“No, never,” said he.
“Then verily, friend, I will show thee how a quaker can dance. They call us shakers, from shaking our feet so spry. Which will thee choose—the farm or the legacy?”
Mary took his hand, and led him to his place, the music struck up, and Peter gave us one of his quickest measures. Jehu now felt the combined influence of music, women, brandy, and dancing, and snapped his fingers over his head, and stamped his feet to mark the time, and hummed the tune in a voice that from its power and clearness astonished us all.
“Well done, old boy,” said I, for I thought I might drop the quaker now, “well done, old boy,” and I slapped him on the back, “go it while you are young, make up for lost time: now for the double shuffle. Dod drot it, you are clear grit and no mistake. You are like a critter that boggles in the collar at the first go off, and don’t like the start, but when you do lay legs to it you certainly ain’t no slouch, I know.”
The way he cut carlicues ain’t no matter. From humming he soon got to a full cry, and from that to shouting. His antics overcame us all. The doctor gave the first key-note. “Oh, oh, that man will be the death of me,” and again rubbed himself round the wall, in convulsions of laughter. Peter saw nothing absurd in all this, on the contrary, he was delighted with the stranger.
“Oigh,” he said, “ta preacher is a goot feller after all, she will tance with her hern ainsel;” and fiddling his way up to him again, he danced a jig with Jehu, to the infinite amusement of us all. The familiarity which Mr Judd exhibited with the steps and the dance, convinced me that he must have often indulged in it before he became a Christian. At last he sat down, not a little exhausted with the violent exertion, but the liquor made him peeowerful thick-legged, and his track warn’t a bee line, I tell you. After a while a song was proposed, and Mary entreated him to favour us with one.
“Dear Miss,” said he, “pretty Miss,” and his mouth resembled that of a cat contemplating a pan of milk that it cannot reach, “lovely maiden, willingly would I comply, if Sall Mody (Psalmody) will do, but I have forgotten my songs.”
“Try this,” said I, and his strong, clear voice rose above us all, as he joined us in—
“Yes, Lucy is a pretty girl,
Such lubly hands and feet,
When her toe is in the Market-house,
Her heel is in Main Street.
“Oh take your time, Miss Lucy,
Miss Lucy, Lucy Long,
Rock de cradle, Lucy,
And listen to de song.”
He complained of thirst and fatigue after this, and rising, said, “I am peeowerful dry, by jinks,” and helped himself so liberally, that he had scarcely resumed his seat before he was fast asleep, and so incapable of sustaining himself in a sitting posture, that we removed him to the sofa, and loosening his cravat, placed him in a situation where he could repose comfortably. We then all stood round the evangelical “Come-outer,” and sang in chorus: