Fisher's River - Charters XVI-XXIII



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XVI.--A DECLARATION OF LOVE.
   THE young men did their courting almost entirely by word of mouth. 
Their "edication" was very poor, and they did not like to expose their 
"ignunce" by a love-letter. Sometimes a very bashful fellow, deeply 
smitten with love, would give vent to his feelings in a letter. I have 
been quite fortunate in securing one of these letters. I pledge my word, 
and can prove it, that the following is an exact copy from the original, 
not a word nor a letter altered. The free use of capitals is to be 
ascribed to the writer's deep feeling. But I will not comment. Here is the 
letter, leaving names out:

   "Dear Miss I seat Myself To Let You Know My Heart Desire This Very Day, 
God Know That I Dow Love you P-- F-- And I Have you if you Will Mee, 

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And I want you To write To Mee as soon as This come to Hand, And give Me 
satisfactions one way or other, God Know at This Time Which way you will 
give, God sed in His Word First Seak The Kingdom of Hevin and all His 
Riches shall Be Added on, And I Beliave you Love Mee, And I Guv you the 
First Time I Ever Thought! And Whare it wase at, Mr F--s at Metin. And I 
tell Why I Thout Sow, For Actions speaks Louder Than Words withe Mee, And 
I Write you A few Loines To Tell you The Truth, When I was Layin on my 
Death bed* I Thought of you Moor than Evry Body Else Well P-- F-- I Never 
Told my Bisness in any Manner But I Hinted To you one Time And you Nuver 
stuttered** one Bit But Turned Very Red And Sed you Was Going to Uncles 
And you Hav not Gon Before you Married*** And I Drop The Subjick For God 
Sed in

(* He had just recovered from a severe illness, and was so carried away 
with the subject he writes as though he had died.
** The young lady had a stoppage in her speech.
*** Here I am at a loss for his meaning; but it is in the copy.)

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His Word Forsak Father And Mother And Cleeve Untoo They Own Wife And if 
All The Twigs was Pens And the Rivers was ink And I Had the Fingers To use 
them I Codent Moore Than Describe The Love That I Have for You* And I Come 
A purpass To Know The Other Time I ware whether My Desires could Be 
Accomplished ore not And I considered I Better Wait Till I See Whether I 
Got Well ore not I Am not The Man I was Before But I am Sout** as Ever and 
Feels as well But it is Gods Blessin that I am Writin this Day.

   "I Want You Read This With A feeling Hart And Tell Mee of your 
Situations That Time Ef God Had call When You in Sickness*** And whether 
You Had That Hope Of Meetin your Sister ore Not in Etteernity ore Not or 
in Heven. I Say So That I have a Hope of Meetin My Three Little Brothers 
if I am Faithful For They Are

(* She was a hard-hearted girl, else she would have been won by this 
eloquent passage.
** Here again I am at a loss for his meaning; but I am bound to follow 
copy.
*** The young lady had been sick; and had previously lost a sister.)

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sure And They are All That are sure And I waunt you To consider That 
Satisfaction is wuth All And I am A poore Man But That Dont Hender Mee 
from Loving you But I waunt you To Consider That Religion is Wuth all I 
Say Farewell if I Never See you Know Moor I Hope To Meete You in Heven 
Whare Evry secret of Hart shall Bee judged And you Know Then That I am 
Tellin Thee Truth And I Say To You That You Are older A nuff To Marry Ef 
you Ever expect To For I Say it is every bodys Duty To Marry if They can 
Suit Theirself And I Say That I can Sute Myself if you Say Sow And I have 
Hearn Folks Say That Love was Stronger Than Deth And I Say That it is So 
For when I Thout Cold Home* I Thout of you And I Druther See you And any 
Body else And I Say To you if you Turn your Face from Mee That you Turn 
yourself from the Dearest And I want you To write To Mee And Tell if What 
I Have Rit Dont Take Why is The Reason

(* Here again I am in the dark; but I am not at liberty to alter. Copy 
must be followed to the letter. I set out to be a faithful copyist, and 
the reader has the result.)

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And I Say To You if What I Have Writ to Dont for Godsake write To Mee And 
Return This May God Bless you Sow Farewell

   E. H. S.

   "To P--F--

   "N.B. You Muss scuse bad Writin and Spillin"



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XVII.--GLASSEL AND THE OWL.
   A SCOTCHMAN, named Glassel, came on a bee-line from the "old country," 
and halted not till he arrived at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains in 
Virginia. He rested a few days, took his gun, and went into the deep 
gorges of the mountain hunting. While he was in one of those deep gorges, 
the habitation of owls, the old king owl of the gorge "let off" in trumpet 
tones.

   Glassel had never heard the like, nor had he seen the like, when he 
looked up into a tree and saw that large head, those big bright eyes, and 
that grave, intelligent countenance. His excited imagination supplied the 
rest. "That," thought he, "is some enchanted or metamorphosed human being--
no ordinary one at that--the work of some wicked spirit." His fruitful 
imagination gave it an intelligent speech, and made it speak to him in 
this inquisitive manner:

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   OWL. Hoo-hoo-hoo-who are you?

   GLASSEL. My name is Glassel, sir, at your service.

   OWL. Hoo-hoo-hoo-who are you?

   GLASSEL. I say, sir, my name is Glassel; and, if I might be so bold, 
what is your name?

   OWL. Hoo-hoo-hoo-who are you?

   GLASSEL. I say, sir, my name is Glassel, and if you'll let me alone I 
will you.

   And Glassel left.



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XVIII.--ONE OF THE PEOPLE.
   I ONCE lived near a town where a friend of mine named King often went, 
and he would uniformly stay all night with me. He lived in St. Clair 
County, Alabama, and by staying with me he accomplished two objects: he 
saved his bill (an important item with him) and enjoyed my company, of 
which he seemed very fond. He was a quiet, harmless creature, and the only 
injury he ever did me was the loss of my time in keeping him company. The 
only pay I could get out of him was to tease him a little.

   We have no right to raise the question why a wise and sovereign Being 
has made some seemingly bad jobs, physically and intellectually. They 
belong to the great family of man, and fill some important sphere, if we 
could see it. Though you may regard them as nothing more than bores, not 
so with the sovereign Maker and Disposer. Now 

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my friend King was what some would call, in the process of man-making, an 
intellectual failure. Here, reader, is the proof. In 1848, when General 
Taylor was nominated for the presidency, Friend King called on me, and, 
after salutations, inquiry was made after the news of the day.

   AUTHOR. What is the news in St. Clair, Mr. King?

   KING. Right smart.

   AUTHOR. Very well, what is it?

   KING. Well, thar's a man over thar runnin' fur President.

   AUTHOR. Who?

   KING. I b'leeve they call him Ginnerl Taylor.

   AUTHOR. Where did you say he lived?

   KING. Over in the back part of St. Clair, ur a little beyant.

   AUTHOR. Is he running pretty well?

   KING. He is that. I b'leeve he's a-gwine ter be elected. Nairly all St. 
Clair's a-gwine fur him.

   AUTHOR. What! old Democratic St. Clair going for General Taylor? But 
who is this man General Taylor, any how?

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   KING. Why, hain't you hearn on him? He's a-bin lickin' out the Maxicans 
fur some time, over thar a leetle beyant St. Clair.

   AUTHOR. Are you for Taylor--as good a Democrat as you?

   KING. I ain't that! not becaze I'm a Dimmicrat, but on anuther account. 
Sich a man can't git my vote.

   AUTHOR. Why not?

   KING. Hain't you hearn what he done to the Maxicans over thar at a big 
spring? Now I ain't no friend to the Maxicans, but they ought to be fout 
farly and be licked out farly, and not treated in sich a onhuman way. Now 
ef Ginnerl Taylor had a fout 'um far, and had a licked 'um up like a cow a-
lickin' salt, I wouldn't a kearn; but the way he done it he can't git my 
vote.

   AUTHOR. How did he do it?

   KING. Thar warn't but one spring o' water in all the country, and 
Ginnerl Taylor got possession o' that, and wouldn't let the Maxicans have 
one drap o' water, which was onhuman. Last the Maxicans couldn't stand it 
no longer, and come runnin' to the spring, like thirsty oxen arter water, 
and 

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Ginnerl Taylor shot 'um down like he would deer. Sich a onhuman man can't 
git my vote fur dog-pelter.

   AUTHOR. Any more news?

   KING. Nothin', on'y I'm gwine to leave Alabama, and a-gwine to Georgy.

   AUTHOR. Why so?

   KING. Taxes is too high; break me up; can't nur won't stand it.

   AUTHOR. What is your annual tax?

   KING. Seventy-five cents. Poll-tax ain't but fifty cents in Georgy.

   Reader, this man is one of the sovereigns of the country. He is a KING; 
the only tyrant that ever ruled over him was Poll-tax. He got rid of 
twenty-five cents of the tyranny of King Poll-tax by moving to "Georgy," 
where he is doubtless congratulating himself on the economy of his 
removal. Should these lines ever fall under his eye, he will see that they 
are "according to Gunter."



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XIX.--A CALL TO THE MINISTRY.
   I HAVE no doubts as to a call to the Christian ministry. I concede all 
that is claimed for it by intelligent orthodox Christians; but as to the 
"call" contained in the story below I shall not decide. My business is to 
detail facts.

   Somebody is always telling stories about the "Hard-shell Baptists." 
Wags have the run on them, and they may as well be content and bear it. 
Here follows a tale told of them not long since. My informant locates it 
in the mountains of North Carolina, where the Hard-shells are quite 
numerous, and where they believe pretty strongly in dreams and voices. In 
the important matter of a call to the ministry, a dream or a voice is a 
thing almost indispensable.

   Now it came to pass that a man by the name of Walker felt himself 
considerably moved to "hold forth," and kept "spreading 

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the fleece," Gideon-like, to ascertain his duty in the important premises. 
To assist him in his pious investigations, he called at a still-house one 
evening to get some of the "good critter." After refreshment, the story 
runs, he left for home, and on the way he felt "moved" to go into a thick 
grove a few hundred yards from the road, "thar to wrastle on the subjeck." 
While he was "wrastlin' " most earnestly, scarcely outdone by the 
patriarch, some one passed the road with a long-eared animal, politely 
called a John Donkey, and John let off, as his race is wont to do 
sometimes, in a most moving and thrilling manner.

   Walker's imagination, by his earnest "wrastlin', " was wrought up to 
great intensity, and he converted Major John's discordant music, which to 
most men resembles the filing of a saw-mill saw, into a call from heaven 
urging him to preach the Gospel. No time was to be lost. He rose from his 
knees duly commissioned, went to his church, and demanded a license, when 
the pastor interrogated him thus:

   PASTOR. Do you believe, Brother Walker, 

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that you are called of God to preach, "as was Aaron?"

   WALKER. Most sartinly I does.

   PASTOR. Give the Church, that is, the bruthering, the proof.

   WALKER. I was mightily diffikilted and troubled on the subjeck, and I 
was detarmined to go inter the woods and wrastle it out.

   PASTOR. That's it, Brother Walker.

   WALKER. And while there wrastlin', Jacob-like, I hearn one ov the 
curiousest voices I uver hearn in all my borned days.

   PASTOR. You are on the right track, Brother Walker. Go on with your 
noration.

   WALKER. I couldn't tell for the life ov me whether the voice was up in 
the air ur down in the sky, it sounded so curious.

   PASTOR. Poor creetur! how he was diffikilted. Go on to norate, Brother 
Walker. How did it appear to sound unto you?

   WALKER. Why, this a-way: "Waw-waw-ker--waw-waw-ker! Go preach, go 
preach, go preach, go preach-ee, go preach-ah, go preach-uh, go preach-ah-
ee-uh-ah-ee."

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   PASTOR. Bruthering and sisters, that's the right sort of a call. Enough 
said, Brother Walker. That's none ov yer college calls, nor money calls. 
No doctor ov divinity uver got sich a call as that. Brother Walker must 
have license, fur sartin and fur sure.

   The license was granted, the story goes, and Walker is now, doubtless, 
making the mountains ring with his stentorian lungs.



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XX.--OUTDONE.
   IT is difficult to beat an experienced man at his own game; it 
sometimes happens, however. Methodist preachers--and no harm is intended--
have ever been fond of excitement at their religious meetings. The 
extremes at such meetings are allowed for the sake of the overbalance of 
good which is accomplished. It will not do, they contend, to check 
extravagances in shouting and crying, for fear of doing harm to those 
properly exercised.

   An "old stager" in camp-meetings once told me of an incident which 
clearly outdid him. He had encountered many camp-meeting scenes which were 
"hard pills," but he stood up to them all with a good grace, except this 
one.

   He and an old yoke-fellow, his story goes, held a camp-meeting in 
rather a rude section, where all the ideas of the people had come 

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to them in a ludicrous and crude form. They were Nature's children, and 
easily excited, and they had quite "a stir." In their prayers for mercy, 
prompted by their convictions of sin, they used the common language and 
imagery of the country, and they used the same vernacular and imagery in 
their shouts of triumph.

   The meeting waxed hotter and hotter from the beginning, and on Sunday 
night it "boiled clean over." My friend, the narrator, stated that the 
"alter" was full of "mourners" and "new converts." He concluded he would 
go into the "packed crowd," and see what they were doing. He entered, and 
found one man sitting flat on the ground, in great distress, swinging his 
head back and forward, crying for mercy in the following earnest manner:

   "Jeeminny! O Jeeminny! what shall I do?" Rising from his seat, and 
going through the crowd for the woods, he continued: "Jeeminny Crimony! O 
Jeeminny Crimony! have massy on me, a poor missuble cuss of a sinner!"

   My friend let him go scooting for the 

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woods, and continued his travels a little farther, and found a distressed 
woman seated in the same manner, and putting up her petitions very 
pathetically thus:

   "O-yes Moses! O-yes Moses, Moses! what shall I do? O-yes Moses, Moses! 
have massy on me, a poor devil ov a creetur!"

   "No better fast," thought my friend, and he passed on beyond the 
"mourners" to see how it was going with the "young converts." He did so, 
and heard them interrogate each other as to their hopes and prospects. It 
ran as below:

   "How do you feel, Sister A--? Are you traveling purty fast to Caanian?"

   "Five hundred miles ahead ov any thing on this grit! Gloree! gloree! 
Thar ain't nothin' on yeth to be compared unto it--honey, shugar, 
sweetnin' ov ev'ry kind, ashcakes, cracklin' bread, corn dumplin's, 
biscuits, pot-pies, poun'-cakes--pshaw! I won't compare any thing yethly 
with it."

   My friend by this time was fast becoming nervous, but concluded he 
would move onward a little farther, and encountered two 

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other happy spirits, and heard their questions and answers, which, put in 
"prent," stand thus:

   "How do you feel, Sister B--?"

   "Happee! happee! Yes, horse-fly, I'm happy, horse-fly, certain--happy 
as a 'possum up a 'simmon-tree ur a 'coon in a holler. Glory! gloree!"

   This was the last dose my friend could bear. He went to his brother 
preacher, who had seen similar sights, and had heard the like sounds, and 
proposed to dismiss the meeting for the night, which was readily agreed 
to, and both acknowledged themselves outdone for once.



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XXI.--STRAW! STRAW! MORE STRAW 
HERE!
   A DENOMINATION of Christians is not to be blamed and held responsible 
for the bad conduct, freaks, and eccentricities of a few of its members. 
They all have their "black sheep"--freakish and eccentric members. The 
Methodist and Baptist, being the largest denominations, and having more to 
do with the masses, of course have more of the above-named material, hence 
some rather ludicrous and amusing scenes sometimes occur at their 
meetings. It is but charitable and right to conclude that all the parties 
are in sober earnest, even in their strangest freaks. It is their way of 
doing things.

   These things being premised, I proceed to my straw story.

   Somewhere in Middle Tennessee, in the past, a Methodist camp-meeting 
was held, 

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and, while all the tents were good and well supplied with straw (a very 
necessary thing in tents and arbors), the arbor, and particularly the 
altar, had not been well provided with the article. Things dragged pretty 
heavily till Sunday night. There had been plenty of straw for what few 
"seekers" had come into the altar up to that time; but on Sunday night the 
preacher "cast the net on the right side," and scores came up, the altar 
was crowded, and what little straw was in the altar was occupied, and the 
others had to take the ground or stand up.

   There was an old "amen" Methodist, of the old "shad-belly coat" tribe 
(now extinct). He saw the sad state of things, became nervous, and roared 
out at the top of his cataract voice, drowning the singing, exhortations, 
shoutings, every thing--

   "Straw! straw! straw here! Bruthren, more straw here! A hundred souls 
lost here to-night for the want of straw! Run to the tents and fetch 
straw, else the blood of souls will be required of you! Straw, you 
careless souls! straw here! You mout 

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a had straw anough at fust, O ye of little faith!"

   He gave them no rest till the straw was brought; but how the thing went 
the deponent saith not.



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XXII.--TARE AND TRET: AN ALABAMA 
TALE.
   THIS is a rule in all our arithmetics, which originated in commerce, 
and for the benefit of commercial men. Tare, in commerce, means the 
allowance or abatement of a certain weight or quantity from the weight or 
quantity of a commodity sold in a cask, chest, bag, or the like, which the 
seller makes to the buyer on account of the weight of such cask, chest, or 
bag; or the abatement may be on the commodity sold. Tret, in commerce, 
means an allowance to purchasers, for waste or refuse matter, of four per 
cent. on the weight of commodities.

   Now it isn't every body that understands these commercial rules, and I 
shall not stop to discuss the justness of them. I vouch for the above 
definitions, for they are taken verbatim from Webster. But all men do not 
see Webster nor our arithmetics, nor do they 

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"cipher" as far as "Tare and Tret." "Thar ain't no use in cipherin' as fur 
as that," says the uneducated farmer.

   On account of this neglect, a one-cotton-bale man, of Butler County, 
Alabama, got "sloshin mad" in Greenville, the capital of said county.

   About the time the Montgomery and Pensacola Railroad reached 
Greenville, a copperas-breeches, piny-woods man "druv" into town with his 
bale of cotton, well packed and "neat as a pin," and wished to make it buy 
a great variety of things--a little of the "good critter" among the rest. 
He soon found a purchaser, for cotton was bearing a good price. The cotton 
was weighed, the money was "forked over," and a small deduction made for 
the "tare."

   ONE-BALE. Tar! whar the devil is thar any tar on it? Thar warn't a tar-
bucket in a mile of the gin-screw.

   MERCHANT. Hold still, friend; we merchants always deduct a certain 
amount for the tare, which is to indemnify us against loss by the 
attachment of extraneous matter to the bales.

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   ONE-BALE. Bull and Injens! The devil you do! By hoky! thar ain't no tar 
nur any o'yer extranus matter on it. It's jist as clean as the old 'oman's 
bed-quilt. You can't swindle this boy; he's walked too many chalk-lines 
fur that.

   MERCHANT. I tell you, friend, the tare must be deducted. Every thing in 
trade must be made whole, and done up according to rule.

   ONE-BALE. Jubiter Ammon! Mebbe you mean that my bale is tore, by you 
sayin' it must be made whole. Dem it! whar's yer eyes, man? Thar ain't a 
hole in it, nur a tored place. Now what you got to say, Mr. Tighty?

   MERCHANT. This much: here's your money. You are the tightest customer 
I've run up against lately.

   ONE-BALE. You mout a knowed that ef you'd a bin smart, and jist a 
peeped at my physmahogany. I've gi'n ye one more kink.

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XXIII.--HAM RACHEL, OF ALABAMA.
   EUFAULA, Barbour County, Alabama, is a beautiful city, on the banks of 
the deep-channeled and rapid Chattahoochee, and in 1845, the time of the 
incidents of my story, was the mart of commerce for Barbour, Pike, Coffee, 
Dale, and Henry counties in Alabama, and of several counties contiguous in 
Georgia.

   These Alabama counties were mostly settled by a poor, plain, hardy, 
robust, and honest people, many of them wholly uneducated. All they cared 
for was "to make buckle and tongue meet" by raising stock, a few bales of 
cotton, and a little corn for bread. Stock--cow stock--being the chief 
commodity, they were denominated "cow counties."

   Now, mind, these were the first settlers. Eufaula was a great city with 
them, like Paris, London, and New York to most folks. When a "squatter," 
as some naughtily called 

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them, carried his one, two, or three bales to market in Eufaula, the "ole 
'omun" must needs go, and maybe one or two of the "childering," to see the 
"big town." Hence you could see the ox-carts coming in, the "ole man" 
driving, and the "ole 'omun" sitting on the top of the one, two, or three 
bales, and the "childering" walking. The "ole 'omun" has brought with her 
several extra matters for sale: butter, eggs, socks, etc. Then for 
shopping after the "cotting" was sold. Hundreds of little notions must be 
bought, not forgetting a jug, at least, of the "good critter," for 
"ailments and sich things."

   Of course Eufaula exerted a great influence over these counties in all 
things, particularly in politics. As the town went in politics, so did the 
country. Their favorite merchants were their oracles in these matters.

   To illustrate:

   I was in Eufaula in 1848, shortly after the candidates for the 
presidency, Cass and Taylor, were nominated. I was in the storehouse of 
Mr. G--, a Whig, when there 

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came in one of the "sovereigns," a Democrat, a tall, stoop-shouldered, 
sallow-faced, meek, quiet, teachable-looking man, with copperas "britches" 
(no mistake), and a homemade cotton shirt, constituting his entire dress. 
His copperas was "gallused" up as high as his fork would admit, which 
nearly lifted him off the ground. His rustic looks and movements would 
have attracted the attention of the most unobserving man on earth. Mr. G. 
gave him a seat, which he accepted, and sat down characteristically. When 
seated, he looked to Mr. G. with looks indicating, "Speak, for thy servant 
heareth. I am as a young bird; cram any thing down me you choose."

   After drawing a long breath or two in a peculiar way, he said,

   "What do the people say about here in regard of the nomination for 
president, Mr. G.?"

   MR. G. We are all for Taylor; we know him; he has fought our battles; 
he is one of the people; if he were to come to your cabin, he would be at 
home, drink buttermilk, eat bread and butter and yam potatoes 

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with you. As to General Cass, he's been doing nothing all his life but 
scooting canoes up and down the Western waters, and knows nothing about 
statesmanship. Taylor is the man for the people; he'll be elected sure.

   COPPERAS. Yes, I've hearn ov Ginral Taylor; he has fout the Maxicans, 
and licked 'um all up, like a cow licks up salt, and has kivered the 
nation with glory, like a bedquilt kivers a bed; but as to this man, Cass, 
I nuver hearn ov him afore. I didn't know thar was sich a man treadin' 
sole-leather.

   If Mr. Copperas did not see a merchant who was a Democrat before he 
left, he certainly voted for Taylor.

   These things premised, it was my "manifest destiny" to spend a night in 
Barbour County in 1845, I believe--a night never to to be forgotten. It 
was on the main road between Clayton, the county seat, and Eufaula, the 
mart of commerce. A little while before sundown I called at a very good-
looking house, and requested to stay all night as a traveler. Permission 
was granted by the lady of the house. I saw no man. I soon 

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learned that John M'D-- resided there, who had gone that day to Eufaula, 
and would soon return. I congratulated myself on my good fortune in 
getting to a quiet, good house, where I could take a refreshing night's 
rest. But alas! to moralize a little, how soon are our best, most sanguine 
hopes blasted! A man knoweth not what a night may bring forth, as well as 
a day.

   I seated myself in the portico facing the public road, got hold of an 
old newspaper, almanac, or something of the kind, with which to amuse 
myself a little, but it was not long before I saw some half dozen wagons 
coming from toward Eufaula. They halted at the gate, came in with great 
freedom and boldness, drew water from the well, and watered their teams, 
as though it belonged to them, interspersing their labors with waggish 
remarks and blasphemy, not even respecting the presence of the lady, Mrs. 
M'D--. They then commenced popping their whips about in the yard loud 
enough to shock the nerves of nervous people, and then asked the lady if 
she "mout have some chickens fur sale. We hain't bin 

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eatin' nothin' but dried beef so long we've wore ur corn-grinders down to 
the gums, and we want suthin' else by way of change."

   "We've none for sale," replied Mrs. M'D--.

   "No chickens!" said they. "Thar goes a durned old rooster, old as 
Mathuzlum, yit we'll buy him ruther than wear out ur teeth on dried beef. 
Won't you sell him? You've sartinly got uther roosters to sarve and take 
keer ov yer hens, hain't you?"

   How the conference ended I can not tell, for I left, and retreated to 
another part of the house; but one thing I do know: those wagoners camped 
in the lane near the house.

   As night came on I saw that the uneasiness of Mrs. M'D--increased. She 
would go to the door and look toward Eufaula, uttering many nervous sighs. 
I suspected the cause, though I did not know that her husband loved 
"sperrits." Some time during the night I heard a crowd coming in at the 
gate. One peculiar voice, in short sentences, kept up a continual din, 
upbraiding and cursing "ole John fur gittin so ongentlemanly dog drunk." 
Soon as the lady heard 

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that, she understood it, and covered her face in her hands and sighed 
deeply. Then came the clambering of five or six men in at the door, no one 
speaking but that reproachful sententious voice.

   I left and went into another room. Soon that tormenting voice, which I 
soon learned was Ham Rachel's, sang out,

   "Here, boys, put the ole drunkard fool in the bed. Ef Ham Rachel hadn't 
a brought him home, he'd a now a bin a-lyin' in the streets ov Eufauly, ur 
lyin' along the road, a-keepin' company with hogs. The ole cuss, he nuver 
can go to Eufauly 'thout gittin' full as a bee on chamber-lye, though Ham 
Rachel is allers 'zortin' him like a preacher not to fill his cussed guts 
so full. Here, Mrs. M'D--," addressing himself to the lady, "here is yer 
old, poor, unfortinate husband, which Ham Rachel has had the goodness to 
fetch home so offen agin and agin. The Lord on'y knows how offen Ham will 
have ter fetch him home yit. Some ov these times, when Ham Rachel ain't 
about, ole Nick will git him, and will pour hot lead down his cussed 
throat instid o' liquor. 

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Ham won't go down to ole Nick's deadnin to see ter him," etc., etc.

   Thus went on Ham Rachel almost endlessly. All the difference I could 
see was "ole John" was "a few" the drunkest "Injun" in the crowd that 
accompanied him home.

   I saw I was caught in a bad box, and resolved to make the best of it. 
My course was soon determined upon; I would have nothing to do with the 
crowd, and would have nothing to say to them; I would keep my own room. 
With this resolution I went to the table. "Ole John's" attendants must 
have their suppers; they were entitled to it, for they had brought the old 
man home. Ham Rachel, being "chief cook and bottle-washer" of the crowd, 
must, of course, have his supper.

   After grace was said, "God bless us and ur vittuls," Ham acting parson, 
being all hungry, we attacked the table with great energy. At the first 
assault there was no politeness displayed in helping each other. Ham 
generalized thus:

   "Ev'ry man fur hisself, and God for all. 

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Help yerself, stranger; you look like you mout be a man what can weed yer 
own row, clean at that. I dun-no whar yer live, but down here in these 
piny woods uvry man waits on hisself."

   Nothing more was said till the edge of our appetites was blunted; but 
Ham all the time kept casting his inquisitive, restless eyes upon me, 
trying to read me like a book. At last he grew a little polite, and handed 
me a plate of fried yam potatoes.

   "Take some 'taters, stranger; mighty plenty down here in these sand-
hills. The on'y adjections Ham Rachel has to 'um, they make him a little 
too cholicified; but a little number six will bring the wind from you with 
a dreadful racket. My old 'omun allers uses yerbs, but yerbs ain't strong 
enough fur Ham Rachel."

   On we went with our heavy assaults upon the table, demolishing whole 
dishes, "smitin' them with the aige ov the soord," as Ham expressed it.

   "Stranger," said Ham, "take some butter; that's half ur livin' in this 
cattle country. It would be mighty tight times with 

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us here ef it warn't fur milk and butter, cow-peas and yam 'taters. We'd 
look like the peaked eend uv nothin'; though the murrin's bin mighty bad 
among cattle lately; but Ham Rachel has great reasons to be thankful, fur 
he hain't lost more'n twenty-five ur thirty head, big and little."

   We "swept the platter," and supper ended. I went to my room, determined 
to maintain my dignity and secrecy, hard as Ham was trying to read me. Ham 
followed, determined to take me prisoner, read my history, and get my 
whereabouts, latitude and longitude. We sat down; I purposely looked mum 
and dignified. Ham's curiosity was aroused; he could bear it no longer.

   "Stranger," said he, "you're too durned stiff and pertic'ler. Ham 
Rachel loves fur a man to be as plain as an old shoe, and as thick as cow-
peas in thar hull. I've got to know suthin' about yer. When Ham Rachel (I 
wish you knowed him) begins a thing, he carries it through, ur breaks the 
swingle-tree."

   This was prefatory; here comes the main attack:

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   HAM. Ef I mout be so bold, whar do you live, stranger?

   STRANGER. I "mout" live in New York, New Orleans, Mobile, or 
Montgomery, or any where else. That's my business.

   HAM. By golly! that's durned smart. But, stranger, that answer don't co-
robber-rate to yer looks. That ain't you. Ham Rachel won't answer a 
stranger that a-way. But I'll try yer agin, sence ye'r so ding snappish on 
that pint. Ef I mout be so bold, what sort o' biz'ness do yer foller, 
stranger?

   STRANGER. That's too bold; but since you must know, it is my "biz'ness" 
to follow my nose--a pretty long one at that, you see.

   HAM. Wusser and wusser. Durn it, I'll drap you. You're as snappish as a 
par o' sheep-shears.

   Ham left, and went to the camp of the wagoners, who all the time had 
kept up every variety of noise, laughter, and vulgar witticisms. He had 
gone but a few minutes when "ole John" became very sick, and commenced 
throwing up his "rot-gut whisky." The throes were terribly painful; a 
human Vesuvius was in dreadful volcanic action. At 

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every throe the lava would fall upon the floor like a dashing cataract, 
accompanied with deep-toned groans. As the action in the crater went on in 
rapid succession, it deepened and widened, and the streams of lava became 
more overwhelming and noisy. The bed creaked loudly, and every eruption 
looked as if it would throw him head foremost out of his resting-place.

   Ham heard the noise of the volcano, and thought he would now lead the 
stranger out in conversation. He came running into my room with gestures 
the most wild and frantic, and burst forth:

   "Stranger! stranger! do yer hear that ole devil pukin' out his innards? 
I wouldn't keer a dried-apple durn ef he would puke hisself inside 
outurds. He nuver will listen ter Ham Rachel, which nuver was cotch in 
sich a fix. Ham drinks his dram and pays his bob in all licker crowds, but 
he allers travels and keeps what he 'posits in his innards. He loves 
licker too well to be throwin' it away like ole John; besides, he's too 
savin' a man ter be wastin' his vittuls in that a-way. He may puke up his 
stockin's 

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afore I'll go a-near him. Poor Miss M'D--! She'd no biz'ness a-marryin'--a 
'omun ov her age--marryin' sich a dried-up ole cracklin'."

   I still maintained my gravity, and Ham left and went to the noisy 
wagoners, who kept up their infernal din. The rest of the company--four--
who came home with "ole John" and Ham, had lain down on pallets, and were 
running against each other in the snoring line as if some great prize were 
staked. No renowned artist, graphic pen, nor gifted music composer can 
describe the struggles and contests of these four rival snorers; of 
course, I shall not attempt it.

   Before Ham left he gave them a blast thus:

   "What the devil are you arter here? a-sawin' gourds, grindin' coffee, 
filin' saws, beatin' tin pans, blowin' horns, beatin' drums, blowin' 
fifes, shootin' pistols, and so forth, and so forth, breakin' the stranger 
ov his rest? I'd have a little breedin'."

   I lay down about midnight, exposed to the cross-fire of three 
discordant batteries--the snorers, the wagoners, and the groanings 

Page 262

of "ole John"--my nerves being none the better for the contiguity. I dozed 
a little, but was soon roused by a new sound. It was at the wagoners' 
camp. It was the voice, tones, and intonations of a Hard-shell Baptist 
preacher. The old "heavenly tone" rang loudly "in the stilly night." It 
had the suck-in and the blow-out of the breath, the uh! and the ah!

   What! thought I, has some Greatheart of a preacher found those 
scapegraces and commenced a thundering sermon upon them? "Give it to them 
thick and heavy," said I to myself.

   I was not long in suspense, for here came Ham running into the room (a 
dim light was burning), puffing and blowing, with eyes and hands upturned 
toward heaven with holy horror and indignation.

   "Stranger! stranger! O stranger!" he shouted, "do you hear that? That's 
no preacher, stranger; they're on'y a-mockin' preachin'. They're mockin' 
old Eldridge, who used ter hold forth in these deadnins, but run away and 
went to Texas. Afore he run away he baptized these very rascals 

Page 263

who is a-mockin' him. Ham Rachel seen it with these peepers o' his, and 
what he sees he sees. I've hearn 'um shout, sing hymns and sperritul songs 
with ole Eldridge. Durn ole Eldridge! (Lord forgive Ham!), he's no better 
nur them, but that's no reason fur them to make fun o' religion. Ham 
Rachel (poor devil!) is no better nur he ought to be; but, thanks ter 
Jubiter, he nuver made fun o' religion. Lord a massy on us, stranger! do 
yer hear 'um at it yit? I'm afeered the yeth will open her bowills and 
swaller 'um up, like it done Korum, Datum, and Byhum in the willerness. 
Ham Rachel's not a-gwine a-near 'um agin this night. Ham don't intend to 
be revolved in thar drefful catistrough; he'll fly up to roost right here."

   Down he lay on one of the pallets, and was soon contending for the 
prize among the snorers. About this time the preacher at the camp ended 
his services, and all went to sleep and to snoring except "ole John" and 
myself. "Ole John" kept up a groaning all night.

   In the morning we were all a stupid set--scarcely had energy to wash 
dirty hands and 

Page 264

faces--until the jugs were resorted to. "Ole John" and I fared the worst: 
he was too sick to drink, and I was a rigid teetotaller.

   Breakfast came on. The attack on the table was feeble compared with the 
assault the evening before. On leaving, all were "dead-heads" except 
myself. The rest had paid their way by bringing "ole John" home. I paid my 
"fare" and left, but not alone. Not I. It has ever been my destiny, if 
there is a bore in reach, he will find me, and cling to me like one's 
shadow.

   While paying my bill, Ham shouldered his two jugs and prepared for 
traveling.

   "Stranger," he said, "the roads forks jist down yender; one goes to 
Eufauly, and t'other by Ham Rachel's. As Ham's a-gwine home, he'll go that 
fur with yer, and show yer the right road."

   Suiting action to words, off he "piked" for the gate. I mounted my 
horse, which had fared better than his master, and on we went, Ham all the 
way letting fly a diarrhoea of words and sentences, till we arrived at the 
"fork" of Ham's road. Ham halted. I then took a good parting look at him. 

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Page 267

There he stood, a lean, gaunt-looking specimen of freakish humanity, about 
five feet eight inches high, stoop-shouldered, longarmed, and knock-kneed, 
with a peaked dish face, little black restless eyes, long keen nose, and 
big ears. His dress was cotton pants, dyed black with copperas and maple 
bark, a coarse cotton shirt, collar large and open, no vest, coat, nor 
socks. His hat was old, broad-brimmed, and slouched down over his 
shoulders behind, and turned up before. His pants were "gallused" to their 
utmost capacity, leaving considerable space between his knees and the tops 
of his old brogan shoes; not having on "drawers," of course the skin was 
exposed. His two jugs were part of his dress. They hung across his 
shoulders, before and behind, suspended to a wide black greasy leather 
strap, nearly down to his knees before and his calves behind. Thus this 
strange figure stood before me, independent as a wood-sawyer, and made his 
parting speech:

   "Stranger," said Ham, "that's the Eufauly road. But listen" (pointing 
down the road). "Do yer hear that cow-bell? Thar 

Page 268

ain't less nur two hundred cattle arter that bell. That's Ham Rachel's cow-
bell, and them's his cattle" (giving me a significant look and wink). 
"Stranger, give out yer Eufauly trip to-day, and go home with Ham Rachel, 
and stay a long week. He can treat yer like a king on the best these 
deadnins affords. Do yer see these jugs? then thar's more in Eufauly. 
Thar's plenty ov fiddles, gals, and boys 'bout here. I don't know whether 
ye'r married ur not: no odds; yer wife won't know it, and the gals won't 
keer a durn. You may sing, pray, dance, drink, ur do any thing else at Ham 
Rachel's. He's none ov yer hide-bound, long-faced cattle, which strains at 
gnats and swallers camels, as ole Eldridge--durn him!--allers said in his 
preachin'. Come, stranger, the world wasn't made in a day--took six, I 
think--come go wi' me."

   "I thank you kindly, sir," I replied. "Your generosity is great; but my 
business is quite pressing, and I must be going. Good-morning to you, sir; 
I am much obliged."

   "Good-by, stranger," replied Ham. "The 

Page 269

Lord be wi' you. You'll find but few sich men in yer travils as Ham 
Rachel."

   Ham took his road and I took mine, and that is the last I have seen or 
heard of him.