VI.AN INTERESTING INTERVIEW.
I hope the day is not far distant, when drunkenness will be unknown in our highly-favoured country. The moral world is rising in its strength against the all-destroying vice, and though the monster still struggles, and stings, and poisons, with deadly effect, in many parts of our wide-spread territory, it is perceptibly wounded and weakened; and I flatter myself, if I should live to number ten years more, I shall see it driven entirely from the higher walks of life at least, if not from all grades of society. For the honour of my contemporaries, I would register none of its crimes or its follies; but, in noticing the peculiarities of the age in which I live, candour constrains me to give this vice a passing notice. The interview which I am about to present to my readers, exhibits it in its mildest and most harmless forms.
In the county of ——, and about five miles apart, lived old Hardy Slow and old Tobias Swift. They were both industrious, honest, sensible farmers, when sober; but they never visited their county-town without getting drunk; and then they were—precisely what the following narrative makes them.
They both happened at the Court-House on the same day, when I last saw them together; the former accompanied by his wife, and the latter by his youngest son, a lad about thirteen. Tobias was just clearly on the wrong side of the line, which divides drunk from sober; but Hardy was “royally corned” (but not falling) when they met, about an hour by sun in the afternoon, near the rack at which their horses were hitched.
They stopped about four feet apart, and looked each other full in the face for about half a minute, during all which time, Toby sucked his teeth, winked, and made signs with his shoulders and elbows to the by-standers that he knew Hardy was drunk, and was going to quiz him for their amusement. In the meantime, Hardy looked at Tobias, like a polite man dropping to sleep in spite of himself under a dull long story.
At length Toby broke silence:
“How goes it, Uncle Hardy?” (winking to the company, and shrugging his shoulders.)
“Why, Toby!—is that you? Well—upon my—why, Toby!——Lord—help—my—soul and——Why, Toby! what, in, the, worl’, set, you, to, gitt’n, drunk—this, time o’ day? Swear, poin’ blank, you’re drunk! Why—you—must be, an old, fool—to, get, drunk, right, before, all these, gentlemen——a’ready, Toby.”
“Well, but, now you see (winking), Uncle Hardy, a gill-cup an’t a quart-pot, nor a quart-pot an’t a two-gallon jug; and therefore (winking and chuckling), Uncle Hardy, a thing is a thing, turn it which way you will, it just sticks at what it was before you give it first ex—ex—ploit.”
“Well, the Lord, help, my——Why, Toby! what, is the reas’n, you, never, will, answer, me this, one—circumstance——and, that, is——I, always, find, you, drunk, when, I come, here.”
“Well, now, but Uncle Hardy, you always know circumstances alters cases, as the fellow said; and therefore, if one circumstance alters another circumstance——how’s your wife and children?”
“I, swear, poin’ blank, I shan’t tell you—because, you r’ally, is, too drunk, to know, my wife, when, you, meet, her, in the street, all, day, long, and, she’ll, tell, you, the, very, same, thing, as, all, these, gentlemen, can—testimony.”
“Well, but now you see, Uncle Hardy, thinking’s one thing and knowing’s another, as the fellow said; and the proof o’ the pudding’s chawin’ the bag, as the fellow said; and you see—toll-doll-diddle-de-doll-doll-day (singing and capering), you think I can’t dance? Come, Uncle Hardy, let’s dance.”
“Why, Toby!—you—come—to this?Ididn’t make, you, drunk, did I? You, an’t, took, a drink, with, me, this, live, long, day—is you? I, say, is you, Toby?”
“No, Uncle Har—”
“Well, then, let’s go, take a drink.”
“Well, but you see, Uncle Hardy, drinkin’s drinkin’; but that’s neither here nor there, as the fellow said.
“ ‘Come (singing) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’ ”
“ ‘Come (singing) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’ ”
“ ‘Come (singing) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’ ”
“ ‘Come (singing) all ye young sparkers, come listen to me,
And I’ll sing you a ditti, of a pretti ladee.’ ”
“Why, Toby! ha—ha—ha—Well, I r’ally, did, think, you, was, drunk, but, now I believe——blast the flies! I b’lieve, they, jest, as li’f, walk, in my, mouth, as, in, my nose. (Then looking with eyes half closed at Toby for several minutes.) Why, Toby, you, spit ’bacoo spit, all over, your jacket—and, that’s jist, the very, way, you, got, in your——fix.”
At this moment, Mrs. Slow came up, and immediately after, Swift’s son, William.
“Come,” said the good lady, “old man, let’s go home; it’s getting late, and there’s a cloud rising; we’ll get wet.”
“Why, Nancy! what in the worl’ has got into you! Is you drunk, too? Well, ’pon, my word, and honor, I, b’lieve, every body, in this town, is, got drunk to-day. Why, Nancy! I never, did, see, you, in, that fix, before, in, all, my, live, long, born, days.”
“Well, never mind,” said she, “come, let’s go home. Don’t you see the rain coming up?”
“Well, will, it rain, upon, my, corn-field, or my cotton-patch? Say, Nancy! which one, will it, rain on? But, Lord, help, my, soul, you are, too drunk, to tell me, any, thing, about it. Don’ my corn want rain, Nancy? Now, jist, tell me, that?”
“Yes; but let’s go home.”
“Then, why, upon, the face, of the earth, won’t you, let it, rain, then? I, rather, it, should rain, than not.”
“Come, old man,” said several by-standers, touched with sympathy for the good lady, “come, get on your horse and go home, and we will help you.”
“Oh yes, Uncle Hardy,” said Tobias, affecting to throw all humour aside, and to become very sober all at once, “go home with the old woman. Come, gentlemen, let’s help ’em on their horses—they’re groggy—mighty groggy. Come, old man, I’ll help you.” (staggering to Hardy.)
“Jist look at daddy now!” said Billy; “he’s going to help Mr. Swift, and he’s drunk as Mr. Swift is. Oh, daddy, come, let’s go home, or we’ll get mazin’ wet.”
Toby stooped down to help Hardy on his horse—before the horse was taken from the rack—and throwing his arm round Hardy’s legs, he fell backwards, and so did Hardy.
“Why—Lord, bless, my, soul,” said Hardy, “I b’lieve I’m drunk, too! What, upon the, face, of the earth, has got, into, all, of us, this day!”
“Why, Uncle Hardy,” said Toby, “you pull us both down together! The old man’s mighty groggy,” said Toby to me, in a half whisper, and with an arch wink and smile, as he rose up—I happening to be next to him at the moment—“s’pose we help him up, and get him off? The old woman’s in for it, too,” continued he, winking, nodding, and shrugging up his shoulders very significantly.
“Oh no,” said I, “the old woman is perfectly sober, and I never heard of her tasting a drop in all my life.”
“Oh,” said Toby, assuming the gravity of a parson, “loves it mightily, mightily! Monstrous woman for drinking!—at least that’s my opinion. Monstrous fine woman, though! monstrous fine!”
“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home; only see what a rain is coming?” said Billy.
“Daddy’ll go presently, my son.”
“Well, here’s your horse, git up and let’s go. Mammy’ll be sure to be sendin’ for us.”
“Don’t mind him,” said Toby, winking to me; “he’s nothing but a boy; I wouldn’t take no notice of what he said. He wants me (winking and smiling) to go home with him; now you listen.”
“Well, come,” said I to Uncle Toby, “get on your horse and go home, a very heavy rain is coming up.”
“I’ll go presently, but you just listen to Bill,” said he to me, winking and smiling.
“Oh, daddy, for the Lord’s sake let’s go home.”
Toby smiled archly at me, and winked.
“Daddy, are you going home or not? Jist look at the rain comin’.”
Toby smiled and winked.
“Well, I do think a drunken man is the biggest fool in the county,” said Bill, “I don’t care who he is.”
“Bill!” said the old man, very sternly, “ ‘honour thy father and thy mother,’ that—that the woman’s seed may bruise the serpent’s head.”
“Well, daddy, tell me if you won’t go home! You see it’s going to rain powerful. If you won’t go, may I go?”
“Bill; ‘Leave not thy father who begotthee; for thou art my beloved son Esau, in whom I am well pleased.’ ”
“Why, daddy, it’s dropping rain now.”
Here Bill was relieved from his anxiety by the appearance of Aaron, a trusty servant, whom Mrs. Slow had despatched for his master, to whose care Bill committed him, and was soon out of sight.
Aaron’s custom had long been to pick up his master without ceremony, put him on his horse, and bear him away. So used to this dealing had Toby been, that when he saw Aaron, he surrendered at discretion, and was soon on the road. But as the rain descended in torrents, before even Bill could have proceeded half a mile, the whole of them must have been drenched to the skin.
As to Hardy, whom in the proper order we ought to have disposed of first, he was put on his horse by main force, and was led off by his wife, to whom he was muttering as far as I could hear him:
“Why, Nancy! How, did, you, get, in, such a fix? You’ll, fall, off, your, horse, sure, as you’re born, and I’ll have to put you up again.”
As they were constrained to go in a walk, they too must have got wringing wet, though they had a quarter of an hour the start of Toby.
VII.BEN WILSON’S LAST JUG-RACE.
Coming up from Newport, on the pretty little steamer ‘Perry,’ a few days ago, I fell in with, or chanced to lay across the track of, a Mississippi flat-boatman whom I had not seen for three years, and from having had, once upon a time, a rather personal adventure with him, you may guess that the meeting was one of curious congratulation.
Ben and I had both travelled “some” since we had parted, and he had, as well as myself, many things to tell.
I was sitting on the upper deck, consulting the opinions of one of Job Patterson’s A No. 1 Havanas, when a pretty muscular and sun-burnt specimen of humanity hove alongside, and brought a rather big paw down upon my right shoulder with a bim that made me starta little.
“How are you old J comp’ny?” was the first broadside. “I ha’nt set eyes on you sence we had the scrimmidge down to the Washington ball-room, Orleans. Rayther a time that ar?” and he winked his little black eyes until I fancied I heard the lids snap.
“Ben Wilson?” I inquired.
“ ’Zactly; you’ve hit it on the head this time. How’ve you ben, and whar?”
“Travelling generally,” I responded; “been looking at the Rhode Island Legislature of late. About health I’m as snug as a kitten, and as hearty as you seem to be.”
“I? Yes; ef I’d a had them sinners” (showing a lump of bones and musclessomethinglarger than mine, I think), “when that ar scrimmidge took place, there’d a been a different report of killed and wounded at the perlice shop. But that ain’t no consekense now, tho’ thar is a ugly sort of a seam on the larboard side of my phizognomy. What’ll you sample?”
Such a polite invitation was not under the circumstances to be refused, and a liquid strengthener was presently applied to the in’nards of both. A couple more of Job’s regalias were lighted, and we walked forward to look at the sights and enjoy a little quiet conversation.
“You hev’nt got that thar took-pick about you, hev you?” asked Ben, as we got afront of the wheelhouse.
“No.”
“I’m sorry for that, for I’d a like to had it for a keepsake,thatknife. You punched it into my jowl rather vigorously that night.”
“And this,” said I, rolling up my right sleeve, and pointing to a very pretty stiletto scar.
“ ’Twarn’t mine, by all the broad horns that ever run in Mississip’!” roared Ben. “ ’Twas the French bar-keeper did that.”
“Never mind, Ben,” said I, “I thought ’twas you at the time; but anyhow, a man hasn’t much time to debate nice questions when that pile of ivory” (pointing to his big fist) “is making love to his windpipe.”
“No more he han’t, and no more you hadn’t,” said Ben, “en it’s all forgiv’. Less change the topick.”
“Been boating since I met you?” I inquired, after a short pause.
“Well, yes, mostly,” answered Ben, deliberately. “Druv a pretty fair business last year; only sunk one broad-horn, en that war snagged. Saved part of the load, en lost it agin at acre-vasse. I had a fust-rate openin’ this spring, but a awkward accident kicked all the fat into the fire.”
“Bad luck, eh? how was it?”
“Did you ever jug for buffalo fish?”
“Never.”
“Han’t no idee on thepre-cise way it is done?”
“Not the least. Yes, I did see something about it in the ‘Spirit,’ but I’ve forgotten all about it.”
“ ‘Sperit?’ Oh, that’s the sportin’ paper down to York. Nolan, and Hooper, and Steve Tucker writes to it. Some jokes in that ar sheet, onst in a while.”
“Occasionally, I calculate; but this jugging for buffaloes.”
“Sartin. You see it’s as easy as fallin’ off a log. Git a dozen jugs en two canoes; hitch your lines to the handles of the jugs, put on your bait, and then toss them overboard. When you sees a jug begin to bob, there’s a buffalo thar: en when it begins to dive and run, you may calk’late there’s one varmint hooked. Strike out like a pointer, pull up the line, and the fish isthar; but you’ve got to keep your weather eye open, or you lose him.”
“I understand; but the awkward accident you spoke of?”
“Yes, of course; that’ll come in good time. D’you recollect that feller with the one eye that stuck by me in that scrimmidg at Orleans?”
“Perfectly; Ifelthim audibly that night.”
“Joe Stilwell. Wal, Joe and I run together, en we run sens, tel we fell out on one of these jug affairs; en then he sot up for hisself—oppersition. ’Bout the last of A-prilewe hap’nd to come together to Saint Lewis, en started down the river the same day. Joe had the start five hours, an’ I were glad of it; for he hadn’t no good feelin’ towards me, en’ I hadn’t none for him, I swar. It war two days ’fore I see anythink of him, but a man who got on at Milses wood-yard said Joe wanted to tackle me; en sez he, ‘Z’likes not he’ll stop to Ransom’s for freight, for he han’t got more’n two-thirds his complement,’ Sez I: ‘Ef Joe runs across my bows, he knows what’ll be the konsekens;’ an’ we didn’t say no more about the matter.
“It was midnight when we got to Ransom’s, an’ I was debatin’ whether it warn’t better to shove along then to stop, when I here’s Joe’s voice a usin’ of my name. That was all war wanted to settle the matter. I tied up, and asked all hands to licker. Joe he was the fust one to come up, sez he:
“ ‘Ben, we’ve had some rily feelin’s, en let’s settle them rash’nally.’
“ ‘How?’ sez I, not ’zactly understandin’ him.
“ ‘Rash’nally,’ sez he. ‘I’ll drink with you, and you drink with me, en then we’ll call it squar.’
“ ‘’Greed!’ sez I, en we lickered round twiste, en Joe and I shook hands, en squar’d off all old ’countspertensively.
“Thar was suthin’ in his looks I didn’t like when we shuck hands; but sez I to myself, ‘this ’coon sleeps in the day-time maybe, but he’s wide awake on this yer night.’ Ransom, he seemed glad we’d made up again ‘fer all time,’ es he said, and we lickered ’long a him.
“While we was drinkin’ ’long a Ransom, one of my hands come in en whispered softly in my ear, all unbeknown to the rest, that somebody hed ben tryin’ to cut my starn-cable, and then he sneaked back to watch for the marorder.
“I got off pretty soon after, en went aboard aleetleriled. But I didn’t tell the boys who I thought was the rascal, thoar I told em to keep a sharp watch, en fire to kill, when they did shoot. But tha’ warn’t nobody come, Joe knew better than to play with the old fox in his den—Joe did.
“Nex’ mornin’ we were just castin’ off, when Joe come down to the wharf-boat, en sez he:
“ ‘You ain’t goin’ off mad, ar you?’
“ ‘No,’ sez I.
“ ‘Wal,’ sez he, ‘less take a partin’ smile.’
“I didn’t like the idea, but Ransom he said:
“ ‘Come in, Ben!’ en in I went and drinkt.
“ ‘What d’you say to a buffalo-juggin?’ said Joe, arter we’d lickered.
“ ‘It’s too airly in the season,’ sez I; ‘b’sides I’m off for Orleans.’
“ ‘So’m I,’ said Joe, ‘at eleven; en we’ll go company.’
“ ‘What’s the blaze?’ said Ransom.
“ ‘Two canoes, and one jug,’ said Joe.
“I knowed what he was after then, for it showed clean out’n his eyes. Joe war the best swimmer, en he thort ef we cum together an’ upset the canoes, he’d have the advantage. He knowed he’d git catawampously chored up ashore, enhe wanted to drown me.”
“What a devil incarnate! I exclaimed.”
“That’s just him ’zactly. I thort a minnit, and then sez I:
“ ‘I’m your man.’
“Wal, a skiff tuck out the only jug, en Joe en I paddled from shore leisurely.
“ ‘A bob!’ yelled out Ransom, en we started.
“We was about ten rods apart, en neck-en-neck. On we swept like greased lightnin’, Joe leadin’ by ’bouttwo inches, I should guess. I had not look’t at Joe sens we left shore, but as we draw’d nigh the jug I seed he had his coat and jacket off. We was within ten foot of the jug, en both dropped paddles, en I shed my coat en jacket aleetlequicker’n common. Tha’ warn’t no misunderstandin’ between us then; en as the canoes come together, both grappled and went overboard, and underneath the water.”
Ben here paused, took out his bandanna, and wiped the big drops off of his forehead, as coolly as if he was recounting the events of a dinner-party.
“Well,” I urged impatiently, “you both went under the water?”
“Yes, that was theaccidenthappened!”
“Accident? explain.”
“Why, I’ve no more to say’n this. I riz, en got aboard my broad-horn, en come away.”
“But Joe—what became of him?”
“Joe? he was a missin’ ’long with my bowie-knife!”
I parted with Ben, when the ‘Perry’ touched the wharf at Providence, not caring,under the circumstances, to inquire which way he was travelling.
VIII.MIKE FINK IN A TIGHT PLACE.
Mike Fink, a notorious Buckeye-hunter, was contemporary with the celebrated Davy Crockett, and his equal in all things relating to human prowess. It was even said that the animals knew the crack of his rifle, and would take to their secret hiding-places, on the first intimation that Mike was about. Yet strange, though true, he was but little known beyond his immediate “settlement.”
Whenweknew him he was an old man—the blasts of seventy winters had silvered o’er his head, and taken the elasticity from his limbs; yet in the whole of his life was Mike never worsted, except upon one occasion. To use his own language, he never “gin in,” used up, to anything that travelled on two legs or four, but once.
“Thatoncewe want,” said Bill Slasher, as some dozen of us sat in the bar-room of the only tavern in the “settlement.”
“Gin it to us now, Mike; you’ve promised long enough, and you’re old now, and needn’t care,” continued Bill.
“Right, right, Bill,” said Mike; “but we’ll open with alickerall around fust, it’ll kind o’ save my feelin’s I reckon.”
“Thar, that’s good. Better than t’other barrel, if anything.”
“Well, boys,” commenced Mike, “you may talk o’ your scrimmages, tight places and sich like, and subtract ’em altogether in one all-mighty big ’un, and they hain’t no more to be compared to the one I war in, than a dead kitten to an old she-bar, I’ve fout all kinds of varmints, from a Ingun down to a rattlesnake, and never was willin’ to quit fust, but this once, and t’was with a bull!
“You see, boys, it was an awful hot day in August, and I war near runnin’ off into pureile, when I war thinkin’ that adipin the creek mout save me. Well, thar was a mighty nice place in old Deacon Smith’s medder for that partic’lar bizziness. So I went down among the bushes to unharness. I jest hauled the old red shirt over my head, and war thinkin’ how scrumptious a feller of my size would feel a wallerin’ round in that ar water, and was jest ’bout goin’ in, when I seed the old Deacon’s bull a makin a b-line to whar I stood.
“I know’d the old cuss, for he’d skar’d more people than all the parsons in the ‘settlement,’ and cum mighty near killin’ a few. Think’s I, Mike, you’re in rather a tight place. Get your fixin’s on, for he’ll be drivin’ them big horns o’ his in yer bowels afore that time. Well, you’ll hev to try the old varmint naked, I reck’n.
“The bull war on one side o’ the creek, and I on t’other, and the way he made the ‘sile’ fly for a while, as if he war diggin’ my grave, war distressin’!
“ ‘Come on, ye bellerin’ old heathen,’ said I, ‘and don’t be a standin’ there; for, as the old Deacon says o’ the devil, yer not comely to look on.’
“This kind o’ reached his understandin’, and made him more wishious; for he hoofed a little like, and made a drive. And as I don’t like to stand in anybody’s way, I gin him plenty sea-room. So he kind o’ passed by me, and cum out on t’other side; and as the captain o’ the mud-swamp ranger’s would say: ‘’bout face for another charger.’
“Though I war ready for him this time, he come mighty nigh runnin’ foul o’ me. So I made up my minde the next time he went out he wouldn’t be alone. So when he passed, I grappled his tail, and he pulled me out on the ‘sile,’ and as soon as we were both a’top o’ the bank, old Brindle stopped, and was about comin’ round agin, when I begin pull’n t’other way.
“Well, I reckon this kind o’riledhim, for he fust stood stock still, and look’d at me for a spell, and then commenced pawin’ and bellerin’, and the way he made his hind gearing play in the air, war beautiful!
“But it warn’t no use, he couldn’ttechme, so he kind o’ stopped to get wind for suthin’ devilish, as Ijudgedby the way he stared. By this time I had made up my mind to stick to his tail as long as it stuck to his back-bone! I didn’t like to holler fur help, nuther, kase it war agin my principles; and then the Deacon had preached at his house, and it warn’t far off nuther.
“I know’d if hehernthe noise, the hull congregation would come down; and as I warn’t a married man, and had a kind o’ hankerin’ arter a gal that war thar, I didn’t feel as if I would like to be seed in that ar predicament.
“ ‘So,’ ses I, ‘you old sarpent, do yer cussedst!’
“And so he did; for he drug me over every briar and stump in the field, until I was sweatin’ and bleedin’ like a fatbarwith a pack o’ hounds at his heels. And my name ain’t Mike Fink, if the old critter’s tail and I didn’t blow out sometimes at a dead level with the varmint’s back!
“So you may kalkilate we made good time. Bimeby he slackened a little, and then I had him for a spell, for I jest dropped behind a stump, and that snubbed the critter.
“ ‘Now,’ ses I, ‘you’ll pull up this ’ere white oak, break you’retail, or jist hold on a bit till I blow.’
“Well, while I war settin’ thar, an idea struck me that I had better be a gettin’ out o’ this in some way. Buthow, adzackly was thepint! If I let go and run, he’d be a foul o’ me sure.
“So lookin’ at the matter in all its bearins, I cum to the conclusion that I’d better let somebodyknowwhar I was. So I gin ayelllouder than a locomotive whistle, and it warn’t long before I seed the Deacon’s two dogs a comin’ down like as if they war seein’ which could get thar fust.
“I know’d who they war arter—they’d jine the bull agin me, I war sartin, for they war awful wenimous, and had a spite agin me.
“ ‘So,’ ses I, ‘old Brindle, as ridin’ is as cheap as walkin’ on this rout, if you’ve no objections, I’ll jest take a deck passage on that ar back o’ your’n.’
“So I wasn’t long gettin’ astride of him, and then if you’d been thar, you’d ’ave sworn thar warn’t nothin’ human in that armix; the sile flew so orrfully as the critter and I rolled round the field—one dog on one side and one on t’other, tryin’ to clinch my feet!
“I pray’d and cuss’d, and cuss’d and pray’d, until I couldn’t tell which I did last—and neither warn’t of any use, they war so orrfully mix’d up.
“Well, I reckon I rid about an hour this way, when old Brindle thought it war time to stop and take in a supply of wind and cool off a little! So when we got round to a tree that stood thar, he nat’rally halted!
“ ‘Now,’ ses I, ‘old boy, you’ll loseonepassenger sartin!’
“So I just clum upon a branch, kalkelating to roost thar till I starved, afore I’d be rid round that ar way any more.
“I war makin’ tracks for the top of the tree, when I heard suthin’ a makin’ an orful buzzin’ over head, I kinder looked up, and if thar warn’t—well thar’s no use swearin’ now, but it war the biggesthornet’s nestever built!
“You’ll gin in now, I reckon, Mike, case thar’s no help for you! But an idea struck me, then, that I’d stand a heap better chance a ridin’ the old bull than where I war. Ses I, ‘Old feller, if you’ll hold on, I’ll ride to the nextstationany how, let that be whar it will!’
“So I jest drapped aboard him agin, and looked aloft to see what I’d gained in changing quarters; and, gentlemen, I’m a liar if thar warn’t nigh half a bushel of the stingen’ varmints ready to pitch into me when the word ‘go’ was gin!
“Well, I reckon they got it, for ‘all hands’ started for ourcompany! Some on ’em hit the dogs—about aquartstruck me, and the rest charged old Brindle.
“This time, the dogs led off fust, ‘dead’ beat, for the old Deacon’s, and as soon as old Brindle and I could get under way, wefollowed. And as I war only a deck passenger, and had nothin’ to do with stearin’ the craft, I swore if I had we shouldn’t have run that channel, any how!
“But, as I said before, the dogs took the lead—Brindle and I next, and the hornets dre’kly arter. The dogs yellin’, Brindle bellerin’, and the hornets buzzin’ and stingin’! I didn’t say nothin’ for it warn’t no use.
“Well, we’d got bout two hundred yards from the house, and the Deacon hearn us and cum out. I seed him hold up his hands and turnwhite! I reckon he war prayin’ then, for he didn’t expect to be called for so soon, and it warn’t long, neither, afore the hull congregation, men, women, and children, cum out, and then all hands went to yellin’!
“None of ’em had the fust notion that Brindle and I belonged to this world. I jest turned my head, and passed thehullcongregation! I seed the run would be up soon, for Brindle couldn’t turn an inch from a fence that stood dead ahead.
“Well, we reached that fence, and I wentashore, over the old critter’s head, landin’ on t’other side, and lay thar stunned. It warn’t long afore some of ’em as war not so scared, come round to see what I war, for all hands kalkelated that the bull and I belongedtogether! But when Brindle walked off by himself, they seed how it war, and one of ’em said:
“ ‘Mike Fink has got theworst of the scrimmage once in his life!’
“Gentlemen, from that day I drapped thecourtin’bizziness, and never spoke to a gal since! And when my hunt is up on this yearth, thar won’t be any more F I N K S and it’s all owin’ to Deacon Smith’s Brindle Bull.”
IX.OUR SINGING-SCHOOL.A CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF THE TOWN OFPIGWACKET.
My second cousin by the mother’s side, Benjamin Blackletter, A.M., who was born and lived all his lifetime in the ancient town of Pigwacket, has compiled, with scrupulous accuracy, the annals of that venerable town, in three volumes folio, which he proposes to publish as soon as he can find a Boston bookseller who will undertake the job. I hope this will be accomplished before long, for Pigwacket is a very interesting spot, though not very widely known. It is astonishing what important events are going on every day, in odd corners of this country, which the world knows nothing about. When I read over these trusty folios, which bear the title, “The General History of the Town of Pigwacket,from its first settlement until the present day, comprising an authentic relation of all its civil, military, ecclesiastical, financial and statistical concerns, compiled from original records, &c.” and see the great deeds that have been done in that respectable town, and the great men that have figured therein, and reflect that the fame thereof, so far from extending to the four corners of the earth, has hardly penetrated as far as Boston, I heave a sigh for mortal glory.
Knowing that my readers must be impatient for the appearance of the three folios of the History of Pigwacket, and as they cannot be put to press for some months, I avail myself of this chance to feed their curiosity by an extract, as the cook at Camancho’s wedding gave Sancho a couple of pullets to stay his stomach till dinner-time. Take then the portion contained in Chapter CLXXXVIII., which begins as follows:
It becomes my lot at this period of the narrative, to chronicle an event that formed quite an epoch in the history of the town, or rather of that part which constituted our parish. This occurrence may not be deemed by the world quite so momentous as the Declaration of Independence, or the French Revolution, but the reader may believe me, it was a great affair in our community. This was no less than a mighty feud in church matters about psalm-singing. The whole parish went by the ears about it, and the affair gave the community such a rouse, that many people feared we should never fairly recover the shock. The particulars were these:From time immemorial we had continued to sing psalms at meeting, as became good Christians and lovers of harmony. But my readers, accustomed to the improvements of modern days, have need to be informed that up to this period, our congregation had practised this accomplishment according to that old method of psalmody, known by the designation of “read-a-line-and-sing-a-line.” This primitive practice, which had first come into use when hymn-books were scarce, was still persisted in, though the necessity for its continuance no longer existed. Our church music, therefore, exhibited the quaint and patriarchal alternation of recitation and melody, if melody it might be called, while some towns in the neighbourhood had adopted the new fashion, and surprised us by the superiority of their performances over the rude and homely chants of old.But it was not long ere the wish to improve our style of singing began to show itself among us. At the first announcement of such a design, the piety of many of the old members took the alarm, and the new method was denounced as heathenish and profane.The chief personage who figured in the troubles which arose upon this matter was Deacon Dogskin, a man of scrupulous orthodoxy, highly dogmatical on theological points, and a leader of powerful influence in the church. This dignitary, whose office it had been to give out the several lines of the psalm as they were sung, was one of the sturdiest opponents of the new-fangled psalmody, and set his face against the innovation with all the zeal and devotion of a primitive Christian. Unfortunately for him, Deacon Grizzle, his colleague, took the opposite side of the question, exemplifying the vulgar saying, “Two of a trade can never agree.”The discordancy, to tell the whole truth, between these two worthies lay in more interests than one, and it is to be doubted whether they would have come to a rupture in church affairs, had not their mutual animosities been quickened by certain temporal janglings; for so it happened that the two deacons kept each a grocery store, and neither of them ever let a chance slip of getting away the other’s custom. Sorry I am to record the frailties of two such reputable personages, who looked upon themselves as burning and shining lights in our community; but I am afraid that the fact cannot be concealed, that the petty bickerings which arose between them on these little matters of filthy lucre were suffered to intrude within the walls of the sanctuary, and stir up the flame of discord in the great psalm-singing feud; whereby, as our neighbour Hopper Paul sagely remarked, the world may learn wisdom, and lay it down as a maxim, that church affairs can never thrive when the deacons are grocers.Deacon Grizzle, therefore, partly from conscience and partly from spite, placed himself at the head of the innovators, and took every occasion to annoy his associate with all sorts of ingenious reasons why the singing should be performed without any intermixture of recitation. The younger part of the congregation were chiefly ranged under his banner, but the older people mustered strong on the opposite side. To hear the disputes that were carried on upon this point, and the pertinacity with which each one maintained his opinion, an uninformed spectator would have imagined the interests of the whole Christian world were at stake. In truth, a great many of the good old souls really looked upon the act of altering the mode of singing as a departure from the faith given unto the saints. It was a very nice and difficult thing to come to a conclusion where all parties were so hotly interested, but an incident which fell out not long afterward, contributed to hasten the revolution.Deacon Dogskin, as I have already remarked, was the individual on whom devolved, by prescriptive right, the duty of giving out the psalm. The Deacon was in all things a stickler for ancient usages; not only was he against giving up a hair’s breadth of the old custom, but his attachment to the antique forms went so far as to embrace all the circumstances of immaterial moment connected with them. His predilection for the old tone of voice was not to be overcome by any entreaty, and we continued to hear the same nasal, snuffling drawl, which, nobody knows how, he had contracted in the early part of his deaconship, although on common occasions he could speak well enough. But the tone was a part of his vocation; long use had consecrated it, and the Deacon would have his way. His psalm-book, too, by constant use had become to such a degree thumbed and blurred and torn and worn, that it was a puzzle how, with his old eyes, he could make anything of one half the pages. However, a new psalm-book was a thing he would never hear spoken of, for, although the thing could not be styled an innovation, inasmuch as it contained precisely the same collocation of words and syllables, yet it was the removal of an old familiar object from his sight, and his faith seemed to be bound up in the greasy covers and dingy leaves of the volume. So the Deacon stuck to his old psalm-book, and, by the help of his memory where the letter-press failed him, he made a shift to keep up with the singers, who, to tell the truth, were not remarkable for the briskness of their notes, and dealt more in semibreves than in demi-semi-quavers.But, on a certain day, it happened that the Deacon, in the performance of his office, stumbled on a line which happened to be more than usually thumbed, and defied all his attempts to puzzle it out. In vain he wiped his spectacles, brought the book close to his nose, then held it as far off as possible, then brought his nose to the book, then took it away again, then held it up to the light, then turned it this way and that, winked and snuffled and hemmed and coughed—the page was too deeply grimed by the application of his own thumb, to be deciphered by any ocular power. The congregation were at a dead stand. They waited and waited, but the Deacon could not give out the line; every one stared, and the greatest impatience began to be manifested. At last Elder Darby, who commonly took the lead in singing, called out:“What’s the matter, Deacon?”“I can’t read it,” replied the Deacon in a dolorous and despairing tone.“Then spell it,” exclaimed a voice from the gallery.All eyes were turned that way, and it was found to proceed from Tim Crackbrain, a fellow known for his odd and whimsical habits, and respecting whom nobody could ever satisfy himself whether he was knave, fool, or madman. The Deacon was astounded, the congregation gaped and stared, but there was no more singing that day. The profane behaviour of Tim caused great scandal, and he was severely taken in hand by a regular kirk session.This, however, was not the whole, for it was plainly to be perceived that the old system had received a severe blow in this occurrence, as no one could deny that such an awkward affair could never have happened in the improved method of psalmody. The affair was seized by the advocates of improvement, and turned against their opponents. Deacon Dogskin and his old psalm-book got into decidedly bad odour; the result could no longer be doubtful; a parish meeting was held, and a resolution passed to abolish the old system, and establish a singing school. In such a manner departed this life, that venerable relic of ecclesiastical antiquity, read-a-line-and-sing-a-line, and we despatched our old acquaintance to the tomb of oblivion, unwept, unhonoured, but not unsung.This event, like all great revolutions, did not fail to give sad umbrage to many in the church; and as to Deacon Dogskin, who had fought as the great champion of the primitive system, he took it in such dudgeon that he fell into a fit of the sullens, which resulted in a determination to leave a community where his opinion and authority had been so flagrantly set at nought. Within two years, therefore, he sold off his farm, settled all his concerns both temporal and spiritual in the town, and removed to a village about fifteen miles distant. His ostensible motive for the removal was his declining age, which he declared to be unequal to the cultivation of so large a farm as he possessed in our neighbourhood; but the true reason was guessed at by every one, as the Deacon could never speak of the singing-school without evident marks of chagrin.Be this as it may, we proceeded to organise the singing-school forthwith, for it was determined to do things in style. First of all, it was necessary to find a singing-master who was competent to instruct us theoretically in the principles of the art, and put us to the full discipline of our powers. No one, of course, thought of going out of the town for this, and our directors shortly pitched upon a personage known to every body by the name of Hopper Paul. This man knew more tunes than any person within twenty miles, and, for aught we knew, more than any other man in the world. He could sing Old Hundred, and Little Marlborough, and Saint Andrews, and Bray, and Mear, and Tanzar, and Quercy, and at least half a dozen others whose names I have forgotten, so that he was looked upon as a musical prodigy.I shall never forget Hopper Paul, for both the sounds and sights he exhibited were such as could hardly be called earthly. He was about six feet and a half high, exceedingly lank and long, with a countenance which at the first sight would suggest to you the idea that he had suffered aface-quake, for the different parts of his visage appeared to have been shaken out of their places and never to have settled properly together. His mouth was capable of such a degree of dilation and collapse and twisting, that it looked like a half a dozen pair of lips sewed into one. The voice to which this comely pair of jaws gave utterance might have been compared to the lowing of a cow, or the deepest bass of an overgrown bull-frog, but hardly to any sound made by human organs.Hopper Paul, possessing all these accomplishments, was therefore chosen head singer, and teacher of the school, which was immediately set on foot. This was a great affair in the eyes of all the young persons of both sexes, the thing being the first of that sort which had ever been heard of in our parts; for though the natives of the town were a psalm-singing race, like all genuine New Englanders, yet they had hitherto learned to sing much in the same way as they learned to talk, not by theory, but in the plainest way of practice, each individual joining in with the strains that were chanted at meeting according to the best of his judgment. In this method, as the reader may suppose, they made but a blundering sort of melody, yet as the tunes were few, and each note drawled out to an unconscionable length, all were more or less familiar with their parts, or if they got into the wrong key, had time to change it ere the line was ended. But things were now to be set on a different footing; great deeds were to be done, and each one was anxious to make a figure in the grand choir. All the young people of the parish were assembled, and we began operations.How we got through our first essays, I need not say, except that we made awkward work enough of it. There were a great many voices that seemed made for nothing but to spoil all our melody: but what could we do? All were determined to learn to sing, and Hopper Paul was of opinion that the bad voices would grow mellow by practice, though how he could think so whenever he heard his own, passes my comprehension. However, we could all raise and fall the notes, and that was something. We met two evenings in each week during the winter, and by the beginning of spring we had got so well drilled in the gamut that we began to practise regular tunes. Now we breathed forth such melodies as I think have seldom been heard elsewhere; but as we had no standard of excellence to show us the true character of our performances, we could never be aware that our music was not equal to the harmony of the spheres.It was thought a peculiar excellence to sing through the nose, and take a good reasonable time to swell out every note. Many of us were apt to get into too high a key, but that was never regarded, provided we made noise enough. In short, after a great deal more practice we were pronounced to be thoroughly skilled in the science, for our lungs had been put to such a course of discipline that every one of us could roar with a most stentorian grace; and as to our commander-in-chief, no man on earth ever deserved better than he, the name of Boanerges, or Son of Thunder.It was decided, therefore, that on Fast day next we should take the field; so we were all warned to prepare ourselves to enter the singing seats at the meeting on that eventful day. Should I live a thousand years, I shall never forget it; this was to be the first public exhibition of our prowess, and we were exhorted to do our best. The exhortation was unnecessary, for we were as ambitious as the most zealous of our friends could desire, and we were especially careful in rehearsing the tunes before hand.The day arrived, and we marched in a body to take possession. No stalwart knights, at a tournament, ever spurred their chargers into the lists with more pompous and important feelings than we entered the singing seats. The audience, of course, were all expectation, and when the hymn was given out, we heard it with beating hearts.It was amusing, however, in the midst of our trepidation, to witness the countenance of Deacon Dogskin, who was obliged to sit facing us during the whole service. His looks were as sour and cynical as if he could have driven us out of the house, and he never vouchsafed to cast a glance at us from beginning to end of the performance. There was another person who had been a great stickler for the ancient usage. This was Elder Darby, who had been head singer under the Deacon’s administration, and looked upon himself as dividing the honours of that system with the Deacon himself. He accordingly fought hard against the innovation, and was frequently heard to declare that the whole platform of christian doctrine would be undermined, if more than one line was suffered to be sung at a time. In fact, this personage, being what is emphatically called a “weak brother,” but full of zeal and obstinacy, gave us a great deal more trouble than the Deacon, who was not deficient in common shrewdness, notwithstanding his oddities. This was a bitter day, therefore, to Elder Darby, who felt very awkward at finding his occupation gone, and his enemies triumphant all in the same moment.But we were now called upon to sing, and every eye, except those of the Deacon and a few others, was turned upward: the hymn was given out, Hopper Paul brandished his pitch-pipe and set the tune, and we began with stout hearts and strong lungs. Such sounds had never been heard within those walls before. The windows rattled, and the ceiling shook with the echo, in such a manner that some people thought the great chandelier would have a down-come. Think of the united voices of all the sturdy, able-bodied lads and lassies of the parish pouring forth the most uproarious symphony of linked sweetness long drawn out, that their lungs could furnish, and you will have some faint idea of our melodious intonations. At length we came to a verse in the hymn where the words chimed in with the melody in such a striking and effective manner that the result was overpowering. The verse ran thus:“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,Beneath a burning sky,Long for a cooling stream at hand,And they must drink, or die.”When we struck one after another into the third line, and trolled forth the reiterations,“Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”we verily thought, one and all, that we were soaring up—up—upwards on the combined euphony of the tune and syllables, into the seventh heaven of harmony. The congregation were rapt into ecstasies, and thought they had never heard music till then. It was a most brilliant triumph for us; every voice, as we thought, though of course the malcontents must be excepted, struck in with us, and swelled the loud peal till the walls rung again. But I must not omit to mention the strange conduct of Elder Darby, who, in the midst of this burst of enthusiastic approbation, never relaxed the stern and sour severity of his looks, but took occasion of the first momentary pause in the melody, to utter a very audible and disdainful expression of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”Deacon Grizzle was by no means slow in perceiving these manifestations of the Elder’s mortified feelings, and did not fail to join him on his way home from meeting, for the express purpose of annoying him further by commendations of the performances. All he could get in reply was a further exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!” In fact, the Elder’s obstinacy was incurable; he was seized during the following week with a strange deafness in one of his ears, and as it happened very strangely too, to be that ear which was turned towards the singing seats when he sat in his pew, he declared it would be impossible to hear sufficiently well on that side of his head, to accompany the singers: as to altering his position, it was not to be thought of: he had occupied the same spot for forty years, and could no more be expected to change his seat than to change his creed. The consequence was, that on the day we began singing, the Elder left off. From that time forth, he never heard the subject of church psalmody alluded to, without a chop-fallen look, a rueful shake of the head, a sad lamentation over the decline of sound christian doctrine, and a peevish and indignant exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”
It becomes my lot at this period of the narrative, to chronicle an event that formed quite an epoch in the history of the town, or rather of that part which constituted our parish. This occurrence may not be deemed by the world quite so momentous as the Declaration of Independence, or the French Revolution, but the reader may believe me, it was a great affair in our community. This was no less than a mighty feud in church matters about psalm-singing. The whole parish went by the ears about it, and the affair gave the community such a rouse, that many people feared we should never fairly recover the shock. The particulars were these:
From time immemorial we had continued to sing psalms at meeting, as became good Christians and lovers of harmony. But my readers, accustomed to the improvements of modern days, have need to be informed that up to this period, our congregation had practised this accomplishment according to that old method of psalmody, known by the designation of “read-a-line-and-sing-a-line.” This primitive practice, which had first come into use when hymn-books were scarce, was still persisted in, though the necessity for its continuance no longer existed. Our church music, therefore, exhibited the quaint and patriarchal alternation of recitation and melody, if melody it might be called, while some towns in the neighbourhood had adopted the new fashion, and surprised us by the superiority of their performances over the rude and homely chants of old.
But it was not long ere the wish to improve our style of singing began to show itself among us. At the first announcement of such a design, the piety of many of the old members took the alarm, and the new method was denounced as heathenish and profane.
The chief personage who figured in the troubles which arose upon this matter was Deacon Dogskin, a man of scrupulous orthodoxy, highly dogmatical on theological points, and a leader of powerful influence in the church. This dignitary, whose office it had been to give out the several lines of the psalm as they were sung, was one of the sturdiest opponents of the new-fangled psalmody, and set his face against the innovation with all the zeal and devotion of a primitive Christian. Unfortunately for him, Deacon Grizzle, his colleague, took the opposite side of the question, exemplifying the vulgar saying, “Two of a trade can never agree.”
The discordancy, to tell the whole truth, between these two worthies lay in more interests than one, and it is to be doubted whether they would have come to a rupture in church affairs, had not their mutual animosities been quickened by certain temporal janglings; for so it happened that the two deacons kept each a grocery store, and neither of them ever let a chance slip of getting away the other’s custom. Sorry I am to record the frailties of two such reputable personages, who looked upon themselves as burning and shining lights in our community; but I am afraid that the fact cannot be concealed, that the petty bickerings which arose between them on these little matters of filthy lucre were suffered to intrude within the walls of the sanctuary, and stir up the flame of discord in the great psalm-singing feud; whereby, as our neighbour Hopper Paul sagely remarked, the world may learn wisdom, and lay it down as a maxim, that church affairs can never thrive when the deacons are grocers.
Deacon Grizzle, therefore, partly from conscience and partly from spite, placed himself at the head of the innovators, and took every occasion to annoy his associate with all sorts of ingenious reasons why the singing should be performed without any intermixture of recitation. The younger part of the congregation were chiefly ranged under his banner, but the older people mustered strong on the opposite side. To hear the disputes that were carried on upon this point, and the pertinacity with which each one maintained his opinion, an uninformed spectator would have imagined the interests of the whole Christian world were at stake. In truth, a great many of the good old souls really looked upon the act of altering the mode of singing as a departure from the faith given unto the saints. It was a very nice and difficult thing to come to a conclusion where all parties were so hotly interested, but an incident which fell out not long afterward, contributed to hasten the revolution.
Deacon Dogskin, as I have already remarked, was the individual on whom devolved, by prescriptive right, the duty of giving out the psalm. The Deacon was in all things a stickler for ancient usages; not only was he against giving up a hair’s breadth of the old custom, but his attachment to the antique forms went so far as to embrace all the circumstances of immaterial moment connected with them. His predilection for the old tone of voice was not to be overcome by any entreaty, and we continued to hear the same nasal, snuffling drawl, which, nobody knows how, he had contracted in the early part of his deaconship, although on common occasions he could speak well enough. But the tone was a part of his vocation; long use had consecrated it, and the Deacon would have his way. His psalm-book, too, by constant use had become to such a degree thumbed and blurred and torn and worn, that it was a puzzle how, with his old eyes, he could make anything of one half the pages. However, a new psalm-book was a thing he would never hear spoken of, for, although the thing could not be styled an innovation, inasmuch as it contained precisely the same collocation of words and syllables, yet it was the removal of an old familiar object from his sight, and his faith seemed to be bound up in the greasy covers and dingy leaves of the volume. So the Deacon stuck to his old psalm-book, and, by the help of his memory where the letter-press failed him, he made a shift to keep up with the singers, who, to tell the truth, were not remarkable for the briskness of their notes, and dealt more in semibreves than in demi-semi-quavers.
But, on a certain day, it happened that the Deacon, in the performance of his office, stumbled on a line which happened to be more than usually thumbed, and defied all his attempts to puzzle it out. In vain he wiped his spectacles, brought the book close to his nose, then held it as far off as possible, then brought his nose to the book, then took it away again, then held it up to the light, then turned it this way and that, winked and snuffled and hemmed and coughed—the page was too deeply grimed by the application of his own thumb, to be deciphered by any ocular power. The congregation were at a dead stand. They waited and waited, but the Deacon could not give out the line; every one stared, and the greatest impatience began to be manifested. At last Elder Darby, who commonly took the lead in singing, called out:
“What’s the matter, Deacon?”
“I can’t read it,” replied the Deacon in a dolorous and despairing tone.
“Then spell it,” exclaimed a voice from the gallery.
All eyes were turned that way, and it was found to proceed from Tim Crackbrain, a fellow known for his odd and whimsical habits, and respecting whom nobody could ever satisfy himself whether he was knave, fool, or madman. The Deacon was astounded, the congregation gaped and stared, but there was no more singing that day. The profane behaviour of Tim caused great scandal, and he was severely taken in hand by a regular kirk session.
This, however, was not the whole, for it was plainly to be perceived that the old system had received a severe blow in this occurrence, as no one could deny that such an awkward affair could never have happened in the improved method of psalmody. The affair was seized by the advocates of improvement, and turned against their opponents. Deacon Dogskin and his old psalm-book got into decidedly bad odour; the result could no longer be doubtful; a parish meeting was held, and a resolution passed to abolish the old system, and establish a singing school. In such a manner departed this life, that venerable relic of ecclesiastical antiquity, read-a-line-and-sing-a-line, and we despatched our old acquaintance to the tomb of oblivion, unwept, unhonoured, but not unsung.
This event, like all great revolutions, did not fail to give sad umbrage to many in the church; and as to Deacon Dogskin, who had fought as the great champion of the primitive system, he took it in such dudgeon that he fell into a fit of the sullens, which resulted in a determination to leave a community where his opinion and authority had been so flagrantly set at nought. Within two years, therefore, he sold off his farm, settled all his concerns both temporal and spiritual in the town, and removed to a village about fifteen miles distant. His ostensible motive for the removal was his declining age, which he declared to be unequal to the cultivation of so large a farm as he possessed in our neighbourhood; but the true reason was guessed at by every one, as the Deacon could never speak of the singing-school without evident marks of chagrin.
Be this as it may, we proceeded to organise the singing-school forthwith, for it was determined to do things in style. First of all, it was necessary to find a singing-master who was competent to instruct us theoretically in the principles of the art, and put us to the full discipline of our powers. No one, of course, thought of going out of the town for this, and our directors shortly pitched upon a personage known to every body by the name of Hopper Paul. This man knew more tunes than any person within twenty miles, and, for aught we knew, more than any other man in the world. He could sing Old Hundred, and Little Marlborough, and Saint Andrews, and Bray, and Mear, and Tanzar, and Quercy, and at least half a dozen others whose names I have forgotten, so that he was looked upon as a musical prodigy.
I shall never forget Hopper Paul, for both the sounds and sights he exhibited were such as could hardly be called earthly. He was about six feet and a half high, exceedingly lank and long, with a countenance which at the first sight would suggest to you the idea that he had suffered aface-quake, for the different parts of his visage appeared to have been shaken out of their places and never to have settled properly together. His mouth was capable of such a degree of dilation and collapse and twisting, that it looked like a half a dozen pair of lips sewed into one. The voice to which this comely pair of jaws gave utterance might have been compared to the lowing of a cow, or the deepest bass of an overgrown bull-frog, but hardly to any sound made by human organs.
Hopper Paul, possessing all these accomplishments, was therefore chosen head singer, and teacher of the school, which was immediately set on foot. This was a great affair in the eyes of all the young persons of both sexes, the thing being the first of that sort which had ever been heard of in our parts; for though the natives of the town were a psalm-singing race, like all genuine New Englanders, yet they had hitherto learned to sing much in the same way as they learned to talk, not by theory, but in the plainest way of practice, each individual joining in with the strains that were chanted at meeting according to the best of his judgment. In this method, as the reader may suppose, they made but a blundering sort of melody, yet as the tunes were few, and each note drawled out to an unconscionable length, all were more or less familiar with their parts, or if they got into the wrong key, had time to change it ere the line was ended. But things were now to be set on a different footing; great deeds were to be done, and each one was anxious to make a figure in the grand choir. All the young people of the parish were assembled, and we began operations.
How we got through our first essays, I need not say, except that we made awkward work enough of it. There were a great many voices that seemed made for nothing but to spoil all our melody: but what could we do? All were determined to learn to sing, and Hopper Paul was of opinion that the bad voices would grow mellow by practice, though how he could think so whenever he heard his own, passes my comprehension. However, we could all raise and fall the notes, and that was something. We met two evenings in each week during the winter, and by the beginning of spring we had got so well drilled in the gamut that we began to practise regular tunes. Now we breathed forth such melodies as I think have seldom been heard elsewhere; but as we had no standard of excellence to show us the true character of our performances, we could never be aware that our music was not equal to the harmony of the spheres.
It was thought a peculiar excellence to sing through the nose, and take a good reasonable time to swell out every note. Many of us were apt to get into too high a key, but that was never regarded, provided we made noise enough. In short, after a great deal more practice we were pronounced to be thoroughly skilled in the science, for our lungs had been put to such a course of discipline that every one of us could roar with a most stentorian grace; and as to our commander-in-chief, no man on earth ever deserved better than he, the name of Boanerges, or Son of Thunder.
It was decided, therefore, that on Fast day next we should take the field; so we were all warned to prepare ourselves to enter the singing seats at the meeting on that eventful day. Should I live a thousand years, I shall never forget it; this was to be the first public exhibition of our prowess, and we were exhorted to do our best. The exhortation was unnecessary, for we were as ambitious as the most zealous of our friends could desire, and we were especially careful in rehearsing the tunes before hand.
The day arrived, and we marched in a body to take possession. No stalwart knights, at a tournament, ever spurred their chargers into the lists with more pompous and important feelings than we entered the singing seats. The audience, of course, were all expectation, and when the hymn was given out, we heard it with beating hearts.
It was amusing, however, in the midst of our trepidation, to witness the countenance of Deacon Dogskin, who was obliged to sit facing us during the whole service. His looks were as sour and cynical as if he could have driven us out of the house, and he never vouchsafed to cast a glance at us from beginning to end of the performance. There was another person who had been a great stickler for the ancient usage. This was Elder Darby, who had been head singer under the Deacon’s administration, and looked upon himself as dividing the honours of that system with the Deacon himself. He accordingly fought hard against the innovation, and was frequently heard to declare that the whole platform of christian doctrine would be undermined, if more than one line was suffered to be sung at a time. In fact, this personage, being what is emphatically called a “weak brother,” but full of zeal and obstinacy, gave us a great deal more trouble than the Deacon, who was not deficient in common shrewdness, notwithstanding his oddities. This was a bitter day, therefore, to Elder Darby, who felt very awkward at finding his occupation gone, and his enemies triumphant all in the same moment.
But we were now called upon to sing, and every eye, except those of the Deacon and a few others, was turned upward: the hymn was given out, Hopper Paul brandished his pitch-pipe and set the tune, and we began with stout hearts and strong lungs. Such sounds had never been heard within those walls before. The windows rattled, and the ceiling shook with the echo, in such a manner that some people thought the great chandelier would have a down-come. Think of the united voices of all the sturdy, able-bodied lads and lassies of the parish pouring forth the most uproarious symphony of linked sweetness long drawn out, that their lungs could furnish, and you will have some faint idea of our melodious intonations. At length we came to a verse in the hymn where the words chimed in with the melody in such a striking and effective manner that the result was overpowering. The verse ran thus:
“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,Beneath a burning sky,Long for a cooling stream at hand,And they must drink, or die.”
“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,Beneath a burning sky,Long for a cooling stream at hand,And they must drink, or die.”
“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,Beneath a burning sky,Long for a cooling stream at hand,And they must drink, or die.”
“So pilgrims on the scorching sand,
Beneath a burning sky,
Long for a cooling stream at hand,
And they must drink, or die.”
When we struck one after another into the third line, and trolled forth the reiterations,
“Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”
“Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”
“Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”
“Long for a cooling—
Long for a cooling—
Long for a cooling—coo—oo—ooling,”
we verily thought, one and all, that we were soaring up—up—upwards on the combined euphony of the tune and syllables, into the seventh heaven of harmony. The congregation were rapt into ecstasies, and thought they had never heard music till then. It was a most brilliant triumph for us; every voice, as we thought, though of course the malcontents must be excepted, struck in with us, and swelled the loud peal till the walls rung again. But I must not omit to mention the strange conduct of Elder Darby, who, in the midst of this burst of enthusiastic approbation, never relaxed the stern and sour severity of his looks, but took occasion of the first momentary pause in the melody, to utter a very audible and disdainful expression of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”
Deacon Grizzle was by no means slow in perceiving these manifestations of the Elder’s mortified feelings, and did not fail to join him on his way home from meeting, for the express purpose of annoying him further by commendations of the performances. All he could get in reply was a further exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!” In fact, the Elder’s obstinacy was incurable; he was seized during the following week with a strange deafness in one of his ears, and as it happened very strangely too, to be that ear which was turned towards the singing seats when he sat in his pew, he declared it would be impossible to hear sufficiently well on that side of his head, to accompany the singers: as to altering his position, it was not to be thought of: he had occupied the same spot for forty years, and could no more be expected to change his seat than to change his creed. The consequence was, that on the day we began singing, the Elder left off. From that time forth, he never heard the subject of church psalmody alluded to, without a chop-fallen look, a rueful shake of the head, a sad lamentation over the decline of sound christian doctrine, and a peevish and indignant exclamation of “Chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff! chaff!”