[16]By G. H. Hill.
[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 amusedthemwith 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 sawgroups of childrenplaying 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 everseed; and besides, noChristianman 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 aChristianman’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, inKing and Queen—(puff), clean up toLoudon.
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 andalecampane, 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 thephleem, 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.
LONDON:
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 ofTraits of American Humour, Vol. III of III, by Thomas Chandler Haliburton, ed.]