CHAPTER X.
WHERE THE HARD STREAK CAME FROM.
THIS was Edmund Griffin, the proprietor of seven hundred acres ofexcellent land, a very large stock of cattle, and money besides—thestrongest man in town (leaving out Lion Ben, who was an exception toeverybody), now that Captain Rhines and Uncle Isaac were getting inyears. He was not remarkably tall, being barely six feet in his boots,but of vast proportions. There was no beauty about Edmund; his hair wascoarse as rope-yarn, inclining to red, and, where it was not confinedby a cue, bristling; his waist was small in proportion to the greatbreadth of his shoulders and hips, his joints large, his lips andteeth very prominent, which gave him the appearance of coming at you.The whole expression of his face was extremely rugged, and would havebeen fierce, had it not been neutralized by the kindly expression ofa clear, mild eye. His voice, also, was rather loud and hearty thanharsh in its tones. A skein of woollen yarn was tied round him for abelt, his breeches of dye-pot blue, and a flannel shirt that had oncebeen bright red, but so bleached by the sun and perspiration as not toshow any red save under the armpits and below the girdle, from a pocketin the breast of which stuck out the end of a purse made of a sheep’sbladder; his open collar revealed a finely-formed throat, and a breastcovered with a thick mass of curling brown hair. This great, brawny manwas possessed of remarkable mechanical genius. With those great fingersof his he could execute the nicest jobs, and he was constantly resortedto by the neighbors; and yet there was not a sled or cart on thepremises that had a decent tongue in it; they were all made by cuttingdown a forked tree, and sticking in the fork with the bark on.
“You’re getting fat, parson—fat as a porpoise; you don’t do workenough; you ought to have been in the woods with me this forenoon;‘twould make the gravy run, and take some of the grease out of you.”
“What are you going to do with those poles, Edmund?”
“Make pike-poles to drive logs with, in the fall freshet.”
Parson Goodhue was much attached to Edmund Griffin, who had grown upunder him, and whom he had married when he was but twenty and his wifenineteen, and, though now surrounded by a large family, was in the verymaturity of his strength; for he well knew that, though the outside wasas rough as the coat of the alligator, there was a noble and generousnature within, and a kindly heart throbbed beneath that hairy bosom andfaded shirt.
For many a long year he had been seeking his good, and striving in vainto impress him with religious ideas; but it was like lifting a wetcannon ball; he eluded all his efforts; he could find no chink in hisarmor. He was always at meeting with his family, rain or shine, and anattentive hearer. Anything, everything he would do for Parson Goodhue,except listen to religious conversation; _that_ he would always avoid.He had no sympathy in that direction, nor his wife either, and thechildren naturally grew up with the same ideas. Even the old father,ninety years of age, and tottering on the verge of eternity, seemedto have no notions beyond the present; and all his talk was aboutlifting, wrestling, and the Indian fights, in which he had played amost conspicuous part, and, though he could with difficulty get acrossthe room, would, every few weeks, have his rifle brought to him, andclean and oil the lock.
“Lizzy,” shouted Mr. Griffin, in a voice that might be heard a mile.
This brought to the door a woman of a noble form, dark-brown hair,and one of the sweetest faces the eye ever rested upon, and, thoughevidently just from the cheese-tub, very neatly dressed.
“Lizzy, here’s Parson Goodhue come to stay to dinner, and a fortnightlonger, I hope.”
“So do I,” was the reply of his wife, as she welcomed the visitor.
“Let the mare go, parson; she knows the way to the barn; come, let’s gointo the house.”
“I rather think, Edmund, I had better hitch her to this stub; if shegoes to the barn alone, she will certainly be in mischief;” but as theminister stepped forward, with the bridle in his hand, to execute hisdesign, Griffin caught him by the shoulders, and exclaiming, “Bless me!where is the man going?” lifted and set him aside, as though he hadbeen a feather; at the same time dropping a stone upon the trencher ofa bear trap, the great jaws sprung together with a clang that causedParson Goodhue to jump clear from the ground in mortal fear.
“Goodness, Edmund, do you set bear-traps for your friends?”
“No, parson; I’m sorry for your fright, but you see, we caught a bearlast night, and the boys have been playing with the trap, and left itset. If you had got into it, ‘twould have broken your leg.”
What a contrast between the outside and the inside of the house, whereElizabeth Griffin held undisputed sway! Silver was not brighter thanthe pewter on the shelves, and white as the snow flake were dressersand the nicely-sanded floor of the best room into which the visitorwas ushered, where, seated in his arm-chair, was Joseph Griffin,the grandfather, a vast ruin, the great bones and cords of the oldIndian-killer standing out in bold relief through the shrunken flesh.
“Father’s master hard of hearing, and his eyesight has failed him agood deal,” said his son; “but otherways he’s just as bright as he everwas; knows all that’s going on, and all the young folks.”
“Father,” he shouted, as they entered the room, “here’s Mr. Goodhue,come to see you.”
“Glad to see him; give him a cheer.”
“Good morning, Mr. Griffin,” said the minister, placing his chair closeto the old gentleman; “you have been spared to a great age.”
“_Spared!_ I never spared myself. I allers took the but-end of a log,and the bunt of a topsail. Nobody can say that Joe Griffin ever sparedhimself. Young man (Mr. Goodhue was on the wrong side of sixty), when Iwas of your age, I had more strength than I knew what to do with.”
“I said you had lived to a great age.”
“Yes; I’ve been here a good while. I was through the French and Indianwars. I was at the takin’ of Quebec, in ‘59, but I was too old for thislast one.”
“I trust, sitting here alone so much as you do, and knowing that youare living on borrowed time, that you often think on your latter end,and endeavor to prepare for it.”
“Leetle end; leetle end of what?”
“I say, I hope you are prepared to go.”
“I don’t go anywhere; I can’t for the rheumatics, only to town meetin’,and then they put me into Isaac Murch’s wagin; before he had that, theyhauled me on an ox sled.”
“I mean, I hope you are prepared to die, and meet your Maker.”
“O, die, is it? I never killed nobody (except in fair fight), andnobody ever killed me. I never abused my neighbors, or the cattle, andI think it’s everybody’s duty to live just as long as they kin. It’san awful thing to kill yourself; when anybody has sich thoughts, theyought to put ‘em right out o’ their minds.”
“Do you think that is all the preparation you need?”
“I allers kept up good line fence, and give good weight and measure. Is’pose the less we do, the less there’s charged to us.”
Mr. Goodhue now relinquished the effort in despair; as Uncle Isaacwould have said, he could find nothing to nail to. The old man hadgrown up, like the beasts he hunted, without culture, and could neitherread nor write. But, although he found great difficulty in hearing, hecould talk fast enough, and however impervious to religious sentiment,was shrewd enough in other matters.
The subject which at that period most divided the opinions and agitatedthe minds of the people, was the state of affairs in France, and ourrelations to that nation. That nation having dethroned their king,and proclaimed liberty and equality, naturally expected to receivefraternal sympathy and aid from this country, and from the people whomthey had aided in their recent struggle for liberty.
The members in Congress were divided in sentiment on the subject.The people at large, especially the mercantile portion of thecommunity (who were very much embittered against England on accountof the impressment of seamen and the right of search), felt that themovement in France was resistance to arbitrary power, a
struggle forself-government against oppression, and a mere carrying out of theprinciples of our own revolution, that we owed it to the cause ofliberty, and were obligated in gratitude to aid them to the extent ofentering into an offensive and defensive alliance, and declaring warwith Great Britain. The party espousing these sentiments was largeand influential, and a strong pressure was brought to bear upon theadministration. To complicate matters still more, Genet, the Frenchminister, a hot-headed, overbearing man, appealed to the prejudices andsympathies of the people, and, without the sanction or knowledge of thegovernment, attempted to raise men and arms, and fit out privateers toprey on British commerce, and sell their prizes in American ports.
On the other hand, Washington, and those of cooler heads and calmerjudgment, shocked at the excesses of the French revolution, and havingno confidence in the capacity of the French people for self-government,were as resolutely opposed to any interference. Old Mr. Griffin, inopposition to his son and the great majority of his neighbors, was ofthe latter party, and Mr. Goodhue was of the same opinion.
“What’s that rapscallion’s name, parson, that’s come over here, and iskickin’ up sich a dust, and tryin’ to get us into a quarrel with theold country?”
“Genet, the French minister,” replied Mr. Goodhue, rejoiced at theintroduction of a topic in respect to which their sympathies were inunison.
“A minister goin’ about tryin’ to stir up people agin their government,and to git up a war!”
“He’s not a minister of the gospel, but a sort of ambassador.”
“Wal, I wish my eye was as quick and my hand as steady as ‘twasonce, and I had him within range of my rifle; I’d put an eend to histrampin’;” at the same time striking his cane violently on the floor.Captain Rhines was here t’other day, settin’ right where you set, andsayin’ we never should got our liberty, if’t hadn’t been for them areFrench; that one good turn deserved another; and all that. I ups andtells him, I does, says I, the French waited till they see how the catwas goin’ to jump, and that we were like to wear the old bull-dog out,and then comes in to bet on the winnin’ horse. I telled him the Frenchwere well enough, but it wasn’t so much for any love to us they come;England had took Canada, and robbed ‘em of their colonies, and nowthey wanted to pay her in her own coin, and help us get clear on ‘em;they’ll eny time send over troops to help the Irish when they undertaketo rise.”
“I think you are right in that, Mr. Griffin.”
“If we should go into war with England now, it would make an eend ofour leetle commerce; but if we go on as we’ve begun, in a few years weshall be able to fight our own battles, no thanks to eny on ‘em.”
“I’m perfectly willing to abide by the judgment of General Washington,Hamilton, and those who have carried us thus far. I believe Washingtonwas raised up and divinely appointed to carry us through therevolutionary war, as evidently as Moses was to lead the children ofIsrael to the promised land.”
“That’s the talk, parson. I don’t know enything ‘bout Moses, and themold characters, but I know ‘bout Gineral Washington, cause I foughtunder him, when he was kernel; yes, I go in for the old horse thatnever balked at the steepest hill, but allus pulled, whether the loadwent, or whether other horses pulled or not.”
“Yes, my old friend, the heart of the country rests safely onWashington.”
“Then, parson, he’s a prayin’ man. Isaac Murch told me that; he said,that winter at Valley Forge, when the soldiers were barefoot, andsuffered so much, there was an hour at noon when he couldn’t be seen;if an express came, he wouldn’t be disturbed; it was allers thought andsaid among the men, that he was at prayer. I allers thought them arethe sort of men to foller.”
“Certainly; because in following them we may hope for the aid of Him bywhom they are guided.”
“There’s a great many in this place, parson, if you allow that there’sany good thing in an Englishman, cry out, ‘Tory’!”
“That’s too much the case, I know.”
“I don’t want to swaller an Englishman whole. I know they press ourseamen, and are overbearin’; but, then, they press their own likewise,take a man from his own doorstep; but ‘tain’t the people, it’s thegovernment, does that. They say this new man that’s come up—What’s hisname?”
“Bonaparte.”
“That he’s goin’ to lick the English into shoe-strings.”
“Then he’ll do what has not been done for the last two hundred years.”
“I tell you it ain’t in ‘em, parson; it’ ain’t in the men that live onfrogs and soup to lick the men that eat beef and pork, I don’t carewho they’re led by. When I was payin’ for my place, I follered thesea a good deal. I have been in English ports and French ports; foughtside by side with Englishmen, and aginst Frenchmen; and I don’t carewho knows it, I like an Englishman better’n a Frenchman eny day. Whenit’s good weather at sea, and everything goin’ well, an Englishman isa grouty chap; he’ll growl at the wind, the ship, the grub, and theusage; but let there come a gale of wind, a raal tryin’ time, the leeriggin’ hangin’ in bights, men three or four hours on a yard tryin’ tosmother a sail, or the ship sprung a leak and like to go down, I tellyou, John Bull is there. The harder it blows, the blacker it looks,and the tougher it comes, the higher his spirit rises; then they’re aProtestant people, and that’s a thing goes a good ways with me.”
Our readers may suspect that the old gentleman was not so obtuse inrelation to religious matters as he appeared; an idea of this kindseemed to cross the mind of Mr. Goodhue, for he instantly attempted tointroduce a religious conversation; but the old man shrunk from it asspeedily as a turtle draws his head into the shell when apprehensive ofdanger.
When Edmund Griffin returned to the kitchen, he said, “Come, wife,ain’t you going to do something? There ain’t a speck of fire on thehearth.”
“What of that? I’ve got baked beans, brown bread, pies, and an Indianpudding in the oven, and I must put this cheese in press.”
“_Baked beans!_ I want to kill some chickens, make a smother, and givethe old gentleman a good tuck out.”
“Well, then, make me up a fire; the boys are all in the field.”
He brought in a great log, and threw it on the hearth; then, bringingin a huge armful of wood, the moment he was inside the door, let driveright into the middle of the room, at the same time kicking the door towith his feet. Proceeding to put on the log, instead of using the greatkitchen shovel to rake forward the ashes from the back, he put in hisfoot, and, after scraping out a hole, flung on the log with such forcethat the coals and ashes flew all over the room.
“Edmund, what a splutter you do make! Do go and get the chickens. I hadrather make two fires than clean up after you.”
Taking the mare’s bridle on his arm, he put her in the barn; returningwith the bridle in one hand, and a dish of corn in the other, he threwit among the fowls; as they were busily eating, he brought down thebridle on the flock with such force as to prostrate half a dozen, andpicking them up, cut off their heads, and soon transferred them to thekitchen table.
“Why, Edmund,” cried his wife, looking them over, “what a carelesscreature you are! Half of these are old hens; and, as sure as I live,you’ve killed Winthrop’s setting hen. She was just ready to hatch. Hewill cry his eyes out. I do wish I’d gone myself; the chickens are alllost, and we shall have to throw the hen away. She’s all skin and bone.”
“Never mind, wife; the boy can set another. Have you got everything youwant now?”
“No. I want you to wash yourself, and put on a clean shirt and clothes.They’re on the bed.”
“What’s the use, wife? I’m well enough.”
“I tell you, you shan’t come to dinner looking so!” she exclaimed,pushing him into the bedroom, and pulling the skein of yarn from hiswaist.
With a groan he obeyed, and, making him sit down on the edge of thebed, she combed out his cue, and tied it up with a black ribbon,instead of the eel-skin.
Mr. Goo
dhue, who had a large family of his own, was very fond ofchildren, and it was a curious sight to see Winthrop Griffin tuggingthe stately old minister by the hand, to see his fowl and playthings,his tame crow, and the woodchuck he had caught. The good man alsosincerely sympathized with him respecting the loss of his hen andexpected brood of chickens.
Mrs. Griffin would have persuaded the minister to lie down afterdinner; but as the boys were going to work in the field, he wished toread the Scriptures and have prayers before they went away, it beinghis constant custom. The parents and children all listened with thegreatest respect and attention, but all attempts to engage the seniorsin conversation of a religious nature were useless.
After the evening meal, when Parson Goodhue prepared to depart,Dapple, true to her instincts, was found in a chamber over the stablewhere Griffin kept grain. She had gone up a flight of stairs, but allattempts to induce her to go down by the same were unavailing.
“Look here, parson,” said Edmund; “let me knock her on the head, andtake her for wolf bait—there’s a bounty on wolves,—and I’ll give youmy roan colt, that’s worth a dozen of her.”
But Mr. Goodhue entreated for the life of his beast. Griffin, thenputting a great pile of hay on the stable floor beneath, took up theboards of the floor above, and forced her to jump down.
“What a strange family,” said the good man to himself as he returned,his saddle-bags stuffed to their utmost extent. “I would be contentwith less respect and kindness shown to myself if they would onlymanifest some respect for my Master. How sad to see that old manso thoughtless! Well, the children are different. Joe is a goodman,—there is certainly encouragement there,—and Walter takes afterhis mother; if she was anywhere else, she would be different.”
In the course of the autumn, Dapple ended her eventful life; in tryingto get over a fence with the fetters on, she got cast, and beat herselfto death, thus dying as she had lived. Two days after, the parson, ongoing to his barn to feed his cattle, found a noble-looking roan horsein Dapple’s stall, a present from Edmund Griffin.
In this slight glance at the Griffins, we have seen where the hardstreak came from. That old grandfather’s was gradually diluted as itmingled with other and more kindly blood, till in Walter rudeness hadbecome attempered to firmness, and nothing more.
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