VIII. BILLY WARRICK’S COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER I.

WARRICK IN DISTRESS.

Piney Bottom, in Old North State,

Jinuary this 4, 1844.

Mr. Porter,

Sir:—Bein’ in grate distrest, I didn’t know what to do, till one of the lawyers councilled me to tell you all about it, and git your apinion. You see I are a bin sparkin’ over to one of our nabors a cortin’ of Miss Barbry Bass, nigh upon these six munse. So t’other nite I puts on my stork that cum up so high that I look’d like our Kurnel paradin of the milertary on Gin’ral Muster, tryin’ to look over old Snap’s years—he holds sich a high hed when he knows that he’s got on his holdsturs and pistuls and his trowsen and sich like, for he’s a mity proud hoss. I had on a linun shurt koller starched stif that cum up monstrus high rite under my years, so that ev’ry time I turn’d my hed it nigh saw’d off my years, and they are so sore that I had to put on some Gray’s intment, which draw’d so hard, that if I hadn’t wash’d it in sope-suds I do bleve it would a draw’d out my branes. I put on my new briches that is new fashon’d and opens down before, and it tuck me nigh a quarter of a hours to butten ’em, and they had straps so tite I could hardly bend my kneas—I had on my new wastecoat and a dicky bussam with ruffles on each side, and my white hat. I had to be perticlar nice in spittin’ my terbaccer juce, for my stork were so high I had to jerk back my head like you have seed one of them Snapjack bugs. Considrin’ my wiskurs hadn’t grow’d out long enuff, as I were conceety to think that I look’d middlin’ peart, and my old nigger ’oman Venus said I look’d nice enuff for a Bryde.

It tuck one bale of good cotting and six bushils of peese to pay for my close. Dod drot it, it went sorter hard; but when I tho’t how putty she did look last singin’ school day,—with her eyes as blue as indiger, and her teath white as milk, and sich long curlin’ hare hanging clear down to her belt ribbun, and sich butiful rosy chaeks, and lips as red as a cock Red-burd in snow time, and how she squeased my hand when I gin her a oringe that I gin six cents for—I didn’t grudge the price.

Mr. Porter—when I got to old Miss Basses bars, jist after nite, sich streaks and cold fits cum over me worse than a feller with the Buck agur, the furst time he goes to shute at a dear. My kneas got to trimblin’, and I could hardly holler “get out” to Miss Basses son Siah’s dog, old Troup, who didn’t know me in my new geer, and cum out like all creashun a barkin’ amazin’. Ses I to myself, ses I, what a fool you is—and then I thort what Squire Britt’s nigger man, Tony, who went to town last week, told me about a taler there, who sed that jist as soon he got thru a makin’ a sute of close for a member of assembly to go to Rawley in, he ’spected to come out a cortin’ of Miss Barbry. This sorter raised my dander—for he’s shockin’ likely, with black wiskurs ’cept he’s nock-nead—with his hare all comded to one side like the Chapel Hill boys and lawyers. Then I went in, and after howdying and shakin’ hands, and sorter squeasin’ of Barbry’s, I sot down. There was old Miss Bass, Barbry and Siah Bass, her brother, a monstrus hand at possums—old Kurnel Hard, a goin to cort and stopp’d short to rite old Miss Basses will, with Squire Britt and one of the nabors to witness it all rite and strate. This kinder shock’d me—till Kurnel Hard, a mighty perlite man, sed, ses he:

“Mr. Warrick, you are a lookin’ oncommon smart.”

“Yes,” ses I, “Kurnel, (a sorter cuttin’ my eye at Barbry) middlin’ well in body—but in mind—”

“Ah, I see,” ses he, (cuttin’ of my discoorse) “I understand that you are”—(Mr. Porter, I forget the dixonary words he sed but it were that I were in love). If you could have seed my face and felt it burne, you would a tho’t that you had the billyous fever; and as for Barbry, now want she red as a turkey-cock’s gills—and she gump’d up and said, “Ma’am,” and run outer the room, tho’ nobody on yearth that I heerd on called her; and then I heerd Polly Cox—drot her pictur!—who is hired to weeve—a sniggrin’ at me.

Arter a while, Squire Britt and the nabor went off—and Siah he went a coonin’ of it with his dogs, but driv old Troup back, for he’s deth on rabbits; and old Miss Bass went out, and Kurnal Hard, arter taken a drink outen his cheer-box, he got behin’ the door and shuck’d himself and got into one of the beds in the fur eend of the room.

Arter a while, old Miss Bass cum back, and sot in the chimbly corner and tuck off her shoes, and then tuck up her pipe and went to smokin’—the way she rowl’d the smoke out was astonishin’—and ev’ry now and then she struck her head and sorter gron’d like, what it were at I don’t know, ’cept she were bothered ’bout her consarns—or thinkin’ ’bout her will which she had jist sined. Bimeby Barbry cum back, and sot on a cheer clost by me. She was a workin’ of a border that looked mity fine.

Ses I, “Miss Barbry, what is that that you’re seamstring so plaguy putty?”

Ses she, “It teent nothin’.”

Up hollered old Miss Bass:

“Why,” ses she, “Mr. Warrick, it’s a nite-cap, and what on the Lord’s yearth young peple now-a-days works, and laces, and befrils nite-caps fur, I can’t tell—it beets me—bedizinin’ out their heads when they’re gwain to bed, just as if anybody but their own peple seed ’em; and there’s young men with wiskurs on there upper lip; it want so in my day, but young people’s got no sense—bless the Lord! oh me—”

“Lord, mammy,” ses Barbry, “do hush.”

Ses old Miss Bass, “I shaan’t—for it’s the nat’ral truth.”

Miss Barbry then begun a talkin’ with me ’bout the fashuns, when I were in town, but old Miss Bass broke in, and ses she:

“Yes, they tells me that the gals in town has injun-rubber things blowed up and ties aroun’ there wastes, and makes ’em look bigger behin’ than afore—for all the world like an ’oman was sorter in a curous way behind.”

Thinks I, what’s comin’ next—when old Miss Bass, knockin’ the ashes outer her pipe, gethered up her shuse and went off. Then Barbry blushed and begun talkin’ ’bout the singin’ meetin’, and kinder teched me up ’bout bein’ fond of sparkin’ Dicey Loomis—jist to see how I’d take it.

“Well,” ses I, “she’s ’bout the likeliest gal in this settlement, and I rekon mity nigh the smartest; they tells me she kin spin more cuts in a day, and card her own rolls, and danse harder and longer, and sings more songs outer the Missunary Harmony, than any gal in the country.”

You see, Mr. Porter, I tho’t I’d size her pile.

Ses she, sorter poutin’ up and jist tossin’ her head, “If them’s your sentiments why don’t you cort her? For my part, I knows sev’ral young ladies that’s jist as smart, and can sing as many songs, and dance as well, and as for her bein’ the prettiest, Laws a mersy! sher—you shouldn’t judge for me sposin’ I was a man!”

I thot I’d come agin, but was sorter feard of runnin’ the thing in the groun’. Then I drawd up my cheer a leetle closer, and were jist about to talk to the spot, when I felt choky, and the trimbles tuck me oncommon astonishin’.

Ses Barbry, lookin’ rite up in my face, and ’sorter quiv’rin’ in her talk, ses she, “Mr. Warrick, goodness gracious! what does ale you?”

Ses I, hardly abel to talk, “It’s that drotted three-day agur I cotch’d last fall a clearin’ in the new grouns; I raly bleve it will kill me, but it makes no odds, daddy and mammy is both ded, and I’m the only one of six as is left, and nobody would kear.”

Ses she, lookin’ rite mornful, and holdin’ down her bed, “Billy, what does make you talk so? you auter know that there’s one that would kear and greve too.”

Ses I, peartin’ up, “I should like to know if it ar an ’oman; for if it’s any gal that’s ’spectable and creddittable, I could love her like all creashun. Barbry,” ses I, takin’ of her hand, “ain’t I many a time, as I sot by the fire at home, all by my lone self, ain’t I considered how if I did have a good wife how I could work for her, and do all I could for her, and make her pleasant like and happy, and do ev’rything for her?” Well, Barbry she look’d up to me, and seem’d so mornful and pale, and tears in her sweet eyes, and pretendin’ she didn’t know I held her hand, that I could not help sayin’: “Barbry, if that sumbody that keared was only you, I’d die for you, and be burry’d a dozen times.”

She trimbl’d, and look’d so pretty, and sed nothin’, I couldn’t help kissin’ her; and seein’ she didn’t say “quit,” I kissed her nigh on seven or eight times; and as old Miss Bass had gone to bed, and Kurnel Hard was a snorin’ away, I want perticillar, and I spose I kiss’d her too loud, for jist as I kissed her the last time, out hollered old Miss Bass:

“My lord! Barbry, old Troup is in the milk-pan! I heard him smackin’ his lips a lickin’ of the milk. Git out, you old varmint!—git out!”

Seein’ how the gander hopped, I jumped up, and hollered: “Git out, Troup, you old raskel!” and opened the door to make bleve I let him out.

As for Barbry, she laffed till she was nigh a bustin’ a holdin’ in, and run out; and I heerd Kurnel Hard’s bed a shakin’ like he had my three-day agur. Well, I took tother bed, after havin’ to pull my britches over my shuse, for I couldn’t unbutton my straps.

Next mornin’ I got up airly, and Siah axed me to stay to breakfast, but I had to feed an old cow at the free pastur, and left. Jist as I got to the bars, I meets old Miss Bass, and ses she, “Mr. Warrick, next time you see a dog a lickin’ up milk, don’t let him do it loud enuff to wake up ev’rybody in the house—perticerlar when there’s a stranger ’bout.”

And Barbry sent me word that she’s so shamed that she never kin look me in the face agin, and never to come no more.

Mr. Porter, what shall I do? I feel oncommon sorry and distrest. Do write me. I seed a letter from N. P. Willis tother day in the Nashunal Intelligensur where he sed he had a hedake on the top of his pen; I’ve got it at both eends, for my hands is crampped a writin’, and my hart akes. Do write me what to do.

No more at pressence, but remane

Wm. Warrick.

CHAPTER II.

WARRICK IN LUCK.

“I’d orfen heerd it said ob late,

Dat Norf Carolina was de state,

Whar han’some boys am bound to shine,

Like Dandy Jim of de Caroline,” &c.

Piney Bottom, in Old North State,

March 21, this 1844.

Mr. Porter,

I rode three mile ev’ry Satterdy to git a letter outer the Post Offis, spectin’ as how you had writ me a anser; but I spose what with Pineter dogs, and hosses, and Kricket, and Boxin’, and Texas, Trebla, and three Fannys, and Acorns, and Punch in perticlar, you hain’t had no time. I’m glad your Speerit is revivin’; so is mine, and, as the boy sed to his mammy, I hopes to be better acquainted with you.

Well, I got so sick in my speerits and droopy like, that I thot I should ev died stone ded, not seein’ of Barbry for three weeks. So one evenin’ I went down, spectin’ as how old Miss Bass had gone to Sociashun—for she’s mity religus, and grones shockin’ at prayers—to hear two prechers from the Sanwitch Ilans, where they tell me the peple all goes naked—which is comikil, as factry homespun is cheap, and could afford to kiver themselves at nine cent a yard.

When I went in, there sot old Miss Bass and old Miss Collis a-smokin’ and chattin amazin’. I do think old Miss Collis beats all natur at smokin’.

Old Miss Collis had on her Sundy frock, and had it draw’d up over her kneas to keep from skorchin’, and her pettykoats rased tolerble high as she sot over the fire to be more comfortabler like, but when she seed me she drop’d ’em down, and arter howdying and civerlizin’ each other I sot down, but being sorter flusticated like, thinkin’ of that skrape, last time I was here, about old Troup lickin’ of the milk, I didn’t notis perticlar where I sot. So I sot down in a cheer where Barbry had throw’d down her work (when she seed me comin’ at the bars) and run—and her nedle stuck shockin’ in my—into me, and made me jump up oncommon and hollered!

I thought old Miss Collis woulder split wide open a laffin’, and old Miss Bass like to a busted, and axed my parding for laffin’, and I had to give in, but it was laffin’ on t’other side, and had to rub the place.

Arter awhile we got done—but it looked like I had bad luck, for in sittin’ down agin I lik’d to have sot on Barbry’s tom cat, which if I had, I shoulder bin like Kurnel Zip Coon’s wife, who jump’d into a holler log to mash two young panters to deth, and they scratched her so bad she couldn’t set down for two munse! I seed this ’ere in a almynack. Old Miss Bass seein’ I was bothered, axed me to have a dram, but I thank’d her, no.

Ses she, “Mr. Warrick, you ain’t one of the Temprite Siety?”

Ses I, “No, but I hain’t got no ’casion at presence!”

Ses she, “You is welcome.”

Well, we chatted on some time ’bout prechin, and mumps, and the measly oitment, and Tyler gripes, and Miss Collis she broke out and sed:

“I never did hear the beat of them Tyler gripes! I have hearn talk of all sorter gripes, and dry gripes, and always thought that the gripes was in the stomic, before now, but bless your soul, Miss Bass, this here gripes is in the hed! I told my old man that no good would come of ’lectin’ Tyler, but poor old creeter, he’s sorter hard-headed, and got childish, and would do it. O! me? well, we’re all got to come to it and leve this world! Bless the Lord! I hope I’m ready!”

“That’s a fact,” ses old Miss Bass, “you’re right, Miss Collis; old men gits uncommon stubborn; a hard, mighty hard time, I had with my old man. But he’s ded and gone! I hope he’s happy!”

And they both groaned and shet their eyes, and pucked up their mouths.

Ses she, “He got mity rumitys and troubled me powerful, and the old creetur tuck astonishin’ of dokter’s stuff, and aleckcampane and rose of sublimit—but he went at last! The Lord’s will be done!—Skat! you stinkin’ hussy, and come out of that kibbard!” ses she to the cat; “I do think cats is abominable, and that tom cat of Barbry’s is the ’scheviousest cat I ever did see!”

Ses Miss Collis, “Cats is a pest, but a body can’t do well without ’em; the mice would take the house bodily,” ses she. “Miss Bass, they tell me that Dicey Loomis is a-gwying to be married—her peple was in town last week, and bort a power of things and artyfishals, and lofe sugar, and ribbuns, and cheese, and sich like!”

“Why,” ses Miss Bass, “you don’t tell me so! Did I ever hear the beat o’ that! Miss Collis, are it a fact?”

“Yes,” ses Miss Collis, “it’s the nat’ral truth, for brother Bounds tell’d it to me at last class meetin’.”

Ses Miss Bass, hollerin’ to Barbry in t’other room: “Barbry, do you hear that Dicey Loomis is gwying to git married? Well! well! it beats me! bless the Lord! I wonder who she’s gwying to get married to, Miss Collis?”

Ses Miss Collis, “Now, child, yure too hard for me! but they do say it’s to that Taler from Town. Well, he’s a putty man, and had on such a nice dress—’cept he’s most too much nock-nead, sich eyes and sich whiskers, and now don’t he play the fiddle?”

Ses Miss Bass, “Well, Dicey is a middlin’ peart gal, but for my part I don’t see what the taler seed in her.”

“Nor I nuther,” ses Miss Collis, “but she’s gwine to do well. I couldn’t a sed no if he’d a axed for our Polly.”

Then in comes Barbry, and we how-dy’d and both turned sorter red in the face, and I trimbl’d tolerable and felt agurry. Well, arter we talk’d a spell, all of us, Miss Bass got up and ses she:

“Miss Collis I want to show you a nice passel of chickens; our old speckled hen come off with eleven, yisterdy, as nice as ever you did see.”

Then old Miss Collis riz up, and puttin’ her hands on her hips, and stratened like, and ses, right quick:

“Laws a massy! my poor back! Drat the rumatics! It’s powerful bad; it’s gwyne to rain, I know!—oh, me! me!”—and they both went out.

Then Barbry look’d at me so comikil and sed:

“Billy, I raly shall die thinkin’ of you and old Troup!” and she throw’d herself back and laffed and laffed; and she looked so putty and so happy ses I to myself:

“Billy Warrick, you must marry that gal and no mistake, or brake a trace!” and I swore to it.

Well, we then talk’d agreeable like, and sorter saft, and both of us war so glad to see one another till old Miss Bass and Miss Collis come back; and bimeby Miss Collises youngest son come for her, and I helped her at the bars to get up behin’ her son, and ses she:

“Good-bye, Billy! Good luck to you! I know’d your daddy and mammy afore you was born on yerth, and I was the fust one after your granny that had you in the arms—me and Miss Bass talk’d it over! you’ll git a smart, peart, likely gal! So good-bye, Billy.”

Ses I, “Good-bye, Miss Collis,” and ses I, “Gooly, take good kear of your mammy, my son!”

You see I thot I’d be perlite.

Well, when I went back, there sot old Miss Bass, and ses she:

“Billy, Miss Collis and me is a bin talkin’ over you and Barbry, and seein’ you are a good karickter and smart, and well to do in the world, and a poor orphin boy, I shan’t say no! Take her, Billy, and be good to her, and God bless you, my son, for I’m all the mammy you’ve got,” so she kiss’d me, and ses she, “now kiss Barbry. We’ve talk’d it over, and leave us for a spell, for it’s hard to give up my child.”

So I kissed Barbry, and left.

The way I rode home was oncommon peart, and my old mare pranced and was like the man in Skriptur, who “waxed fat and kick’d,” and I hurried home to tell old Venus, and to put up three shotes and some turkies to fatten for the innfare. Mr. Porter, it’s to be the third Wensday in next month, and Barbry sends you a ticket, hopin’ you will put it in your paper—that is, the weddin’.

So wishin’ you a heap of subskribers, I remane in good helth and speerits at presence.

Your Friend,

Wm. Warrick.

CHAPTER III.

WARRICK’S WEDDING.

Described in a letter by an “old flame” of his.

Piney Bottom, this July 9, of 1844.

Miss Polly Stroud,

Dere Maddam.—I now take my pen in hand of the presence oppertunity to let you know how we are all well, but I am purry in sperits hopin’ this few lines may find you the same by gods mercy as I have been so mortfiyde I could cry my eyes out bodily. Bill Warrick, yes Bill Warrick, is married to Barbry Bass! I seed it done—a mean triflin; deceevinist creetur—but never mind—Didn’t I know him when we went to old field skool—a little raggid orflin Boy, with nobody to patch his close torn behin a makin of a dicky-dicky-dout of himself—cause his old nigger oman Venus was too lazy to mend ’em? Didn’t I know him when he couldn’t make a pot-hook or a hanger in his copy book to save his life, as for makin of a S he always put it tother way, jist so S backwards. And then to say I were too old for him, and that he always conceited I was a sort of a sister to him! O Polly Stroud, he is so likely, perticlar when he is dressed up of a Sunday or a frolick—and what is worser his wife is prutty too, tho I don’t acknowlige it here. Only too think how I doated on him, how I used to save bosim blossoms for him, which some people call sweet sentid shrubs—and how I used to put my hand in an pull them out for him, and how I used to blush when he sed they was sweeter for comin’ from where they did? Who went blackberryin’ and huckleberryin’ with me? who always rode to preechun with me and helped me on the hoss? who made Pokebery stains in dimons and squares and circles and harts and so on at quiltins for me?—and talkin’ of Poke—I do hope to fathers above that Poke will beat Clay jist to spite Bill, for he is a rank distracted Whig and secreterry to the Clay Club—who always threaded my nedle and has kissed me in perticler, in playin’ of kneelin’ to the wittyist, bowin’ to the puttyist, and kissin’ of them you love best, and play in Sister Feebe, and Oats, Peas-Beans and Barley grows—at least one hundred times? Who wated as candil holder with me at Tim Bolins weddin’, and sed he knowd one in the room hed heap rather marry, and looked at me so oncommon, and his eyes so blue that I felt my face burn for a quarter of a hour? who I do say was it but Bill Warrick?—yes, and a heap more! If I haven’t a grate mind to sue him, and would do it, if it wasn’t I am feared hed show a Voluntine I writ to him Feberary a year ago. He orter be exposed, for if ever he is a widderer hell fool somebody else the same way he did me. It’s a burnin’ shame, I could hardly hold my head up at the weddin’. If I hadn’t of bin so mad and too proud to let him see it I could cried severe.

Well, it was a nice weddin’; sich ice-cakes and minicles, and raisins, and oringis and hams, flour doins and chickin fixins, and four oncommon fattest big goblers rosted I ever seed.

The Bryde was dressed in a white muslin figgured over a pink satin pettycote, with white gloves and satin shoes, and her hair a curlin’ down with a little rose in it, and a chain aroun her neck. I don’t know whether it was raal gool or plated. She looked butiful, and Bill did look nice, and all the candydates and two preechers and Col. Hard was there, and Bills niggers, the likeliest nine of them you ever looked at, and when I did look at em and think, I raly thought I should or broke my heart.

Well, sich kissin’—several of the gals sed that there faces burnt like fire, for one of the preechers and Col. Hard wosn’t shaved clost.

Bimeby I was a sittin’ leanin’ back, and Bill he come behin me and sorter jerked me back, and skeared me powerful for fear I was fallin’ backwards, and I skreamed and kicked up my feet before to ketch like, and if I hadn’t a had on pantalets I reckon somebody would of knowd whether I gartered above my knees or not. We had a right good laff on old Parson Brown as he got through a marryin’ of em—says he:

“I pronounce you, William Warrick and Barbry Bass, man and oman,”—he did look so when we laffed, and he rite quick sed—“man and wife—salute your Bryde,” and Bill looked horrid red, and Barbry trimbled and blushed astonishin’ severe.

Well, it’s all over, but I don’t keer—there’s as good fish in the sea as ever come outen it. I’m not poor for the likes of Bill Warrick, havin’ now three sparks, and one of them from Town, whose got a good grocery and leads the Quire at church, outer the Suthern Harmony, the Missonry Harmony is gone outer fashion.

Unkle Ben’s oldest gal Suky is gwine to marry a Virginny tobacker roler, named Saint George Drummon, and he says he is a kin to Jack Randolf and Pokerhuntus, who they is the Lord knows. Our Jack got his finger cut with a steal trap catchin’ of a koon for a Clay Club, and the boys is down on a tar raft, and ole Miss Collis and mammy is powerful rumatic, and the measly complaint is amazin! I jist heard you have got two twins agin—that limestone water must be astonishin’ curyous.

What is the fashuns in Tennysee, the biggest sort of Bishups is the go here. My love to your old man,

Your friend,

Nancy Guiton.

To Miss Polly Stroud,

Nigh Noxvil in the State of Tennysee,

Close by where the French Broad and Holsin jines.

Old Miss Collis and mammy is jist come home. Betsy Bolin is jist had a fine son and they say she is a doin’ as well as could be expected, and the huckleberry crop is short on account of the drouth.