The Puddleford Papers: or, Humors of the West

Aunt Sonora gave it as her mind, that "the Squire ought to be pretty skeery how he married anybody, kase if he got one of them flipper-ter-gibbet sort o' wimmin, she'd turn the whole house enside out, and he'd be one of the most miserablest of all men." She said, "if he know'd what was good for himself, he'd jest keep clear of all the young gals that were fussing and figeting round him, and go right in for some old stand-by of a woman, that know'd how to take the brunt of things – but, lors a-me," continued Aunt Sonora, "there's no doing nothing with these old widowers – they're all like my Uncle Jo, who married in a hurry, and repented arterwards – and the poor dear old soul arn't had a minute's peace since."

The Swipeses and Beagles, who, it will be recollected, belonged to a clique that had, in times past, warred against Longbow & Co., "tho't it would be shameful for the Squire to marry at all – it would be an insult agin the memory of poor old Mrs. Longbow, who was dead and gone." (Some people, you know, reader, abuse the living, but defend the dead.) "And if the Squire should marry, they should think, for their part, that she'd rise up out of her grave, and haunt him! She could never sleep easy, if she know'd that the Squire had got some other woman, who was eating her preserves, and wearing out her clothes, and lording it over the house like all possess'd."

Other opinions were expressed by other persons – in fact, the Squire's widowhood was the great concern of Puddleford. "He was so well on to do," as Aunt Sonora used to call it, that he was considered a great "catch."

After a few weeks of sorrow, the Squire himself really began to entertain notions of matrimony. It is true he had passed the age of sixty, and it required a great effort to get up a sufficient amount of romance to carry out such an enterprise. Symptoms began, however, to wax strong. The first alarming indication was his attendance at church. The Squire had always been a kind of heathen in this respect, and had for many years set a poor example; but people, who want to marry, will go to church. Whether this is done to get up a reputation, or simply to take a survey of the unappropriated female stock yet remaining on hand, I cannot say.

The Squire was "fixed up" amazingly, the first time I saw him at church. His hair had been cut, and thoroughly greased. His shirt-collar covered his ears; and his boots shone like a mirror. Aunt Sonora said he looked "enymost as good as new." Aunt Graves was in the choir that day, and she sang as she never sang before. She blowed all the heavy strains of music – strains that lifted her on her toes – directly into Squire Longbow's face. Whether Aunt Graves had any design in this, is more than I can say; but I noticed some twinges about the Squire's lips, and a sleepy wink of the eye, that looked a little like magnetism. It was ridiculous, too, that such an old castle should be stormed by music.

But the Squire exhibited other symptoms of matrimony. He grew more pompous in his decisions, disposed of cases more summarily, and quoted law Latin more frequently. It was about this time that he talked about the "nux vomica," instead of the "vox Populi." He used to "squash" proceeding's before the case was half presented; and, in the language of Turtle, "he tore around at a great rate." Turtle said, "the old Squire was getting to be an old fool, and he was goin' to have him married, or dismissed from office – there warn't no livin' with him."

There were a great many anxious mothers about Puddleford who were very desirous of forming an alliance with the Longbow family. Even Mrs. Swipes, as much as she openly oposed the Squire's marriage in general, secretly hoped a spark might be struck up between him and her daughter, Mary Jane Arabella Swipes; and Mrs. Swipes was in the habit of sending her daughter over to the Squire's house, to inquire of him "to know if she couldn't do sunthin' for him in his melancholy condition;" and Sister Abigail went down several times to "put things to rights," and was as kind and obliging, and attentive to all the Squire's wants, as ever Mrs. Longbow was in her palmiest days. On these occasions, Sister Abigail used frequently to remind the Squire of "his great bereavement, and what an angel of a wife he had lost; and that things didn't look as they used to do, when she was around, and she didn't wonder he took on so, when the poor thing died."

But, reader, Ike Turtle had ordered things otherwise. He was determined to strike up a match between the Squire and Aunt Graves. So Ike made a special visit to Aunt Graves one evening, for the purpose of "surveying and sounding along the coast, to see how the waters laid, and how the old soul would take it," to use his language.

I have already given an outline of Aunt Graves; but I will now say further, that she never had an offer of matrimony in her whole life. She was what is termed a "touchy" old maid. She professed to hate men, and affected great distress of mind when thrown into their society. Aunt Graves was just ironing down the seams of a coat that she had finished, when Ike called.

Ike opened the conversation by reminding Aunt Graves that "she was livin' along kinder lonely like."

"Lonely 'nough, I s'pose," she replied, snappishly.

"Don't you never have the blues, and get sorter obstrep'rous?"

Aunt Graves "didn't know as she did."

"Why, in the name of old Babylon, don't you marry?"

"Marry? me marry – marry a man – a great awful man!" and the iron flew through the seams like lightning.

"Yes," continued Ike, "marry – marry a man – why, woman, you are getting as old and yellow as autumn leaves. What have you been livin' for? – you've broken all the laws of Scripter inter pieces – and keep on breakin' on 'em – adding sin unto sin, and transgression unto transgression, and the thing's got-ter be stopped. Now, Aunt Graves, what do you think – there's Squire Longbow, as desolate as Sodom, and he's got-ter have a woman, or the old man'll run as crazy as a loon a-thinkin' 'bout his household affairs; and you know how to cook, and to wash, and to iron, to make pickles and soap; and then, you're a proper age – what say?"

Aunt Graves ran to the fire, plunged her goose into the ashes, and gave the coals a smart stir. She then dropped down in her large rocking-chair, leaned her cheek upon her elbow, fixed her eyes upon the floor, and came near going off into hysterics.

Ike dashed a little water into Aunt Graves' face, and she revived. After having gained strength, she replied in substance to Ike's query in a very languishing, die-away air: "She couldn't say – she didn't know – if it was a duty – if she could really believe it was a duty – if she was called on to fill poor old dead-and-gone Mrs. Longbow's place – folks were born inter the world to do good, and she had so far been one of the most unprofitablest of sarvants; but she could never marry on her own account – "

"In other words," exclaimed Ike, cutting her short, "you'll go it."

Aunt Graves agreed to "reflect on't."

It was not long after this consultation that Mrs. Swipes began to "smell a rat," as she said. She commanded Mary Jane Arabella "never to darken the doors of that old hog, Longbow, agin; and as for that female critter, Graves, she'd got a husband living down at the East'ard, and they'd all get into prison for life, the first thing they know'd."

Sister Abigail declared, "she'd have Aunt Graves turned out of church, if she married a man who warn't a member." This was a great deal for Sister Abigail to say, for she had been the bosom friend of Aunt Graves: "people out of the church, and people in the church, shouldn't orter jine themselves together – it was agin Scripter, and would get everything inter a twist."

But Ike Turtle had decreed that the marriage should go on. He even went so far as to indite the first letter of the Squire's to Aunt Graves. This letter, which Ike exhibited to his friends, as one of his best literary specimens, was indeed a curiosity. I presume there is nothing else like it on the face of the globe. It opened by informing Aunt Graves that since the "loss of his woman, he had felt very grievous-like, and couldn't fix his mind onto anything – that the world didn't seem at all as it used to do – that he and his woman had liv'd in peace for thirty years, and the marriage state was nat'ral to him – that he had always lik'd Aunt Graves since the very first time he see'd her, and so did his woman too;" and many more declarations of similar import, and it was signed "J. Longbow, Justice of the Peace," and sealed too, like his legal processes, that his dignity might command, even if his person did not win, the affections of this elderly damsel.

Aunt Graves surrendered – and all this within two months after the death of Mrs. Longbow. The Squire cast off his weeds, and made violent preparations for matrimony; and on a certain night – I shall never forget it – the affair came off.

There was a great gathering at the Squire's – a sort of general invitation had been extended far and near – the Swipeses and Beagles, Aunt Sonora, and all. Great preparations had been made in the way of eatables. The Squire was rigged in a new suit of "home-made," (made by Mrs. Longbow, too, in her life-time), – a white vest, and he wore a cotton bandana neck-handkerchief, with heavy bows, that buried his chin, and a pair of pumps and clouded blue stockings. Aunt Graves' dress cannot be described. She was a mass of fluttering ribbons, and she looked as though she would take wings and fly away.

Bigelow Van Slyck and Ike Turtle conducted the marriage ceremony – the one took the ecclesiastical, the other the civil management. When the couple were ready, Turtle sat down in front of them with the statutes under his arm, with Bigelow at his right hand.

Turtle examined the statutes amid profound silence for some time, turning down one leaf here and another there, until he found himself thoroughly prepared for the solemn occasion. Finally, he arose, and with a gravity that no man ever put on before or since, exclaimed, —

"Miss Graves, hold up your right hand and swear."

Miss Graves said "she was a member of the church, and dar'sent swear."

Ike said it was "legal swearing he wanted, 'cording to the staterts – not the wicked sort – he wanted her to swear that she was over fourteen years of age – hadn't got no husband living, nowhere – warn't goin' to practise no fraud nor nothin' on Squire Longbow – and that she'd jest as good a right to get married now as she ever had."

Miss Graves looked blank.

Squire Longbow said "he'd run the risk of the fourteen years of age and the fraud, and finally he would of the whole on't. The staterts was well enough, but it warn't to be presumed that a justice of the peace would run agin 'em. Some folks didn't know 'em – he did."

Ike said "there was something another in the statert about wimin's doing things 'without any fear or compulsion of anybody,' and he guessed he'd take Miss Graves into another room, and examine her separately and apart from her intended husband." This was a joke of Turtle's.

The Squire said "that meant married wimin – arter the ceremony was over, that ere would be very legal and proper."

Mrs. Swipes said, "for her part, she thought the oath or-ter be put – it would be an awful thing to see a poor cretur forced into marriage."

Sister Abigail thought so, too.

Aunt Sonora hoped there wouldn't be nothin' did wrong, "so people could take the law on 'em."

Turtle said, "that they needn't any on 'em fret their gizzards —he was responsible for the la' of the case."

Bigelow then rose, and told the parties to jine hands, and while they were jined, he wanted the whole company to sing a psalm.

The psalm was sung.

Bigelow then commenced the wedding process. "Squire Longbow," exclaimed Bigelow – "this is your second wife, and some folks say the third, and I hope you feel the awful position in which you find yourself."

The Squire said "he felt easy and resigned – he'd gone inter it from respect to his woman who was now no more."

"You do promise to take this ere woman, to eat her, and drink her, and keep her in things to wear, so long as you and she lives."

"I do that very thing," responded the Squire.

"And you, on your part," continued Bigelow, turning to Aunt Graves, "promise to behave yourself and obey the Squire in all things."

Aunt Graves said "she would, Providence permitting."

This marriage ceremony, I believe, is nearly word for word.

"Then," said Turtle, "wheel yourselves into line, and let's have a dance;" and drawing out his fiddle the whole crowd, in five minutes, were tearing down at a most furious rate; and when I departed, at about midnight, the storm was raging still higher, the whiskey and hot water circulated freely, Turtle looked quite abstracted about his eyes, and his footsteps were growing more and more uncertain, Bulliphant's face shone like a full moon, the voices of the females, a little stimulated, were as noisy and confused as those of Babel, and your humble servant – why, he walked home as straight as a gun – of course he did – and was able to distinguish a hay-stack from a meeting-house, anywhere along the road.

CHAPTER XII

The Group at "The Eagle." – Entrée of a Stranger. – His Opinion of the Tavern. – Bulliphant wakes up. – Can't pick Fowls after Dark. – Sad Case of Mother Gantlet and Dr. Teazle. – Mr. Farindale begins to unbend. – Whistle & Sharp, and their Attorney. – Good Pay. – Legal Conversation. – Going Sniping. – Great Description of the Animal. – The Party start, Farindale holding the Bag. – "Waiting for Snipe." – Farindale's Solitary Return. – His Interview with Whistle & Sharp. – Suing a Puddleford Firm. – Relief Laws. – Farindale gets his Execution. – The Puddleford Bank. – The Appraisers. – Proceeds of the Execution.

Late in the fall of the year, early one evening, Turtle, Longbow, Bates, the "Colonel," Swipes, and Beagle were congregated at the Eagle. Turtle and Bates were engaged at a game of checkers, and each one, fast-anchored at his right hand, had a glass of whiskey and water, or, as Turtle called it, "a little diluted baldface." Their mouths were pierced with a pipe, in the left hand corner, which hung loosely and rakishly down, besmearing their laps with ashes, and now and then they puffed forth a column of smoke. The "Colonel," Longbow, and the other Puddlefordians were ranged round the fire. The Colonel sat in a rickety chair, his feet hoisted up on the mantel on a line with his nose, and his shoulders hitched over the ends of its posts; the Squire was busily looking into the glowing coals, his hands clasped across his breast, unravelling some question of law, and Swipes sat very affectionately on Beagle's lap, his right arm thrown around his neck.

While in this position, aloud call of "Hallo!" "Landlord!" "O-r-s-t-ler!" was heard without.

"Stir yer stumps, old Boniface – a traveller in distress," exclaimed Ike, to Bulliphant, who was asleep on a wooden box behind the bar, and was snoring louder and louder at each succeeding blast.

"Another two-and-sixpence, old free and easy," added Bates.

"This ere's a licensed tavern, and you must be up and doing, or the la' 'll be inter you," gravely remarked the Squire.

By this time the stranger dashed into the bar-room, his face flushed, and his temper, or his offended dignity, or both, in the ascendant, and exclaimed, ferociously, "Is this a tavern! are you all dead! where's the landlord! the hostler! Got any hay – oats! – anything for a gentleman to eat! – any place to sleep!" – when Bulliphant rubbed open his eyes with the knuckle of his fore-finger, gave a sleepy nod, and stumbled towards the door, to provide for his furious guest and his horse.

The stranger walked into the bar-room, unwound two or three gaudy shawls from his neck, took off an overcoat, a surtout-coat, shed a pair of India-rubber travelling-boots, run both of his hands deep into his breeches-pockets, took half a dozen pompous strides across the floor, looking down all the while in abstracted mood at his feet, paraded before a glass, twisted one of the locks of his hair around his fore-finger, and finally brought up with his back to the fire, where he stood, his hands holding apart the skirts of his coat, and his attention fixed upon something on the ceiling.

Turtle measured him with his eyes several times from head to foot; the "Colonel" hitched out of his way and begged his pardon, when, in fact, he was not at all in his way; the Squire was quite overcome at the amount of opposing dignity brought so directly in contact with him; Bates gravely whistled Yankee Doodle, gazing out of the window, and winked over his shoulder at Beagle and Swipes, who winked back again.

Bulliphant returned wide awake. "Any turkeys or chickens?" inquired the stranger.

"All gone to roost," answered Bulliphant, with a grave kind of brevity.

"Take a broiled chicken," said the stranger, giving a heavy hawk, with his hand upon his breast, and spitting half across the floor.

"Have to take it feathers and all, then," said Bulliphant – "wimin folks are superstitious – don't b'lieve it's right to pick fowls in the night – 'twas jest so with my wife's grandmother – she had the same complaint."

The stranger looked very hard at Bulliphant, and spit again, somewhat spitefully.

"Can give you mush, souse, slap-jacks, briled pork," continued Bulliphant, looking quizzically towards Turtle.

The stranger said, "he thought he'd stopped at a tavern– but he'd a great deal better turned himself into the woods, and browsed for supper" – and heaving a long sigh, sat down, and crossed his legs in a settled mood of desperation.

Bulliphant said "there warn't no cause for alarm – he'd seen sicker men than he die – and get well, too."

The stranger grunted and shifted his legs.

There was a long silence. All the Puddlefordians, except Ike and Bates, who were absorbed in their game, were looking soberly and steadily into the burning logs.

"Turtle," exclaimed Swipes, at last, breaking the solitude – "is that man goin' to die?"

"Can't tell," replied Turtle; "his life's on a pize – may turn one way, may turn t'other," and he took out his pipe, and blew a long whiff.

"Sleep well, last night?"

"Groan'd some 'bout midnight."

Swipes looked very sad, and the stranger's eyes passed from face to face with anxious looks.

"Ain't goin' to bleed to death?"

"Not zactly that, but mortification's goin' to set in, and he cannot stand it long, when that takes him."

"Dear me!" exclaimed the Colonel.

"Very strange case!" added the Squire.

"Great loss!" rejoined Bates.

The stranger, who was none other than the junior member of the firm of Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale, dry goods merchants, doing business in the city of New York, and who was out at Puddleford hunting up the firm of Whistle & Sharp, a couple of debtors, whose account had been in the rear for some time – the stranger, I say, became very anxious to hear the particulars of the man whose life was in jeopardy – and he exclaimed before he thought – "What is it, gentlemen? – who's hurt?"

"Why," said Ike, his face all the while cast iron, and his eyes steadily fixed on his game; "why, you see, old mother Gantlet was took with a violent mis'ry in her head – sent for Dr. Teazle – our village doctor here – the old 'oman said her head would bust – doctor said it wouldn't – the old 'oman said it would – the doctor said he'd tie it up – and he did try to tie it up, stranger – and while he was busy, her head did bust, and blew off the doctor's thumb and fore-finger" – and Ike shoved a man into the king-row and crowned him, without a look at Mr. Farindale, his face all the while as rigid as a tombstone.

Mr. Farindale gave a long whistle, and immediately called for a cigar; the Colonel dropped a quid of tobacco into his hand, and gave it a toss across the bar-room; Longbow shot forth a dignified spit into the fire, or rather it seemed to shoot out itself, without moving a muscle, and Bates stroked his chin several times with his left hand.

A long pause ensued. "What became of the woman?" inquired Farindale, after five minutes, looking sharply at Ike.

"She hain't been heer'd on since, as I knows on," replied Ike; "but the doctor's in a dref-ul state."

The game of checkers closed, and Ike and Bates moved around near Mr. Farindale.

"Stranger," said Ike, "travelled long in these ere parts?"

"Not long – but long enough."

"Goin' on?"

"On where?"

"Why, on to the next place?"

"Does Whistle & Sharp live hereabouts?" inquired Farindale, without answering Ike's question.

"To be sure they do," said Ike; "I know 'em like a book; am their 'torney."

"Their attorney —you their attorney – attorney of Whistle & Sharp," said the stranger, slowly and musingly, scratching his head with his fore-finger.

"Got anything for 'em or agin 'em?" inquired Ike.

"Are they good pay?" inquired the stranger.

"Always pays at the end of an execution," replied Ike – "never before – allers takes a receipt on the docket – makes their settlements a matter of record – puts things where they can't be ripp'd up – best way, ain't it, stranger?"

The stranger grunted, "Humph!"

"And then," said Ike, "there's no dispute 'bout authority to collect. Everybody can't tell who everybody's agent is. One New York clark run'd away one year with all the collections from Puddleford in his breeches-pocket; but the court has authority – gin'ral jurisdiction – and the discharge of a court is a discharge what is a discharge."

"That's a real opinion," exclaimed Longbow, who had not spoken for half an hour; "there's nothin' like a court to put a finish onter things;" and the Squire gave two or three heavy coughs, and blew his nose into his red cotton handkerchief, and doubling it up into a wad, looked around very gravely at Farindale as he dropped it back into his hat.

"Authority! The authority of courts to collect debts! They may have authority, but I never saw a court that had the power to collect a debt of me," exclaimed the Colonel, shifting his tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other as he spoke; "and I never put in a plea in my life – the plea always puts itself in, and is a dead bar to further proceedings every time – 'no assets' – 'nothing whereon to levy'" —

"Nully Bony! Nully Bony! you mean," said the Squire, horror-stricken at the Colonel's use of law language.

"That's it," said Bates; "hain't got nothin' to get onter" —

"And ain't nowhere to be found, nor nothin'," added Turtle.

"Just so," said the Colonel; "a kind of general suspension for want of capital – the fiddle's on hand, but the bow is gone."

The stranger was puzzled at the Puddlefordian view of paying debts, and wondered if Whistle & Sharp were advocates of the same doctrine.

"Stranger!" said Bates, turning the subject of conversation, "do you ever hunt?"

"Never," answered Farindale.

"Rare sport to-night, going a-sniping," said Bates.

"Sni-ping?" inquired the stranger, emphasizing the first syllable; "sni-ping! what is sni-ping?"

"Sni-ping?" answered Bates – "why, catching snipe, to be sure."

"Great sport," said the Colonel; "bagged three hundred night before last."

"The real yaller legs, too!" remarked Turtle.

Farindale said "he would like to accompany them – never saw a snipe in his life – would like to take one back to the city. Do they sing?" he inquired, turning to Turtle.

"Great singers! catch any tune! s'prising critters to larn," answered Ike; "got one up to my house that goes thro' half of 'Old Hundred,' by jest hearing the folks hum it round the house."

"Re-markable!" exclaimed Farindale.

"Great eating, too," said Longbow.

"Hain't got mor'n two or three bones in their whole body; all the rest meat," said Bates.

Preparations were immediately made for the sniping expedition. The stranger put on his India-rubber boots, and shawls, and overcoat; Ike procured a large bag of Bulliphant; and all hands, excepting Squire Longbow, whose dignity forbade anything like sport, wended their way to the river, where, Turtle said, "there were whole droves on 'em."