Newspaper Page Text
10
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. At home they are
patterns of industry, care, economy,
and hospitality; abroad, they are
ministers of comfort, peace and con
solation. Where affliction is, there
are they to mitigate its pangs. Nor
night, nor day, nor summer’s heat,
nor winter’s cold, nor angry elements,
can deter them from scenes of suffer
ing 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 hab
itation, to pour the last drop of con
solation into the afflicted bosoms of
the bereaved. I cannot, therefore,
ridicule them myself, nor bear to
hear them ridiculed in my presence.
And yet I am often amused at their
conversations; and have amused them
with a rehearsal of their own conver
sations, 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 uniform
ly strict attention to all they say in
my presence.
This much in extraordinary cour
tesy 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 consider
ed amusing by any of my readers.
Certainly the amusement of the read
el's of my own times is not the lead
ing object of it, or* of any of the
“Georgia Scenes”; forlorn as may
be the hope that their main object
will ever be answered.
When I seated myself to the sheet
now’ before me, my intention wm
merely to detail a conversation be
tween three ladies, which I heard
many years since; confining myself
to only so much of it as sprang from
the ladies’ own thoughts, unawaken
ed by the suggestions of others; but,
as the manner of its introduction
will perhaps interest some of my read
ers, I will give it.
I was traveling with my old friend,
Ned Brace, when we stopped at the
dusk of the evening at a house on
the roadside for the night. Here we
found three nice, tidy, aged matrons,
the youngest of w’hom 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-explor
ing expedition. She received us hos
pitably, had our horses well attend
ed 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 w’hich, Ned deported
himself wdth beckoning seriousness.
The kind lady of the house occasion
ally joined us, and became permanent
ly one of the party from the time the
first dish was placed on the table.
At the usual hour we were summoned
to supper; as soon as we were seat,
ed, Ned, unsolicited, and most unex
pectedly to me, said grace. I knew
full well that this was a prelude to
some trick, I could not conjecture
what. His explanation (except so
much as I discovered myself), was,
that he knew that one of us would
be asked to say grace, and he thought
he might as well save the good ladies
the trouble of asking. The matter
was, however, more fully explained
just before the moment of our retir
ing to bed arrived. To this moment
the conversation went round the
good ladies and ourselves with mutual
interest to all. It was much enlivened
by Ned, who was capable, as the read
er has been heretofore informed, of
making himself extremely agreeable
in all company; and who, upon this
occasion, was upon his best behavior.
It was immediately after I looked at
my watch, in token of my disposition
to retire for the night, that the con
versation turned upon marriages, hap
py and unhappy, strange, unequal,
runaways, etc. Ned rose in the midst
of it, and asked the landlady where
we should sleep. She pointed to an
open shed-room adjoining the room
in which we were sitting, and separat
ed 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.
“The strangest match,” said Ned,
resuming the conversation with a par
ison’s gravity, “that ever I heard of,
was that of George Scott and David
iSnow; two most excellent men, who
became so much attached to each
other that they actually got mar
ried— ’ ’
“The lackaday!” exclaimed one of
the ladies.
“And was it really a fact?” in
quired another.
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” continued Ned;
“I knew them very well, and often
went to their house; and no people
could have lived happier or managed
better than they did. And they rais
er a lovely parcel of children; as
fine a set as I ever saw, except their
youngest ,son, Billy; he was a little
wild, but, upon the w'hole, a right
clever boy himself. Come, friend
Baldwin, w 7 e’re sitting up too late
for travelers.” So saying, Ned mov
ed to the shed-room, and I followed
him.
The ladies were left in silent
amazement; and Ned, suspecting,
doubtless, that they were listening
for a laugh from our chamber as we
entered it, continued the subject with
unabated gravity, thus: “You knew
those two men, didn’t you?”
“Where did they live?” inquired
I, not a little disposed to humor
him.
“Why, they lived down there, on'
Cedar Creek, close by Jacob Den
man’s. Oh, I’ll tell you who their
daughter, Nancy, married: she mar
ried John Clarke; you knew him very
well.”
“Oh, yes,” said I, “I knew John
Clarke very well. His wife was a
most excellent woman. 99
THE WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN.
“Well, the boys were just as clever,
for boys, as she was for a girl, ex
cept Bill; and I never heard anything
very bad of him, unless it was his
laughing in church; that put me more
out of conceit of him than anything
I ever knew of him. Now, Baldwin,
when I go to bed, I go to bed to
sleep, and not to talk; and, therefore,
from the time my head touches the
pillow, there must be no more talk
ing. Besides, we must take an early
start tomorrow, and I’m tired.” ISO
saying, he hopped into his bed, and
I obeyed his injunctions.
Before I followed his example, I
could not resist the temptation of
casting an eye through the cracks of
the partition, to see the effect of
Ned’s wonderful story upon the kind
ladies. Mrs. Barney (it is time to
give their names), was setting in a
thoughtful posture; her left hand
supporting her chin, and her knee
supporting her left elbow. Her coun
tenance was that of one who suffers
from a slight toothache.
Mrs. Shad leaned forward, resting
her forearms on her knees, and look
ing into the fire as if she saw groups
of children playing in it. Mrs. Reed,
the landlady, who was the fattest
of the three, was thinking and laugh
ing 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 tone,
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.
Mtrs. B. Well, in the name o’
sense, what did the man mean by
saying they raised a fine parcel of
children?
Mrs. R. Why, bless your heart
and soul, honey! that’s what I’ve
been thinkin’ about. It seems mighty
curious to me somehow’ or other. I
can’t study it out, no how.
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 earnest as anybody I ever
seed; and, besides, no Christian man
would tell such a story in that sol
emn way. And didn’t you hear that
other man say he knew their da’ter,
Nancy?
Mrs. iS. 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 dis
pute a Christian man’s word.
Mrs. B. I have heen thinkin’ the
thing all over in my mind, and I reck
on—now I don’t say it is so, for I
don’t know nothin’ at all about it—
but I reckon that one of them men
was a woman dressed in men’s
clothes; for I’ve often heard o’ wo
men doin’ them things, and follow
ing their true-love to wars, and bein’
a waitin’-hot’ to ’em. and all sich.
Mrs. S. Well, maybe it’s somehow
in that way; but, la me! ’twould o’
been obliged to been found out; don’t
you know it would? Only think how
many children she had. Now, it stands
to reason, that at some time or other
it must have been found out.
Mrs. R. Well, I’m an old woman,
anyhow, and I reckon the good man
won’t mind what an old woman says
to him; so, bless the Lord, if I live
to see the morning, I’ll ask him about
it.
I knew that Ned was surpassed by
no man living in extricating himself
from difficulties; but how he was to
escape from this, with even tolera
ble credit to himself, I could not de
vise.
The ladies here took leave of Ned’s
marvelous story, drew themselves
closely around 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 al mighty likely g*al
(puff); I know’d her mighty well;
she dressed herself up in men’s
clothes (puff, puff), and folowed Jen
my Darden from P’ankatank, in King
and Queen (puff), clean up to Lon
don.
Mrs. S. (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). 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’ con
ceit 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 Rachael’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 folowed 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.
Mi's. S. The lackada !
Mrs. R. What ailment did Lucy
die of, Mis’ Barney?
Mrs. B. Why, first she took the
ager and fever, and took a ’bundance
o’ doctor’s means for that. And then
she got a powerful had cough, and it
kept gettin’ worse, till, nt last, it
turned into a consumption, and she