 | CHAPTER I.
STORY-TELLING. Swallow Barn, or A sojourn in the Old Dominion |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
STORY-TELLING.
In the time of the Revolution, and for a good
many years afterwards, Old Nick enjoyed that solid
popularity which, as Lord Mansfield expressed it,
follows a man's actions rather than is sought after
by them. But in our time he is manifestly falling
into the sere and yellow leaf, especially in the
Atlantic states. Like those dilapidated persons who
have grown out at elbows by sticking too long to a
poor soil, or who have been hustled out of their profitable
prerogatives by the competition of upstart numbers,
his spritish family has moved off, with bag and
baggage, to the back settlements. This is certain,
that in Virginia he is not seen half so often now as
formerly. A traveller in the Old Dominion may
now wander about of nights as dark as pitch, over
commons, around old churches, and through graveyards,
and all the while the rain may be pouring
down with its solemn hissing sound, and the thunder
may be rumbling over his head, and the wind
moaning through the trees, and the lightning flinging
its sulphurous glare across the skeletons of dead
horses, and over the grizzly rawheads upon the tombstones;
and, even, to make the case stronger, a
church door, (being overtaken by the storm on his
way home,) and every flash may show his livid,
dropsical, carbuncled face, like that of a vagabond
corpse that had stolen out of his prison to enjoy the
night air; and yet it is ten to one if the said traveller
be a man to be favoured with a glimpse of that old-fashioned,
distinguished personage who was wont to
be showing his cloven foot, upon much less provocation,
to our ancestors. The old crones can tell you
of a hundred pranks that he used play in their day,
and what a roaring sort of a blade he was. But,
alas! sinners are not so chicken-hearted as in the
old time. It is a terribly degenerate age; and the
devil and all his works are fast growing to be forgotten.
Except Mike Brown's humoursome pot-companion,
I much question if there is another legitimate
goblin in the Old Dominion; and in spite of Ned
Hazard and Hafen Blok, who do all they can to
keep up his credit, I am much mistaken if he does
not speed away to the Missouri or the Rocky Mountains
one of these days, as fast and as silently as an
absconding debtor. Lest, therefore, his exploits
should be lost to the world, I will veritably record
this “Chronicle of the Last of the Virginia Devils,”
as it has been given to me by the credible Hafen,
that most authentic of gossips, as may be seen by the
perusal of what I am going to write.
The substance of this narrative—for I do not deny
some rhetorical embellishments—was delivered by
Hafen after supper, as we sat in the porch at Swallow
a short pipe, and only rising on his feet at such
times as his animation got beyond control, and inspired
him to act the scene he was describing. The
witnesses were Mr. Wart and Frank Meriwether,
who sat just inside of the door, attended by Lucy
and Vic, who for the greater part of the time had
their arms about Frank's neck; and Mr. Chub, who,
though within hearing,—for he was seated at the
window, also smoking,—I do not believe paid much
attention to the story; although he was heard once
or, twice to blow out a stream of smoke from his
mouth, and say “balderbash!”—an epithet in common
use with him. But there were Ned and myself
close beside Hafen; and Rip, who sat on the
steps in the open air, with his head occasionally
turned over his shoulder, looking up at the story-teller
with the most marked attention: and lastly,
there were sundry wide-mouthed negroes, children
and grown, who were clustered into a dusky group
beneath the parlour window, just where a broad ray
of candlelight fell upon them; and who displayed
their white teeth, like some of Old Nick's own brood,
as they broke out now and then into hysterical, cowardly
laughs, and uttered ejaculations of disbelief in
Hafen's stories that showed the most implicit faith.
MIKE BROWN.
Mike Brown was a blacksmith, who belonged to
Harry Lee's light-horse, and shod almost all the hoofs
of the legion. He was a jolly, boisterous, red-faced
fellow, with sandy hair, and light blue eyes so exceedingly
blood-shot, that at a little distance off you
could hardly tell that they were eyes at all. He
had no leisure, during the Revolutionary war, to get
them clarified; for, what with the smoke of his furnace,
and keeping late hours on patroles, and hard
drinking, his time was filled up to the entire disparagement
of his complexion. He was a stark trooper,
to whom no service came amiss, whether at the anvil
or in the field, having a decisive muscle for the
management of a piece of hot iron, and an especial
knack for a marauding bout; in which latter species
of employment it was his luck to hold frequent velitations
with the enemy, whereby he became notorious
for picking up stragglers, cutting off baggage-wagons,
and rifling rum-casks, and, now and then,
for easing a prisoner of his valuables. He could
handle a broadsword as naturally as a sledge-hammer;
and many a time has Mike brandished his
blade above his beaver, and made it glitter in the sun,
with a true dragoon flourish, whilst he gave the
huzza to his companions as he headed an onset upon
Tarleton's cavalry.
Towards the close of the war, he served with
Colonel Washington, and was promoted to the rank
of a sergeant for leading a party of the enemy into an
ambuscade; and, in addition to this honour, the
colonel made him a present of a full suit of regimentals,
in which, they say, Mike was a proper-looking
fellow. His black leather cap, with a strip of bearskin
over it, and a white buck-tail set on one side,
gave a martial fierceness to his red flannel face. A
shad-bellied blue bobtail coat, turned up with broad
buff, and meeting at the pit of his stomach with a
hook and eye, was well adapted to show the breadth
of his brawny chest, which was usually uncovered
enough to reveal the shaggy mat of red hair that
grew upon it. A buckskin belt, fastened round his
waist by an immense brass buckle, sustained a sabre
that rattled upon the ground when he walked. His
yellow leather breeches were remarkable for the air
of ostentatious foppery that they imparted to the vast
hemisphere of his nether bulk; and, taken together
with his ample horseman's boots, gave the richest effect
to his short and thick legs, that, thus appareled,
might be said to be gorgeous specimens of the Egyptian
column.
Such was the equipment of Sergeant Brown on
all festival occasions; and he was said to be not a
little proud of this reward of valour. On work days
he exhibited an old pair of glazed, brown buckskin
small-clothes, coarse woollen stockings, covered with
spatterdashes made of untanned deer hide, and shoes
garnished with immense pewter buckles; though, as
or no hose, it was all the same to Mike! I am minute
in mentioning the regimentals, because, for a
long time after the war, Sergeant Mike was accustomed
to indue himself in this identical suit on Sundays,
and strut about with the air of a commander-in-chief.
Mike's skill in horseshoes rendered him very serviceable
in the campaigns. On a damp morning,
or over sandy roads, he could trail Tarleton like a
hound. It was only for Mike to examine the prints
upon the ground, and he could tell, with astonishing
precision, whether the horses that had passed were
of his own shoeing, how many were in company,
how long they had gone by, and whether at a gallop,
a trot, or a walk; whether they had halted, or had
been driving cattle, and, in fact, almost as many particulars
as might be read in a bulletin. Upon such
occasions, when appearances were favourable, he
had only to get a few of his dare-devils together, and
Tarleton was sure to have some of Sergeant Brown's
sauce in his pottage, before he had time to say grace
over it.
Mike used always to commence these adventures
by drinking the devil's health, as he called it; which
was done, very devoutly, in a cup of rum seasoned
with a cartridge of gun-powder, which, he said, was
a charm against sword cuts and pistol shot. When
his expedition was ended, he generally called his
roll, marked down the names of the killed, wounded
and missing by a scratch of his black thumb-nail,
a knowing leer at the survivors, and the pithy apothegm,
which he repeated with a sincere faith, “that
the devil was good to his own.” This familiarity
with the “old gentleman,” as Mike himself termed
him, added to his trooper-like accomplishment of
swearing till he made people's hair stand on end,
begat a common belief in the corps that he was on
very significant terms with his patron; and it was
currently said, “that Mike Brown and the devil
would one day be wearing each other's shirts.”
When the war was over, the sergeant found himself
a disbanded hero, in possession of more liberty
than he knew what to do with; a sledge and shoeing
hammer; an old pair of bellows; a cabinet of worn-out
horseshoes; a leather apron; his Sunday regimentals
in tolerable repair; and a raw-boned steed,
somewhat spavined by service:—to say nothing of a
light heart, and an arm as full of sinew as an ox's
leg. Considering all which things, he concluded
himself to be a well furnished and thriving person,
and began to cast about in what way he should best
enjoy his laurels, and the ease the gods had made
for him.
In his frequent ruminations over this momentous
subject, he fell into some shrewd calculations upon the
emolument and comfort which were likely to accrue
from a judicious matrimonial partnership. There was
at that time a thrifty, driving spinster, bearing the
name of Mistress Ruth Saunders, who lived at the
landing near Swallow Barn. This dame was now
somewhat in the wane, and, together with her mother,
which was erected a small one-storied frame house,
the very tenement now in possession of Sandy Walker.
Here her sire had, in his lifetime, kept a drinking tavern
for the accommodation of the watermen that frequented
the landing. The widow did not choose to relinquish
a lucrative trade, and therefore kept up the house;
whilst the principal cares of the hostelry fell upon the
indefatigable and energetic Mistress Ruth, who, from
all accounts, was signally endowed with the necessary
qualifications which gave lustre to her calling.
Mike, being a free and easy, swaggering, sociable
chap, and endowed with a remarkable instinct in
finding out where the best liquors were to be had on
the cheapest terms, had fallen insensibly into the habit
of consorting with a certain set of idle, muddy-brained
loiterers, that made the widow Saunders'
house their head-quarters on Sunday afternoons, and
as often on week days as they could find an excuse
for getting together. And such had been Mike's habits
of free entertainment in the army, that he acquired
some celebrity for serving his comrades in the
the same manner that he had been used to treat the
old Continental Congress; that is, he left them pretty
generally to pay his scot.
By degrees, he began to be sensible to the slow invasion
of the tender passion, which stole across his
ferruginous bosom like a volume of dun smoke
through a smithy. He hung about the bar-room with
the languishing interest of a lover, and took upon himself
sundry minute cares of the household, that excused
some increase of familiarity. He laughed very
and pounced, with his huge ponderous paws, upon
the glasses, pitchers, or other implements that the
lady fixed her eye upon, as needful in the occasions
of her calling: not a little to the peril of the said articles
of furniture:—for Mike's clutch was none of
the gentlest, in his softest moods. In short, his assiduities
soon made him master of the worshipful Mistress
Ruth, her purse and person. She had seen the
devil, according to the common computation, three
times, and had been so much alarmed at his last
visit that—the story goes—she swore an oath that
she would marry his cousin-german, rather than be
importuned by his further attentions. There is no
knowing what a woman will do under such circumstances!
I believe myself, that Mistress Ruth chose
sergeant Mike principally on account of his well
known dare-devil qualities.
The dame whose worldly accomplishments and
personal charms had dissolved the case-hardened
heart of the redoubted blacksmith of the legion, was
altogether worthy of her lord. A succession of agues
had spun her out into a thread some six feet long.
A tide-water atmosphere had given her an ashen,
dough face, sprinkled over with constellations of
freckles, and exhibiting features somewhat tart from
daily crosses. Her thin, bluish lips had something
of the bitterness of the crab, with the astringency of
the persimmon. Her hair, which was jet-black, was
plastered across her brow with the aid of a little tallow,
in such a manner as to give it a rigid smoothness,
that pretty accurately typified her temper on
in heightening the impression of a figure attenuated
to the greatest length consistent with the preservation
of the bodily functions. A pair of glassy dark
eyes, of which one looked rather obliquely out of its
line, glared upon the world with a habitual dissatisfaction;
and in short, take her for all and all, Mistress
Ruth Saunders was a woman of a commanding
temper, severe devotion to business, acute circumspection,
and paramount attraction for Mike
Brown.
After the solemnization of the nuptials, Mike took
a lease of Mr. Tracy of the small tract of land bordering
on the Goblin Swamp, which, even at that day,
was a very suspicious region, and the scene of many
marvellous adventures. Of all places in the country,
it seemed to have the greatest charm for Mike.
He accordingly set up his habitation by the side of
the old county road, that crossed the marsh by the
causeway; and here he also opened his shop. Mistress
Mike Brown resumed her former occupation,
and sold spirits; whilst her husband devoted his time
to the pursuits of agriculture, the working of iron,
and the uproarious delights of the bottle: whereto
the managing Ruth also attached herself, and was
sometimes as uproarious as the sergeant.
In process of time they were surrounded by four
or five imps, of either sex, whose red hair, squiting
eyes, and gaunt and squat figures, showed their
legitimate descent. As these grew apace, they were
to be seen hanging about the smithy bare-footed, half
covered with rags, and with smutty faces looking
beams of the sun in the image of that luminary on a
country sign.
The eldest boy was bred up to his father's trade;
that is, he flirted a horse-tail tied to a stick, all day
long in summer, to keep the flies from the animals
that were brought to be shod; at which sleepy employment
Mike was wont to keep the youngster's
attention alive by an occasional rap across the head,
or an unpremediated application of his foot amongst
the rags that graced the person of the heir-apparent.
Upon this system of training, it is reported, there
were many family differences betwixt Mike and his
spouse, and some grievously disputed fields. But
Mike's muscle was enough to settle any question.
So that it is not wonderful that the suffering Ruth
should sometimes have taken to flight, and had recourse
to her tongue.
In this way, the spoiler Discord stealthily crept into
the little Eden of the Browns; and from one
flower-bed advanced to another, until he made himself
master of the whole garden. Quarrels then became
a domestic diversion; and travellers along the
road could tell when the patriarch Mike was putting
his household in order, by the sound of certain
lusty thwacks that proceeded from the interior, and
the frequent apparition of a young elf darting towards
the shop, with one hand scratching his head,
and the other holding up what seemed a pair of trowsers,
but which, in reality, were Mike's old leather
breeches. The customers at the shop, too, affirmed
that it was a usual thing to hear Mistress Brown
shrill key, after Mike had gone to his anvil.
And some persons went so far as to say, that in the
dead hour of night, in the worst weather, voices could
be heard upon the wind, in the direction of Mike
Brown's dwelling, more than a mile off; one very
high, and the other very gruff; and sometimes there
was a third voice that shook the air like an earthquake,
and made the blood run cold at the sound of
it.
From this it may be seen that Mike's house was
not very comfortable to him; for he was, at bottom,
a good-natured fellow, that loved peace and quiet;
or, at any rate, who did not like the clack of a woman,
which, he said, “wore a man out like water on a
drip-stone.” To be sure, he did not care about
noise, if it was of a jolly sort; but that he never found
at home, and therefore, “as he took no pride in
Ruth,” to use his own phrase, upon Hafen's report,
“he naturally took to roaming.”
He was an open-hearted fellow too, that liked to
spend his money when he had it; but the provident
Mistress Mike began to get the upper hand; and in
nothing are the first encroachments of female despotism
more decisively indicated than in the regulation
of what is called the family economy. Ruth purloined
Mike's breeches, robbed the pockets, and secured
the treasure. She forestalled his debtors, and settled
his accounts, paralyzed his credit, and, in short, did
every thing but publish her determination to pay no
debts of his contracting. The stout dragoon quailed
before these vexatious tactics. He could never have
blockade, and to fret his soul with mouse-nibblings,
it was enough to break the spirit of any man! Mike,
however, covered himself with glory; for after being
reduced to the last stage of vassalage, as happens
sometimes with an oppressed nation, he resolved to
be his own master again, (thanks to the lusty potations,
or he would never have made so successful a
rebellion!) and gave Mrs. Brown, on a memorable
occasion, a tremendous beating, by which he regained
the purse-strings, and spent where and when and
as freely as suited his own entertainment.
There was one thing in which Mike showed the
regularity and discipline of an old soldier. He was
steady to it in the worst of times. No matter where
his vagrant humours might lead him, to what distance,
or at what hours, or how topsy-turvy he might
have grown, he was always sure to make his way
home before morning. From this cause he became
a frequent traveller over the country in all weathers,
and at all times of night. Time or tide did not weigh
a feather. “He would snap his fingers,” said Hafen,
“at the foggiest midnight, and swear he could walk
the whole county blindfold.” The fact was, Mike
was a brave man, and feared neither ghost nor devil,
—and could hardly be said to be afraid even of his
wife.
One winter night,—or rather one winter morning,
for it was past midnight,—Mike was coming home
from a carouse. The snow was lying about half-leg
deep all over the fields; and there was a crust
frozen upon it, that was barely strong enough to support
through with him, so that he floundered along sadly
without a track; and there was a great rustling and
creaking of his shoes as he walked. A sharp northwesterly
wind whistled with that shrillness that
showed the clearness of the atmosphere; and the
moon was shining as bright as burnished silver, casting
the black shadows of leafless trees, like bold
etchings, upon the driven snow. The stars were all
glittering with that fine frosty lustre that makes the
vault of heaven seem of the deepest blue; and except
the rising and sinking notes of the wind, all was
still, for it was cutting cold, and every living thing
was mute in its midnight lair. Yet a lonely man
might well fancy there were sentient beings abroad
besides himself, for on such a night there are sounds
in the breeze of human tones, like persons talking
at a distance. At all events, Mike was at such
a time on his way home; and as he crossed the
trackless field that showed him his own habitation at
a distance, being in the best possible humour with
himself, and whistling away as loud as he could—
not from fear, but from inward satisfaction—he all at
once heard somebody whistling an entirely different
tune close behind him. He stopped and looked
around, but there was nothing but the moon and
trees and shadows; so, nothing daunted, he stepped
on again, whistling as before, when, to his great
amazement, the other note was instantly resumed.
He now halted a second time. Immediately all was
still. Mike then whistled out a sort of flourish, by
way of experiment. The other did the very same
always answered quite near him.
“Who the devil are you!” exclaimed Mike,
holding his hand up to his ear to catch the sound.
“Look behind you, and you will see,” replied a
harsh, screaming voice.
Mike turned suddenly round, and there he saw
on the snow the shadow of a thin, queer-looking
man, in a very trig sort of a dress, mounted upon a
horse, that, by the shadow, must have been a mere
skeleton. These were moving at full speed, although
there was no road for a horse to travel on
either; but the shadow seemed to go over shrubs
and trees and bushes, as smoothly as any shadow
could travel; and Mike distinctly heard the striking
of a horse's hoofs upon the snow at every bound;
though he could see nothing of the real man or horse.
Presently, as the sound of the feet died away, Mike
heard a laugh from the voice in the direction of the
swamp.
“Hollo!” cried Mike, “what's your hurry?”
But there was no answer.
“Humph!” said Mike, as he stood stockstill,
with his hands in his breeches' pockets, and began to
laugh. “That's a genius for you!” said he, with a
kind of perplexed, drunken, half-humorous face.
As he found he was not likely to make much out
of it, he walked on, and began to talk to himself, and
after a while to whistle louder than ever. Whilst
he was struggling forward in this way, he heard
something like a cat-call down towards the swamp;
and immediately there rushed past him the shadows
deep-mouthed cry. He could even hear the little
chips of ice that were flung from their feet, whizzing
along the crust of the snow; but still he could see
nothing but shadows; and the sounds grew fainter
and fainter until they melted away in the bosom of
the swamp.
Mike now stopped again, and folded his arms
across his breast,—although he could not help tottering
a little, from being rather top-heavy;—and, in
this position, he fell gravely to considering. First,
he looked all around him: then he took off his hat
and ran his fingers through his hair, and after that
he rubbed his eyes. “Tut,” said he, “it's all a
botheration! There's no drag in the world will lie
upon this snow. That's some drunken vagabond
that had better be in his bed.”
“What's that you say, Mike Brown?” said the
same barsh voice that he had heard before, “you
had better look out how you take any freedom with
a gentleman of quality.”
“Quality!” cried Mike, turning his head round as
he spoke. “You and your quality had better be a
bed, like a sober man, than to be playing off your
cantrips at this time of night.”
Mike looked on the snow, and there was the shadow
of the horse again, standing still, and the figure
upon it had one arm set a-kimbo against his side.
Mike could now observe, as the shadow turned, that
he wore something like a hussar-jacket, for the shadow
showed the short skirt strutting out behind, and under
this was the shadow of a tail turned upwards,
to be a fantastical thing perched on the very top of
his head; and below the ribs of the skeleton horse
he could perceive the legs dangling with hoofs, one
of which was cloven.
“Aha!” exclaimed Mike, “I begin to understand
you, sir. You are no better than you should be; and
I will not keep company with such a blackguard.”
“Then, good night, Mike Brown!” said the
voice, “you are an uncivil fellow, but I'll teach you
manners the next time I meet you;” and thereupon
the shadow moved off at a hard trot, rising up and
down in his saddle, like a first-rate jockey.
“Good night!” replied Mike; and he made a low
bow, taking off his hat, and scraping his foot, in a
very polite fashion, through the snow.
After this, Mike pushed home pretty fast, for he
was growing more sober, and his teeth began to
chatter with cold. He had a way of thrusting aside
a back-door bolt, and getting into the house without
making a disturbance; and then, before he went to
bed, he usually took a sleeping-draught from a stone
jug that he kept in the cupboard. Mike went
through this manual on the night in question, and
was very soon afterwards stretched out upon his
couch, where he set to snoring like a trumpeter.
He never could tell how long it was after he had
got to bed that night, but it was before day, when he
opened his eyes and saw, by the broad moonlight
that was shining upon the floor through the window,
a comical figure vapouring about the room. It had
a thin, long face, of a dirty white hue, and a mouth
pair of ram's horns seemed to be twisted above his
brows, like ladies' curls; and his head was covered
with hair that looked more like a bunch of thorns,
with a stiff cue sticking straight out behind, and tied
up with a large knot of red ribbons. His coat was
black, herring-boned across the breast with crimson,
and bound round all the seams with the same colour.
It fitted as close to his body as the tailor could make
it; and it had a rigid standing collar that seemed to
lift up a pair of immense ears, that were thus projected
outwards from the head. The coat was very
short, and terminated in a diminutive skirt that partly
rested upon a long, pliant tail, which was whisked
about in constant motion. He wore tight crimson
small-clothes, bound with black; and silk stockings
of black and red stripes, one of which terminated
in a hoof instead of a human foot. As he walked
about the room he made a great clatter, but particularly
with the hoof, that clinked with the sound of
loose iron. In his hand he carried a crimson cap
with a large black tassel at the top of it.
Mike said that as soon as he saw this fellow in the
room, he knew there was something coming. He
therefore drew his blanket well up around his shoulders,
leaving his head out, that he might have an
eye to what was going forward. In a little time the
figure began to make bows to Mike from across the
room. First, he would bow on one side, almost
down to the floor, so as to throw his body into an
acute angle; then, in the same fashion, on the other
side, keeping his eyes all the time on Mike. He
sort of motion, never still a moment in one
place, and passing from spot to spot like something
that floated. At one instant he would brandish his
arms, and whisk his tail, and take one step forward,
like a dancing master beginning to dance a gavot.
In the next, he would make a sweep, and retreat to
his first position; where he would erect his figure
very stiffly, and strut with pompous strides all round
the room. All this while he was twisting his features
into every sort of grimace. Then he would shake
himself like a merry-andrew, and spring from the
floor upwards, flinging out his arms and legs like a
supple-jack, which being done, he would laugh very
loud, and wink his eye at Mike. Then he would
skip on the top of a chest, and from that to a table,
from the table to a chair, from the chair to the bed,
and thence he would skip off, putting his foot upon
Mike's breast as he passed, and pressing upon him
so heavily, that for some moments Mike could hardly
breathe. After this, he would dance a morrice
close up to the bedside, and fetch a spring that would
bring him astride upon Mike's stomach; where he
would stoop down so as to bring his long nose almost
to touch Mike's, and there he would twist his
eyebrows and make faces at him for several minutes;
and from that position he would fling a
somerset backwards, as far as the room would permit.
All this time the foot with the loose iron clanked
very loud. Mike was not in the least afraid; but
utter a word. He was completely tongue-tied, nor
could he move a limb to help himself, being, as he
affirmed, under a spell. But there he lay, looking
at all these strange capers, which appeared so odd
to him, that if he had had the power he would have
laughed outright.
At last the figure danced up to him, and stood
still.
“I have the honour to address myself to Sergeant
Brown the blacksmith?” said he interrogatively,
making a superlatively punctilious bow at the same
time.
“The same,” replied Mike, having in an instant
recovered the power of speech.
“My name,” said the figure, “is—,” here he
pronounced a terrible name of twenty syllables, that
sounded something like water pouring out of a bottle,
and which Mike never could repeat; “I am a full
brother of Old Harry, and belong to the family of the
Scratches. I have taken the liberty to call and
make my respects this morning, because I want to
be shod.”
Thereupon he made another bow, and lifted up
his right foot to let Mike see that the shoe was loose.
“No shoeing to be done at this time of night,”
said Mike.
“It does not want but two new nails,” said the
figure, “and the clinching of one old one.”
“Blast the nail will you get till daylight!” replied
Mike.
“I will thank you, Mr. Brown,” said the figure,
“if you will only take my hoof in your hand, and
pull out the loose nail that makes such a rattling.”
“I can't do that,” answered Mike.
“Why not?”
“Because I am afraid of waking Ruthy.”
“I'll answer for the consequences,” said the other.
“Mistress Brown knows me very well, and will
never complain at your doing a good turn to one of
my family.”
“I'm sleepy,” said Mike, “so, be about your business.”
“Then, Mike Brown, I will waken you,” cried
the other in a rage; “I told you I would teach you
manners.”
Saying these words he came close to Mike, and
seized his nose between the knuckles of the two
first fingers of his right hand, and wrung it so hard
that Mike roared aloud. Then, letting go his hold,
he strutted away with a ludicrous short step, throwing
his legs upwards as high as his head, and bringing
them back nearly to the same spot on the floor, and,
in this fashion, whistling all the time a slow march,
he passed directly out of the window.
When Mike had sufficiently come to his senses,
he found his gentle consort standing by his bedside,
with a blanket wrapt round her spare figure, calling
him all sorts of hard names for disturbing her rest.
Her account of this matter, when she heard from
the neighbours Mike's version of this marvellous
visit from the devil, was, that she did not know
when he came into the house that night; nor did she
was sure Old Nick must have been with him, and
flung him into such an odd position as he was in;
for he made a terrible, smothered sort of noise with
his voice, which wakened her up, and there she found
him stretched across the bed with his clothes on,
and his head inclined backwards over the side, with
both arms down towards the floor. She said, moreover,
that he was a drunken brute, and she had a
great mind to tweak his nose for him.
“And I will be bound she helped the old devil to
do that very thing!” said Rip.
“I don't know how that was,” replied Hafen,
“but Mike's nose got bluer and bluer after that,
and always looked very much bruised, which he said
was upon account of the devil's fingers being hot, and
scorching him very much.”
This adventure of Mike's gave him great celebrity
in the neighbourhood; and, by degrees, the people
began to be almost as much afraid of Mike as they
were of the goblin who was supposed to frequent the
swamp. Mike added to this impression by certain
mysteries that he used in his craft. He had the art
of taming wild colts by whispering in their ears, which
had such an effect that he could handle them at his
shop as safely as the oldest horses. And he professed
to cure the colt's distemper, sweeny, and other
maladies, by writing some signs on a piece of paper,
and causing the horse to swallow it in his oats.
These accomplishments, of course, were set down
to the proper account; namely, to Mike's intimacy
with his old companion, which was known now to
Some years after the last adventure, in the summer,
about the month of June, when the moon was
in her third quarter, Mike was crossing the common
late at night, just as the moon was rising. He was
in his usual condition; for latterly Mike was scarcely
ever sober. There had been rain that night, but
the clouds had broken away, and he was talking
to himself, and making the road twice as long as it
was, by crossing and recrossing his path, like a ship
tacking in the wind, and every now and then bringing
himself up against a tree or sapling, and sometimes
stepping, with a vast stride, across a streak of
shadow, thinking it a gully; and at others, walking
plump into a real gully without seeing it, until he
came upon his back in the mud. On such accidents,
he would swear out a good-natured oath, get up,
and go on his way rejoicing, as usual.
It happened, as he was steering along in this plight,
there suddenly stood before him his old friend in the
herring-boned jacket.
“How do you do, Mike?” was his usual salutation.
“Pretty well, I thank you, sir.” Mike was noted
for being scrupulously polite when he was in his cups.
So, he made a bow, and took off his hat, although
he could hardly keep his ground.
“Sloppy walking to night, Mr. Mike.”
“Sloppy enough, sir,” replied Mike, rather short,
as if he didn't wish to keep company with the devil.
“How is Mistress Brown this evening?” said the
other, following Mike up.
“Pretty well, I thank you, sir,” returned the blacksmith,
walking as fast as he could.
“Trade brisk, Mr. Brown?”
“Quite the contrary,” replied Mike; “there's nothing
to do worth speaking of.”
“How are you off for cash?” asked the other,
coming up close along side.
“I have none to lend,” answered the blacksmith.
“I did not suppose you had, sergeant; you and I
have been acquainted a long while. I hope there is
no grudge betwixt us.”
“I never knew any good of you,” said Mike.
“Let us drink to our better friendship,” said the
gentleman, taking a flat bottle from his pocket.
“With all my heart!” cried Mike, as he stretched
out his hand and took the flask. “Here's to you,
Mr. Devil!”
Hereupon they both took a drink.
“Now,” said Mike, “let us take another to old
Virginia.”
“Agreed,” answered the gentleman; so they took
another.
“You're a very clever fellow!” said Mike, beginning
to brighten up.
“I know that,” replied the gentleman.
“You are a man after my own heart,” continued
Mike, “here's your health again. Give us your paw,
old fellow.” Then they shook hands.
“Let us drink to Mistress Brown,” said the gentleman
politely.
“Damn Mistress Brown! I'll make you a present
of her.”
“I accept your offer,” replied the other; “here's
her health.”
“Well,” said Mike, “here's the health of your
wife.”
“I am much obliged to you,” replied the gentleman.
“Mistress (here he pronounced his own unspellable
name,) will thank you herself some of these
days, when you may honour her with your company.
But Mike, as I have taken a liking to you, I'll
make your fortune.”
“Will you?” cried the blacksmith; “then I'm
your man!”
“Come with me,” said the other, “and I will
show you where you may find as much gold as you
can carry home in a bag. But you must not mind
trouble.”
“Trouble!” exclaimed Mike. “Any trouble for
money!”
“Follow me,” said the gentleman.
Upon this they both turned their steps towards the
swamp, the broadest part of which they reached not
very far from the scene of their colloquy. The morass
here was covered with sheets of water, some of
them ten or twelve yards in diameter. The gentleman
in black and crimson easily traversed these,
without soiling his habiliments more than if he had
been in a drawing-room; but Mike made his way
and then in another, and sometimes plunging up to his
middle in water. But his companion exhorted him
to persevere, and kept up his resolution by presenting
him now and then with the flask, which, Mike
said, was of great use to him.
At last they arrived at the inmost part of the
swamp, upon the margin of one of the ponds, in the
middle of which the water was about two feet deep,
but shallow towards the edges.
“Now,” said the gentleman, “Mike, my brave
fellow! do you take a drink.”
“Certainly,” replied Mike.
“The bottom of this pond,” continued the other,
“is full of gold; and all that you have to do is to
rake it out. I'll get you a light rake.”
With this he withdrew for a few moments, and
returned with a rake made of a white-oak sapling,
with twelve iron teeth to it, each about a foot long,
and put the implement in Mike's hand, who, having
taken a good deal from his host's flask, had much
ado to stand up. But still he was full of resolution,
and very much determined to make money.
The image of the moon was reflected upon the
water, whose surface being slightly agitated by the
breeze and the frequent movement of small insects,
broke the reflection into numberless fragments, that
glittered upon Mike's vision like pieces of bright gold
at the bottom.
“All that you have to do,” said Mike's conductor,
“is to rake out these scraps of metal, and put them
your feet as little as possible. So make yourself at
home, for I must bid you good night.”
“Good night,” uttered Mike, “and joy go with
you, my old boy!”
Finding himself alone in the bosom of the swamp
at this hour, and on the high road to fortune, the
blacksmith addressed himself to his task as vigorously
as the inordinate depth of his potations would
allow. He took up the rake, that was lying on the
ground, and raised it perpendicularly, which was
as much as he could do and keep his balance, considering
the state of his head, and the slippery ground
he had for a footing. Besides, the rake was very heavy,
being made of green wood, and at least twenty feet
long. When he had it well poised, and ready to make
a stroke in the water, he took two steps forward to
bring him immediately to the edge of the pond.
“Here goes!” he cried aloud, at the same time
flinging the rake downwards, which motion disturbed
his centre of gravity, and plunged him headlong
into the pool. At the same moment with the plash
were heard a dozen voices, laughing from the midst
of the bushes, with a prolonged and loud ho, ho, ho!
that echoed frightfully through the stillness of the
night. Mike crawled out of the water, keeping hold
of the rake, and once more stood upright on his former
foothold.
“Well!” ejaculated Mike, with a thick utterance,
and a kind of peevish gravity, “what do you see to
laugh at in that? Never see a man in the water before?”
He now very seriously raised the rake a second
time, and made a more successful pitch, driving it into
the bottom, and breaking the water into a thousand
ripples. Then, taking hold of the long shaft,
which he straddled, as children when they ride a stick,
he began to pull with might and main. He strained
until the perspiration poured down his cheeks in
large drops; but the teeth had sunk so deep in the
mud, that the rake was immovable.
“Pretty tough work!” said Mike, stopping to run
his finger along his brow.
But all his efforts proved unavailing; and he was
therefore forced to wade into the pond again to release
the iron teeth from their bed; and, resting them
lightly on the bottom, he again began to pull, and
succeeded in bringing the rake to the shore. Upon
examination, the fruit of all this labour was nothing
more than some decayed brushwood and grass.
“No great haul that!” muttered Mike to himself;
and instantly the swamp was alive again with
the same reverberations of the choir of laughers.
Mike considering this as a taunt that he would
bear from neither devil nor imp, returned it scornfully
and in defiance, by an equally loud and affected ho,
ho, ho! delivered in bass tones. “I can laugh as
well as the best of you,” he said, nodding his head
towards the quarter from which the noises came.
Mike's temper now began to give way; and as
he grew angry, he toiled with proportionate energy,
but with the same disappointment, which was
always mocked by the same coarse laugh. The
violence of his exertions, the weight of the implement
drenchings, gradually overcoming his strength, he
grew disheartened, and began to wake up to the
real nature of his employment. The chill of the
night slowly dispelled the fever of his brain, and at
last the full conviction of the truth broke upon him.
“If I was not a born fool,” said he, “I should
think I was drunk. I see how it is: that fellow that
left the marks of his hot fingers upon my nose, has
been playing his tricks upon me again. It is unaccountable;
but if I don't have my revenge, he may
bridle and saddle me both, and ride me over the
swamp as much as he pleases.”
So saying, Mike threw down his rake, and resolutely
retraced his steps through the marsh. As soon
as he set his foot upon the firm land, he heard the
voice of his late companion calling out, “Good night,
Sergeant Brown!” which was instantly followed
with the accustomed laugh.
“Good night, you blackguard!” cried Mike, as
loud as he could bawl. “Your liquor is as bad as
your lodgings!” and posted off homeward as fast as
his legs could carry him.
All the next day Mike ruminated sullenly over
this adventure, and the more he thought upon it the
more wroth he became. There is nothing more to
be dreaded than a pleasant-tempered, sociable,
frolicksome fellow, of good bone and muscle, when
he is once roused. Quarrel not being one of his
habits, he manages it roughly and with great energy,
—or as Mike would say,—“like a new hand at the
bellows.” The affornt put upon him the night before
resolved to call his false friend to an account. It
was singular that after this thought took possession
of his mind, there seemed to be a relish in it that
almost brought him into a good humour. The idea
of standing upon his prowess with the devil, and
giving him a fair beating, was one of those luxurious
imaginings that no man ever dreamt of but Mike
Brown. There was a whimsicalness in it that vibrated
upon the strongest cord in his character.
Mike had never met his match in daylight, and he
had a droll conviction that he could master any
thing in darkness, if he could only come to it, arm
to arm. His first and most natural suggestion was,
to put himself in order for the projected interview,
by making a merry evening of it, and then to depend
upon his genius for his success in the subsequent
stages of the adventure.
Mike followed one half of the old Scythian custom
in all affairs of perplexity: he first considered the
subject when he was drunk, but he did not revolve
it again in a sober mood. On the present occasion
his reflections had the advantage of being matured
under circumstances of peculiar animation, induced
by the disturbed state of his feelings; for he has often
said that when any thing fretted him it made him
awfully thirsty. There was one determination that
was uppermost in all the variety of lights in which
he contemplated his present purpose;—and that was,
as it was a delicate affair, to treat it like a gentleman,
and to give his adversary fair play. Accordingly,
as soon as Mike had cast off work for the day,
set out for his usual haunt to prepare himself for the
business in hand. Never did he enter upon a campaign
with a more wary, circumspect or soldier-like
providence.
He remained at the tavern in the neighbourhood
until he had fairly put all his compotators asleep;
and then, in the dead hour of the night, when the
moon was but a little way above the horizon, and divided
her quiet empire with Mike's own nose, he
crept forth silently upon his destined exploit. It was
a goodly sight to see such a valiant blacksmith, so
martially bedight, with his trusty sword tucked under
his arm, stealing out at such an hour, and wending
his silent way to the Goblin Swamp, there to have
a pass at arms with the fiend! the night breeze
blowing upon his swarthy cheek, and his heavy,
sullen tramp falling without an echo upon his own
ear, and not a thought of dread flickering about his
heart.
With his head spinning like a top, and his courage
considerably above striking heat, Mike, after many
circumgyrations, arrived in about half an hour on
the frontier of the field of action. Here he halted,
according to a military fashion; and, like a cautious
officer entering upon an enemy's territory, he began
to explore the ground. Then, drawing his sword
and straightening his person, he commenced an exhortation
to himself in the manner of a general addressing
his troops.
“Now, my brave boy, keep a stiff upper lip!
you see the whites of their eyes; carry swords;
advance!”
All this he uttered with a solemn, drunken wisdom,
and with the flourish of an old soldier. At the
words he stepped forward, and continued to approach
the swamp, muttering half articulated sounds, and
occasionally falling one step backward, from carrying
himself rather too erect. As soon as he reached
the edge of the morass, he gave the word “halt” in
a loud and defying tone of voice, as if to inform his
adversary of his presence. He did not wait long
before he heard a crackling noise as of one breaking
through the thick shrubbery; and full before him
stood, on an old log within the swamp, his adversary,
in his customary dress, with the addition of a Spanish
cloak of scarlet that was muffled about his neck.
Mike, immediately upon seeing this apparition,
brought his sword with an alert motion up to his
breast, with the blade reaching perpendicularly upward
in the line of his face; then, with a graceful
sweep of his arm, he swung it down diagonally, with
the point to the ground, in the usual manner of a
salute.
“Your honour!” said Mike, as he performed this
ceremony.
“Walk in, Sergeant Brown!” said the devil,
with a husky voice, that was scarcely above a whisper.
“I did not expect to see you to night; I have
caught a bad cold, and am not able to stir abroad.”
“I am come to night,” said Mike very stiffly,
you on a piece of business. I require satisfaction
for the affront you put upon me last night.”
“You shall have it. What's your weapon?”
“It is in my hand,” answered the sergeant.
“Then follow me,” said the devil with great composure.
They both stepped forward into the swamp; and,
after traversing some defiles, and passing around
ponds, and making many tiresome circuits through
the most intricate parts of the marsh, Mike at
length stopped to inquire which way the devil meant
to lead him.
“As I am the challenged party, I have the right
to choose my own ground,” said the other.
“Certainly!” rejoined Mike. “It is all one to
me.”
At length they reached a spot that was covered
with tall trees, at the foot of which the earth seemed
to be of a more firm texture than in the rest of the
fen. There was a fire smoking through a heap of
rubbish near the middle of the ground, and a little,
peaked old woman, almost black with the smoke,
sat upon her haunches so near the fire that by the
flash of the small flame Mike could perceive that
she was smoking a pipe. Her elbows were placed
upon her knees, and her chin rested in the palms of
her hands in such a manner that her long fingers
were extended, like the bars of a gridiron, over her
cheeks. Her eyes looked like burning coals, and
could be seen through the dark at a great distance.
“Wife,” said the devil, “Mike Brown. Mike
Brown, my wife.”
“Your servant,” said Mike, with one of his best
flourishes, and a bow.
“Pish!” cried the old woman with a sort of
scream, “sit down!”
“Much obliged to you, Ma'am,” replied Mike,
“I'd rather stand.”
“What brings you with Mike Brown into my
bedroom at this time of night?” said the old woman
to her husband.
“Mind your own business,” was the reply, “and
give me my sword. I have an affair of honour to
settle with this gentleman.”
“Get it yourself,” said the wife.
So the devil stepped inside of a hollow tree, and
brought out a huge old-fashioned, two-handed straight
sword, that was covered with rust, and immediately
began to feel the edge with his thumb.
“It is very dull; but it will do. Now, sergeant,
we will go a little way further; and settle this matter
in a twinkling.”
“Agreed! and remember, as you set up for a gentleman,
I expect fair play.”
“Honour bright!” said the devil, putting his hand
to his breast.
“No striking till each says he is ready.”
“By no means,” said the devil.
“Nor no hit below the knee.”
“Of course not,” said the devil.
“Time to breathe, if it is asked.”
“Assuredly!”
“Points down at the first blood.”
“Just as you say,” replied the devil.
“Then,” said Mike, “move on.”
“We ought to drink together, sergeant, before we
get to blows. I am for doing the thing civilly,” said
the devil.
“So am I,” replied Mike. “I am entirely of your
opinion.”
So the devil put into Mike's hands a large gourd,
that had a stopper in the top of it, which the sergeant
pulled out, and applying the orifice to his
mouth, took a hearty drink, first turning to the old
woman, who sat all this time in silence by the fire,
and saying, “My service to you, Ma'am!” The devil
having likewise performed his part in this ceremony,
they once more resumed their walk.
In their progress towards the ground which the
devil had chosen for the theatre of this mortal rencounter,
they came to two small islands, the soil of
which was a yielding black mud covered with moss.
These little parcels of ground arose out of the marsh,
with well defined banks, perhaps twelve inches high,
and were separated from each other by a channel of
deep water, not more than five feet in width, so that
to pass from one to the other required a leap that
was somewhat perilous, because the foothold on the
opposite bank was not only very soft, but the ground
itself scarcely one pace in breadth. The chances
were, therefore, that in leaping to it, the momentum
employed would precipitate the leaper into another
pond of water beyond it. The devil skipped over
this strait with great ease, and called on Mike to follow.
for some moments upon the spot with anxious concern.
He traversed the ground in the neighbourhood,
to observe if there was any other passage
round this hazardous channel; meditated upon the
consequences of a failure in the attempt to cross it;
looked at his legs, as if to compare their capabilities
with the obstacle before him; and, at last, wisely
determined that the risk was more than he ought, in
prudence, to run. So, taking the next expedient,—
which was to make a long step, in such wise as to
plant one foot on the opposite bank, and rely upon
the assistance of his adversary to drag him over,—he
forthwith essayed the effort. By one prodigious
stride, he succeeded in fixing his left foot on the desired
spot, his legs being extended in the endeavour
to their greatest possible compass; and there he remained
in this ludicrous position, like the colossus of
Rhodes, his feet sliding imperceptibly outward in the
slimy material of the banks, thus more effectually
splitting him asunder, whilst the great weight of his
body denied him all power to extricate himself, even
if he had stood upon a firmer base, and with a less
relaxed frame. He was, of course, wholly at the
mercy of his antagonist, upon whose generosity he relied
with the confidence of a true soldier; if this failed
him, he had nothing better left than to fall side-wise,
in the manner of a pair of distended compasses,
into the water, and abide the consequences of
going headlong to the bottom of a stagnant pool,
where, for aught he knew, he should not only be compelled
to swallow a portion of the noxious liquid,
snapping-turtles, and other abominable inhabitants
of such a place. For the present, therefore, he began
to entreat the aid of his old companion in the most
supplicating terms. To his utter dismay, the gentleman
in the scarlet mantle not only refused him a
hand, but answered his request with a malignant
laugh, so loud as to make the swamp ring with its
reverberations.
“Blood and fury! why don't you give me your
hand?” cried Mike at last, in an extremity of torture;
“where are your manners?”
“What ails you?” said the devil, “that you roar
so loud?”
“I'm in a quandary!” bellowed the sergeant. “Is
this the way you treat a gentleman in distress? Don't
you see I'm splitting up to my chin?”
“When I fight,” replied the other calmly, “I
choose my own ground, and if you can't reach it,
it is no fault of mine.”
“Don't you mean to give me satisfaction?” asked
Mike.
“All the satisfaction in the world, Sergeant
Brown. Rare satisfaction,” said the devil, laughing
and holding his sides.
“You are a coward,” cried Mike, drawing his
sword, and flourishing it over his head.
“Step out, sergeant, and make your words good.”
“You are no gentleman.”
“Granted,” said the devil; “I never set up for
one. But I don't think you are much better, or you
would never stand vapouring there with your sword,
consequence.”
“What's the use,” said Mike, in a gentle persuasive
tone, “of keeping a man here all night, tearing
the life out of him by inches? Just give us a hand,
like a genteel christian; and as to the quarrel, I'll
not be particular about it.”
“Good night, Sergeant Brown,” said the devil;
“I see you have no mind to fight; and as I did not
come here to trifle, I will wait no longer for you.”
So the devil turned round and disappeared from
Mike's view, with a bitter, scoffing laugh.
The sergeant being thus left alone without relief,
found his torment becoming every moment more insupportable;
and therefore, without further effort to
reach the ground on either side, he plunged head-foremost
into the pond, from which he rose in a moment
covered with black mud, and with a multitude
of ropes of green slime clinging to his shoulders, and
platted about his throat.
This shock had the effect to bring the blacksmith
partially to his senses. He awoke from his intoxication,
like one from a dream, wondering at the chances
that brought him into such a predicament, and with
a confused recollection of the strange adventure he
had just been engaged in. His conclusion was, “that
the old chap had taken him in again,” and he therefore
set off homeward, very much ashamed of the
failure of his expedition, and not less vexed to hear,
as he once more arrived on dry land, the usual valedictory,
“Good night!” with its hoarse, wild and
fiendish accompaniment.
I will not pretend to give any further avouch for
these facts than the authority of Hafen, who affirmed
that he had them from Mike himself; and as
Mike was a little prone to exaggerate when his personal
prowess was in question, the judicious reader
will make some grains of allowance on that score.
There were various incidents in Mike's life similar
to those above narrated; but it is only material to
know, that not long after this last adventure, Mike
began to grow jealous of his old crony's attentions to
Mistress Brown. There was a spirited intercourse
kept up between this worthy and the family, which
resulted at last in the sudden disappearance of the
matron from the neighbourhood. The folks in these
parts have their own notions of the matter; but they
don't like to speak freely on the subject. Mike, however,
bore his misfortune like a philosopher. He
very sedately increased his allowance of comfort by
doubling the strength of his cups, and, in consequence,
was more frequently than ever beside himself,—a
very refreshing expedient for a man who has been
left alone in the world. The heir apparent and the
rest of the progeny abdicated their birth-right, and
wandered off, it is supposed, in search of food. The
shop was deserted, the anvil was sold, and the bellows
fell a victim to a pulmonary attack. The roof
of the dwelling had decayed so as to give the wind
and rain free admission. The relics of the smithy
were, one windy night, blown down. The frame
of the house first became twisted out of its perpendicular
line, and gradually sunk to earth, at the
base of the brick chimney that stands, at this day, a
heroes has departed. The well grew to be
choked up with weeds; the balance-pole waxed stiff,
and creaked in its swivel; and, finally, Mike ceased
to be seen in the country side.
It is now many years gone by, since these mysterious
events employed the gossip of the neighbourhood;
and many credible witnesses,—amongst the
rest Hafen Blok,—affirm that Mike and his wife are
yet seen to hold occasional conventicles with their
old associate, in that part of the swamp known as
the devil's bed-chamber.
“Well, Hafen,” said I, when this story of Mike
Brown was concluded, “do you believe it all?”
“Why, I don't know,” replied Hafen, “it does
seem to me as if it might be partly true. But Mike
was a monstrous liar, and an uncommon hard
drinker.”
“It is reasonable,” said Hazard, “to suppose that
the devil should be fond of such a fellow as Mike
Brown.”
Said Rip, “For my share, I don't believe it. Hafen's
making fun: how could the devil walk over the
swamp in silk stockings, and not get them muddy?”
| CHAPTER I.
STORY-TELLING. Swallow Barn, or A sojourn in the Old Dominion | |