The Puddleford Papers: or, Humors of the West

"Now," whispered Turtle, drawing Farindale close to him, and holding his arm all the while as he spoke in his ear, "we must keep very still – snipe are scary critters, and when they get frightened they put straight for the river. There is a big log out yonder – a favorite spot of theirs – down which they travel and jump off into the river. You jest take this ere bag, creep softly down to the log, slip the bag over the end on't, and wait there until we drive in the snipe. Don't speak – don't move; make 'em think you are the trunk of a tree; and when the bag is full, slip it off, and close it in a jiffy."

"Yes! yes!" whispered back Farindale.

"Mind, don't stir from your post till I halloo."

"No! no!" said Farindale.

Farindale did as he was directed. He found, however, a foot of black muck; but, after "slumping" a while, he managed to plant his spread legs out like a pair of extended compasses, and slide the bag over the log. Here he stood, half bent together, grasping the bag, and waiting for snipe.

There was a beating of the bushes around him; then all was still; then another beating, and another, and then a longer silence. Farindale was sinking deeper and deeper in the mud, and the water was nearly to the top of his boots. By and by, the noises ceased – no foot-step could be heard, and the stranger was alone with the bag and the log, and half up to his middle —waiting for snipe.

What ever became of the Puddlefordians is more than I can say. Farindale returned to the Eagle alone. Early the next morning he might have been found in anxious consultation with Whistle & Sharp concerning a claim there of a hundred and twelve dollars, and interest after six months, which he was very desirous to secure or settle. Mr. Whistle, the senior member of the firm of Whistle & Sharp, was a very thin-faced man, with sandy hair that had seldom been combed, and he wore a faded blue coat with metal buttons, the two behind having been placed just under his armpits, which made him look as though some invisible power was all the while lifting him up from the ground. His woollen pantaloons had passed so many times through the wash-tub, that he was obliged to strain out the wrinkles when he put them on, and they clung as tight to his legs as his skin. Sharp was a little man, had a long face, and his mouth seemed to have been bored – for it was round – about midway between his chin and his forehead; and he was always wasping around, giving consequential orders about nothing, and very often spoke of the firm of Whistle & Sharp, and what Whistle & Sharp had done, and what Whistle & Sharp could do, and would do.

Mr. Whistle informed Mr. Farindale that "the debt could not be paid at present, although," he added, "that the firm of Whistle & Sharp were good for ten times that amount."

"And another ten top of that," added Sharp, from the other end of the store, where he was tumbling down and putting up goods by way of exercise.

"Can you secure them?" inquired Farindale.

"Well, now, you have said it!" exclaimed Whistle, with apparent astonishment. "What can be safer than the firm of Whistle & Sharp? —secure!– never had such a thing hinted before during the ten years of our business."

"A mortgage," insinuated Farindale.

"Can't do that, – not no how; my old grandfather was swept out clean with a mortgage once; took all he had, and he was compelled to emigrate; died of broken heart at last."

"Then," said Farindale, "I must sue."

"What! sue the firm of Whistle & Sharp! Very well, sir, do, if you please."

"Yes-sir-ee– horse-cob! Mr. Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale," exclaimed Sharp, springing at one bound over the counter; "just sue us if —you– please; we'll pay the costs!" and Sharp whistled a tune with his eyes fixed steadily upon Farindale.

"Court sits next month," said Whistle.

"And we'll confess judgment," said Sharp.

"And the pay is sure," said Whistle.

"And no trouble hereafter," said Sharp.

Mr. Farindale began to think another sniping expedition was afoot. He was not a coward, if his cockneyism had lured him after snipe; but he was unable to determine what kind of people the Puddlefordians were. He had never met anything like them. So he sat in his chair, the account against Whistle & Sharp in his hand, tapping the floor with his right foot, trying to devise some way to secure his claim.

A thought struck him. "Pay it, and I will make a discount of twenty-five per cent.," said he.

"What's that you say?" indignantly exclaimed Sharp. "Do you mean to injure our firm? – the firm of Whistle & Sharp, who pay dollar for dollar! That ere, sir, is an insult. There's the door – walk! Sue! but you can't insult us on our own premises. That's the way to talk it, sir!" And Mr. Farindale did go, and he did sue, and the firm recovered a judgment against Whistle & Sharp for the sum of three hundred and twenty-four dollars and sixteen cents, and costs of suit.

It was no great matter to recover a judgment against a Puddlefordian; but it was something of a business to realize the damages. And that the reader may understand what kind of a prospect Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale had for their money, it is necessary to speak of the laws then in force for the collection of debts. The new states at that time were entirely "shingled over" with relief laws, which were passed to save the property of the pioneer from sacrifice. There was scarcely any money in Puddleford, and exchanges were made by barter. Personal property was valued by its relation to other property; eight yards of calico were worth so much wheat, corn, potash, cord-wood, or saw-logs. The merchant managed to turn his grain into high wines, or put it in some other shape that would bear transportation, and he was thus enabled to pay his debts. The farmer gave the mechanic an order on the merchant; the professional man took an order on the merchant; the day-laborer took an order on the merchant; everybody took an order on the merchant. The merchant was general paymaster; what he could not, or would not pay, remained unpaid; and he, in his turn, swept the farmer's crops, and took everything available; and the balance yet his due, and remaining unpaid, if any, was carried over against the farmer, and against the next crop. Thus the whole business of Puddleford ran through the merchant like wheat through a mill, and generally at a profit to the latter of from seventy-five to a hundred per cent.

It was this condition of the country that drove the legislature into the enactment of relief-laws. As there was no money to pay debts, it was enacted that property should be a legal tender. The law in force, at the date of the judgment against Whistle & Sharp, was a beautiful specimen of legislative impudence and ingenuity. It was a relief law! One section of the act provided, in substance, that upon the presentation of an execution, issued by any court in the state, by the officer to whom the same shall be directed, to the debtor or debtors mentioned therein, such debtor or debtors may turn out any property, personal or real, to said officer who shall levy on the same; and the said officer shall cause the same to be appraised by three appraisers, one to be chosen by the plaintiff, one by the defendant, and one by the officer, who shall forthwith be sworn, etc., and proceed to appraise said property turned out at its true cash value; and the said plaintiff in such execution shall receive said property at two thirds its appraised value; and, if he refuse, he shall not proceed any farther with his execution, or have another, until he first pay up all the costs of said appraisement.1

An execution was issued by J. Snappit, Esq., attorney for Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale, upon the judgment, recorded as foresaid, against the firm of Whistle & Sharp, and put into the hands of the sheriff for collection.

Now the sheriff of the county which included Puddleford within its limits was an accommodating man, a humane man, a man of the people, a – politician. He did not think it necessary to oppress debtors who were unfortunately unable to pay their debts – for the people elected him. Follett, Fizzlet & Farindale never voted for him– never could vote for him; Whistle & Sharp had, and would again. So the sheriff went down to Puddleford, and very politely informed them, with a wink, that "he had that execution against them, and it must be paid."

"Jest so – jest so," answered Sharp, reading over the writ: "Whistle & Sharp always pay – always have a pile of assets ready for a levy;" and returning the execution to the sheriff, begged a moment's delay, until "we could consult with our attorney."

Mr. Turtle was consulted, and the conclusion of Sharp's interview with him amounted to this: that Turtle should go immediately, and purchase for Whistle & Sharp the old steamboat cylinder, crank, and shaft; and the parties separated.

The steamboat cylinder, crank, and shaft, alluded to, was what Turtle called the "Puddleford bank – metallic basis." Some years before, a steamboat, on an exploring expedition up the river, among its windings and sand-bars, was wrecked, and a heavy cylinder, crank, and shaft, thrown ashore at Puddleford, where they lay at the period I speak of, and had for a long time, deeply imbedded in sand. This mass of iron, weighing many tons, had for a long time been a perpetual bar to the collection of all debts against Puddlefordians. Chitty, in his Pleadings, never invented one so omnipotent. It suspended every execution directed against it. It was transferred, by bill of sale, from one Puddlefordian to another (as no creditor was ever found willing to receive it at any price), as necessity required, and was considered, by common consent, public property – a "bank" as Turtle called it, "to which any person had a right to resort in distress."2

Turtle took a bill of sale of this iron from the last man in trouble, and turned it out to the sheriff on the execution against Whistle & Sharp.

"Now, Mr. Sheriff," said Turtle, triumphantly, "bring on your apprizers; a thousand dollars' worth of property to pay a little over three hundred. My clients, Whistle & Sharp, are bunkum yet – allers stand up to the rack at the end of an execution. Bring on your apprizers, Mr. Sheriff."

Mr. Turtle chose an appraiser first – a second cousin of Mr. Whistle, of the firm of Whistle & Sharp, and a man who was deeply in debt on their books – a bilious, weazen-faced, melancholy-looking man, who had acquired a great reputation for wisdom by saying nothing – whose name was Clinket. No one appearing to choose for the plaintiffs, the sheriff selected the other two. He named Mr. Troper, a seedy old fellow, whose crown was half out of his hat, whose beard was white, his nose red, and who had a whiskey-cough, and who was in the habit of visiting the barrel-tap of Whistle & Sharp three or four times a day, in consideration of odd jobs performed by him around the store; also, Mr. Fatler, a chubby-faced, twinkle-eyed wag, who would not hesitate to perpetrate a good joke, even under oath, particularly upon non-residents.

The Puddlefordians were out in mass to see Follett & Co. try a run on their "bank." Many remarks were made.

Bulliphant said "the cylinder alone cost five hundred dollars."

Swipes said "it was a bully piece of stuff."

"How much is the debt?" inquired Bates.

"Two thirds of twelve hundred," exclaimed Turtle, loudly, "is eight hundred."

"Worth the debt for old iron," said the Colonel.

These remarks, designed for the appraisers, had their effect; they examined; they figured; retired for consultation; returned; retired again; and finally appraised the property turned out at sixteen hundred dollars; paying, at two thirds its value, the debt of Whistle & Sharp, and leaving a very handsome surplus due them from their creditors. But I am very happy to be enabled to say that Whistle & Sharp most magnanimously offered to release all their claim on the levy to Follett & Co., if they would take the property, and discharge the judgment and costs, "making," as they said in their letter to them, "a clear profit on their part of from four to five hundred dollars."

CHAPTER XIII

The "Fev-Nag." – Conflicting Theories. – "Oxergin and Hydergin." – Teazle's Rationale. – The Scourge of the West. – Sile Bates, and his Condition. – Squire Longbow and Jim Buzzard. – Puddleford Prostrate. – Various Practitioners. – "The Billerous Duck." – Pioneer Martyrs. – Wave over Wave.

During my first fall's residence at Puddleford, I frequently heard a character spoken of, who seemed to be full as famous in the annals of the place as Squire Longbow himself. He was called by a great variety of names, and very seldom alluded to with respect. He was termed the "Fev-Nag," the "Ag-an-Fev," the "Shakin' Ager," the "Shakes," and a great variety of other hard names were visited upon him.

That he was the greatest scourge Puddleford had to contend with, no one denied. Who he really was, what he was, where born, and for what purpose, was a question. Dobbs had one theory, Short another, and Teazle still another. Dr. Dobbs said "that his appearance must be accounted for in this wise – that the marshes were all covered with water in the spring, that the sun began to grow so all-fir'd hot 'long 'bout July and August, that it cream'd over the water with a green scum, and rotted the grass, and this all got stewed inter a morning fog, that rose up and elated itself among the Ox-er-gin and Hy-der-gin, and pizened everybody it touched."

Dr. Dobbs delivered this opinion at the public house, in a very oracular style. I noticed several Puddlefordians in his presence at the time, and before he closed, their jaws dropped, and their gaping mouths and expanded eyes were fixed upon him with wonder.

Dr. Teazle declared that "Dobbs didn't know anything about it. He said the ager was buried up in the airth, and that when the sile was turned up, it got loose, and folks breath'd it into their lungs, and from the lungs it went into the liver, and from the liver it went to the kidneys, and the secretions got fuzzled up, and the bile turn'd black, and the blood didn't run, and it set everybody's inards all a-tremblin'."

Without attempting the origin of the ague and fever, it was, and always has been, the scourge of the West. It is the foe that the West has ever had to contend with. It delays improvement, saps constitutions, shatters the whole man, and lays the foundation for innumerable diseases that follow and finish the work for the grave. It is not only ague and fever that so seriously prostrates the pioneer, but the whole family of intermittent and remittent fevers, all results of the same cause, press in to destroy. Perhaps no one evil is so much dreaded. Labor, privation, poverty, are nothing in comparison. It is, of course, fought in a great variety of ways, and the remedies are as numerous as they are ridiculous. A physician who is really skilful in the treatment of these diseases is, of course, on the road to wealth, but skilful physicians were not frequent in Puddleford, as the reader has probably discovered.

I recollect that, during the months of September and October, subsequently to my arrival, all Puddleford was "down," to use the expression of the country; and if the reader will bear with me, and pledge himself not to accuse me of trifling with so serious a subject, I will endeavor to describe Puddleford "in distress."

I will premise by saying that it is expected that persons who are on their feet during these visitations, give up their time and means to those who are not. There is a nobleness of soul in a western community in this respect that does honor to human nature. A village is one great family – every member must be provided for – old grudges are, for the time, buried.

I have now a very vivid remembrance of seeing Sile Bates, one bright October morning, walking through the main street of Puddleford, at the pace of a funeral procession, his old winter overcoat on, and a faded shawl tied about his cheeks. Sile informed me "that he believed the ager was comin' on-ter him – that he had a spell on't the day before, and the day before that – that he had been a-stewin' up things to break the fits, and clean out his constitution, but it stuck to him like death on-ter a nigger" – he said "his woman and two boys were shakin' like all possess't, and he railly believed if somebody didn't stop it, the log-cabin would tumble down round their ears." He said "there warn't nobody to do nuthin' 'bout house, and that all the neighbors were worse off than he was."

Sile was a melancholy object indeed. And in all conscience, reader, did you ever behold so solemn, woe-begone a thing on the round earth, as a man undergoing the full merits of ague and fever? Sile sat down on a barrel and commenced gaping and stretching, and now and then dropped a remark expressive of his condition. He finally began to chatter, and the more he chattered, the more ferocious he waxed. He swore "that if he ever got well, he'd burn his house, sell his traps, 'bandon his land, pile his family into his cart, hitch on his oxen, and drive 'em, and drive 'em to the north pole, where there warn't no ager, he knew. One minit," he said, "he was a-freezin', and then he was a-burnin', and then he was a-sweatin' to death, and then he had a well day, and that didn't 'mount to nothin', for the critter was only gettin' strength to jump on him agin the next." Sile at last exhausted himself, and getting upon his feet, went off muttering and shaking towards his house.

The next man I met was Squire Longbow. The Squire was moving slower, if possible, than Bates. His face looked as if it had been just turned out of yellow oak, and his eyes were as yellow as his face. As the Squire never surrendered to anything, I found him not disposed to surrender to ague and fever. He said "he'd only had a little brush, but he'd knock it out on-him in a day or two. He was jist goin' out to scrape some elder bark up, to act as an emetic, as Aunt Sonora said if he scraped it down, it would have t'other effect – and that would kill it as dead as a door-nail."

I soon overhauled Jim Buzzard, lying half asleep in the bottom of his canoe, brushing off flies with an oak branch. Jim, too, was a case, but it required something more than sickness to disturb his equilibrium. Jim said "he warn't sick, but he felt the awfulest tired any dog ever did – he was the all-thunderest cold, t'other day, he ever was in hot weather – somethin' 'nother came on ter him all of a suddint, and set his knees all goin', and his jaws a quiv'rin', and so he li'd down inter the sun, but the more he li'd, the more he kept on a shakin', and then that are all went off agin, and he'd be darned to gracious if he didn't think he'd burn up – and so he just jumped inter the river, and cool'd off – and, now he feel'd jist so agin – and so he'd got where the sun could strike him a little harder this time. What shall a feller do?" at last inquired Jim.

"Take medicine," said I.

"Not by a jug-full," said Jim. "Them are doctors don't get any of their stuff down my throat. If I can't stand it as long as the ager, then I'll give in. Let-er-shake if it warnts to – it works harder than I do, and will get tir'd byme-by. Have you a little plug by-yer jest now, as I haven't had a chew sin' morning, as it may help a feller some?" Jim took the tobacco, rolled over in his canoe, gave a grunt, and composed himself for sleep.

This portrait of Buzzard would not be ludicrous, if it was not true. Whether Socrates or Plato, or any other heathen philosopher, has ever attempted to define this kind of happiness, is more than I can say. In fact, reader, I do not believe that there was one real Jim Buzzard in the whole Grecian republic.

But why speak of individual cases? Nearly all Puddleford was prostrate – man, woman, and child. There were a few exceptions, and the aid of those few was nothing compared to the great demand of the sick. It was providential that the nature of the disease admitted of one well day, because there was an opportunity to "exchange works," and the sick of to-day could assist the sick of to-morrow, and so vice versa.

I looked through the sick families, and found the patients in all conditions. One lady had "just broke the ager on-ter her by sax-fax tea, mix'd with Colombo." Another "had been a-tryin' eli-cum-paine and pop'lar bark, but it didn't lie good on her stomach, and made her enymost crazy." Another woman was "so as to be crawlin'" – another was "getting quite peert" – another "couldn't keep anything down, she felt so qualmly" – another said, "the disease was runnin' her right inter the black janders, and then she was gone" – another had "run clear of yesterday's chill, and was now goin' to weather it;" and so on, through scores of cases.

It is worthy of note, the popular opinion of the character of this disease. Although Puddleford had been afflicted with it for years, yet it was no better understood by the mass of community than it was at first. I have already given the opinion of Dobbs and Teazle of the causes of the ague; but as Dobbs and Teazle held entirely different theories, Puddleford was not much enlightened by their wisdom. (If some friend will inform me when and where any community was ever enlightened by the united opinion of its physicians, I will publish it in my next work.) Aunt Sonora had a theory which was a little old, but it was hers, and she had a right to it. She said "nobody on airth could live with a stomach full of bile, and when the shakin' ager come on, you'd jest got-ter go to work and get off all the bile – bile was the ager, and physicians might talk to her till she was gray 'bout well folks having bile – she know'd better – twarn't no such thing."

Now Aunt Sonora practised upon this theory, and the excellent old lady administered a cart-load of boneset every season – blows to elevate the bile, and the leaf as a tonic. However erroneous her theory might have been, I am bound to say that her practice was about as successful as that of the regular physician.

Mr. Beagle declared "that the ager was in the blood, and the patient must first get rid of all his bad blood, and then the ager would go along with it." Swipes said "it was all in the stomach." Dobbs said "the billerous duck chok'd up with the mash fogs, and the secretions went every which way, and the liver got as hard as sole-leather, and the patient becom' sick, and the ager set in, and then the fever, and the hull system got-er goin' wrong, and if it warn't stopped, natur'd give out, and the man would die." Teazle said "it com'd from the plough'd earth, and got inter the air, and jist so long as folks breath'd agery air, jist so long they'd have the ager." Turtle said "the whole tribe on 'em, men-doctors and women-doctors, were blockheads, and the surest way to get rid of the ager, was to let it run, and when it had run itself out, it would stop, and not 'afore."

Here, then, was Puddleford at the mercy of a dozen theories, and yet men and women recovered, when the season had run its course, and were tolerably sure of health, until another year brought around another instalment of miasma.

How many crops of men have been swept off by the malaria of every new western country, I will not attempt to calculate! How many, few persons have ever attempted! This item very seldom goes into the cost of colonization. Pioneers are martyrs in a sublime sense, and it is over their bones that school-houses, churches, colleges, learning, and refinement are finally planted. But the death of a pioneer is a matter of no moment in our country – it is almost as trifling a thing as the death of a soldier in an Indian fight. There is no glory to be won on any such field. One generation rides over another, like waves over waves, and "no such miserable interrogatory," as Where has it gone? or How did it go? is put; but What did it do? – What has it left behind?

Any one who has long been a resident in the West, must have noticed the operation of climate upon the constitution. The man from the New England mountains, with sinews of steel, soon finds himself flagging amid western miasma, and a kind of stupidity creeps over him, that it is impossible to shake off. The system grows torpid, the energies die, indifference takes possession, and thus he vegetates – he does not live.