46. CHAPTER XLVI.
THE SHIVEREE.
IF Webster's “American Dictionary of the English
Language” had not been made wholly in
New England, it would not have lacked so many
words that do duty as native-born or naturalized
citizens in large sections of the United States, and
among these words is the one that stands at the head of the
present chapter. I know that some disdainful prig will assure
me that it is but a corruption of the French “charivari,” and
so it is; but then “charivari” is a corruption of the low Latin
“charivarium,” and that is a corruption of something else, and,
indeed, almost every word is a corruption of some other word.
So that there is no good reason why “shiveree,” which lives
in entire unconsciousness of its French parentage and its Latin
grand-parentage, should not find its place in an “American
Dictionary.”
But while I am writing a disquisition on the etymology of
the word, the “shiveree” is mustering at Mandluff's store.
Bill Day has concluded that he is in no immediate danger of
perdition, and that a man is a “blamed fool to git skeered
about his soul.” Bob Short is sure the Almighty will not be
too hard on a feller, and so thinks he will go on having “a
little fun” now and then. And among the manly recreations
which they have proposed to themselves is that of shivereeing
“that Dutchman, Gus Wehle.” It is the solemn opinion of
the whole crowd that “no Dutchman hadn't orter be so lucky
as to git sech a beauty of a gal and a hundred acres of bottom
lands to boot.”
The members of the party were all disguised, some in one
way and some in another, though most of them had their
coats inside out. They thought it necessary to be disguised,
“bekase, you know,” as Bill Day expressed it, “ole Grizzly is
apt to prosecute ef he gits evidence agin you.” And many
were the conjectures as to whether he would shoot or not.
The instruments provided by this orchestra were as various
as their musical tastes. It is likely that even Mr. Jubilee Gilmore
never saw such an outfit. Bob Short had a dumb-bull,
a keg with a strip of raw-hide stretched across one end like
a drum-head, while the other remained open. A waxed cord
inserted in the middle of the drum-head, and reaching down
through the keg, completed the instrument. The pulling of
the hand over this cord made a hideous bellowing, hence
its name. Bill Day had a gigantic watchman's rattle, a
hickory spring on a cog-wheel. It is called in the West a
horse-fiddle, because it is so unlike either a horse or a fiddle.
Then there were melodious tin pans and conch-shells and tin
horns. But the most deadly noise was made by Jim West, who
had two iron skillet-lids (“leds” he called them) which, when
placed face to face, and rubbed, as you have seen children
rub tumblers, made a sound discordant and deafening enough
to have suggested Milton's expression about the hinges which
“grated harsh thunder.”
One of this party was a tallish man, so dressed as to look
like a hunchback, and a hunchback so tall was a most singular
figure. He had joined them in the dark, and the rest
were unable to guess who it could be, and he, for his part,
would not tell. They thumped him and pushed him, but at
each attack he only leaped from the ground like a circus
clown, and made his tin horn utter so doleful a complaint as
set the party in an uproar of laughter. They could not be
sure who he was, but he was a funny fellow to have along
with them at any rate.
He was not only funny, but he was evidently fearless. For
when they came to the castle it was all dark and still. Bill
Day said that it looked “powerful juberous to him. Ole Andy
meant to use shootin'-ir'ns, and didn't want to be pestered with
no lights blazin' in his eyes.” But the tall hunchback cleared
the fence at a bound, and told them to come on “ef they had
the sperrit of a two-weeks-old goslin into 'em.” So the bottle
was passed round, and for very shame they followed their ungainly
leader.
“Looky here, boys,” said the hunchback, “they's one way
that we can fix it so's ole Grizzly can't shoot. They's a little
shop-place, a sort of a shed, agin the house, on the side next
to the branch. Let's git in thar afore we begin, and he can't
shoot.”
The orchestra were a little stupfied with drink, and they
took the idea quickly, never stopping to ask how they could
retreat if Andrew chose to shoot. Jim West thought things
looked scaly, but he warn't agoin' to backslide arter he'd got
so fur.
When they got into Andrew's shop, where he had a new
and beautiful skiff in building, the tall hunchback shut the door,
and the rest did not notice that he put the key in his pocket.
That serenade! Such a medley of discordant sounds, such
a clatter and clangor, such a rattle of horse-fiddle, such a bellowing
of dumb-bull, such a snorting of tin horns, such a ringing
of tin pans, such a grinding of skillet-lids! But the house
remained quiet. Once Bill Day thought that he heard a laugh
within. Julia may have lost her self-control. She was so
happy, and a little unrestrained fun was so strange a luxury!
At last the door between the house and shop was suddenly
opened, and Julia, radiant as she could be, stood on the threshold
with a candle in her hand.
“Come in, gentlemen.”
But the gentlemen essayed to go out.
“Locked in, by thunder!” said Jim West, trying the outside
door of the shop.
“We heard you were coming, gentlemen, and provided a
little entertainment. Come in!”
“Come in, boys,” said the hunchback, “don't be afeard of
nobody.”
Mechanically they followed the hunchback into the room,
for there was nothing else to be done. A smell of hot coffee
and the sight of a well-spread table greeted their senses.
“Welcome, my friends, thrice welcome!” said Andrew.
“Put down your instruments and have some supper.”
“Let me relieve you,” said Julia, and she took the dumb-bull
from Bob Short and the “horse-fiddle” from Day, the tin
horns and tin pans from others, and the two skillet-lids from
Jim West, who looked as sheepish as possible. August escorted
each of them to the table, though his face did not look
altogether cordial. Some old resentment for the treatment of
his father interfered with the heartiness of his hospitality. The
hunchback in this light proved to be Jonas, of course; and
Bill Day whispered to the one next to him that they had
been “tuck in and done fer that time.”
“Gentlemen,” said Andrew, “we are much obliged for your
music.” And Cynthy would certainly have laughed out if she
had not been so perplexed in her mind to know whether Andrew
was speaking the truth.
Such a motley set of wedding guests as they were, with
their coats inside out and their other disguises! Such a race
of pied pipers! And looking at their hangdog faces you would
have said, “Such a lot of sheep-thieves!” Though why a
sheep-thief is considered to be a more guilty-looking man than
any other criminal, I do not know. Jonas looked bright
enough and ridiculous enough with his hunch. They all ate
rather heartily, for how could they resist the attentions of
Cynthy Ann and the persuasions of Julia, who poured them
coffee and handed them biscuit, and waited upon them as
though they were royal guests! And, moreover, the act of
eating served to cover their confusion.
As the meal drew to a close, Bill Day felt that he, being in
some sense the leader of the party, ought to speak. He was
not quite sober, though he could stand without much staggering.
He had been trying for some time to frame a little speech, but
his faculties did not work smoothly.
“Mr. President—I mean Mr. Anderson—permit me to offer
you our pardon. I mean to beg your apologies—to—ahem—
hope that our—that your—our—thousand — thanks—your—you
know what I mean.” And he sat down in foolish confusion.
“Oh! yes. All right; much obliged, my friend,” said the
Philosopher, who had not felt so much boyish animal life in
twenty-five years.
And Jim West whispered to Bill: “You expressed my
sentiments exactly.”
“Mr. Anderson,” said Jonas, rising, and thus lifting up his
hunched shoulders and looking the picture of a long-legged
heron standing in the water, “Mr. Anderson, you and our
young and happy friend, Mr. Wehle, will accept our thanks.
We thought that music was all you wanted to gin a delightful—kinder—sorter—well,
top-dressin', to this interestin' occasion.
Now they's nothin' sweeter'n a tin horn, 'thout 'tis a
melodious conch-shell utterin' its voice like a turkle-dove.
Then we've got the paytent double whirlymagig hoss-violeen,
and the tin pannyforte, and, better nor all, the grindin' skelletled
cymbals. We've laid ourselves out and done our purtiest—
hain't we, feller-musicians?—to prove that we was the best
band on the Ohio River. An' all out of affection and respect
for this ere happy pair. And we're all happy to be here.
Hain't we?” (Here they all nodded assent, though they
looked as though they wished themselves far enough.) “Our
enstruments is a leetle out of toon, owin' to the dampness of
the night air, and so I trust you'll excuse us playin' a farewell
piece.”
Jim West was so anxious to get away that he took advantage
of this turn to say good-evening, and though the mischievous
Julia insisted that he should select his instrument, he
had not the face to confess to the skillet-lids, and got out of
it by assuring her that he hadn't brought nothing, “only come
along to see the fun.” And each member of the party repeated
the transparent lie, so that Julia found herself supplied
with more musical instruments than any young housekeeper
need want, and Andrew hung them, horns, pans, conch-shell,
dumb-bull, horse-fiddle, skillet-lids, and all, in his library, as
trophies captured from the enemy.
Much as I should like to tell you of the later events of
the Philosopher's life, and about Julia and August, and their
oldest son, whose name is Andrew, and all that, I do not know
that I can do better than to bow myself out with the abashed
serenaders, letting this musical epilogue harmoniously close
the book; writing just here,
THE END.
