful posture; her left hand supporting her chin, and her knee supporting her left elbow. Her countenance was that of one who suffers from a slight tooth-ache.

Mrs. Shad leaned forward, resting her fore-arm on her knees, and looking into the fire as if she saw _groups of children_ playing in it. Mrs. Reed, the landlady, who was the fattest of the three, was thinking and laughing alternately at short intervals. From my bed it required but a slight change of position to see any one of the group at pleasure.

I was no sooner composed on my pillow, than the old ladies drew their chairs close together, and began the following colloquy in a low undertone, which rose as it progressed:

_Mrs. Barney._ Didn’t that man say them was two men that got married to one another?

_Mrs. Shad._ It seemed to me so.

_Mrs. Reed._ Why to be sure he did.—I know he said so; for he said what their names was.

_Mrs. B._ Well, in the name o’ sense, what did the man mean?

_Mrs. R._ Why, bless your heart and soul, honey! that’s what I’ve been thinkin’ about. It seems mighty curious to me some how or other. I can’t study it out, nohow.

_Mrs. S._ The man must be jokin’, certainly.

_Mrs. R._ No, he wasn’t jokin’; for I looked at him, and he was just as much in yearnest as anybody I ever _seed_; and besides, no _Christian_ man would tell such a story in that solemn way.

_Mrs. S._ But la’ messy! Mis’ Reed, it can’t be so. It doesn’t stand to reason, don’t you know it don’t?

_Mrs. R._ Well, I wouldn’t think so; but it’s hard for me, somehow, to dispute a _Christian_ man’s word.

_Mrs. B._ I’ve been thinking the thing all over in my mind, and I reckon—now I don’t say it is so, for I don’t know nothing at all about it—but I reckon that one o’ them men was a woman dress’d in men’s clothes; for I’ve often hearn o’ women doin’ them things, and following their True-love to the wars, and bein’ a watin’-boy to ’em and all sich.

The ladies here took leave of Ned’s marvellous story, drew themselves closely round the fire, lighted their pipes, and proceeded as follows:

_Mrs. B._ Jist before me and my old man was married, there was a gal name Nancy Mountcastle (_puff—puff_), and she was a mighty likely gal—(_puff_), I know’d her mighty well—she dressed herself up in men’s clothes—(_puff, puff_), and followed Jemmy Darden from P’ankatank, in _King and Queen_—(_puff_), clean up to _Loudon_.

_Mrs. S._ (_puff, puff, puff, puff, puff._) And did he marry her?

_Mrs. B._ (_sighing deeply._) No: Jemmy didn’t marry her—pity he hadn’t, poor thing.

_Mrs. R._ Well, I know’d a gal on Tar River, done the same thing—(_puff, puff, puff_.) She followed Moses Rusher ’way down somewhere in the South State—(_puff, puff_.)

_Mrs. S._ (_puff, puff, puff, puff._) And what did he do?

_Mrs. R._ Ah—(_puff, puff_,) Lord bless your soul, honey, I can’t tell you what he did. Bad enough.

_Mrs. B._ Well, now it seems to me—I don’t know much about it—but it seems to me men don’t like to marry gals that take on that way. It looks like it puts ’em out o’ concait of ’em.

_Mrs. S._ I know’d one man that married a woman that followed him from Car’lina to this State; but she didn’t dress herself in men’s clothes. You both know ’em. You know Simpson Trotty’s sister and Rachel’s son, Reuben. ’Twas him and his wife.

_Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ Oh yes, I know ’em mighty well.

_Mrs. S._ Well it was his wife—she followed him out to this State.

_Mrs. B._ I know’d ’em all mighty well. Her da’ter Lucy was the littlest teeny bit of a thing when it was born I ever did see. But they tell me that when I was born—now I don’t know anything about it myself—but the old folks used to tell me, that when I was born, they put me in a quart-mug, and mought o’ covered me up in it.

_Mrs. S._ The lackaday!

_Mrs. R._ What ailment did Lucy die of Mis’ Barny?

_Mrs. B._ Why, first she took the ager and fever, and took a ’bundance o’ doctor’r means for that. And then she got a powerful bad cough, and it kept gittin’ worse and worse, till at last it turned into a consumption, and she jist nat’ly wasted away, till she was nothing but skin and bone, and she died; but, poor creater, she died mighty happy; and I think in my heart, she made the prettiest corpse, considerin’ of any bod I most ever seed.

_Mrs. R. and Mrs. S._ Emph! (_solemnly._)

_Mrs. R._ What did the doctors give her for the fever and ager?

_Mrs. B._ Oh, they gin’ her a ’bundance o’ truck—I don’t know what all; and none of ’em holp her at all. But at last she got over it, somehow or other. If they’d have just gin’ her a sweat o’ bitter yerbs, jist as the spell was comin’ on, it would have cured her right away.

_Mrs. R._ Well, I reckon sheep-saffron the onliest thing in nater for the ager.

_Mrs. B._ I’ve always hearn it was wonderful in hives, and measly ailments.

_Mrs. R._ Well, it’s jist as good for an ager—it’s a powerful sweat. Mrs. Clarkson told me, that her cousin Betsey’s aunt Sally’s Nancy was cured sound and well by it, of a hard shakin’ ager.

_Mrs. S._ Why you don’t tell me so!

_Mrs. R._ Oh bess your heart, honey, it’s every word true; for she told me so with her own mouth.

_Mrs. S._ A hard, hard shakin’ ager!

_Mrs. R._ Oh yes, honey, it’s the truth.

_Mrs. S._ Well, I’m told that if you’ll wrap the inside skin of an egg round your little finger, and go three days reg’lar to a young persimmon, and tie a string round it, and every day, tie three knots in it, and then not go agin for three days, that the ager will leave you.

_Mrs. B._ I’ve often hearn o’ that, but I don’t know about it. Some people don’t believe in it.

_Mrs. S._ Well, Davy Cooper’s wife told me she didn’t believe in it; but she tried it, and it cured her sound and well.

_Mrs. R._ I’ve hearn of many folks bein’ cured in that way. And what did they do for Lucy’s cough, Mis’ Barney?

_Mrs. B._ Oh dear me, they gin’ her a powerful chance o’ truck. I reckon, first and last, she took at least a pint o’ lodimy.

_Mrs. S. and Mrs. R._ The law!

_Mrs. S._ Why that ought to have killed her, if nothing else. If they’d jist gin’ her a little cumfry and _a_lecampane, stewed in honey, or sugar, or molasses, with a little lump o’ mutton suet or butter in it: it would have cured her in two days sound and well.

_Mrs. B._ I’ve always counted cumfry and alecampane the lead of all yerbs for colds.

_Mrs. S._ Horehound and sugar’s ’mazin’ good.

_Mrs. B._ Mighty good—mighty good.

_Mrs. R._ Powerful good. I take mightily to a sweat of sage tea, in desperate bad colds.

_Mrs. S._ And so do I, Miss Reid. Indeed I have a great leanin’ to sweats of yerbs, in all ailments sich as colds, and rheumaty pains, and pleurisies, and sich—they’re wonderful good. Old brother Smith came to my house from Bethany meeting, in a mighty bad way, with a cold, and cough, and his throat and nose all stopt up; seemed like it would ’most take his breath away, and it was dead o’ winter, and I had nothin’ but dried yerbs, sich as camomile, sage, pennyryal, catmint, horehound, and sich; so I put a hot rock to his feet, and made him a large bowl o’ catmint tea, and I reckon he drank ’most two quarts of it through the night, and it put him in a mighty fine sweat, and loosened all the _phleem_, and opened all his head; and the next morning, says he to me, says he: “Sister Shad” (you know he’s a mighty kind spoken man, and always was so ’fore he joined society; and the old man likes a joke yet right well, the old man does; but he’s a mighty good man, and I think he prays with greater libity, than ’most any one of his age I ’most ever seed)—Don’t you think he does, Miss Reed?

_Mrs. R._ Powerful.

_Mrs. B._ Who did he marry?

_Mrs. S._ Why, he married—stop, I’ll tell you directly—Why, what does make my old head forget so?

_Mrs. B._ Well, it seems to me I don’t remember like I used to. Didn’t he marry a Ramsbottom?

_Mrs. R._ No. Stay, I’ll tell you who he married presently—Oh, stay! why I’ll tell you who he married!—He married old daddy Johnny Hooer’s d’ater, Mournin’.

_Mrs. S._ Why, la! messy on me, so he did!

_Mrs. B._ Why, did he marry a Hooer?

_Mrs. S._ Why, to be sure he did.—You knew Mournin’?

_Mrs. B._ Oh, mighty well; but I’d forgot that brother Smith married her: I really thought he married a Ramsbottom.

_Mrs. R._ Oh no, bless your soul, honey, he married Mournin’.

_Mrs. B._ Well, the law me, I’m clear beat!

_Mrs. S._ Oh, it’s so, you may be sure it is.

_Mrs. B._ Emp, emph, emph, emph! And brother Smith married Mournin’ Hooer! Well, I’m clear put out! Seems to me I’m gittin’ mighty forgetful somehow.

_Mrs. S._ Oh yes, he married Mournin’, and I saw her when she joined society.

_Mrs. B._ Why, you don’t tell me so!

_Mrs. S._ Oh, it’s the truth. She didn’t join till after she was married, and the church took on mightily about his marrying one out of society. But after she joined, they all got satisfied.

_Mrs. R._ Why, la! me, the seven stars is ’way over here!

_Mrs. B._ Well, let’s light our pipes, and take a short smoke, and go to bed. How did you come on raisin’ chickens this year, Mis’ Shad!

_Mrs. S._ La messy, honey! I have had mighty bad luck. I had the prettiest pa’sel you most ever seed till the varment took to killin’ ’em.

_Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ The varment!

_Mrs. S._ Oh dear, yes. The hawk catched a powerful sight of them; and then the varment took to ’em, and nat’ly took ’em fore and aft, bodily, till they left most none at all hardly. Sucky counted ’em up t’other day, and there war’nt but thirty-nine, she said, countin’ in the old speckle hen’s chickens that jist come off of her nest.

_Mrs. R. and Mrs. B._ Humph—h—h—h—!

_Mrs. R._ Well, I’ve had bad luck too. Billy’s hound-dogs broke up most all my nests.

_Mrs. B._ Well, so they did me, Miss Reed. I always did despise a hound-dog upon the face of yea’th.

_Mrs. R._ Oh, they’re the bawllinest, squallinest, thievishest things ever was about one; but Billy will have ’em, and I think in my soul his old Troup’s the beat of all creaters I ever seed in all my born days a suckin’ o’ hen’s eggs—He’s clean most broke me up entirely.

_Mrs. S._ The lackaday!

_Mrs. R._ And them that was hatched out, some took to takin’ the gaps, and some the pip, and one ailment or other, till they most all died.

_Mrs. S._ Well I reckon there must be somethin’ in the season this year, that an’t good for fowls; for Larkin Goodman’s brother Jimme’s wife’s aunt Penny, told me, she lost most all her fowls with different sorts of ailments, the like of which she never seed before—They’d jist go ’long lookin’, right well, and tilt right over backwards, (_Mrs. B._ The law!) and die right away, (_Mrs. R._ Did ever!) with a sort o’ somethin’ like the blind staggers.

_Mrs. B. and Mrs. R._ Messy on me!

_Mrs. B._ I reckon they must have eat somethin’ didn’t agree with them.

_Mrs. S._ No they didn’t, for she fed ’em every mornin’ with her own hand.

_Mrs. B._ Well, it’s mighty curious!

A short pause ensued, which was broken by Mrs. Barney, with—“And brother Smith married Mournin’ Hooer!” It came like an opiate upon my senses, and I dropt asleep.

THE END. L O N D O N : Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Printer errors have been corrected where obvious errors occur.

Author spellings have been maintained and differences corrected to majority author use.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

The Preface from Volume I was included in Volumes II & III.

A cover was created for this eBook.

[The end of _Traits of American Humour, Vol. III of III_, by Thomas Chandler Haliburton, ed.]