University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

Reader, will you be asked a question?

“Certainly.”

Do you ever go to the post-office?

“What a question!”

Well, but are you thankful for a daily mail?

“Pshaw! I never think about it.”

Just as I supposed. I was such a thoughtless person
myself, once. Now, however, I am thankful to Uncle Samuel
every time I walk to the post-office.

In our part of the Purchase the nearest office to Glenville
was at Spiceburgh, always nine miles off, sometimes
two or three more. To that office the mail—if such may
be called a dirty, famished, flapping, scrawny pair of little
saddlebags, containing three or four letters in one end, and
half a dozen newspapers in the other—the mail came regularly
(in theory) once a month, till the Hon. J. Glenville
exerted himself in favour of his constituents, and then it
came very irregularly once in two weeks. Sometimes there
was an entire failure in the saddlebags' arrival. And this
was occasioned by the clerk at Woodville office, who,
whenever he discovered no letters for Spiceburgh retained
the papers for private edification, and to be forwarded next
mail: at least Josey Jackson, our post-master, said so
Sometimes our mail failed because of high waters; although
our post-boy, Jack Adams, a spunky little chap, would often
in such cases swim over: but then the half-starved wallet

was twice washed away, and when recovered, the news in
both letters and papers was too diluted and washy for any
practical purpose.

Reader, it was truly sickening, after waiting four endless
weeks with the most exemplary impatience, and after
toiling, not over, but through a road always nearly impassable,
and when passable full of peril to learn that no
mail would arrive till next month; or what was even worse,
that it had indeed come, but with only one letter, and that
maybe for the Big-Bear-wallow settlement![15] The faint
hope that sustained one in the lonely and wearisome path
now became despair! and yet, all that wet, long, tangled
way to repass! and no mail again for four other hateful
weeks! No wonder we finally ceased from all correspondence,
contenting ourselves with hiring a man, with a remnant
of sole leather, to bring our newspapers when he
could get them: which luckily he did as often as once in
three months! No wonder during all our western sojourn,
if the world never heard of us: although in this we had a
very ample revenge, as in that time, we heard nothing of
the world, and I think, even cared less.

But this autumn, I expected a letter from my old friend
Clarence; and so, on a delightful September morning, off I
started, confident of finding his letter. The road, also, was
less bad, and with diligence we should get home about the
middle of the afternoon. And Dick, too, was in high spirits;
for he always regarded as a holiday, the exchange of
the bark mill for such a jaunt; and he now trotted along
the bottomland with voluntary and most uncommon speed
till of a sudden the old fellow scented, or saw, or heard
something which made him very fidgetty and uneasy.

What could it be? Dick, it was known, had some finical

ways, but he was now manifestly alarmed, and made some
desperate attempts to wheel—when, sure enough, a strange
figure emerged from the tall rank weeds into the road before
us, and continued to move in front, and apparently
never having noticed our approach. This figure was undeniably
human; and yet at bottom it seemed a man, for
there were a man's tow-linen breeches; at top, a woman;
for there was the semblance of a short gown, and, indeed,
a female kerchief on the neck, and a sun-bonnet on the
head! Then again the apparition wore enormous masculine
leather boots, and under one arm carried a club;
although both of the hands seemed to be holding above the
hips, rolls of woollen cloth, very much like a furled petticoat!
Whether the affair would turn out a man dressed in woman's
upper articles, or a woman, in man's lower ones, was
yet to be discovered. The suspense, however, was not
long; for at the noise of Dick's sneezing, (who saw how
matters stood, and gave warning by way of delicacy,) the
hands of the figure instantly relaxed their hold on the linsey
rolls; and down dropped a sudden curtain all round
over breeches and boots, in the shape of a veritable petticoat!
and before us walked a genuine daughter of the
woods!

The universally favourite attire of females (indescribables)
is not, we presume, to be traced to French milliners,
male or female. It originated in the necessities of a new
country, where women must hunt cows hid in tall weeds
and coarse grass, in dewy or frosty mornings. And to that
is owing brief frocks; although out there, such when allowed
to fall to the natural hang of the articles, shut from
view the indescribables—or very nearly so. Dressed thus
in the husband's boots as well as his thingamies, (the limbs
of which are worn as our fathers wore them within, and
not without the boots,) our fair lady this morning, bade defiance

to wet grass, running briars, snake-bites, ticks, and
all and every evil incident to cow-hunting!

Of course we exchanged compliments on passing; but
Dick was so dumb-founded at the miraculous transformation
on the sudden fall of the screen, that he shyed and passed
without a word: the truth is, I was all but frightened
myself!

I need not tell all the silly things that entered my mind
at the thought of such an exhibition in certain places and
assemblies—but I was not fairly recovered on reaching
Spiceburgh; and the event had perhaps rather increased my
good-nature, and encouraged the hope of finding a long-expected
letter. On approaching the cabin-office, and
while hanging Dick to a gate post, a glimpse caught of
Josey trying to escape out of a back door into the woods
gave me a sudden pang; for this was Josey's way of getting
off, when there was no letters for his friends, and leaving
the matter of explanation to his wife as he “naterally
hated,” he said, “to see folks so powerful disapinted.” But
I was too quick, and so hailed:

“Hillo! the house, Josey!”

“Ah! hillo; how are you? come walk in—I was a sort
a steppin round the other way—powerful fine day.”

“Very—Well, Josey, anything this time?”

“Well—there was three letters and some papers kim
day afore yesterday—but I wan't in—and Polly, she put
them away—and I aint heern her say that thare was anything
for your settlement up thare.”

“Why, Josey, one must be for me; it can't be possible
the letter, that a month ago was to be here, is not come
this mail!”

“Well—I should a sort a think one of them mought be
the letter. Glenville's goin a-head most powerful in this
part of the district—Jerry's a clever feller—but we go tother
way down here: if Glenville gits in, we'll try old Uncle

Sam, and have the mail twice a month in these here diggins.”

“Yes, but if they manage no better at Woodville or some
other place, we shall only be disappointed twice a month
instead of once.”

“He! he! he!—yes—well, let's go back, Mr. Carltin,
and take a look.”

Josey's wife now appeared en dishabille,[16] being occupied
with her wash-tub in the space between the cabin and the
kitchen; when Josey, to prepare and smooth the way to
my disappointment, said to his lady:

“See here, Polly! don't you think one of them thare
three letters mought be for Mr. Carltin?”

“Nan!” (she heard well enough.)

“Don't you think one of them thare three letters what kim
day afore yesterday, mought be for Mr. Carltin?”

“Well, no, I don't jist ezactly mind—(remember)—but I
a sorter allow maybe prehaps two's for the Snake Run Sittlemint's
folk's”—(washing away as if the article was very
hard to get clean)—“and tother was tuk out more nor an
hour ago.”

“Which way, Mrs. Jackson,”—said I, eagerly, as a
glimmer of hope arose—“which way did the person come
—perhaps it was Tommy Robison, as I asked him the
other day to call here, and ——”

“Well—I kind a sorter think as maybe prehaps the man
said the letter was hissin—and I actially seed him a readin
on it!”

“Well,” said Josey, very tenderly—“let's go into the
back room anyhow, and overhaul the bureau—maybe some
how or nother we mought a overlooked last month—or may
be arter all one of the two's yourn.”

The back room was a closet boxed off with poplar boards,

its junctures pasted over with strips of deceased newspapers;
and it held a bed for the postmaster and mistress,
and—a bureau, of which two drawers were Uncle Sam's
Cabinet, the top drawer for living letters and papers, the
second, (descending,) for dead ones. Into this sanctum I
was now invited out of compassion, with the privilege of
rummaging for myself.

First, then, the live drawer was jerked out, and Josey
and myself began our search with great system and good
judgment, collecting, as a preparatory step, all the living
newpapers into one corner, and which amounted to nearly
two dozen, two or three with envelopes and directions: the
rest, naked, and thumbed and dying:—all destined I fear to
the dead drawer. This completed, one letter only remained,
instead of two, and that sure enough for—

“Missus Widder Dolly Johnsin, head at Snake-Run—
kere of her brother near Spiceburg”—(on one corner)—
“case he's gone to Orleens, p. m., send it to the Widder
herself.”

But what had become of the other letter? Josey here
was much disturbed, as he knew it had not been called for.
At my suggestion, a shaking of each newspaper was commenced,
when pretty soon out tumbled the second one,—
and that too, for Snake Run. A very scrutinizing search
was next instituted under, and into, and around a half-knit
stocking, and some little calico bags nearly full of squash
or calabash, or cucumber seeds; and even a square box
half full of roasted store coffee—but no chance letter for
me could be discovered. I was about, therefore, to go
away much chagrined, when it occurred, that as a living
letter had been concealed in a dying paper, maybe, a letter
might have been buried alive among the defunct articles
of the next drawer: and accordingly a request was made
for a peep into that tomb. To this, Josey after a momentary
hesitation, replied: “Oh! its no use no how—still, if

it will satisfy a feller crittur, let's have the overhaul:”—
and with that forth came the repository of departed news
written and printed, and with such a vengeance—(for it
stuck a little)—that the dead things, many of them, bounced
into the middle of the room, like criminals' carcasses
when galvanized.

Ah! painful sight! that drawer like other graves (in
some cities) was too full!—it contained more than the living
world! And the frightful way that papers and letters
were huddled, must soon have killed a delicate and sensitive
thing—a love letter, for instance, if by any mischance
it had come down from the upper drawer alive! Well, we
rummaged—and shook—and tossed—and pitched for a good
quarter of an hour, till out leaped a letter,—a real living letter—folded
in a civilized way—and actually superscribed:

“Robert Carlton, Esq. Glenville Settlement, &c. &c.”
—and post-marked—“Princeton, N. J.”

Josey was, of course, completely mystified, and began
twenty awkward apologies; but, although not a little provoked,
I was so rejoiced at the resurrection of my letter,
and Josey was so sorry, and after all, so clever a fellow,
that he was cordially forgiven:[17] —and that, reader, argues
me not spiteful.

I now prepared to return home: and just then, a young
chap rode by on his way to Johnson's store; for Spiceburg
was a large village, containing, first, Mr. Johnson's Store;
second, a blacksmith's establishment: and third, Josey
Jackson's post-office, which last was also a tavern, and
now becoming a kind of opposition store: although an opposition
post-office would have been more serviceable,
both to town and country. The chap named, immediately
hailed me, and made a proposal for me to wait till he had

done his purchases, when we could ride home in company.
As Sam lived in an adjoining settlement, and I really want
ed company, (to say nothing of political news,)—I readily
agreed to wait, although we well knew it would be some
hours before the bargains were concluded.

In a New urchase country, “going to store” is as much
for recreation as business, and preparation is made as for
any other treat or amusement. The store is, too, the place
for news, recent and stale—for gymnastics, wrestling, pitching
quoits, running,—for rifle shooting—for story-telling,
&c.—and hence, a purchaser's stay is not in direct ratio
to his intended bargains, but rather in the inverse; a fellow
having only six cents to spend, will sometimes lounge in and
around a store for six hours! Nor must even that be wholly
imputed to the fellow's idleness. It is in part, owing to
his unwillingness to part with—cash; and when it is considered
how very difficult it was then, and maybe now, in
the New Purchase to get hold of “silver,” then it will appear
that to lay out even a fippenny-bit must have become a matter
for very solemn reflection, and very lengthy chaffering. In my
time, rarelyindeed, could two cash dollars be seen circulating
together; and having then no banks, and being suspicious
of all foreign paper, we carried on our operations almost
exclusively by trade. For goods, store-keepers received
the vast bulk of their pay in produce, which was converted
into cash at Louisville, Cincinnati, or more frequently at
New-Orleans. The great house of Glenville and Carlton
paid for all things in—leather. Hence, occasionally
when a wood-chopper must have shoes and yet had no produce,
but offered to pay in “chopping,” we, not needing
that article, and being indebted to several neighbours who
did, used to send the man and his axe as the circulating
medium in demand among our own creditors, to chop out the
bills against us. Indeed, it was out there some wise statesmen
of hard currency memory, learned to do without banks,

and therefore, wished to let the neighbors in here have a
taste of their experience: although cash seems difficult to
find anywhere, for we of the New Purchase supposed the
searcity owing to the non-existence of banks, while we of
the Old Purchase, attribute the scarcity to their existence.
For my part, I must ever think the leather currency better
than the mere paper one; and that the latter, although not
so often tramped under foot as the other, yet still more deserves
it.

My friend Sam to-day had come to town with two silverfippenny-bits,
and a roll of tow linen; and he intended to
buy four panes of glass, 8 by 10's, half a pound of store,
coffee, eighth of a pound of store-tea, one quarter pound of
gunpowder, and a pound of lead: also, if they could be got
cheap, a string of button moles and a needle. Sam prided
himself on being a hard hand at a bargain, and Mr. Johnson,
I well knew, although an honest man, was a prudent dealer;
and, therefore, I determined to remain in the store and witness
the trading. The colloquy opened thus, after Sam had
deposited his roll of linen on the counter:

“Well, Johnson, you don't want no tow linen to-day, I
allow—do you?”

“If 'tis good. What do you want for it?”

“I allow to take half trade and half silveras near about
as we can fix it.”

“Sam, you're joking—we don't give cash for anything
but pork and lard.”

“That's powerful stingy—well, what's this piece worth
—its powerful fine.”

“This;” (examining)—'tis pretty good—'tis worth ten
cents in silver. We give twelve in trade.”

“Ketch a duck asleep!—if that 'ere tow linen thare aint
worth fifteen cents in store-tea or coffee ither, I'll bet old
Nan—(his rifle)—again two-shot gun! Howe'er I'll track

round a little—I wants any how to go over to the post-office,
maybe thare's a paper come.”

Now this, reader, was all gum; Sam could not read a
word. He intended this as a threat to deal in the opposition
store, and Mr. Johnson so understood it: in fact he
had anticipated such a move, and for that purpose had underrated
the linen, intending to rise to the true value as if
induced so to do by Sam's superior dexterity, by which the
linen would be secured and his customer pleased. And
therefore, Mr. J. thus answered:

“Sam! Sam! you're a hard Christian: but I've large
payments at Louisville, and you've been a pretty good
customer, and a cent or so aint much—and rather than let
you go to Josey's, I ll give you thirteen cents.”

Now this Sam thought just one cent higher than the
linen was worth; yet it was in reality precisely half a cent
less—and that other half cent Johnson intended finally to
give him. Hence whem Sam replied, “Well! I raythur
allow as maybe prehaps Josey would a sorter give fourteen
cents; but I don't like to d'sart old friends, and so says I,
jist gimme thirteen and a half cents, and it's trade!” it was
what Mr. Johnson was prepared to hear. Accordingly,
after affecting to consult a book of prices, (I think it was
an old counting-house almanac) and after figuring away at
the double rule of three in vulgar fractions, at all which Sam
stared as at a magical operation, Johnson at last looked up'
and scratching his head, said:—

“Let's see—eight-sixteenths is four-eighths, and that
is one half—and half is two-fourths—and five per cent—
and tow linen at a discount—why, Sam, you'll break a
fellow some day or other—still I can't lose more than a
fraction of a cent on a yard, and I must not let you go to
Josey's. Well, I'll give thirteen and a half, and it's a
bargain. Now, what will you have?”

“Well, I'm goin to see how the new skow's comin on—

and you may measure the linen till I get back, and then
we'll take it out in something or nuther.”

And with that away went Sam, leaving Mr. Johnson to
measure off the piece; for while he affected to fear the
storekeeper would cheat him in price, he never dreamed
that he would either lessen the number of yards or miscalculate
the sum in his own favour. Nor was his confidence
abused, for Johnson was an honest man, and had
only used indirection to come at the true price, because of
Sam's perverse sagacity in bargains. I did not, however,
stay to watch the measurement, but buying a sheet of
foolscap, I retired to a back room where I answered Clarence's
letter, so unexpectedly rescued from the dead, giving
him among other matters a condensed statement of its
resuscitation.

It was a full hour before Sam's return; and then the
quantum suff. of tea, coffee, glass, &c. &c. being furnished,
the balance of trade was found against him, and
he owed the store precisely nine and a quarter cents. In
lieu of this Mr. J. offered to take one of Sam's silver fips,
which although a liberal discount in Sam's favour, he regarded
as right down Jewish usury; and the storekeeper
was obliged to book the nine and a quarter cents, to be
paid in “sang.” Nor was this conduct of Sam's so very
surprising, when it is recollected that for one hundred and
twenty-five cents could then be bought a whole acre of
land! bottom land! trees! spice bush! papaws! and all:
hence to ask for six and a fourth cents, was asking a pretty
good slice off an acre! Sam was, therefore, really
indignant.

He now was getting ready to start home, when spying
a spring of button-moles, he remembered he was to buy a
fip'sworth; and supposing a prime bargain was to be had
for cash, he proposed to pay right down one of his silver
pieces for the half of the string, worth in all twenty-five
cents.

“Come now,” said he, “Mr. Johnson, here's the silver
cash money, right slam smack down, for one half jist of
that 'ere leetle bit of a string—”

“Oh! no, Sam, we can't go that—I'll give you so far,”
replied Johnson, measuring a minor third.

“Well—I've traded a most powerful piece of linin here
this mornin—and I'll be teetotally darned if I won't try
Josey, and see if he won't give me more moles for silver
cash money.”

Our storekeeper well knew Josey had no moles, and so
after a feint to retain a customer, he let him go; but no
sooner had he got out of hearing, than our merchant took
down his string of moles, and laughing as he slipped off
nearly half into a drawer, he said to me, “Sam will be
back directly, and then I mean to sell him a little more
than the worth of his fip.” He then suspended the diminished
string in its former place, and shortly after Sam
came back, and began:—

“Well, I don't like, arter all, to d'sart old friends, and so
says I, jist gimme one half of that darn'd leetle string—for
it's time me and Mr. Carltin was makin tracks home.”

“Ah! Sam, how shall we live these hard times? but I
suppose if I must, I must—so down with your dust. And
here's a full half—and now take which end you like.”

Sam chose; and then the dealer stripped off the half,
amounting to a good eight cents' worth; while our man of
cash pulled out a small dirty deer skin pouch, and untying
its mouth, he emptied all the contents on the counter, viz:
two silver fips, three “chaw'd bullits,” a damaged rifle
wiper, four inches of pigtail tobacco, and three worn gun-flints.
But he was evidently even yet scarcely determined
to part with his cash; for he took up first one and then the
other fip, apparently more than once about to return both to
the pouch, and offer more “sang:” till at length, believing
he had got nearly double as many moles as he could

obtain for “trade,” he handed over, with the air of one
making another's fortune, the worse looking and more
worn fippenny bit; and then the other articles, together with
the button-moles, being put into the pouch along with the
widowed fip, he was ready to ride, and we in a few moments
more were on our way home.

My comrade was in high glee at the way in which he
“had made it off o' Johnson,” i. e. the way he had just got
the worth of his money, and which the storekeeper would
have readily given him at once, without so much plague to
his customer's wits, if Sam's own dexterity had not seemed
to make the indirection necessary. I too was in high glee,
hoping to secure an additional vote for our candidate; and
we, therefore, jogged along very harmoniously. Nay, as
it was now becoming dark, I yielded to a proposal for the
sake of company, to go all the way round by the Indian
grave, that being the proper path to Sam's settlement. This
reminds me of my promised tale of the Indian grave; to
which, after ending the present chapter with a pleasant little
adventure of our own this night, the next chapter will be
devoted.

Not long after our quitting the three blazes, and turning
into the unblazed trace at the grave, it became quite dark;
and we were compelled to ride in Indian file, Dick and myself
in the van, Sam and his quadruped in the rear. Be it
remembered, part of his purchase was (or were?) four
small panes of glass, intended to illuminate their new cabin,
and make its native darkness visible in the day. A sort of
window had, indeed, been made by skipping a log in the
erection; but our friends had begun to be richer, and it
had been lately voted to have a sash of four lights at ten
cents each, it being most specially for this, the twelve
yards of tow-cloth had been woven, and this very day sold
at Spiceburgh. And, even now, Sam, the eldest son, twenty-one
years old last Spring, was actually riding homeward

with the long coveted glass, done up in two sheets of
coarse demi-paper, and tied across two ways with strong
pack-thread—yes, all safe under his arm!

More than once during the afternoon had he introduced
the subject of glass and windows; and every conversation
would begin and end with a self-complacent, and rather
lofty look at the articles under his arm—the glass by which
their cabin was to be elevated in the scale of architecture,[18]
and the family established among the forest aristocracy!
Once or twice as we passed an old cabin without a sash
window, Sam would commence—

`Mr. Carltin, I allow this here glass here of ourn's near
about the right size—aint it?”

“I think so.”

“Well—it will look a sort a powerful—hey?”

“Very—we had a sash made last summer and it helps
matters powerful.”

“He! he! he!”—(a giggle of exquisite satisfaction—
like the cackle of a hen that has laid a new egg, or the
mild squawking of geese just emerging into the dusty road
from a hole in a grain field fence)—“he! he! he!—Mr.
Carltin, aint it a sort a funny them ere settlers what's been
in the Purchus longer nor us aint got no sashes?—I allow,
it looks a sort a idle in 'em.”

But now as we rode in the dark a fire suddenly gleamed
from the crevices of a cabin, upon which, Sam with wonderful
anticipative exultation halloed from the rear—

“Hillow! Mr. Carltin—that's Bill Tomsin's cabin!—
what a most powerful heap of shine his 'ere fire would
make through this here glass of ourn if they was all in a
winder—”

To this Mr. C. made no reply, for, at the instant his
neighbour's thoughtless, blundering brute[19] of a horse tripped
over a root on to his nose! and away went his rider, not
indeed out of the saddle, but off from the blanket, his only
saddle! and alas! alas! away went the brittle eight by
ten's!—and in spite of the forty cents paid in tow linen, in
spite of Sam's chagrin and almost superhuman efforts to
save them, in spite of the woful disappointment of the expectants
at home, the whole four panes, were all and each,
and every, so cracked and broken as to defy all emendations
from dough or putty! Yes! in one short moment,
and that a moment of triumph, all visions were dissipated
—visions of a window from without, and visions through
one from within!

Poor Sam! he was not hurt by the fall: although, I do
believe for a moment he wished it had been his arm and
not the glass. And certainly, had I not been present, he
would have abused his unlucky horse in very irreverent
terms, calling him as it was:—

“A most powerful rottin darn'd ole carrin—for to go to
stumblin and smashin glass that 'are away!!”

I tried to console my neighbour in the most approved
way, by telling misfortunes of my own, and at last did bring
on a faint laugh—(much like one a person makes in trying
not to cry)—by narrating the fall of our waiter of glasses
but still, forty cents worth of good tow-linen was no trifle
for folks in my comrade's humble circumstances to lose;
and I did so pity him as to say if he would ride home with
me, we would give him an extra pane procured to mend
our own sash in case of accident, and also, three sheets of
paper, which, when oiled and fixed according to directions,
would answer almost as well as glass itself. This cheered

him up a good deal; and on reaching uncle John's, a search
was instituted, and to our great satisfaction two panes were
discovered, which were both cordially bestowed on our
friend; and also two sheets of foolscap, with directions how
to oil or grease and paste them on the sash, and to secure,
by two strings diagonally fastened, or as he better understood
it—“kattekorner'd-like.”

Sam never forgot this small kindness. Hence, as you
may easily think, reader, not only did he vote our way, but
he became an active and rather violent partizan in electioneering,
everywhere giving, too, a magnific version of
the glass and paper story. Nay, on the election day he
overheard a person saying to another—“Yes, John Glenville's
well enough—if he hadn't stuck up folks around him
—and that brother-in-law of hissin, Carltin's a reel 'ristekrat
—and hates poor folks like pisin:”—upon which what
does Sam do, but forthwith strip off his coat and break in
with his doubled fists as follows:—

“See! here, I say, mister! you're a most powerful
darn'd liar!—now jist shut up—'cos case you jist go for
to say that say agin—if I don't row you up salt crick in
less nor no time, my name's not Sam Townsend.”

Happily, my complimentary neighbour had no wish for
that pleasant little excursion—“up crick,” and no farther
disturbance ensued. I would merely add, that passing
Sam's cabin a few days after his mishap, I had the pleasure
of seeing the sash in its place, with two glasses in the
lower tier and two papers in the upper: and to be sure the
papers were sufficiently greased; indeed, so well, as to
keep out light as well as water and air; although, in spite
of our use of “diagonal,” and it's being rendered into popular
language, “kattekorner'd like,” the strings were inclined
to perpendicular to the sides, and crossed each
other almost at right angles, and not very far from the
centre.