University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MARGARET'S OLDEST BROTHER, NIMROD, COMES HOME. — HE
PROPOSES A VARIETY OF DIVERSIONS.

Nimrod made his annual visit to his father's. Where
he had been, or what he did, none asked, none knew. His
appearance would indicate the sailor and the horse-jockey;
he wore a tarpauling and blue jacket, high-top boots
with spurs, and leather trousers; he flourished a riding
stick, commonly known as a cowhide, and had large gold
rings dangling in his ears. He rode a horse, a cast-iron
looking animal, thin and bony, of deep gray color, called
Streaker. He seemed to have money in his pocket, as he
evidently had brandy in his saddle-bags and humor in his
soul. He brought one or two books for Margaret, to whom
he showed great attachment, and whose general management
seemed surrendered to him, while he was at home.
These books were Mother Goose's Melodies, National
Songs, and Bewick's Birds with plates. He gave her, in
addition, a white muslin tunic with pink silk skirt. Nimrod
was tall in person, with bluish, lively eyes, light hair
and a playful expression of face. All the family seemed
delighted with his return; Pluck, because his son's temper
was congenial with his own; his mother, for some presents;
Hash, because of the brandy; Chilion was happy to see his
brother; and Margaret for obvious reasons. He leaped
from his horse and ran to Margaret, who met him at the
door; raised her in his arms, kissed her, set her down, took
her up again, made her leap on his horse, caught her off and

kissed her a second time. “Can you spell Streaker?”
said he, which she did. “Ah, you little rogue!” he added,
“you are spruce as a blue-jay.”

“Has the Indian come yet?”

“He was here last week.”

“An't you afraid of him?”

“No. The little girl that was with him gave me some
apples.”

“That's you, for a broad joe! Never be afraid of any
body, or any thing, two-legged or four-legged, black, white,
blue or gray, streaked or speckled, on the earth or in the
air. I have learned that lesson. How is our other Margaret,
the Peach tree?”

“Don't you see what beautiful red peaches there are
on it?”

“Yea, verily,” as the Master says, “this is like a wood-chuck
in clover. These are sweet and luscious as your
cheek, Margaret.”

Nimrod ran into the house, and out to the cistern, and
towards the Pond, and up the Head. He shook his father's
hand heartily; to his mother he made a low bow; Hash
chuckled and grinned at sight of him, and Nimrod laughed
harder in response. Chilion greeted him cordially, but said
little. Bull he held up by his paws, made sundry bows and
grimaces to the dog, and talked to him like an old friend,
so that Margaret declared the animal laughed.

If Nimrod were enjoying a furlough or vacation, or any
thing of the kind, it seemed to be his purpose to make the
most of it. He talked of the meeting in the woods, a turkey
hunt the next moon, a husking bee, thanksgiving ball,
racing, and a variety of things. In whatever he undertook,
Margaret was his constant attendant; and at some risk
even, he carried her into all scenes of wildness, exposure

and novelty; nor can it be said she was loth to go with her
brother.

The meeting in the woods was the first in order of time.
This practice, imported from England, began to flourish
incipiently in our country. From the suburbs of old cities,
from church-yards, court-yards, gardens, the scene was
transferred to pine forests, shady mountains, and a maiden
greensward. Heptenstall Bank was revived in Snake
Hill. The scoffing Kentishmen appeared in the “Injins,”
No. 4's and Breaknecks. What lived in Europe must
needs luxuriate in America. The jumpers of Wales were
outdone by the jerkers of Kentucky.

The meeting was to be held in the district we have before
spoken of as Snake Hill, lying four or five miles north
of the Pond. Nimrod started off horseback, with Margaret
behind him on a pillion. Hash and Bull went afoot. At
the Widow Wright's, they found that lady with her son
mounting their horse,—a small black animal resembling
the Canada breed, called Tim,—and just ready to proceed
on the same excursion. The Widow was solemn and collected,
and she greeted Nimrod, for whom she had no love,
with a smile that a susceptible eye might have construed
into coldness. Tim, the horse, had a propensity for dropping
his ears, biting and kicking, when a stranger approached.
He began some demonstrations of this sort
as Nimrod came up. Whether Nimrod regarded this an
insult on Streaker, or was nettled at the manner of the
woman, or to gratify his own evil taste, he dealt the horse
a smart blow with his cowhide. Tim darted off at full
jump; insomuch that Obed and his mother, with all their
use to his back and manners, had much ado to keep their
seat. Nimrod ambled forward about a mile to a house
known as Sibyl Radney's, where he overtook the Widow

breathing her beast. Sibyl lived alone with her mother in
the woods, cultivated a small farm, kept a horse and cow,
mowed, cut wood, and did all her work without aid. Her
face and neck were deeply browned, her arm was like that
of a blacksmith. She was also getting ready for Snake
Hill. Nimrod contrived to stimulate the three horses into
a race; which was executed in a manner a fox-hunter
might have envied, through brambles, over stumps, across
ditches.

The spot to which these riders directed their way was
in a forest on the crown of a hill. A circular opening had
been cut among the trees for the purposes of the meeting.
At one end of this amphitheatre was the pulpit, constructed
of rough boards; about the sides were arranged the tents
or camps, made for the most part of hemlock boughs. Slab
seats filled the area between. In the centre of the whole
was a huge pile of wood to be kindled in the evening for
warmth if need be, or for light. There were also booths
on the outside for the sale of cider, rum, gingerbread, and
the practice of various games. Here were assembled people
from twenty different towns. Nimrod fastened his
horse to the trees amongst scores of others. The Widow
reminding Nimrod of the circumstances of the place, admonished
him of his recklessness. “I cal'late God is
here,” said she, “and you had better not be pokin' your
fun about.” Compassionating the dangerous situation of
Margaret, she requested that she might be delivered to her
care. Nimrod, knowing he should find entertainment of a
sort that would not be agreeable to the child, yielded her
to the Leech. He and Sibyl went towards the booths, and
Mistress Wright, leaning on the arm of her son, leading
Margaret, entered the encampment. Three men in black
occupied the pulpit, their heads powdered, with white
stocks and bands, and straight square-cut collars. One of

them, a tall bronze-complexioned man, was addressing the
congregation.

“The sacred flame,” said he, “has spread in Virginia.
Brother Enfield, the assistant in the Brunswick Circuit,
conjectures that from eighteen hundred to two thousand
souls have been converted since the middle of May.
Twelve hundred experienced the work of grace in Sussex;
in Amelia half as many more. Many Christians had severe
exercises of mind respecting the great noise that attended
this work of God. Some thought it was not divine; yet
from its effects they dare not ascribe it to Satan; but when
the Lord broke in upon their own families, they saw it at
once, and began to bemoan their own hardness of heart.
Many gospel-hardened, old, orthodox sinners, have, as
mighty oaks, been felled; and many high-towering sinners,
as the tall cedars of Lebanon, bowed down to the dust. As
many as fifteen or twenty commonly gave up in a day under
Brother Staffin's preaching, who is indeed a Samson
among the Philistines. It is no strange thing now for
children down to seven years of age to come in.”

The Preacher then digressed in a strain of exortation
designed to reproduce effects similar to those he had recounted.
A thunder cloud gathered in the sky, and buried
the woods in darkness. “That,” said he, “is the shadow
of hell. It is the smoke of torments that ascendeth up forever
and ever.” The thunder burst upon the camp, its
hollow roar reverberated among the hills. “Behold!”
he exclaimed, “God proclaims his law in fire and smoke!”
It began to rain, “What!” continued he, “can you not
endure a little wetting, when you will so soon call for a
drop of water to cool your parched tongues?” Lightnings
blazed through the trees. “The great day of
the Lord is coming, when the elements shall melt with

fervent heat; the heavens shall pass away with a great
noise, the earth also shall be burned up.” There was a
movement in the congregation. “Oh my soul!” “Jesus
save!” “Glory! glory!” rang from seat to seat. “It
is the Lord's doings, and marvellous in our eyes,” exclaimed
one of the men in the pulpit. Nimrod and his
confreres from the booths ran in to see what had
befallen. There sat Obed waving to and fro in his
seat, groaning, and calling upon his mother. “Yes, my
son,” exclaimed the latter convulsively, “its an orful time.
God has come, we are great sinners. I han't done my duty
by ye. Parson Welles would let us all go teu hell together.”
“What a mercy,” exclaimed another, “we can come
where the gospel is preached!” “O Lord, forgive me,”
cried a third, “for going to the Universal up to Dunwich;
I do believe there is a hell, I do believe there is a
hell.” “I have been down among the Socinians,” echoed
a fourth. “God be praised I have found where there is
some religion at last. Glory, glory!”

The Preacher, the storm and the effect increased. Some
of the congregation foamed at the mouth, others fell to the
ground in spasms; the color of their faces fluctuating from
white through purple to black; one appeared to be strangling
and gasping for life, another became stiff, rigid, and sat
up like a dead man on his seat; there were sobs,
shrieks, and ejaculations. The thunder crashed, as if
the heavens had split and the earth would give way.
There was a stifled groan, a shuddering recoil among the
people; the Preacher himself seemed for a moment
stunned. Margaret screamed to the top of her voice, which
sounded like a clarion over an earthquake. Nimrod impulsively
rushed among the people, dashed Obed from
his seat, seized Margaret and drew her out.

The Preacher recovering himself as he observed this
movement, “Son of Belial!” he broke forth, “thinkest
thou to stop the mighty power of God? Will he deliver
that child into thy hand as he did the children of Israel
into the hand of Chushan-rishathaim? Stop, on thy soul,
and repent, lest ye die.”

“I guess I shan't die before my time,” retorted Nimrod,
“nor any sooner for your croaking, old Canorum. The
child is getting wet, and she is sca't. I han't lived in the
woods to be skeered at owls.”

“A scoffer!” “A scoffer!” one or another exclaimed.
The people began to look up and about them. The tide of
feeling was somewhat diverted. “O, there will be mourning,
mourning, mourning,” &c., was pealed forth from
the pulpit, and a full chorus of voices chimed in. The
Preacher renewed his exhortations, and the attention of
the assembly was regained. Groans and sobs began once
more. “This beats the Great Earthquake all hollow,” exclaimed
one of the congregation. “Yes,” echoed the
Preacher, “what a rattling among the dry bones.” “O
Lord!” cried one of the assistants, “send an earthquake,
shake these sinners, send it quick, send it now. There
were near four hundred converted at the last earthquake
in Boston.” “O, what a harvest of souls we should have,
brother!” rejoined the Preacher. “Help me with your
prayers, brethren, as Aaron and Hur did Moses.”

In due time these exercises closed. After supper in the
evening the pile of wood was kindled, pine knots were
lighted at the corners of the pulpit; the horn blew and the
people reassembled. Margaret ran off into the woods with
her dog and laid down under a tree, her head resting on
the flanks of the animal, and her feet nestling in the soft
moss. Nimrod was drinking and roistering at the booths.

At the close of the evening service, the people dispersed
to their tents. A middle aged man, Mr. Palmer,
from the Ledge, happening in the woods, saw Margaret
asleep under the trees, took her in his arms, carried her
into one of the tents, and gave her in charge of his wife.
The good woman with one hand patted Margaret on her
head, while with the other she tended her own with a pinch
of snuff, and asked her if she didn't want to be saved.
Margaret replied that she didn't know.

“The spirit is here mightily,” said the woman, taking a
fresh pinch, “won't you come in for a share?”

“It won't let me,” replied Margaret.

“You may lose your soul.”

“I haven't got any.”

“Mercy on me!” exclaimed the woman, “Don't you
know the devil will get you if you don't come in?”

“It won't,” replied Margaret, “Bull won't let it.”

“What will you do when all the little boys and gals
goes up a singing?”

“I'll stay at home and hear Chilion play on the fiddle,
and read my new books.”

“Luddy mussy! can you read? Where do you live?”

“Down to the Pond.”

“Han't they got any of the religion at your house?”

“No, Ma'm, they drink pupelo and rum.”

“A born fool!” ejaculated the woman with herself.—
“But she can read, she must be knowing. Wonder if the
power is'nt in her? She will certainly die, and she an't
no more ready than our Rufus.”

The people began to crowd into the tent, among whom
were Mistress Wright and her son Obed. The widow made
immediately for Margaret, who with Mistress Palmer, was

sitting on the straw in a corner apart. She heard the latter
lady's soliloquy, and added, “O no, I'm afeered she an't.”

“What's the matter of the child?” asked Mistress
Palmer.

“Don't know Marm,” replied the Widow. “I wish
sutthin' could be done for her, she's bred in orful wickedness.
Any sick up your way, Miss Palmer? I've brought
a few yarbs with me. If we could only keep the poor sinners
alive long enough teu save their souls it would be a
marcy.”

The speakers were interrupted by noises in the tent, into
which a large number of people had found their way, who
began to sing, exhort and pray. They had Obed down flat
on his back. The mouth of the lad was open, his eyes
shut; he shook spasmodically, he groaned with a deep guttural
guffaw. Men and women were over and about him;
some praying, others crying, “Glory!” The Preacher
came in, a bland smile on his face, rubbing his hands;
“Good!” he ejaculated with a short, quick snap of the
voice. “The Lord is here, Miss Palmer,” said he.

“Yes in truth, you told us we should have a great time,”
rejoined the woman. “But see this gal, I wonder if any
thing can be done with her.”

“Ah! my little lamb,” said the Preacher, taking Margaret's
hand and drawing her gently towards him. “Hope
you have found the Savior, you are old enough to repent.”
Margaret wrested herself from him. “What's the matter,
dear?” inquired the man. “You are not one of the
wicked children that reviled the prophet, and the bears
came out of the woods and tare them in pieces?”

“I an't afraid of the bears,” replied Margaret pettishly.

“A mazed child! a mazed child!” exclaimed Mistress
Palmer.

“Don't you want to be converted?” asked the Preacher.

“I don't like you, I don't like you,” replied Margaret.
“You hollered so and scared Obed, he's scared now. They
are hurting him,” she said, pointing where the youth lay.
Darting from her company, she penetrated the crowd and
knelt down by the side of Obed. “Poor Obed!” she said,
“dont make such a noise, Molly is here.”

“I am going to hell,” hoarsely and mournfully replied
the boy.

“The arrows of the Almighty are thick upon him,”
ejaculated the Preacher.

“If the Lord would only grant him deliverance!” said
his mother, looking through the crowd.

“Pray, brother, pray, sister,” said the Preacher, addressing
one and another. “Jacob wrestled all night in
prayer with God. The Ark is now going by. Three have
already closed with the offers in Dunwich tent.”

“Don't cry so, Obed,” said Margaret. “They shan't
hurt you.”

“The devil is in that child, take her away,” said the
Preacher.

Some one endeavored to pull her off. “Let me alone,
she exclaimed, “I can't go, I won't go,” and she adhered
to the boy, whose arm had become closed about her neck
as that of a man in a fit.

There was a hubbub of voices; men and women reeking
with excitement, and vieing one with another who should
pray the most importunately.

“What are ye doing here?” shouted a still louder voice
over the heads of the crowd. It was Nimrod, who half intoxicated
thrust himself among them. “Bite um Bull,
bite um,” he rubbed the dog's ears and holding him between
his legs, teased him into a piercing yelp and howl that startled
the people.

“Bull! Bull!” shrieked Obed. “He's comin', he'll bite.”
The lad sprang to his feet staring wildly about.

“Satan has come in great wrath,” cried the Preacher.

“And I guess you know as much about him as any
body, old Cackletub!” rejoined Nimrod. “You set them
all a-going, and then snap them up like a hawk.”

“Hoora!” shouted another of the scoffers from the others'
side of the tent. “I hearn him comin' down a tree jest
now; look out or he'll be in your hair, white-top.”

Meanwhile the uproar deepened, profanity and fanaticism,
like opposing currents of air, meeting in that confined
space, wrapped the scene in confusion and dismay; lights
were extinguished, friends and enemies tore at each others'
throats; Sibyl Radney, alone collected and resolute, drew
Margaret from the midst, and returned with her to the
Pond.