Story 2—Chapter 1.
The Travelling Tin-Man, Founded on Fact, by Miss Leslie.
Micajah Warner was owner and cultivator of a small farm in one of the oldest, most fertile, and most beautiful counties of the State of Pennsylvania, not far from Maryland line. Micajah was a plain Quaker, and a man of quiet and primitive habits. He was totally devoid of all ambitious cravings after tracts of ten thousand acres, and he aspired not to the honour and glory of having his name given to a town in the western wilderness (though Warnerville would not have sounded badly), neither was he possessed of an unconquerable desire of becoming a judge, or of going to Congress. Therefore, he had always been able to resist the persuasions and example of those of his neighbours who left the home of their fathers, and the comforts of an old settlement, to seek a less tedious road to wealth and consequence, on the other side of the Allegany. He was satisfied with the possession of two hundred acres, one half of which he had lent (not given) to his son Israel, who expected shortly to be married to a very pretty and notable young woman in the neighbourhood, who was, however, no heiress. Upon this event, Israel was to be established in an old frame-house that had long since been abandoned by his father in favour of the substantial stone dwelling which the family occupied at the period of our story. The house had been taken up and transplanted to that part of the farm now allotted to Israel, and he very prudently deferred repairing it till he saw whether it survived its progress across the domain. But as it did not fall asunder during the journey, it was judged worthy of a new front-door, new window-panes, and new shingles to cover the vast chasms of the roof, all which improvements were made by Israel’s own hands. This house was deposited in the vicinity of the upper branch of the creek, and conveniently near to a saw-mill, which had been built by Israel in person.
Like all of her sect, whether in town or country, Bulah, the wife of Micajah Warner, was a woman of even temper, untiring industry, and great skill in housewifery.
Her daughters, commonly called Amy and Orphy, were neat pretty little Quaker girls, extremely alert, and accustomed from their earliest childhood to assist in the work of the house. As her daughters were so handy and industrious, and only went half the year to school, Mrs Warner did not think it necessary to keep any other help than an indentured negro girl, named Chloe.
Except the marriage of Israel, which was now in prospect; a flood in the neighbouring creek, which had raised the water so high as to wash away the brick oven from the side of the house; a tornado that carried off the roof of the old stable, and landed it whole in an adjoining clover field; and a visit from a family of beggars (an extraordinary phenomenon in the country), nothing occurred among the Warners for a long succession of years that had occasioned more than a month’s talk of the mother, and a month’s listening of the children.
“They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.”
The occupations of Israel and his father (assisted occasionally by a few hired men) were, of course, those of the farm, except when Israel took a day now and then to attend to his saw-mill. With regard to domestic arrangements, everything connected with household affairs went on in the same course year after year except that, as the daughters of the family improved in capability of work, Chloe the black girl, retrograded. They washed on Monday (with the assistance of a woman, hired for the day), ironed on Tuesday, performed what they called “the little baking” on Wednesday, and “the big baking” on Friday; cleaned the house on Saturday, and clear-starched their book-muslin collars; rode on horseback to Friends’ meeting on Sunday morning, and visited their neighbours on Sunday afternoon.
It was the day after the one on which Israel and his bride-elect had passed meeting, and consequently, a month before the one fixed for the wedding, that something like an adventure fell among the Warner family.
It was a beautiful evening at the close of August. The father and son had been all day in the meadows, mowing the second crop of grass; Mrs Warner was darning stockings in the porch, with her two daughters knitting on the bench beside her; Amy being then fourteen, and Orphy about twelve. Chloe was absent, having been borrowed by a relation, about five miles off, to do the general work of the house, while the family were engaged in preparing for a quilting frolic.
“Come, girls,” said Mrs Warner to her daughter, “it’s just sun-down. The geese are coming home, and daddy and Israel will soon be here. Amy, do thee go down to the spring-house, and bring up the milk and butter, and Orphy, thee can set the table.”
The two girls put up their knitting (not, however, till they had knit to the middle of the needle), and in a short time, Amy was seen coming back from the spring-house, with a large pitcher of milk and a plate of butter. In the meantime, Orphy had drawn out the ponderous claw-footed walnut table that stood all summer in the porch, and spreading over it a brown linen cloth, placed in regular order their everyday supper equipage of pewter plates, earthen porringers, and iron spoons.
The viands consisted of an immense round loaf of bread, nearly as large as a grindstone, and made of wheat and Indian meal, the half of a huge cheese, a piece of cold pork, a peach pie, an apple pie, and, as it had been baking day, there was the customary addition of a rice pudding, in an earthen pan of stupendous size. The last finish of the decorations of the table was a large bowl of cool water, placed near the seat occupied by the father of the family, who never could begin any of his meals without a copious draught of the pure element.
In a few minutes, the farmer and his son made their appearance as they turned the angle of the peach-orchard fence, preceded by the geese, their usual avant-couriers, who went out every morning to feed in an old field beyond the meadows.
As soon as Micajah and Israel had hung up their scythes and washed themselves at the pump, they sat down to table, the farmer in his own blue-painted, high-backed, high-armed chair, and Israel taking the seat always allotted to him—a low chair, the rushes of which having long since deserted the bottom, had been replaced by cross pieces of cloth listing, ingeniously interwoven with each other; and this being, according to the general opinion, the worst seat in the house, always fell to the share of the young man, who was usually passive on all occasions, and never seemed to consider himself entitled to the same accommodation as the rest of the family.
Suddenly, the shrill blast of a tin trumpet resounded through the woods, that covered the hill in front of the house, to the great disturbance of the geese, who had settled themselves quietly for the night in their usual bivouac around the ruins of an old waggon. The Warners ceased their supper to listen and look; and they saw emerging from the woods, and rolling down the hill at a brisk trot, the cart of one of those itinerant tin merchants, who originate in New England, and travel from one end of the Union to the other, avoiding the cities, and seeking customers amongst the country people; who, besides buying their ware, always invite them to a meal and a bed.
The tinman came blowing his horn to the steps of the porch, and there stopping his cart, addressed the farmer’s wife in the true nasal twang that characterises the lower class of New Englanders, and inquired “if she had any notion of a bargain.”
She replied that “she believed she had no occasion for anything”—her customary answer to all such questions.
But Israel, who looked into futurity, and entertained views towards his own housekeeping, stepped forward to the tin-cart, and began to take down and examine various mugs, pans, kettles, and coffee-pots—the latter particularly, as he had a passion for coffee, which he secretly determined to indulge both morning and evening, as soon as he was settled in his domicile.
“Mother,” said Amy, “I do wish thee would buy a new coffee-pot, for ours has been leaking all summer, and I have to stop it every morning with rye-meal. Thee knows we can give the old one to Israel.”
“To be sure,” replied Mrs Warner, “it will do well enough for young beginners. But I cannot say I feel quite free to buy a new coffee-pot at this time. I must consider about it.”
“And there’s the cullender,” said Orphy, “it has such a big crack at the bottom, that when I am smashing the squashes for dinner, not only the water, but the squashes themselves drip through. Better give it to Israel, and get a new one for ourselves. What’s this?” she continued, taking up a tin water-dipper.
“That is for dipping warter out of the bucket,” replied the tinman.
“Oh, yes,” cried Amy, “I’ve seen such a one at Rachel Johnson’s. What a clever thing it is, with a good long handle, so that there’s no danger of splashing the water on our clothes. Do buy it, mother. Thee knows that Israel can have the big calabash: I patched it myself, yesterday, where it was broken, and bound the edge with new tape, and it’s now as good as ever.”
“I don’t know,” said the farmer, “that we want anything but a new lantern; for ours had the socket burnt out long before these moonlight nights, and it’s dangerous work taking a candle into the stable.”
The tinman knowing that our plain old farmers, though extremely liberal of everything that is produced on their plantations, are, frequently, very tenacious of coin, and much averse to parting with actual money, recommended his wares more on account of their cheapness than their goodness; and, in fact, the price of most of the articles was two or three cents lower than they could be purchased for at the stores.
Old Micajah thought there was no actual necessity for anything except the lantern; but his daughters were so importunate for the coffee-pot, the cullender, and the water-dipper, that finally all three were purchased and paid for. The tinman in vain endeavoured to prevail on Mrs Warner to buy some patty-pans, which the girls looked at with longing eyes; and he reminded them how pretty the pumpkin pies would look at their next quilting, baked in scollop-edged tins. But this purchase was peremptorily refused by the good Quaker woman, alleging that scollop-edged pies were all pride and vanity, and that, if properly made, they were quite good enough baked in round plates.
The travelling merchant then produced divers boxes and phials of quack medicines, prepared at a celebrated manufactory of those articles, and duly sealed with the maker’s own seal, and inscribed with his name in his own handwriting. Amongst these, he said, “there were certain cures for every complaint in natur’—draps for the agur, the toothache, and the rhumatiz; salves for ringworms, corns, frostbitten heels, and sore eyes; and pills for consumption and fall fevers; beside that most valuable of all physic, Swain’s Wormifuge.”
The young people exclaimed with one accord against the purchase of any of the medicines; and business being over, the tinman was invited by the farmer to sit down and take his supper with the family—an invitation as freely accepted as given.
The twilight was now closing, but the full moon had risen, and afforded sufficient light for the supper table in the porch. The tinman took a seat, and before Mrs Warner had finished her usual invitation to strangers, of—“reach to, and help thyself; we are poor hands at inviting, but thee’s welcome to it, such as it is”—he had already cut himself a huge piece of the cold pork, and an enormous slice of bread. He next poured out a porringer of milk, to which he afterwards added one-third of the peach pie, and several platesful of rice pudding. He then said, “I suppose you haven’t got no cider about the house;” and Israel, at his father’s request, immediately brought up a pitcher of that liquor from the cellar.
During supper the tinman entertained his entertainers with anecdotes of the roguery of his own countrymen, or rather, as he called them, his “statesmen.” In his opinion of their general dishonesty, Mrs Warner most cordially joined. She related a story of an itinerant Yankee who persuaded her to empty some of her pillows and bolsters, under colour of exchanging with him old feathers for new; a thing which she acknowledged had puzzled her not a little, as she thought it strange that any man should bargain so badly for himself. He produced from his cart a bag of feathers which he declared were quite new; but after his departure she found that he had given her such short measure that she had not half enough to fill her ticking, and most of the feathers were proved, upon examination, to have belonged to chickens rather than to geese—nearly a whole cock’s tail having been found amongst them.
The farmer pointed into the open door of the house, and showed the tinman a large wooden clock put up without a case between two windows, the pendulum and the weights being “exposed and bare.” This clock he had bought for ten dollars of a travelling Yankee, who had set out to supply the country with machines. It had only kept tolerable time for about two months, and had ever since been getting faster and faster, though it was still faithfully wound up every week. The hands were now going merrily round at the rate of ten miles an hour, and it never struck less than twelve.
The Yankee tinman, with a candour that excited the admiration of the whole family, acknowledged that his Statesmen were the greatest rogues “on the face of the yearth;” and recounted instances of their trickery that would have startled the belief of any but the inexperienced and credulous people who were now listening to him. He told, for example, of sausages being brought to market in an eastern town, that, when purchased and prepared for frying, were found to be filled with chopped turnip and shreds of red flannel.
For once, thought the Warners, we have found an honest Yankee.
They sat a long time at table, and though the tinman seemed to talk all the time he was eating, the quantity of victuals that he caused to disappear surprised even Mrs Warner, accustomed as she was to the appetite of Israel. When the Yankee had at last completed his supper, the farmer invited him to stay all night; but he replied, “It was moonshiny, and fine cool travelling after a warm day; he preferred putting on towards Maryland as soon as his creature was rested, and had a feed.”
He then, without more ceremony, led his horse and cart into the barn-yard, and stopping near the stable door, fed the animal by the light of the moon, and carried him a bucket of water from the pump.
The girls being reminded by their mother that it was late, and that the cows had long since come home, they took their pails and went out to milk, while she washed up the supper things. Whilst they were milking, the subsequent dialogue took place between them:—
Orphy. I know it’s not right to notice strangers, and to be sure the man’s welcome, but, Amy, did thee ever see anybody take victuals like this Yankee?
Amy. Yes, but he didn’t eat all he took, for I saw him slip a great chunk of bread and cheese into his pocket, and then a big piece of pie, while he was talking and making us laugh.
Orphy. Well, I think a man must be very badly off to do such a thing. I wonder he did not ask for victuals to take away with him. He need not have been afraid. He must know that victuals is no object. And then he has travelled the roads long enough to be sure that he can get a meal for nothing at any house he stops at, as all the tinmen do. He must have seen us looking at his eating so much, and may be his pride is hurt, and so he’s made up his mind, all of a sudden, to take his meals no more at people’s houses.
Amy. Then why can’t he stop at a tavern, and pay for his victuals?
Orphy. May be he don’t want to spend his money in that trifling way. Who knows, he may be saving it up to help an old mother, or to buy back land, or something of that sort? I’ll be bound he calculates upon eating nothing to-morrow but what he slipped off from our table.
Amy. All he took will not last him a day. It’s a pity of him, anyhow.
Orphy. I wish he had not been too bashful to ask for victuals to take with him.
Amy. And still he did not strike me at all as a bashful man.
Orphy. Suppose we were just in a private way to put some victuals into his cart for him, without letting him know anything about it! Let’s hide it among the tins, and how glad he’ll be when he finds it to-morrow!
Amy. So we will; that’s an excellent notion! I never pitied anybody so much since the day the beggars came, which was five years ago last harvest; for I have kept count ever since; and I remember it as well as if it was yesterday.
Orphy. We don’t know what a hard thing it is to want victuals, as the Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when he saw us emptying pans of milk into the pig-trough, and turning the cows into the orchard to eat the heaps of apples lying under the trees.
Amy. Yes, and it must be worse for an American to want victuals than for people from the old countries, who are used to it.
After they had finished their milking, and strained and put away their milk, the kind-hearted little girls proceeded to accomplish their benevolent purpose. They took from the large wire safe in the cellar a pie, half a loaf of bread, and a great piece of cheese, and putting them into a basket, they went to the barn-yard, intending to tell their mother as soon as the tinman was gone, and not for one moment doubting her approval—since in the house of an American farmer, victuals, as Orphy justly observed, are no object.
As they approached the barn-yard they saw, by the light of the moon, the Yankee coming away from his cart, and returning to the house. The girls crouched down behind the garden fence till he had passed, and then cautiously proceeded on their errand. They went to the back of the cart, intending to deposit their provisions, when they were startled at seeing something evidently alive moving behind the round opening of the linen cover; and in a moment the head of a little black child peeped out of the hole.
The girls were so surprised that they stopped short and could not utter a word, and the young negro, evidently afraid of being seen, immediately popped down its head among the tins.
“Amy, did thee see that?” asked Orphy in a low voice.
“Yes, I did so,” replied Amy; “what can the Yankee be doing with that little nigger? and why does he hide it? Let’s go and ask the child.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Orphy, “the tinman will be angry.”
“And who cares if he is?” said Amy; “he has done something he is ashamed of, and we need not be afraid of him.”
They went quite close to the back of the cart, and Amy said, “Here, little snow-ball, show thyself and speak, and do not be afraid, for nobody’s going to hurt thee.”
“How did thee come into this cart?” asked Orphy, “and why does the Yankee hide thee? Tell us all about it, and be sure not to speak above thy breath.”
The black child again peeped out of the hole, and looking cautiously round, said, “Are you quite sure the naughty man won’t hear us?”
“Quite sure,” answered Amy; “but is thee boy or girl?”
“I’m a little gal,” replied the child; and with the characteristic volubility of her race she continued, “and my name’s Dinah, and I’m five years old, and my daddy and mammy are free coloured people, and they lives a big piece off, and daddy works out, and mammy sells gingerbread and molasses-beer, and we have a sign over the door with a bottle and cake on it.”
Amy. But how did this man get hold of thee, if thy father and mother are free people? Thee can’t be bound to him, or he need not hide thee.
Dinah. Oh, I know, I ain’t bounded to him; I expect he stole me.
Amy. Stole thee! What, here in the free state of Pennsylvania?
Dinah. I was out picking huckle-berries in the woods up the roads, and I strayed off a big piece from home. Then the tinman comed along, driving his cart, and I run close to the side of the road to look, as I always does when anybody goes by. So he told me to come into his cart, and he would give me a tin mug to put my huckle-berries in, and I might chuse it myself, and it would hold them a heap better than my old Indian basket. So I was very glad, and he lifted me up into the cart; and I choosed the very best and biggest tin mug he had, and emptied my huckle-berries into it. And then he told me he’d give me a ride in his cart, and then he set me far back on a box, and he whipped his creatur, and druv, and druv, and jolted me so, I tumbled all down among the tins. And then he picked me up, and tied me fast with his handkercher to one of the back posts of the cart, to keep me steady, he said. And then, for all I was steady, I couldn’t help crying, and I wanted him to take me home to daddy and mammy. But he only sniggered at me, and said he wouldn’t, and bid me hush; and then he got mad, and because I couldn’t hush up just in a minute, he whipped me quite smart.
Orphy. Poor little thing!
Dinah. And then I got frightened, for he put on a wicked look, and said he’d kill me dead if I cried any more, or made the least noise. And so he has been carrying me along in his cart for two days and two nights, and he makes me hide away all the time, and he won’t let nobody see me. And I hate him, and yesterday, when I know’d he didn’t see me, I spit on the crown of his hat.
Amy. Hush! Thee must never say thee hates anybody.
Dinah. At night I sleeps upon the bag of feathers; and when he stops anywhere to eat, he comes sneaking to the back of the cart, and pokes in victuals (he has just now brung me some), and he tells me he wants me to be fat and good-looking. I was afeard he was going to sell me to the butcher, as Nac Willet did his fat calf, and I thought I’d axe him about it, and he laughed and told me he was going to sell me, sure enough, but not to a butcher. And I’m almost all the time very sorry, only sometimes I’m not; and then I should like to play with the tins, only he won’t let me. I don’t dare to cry out loud, for fear the naughty man would whip me, but I always moan when we’re going through woods, and there’s nobody in sight to hear me. He never lets me look out of the back of the cart, only when there’s nobody to see me, and he won’t let me sing even when I want to. And I moan most when I think of daddy and mammy, and how they are wondering what has become of me; and I think moaning does me good, only he stops me short.
Amy. Now, Orphy, what is to be done? The tinman has, of course, kidnapped this black child to take her into Maryland, where he can sell her for a good price, as she is a fat, healthy-looking thing, and that is a slave state. Does thee think we ought to let him take her off.
Orphy. No, indeed! I think I could feel free to fight for her myself; that is, if fighting was not forbidden by Friends. Yonder’s Israel coming to turn the cows into the clover-field. Little girl, lie quiet, and don’t offer to show thyself.
Israel now advanced—“Well, girls,” said he, “what’s thee doing at the tinman’s cart? Not meddling among his tins, I hope? Oh, the curiosity of women folks!”
“Israel,” said Amy, “step softly; we have something to show thee.”
The girls then lifted up the corner of the cart-cover, and displayed the little negro girl, crouched upon the bag of feathers—a part of his merchandise which the Yankee had not thought it expedient to produce, after hearing Mrs Warner’s anecdote of one of his predecessors. The young man was much amazed; and his two sisters began both at once to relate to him the story of the black child. Israel looked almost indignant. His sisters said to him, “To be sure we won’t let the Yankee carry this child off with, him.”
“I judge we won’t,” answered Israel.
“Then,” said Amy, “let us take her out of the cart, and hide her in the barn, or somewhere, till he is gone.”
“No,” replied Israel, “I can’t say I feel free to do that. It would be too much like stealing her over again; and I’ve no notion of evening myself to a Yankee in any of his ways. Put her down in the cart, and let her alone. I’ll have no underhand work about her. Let’s all go back to the house. Mother has got down all the broken crockery from the top shelf in the corner cupboard, and the Yankee’s mending it with a sort of stuff like sticks of sealing-wax, that he carries about with him; and I dare say he’ll get her to pay him more for it than the things are worth. But I say nothing.”
The girls cautioned Dinah not to let the tinman know that they had discovered her, and to keep herself perfectly quiet; and they then accompanied their brother to the house, feeling very fidgety and uneasy.
They found the table covered with old bowls, old tea-pots, old sugar dishes, and old pitchers, the fractures of which the Yankee was cementing together, whilst Mrs Warner held the candle, and her husband viewed the operation with great curiosity.
“Israel,” said his mother, as he entered, “this friend is making the china as good as new, only that we can’t help seeing the join; and we are going to give all the mended things to thee.”
The Yankee having finished his work, and been paid for it, said it was high time for him to be about starting, and he must go and look after his cart. He accordingly left the house for that purpose; and Israel, looking out at the end window, said, “I see he’s not coming round to the house again, but going to try the short-cut into the back road. I’ll go and see that he puts up the bars after him.”
Israel went out, and his sisters followed him, to see the tinman off.
The Yankee came to the bars, leading his horse with the cart, and found Israel there before him. “Are you going to let down the bars for me?” said the tinman.
“No,” replied Israel, “I’m not going to be so polite; but I intend to see that thee carries off nothing more than belongs to thee.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the Yankee, changing colour.
“I expect I can show thee,” answered Israel. Then, stepping up to the back of the cart, and putting in his hands, he pulled out the black child, and held her up before him, saying, “Now, if thee offers to touch this girl, I think we shall be apt to differ.”
The tinman then advanced towards Israel, and, with a menacing look, raised his whip; but the fearless young Quaker (having consigned the little girl to his sisters, who held her between them) immediately broke a stick from a tree that grew near, and stood on the defensive, with a most steadfast look of calm resolution.
The Yankee went close up to him, brandishing his whip, but, before he had time to strike, Israel, with the utmost coolness, and with great strength and dexterity, seized him by the collar, and swinging him round to some distance, flung him to the ground with such force as to stun him, saying, “Mind I don’t call myself a fighting character, but if thee offers to get up I shall feel free to keep thee down.”
The tinman began to move, and the girls ran shrieking to the house for their father, dragging with them the little black girl, whose screams (as is usual with all of her colour) were the loudest of the loud.
In an instant the stout old farmer was at the side of his son, and notwithstanding the struggle of the Yankee, they succeeded by main force in conveying him to the stable, into which they fastened him for the night.
Early next morning, Israel and his father went to the nearest magistrate for a warrant and a constable, and were followed home by half the township. The county court was then in session; the tinman was tried, and convicted of having kidnapped a free black child, with the design of selling her as a slave in one of the Southern States; and he was punished by fine and imprisonment.
The Warner family would have felt more compassion for him than they did, only that all the mended china fell to pieces again the next day, and his tins were so badly soldered that all their bottoms came out before the end of the month.
Mrs Warner declared that she had done with Yankee tinmen for ever, and in short with all other Yankees. But the storekeeper, Philip Thompson, who was the sensible man of the neighbourhood, and took two Philadelphia newspapers, convinced her that some of the best and greatest men America can boast of, were natives of the New England States; and he even asserted, that in the course of his life (and his age did not exceed sixty-seven) he had met with no less than five perfectly honest Yankee tinmen; and besides being honest, two of them were not in the least impudent. Amongst the latter, however, he did not of course include a very handsome fellow, that a few years since made the tour of the United States with his tin-cart, calling himself the Boston Beauty, and wearing his own miniature round his neck.
To conclude:—An advertisement having been inserted in several of the papers to designate where Dinah, the little black girl, was to be found, and the tinman’s trial having also been noticed in the public prints, in about a fortnight her father and mother (two very decent free negroes) arrived to claim her, having walked all the way from their cottage at the extremity of the next county. They immediately identified her, and the meeting was most joyful to them and to her. They told at full length every particular of their anxious search after their child, which was ended by a gentleman bringing a newspaper to their house, containing the welcome intelligence that she was safe at Micajah Warner’s.
Amy and Orphy were desirous of retaining little Dinah in the family, and as the child’s parents seemed very willing, the girls urged their mother to keep her instead of Chloe, who, they said, could very easily be made over to Israel. But to the astonishment of the whole family, Israel on this occasion proved refractory, declaring that he would not allow his wife to be plagued with such an imp as Chloe, and that he chose to have little Dinah herself, if her parents would bind her to him till she was eighteen.
This affair was soon satisfactorily arranged.
Israel was married at the appointed time, and took possession of the house near the saw-mill. He prospered; and in a few years was able to buy a farm of his own, and to build a stone-house on it. Dinah turned out extremely well, and the Warner family still talk of the night when she was discovered in the cart of the travelling tinman.