Guy Rivers: A Tale of GeorgiaSimms, William Gilmore
History
Guy Rivers: A Tale of Georgia
Simms, William Gilmore
Georgia -- History -- 1775-1865 -- Fiction; Gold mines and mining -- Fiction
As we have already stated, he took his place along with his guests; the
bottles and glasses were replenished, the story of the pedler again
told, and each individual once more busied in describing his own
exploits. The lawyer, immersed in visions of grog and glory, rhapsodized
perpetually and clapped his hands. Blundell, drunkenly happy, at every
discharge of the current humor, made an abortive attempt to chuckle, the
ineffectual halloo gurgling away in the abysses of his mighty throat;
until, at length, his head settled down supinely upon his breast, his
eyes were closed, and the hour of his victory had gone by; though, even
then, his huge jaws opening at intervals for the outward passage of
something which by courtesy might be considered a laugh, attested the
still anxious struggles of the inward spirit, battling with the
weaknesses of the flesh.
The example of a leader like Blundell had a most pernicious effect upon
the uprightness of the greater part of the company. Having the sanction
of authority, several others, the minor spirits it is true, settled down
under their chairs without a struggle. The survivors made some
lugubrious efforts at a triumph over their less stubborn companions, but
the laborious and husky laugh was but a poor apology for the proper
performance of this feat. Munro, who to his other qualities added those
of a sturdy _bon-vivant_, together with Forrester, and a few who still
girt in the lawyer as the prince of the small jest, discharged their
witticisms upon the staggering condition of affairs; not forgetting in
their assaults the disputatious civilian himself. That worthy, we regret
to add, though still unwilling to yield, and still striving to retort,
had nevertheless suffered considerable loss of equilibrium. His speeches
were more than ever confused, and it was remarked that his eyes danced
about hazily, with a most ineffectual expression. He looked about,
however, with a stupid gaze of self-satisfaction; but his laugh and
language, forming a strange and most unseemly coalition, degenerated at
last into a dolorous sniffle, indicating the rapid departure of the few
mental and animal holdfasts which had lingered with him so long. While
thus reduced, his few surviving senses were at once called into acute
activity by the appearance of a sooty little negro, who thrust into his
hands a misshapen fold of dirty paper, which a near examination made out
to take the form of a letter.
"Why, what the d----l, d----d sort of fist is this you've given me, you
bird of blackness! where got you this vile scrawl?--faugh! you've had it
in your jaws, you raven, have you not?"
The terrified urchin retreated a few paces while answering the inquiry.
"No, mass lawyer--de pedler--da him gib um to me so. I bring um straight
as he gib um."
"The pedler! why, where is he?--what the devil can he have to write
about?" was the universal exclamation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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