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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:35:39 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:35:39 -0700 |
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diff --git a/10947-0.txt b/10947-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ae126f --- /dev/null +++ b/10947-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12230 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10947 *** + + THE BEST + AMERICAN HUMOROUS + SHORT STORIES + + + _Edited by_ + ALEXANDER JESSUP + + _Editor of “Representative American Short Stories,” + “The Book of the Short Story,” the “Little + French Masterpieces” Series, etc._ + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +This volume does not aim to contain all “the best American humorous +short stories”; there are many other stories equally as good, I +suppose, in much the same vein, scattered through the range of +American literature. I have tried to keep a certain unity of aim +and impression in selecting these stories. In the first place I +determined that the pieces of brief fiction which I included must +first of all be not merely good stories, but good short stories. I +put myself in the position of one who was about to select the best +short stories in the whole range of American literature,[1] but +who, just before he started to do this, was notified that he must +refrain from selecting any of the best American short stories that +did not contain the element of humor to a marked degree. But I have +kept in mind the wide boundaries of the term humor, and also the +fact that the humorous standard should be kept second—although a +close second—to the short story standard. + +In view of the necessary limitations as to the volume’s size, I +could not hope to represent all periods of American literature +adequately, nor was this necessary in order to give examples of the +best that has been done in the short story in a humorous vein in +American literature. Probably all types of the short story of humor +are included here, at any rate. Not only copyright restrictions but +in a measure my own opinion have combined to exclude anything by +Joel Chandler Harris—_Uncle Remus_—from the collection. Harris is +primarily—in his best work—a humorist, and only secondarily a short +story writer. As a humorist he is of the first rank; as a writer of +short stories his place is hardly so high. His humor is not mere +funniness and diversion; he is a humorist in the fundamental and +large sense, as are Cervantes, Rabelais, and Mark Twain. + +No book is duller than a book of jokes, for what is refreshing in +small doses becomes nauseating when perused in large assignments. +Humor in literature is at its best not when served merely by +itself but when presented along with other ingredients of literary +force in order to give a wide representation of life. Therefore +“professional literary humorists,” as they may be called, have +not been much considered in making up this collection. In the +history of American humor there are three names which stand out +more prominently than all others before Mark Twain, who, however, +also belongs to a wider classification: “Josh Billings” (Henry +Wheeler Shaw, 1815–1885), “Petroleum V. Nasby” (David Ross Locke, +1833–1888), and “Artemus Ward” (Charles Farrar Browne, 1834–1867). +In the history of American humor these names rank high; in the +field of American literature and the American short story they +do not rank so high. I have found nothing of theirs that was +first-class both as humor and as short story. Perhaps just below +these three should be mentioned George Horatio Derby (1823–1861), +author of _Phoenixiana_ (1855) and the _Squibob Papers_ (1859), +who wrote under the name “John Phoenix.” As has been justly said, +“Derby, Shaw, Locke and Browne carried to an extreme numerous +tricks already invented by earlier American humorists, particularly +the tricks of gigantic exaggeration and calm-faced mendacity, but +they are plainly in the main channel of American humor, which had +its origin in the first comments of settlers upon the conditions +of the frontier, long drew its principal inspiration from the +differences between that frontier and the more settled and compact +regions of the country, and reached its highest development in Mark +Twain, in his youth a child of the American frontier, admirer and +imitator of Derby and Browne, and eventually a man of the world +and one of its greatest humorists.”[2] Nor have such later writers +who were essentially humorists as “Bill Nye” (Edgar Wilson Nye, +1850–1896) been considered, because their work does not attain the +literary standard and the short story standard as creditably as it +does the humorous one. When we come to the close of the nineteenth +century the work of such men as “Mr. Dooley” (Finley Peter Dunne, +1867- ) and George Ade (1866- ) stands out. But while these two +writers successfully conform to the exacting critical requirements +of good humor and—especially the former—of good literature, +neither—though Ade more so—attains to the greatest excellence of +the short story. Mr. Dooley of the Archey Road is essentially a +wholesome and wide-poised humorous philosopher, and the author of +_Fables in Slang_ is chiefly a satirist, whether in fable, play or +what not. + +This volume might well have started with something by Washington +Irving, I suppose many critics would say. It does not seem to me, +however, that Irving’s best short stories, such as _The Legend +of Sleepy Hollow_ and _Rip Van Winkle_, are essentially humorous +stories, although they are o’erspread with the genial light of +reminiscence. It is the armchair geniality of the eighteenth +century essayists, a constituent of the author rather than of his +material and product. Irving’s best humorous creations, indeed, +are scarcely short stories at all, but rather essaylike sketches, +or sketchlike essays. James Lawson (1799–1880) in his _Tales +and Sketches: by a Cosmopolite_ (1830), notably in _The Dapper +Gentleman’s Story_, is also plainly a follower of Irving. We come +to a different vein in the work of such writers as William Tappan +Thompson (1812–1882), author of the amusing stories in letter form, +_Major Jones’s Courtship_ (1840); Johnson Jones Hooper (1815–1862), +author of _Widow Rugby’s Husband, and Other Tales of Alabama_ +(1851); Joseph G. Baldwin (1815–1864), who wrote _The Flush Times +of Alabama and Mississippi_ (1853); and Augustus Baldwin Longstreet +(1790–1870), whose _Georgia Scenes_ (1835) are as important in +“local color” as they are racy in humor. Yet none of these writers +yield the excellent short story which is also a good piece of +humorous literature. But they opened the way for the work of later +writers who did attain these combined excellences. + +The sentimental vein of the midcentury is seen in the work of +Seba Smith (1792–1868), Eliza Leslie (1787–1858), Frances Miriam +Whitcher (“Widow Bedott,” 1811–1852), Mary W. Janvrin (1830–1870), +and Alice Bradley Haven Neal (1828–1863). The well-known work of +Joseph Clay Neal (1807–1847) is so all pervaded with caricature and +humor that it belongs with the work of the professional humorist +school rather than with the short story writers. To mention his +_Charcoal Sketches, or Scenes in a Metropolis_ (1837–1849) must +suffice. The work of Seba Smith is sufficiently expressed in his +title, _Way Down East, or Portraitures of Yankee Life_ (1854), +although his _Letters of Major Jack Downing_ (1833) is better +known. Of his single stories may be mentioned _The General Court +and Jane Andrews’ Firkin of Butter_ (October, 1847, _Graham’s +Magazine_). The work of Frances Miriam Whitcher (“Widow Bedott”) +is of somewhat finer grain, both as humor and in other literary +qualities. Her stories or sketches, such as _Aunt Magwire’s Account +of Parson Scrantum’s Donation Party_ (March, 1848, _Godey’s Lady’s +Book_) and _Aunt Magwire’s Account of the Mission to Muffletegawmy_ +(July, 1859, _Godey’s_), were afterwards collected in _The Widow +Bedott Papers_ (1855-56-80). The scope of the work of Mary B. Haven +is sufficiently suggested by her story, _Mrs. Bowen’s Parlor and +Spare Bedroom_ (February, 1860, _Godey’s_), while the best stories +of Mary W. Janvrin include _The Foreign Count; or, High Art in +Tattletown_ (October, 1860, _Godey’s_) and _City Relations; or, the +Newmans’ Summer at Clovernook_ (November, 1861, _Godey’s_). The +work of Alice Bradley Haven Neal is of somewhat similar texture. +Her book, _The Gossips of Rivertown, with Sketches in Prose and +Verse_ (1850) indicates her field, as does the single title, _The +Third-Class Hotel_ (December, 1861, _Godey’s_). Perhaps the most +representative figure of this school is Eliza Leslie (1787–1858), +who as “Miss Leslie” was one of the most frequent contributors to +the magazines of the 1830’s, 1840’s and 1850’s. One of her best +stories is _The Watkinson Evening_ (December, 1846, _Godey’s Lady’s +Book_), included in the present volume; others are _The Batson +Cottage_ (November, 1846, _Godey’s Lady’s Book_) and _Juliet Irwin; +or, the Carriage People_ (June, 1847, _Godey’s Lady’s Book_). +One of her chief collections of stories is _Pencil Sketches_ +(1833–1837). “Miss Leslie,” wrote Edgar Allan Poe, “is celebrated +for the homely naturalness of her stories and for the broad satire +of her comic style.” She was the editor of _The Gift_ one of the +best annuals of the time, and in that position perhaps exerted her +chief influence on American literature When one has read three or +four representative stories by these seven authors one can grasp +them all. Their titles as a rule strike the keynote. These writers, +except “the Widow Bedott,” are perhaps sentimentalists rather than +humorists in intention, but read in the light of later days their +apparent serious delineations of the frolics and foibles of their +time take on a highly humorous aspect. + +George Pope Morris (1802–1864) was one of the founders of _The +New York Mirror_, and for a time its editor. He is best known as +the author of the poem, _Woodman, Spare That Tree_, and other +poems and songs. _The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots_ (1839), +the first story in the present volume, is selected not because +Morris was especially prominent in the field of the short story or +humorous prose but because of this single story’s representative +character. Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) follows with _The Angel of +the Odd_ (October, 1844, _Columbian Magazine_), perhaps the best +of his humorous stories. _The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether_ +(November, 1845, _Graham’s Magazine_) may be rated higher, but it +is not essentially a humorous story. Rather it is incisive satire, +with too biting an undercurrent to pass muster in the company of +the genial in literature. Poe’s humorous stories as a whole have +tended to belittle rather than increase his fame, many of them +verging on the inane. There are some, however, which are at least +excellent fooling; few more than that. + +Probably this is hardly the place for an extended discussion of +Poe, since the present volume covers neither American literature +as a whole nor the American short story in general, and Poe is +not a humorist in his more notable productions. Let it be said +that Poe invented or perfected—more exactly, perfected his own +invention of—the modern short story; that is his general and +supreme achievement. He also stands superlative for the quality +of three varieties of short stories, those of terror, beauty and +ratiocination. In the first class belong _A Descent into the +Maelstrom_ (1841), _The Pit and the Pendulum_ (1842), _The Black +Cat_ (1843), and _The Cask of Amontillado_ (1846). In the realm +of beauty his notable productions are _The Assignation_ (1834), +_Shadow: a Parable_ (1835), _Ligeia_ (1838), _The Fall of the House +of Usher_ (1839), _Eleonora_ (1841), and _The Masque of the Red +Death_ (1842). The tales of ratiocination—what are now generally +termed detective stories—include _The Murders in the Rue Morgue_ +(1841) and its sequel, _The Mystery of Marie Rogêt_ (1842–1843), +_The Gold-Bug_ (1843), _The Oblong Box_ (1844), “_Thou Art the +Man_” (1844), and _The Purloined Letter_ (1844). + +Then, too, Poe was a master of style, one of the greatest in +English prose, possibly the greatest since De Quincey, and quite +the most remarkable among American authors. Poe’s influence on the +short story form has been tremendous. Although the _effects_ of +structure may be astounding in their power or unexpectedness, yet +the _means_ by which these effects are brought about are purely +mechanical. Any student of fiction can comprehend them, almost +any practitioner of fiction with a bent toward form can fairly +master them. The merit of any short story production depends on +many other elements as well—the value of the structural element to +the production as a whole depends first on the selection of the +particular sort of structural scheme best suited to the story in +hand, and secondly, on the way in which this is _combined_ with +the piece of writing to form a well-balanced whole. Style is more +difficult to imitate than structure, but on the other hand _the +origin of structural influence_ is more difficult to trace than +that of style. So while, in a general way, we feel that Poe’s +influence on structure in the short story has been great, it is +difficult rather than obvious to trace particular instances. It +is felt in the advance of the general level of short story art. +There is nothing personal about structure—there is everything +personal about style. Poe’s style is both too much his own and +too superlatively good to be successfully imitated—whom have we +had who, even if he were a master of structural effects, could be +a second Poe? Looking at the matter in another way, Poe’s style +is not his own at all. There is nothing “personal” about it in +the petty sense of that term. Rather we feel that, in the case of +this author, universality has been attained. It was Poe’s good +fortune to be himself in style, as often in content, on a plane +of universal appeal. But in some general characteristics of his +style his work can be, not perhaps imitated, but emulated. Greater +vividness, deft impressionism, brevity that strikes instantly to a +telling effect—all these an author may have without imitating any +one’s style but rather imitating excellence. Poe’s “imitators” who +have amounted to anything have not tried to imitate him but to vie +with him. They are striving after perfectionism. Of course the sort +of good style in which Poe indulged is not the kind of style—or the +varieties of style—suited for all purposes, but for the purposes to +which it is adapted it may well be called supreme. + +Then as a poet his work is almost or quite as excellent in a +somewhat more restricted range. In verse he is probably the best +artist in American letters. Here his sole pursuit was beauty, +both of form and thought; he is vivid and apt, intensely lyrical +but without much range of thought. He has deep intuitions but no +comprehensive grasp of life. + +His criticism is, on the whole, the least important part of his +work. He had a few good and brilliant ideas which came at just the +right time to make a stir in the world, and these his logical mind +and telling style enabled him to present to the best advantage. As +a critic he is neither broad-minded, learned, nor comprehensive. +Nor is he, except in the few ideas referred to, deep. He is, +however, limitedly original—perhaps intensely original within his +narrow scope. But the excellences and limitations of Poe in any one +part of his work were his limitations and excellences in all. + +As Poe’s best short stories may be mentioned: _Metzengerstein_ +(Jan. 14, 1832, Philadelphia _Saturday Courier_), _Ms. Found in +a Bottle_ (October 19, 1833, _Baltimore Saturday Visiter_), _The +Assignation_ (January, 1834, _Godey’s Lady’s Book_), _Berenice_ +(March, 1835, _Southern Literary Messenger_), _Morella_ (April, +1835, _Southern Literary Messenger_), _The Unparalleled Adventure +of One Hans Pfaall_ (June, 1835, _Southern Literary Messenger_), +_King Pest: a Tale Containing an Allegory_ (September, 1835, +_Southern Literary Messenger_), _Shadow: a Parable_ (September, +1835, _Southern Literary Messenger_), _Ligeia_ (September, 1838, +_American Museum_), _The Fall of the House of Usher_ (September, +1839, _Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine_), _William Wilson_ (1839: +_Gift for_ 1840), _The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion_ +(December, 1839, _Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine_), _The Murders +in the Rue Morgue_ (April, 1841, _Graham’s Magazine_), _A Descent +into the Maelstrom_ (May, 1841, _Graham’s Magazine_), _Eleonora_ +(1841: _Gift_ for 1842), _The Masque of the Red Death_ (May, 1842, +_Graham’s Magazine_), _The Pit and the Pendulum_ (1842: _Gift for +1843_), _The Tell-Tale Heart_ (January, 1843, _Pioneer_), _The +Gold-Bug_ (June 21 and 28, 1843, _Dollar Newspaper_), _The Black +Cat_ (August 19, 1843, _United States Saturday Post_), _The Oblong +Box_ (September, 1844, _Godey’s Lady’s Book_), _The Angel of the +Odd_ (October, 1844, _Columbian Magazine_), “_Thou Art the Man_” +(November, 1844, _Godey’s Lady’s Book_), _The Purloined Letter_ +(1844: _Gift_ for 1845), _The Imp of the Perverse_ (July, 1845, +_Graham’s Magazine_), _The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether_ +(November, 1845, _Graham’s Magazine_), _The Facts in the Case +of M. Valdemar_ (December, 1845, _American Whig Review_), _The +Cask of Amontillado_ (November, 1846, _Godey’s Lady’s Book_), and +_Lander’s Cottage_ (June 9, 1849, _Flag of Our Union_). Poe’s +chief collections are: _Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque_ +(1840), _Tales_ (1845), and _The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe_ +(1850–56). These titles have been dropped from recent editions of +his works, however, and the stories brought together under the +title _Tales_, or under subdivisions furnished by his editors, such +as _Tales of Ratiocination_, etc. + +Caroline Matilda Stansbury Kirkland (1801–1864) wrote of the +frontier life of the Middle West in the mid-nineteenth century. +Her principal collection of short stories is _Western Clearings_ +(1845), from which _The Schoolmaster’s Progress_, first published +in _The Gift_ for 1845 (out in 1844), is taken. Other stories +republished in that collection are _The Ball at Thram’s Huddle_ +(April, 1840, _Knickerbocker Magazine_), _Recollections of the +Land-Fever_ (September, 1840, _Knickerbocker Magazine_), and _The +Bee-Tree_ (_The Gift_ for 1842; out in 1841). Her description of +the country schoolmaster, “a puppet cut out of shingle and jerked +by a string,” and the local color in general of this and other +stories give her a leading place among the writers of her period +who combined fidelity in delineating frontier life with sufficient +fictional interest to make a pleasing whole of permanent value. + +George William Curtis (1824–1892) gained his chief fame as an +essayist, and probably became best known from the department which +he conducted, from 1853, as _The Editor’s Easy Chair_ for _Harper’s +Magazine_ for many years. His volume, _Prue and I_ (1856), contains +many fictional elements, and a story from it, _Titbottom’s +Spectacles_, which first appeared in Putnam’s Monthly for December, +1854, is given in this volume because it is a good humorous short +story rather than because of its author’s general eminence in +this field. Other stories of his worth noting are _The Shrouded +Portrait_ (in _The Knickerbocker Gallery_, 1855) and _The Millenial +Club_ (November, 1858, _Knickerbocker Magazine_). + +Edward Everett Hale (1822–1909) is chiefly known as the author +of the short story, _The Man Without a Country_ (December, 1863, +_Atlantic Monthly_), but his venture in the comic vein, _My Double; +and How He Undid Me_ (September, 1859, _Atlantic Monthly_), is +equally worthy of appreciation. It was his first published story +of importance. Other noteworthy stories of his are: _The Brick +Moon_ (October, November and December, 1869, _Atlantic Monthly_), +_Life in the Brick Moon_ (February, 1870, _Atlantic Monthly_), +and _Susan’s Escort_ (May, 1890, _Harper’s Magazine_). His chief +volumes of short stories are: _The Man Without a Country, and +Other Tales_ (1868); _The Brick Moon, and Other Stories_ (1873); +_Crusoe in New York, and Other Tales_ (1880); and _Susan’s Escort, +and Others_ (1897). The stories by Hale which have made his fame +all show ability of no mean order; but they are characterized by +invention and ingenuity rather than by suffusing imagination. +There is not much homogeneity about Hale’s work. Almost any two +stories of his read as if they might have been written by different +authors. For the time being perhaps this is an advantage—his +stories charm by their novelty and individuality. In the long run, +however, this proves rather a handicap. True individuality, in +literature as in the other arts, consists not in “being different” +on different occasions—in different works—so much as in being +_samely_ different from other writers; in being _consistently_ +one’s self, rather than diffusedly various selves. This does not +lessen the value of particular stories, of course. It merely +injures Hale’s fame as a whole. Perhaps some will chiefly feel not +so much that his stories are different among themselves, but that +they are not strongly anything—anybody’s—in particular, that they +lack strong personality. The pathway to fame is strewn with stray +exhibitions of talent. Apart from his purely literary productions, +Hale was one of the large moral forces of his time, through +“uplift” both in speech and the written word. + +Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809–1894), one of the leading wits of +American literature, is not at all well known as a short story +writer, nor did he write many brief pieces of fiction. His fame +rests chiefly on his poems and on the _Breakfast-Table_ books +(1858-1860-1872-1890). _Old Ironsides_, _The Last Leaf_, _The +Chambered Nautilus_ and _Homesick in Heaven_ are secure of places +in the anthologies of the future, while his lighter verse has +made him one of the leading American writers of “familiar verse.” +Frederick Locker-Lampson in the preface to the first edition of his +_Lyra Elegantiarum_ (1867) declared that Holmes was “perhaps the +best living writer of this species of verse.” His trenchant attack +on _Homeopathy and Its Kindred Delusions_ (1842) makes us wonder +what would have been his attitude toward some of the beliefs of our +own day; Christian Science, for example. He might have “exposed” +it under some such title as _The Religio-Medical Masquerade_, or +brought the batteries of his humor to bear on it in the manner of +Robert Louis Stevenson’s fable, _Something In It_: “Perhaps there +is not much in it, as I supposed; but there is something in it +after all. Let me be thankful for that.” In Holmes’ long works of +fiction, Elsie Venner (1861), _The Guardian Angel_ (1867) and _A +Mortal Antipathy_ (1885), the method is still somewhat that of +the essayist. I have found a short piece of fiction by him in the +March, 1832, number of _The New England Magazine_, called _The +Début_, signed O.W.H. _The Story of Iris_ in _The Professor at the +Breakfast Table_, which ran in _The Atlantic_ throughout 1859, and +_A Visit to the Asylum for Aged and Decayed Punsters_ (January, +1861, _Atlantic_) are his only other brief fictions of which I +am aware. The last named has been given place in the present +selection because it is characteristic of a certain type and period +of American humor, although its short story qualities are not +particularly strong. + +Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835–1910), who achieved fame as “Mark +Twain,” is only incidentally a short story writer, although he +wrote many short pieces of fiction. His humorous quality, I mean, +is so preponderant, that one hardly thinks of the form. Indeed, +he is never very strong in fictional construction, and of the +modern short story art he evidently knew or cared little. He is +a humorist in the large sense, as are Rabelais and Cervantes, +although he is also a humorist in various restricted applications +of the word that are wholly American. _The Celebrated Jumping Frog +of Calaveras County_ was his first publication of importance, and +it saw the light in the Nov. 18, 1865, number of _The Saturday +Press_. It was republished in the collection, _The Celebrated +Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches_, in 1867. +Others of his best pieces of short fiction are: _The Canvasser’s +Tale_ (December, 1876, _Atlantic Monthly_), _The £1,000,000 Bank +Note_ (January, 1893, _Century Magazine_), _The Esquimau Maiden’s +Romance_ (November, 1893, _Cosmopolitan_), _Traveling with a +Reformer_ (December, 1893, _Cosmopolitan_), _The Man That Corrupted +Hadleyburg_ (December, 1899, _Harper’s_), _A Double-Barrelled +Detective Story_ (January and February, 1902, _Harper’s_) _A Dog’s +Tale_ (December, 1903, _Harper’s_), and _Eve’s Diary_ (December, +1905, _Harper’s_). Among Twain’s chief collections of short +stories are: _The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, +and Other Sketches_ (1867); _The Stolen White Elephant_ (1882), +_The £1,000,000 Bank Note_ (1893), and _The Man That Corrupted +Hadleyburg, and Other Stories and Sketches_ (1900). + +Harry Stillwell Edwards (1855– ), a native of Georgia, together +with Sarah Barnwell Elliott (? – ) and Will N. Harben (1858–1919) +have continued in the vein of that earlier writer, Augustus +Baldwin Longstreet (1790–1870), author of _Georgia Scenes_ (1835). +Edwards’ best work is to be found in his short stories of black +and white life after the manner of Richard Malcolm Johnston. He +has written several novels, but he is essentially a writer of +human-nature sketches. “He is humorous and picturesque,” says +Fred Lewis Pattee, “and often he is for a moment the master of +pathos, but he has added nothing new and nothing commandingly +distinctive.”[3] An exception to this might be made in favor of +_Elder Brown’s Backslide_ (August, 1885, _Harper’s_), a story in +which all the elements are so nicely balanced that the result +may well be called a masterpiece of objective humor and pathos. +Others of his short stories especially worthy of mention are: _Two +Runaways_ (July, 1886, _Century_), _Sister Todhunter’s Heart_ +(July, 1887, _Century_), “_De Valley an’ de Shadder_” (January, +1888, _Century_), _An Idyl of “Sinkin’ Mount’in”_ (October, +1888, _Century_), _The Rival Souls_ (March, 1889, _Century_), +_The Woodhaven Goat_ (March, 1899, _Century_), and _The Shadow_ +(December, 1906, _Century_). His chief collections are _Two +Runaways, and Other Stories_ (1889) and _His Defense, and Other +Stories_ (1898). + +The most notable, however, of the group of short story writers of +Georgia life is perhaps Richard Malcolm Johnston (1822–1898). He +stands between Longstreet and the younger writers of Georgia life. +His first book was _Georgia Sketches, by an Old Man_ (1864). _The +Goose Pond School_, a short story, had been written in 1857; it +was not published, however, till it appeared in the November and +December, 1869, numbers of a Southern magazine, _The New Eclectic_, +over the pseudonym “Philemon Perch.” His famous _Dukesborough +Tales_ (1871–1874) was largely a republication of the earlier book. +Other noteworthy collections of his are: _Mr. Absalom Billingslea +and Other Georgia Folk_ (1888), _Mr. Fortner’s Marital Claims, +and Other Stories_ (1892), and _Old Times in Middle Georgia_ +(1897). Among individual stories stand out: _The Organ-Grinder_ +(July, 1870, _New Eclectic_), _Mr. Neelus Peeler’s Conditions_ +(June, 1879, _Scribner’s Monthly_), _The Brief Embarrassment of +Mr. Iverson Blount_ (September, 1884, _Century_); _The Hotel +Experience of Mr. Pink Fluker_ (June, 1886, _Century_), republished +in the present collection; _The Wimpy Adoptions_ (February, 1887, +_Century_), _The Experiments of Miss Sally Cash_ (September, 1888, +_Century_), and _Our Witch_ (March, 1897, _Century_). Johnston +must be ranked almost with Bret Harte as a pioneer in “local +color” work, although his work had little recognition until his +_Dukesborough Tales_ were republished by Harper & Brothers in 1883. + +Bret Harte (1839–1902) is mentioned here owing to the late date +of his story included in this volume, _Colonel Starbottle for +the Plaintiff_ (March, 1901, _Harper’s_), although his work as a +whole of course belongs to an earlier period of our literature. +It is now well-thumbed literary history that _The Luck of Roaring +Camp_ (August, 1868, _Overland_) and _The Outcasts of Poker Flat_ +(January, 1869, _Overland_) brought him a popularity that, in its +suddenness and extent, had no precedent in American literature save +in the case of Mrs. Stowe and _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_. According to +Harte’s own statement, made in the retrospect of later years, he +set out deliberately to add a new province to American literature. +Although his work has been belittled because he has chosen +exceptional and theatric happenings, yet his real strength came +from his contact with Western life. + +Irving and Dickens and other models served only to teach him his +art. “Finally,” says Prof. Pattee, “Harte was the parent of the +modern form of the short story. It was he who started Kipling and +Cable and Thomas Nelson Page. Few indeed have surpassed him in the +mechanics of this most difficult of arts. According to his own +belief, the form is an American product ... Harte has described +the genesis of his own art. It sprang from the Western humor and +was developed by the circumstances that surrounded him. Many of +his short stories are models. They contain not a superfluous word, +they handle a single incident with grapic power, they close without +moral or comment. The form came as a natural evolution from his +limitations and powers. With him the story must of necessity be +brief.... Bret Harte was the artist of impulse, the painter of +single burning moments, the flashlight photographer who caught +in lurid detail one dramatic episode in the life of a man or a +community and left the rest in darkness.”[4] + +Harte’s humor is mostly “Western humor” There is not always +uproarious merriment, but there is a constant background of humor. +I know of no more amusing scene in American literature than that in +the courtroom when the Colonel gives his version of the deacon’s +method of signaling to the widow in Harte’s story included in the +present volume, _Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff_. Here is +part of it: + +True to the instructions she had received from him, her lips +part in the musical utterance (the Colonel lowered his voice +in a faint falsetto, presumably in fond imitation of his fair +client) “Kerree!” Instantly the night becomes resonant with the +impassioned reply (the Colonel here lifted his voice in stentorian +tones), “Kerrow!” Again, as he passes, rises the soft “Kerree!”; +again, as his form is lost in the distance, comes back the deep +“Kerrow!” + +While Harte’s stories all have in them a certain element or +background of humor, yet perhaps the majority of them are chiefly +romantic or dramatic even more than they are humorous. + +Among the best of his short stories may be mentioned: _The Luck of +Roaring Camp_ (August, 1868, _Overland_), _The Outcasts of Poker +Flat_ (January, 1869, _Overland_), _Tennessee’s Partner_ (October, +1869, _Overland_), _Brown of Calaveras_ (March, 1870, _Overland_), +_Flip: a California Romance_ (in _Flip, and Other Stories_, 1882), +_Left Out on Lone Star Mountain_ (January, 1884, _Longman’s_), _An +Ingenue of the Sierras_ (July, 1894, _McClure’s_), _The Bell-Ringer +of Angel’s_ (in _The Bell-Ringer of Angel’s, and Other Stories_, +1894), _Chu Chu_ (in _The Bell-Ringer of Angel’s, and Other +Stories_, 1894), _The Man and the Mountain_ (in _The Ancestors of +Peter Atherly, and Other Tales_, 1897), _Salomy Jane’s Kiss_ (in +_Stories in Light and Shadow_, 1898), _The Youngest Miss Piper_ +(February, 1900, _Leslie’s Monthly_), _Colonel Starbottle for the +Plaintiff_ (March, 1901, _Harper’s_), _A Mercury of the Foothills_ +(July, 1901, _Cosmopolitan_), _Lanty Foster’s Mistake_ (December, +1901, _New England_), _An Ali Baba of the Sierras_ (January 4, +1902, _Saturday Evening Post_), and _Dick Boyle’s Business Card_ +(in _Trent’s Trust, and Other Stories_, 1903). Among his notable +collections of stories are: _The Luck of Roaring Camp, and Other +Sketches_ (1870), _Flip, and Other Stories_ (1882), _On the +Frontier_ (1884), _Colonel Starbottle’s Client, and Some Other +People_ (1892), _A Protégé of Jack Hamlin’s, and Other Stories_ +(1894), _The Bell-Ringer of Angel’s, and Other Stories_ (1894), +_The Ancestors of Peter Atherly, and Other Tales_ (1897), _Openings +in the Old Trail_ (1902), and _Trent’s Trust, and Other Stories_ +(1903). The titles and makeup of several of his collections were +changed when they came to be arranged in the complete edition of +his works.[5] + +Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855–1896) is one of the humorous geniuses +of American literature. He is equally at home in clever verse or +the brief short story. Prof. Fred Lewis Pattee has summed up his +achievement as follows: “Another [than Stockton] who did much to +advance the short story toward the mechanical perfection it had +attained to at the close of the century was Henry Cuyler Bunner, +editor of _Puck_ and creator of some of the most exquisite _vers de +société_ of the period. The title of one of his collections, _Made +in France: French Tales Retold with a U.S. Twist_ (1893), forms an +introduction to his fiction. Not that he was an imitator; few have +been more original or have put more of their own personality into +their work. His genius was Gallic. Like Aldrich, he approached the +short story from the fastidious standpoint of the lyric poet. With +him, as with Aldrich, art was a matter of exquisite touches, of +infinite compression, of almost imperceptible shadings. The lurid +splashes and the heavy emphasis of the local colorists offended his +sensitive taste: he would work with suggestion, with microscopic +focussings, and always with dignity and elegance. He was more +American than Henry James, more even than Aldrich. He chose always +distinctively American subjects—New York City was his favorite +theme—and his work had more depth of soul than Stockton’s or +Aldrich’s. The story may be trivial, a mere expanded anecdote, yet +it is sure to be so vitally treated that, like Maupassant’s work, +it grips and remains, and, what is more, it lifts and chastens or +explains. It may be said with assurance that _Short Sixes_ marks +one of the high places which have been attained by the American +short story.”[6] + +Among Bunner’s best stories are: _Love in Old Cloathes_ (September, +1883, _Century), A Successful Failure_ (July, 1887, _Puck_), _The +Love-Letters of Smith_ (July 23, 1890, _Puck_) _The Nice People_ +(July 30, 1890, _Puck_), _The Nine Cent-Girls_ (August 13, 1890, +_Puck_), _The Two Churches of ’Quawket_ (August 27, 1890, _Puck_), +_A Round-Up_ (September 10, 1890, _Puck_), _A Sisterly Scheme_ +(September 24, 1890, _Puck_), _Our Aromatic Uncle_ (August, 1895, +_Scribner’s_), _The Time-Table Test_ (in _The Suburban Sage_, +1896). He collaborated with Prof. Brander Matthews in several +stories, notably in _The Documents in the Case_ (Sept., 1879, +_Scribner’s Monthly_). His best collections are: _Short Sixes: +Stories to be Read While the Candle Burns_ (1891), _More Short +Sixes_ (1894), and _Love in Old Cloathes, and Other Stories_ (1896). + +After Poe and Hawthorne almost the first author in America to make +a vertiginous impression by his short stories was Bret Harte. The +wide and sudden popularity he attained by the publication of his +two short stories, _The Luck of Roaring Camp_ (1868) and _The +Outcasts of Poker Flat_ (1869), has already been noted.[7] But +one story just before Harte that astonished the fiction audience +with its power and art was Harriet Prescott Spofford’s (1835– ) +_The Amber Gods_ (January and February, 1860, Atlantic), with its +startling ending, “I must have died at ten minutes past one.” +After Harte the next story to make a great sensation was Thomas +Bailey Aldrich’s _Marjorie Daw_ (April, 1873, _Atlantic_), a story +with a surprise at the end, as had been his _A Struggle for Life_ +(July, 1867, _Atlantic_), although it was only _Marjorie Daw_ that +attracted much attention at the time. Then came George Washington +Cable’s (1844– ) “_Posson Jone’_,” (April 1, 1876, _Appleton’s +Journal_) and a little later Charles Egbert Craddock’s (1850– ) +_The Dancin’ Party at Harrison’s Cove_ (May, 1878, _Atlantic_) and +_The Star in the Valley_ (November, 1878, _Atlantic_). But the +work of Cable and Craddock, though of sterling worth, won its way +gradually. Even Edward Everett Hale’s (1822–1909) _My Double; and +How He Undid Me_ (September, 1859, _Atlantic_) and _The Man Without +a Country_ (December, 1863, _Atlantic_) had fallen comparatively +still-born. The truly astounding short story successes, after Poe +and Hawthorne, then, were Spofford, Bret Harte and Aldrich. Next +came Frank Richard Stockton (1834–1902). “The interest created +by the appearance of _Marjorie Daw_,” says Prof. Pattee, “was +mild compared with that accorded to Frank R. Stockton’s _The +Lady or the Tiger?_ (1884). Stockton had not the technique of +Aldrich nor his naturalness and ease. Certainly he had not his +atmosphere of the _beau monde_ and his grace of style, but in +whimsicality and unexpectedness and in that subtle art that makes +the obviously impossible seem perfectly plausible and commonplace +he surpassed not only him but Edward Everett Hale and all others. +After Stockton and _The Lady or the Tiger?_ it was realized even +by the uncritical that short story writing had become a subtle +art and that the master of its subtleties had his reader at his +mercy.”[8] The publication of Stockton’s short stories covers +a period of over forty years, from _Mahala’s Drive_ (November, +1868, _Lippincott’s_) to _The Trouble She Caused When She Kissed_ +(December, 1911, _Ladies’ Home Journal_), published nine years +after his death. Among the more notable of his stories may be +mentioned: _The Transferred Ghost_ (May, 1882, _Century_), _The +Lady or the Tiger?_ (November, 1882, _Century_), _The Reversible +Landscape_ (July, 1884, _Century_), _The Remarkable Wreck of the +“Thomas Hyke”_ (August, 1884, _Century_), _“His Wife’s Deceased +Sister”_ (January, 1884, _Century_), _A Tale of Negative Gravity_ +(December, 1884, _Century_), _The Christmas Wreck_ (in _The +Christmas Wreck, and Other Stories_, 1886), _Amos Kilbright_ +(in _Amos Kilbright, His Adscititious Experiences, with Other +Stories_, 1888), _Asaph_ (May, 1892, _Cosmopolitan_), _My Terminal +Moraine_ (April 26, 1892, Collier’s _Once a Week Library_), _The +Magic Egg_ (June, 1894, _Century_), _The Buller-Podington Compact_ +(August, 1897, _Scribner’s_), and _The Widow’s Cruise_ (in _A +Story-Teller’s Pack_, 1897). Most of his best work was gathered +into the collections: _The Lady or the Tiger?, and Other Stories_ +(1884), _The Bee-Man of Orn, and Other Fanciful Tales_ (1887), +_Amos Kilbright, His Adscititious Experiences, with Other Stories_ +(1888), _The Clocks of Rondaine, and Other Stories_ (1892), _A +Chosen Few_ (1895), _A Story-Teller’s Pack_ (1897), and _The +Queen’s Museum, and Other Fanciful Tales_ (1906). + +After Stockton and Bunner come O. Henry (1862–1910) and Jack London +(1876–1916), apostles of the burly and vigorous in fiction. Beside +or above them stand Henry James (1843–1916)—although he belongs +to an earlier period as well—Edith Wharton (1862– ), Alice Brown +(1857– ), Margaret Wade Deland (1857– ), and Katharine Fullerton +Gerould (1879– ), practitioners in all that O. Henry and London are +not, of the finer fields, the more subtle nuances of modern life. +With O. Henry and London, though perhaps less noteworthy, are to +be grouped George Randolph Chester (1869– ) and Irvin Shrewsbury +Cobb (1876– ). Then, standing rather each by himself, are Melville +Davisson Post (1871– ), a master of psychological mystery stories, +and Wilbur Daniel Steele (1886– ), whose work it is hard to +classify. These ten names represent much that is best in American +short story production since the beginning of the twentieth +century (1900). Not all are notable for humor; but inasmuch as any +consideration of the American humorous short story cannot be wholly +dissociated from a consideration of the American short story in +general, it has seemed not amiss to mention these authors here. +Although Sarah Orne Jewett (1849–1909) lived on into the twentieth +century and Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (1862– ) is still with us, the +best and most typical work of these two writers belongs in the last +two decades of the previous century. To an earlier period also +belong Charles Egbert Craddock (1850– ), George Washington Cable +(1844– ), Thomas Nelson Page (1853– ), Constance Fenimore Woolson +(1848–1894), Harriet Prescott Spofford (1835– ), Hamlin Garland +(1860– ), Ambrose Bierce (1842–?), Rose Terry Cooke (1827–1892), +and Kate Chopin (1851–1904). + +“O. Henry” was the pen name adopted by William Sydney Porter. +He began his short story career by contributing _Whistling +Dick’s Christmas Stocking_ to _McClure’s Magazine_ in 1899. He +followed it with many stories dealing with Western and South-and +Central-American life, and later came most of his stories of +the life of New York City, in which field lies most of his best +work. He contributed more stories to the _New York World_ than +to any other one publication—as if the stories of the author who +later came to be hailed as “the American Maupassant” were not +good enough for the “leading” magazines but fit only for the +sensation-loving public of the Sunday papers! His first published +story that showed distinct strength was perhaps _A Blackjack +Bargainer_ (August, 1901, _Munsey’s_). He followed this with such +masterly stories as: _The Duplicity of Hargraves_ (February, +1902, _Junior Munsey_), _The Marionettes_ (April, 1902, _Black +Cat_), _A Retrieved Reformation_ (April, 1903, _Cosmopolitan_), +_The Guardian of the Accolade_ (May, 1903, _Cosmopolitan_), _The +Enchanted Kiss_ (February, 1904, _Metropolitan_), _The Furnished +Room_ (August 14, 1904, _New York World_), _An Unfinished Story_ +(August, 1905, _McClure’s_), _The Count and the Wedding Guest_ +(October 8, 1905, _New York World_), _The Gift of the Magi_ +(December 10, 1905, _New York World_), _The Trimmed Lamp_ (August, +1906, _McClure’s_), _Phoebe_ (November, 1907, _Everybody’s_), _The +Hiding of Black Bill_ (October, 1908, _Everybody’s_), _No Story_ +(June, 1909, _Metropolitan_), _A Municipal Report_ (November, 1909, +_Hampton’s_), _A Service of Love_ (in _The Four Million_, 1909), +_The Pendulum_ (in _The Trimmed Lamp_, 1910), _Brickdust Row_ +(in _The Trimmed Lamp_, 1910), and _The Assessor of Success_ (in +_The Trimmed Lamp_, 1910). Among O. Henry’s best volumes of short +stories are: _The Four Million_ (1909), _Options_ (1909), _Roads +of Destiny_ (1909), _The Trimmed Lamp_ (1910), _Strictly Business: +More Stories of the Four Million_ (1910), _Whirligigs_ (1910), and +_Sixes and Sevens_ (1911). + +“Nowhere is there anything just like them. In his best work—and +his tales of the great metropolis are his best—he is unique. The +soul of his art is unexpectedness. Humor at every turn there +is, and sentiment and philosophy and surprise. One never may be +sure of himself. The end is always a sensation. No foresight may +predict it, and the sensation always is genuine. Whatever else +O. Henry was, he was an artist, a master of plot and diction, a +genuine humorist, and a philosopher. His weakness lay in the very +nature of his art. He was an entertainer bent only on amusing and +surprising his reader. Everywhere brilliancy, but too often it is +joined to cheapness; art, yet art merging swiftly into caricature. +Like Harte, he cannot be trusted. Both writers on the whole may be +said to have lowered the standards of American literature, since +both worked in the surface of life with theatric intent and always +without moral background, O. Henry moves, but he never lifts. All +is fortissimo; he slaps the reader on the back and laughs loudly as +if he were in a bar-room. His characters, with few exceptions, are +extremes, caricatures. Even his shop girls, in the limning of whom +he did his best work, are not really individuals; rather are they +types, symbols. His work was literary vaudeville, brilliant, highly +amusing, and yet vaudeville.”[9] _The Duplicity of Hargraves_, the +story by O. Henry given in this volume, is free from most of his +defects. It has a blend of humor and pathos that puts it on a plane +of universal appeal. + +George Randolph Chester (1869– ) gained distinction by creating +the genial modern business man of American literature who is not +content to “get rich quick” through the ordinary channels. Need +I say that I refer to that amazing compound of likeableness and +sharp practices, Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford? The story of his +included in this volume, _Bargain Day at Tutt House_ (June, 1905, +_McClure’s_), was nearly his first story; only two others, which +came out in _The Saturday Evening Post_ in 1903 and 1904, preceded +it. Its breathless dramatic action is well balanced by humor. +Other stories of his deserving of special mention are: _A Corner +in Farmers_ (February, 29, 1908, _Saturday Evening Post_), _A +Fortune in Smoke_ (March 14, 1908, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Easy +Money_ (November 14, 1908, _Saturday Evening Post_), _The Triple +Cross_ (December 5, 1908, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Spoiling +the Egyptians_ (December 26, 1908, _Saturday Evening Post_), +_Whipsawed!_ (January 16, 1909, _Saturday Evening Post_), _The +Bubble Bank_ (January 30 and February 6, 1909, _Saturday Evening +Post_), _Straight Business_ (February 27, 1909, _Saturday Evening +Post_), _Sam Turner: a Business Man’s Love Story_ (March 26, April +2 and 9, 1910, _Saturday Evening Post_), _Fundamental Justice_ +(July 25, 1914, _Saturday Evening Post_), _A Scropper Patcher_ +(October, 1916, _Everybody’s_), and _Jolly Bachelors_ (February, +1918, _Cosmopolitan_). His best collections are: _Get-Rich-Quick +Wallingford_ (1908), _Young Wallingford_ (1910), _Wallingford in +His Prime_ (1913), and _Wallingford and Blackie Daw_ (1913). It is +often difficult to find in his books short stories that one may +be looking for, for the reason that the titles of the individual +stories have been removed in order to make the books look like +novels subdivided into chapters. + +Grace MacGowan Cooke (1863– ) is a writer all of whose work has +interest and perdurable stuff in it, but few are the authors whose +achievements in the American short story stand out as a whole. In +_A Call_ (August, 1906, _Harper’s_) she surpasses herself and is +not perhaps herself surpassed by any of the humorous short stories +that have come to the fore so far in America in the twentieth +century. The story is no less delightful in its fidelity to fact +and understanding of young human nature than in its relish of +humor. Some of her stories deserving of special mention are: _The +Capture of Andy Proudfoot_ (June, 1904, _Harper’s_), _In the +Strength of the Hills_ (December, 1905, _Metropolitan_), _The +Machinations of Ocoee Gallantine_ (April, 1906, _Century_), _A +Call_ (August, 1906, _Harper’s_), _Scott Bohannon’s Bond _(May +4, 1907, _Collier’s_), and _A Clean Shave_ (November, 1912, +_Century_). Her best short stories do not seem to have been +collected in volumes as yet, although she has had several notable +long works of fiction published, such as _The Power and the Glory_ +(1910), and several good juveniles. + +William James Lampton (?–1917), who was known to many of his +admirers as Will Lampton or as W.J.L. merely, was one of the most +unique and interesting characters of literary and Bohemian New York +from about 1895 to his death in 1917. I remember walking up Fifth +Avenue with him one Sunday afternoon just after he had shown me a +letter from the man who was then Comptroller of the Currency. The +letter was signed so illegibly that my companion was in doubts +as to the sender, so he suggested that we stop at a well-known +hotel at the corner of 59th Street, and ask the manager who the +Comptroller of the Currency then was, so that he might know whom +the letter was from. He said that the manager of a big hotel like +that, where many prominent people stayed, would be sure to know. +When this problem had been solved to our satisfaction, John Skelton +Williams proving to be the man, Lampton said, “Now you’ve told me +who he is, I’ll show you who I am.” So he asked for a copy of _The +American Magazine_ at a newsstand in the hotel corridor, opened it, +and showed the manager a full-page picture of himself clad in a +costume suggestive of the time of Christopher Columbus, with high +ruffs around his neck, that happened to appear in the magazine the +current month. I mention this incident to illustrate the lack of +conventionality and whimsical originality of the man, that stood +out no less forcibly in his writings than in his daily life. He had +little use for “doing the usual thing in the usual sort of way.” He +first gained prominence by his book of verse, _Yawps_ (1900). His +poems were free from convention in technique as well as in spirit, +although their chief innovation was simply that as a rule there +was no regular number of syllables in a line; he let the lines be +any length they wanted to be, to fit the sense or the length of +what he had to say. He once said to me that if anything of his was +remembered he thought it would be his poem, _Lo, the Summer Girl_. +His muse often took the direction of satire, but it was always +good-natured even when it hit the hardest. He had in his makeup +much of the detached philosopher, like Cervantes and Mark Twain. + +There was something cosmic about his attitude to life, and this +showed in much that he did. He was the only American writer of +humorous verse of his day whom I always cared to read, or whose +lines I could remember more than a few weeks. This was perhaps +because his work was never _merely_ humorous, but always had a big +sweep of background to it, like the ruggedness of the Kentucky +mountains from which he came. It was Colonel George Harvey, then +editor of _Harper’s Weekly_, who had started the boom to make +Woodrow Wilson President. Wilson afterwards, at least seemingly, +repudiated his sponsor, probably because of Harvey’s identification +with various moneyed interests. Lampton’s poem on the subject, with +its refrain, “Never again, said Colonel George,” I remember as one +of the most notable of his poems on current topics. But what always +seemed to me the best of his poems dealing with matters of the hour +was one that I suggested he write, which dealt with gift-giving to +the public, at about the time that Andrew Carnegie was making a big +stir with his gifts for libraries, beginning: + + Dunno, perhaps + One of the yaps + Like me would make + A holy break + Doing his turn + With money to burn. + Anyhow, I + Wouldn’t shy + Making a try! + +and containing, among many effective touches, the pathetic lines, + + . . . I’d help + The poor who try to help themselves, + Who have to work so hard for bread + They can’t get very far ahead. + +When James Lane Allen’s novel, _The Reign of Law_, came out (1900), +a little quatrain by Lampton that appeared in _The Bookman_ +(September, 1900) swept like wildfire across the country, and was +read by a hundred times as many people as the book itself: + + “The Reign of Law”? + Well, Allen, you’re lucky; + It’s the first time it ever + Rained law in Kentucky! + +The reader need not be reminded that at that period Kentucky family +feuds were well to the fore. As Lampton had started as a poet, the +editors were bound to keep him pigeon-holed as far as they could, +and his ambition to write short stories was not at first much +encouraged by them. His predicament was something like that of the +chief character of Frank R. Stockton’s story, “_His Wife’s Deceased +Sister_” (January, 1884, _Century_), who had written a story so +good that whenever he brought the editors another story they +invariably answered in substance, “We’re afraid it won’t do. Can’t +you give us something like ‘_His Wife’s Deceased Sister_’?” This +was merely Stockton’s turning to account his own somewhat similar +experience with the editors after his story, _The Lady or the +Tiger_? (November, 1882, _Century_) appeared. Likewise the editors +didn’t want Lampton’s short stories for a while because they liked +his poems so well. + +Do I hear some critics exclaiming that there is nothing remarkable +about _How the Widow Won the Deacon_, the story by Lampton +included in this volume? It handles an amusing situation lightly +and with grace. It is one of those things that read easily and +are often difficult to achieve. Among his best stories are: _The +People’s Number of the Worthyville Watchman_ (May 12, 1900, +_Saturday Evening Post_), _Love’s Strange Spell_ (April 27, 1901, +_Saturday Evening Post_), _Abimelech Higgins’ Way_ (August 24, +1001, _Saturday Evening Post_), _A Cup of Tea_ (March, 1902, +_Metropolitan_), _Winning His Spurs_ (May, 1904, _Cosmopolitan_), +_The Perfidy of Major Pulsifer_ (November, 1909, _Cosmopolitan_), +_How the Widow Won the Deacon_ (April, 1911, _Harper’s Bazaar_), +and _A Brown Study_ (December, 1913, _Lippincott’s_). There is no +collection as yet of his short stories. Although familiarly known +as “Colonel” Lampton, and although of Kentucky, he was not merely +a “Kentucky Colonel,” for he was actually appointed Colonel on the +staff of the governor of Kentucky. At the time of his death he was +about to be made a brigadier-general and was planning to raise a +brigade of Kentucky mountaineers for service in the Great War. As +he had just struck his stride in short story writing, the loss to +literature was even greater than the patriotic loss. + +_Gideon_ (April, 1914, _Century_), by Wells Hastings (1878– ), the +story with which this volume closes, calls to mind the large number +of notable short stories in American literature by writers who have +made no large name for themselves as short story writers, or even +otherwise in letters. American literature has always been strong in +its “stray” short stories of note. In Mr. Hastings’ case, however, +I feel that the fame is sure to come. He graduated from Yale in +1902, collaborated with Brian Hooker (1880- ) in a novel, _The +Professor’s Mystery_ (1911) and alone wrote another novel, _The +Man in the Brown Derby_ (1911). His short stories include: _The +New Little Boy_ (July, 1911, _American_), _That Day_ (September, +1911, _American_), _The Pick-Up_ (December, 1911, _Everybody’s_), +and _Gideon_ (April, 1914, _Century_). The last story stands out. +It can be compared without disadvantage to the best work, or all +but the very best work, of Thomas Nelson Page, it seems to me. And +from the reader’s standpoint it has the advantage—is this not also +an author’s advantage?—of a more modern setting and treatment. Mr. +Hastings is, I have been told, a director in over a dozen large +corporations. Let us hope that his business activities will not +keep him too much away from the production of literature—for to +rank as a piece of literature, something of permanent literary +value, _Gideon_ is surely entitled. + + ALEXANDER JESSUP. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] This I have attempted in _Representative American Short Stories_ +(Allyn & Bacon: Boston, 1922). + +[2] Will D. Howe, in _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, +Vol. II, pp. 158–159 (G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1918). + +[3] _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, p. 317 (The +Century Co.: 1915). + +[4] _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, pp 79–81. + +[5] “The Works of Bret Harte,” twenty volumes. The Houghton Mifflin +Company, Boston. + +[6] _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II, p. 386. + +[7] See this Introduction. + +[8] _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II, p. 385. + +[9] Fred Lewis Pattee, in The Cambridge History of American +Literature, Vol. II, p. 394. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + INTRODUCTION v + _Alexander Jessup_ + + THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS (1839) 1 + _George Pope Morris_ + + THE ANGEL OF THE ODD (1844) 7 + _Edgar Allan Poe_ + + THE SCHOOLMASTER’S PROGRESS (1844) 18 + _Caroline M.S. Kirkland_ + + THE WATKINSON EVENING (1846) 34 + _Eliza Leslie_ + + TITBOTTOM’S SPECTACLES (1854) 52 + _George William Curtis_ + + MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME (1859) 75 + _Edward Everett Hale_ + + A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS (1861) 94 + _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ + + THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY (1865) 102 + _Mark Twain_ + + ELDER BROWN’S BACKSLIDE (1885) 109 + _Harry Stillwell Edwards_ + + THE HOTEL EXPERIENCE OF MR. PINK FLUKER (1886) 128 + _Richard Malcolm Johnston_ + + THE NICE PEOPLE (1890) 141 + _Henry Cuyler Bunner_ + + THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT (1897) 151 + _Frank Richard Stockton_ + + COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF (1901) 170 + _Bret Harte_ + + THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES (1902) 199 + _O. Henry_ + + BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE (1905) 213 + _George Randolph Chester_ + + A CALL (1906) 237 + _Grace MacGowan Cooke_ + + HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON (1911) 252 + _William James Lampton_ + + GIDEON (1914) 260 + _Wells Hastings_ + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + + +_The Nice People_, by Henry Cuyler Bunner, is republished from +his volume, _Short Sixes_, by permission of its publishers, +Charles Scribner’s Sons. _The Buller-Podington Compact_, by +Frank Richard Stockton, is from his volume, _Afield and Afloat_, +and is republished by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. +_Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff_, by Bret Harte, is from the +collection of his stories entitled _Openings in the Old Trail_, +and is republished by permission of the Houghton Mifflin Company, +the authorized publishers of Bret Harte’s complete works. _The +Duplicity of Hargraves_, by O. Henry, is from his volume, _Sixes +and Sevens_, and is republished by permission of its publishers, +Doubleday, Page & Co. These stories are fully protected by +copyright, and should not be republished except by permission of +the publishers mentioned. Thanks are due Mrs. Grace MacGowan Cooke +for permission to use her story, _A Call_, republished here from +_Harper’s Magazine_; Wells Hastings, for permission to reprint his +story, _Gideon_, from _The Century Magazine_; and George Randolph +Chester, for permission to include _Bargain Day at Tutt House_, +from _McClure’s Magazine_. I would also thank the heirs of the +late lamented Colonel William J. Lampton for permission to use his +story, _How the Widow Won the Deacon_, from _Harper’s Bazaar_. +These stories are all copyrighted, and cannot be republished except +by authorization of their authors or heirs. The editor regrets +that their publishers have seen fit to refuse him permission to +include George W. Cable’s story, “_Posson Jone’_,” and Irvin S. +Cobb’s story, _The Smart Aleck_. He also regrets he was unable to +obtain a copy of Joseph C. Duport’s story, _The Wedding at Timber +Hollow_, in time for inclusion, to which its merits—as he remembers +them—certainly entitle it. Mr. Duport, in addition to his literary +activities, has started an interesting “back to Nature” experiment +at Westfield, Massachusetts. + + + + + To + CHARLES GOODRICH WHITING + Critic, Poet, Friend + + + + +THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS[10] + +BY GEORGE POPE MORRIS (1802–1864) + + Look into those they call unfortunate, + And, closer view’d, you’ll find they are unwise.—_Young._ + + Let wealth come in by comely thrift, + And not by any foolish shift: + ’Tis haste + Makes waste: + Who gripes too hard the dry and slippery sand + Holds none at all, or little, in his hand.—_Herrick_. + + Let well alone.—_Proverb_. + + +How much real comfort every one might enjoy if he would be +contented with the lot in which heaven has cast him, and how much +trouble would be avoided if people would only “let well alone.” A +moderate independence, quietly and honestly procured, is certainly +every way preferable even to immense possessions achieved by the +wear and tear of mind and body so necessary to procure them. Yet +there are very few individuals, let them be doing ever so well in +the world, who are not always straining every nerve to do better; +and this is one of the many causes why failures in business so +frequently occur among us. The present generation seem unwilling to +“realize” by slow and sure degrees; but choose rather to set their +whole hopes upon a single cast, which either makes or mars them +forever! + +Gentle reader, do you remember Monsieur Poopoo? He used to keep a +small toy-store in Chatham, near the corner of Pearl Street. You +must recollect him, of course. He lived there for many years, and +was one of the most polite and accommodating of shopkeepers. When a +juvenile, you have bought tops and marbles of him a thousand times. +To be sure you have; and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with +a smile as you flung him the coppers; and you have laughed at his +little straight queue and his dimity breeches, and all the other +oddities that made up the everyday apparel of my little Frenchman. +Ah, I perceive you recollect him now. + +Well, then, there lived Monsieur Poopoo ever since he came from +“dear, delightful Paris,” as he was wont to call the city of his +nativity—there he took in the pennies for his kickshaws—there he +laid aside five thousand dollars against a rainy day—there he +was as happy as a lark—and there, in all human probability, he +would have been to this very day, a respected and substantial +citizen, had he been willing to “let well alone.” But Monsieur +Poopoo had heard strange stories about the prodigious rise in +real estate; and, having understood that most of his neighbors +had become suddenly rich by speculating in lots, he instantly +grew dissatisfied with his own lot, forthwith determined to shut +up shop, turn everything into cash, and set about making money +in right-down earnest. No sooner said than done; and our quondam +storekeeper a few days afterward attended an extensive sale of real +estate, at the Merchants’ Exchange. + +There was the auctioneer, with his beautiful and inviting +lithographic maps—all the lots as smooth and square and enticingly +laid out as possible—and there were the speculators—and there, in +the midst of them, stood Monsieur Poopoo. + +“Here they are, gentlemen,” said he of the hammer, “the most +valuable lots ever offered for sale. Give me a bid for them!” + +“One hundred each,” said a bystander. + +“One hundred!” said the auctioneer, “scarcely enough to pay for the +maps. One hundred—going—and fifty—gone! Mr. H., they are yours. +A noble purchase. You’ll sell those same lots in less than a +fortnight for fifty thousand dollars profit!” + +Monsieur Poopoo pricked up his ears at this, and was lost in +astonishment. This was a much easier way certainly of accumulating +riches than selling toys in Chatham Street, and he determined to +buy and mend his fortune without delay. + +The auctioneer proceeded in his sale. Other parcels were offered +and disposed of, and all the purchasers were promised immense +advantages for their enterprise. At last came a more valuable +parcel than all the rest. The company pressed around the stand, and +Monsieur Poopoo did the same. + +“I now offer you, gentlemen, these magnificent lots, delightfully +situated on Long Island, with valuable water privileges. Property +in fee—title indisputable—terms of sale, cash—deeds ready for +delivery immediately after the sale. How much for them? Give them a +start at something. How much?” The auctioneer looked around; there +were no bidders. At last he caught the eye of Monsieur Poopoo. +“Did you say one hundred, sir? Beautiful lots—valuable water +privileges—shall I say one hundred for you?” + +“_Oui, monsieur_; I will give you von hundred dollar apiece, for de +lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege; _c’est ça_.” + +“Only one hundred apiece for these sixty valuable lots—only one +hundred—going—going—going—gone!” + +Monsieur Poopoo was the fortunate possessor. The auctioneer +congratulated him—the sale closed—and the company dispersed. + +“_Pardonnez-moi, monsieur_,” said Poopoo, as the auctioneer +descended his pedestal, “you shall _excusez-moi_, if I shall go to +_votre bureau_, your counting-house, ver quick to make every ting +sure wid respec to de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege. Von +leetle bird in de hand he vorth two in de tree, _c’est vrai_—eh?” + +“Certainly, sir.” + +“Vell den, _allons_.” + +And the gentlemen repaired to the counting-house, where the +six thousand dollars were paid, and the deeds of the property +delivered. Monsieur Poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, and +as he was about taking his leave, the auctioneer made him a present +of the lithographic outline of the lots, which was a very liberal +thing on his part, considering the map was a beautiful specimen of +that glorious art. Poopoo could not admire it sufficiently. There +were his sixty lots, as uniform as possible, and his little gray +eyes sparkled like diamonds as they wandered from one end of the +spacious sheet to the other. + +Poopoo’s heart was as light as a feather, and he snapped +his fingers in the very wantonness of joy as he repaired to +Delmonico’s, and ordered the first good French dinner that had +gladdened his palate since his arrival in America. + +After having discussed his repast, and washed it down with a bottle +of choice old claret, he resolved upon a visit to Long Island to +view his purchase. He consequently immediately hired a horse and +gig, crossed the Brooklyn ferry, and drove along the margin of the +river to the Wallabout, the location in question. + +Our friend, however, was not a little perplexed to find his +property. Everything on the map was as fair and even as possible, +while all the grounds about him were as undulated as they could +well be imagined, and there was an elbow of the East River +thrusting itself quite into the ribs of the land, which seemed to +have no business there. This puzzled the Frenchman exceedingly; +and, being a stranger in those parts, he called to a farmer in an +adjacent field. + +“_Mon ami_, are you acquaint vid dis part of de country—eh?” + +“Yes, I was born here, and know every inch of it.” + +“Ah, _c’est bien_, dat vill do,” and the Frenchman got out of the +gig, tied the horse, and produced his lithographic map. + +“Den maybe you vill have de kindness to show me de sixty lot vich I +have bought, vid de valuarble vatare privalege?” + +The farmer glanced his eye over the paper. + +“Yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good enough to _get into +my boat, I will row you out to them_!” + +“Vat dat you say, sure?” + +“My friend,” said the farmer, “this section of Long Island has +recently been bought up by the speculators of New York, and laid +out for a great city; but the principal street is only visible _at +low tide_. When this part of the East River is filled up, it will +be just there. Your lots, as you will perceive, are beyond it; _and +are now all under water_.” + +At first the Frenchman was incredulous. He could not believe +his senses. As the facts, however, gradually broke upon him, he +shut one eye, squinted obliquely at the heavens—-the river—the +farmer—and then he turned away and squinted at them all over again! +There was his purchase sure enough; but then it could not be +perceived for there was a river flowing over it! He drew a box from +his waistcoat pocket, opened it, with an emphatic knock upon the +lid, took a pinch of snuff and restored it to his waistcoat pocket +as before. Poopoo was evidently in trouble, having “thoughts which +often lie too deep for tears”; and, as his grief was also too big +for words, he untied his horse, jumped into his gig, and returned +to the auctioneer in hot haste. + +It was near night when he arrived at the auction-room—his horse in +a foam and himself in a fury. The auctioneer was leaning back in +his chair, with his legs stuck out of a low window, quietly smoking +a cigar after the labors of the day, and humming the music from the +last new opera. + +“Monsieur, I have much plaisir to fin’ you, _chez vous_, at home.” + +“Ah, Poopoo! glad to see you. Take a seat, old boy.” + +“But I shall not take de seat, sare.” + +“No—why, what’s the matter?” + +“Oh, _beaucoup_ de matter. I have been to see de gran lot vot you +sell me to-day.” + +“Well, sir, I hope you like your purchase?” + +“No, monsieur, I no like him.” + +“I’m sorry for it; but there is no ground for your complaint.” + +“No, sare; dare is no _ground_ at all—de ground is all vatare!” + +“You joke!” + +“I no joke. I nevare joke; _je n’entends pas la raillerie_, Sare, +_voulez-vous_ have de kindness to give me back de money vot I pay!” + +“Certainly not.” + +“Den vill you be so good as to take de East River off de top of my +lot?” + +“That’s your business, sir, not mine.” + +“Den I make von _mauvaise affaire_—von gran mistake!” + +“I hope not. I don’t think you have thrown your money away in the +_land_.” + +“No, sare; but I tro it avay in de _vatare!_” + +“That’s not my fault.” + +“Yes, sare, but it is your fault. You’re von ver gran rascal to +swindle me out of _de l’argent_.” + +“Hello, old Poopoo, you grow personal; and if you can’t keep a +civil tongue in your head, you must go out of my counting-room.” + +“Vare shall I go to, eh?” + +“To the devil, for aught I care, you foolish old Frenchman!” said +the auctioneer, waxing warm. + +“But, sare, I vill not go to de devil to oblige you!” replied the +Frenchman, waxing warmer. “You sheat me out of all de dollar vot I +make in Shatham Street; but I vill not go to de devil for all dat. +I vish you may go to de devil yourself you dem yankee-doo-dell, and +I vill go and drown myself, _tout de suite_, right avay.” + +“You couldn’t make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!” + +“Ah, _miséricorde_! Ah, _mon dieu, je suis abîmé_. I am ruin! I am +done up! I am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces! I am von +lame duck, and I shall vaddle across de gran ocean for Paris, vish +is de only valuarble vatare privalege dat is left me _à present_!” + +Poor Poopoo was as good as his word. He sailed in the next packet, +and arrived in Paris almost as penniless as the day he left it. + +Should any one feel disposed to doubt the veritable circumstances +here recorded, let him cross the East River to the Wallabout, and +farmer J—— will _row him out_ to the very place where the poor +Frenchman’s lots still remain _under water_. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[10] From _The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots, with Other +Sketches of the Times_ (1839), by George Pope Morris. + + + + +THE ANGEL OF THE ODD[11] + +BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809–1849) + + +It was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an +unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic _truffe_ formed not +the least important item, and was sitting alone in the dining-room +with my feet upon the fender and at my elbow a small table which +I had rolled up to the fire, and upon which were some apologies +for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and +_liqueur_. In the morning I had been reading Glover’s _Leonidas_, +Wilkie’s _Epigoniad_, Lamartine’s _Pilgrimage_, Barlow’s +_Columbiad_, Tuckerman’s _Sicily_, and Griswold’s _Curiosities_, I +am willing to confess, therefore, that I now felt a little stupid. +I made effort to arouse myself by frequent aid of Lafitte, and all +failing, I betook myself to a stray newspaper in despair. Having +carefully perused the column of “Houses to let,” and the column +of “Dogs lost,” and then the columns of “Wives and apprentices +runaway,” I attacked with great resolution the editorial matter, +and reading it from beginning to end without understanding a +syllable, conceived the possibility of its being Chinese, and +so re-read it from the end to the beginning, but with no more +satisfactory result. I was about throwing away in disgust + + This folio of four pages, happy work + Which not even critics criticise, + +when I felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which +follows: + +“The avenues to death are numerous and strange. A London paper +mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause. He was +playing at ‘puff the dart,’ which is played with a long needle +inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin tube. +He placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and drawing +his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force, drew the +needle into his throat. It entered the lungs, and in a few days +killed him.” + +Upon seeing this I fell into a great rage, without exactly knowing +why. “This thing,” I exclaimed, “is a contemptible falsehood—a poor +hoax—the lees of the invention of some pitiable penny-a-liner, of +some wretched concocter of accidents in Cocaigne. These fellows +knowing the extravagant gullibility of the age set their wits +to work in the imagination of improbable possibilities, of odd +accidents as they term them, but to a reflecting intellect (like +mine, I added, in parenthesis, putting my forefinger unconsciously +to the side of my nose), to a contemplative understanding such +as I myself possess, it seems evident at once that the marvelous +increase of late in these ‘odd accidents’ is by far the oddest +accident of all. For my own part, I intend to believe nothing +henceforward that has anything of the ‘singular’ about it.” + +“Mein Gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!” replied one of +the most remarkable voices I ever heard. At first I took it for +a rumbling in my ears—such as a man sometimes experiences when +getting very drunk—but upon second thought, I considered the sound +as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty barrel +beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this I should have concluded +it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and words. +I am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few glasses of +Lafitte which I had sipped served to embolden me a little, so that +I felt nothing of trepidation, but merely uplifted my eyes with a +leisurely movement and looked carefully around the room for the +intruder. I could not, however, perceive any one at all. + +“Humph!” resumed the voice as I continued my survey, “you mus pe so +dronk as de pig den for not zee me as I zit here at your zide.” + +Hereupon I bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and +there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage +nondescript, although not altogether indescribable. His body was a +wine-pipe or a rum puncheon, or something of that character, and +had a truly Falstaffian air. In its nether extremity were inserted +two kegs, which seemed to answer all the purposes of legs. For arms +there dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two tolerably +long bottles with the necks outward for hands. All the head that +I saw the monster possessed of was one of those Hessian canteens +which resemble a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the +lid. This canteen (with a funnel on its top like a cavalier cap +slouched over the eyes) was set on edge upon the puncheon, with the +hole toward myself; and through this hole, which seemed puckered +up like the mouth of a very precise old maid, the creature was +emitting certain rumbling and grumbling noises which he evidently +intended for intelligible talk. + +“I zay,” said he, “you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and not +zee me zit ere; and I zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de goose, +vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print. ’Tiz de troof—dat it +iz—ebery vord ob it.” + +“Who are you, pray?” said I with much dignity, although somewhat +puzzled; “how did you get here? and what is it you are talking +about?” + +“As vor ow I com’d ere,” replied the figure, “dat iz none of your +pizziness; and as vor vat I be talking apout, I be talk apout vat +I tink proper; and as vor who I be, vy dat is de very ting I com’d +here for to let you zee for yourself.” + +“You are a drunken vagabond,” said I, “and I shall ring the bell +and order my footman to kick you into the street.” + +“He! he! he!” said the fellow, “hu! hu! hu! dat you can’t do.” + +“Can’t do!” said I, “what do you mean? I can’t do what?” + +“Ring de pell,” he replied, attempting a grin with his little +villainous mouth. + +Upon this I made an effort to get up in order to put my threat +into execution, but the ruffian just reached across the table very +deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the neck +of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the armchair from +which I had half arisen. I was utterly astounded, and for a moment +was quite at a loss what to do. In the meantime he continued his +talk. + +“You zee,” said he, “it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall +know who I pe. Look at me! zee! I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.” + +“And odd enough, too,” I ventured to reply; “but I was always under +the impression that an angel had wings.” + +“Te wing!” he cried, highly incensed, “vat I pe do mit te wing? +Mein Gott! do you take me for a shicken?” + +“No—oh, no!” I replied, much alarmed; “you are no chicken—certainly +not.” + +“Well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or I’ll rap you again +mid me vist. It iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing, +und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing. Te angel ab +_not_ te wing, and I am te _Angel ov te Odd_.” + +“And your business with me at present is—is——” + +“My pizziness!” ejaculated the thing, “vy vat a low-bred puppy you +mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!” + +This language was rather more than I could bear, even from an +angel; so, plucking up courage, I seized a salt-cellar which lay +within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder. Either he +dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all I accomplished +was the demolition of the crystal which protected the dial of the +clock upon the mantelpiece. As for the Angel, he evinced his sense +of my assault by giving me two or three hard, consecutive raps upon +the forehead as before. These reduced me at once to submission, +and I am almost ashamed to confess that, either through pain or +vexation, there came a few tears into my eyes. + +“Mein Gott!” said the Angel of the Odd, apparently much softened at +my distress; “mein Gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry. +You mos not trink it so strong—you mos put te water in te wine. +Here, trink dis, like a good veller, and don’t gry now—don’t!” + +Hereupon the Angel of the Odd replenished my goblet (which was +about a third full of port) with a colorless fluid that he poured +from one of his hand-bottles. I observed that these bottles had +labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed +“Kirschenwässer.” + +The considerate kindness of the Angel mollified me in no little +measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my port more +than once, I at length regained sufficient temper to listen to his +very extraordinary discourse. I cannot pretend to recount all that +he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was a genius +who presided over the _contretemps_ of mankind, and whose business +it was to bring about the _odd accidents_ which are continually +astonishing the skeptic. Once or twice, upon my venturing to +express my total incredulity in respect to his pretensions, he grew +very angry indeed, so that at length I considered it the wiser +policy to say nothing at all, and let him have his own way. He +talked on, therefore, at great length, while I merely leaned back +in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused myself with munching +raisins and filiping the stems about the room. But, by and by, +the Angel suddenly construed this behavior of mine into contempt. +He arose in a terrible passion, slouched his funnel down over his +eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a threat of some character, which +I did not precisely comprehend, and finally made me a low bow and +departed, wishing me, in the language of the archbishop in “Gil +Bias,” _beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de bon sens_. + +His departure afforded me relief. The _very_ few glasses of Lafitte +that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy, and I felt +inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty minutes, as is my +custom after dinner. At six I had an appointment of consequence, +which it was quite indispensable that I should keep. The policy of +insurance for my dwelling-house had expired the day before; and +some dispute having arisen it was agreed that, at six, I should +meet the board of directors of the company and settle the terms +of a renewal. Glancing upward at the clock on the mantelpiece +(for I felt too drowsy to take out my watch), I had the pleasure +to find that I had still twenty-five minutes to spare. It was +half-past five; I could easily walk to the insurance office in +five minutes; and my usual siestas had never been known to exceed +five-and-twenty. I felt sufficiently safe, therefore, and composed +myself to my slumbers forthwith. + +Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward the +timepiece, and was half inclined to believe in the possibility of +odd accidents when I found that, instead of my ordinary fifteen or +twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three; for it still wanted +seven-and-twenty of the appointed hour. I betook myself again +to my nap, and at length a second time awoke, when, to my utter +amazement, it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of six. I jumped +up to examine the clock, and found that it had ceased running. My +watch informed me that it was half-past seven; and, of course, +having slept two hours, I was too late for my appointment. “It +will make no difference,” I said: “I can call at the office in the +morning and apologize; in the meantime what can be the matter with +the clock?” Upon examining it I discovered that one of the raisin +stems which I had been filiping about the room during the discourse +of the Angel of the Odd had flown through the fractured crystal, +and lodging, singularly enough, in the keyhole, with an end +projecting outward, had thus arrested the revolution of the minute +hand. + +“Ah!” said I, “I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A +natural accident, such as will happen now and then!” + +I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour +retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand +at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages +of the _Omnipresence of the Deity_, I unfortunately fell asleep in +less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was. + +My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel +of the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew +aside the curtains, and in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum +puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the contempt +with which I had treated him. He concluded a long harangue by +taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my gullet, and +thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer, which he poured +in a continuous flood, from one of the long-necked bottles that +stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at length insufferable, +and I awoke just in time to perceive that a rat had run off with +the lighted candle from the stand, but _not_ in season to prevent +his making his escape with it through the hole, Very soon a strong, +suffocating odor assailed my nostrils; the house, I clearly +perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the blaze broke forth with +violence, and in an incredibly brief period the entire building +was wrapped in flames. All egress from my chamber, except through +a window, was cut off. The crowd, however, quickly procured and +raised a long ladder. By means of this I was descending rapidly, +and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund +stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there +was something which reminded me of the Angel of the Odd—when +this hog, I say, which hitherto had been quietly slumbering in +the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder +needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing-post +than that afforded by the foot of the ladder. In an instant I was +precipitated, and had the misfortune to fracture my arm. + +This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more +serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off by +the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that finally I +made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow disconsolate +for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her wounded spirit I +offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a reluctant consent to +my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude and adoration. She +blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into close contact with +those supplied me temporarily by Grandjean. I know not how the +entanglement took place but so it was. I arose with a shining pate, +wigless; she in disdain and wrath, half-buried in alien hair. Thus +ended my hopes of the widow by an accident which could not have +been anticipated, to be sure, but which the natural sequence of +events had brought about. + +Without despairing, however, I undertook the siege of a less +implacable heart. The fates were again propitious for a brief +period, but again a trivial incident interfered. Meeting my +betrothed in an avenue thronged with the elite of the city, I was +hastening to greet her with one of my best considered bows, when +a small particle of some foreign matter lodging in the corner of +my eye rendered me for the moment completely blind. Before I could +recover my sight, the lady of my love had disappeared—irreparably +affronted at what she chose to consider my premeditated rudeness +in passing her by ungreeted. While I stood bewildered at +the suddenness of this accident (which might have happened, +nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while I still +continued incapable of sight, I was accosted by the Angel of the +Odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which I had no reason +to expect. He examined my disordered eye with much gentleness and +skill, informed me that I had a drop in it, and (whatever a “drop” +was) took it out, and afforded me relief. + +I now considered it high time to die (since fortune had so +determined to persecute me), and accordingly made my way to +the nearest river. Here, divesting myself of my clothes (for +there is no reason why we cannot die as we were born), I threw +myself headlong into the current; the sole witness of my fate +being a solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of +brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his fellows. +No sooner had I entered the water than this bird took it into his +head to fly away with the most indispensable portion of my apparel. +Postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal design, I just +slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of my coat, and +betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the nimbleness +which the case required and its circumstances would admit. But my +evil destiny attended me still. As I ran at full speed, with my +nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon the purloiner of my +property, I suddenly perceived that my feet rested no longer upon +_terra firma_; the fact is, I had thrown myself over a precipice, +and should inevitably have been dashed to pieces but for my good +fortune in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which depended +from a passing balloon. + +As soon as I sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the +terrific predicament in which I stood, or rather hung, I exerted +all the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the +aeronaut overhead. But for a long time I exerted myself in vain. +Either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me. +Meanwhile the machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more +rapidly failed. I was soon upon the point of resigning myself to +my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were +suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which seemed +to be lazily humming an opera air. Looking up, I perceived the +Angel of the Odd. He was leaning, with his arms folded, over the +rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he puffed +leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself and the +universe. I was too much exhausted to speak, so I merely regarded +him with an imploring air. + +For several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he +said nothing. At length, removing carefully his meerschaum from the +right to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to speak. + +“Who pe you,” he asked, “und what der teuffel you pe do dare?” + +To this piece of impudence, cruelty, and affectation, I could reply +only by ejaculating the monosyllable “Help!” + +“Elp!” echoed the ruffian, “not I. Dare iz te pottle—elp yourself, +und pe tam’d!” + +With these words he let fall a heavy bottle of Kirschenwässer, +which, dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to +imagine that my brains were entirely knocked out. Impressed with +this idea I was about to relinquish my hold and give up the ghost +with a good grace, when I was arrested by the cry of the Angel, who +bade me hold on. + +“’Old on!” he said: “don’t pe in te ’urry—don’t. Will you pe take +de odder pottle, or ’ave you pe got zober yet, and come to your +zenzes?” + +I made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice—once in the negative, +meaning thereby that I would prefer not taking the other bottle +at present; and once in the affirmative, intending thus to imply +that I _was_ sober and _had_ positively come to my senses. By these +means I somewhat softened the Angel. + +“Und you pelief, ten,” he inquired, “at te last? You pelief, ten, +in te possibility of te odd?” + +I again nodded my head in assent. + +“Und you ave pelief in _me_, te Angel of te Odd?” + +I nodded again. + +“Und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk und te vool?” + +I nodded once more. + +“Put your right hand into your left preeches pocket, ten, in token +ov your vull zubmizzion unto te Angel ov te Odd.” + +This thing, for very obvious reasons, I found it quite impossible +to do. In the first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall +from the ladder, and therefore, had I let go my hold with the +right hand I must have let go altogether. In the second place, +I could have no breeches until I came across the crow. I was +therefore obliged, much to my regret, to shake my head in the +negative, intending thus to give the Angel to understand that I +found it inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his very +reasonable demand! No sooner, however, had I ceased shaking my head +than— + +“Go to der teuffel, ten!” roared the Angel of the Odd. + +In pronouncing these words he drew a sharp knife across the +guide-rope by which I was suspended, and as we then happened to be +precisely over my own house (which, during my peregrinations, had +been handsomely rebuilt), it so occurred that I tumbled headlong +down the ample chimney and alit upon the dining-room hearth. + +Upon coming to my senses (for the fall had very thoroughly +stunned me) I found it about four o’clock in the morning. I lay +outstretched where I had fallen from the balloon. My head groveled +in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet reposed upon +the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the fragments of a +miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a newspaper, some broken +glasses and shattered bottles, and an empty jug of the Schiedam +Kirschenwässer. Thus revenged himself the Angel of the Odd. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[11] From _The Columbian Magazine_, October, 1844. + + + + +THE SCHOOLMASTER’S PROGRESS[12] + +By Caroline M.S. Kirkland (1801–1864) + + +Master William Horner came to our village to school when he +was about eighteen years old: tall, lank, straight-sided, and +straight-haired, with a mouth of the most puckered and solemn kind. +His figure and movements were those of a puppet cut out of shingle +and jerked by a string; and his address corresponded very well +with his appearance. Never did that prim mouth give way before a +laugh. A faint and misty smile was the widest departure from its +propriety, and this unaccustomed disturbance made wrinkles in the +flat, skinny cheeks like those in the surface of a lake, after the +intrusion of a stone. Master Horner knew well what belonged to the +pedagogical character, and that facial solemnity stood high on +the list of indispensable qualifications. He had made up his mind +before he left his father’s house how he would look during the +term. He had not planned any smiles (knowing that he must “board +round”), and it was not for ordinary occurrences to alter his +arrangements; so that when he was betrayed into a relaxation of the +muscles, it was “in such a sort” as if he was putting his bread and +butter in jeopardy. + +Truly he had a grave time that first winter. The rod of power was +new to him, and he felt it his “duty” to use it more frequently +than might have been thought necessary by those upon whose sense +the privilege had palled. Tears and sulky faces, and impotent fists +doubled fiercely when his back was turned, were the rewards of +his conscientiousness; and the boys—and girls too—were glad when +working time came round again, and the master went home to help his +father on the farm. + +But with the autumn came Master Horner again, dropping among us +as quietly as the faded leaves, and awakening at least as much +serious reflection. Would he be as self-sacrificing as before, +postponing his own ease and comfort to the public good, or would he +have become more sedentary, and less fond of circumambulating the +school-room with a switch over his shoulder? Many were fain to hope +he might have learned to smoke during the summer, an accomplishment +which would probably have moderated his energy not a little, and +disposed him rather to reverie than to action. But here he was, and +all the broader-chested and stouter-armed for his labors in the +harvest-field. + +Let it not be supposed that Master Horner was of a cruel and +ogrish nature—a babe-eater—a Herod—one who delighted in torturing +the helpless. Such souls there may be, among those endowed +with the awful control of the ferule, but they are rare in the +fresh and natural regions we describe. It is, we believe, where +young gentlemen are to be crammed for college, that the process +of hardening heart and skin together goes on most vigorously. +Yet among the uneducated there is so high a respect for bodily +strength, that it is necessary for the schoolmaster to show, first +of all, that he possesses this inadmissible requisite for his +place. The rest is more readily taken for granted. Brains he _may_ +have—a strong arm he _must_ have: so he proves the more important +claim first. We must therefore make all due allowance for Master +Horner, who could not be expected to overtop his position so far as +to discern at once the philosophy of teaching. + +He was sadly brow-beaten during his first term of service by a +great broad-shouldered lout of some eighteen years or so, who +thought he needed a little more “schooling,” but at the same time +felt quite competent to direct the manner and measure of his +attempts. + +“You’d ought to begin with large-hand, Joshuay,” said Master Horner +to this youth. + +“What should I want coarse-hand for?” said the disciple, with +great contempt; “coarse-hand won’t never do me no good. I want a +fine-hand copy.” + +The master looked at the infant giant, and did as he wished, but we +say not with what secret resolutions. + +At another time, Master Horner, having had a hint from some one +more knowing than himself, proposed to his elder scholars to write +after dictation, expatiating at the same time quite floridly +(the ideas having been supplied by the knowing friend), upon the +advantages likely to arise from this practice, and saying, among +other things, + +“It will help you, when you write letters, to spell the words good.” + +“Pooh!” said Joshua, “spellin’ ain’t nothin’; let them that finds +the mistakes correct ’em. I’m for every one’s havin’ a way of their +own.” + +“How dared you be so saucy to the master?” asked one of the little +boys, after school. + +“Because I could lick him, easy,” said the hopeful Joshua, who knew +very well why the master did not undertake him on the spot. + +Can we wonder that Master Horner determined to make his empire good +as far as it went? + +A new examination was required on the entrance into a second term, +and, with whatever secret trepidation, the master was obliged to +submit. Our law prescribes examinations, but forgets to provide for +the competency of the examiners; so that few better farces offer +than the course of question and answer on these occasions. We know +not precisely what were Master Horner’s trials; but we have heard +of a sharp dispute between the inspectors whether a-n-g-e-l spelt +_angle_ or _angel_. _Angle_ had it, and the school maintained +that pronunciation ever after. Master Horner passed, and he was +requested to draw up the certificate for the inspectors to sign, +as one had left his spectacles at home, and the other had a bad +cold, so that it was not convenient for either to write more than +his name. Master Homer’s exhibition of learning on this occasion +did not reach us, but we know that it must have been considerable, +since he stood the ordeal. + +“What is orthography?” said an inspector once, in our presence. + +The candidate writhed a good deal, studied the beams overhead and +the chickens out of the window, and then replied, + +“It is so long since I learnt the first part of the spelling-book, +that I can’t justly answer that question. But if I could just look +it over, I guess I could.” + +Our schoolmaster entered upon his second term with new courage +and invigorated authority. Twice certified, who should dare doubt +his competency? Even Joshua was civil, and lesser louts of course +obsequious; though the girls took more liberties, for they feel +even at that early age, that influence is stronger than strength. + +Could a young schoolmaster think of feruling a girl with her hair +in ringlets and a gold ring on her finger? Impossible—and the +immunity extended to all the little sisters and cousins; and there +were enough large girls to protect all the feminine part of the +school. With the boys Master Horner still had many a battle, and +whether with a view to this, or as an economical ruse, he never +wore his coat in school, saying it was too warm. Perhaps it was an +astute attention to the prejudices of his employers, who love no +man that does not earn his living by the sweat of his brow. The +shirt-sleeves gave the idea of a manual-labor school in one sense +at least. It was evident that the master worked, and that afforded +a probability that the scholars worked too. + +Master Horner’s success was most triumphant that winter. A year’s +growth had improved his outward man exceedingly, filling out the +limbs so that they did not remind you so forcibly of a young +colt’s, and supplying the cheeks with the flesh and blood so +necessary where mustaches were not worn. Experience had given him +a degree of confidence, and confidence gave him power. In short, +people said the master had waked up; and so he had. He actually set +about reading for improvement; and although at the end of the term +he could not quite make out from his historical studies which side +Hannibal was on, yet this is readily explained by the fact that +he boarded round, and was obliged to read generally by firelight, +surrounded by ungoverned children. + +After this, Master Horner made his own bargain. When schooltime +came round with the following autumn, and the teacher presented +himself for a third examination, such a test was pronounced no +longer necessary; and the district consented to engage him at the +astounding rate of sixteen dollars a month, with the understanding +that he was to have a fixed home, provided he was willing to +allow a dollar a week for it. Master Horner bethought him of the +successive “killing-times,” and consequent doughnuts of the twenty +families in which he had sojourned the years before, and consented +to the exaction. + +Behold our friend now as high as district teacher can ever hope +to be—his scholarship established, his home stationary and not +revolving, and the good behavior of the community insured by the +fact that he, being of age, had now a farm to retire upon in case +of any disgust. + +Master Horner was at once the preëminent beau of the neighborhood, +spite of the prejudice against learning. He brushed his hair +straight up in front, and wore a sky-blue ribbon for a guard to his +silver watch, and walked as if the tall heels of his blunt boots +were egg-shells and not leather. Yet he was far from neglecting the +duties of his place. He was beau only on Sundays and holidays; very +schoolmaster the rest of the time. + +It was at a “spelling-school” that Master Horner first met the +educated eyes of Miss Harriet Bangle, a young lady visiting the +Engleharts in our neighborhood. She was from one of the towns +in Western New York, and had brought with her a variety of city +airs and graces somewhat caricatured, set off with year-old +French fashions much travestied. Whether she had been sent out +to the new country to try, somewhat late, a rustic chance for an +establishment, or whether her company had been found rather trying +at home, we cannot say. The view which she was at some pains to +make understood was, that her friends had contrived this method of +keeping her out of the way of a desperate lover whose addresses +were not acceptable to them. + +If it should seem surprising that so high-bred a visitor should be +sojourning in the wild woods, it must be remembered that more than +one celebrated Englishman and not a few distinguished Americans +have farmer brothers in the western country, no whit less rustic +in their exterior and manner of life than the plainest of their +neighbors. When these are visited by their refined kinsfolk, we of +the woods catch glimpses of the gay world, or think we do. + + That great medicine hath + With its tinct gilded— + +many a vulgarism to the satisfaction of wiser heads than ours. + +Miss Bangle’s manner bespoke for her that high consideration which +she felt to be her due. Yet she condescended to be amused by the +rustics and their awkward attempts at gaiety and elegance; and, to +say truth, few of the village merry-makings escaped her, though she +wore always the air of great superiority. + +The spelling-school is one of the ordinary winter amusements in +the country. It occurs once in a fortnight, or so, and has power +to draw out all the young people for miles round, arrayed in +their best clothes and their holiday behavior. When all is ready, +umpires are elected, and after these have taken the distinguished +place usually occupied by the teacher, the young people of the +school choose the two best scholars to head the opposing classes. +These leaders choose their followers from the mass, each calling +a name in turn, until all the spellers are ranked on one side or +the other, lining the sides of the room, and all standing. The +schoolmaster, standing too, takes his spelling-book, and gives a +placid yet awe-inspiring look along the ranks, remarking that he +intends to be very impartial, and that he shall give out nothing +_that is not in the spelling-book_. For the first half hour or so +he chooses common and easy words, that the spirit of the evening +may not be damped by the too early thinning of the classes. When a +word is missed, the blunderer has to sit down, and be a spectator +only for the rest of the evening. At certain intervals, some of the +best speakers mount the platform, and “speak a piece,” which is +generally as declamatory as possible. + +The excitement of this scene is equal to that afforded by any city +spectacle whatever; and towards the close of the evening, when +difficult and unusual words are chosen to confound the small number +who still keep the floor, it becomes scarcely less than painful. +When perhaps only one or two remain to be puzzled, the master, +weary at last of his task, though a favorite one, tries by tricks +to put down those whom he cannot overcome in fair fight. If among +all the curious, useless, unheard-of words which may be picked out +of the spelling-book, he cannot find one which the scholars have +not noticed, he gets the last head down by some quip or catch. +“Bay” will perhaps be the sound; one scholar spells it “bey,” +another, “bay,” while the master all the time means “ba,” which +comes within the rule, being _in the spelling-book_. + +It was on one of these occasions, as we have said, that Miss +Bangle, having come to the spelling-school to get materials for a +letter to a female friend, first shone upon Mr. Horner. She was +excessively amused by his solemn air and puckered mouth, and set +him down at once as fair game. Yet she could not help becoming +somewhat interested in the spelling-school, and after it was over +found she had not stored up half as many of the schoolmaster’s +points as she intended, for the benefit of her correspondent. + +In the evening’s contest a young girl from some few miles’ +distance, Ellen Kingsbury, the only child of a substantial farmer, +had been the very last to sit down, after a prolonged effort on the +part of Mr. Horner to puzzle her, for the credit of his own school. +She blushed, and smiled, and blushed again, but spelt on, until +Mr. Horner’s cheeks were crimson with excitement and some touch +of shame that he should be baffled at his own weapons. At length, +either by accident or design, Ellen missed a word, and sinking into +her seat was numbered with the slain. + +In the laugh and talk which followed (for with the conclusion +of the spelling, all form of a public assembly vanishes), our +schoolmaster said so many gallant things to his fair enemy, and +appeared so much animated by the excitement of the contest, that +Miss Bangle began to look upon him with rather more respect, +and to feel somewhat indignant that a little rustic like Ellen +should absorb the entire attention of the only beau. She put on, +therefore, her most gracious aspect, and mingled in the circle; +caused the schoolmaster to be presented to her, and did her best +to fascinate him by certain airs and graces which she had found +successful elsewhere. What game is too small for the close-woven +net of a coquette? + +Mr. Horner quitted not the fair Ellen until he had handed her into +her father’s sleigh; and he then wended his way homewards, never +thinking that he ought to have escorted Miss Bangle to her uncle’s, +though she certainly waited a little while for his return. + +We must not follow into particulars the subsequent intercourse +of our schoolmaster with the civilized young lady. All that +concerns us is the result of Miss Bangle’s benevolent designs +upon his heart. She tried most sincerely to find its vulnerable +spot, meaning no doubt to put Mr. Homer on his guard for the +future; and she was unfeignedly surprised to discover that her +best efforts were of no avail. She concluded he must have taken a +counter-poison, and she was not slow in guessing its source. She +had observed the peculiar fire which lighted up his eyes in the +presence of Ellen Kingsbury, and she bethought her of a plan which +would ensure her some amusement at the expense of these impertinent +rustics, though in a manner different somewhat from her original +more natural idea of simple coquetry. + +A letter was written to Master Horner, purporting to come from +Ellen Kingsbury, worded so artfully that the schoolmaster +understood at once that it was intended to be a secret communication, +though its ostensible object was an inquiry about some ordinary +affair. This was laid in Mr. Horner’s desk before he came to school, +with an intimation that he might leave an answer in a certain spot +on the following morning. The bait took at once, for Mr. Horner, +honest and true himself, and much smitten with the fair Ellen, was +too happy to be circumspect. The answer was duly placed, and as duly +carried to Miss Bangle by her accomplice, Joe Englehart, an unlucky +pickle who “was always for ill, never for good,” and who found no +difficulty in obtaining the letter unwatched, since the master was +obliged to be in school at nine, and Joe could always linger a few +minutes later. This answer being opened and laughed at, Miss Bangle +had only to contrive a rejoinder, which being rather more particular +in its tone than the original communication, led on yet again the +happy schoolmaster, who branched out into sentiment, “taffeta +phrases, silken terms precise,” talked of hills and dales and +rivulets, and the pleasures of friendship, and concluded by +entreating a continuance of the correspondence. + +Another letter and another, every one more flattering and +encouraging than the last, almost turned the sober head of our +poor master, and warmed up his heart so effectually that he +could scarcely attend to his business. The spelling-schools were +remembered, however, and Ellen Kingsbury made one of the merry +company; but the latest letter had not forgotten to caution Mr. +Horner not to betray the intimacy; so that he was in honor bound +to restrict himself to the language of the eyes hard as it was to +forbear the single whisper for which he would have given his very +dictionary. So, their meeting passed off without the explanation +which Miss Bangle began to fear would cut short her benevolent +amusement. + +The correspondence was resumed with renewed spirit, and carried +on until Miss Bangle, though not overburdened with sensitiveness, +began to be a little alarmed for the consequences of her +malicious pleasantry. She perceived that she herself had turned +schoolmistress, and that Master Horner, instead of being merely +her dupe, had become her pupil too; for the style of his replies +had been constantly improving and the earnest and manly tone which +he assumed promised any thing but the quiet, sheepish pocketing +of injury and insult, upon which she had counted. In truth, there +was something deeper than vanity in the feelings with which he +regarded Ellen Kingsbury. The encouragement which he supposed +himself to have received, threw down the barrier which his extreme +bashfulness would have interposed between himself and any one who +possessed charms enough to attract him; and we must excuse him if, +in such a case, he did not criticise the mode of encouragement, but +rather grasped eagerly the proffered good without a scruple, or +one which he would own to himself, as to the propriety with which +it was tendered. He was as much in love as a man can be, and the +seriousness of real attachment gave both grace and dignity to his +once awkward diction. + +The evident determination of Mr. Horner to come to the point of +asking papa brought Miss Bangle to a very awkward pass. She had +expected to return home before matters had proceeded so far, but +being obliged to remain some time longer, she was equally afraid +to go on and to leave off, a _dénouement_ being almost certain to +ensue in either case. Things stood thus when it was time to prepare +for the grand exhibition which was to close the winter’s term. + +This is an affair of too much magnitude to be fully described in +the small space yet remaining in which to bring out our veracious +history. It must be “slubber’d o’er in haste”—its important +preliminaries left to the cold imagination of the reader—its fine +spirit perhaps evaporating for want of being embodied in words. We +can only say that our master, whose school-life was to close with +the term, labored as man never before labored in such a cause, +resolute to trail a cloud of glory after him when he left us. Not a +candlestick nor a curtain that was attainable, either by coaxing or +bribery, was left in the village; even the only piano, that frail +treasure, was wiled away and placed in one corner of the rickety +stage. The most splendid of all the pieces in the _Columbian +Orator_, the _American Speaker_, the——but we must not enumerate—in +a word, the most astounding and pathetic specimens of eloquence +within ken of either teacher or scholars, had been selected for the +occasion; and several young ladies and gentlemen, whose academical +course had been happily concluded at an earlier period, either +at our own institution or at some other, had consented to lend +themselves to the parts, and their choicest decorations for the +properties, of the dramatic portion of the entertainment. + +Among these last was pretty Ellen Kingsbury, who had agreed to +personate the Queen of Scots, in the garden scene from Schiller’s +tragedy of _Mary Stuart_; and this circumstance accidentally +afforded Master Horner the opportunity he had so long desired, +of seeing his fascinating correspondent without the presence of +peering eyes. A dress-rehearsal occupied the afternoon before the +day of days, and the pathetic expostulations of the lovely Mary— + + Mine all doth hang—my life—my destiny— + Upon my words—upon the force of tears!— + +aided by the long veil, and the emotion which sympathy brought +into Ellen’s countenance, proved too much for the enforced +prudence of Master Horner. When the rehearsal was over, and the +heroes and heroines were to return home, it was found that, by a +stroke of witty invention not new in the country, the harness of +Mr. Kingsbury’s horses had been cut in several places, his whip +hidden, his buffalo-skins spread on the ground, and the sleigh +turned bottom upwards on them. This afforded an excuse for the +master’s borrowing a horse and sleigh of somebody, and claiming the +privilege of taking Miss Ellen home, while her father returned with +only Aunt Sally and a great bag of bran from the mill—companions +about equally interesting. + +Here, then, was the golden opportunity so long wished for! Here +was the power of ascertaining at once what is never quite certain +until we have heard it from warm, living lips, whose testimony is +strengthened by glances in which the whole soul speaks or—seems to +speak. The time was short, for the sleighing was but too fine; and +Father Kingsbury, having tied up his harness, and collected his +scattered equipment, was driving so close behind that there was +no possibility of lingering for a moment. Yet many moments were +lost before Mr. Horner, very much in earnest, and all unhackneyed +in matters of this sort, could find a word in which to clothe +his new-found feelings. The horse seemed to fly—the distance was +half past—and at length, in absolute despair of anything better, +he blurted out at once what he had determined to avoid—a direct +reference to the correspondence. + +A game at cross-purposes ensued; exclamations and explanations, and +denials and apologies filled up the time which was to have made +Master Horner so blest. The light from Mr. Kingsbury’s windows +shone upon the path, and the whole result of this conference so +longed for, was a burst of tears from the perplexed and mortified +Ellen, who sprang from Mr. Horner’s attempts to detain her, rushed +into the house without vouchsafing him a word of adieu, and left +him standing, no bad personification of Orpheus, after the last +hopeless flitting of his Eurydice. + +“Won’t you ’light, Master?” said Mr. Kingsbury. + +“Yes—no—thank you—good evening,” stammered poor Master Horner, so +stupefied that even Aunt Sally called him “a dummy.” + +The horse took the sleigh against the fence, going home, and threw +out the master, who scarcely recollected the accident; while to +Ellen the issue of this unfortunate drive was a sleepless night and +so high a fever in the morning that our village doctor was called +to Mr. Kingsbury’s before breakfast. + +Poor Master Horner’s distress may hardly be imagined. Disappointed, +bewildered, cut to the quick, yet as much in love as ever, he could +only in bitter silence turn over in his thoughts the issue of his +cherished dream; now persuading himself that Ellen’s denial was +the effect of a sudden bashfulness, now inveighing against the +fickleness of the sex, as all men do when they are angry with any +one woman in particular. But his exhibition must go on in spite of +wretchedness; and he went about mechanically, talking of curtains +and candles, and music, and attitudes, and pauses, and emphasis, +looking like a somnambulist whose “eyes are open but their sense is +shut,” and often surprising those concerned by the utter unfitness +of his answers. + +It was almost evening when Mr. Kingsbury, having discovered, +through the intervention of the Doctor and Aunt Sally the cause +of Ellen’s distress, made his appearance before the unhappy +eyes of Master Horner, angry, solemn and determined; taking the +schoolmaster apart, and requiring, an explanation of his treatment +of his daughter. In vain did the perplexed lover ask for time +to clear himself, declare his respect for Miss Ellen and his +willingness to give every explanation which she might require; the +father was not to be put off; and though excessively reluctant, +Mr. Horner had no resource but to show the letters which alone +could account for his strange discourse to Ellen. He unlocked his +desk, slowly and unwillingly, while the old man’s impatience was +such that he could scarcely forbear thrusting in his own hand to +snatch at the papers which were to explain this vexatious mystery. +What could equal the utter confusion of Master Horner and the +contemptuous anger of the father, when no letters were to be +found! Mr. Kingsbury was too passionate to listen to reason, or to +reflect for one moment upon the irreproachable good name of the +schoolmaster. He went away in inexorable wrath; threatening every +practicable visitation of public and private justice upon the head +of the offender, whom he accused of having attempted to trick his +daughter into an entanglement which should result in his favor. + +A doleful exhibition was this last one of our thrice approved and +most worthy teacher! Stern necessity and the power of habit enabled +him to go through with most of his part, but where was the proud +fire which had lighted up his eye on similar occasions before? He +sat as one of three judges before whom the unfortunate Robert Emmet +was dragged in his shirt-sleeves, by two fierce-looking officials; +but the chief judge looked far more like a criminal than did the +proper representative. He ought to have personated Othello, but +was obliged to excuse himself from raving for “the handkerchief! +the handkerchief!” on the rather anomalous plea of a bad cold. +_Mary Stuart_ being “i’ the bond,” was anxiously expected by the +impatient crowd, and it was with distress amounting to agony that +the master was obliged to announce, in person, the necessity of +omitting that part of the representation, on account of the illness +of one of the young ladies. + +Scarcely had the words been uttered, and the speaker hidden his +burning face behind the curtain, when Mr. Kingsbury started up +in his place amid the throng, to give a public recital of his +grievance—no uncommon resort in the new country. He dashed at once +to the point; and before some friends who saw the utter impropriety +of his proceeding could persuade him to defer his vengeance, he had +laid before the assembly—some three hundred people, perhaps—his own +statement of the case. He was got out at last, half coaxed, half +hustled; and the gentle public only half understanding what had +been set forth thus unexpectedly, made quite a pretty row of it. +Some clamored loudly for the conclusion of the exercises; others +gave utterances in no particularly choice terms to a variety of +opinions as to the schoolmaster’s proceedings, varying the note +occasionally by shouting, “The letters! the letters! why don’t you +bring out the letters?” + +At length, by means of much rapping on the desk by the president +of the evening, who was fortunately a “popular” character, order +was partially restored; and the favorite scene from Miss More’s +dialogue of David and Goliath was announced as the closing piece. +The sight of little David in a white tunic edged with red tape, +with a calico scrip and a very primitive-looking sling; and a huge +Goliath decorated with a militia belt and sword, and a spear like +a weaver’s beam indeed, enchained everybody’s attention. Even the +peccant schoolmaster and his pretended letters were forgotten, +while the sapient Goliath, every time that he raised the spear, in +the energy of his declamation, to thump upon the stage, picked away +fragments of the low ceiling, which fell conspicuously on his great +shock of black hair. At last, with the crowning threat, up went the +spear for an astounding thump, and down came a large piece of the +ceiling, and with it—a shower of letters. + +The confusion that ensued beggars all description. A general +scramble took place, and in another moment twenty pairs of eyes, +at least, were feasting on the choice phrases lavished upon Mr. +Horner. Miss Bangle had sat through the whole previous scene, +trembling for herself, although she had, as she supposed, guarded +cunningly against exposure. She had needed no prophet to tell her +what must be the result of a tête-à-tête between Mr. Horner and +Ellen; and the moment she saw them drive off together, she induced +her imp to seize the opportunity of abstracting the whole parcel of +letters from Mr. Horner’s desk; which he did by means of a sort of +skill which comes by nature to such goblins; picking the lock by +the aid of a crooked nail, as neatly as if he had been born within +the shadow of the Tombs. + +But magicians sometimes suffer severely from the malice with which +they have themselves inspired their familiars. Joe Englehart having +been a convenient tool thus far thought it quite time to torment +Miss Bangle a little; so, having stolen the letters at her bidding, +he hid them on his own account, and no persuasions of hers could +induce him to reveal this important secret, which he chose to +reserve as a rod in case she refused him some intercession with +his father, or some other accommodation, rendered necessary by his +mischievous habits. + +He had concealed the precious parcels in the unfloored loft above +the school-room, a place accessible only by means of a small +trap-door without staircase or ladder; and here he meant to have +kept them while it suited his purposes, but for the untimely +intrusion of the weaver’s beam. + +Miss Bangle had sat through all, as we have said, thinking the +letters safe, yet vowing vengeance against her confederate for +not allowing her to secure them by a satisfactory conflagration; +and it was not until she heard her own name whispered through the +crowd, that she was awakened to her true situation. The sagacity +of the low creatures whom she had despised showed them at once +that the letters must be hers, since her character had been pretty +shrewdly guessed, and the handwriting wore a more practised air +than is usual among females in the country. This was first taken +for granted, and then spoken of as an acknowledged fact. + +The assembly moved like the heavings of a troubled sea. Everybody +felt that this was everybody’s business. “Put her out!” was +heard from more than one rough voice near the door, and this was +responded to by loud and angry murmurs from within. + +Mr. Englehart, not waiting to inquire into the merits of the case +in this scene of confusion, hastened to get his family out as +quietly and as quickly as possible, but groans and hisses followed +his niece as she hung half-fainting on his arm, quailing completely +beneath the instinctive indignation of the rustic public. As she +passed out, a yell resounded among the rude boys about the door, +and she was lifted into a sleigh, insensible from terror. She +disappeared from that evening, and no one knew the time of her +final departure for “the east.” + +Mr. Kingsbury, who is a just man when he is not in a passion, made +all the reparation in his power for his harsh and ill-considered +attack upon the master; and we believe that functionary did not +show any traits of implacability of character. At least he was +seen, not many days after, sitting peaceably at tea with Mr. +Kingsbury, Aunt Sally, and Miss Ellen; and he has since gone home +to build a house upon his farm. And people _do_ say, that after a +few months more, Ellen will not need Miss Bangle’s intervention if +she should see fit to correspond with the schoolmaster. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[12] From _The Gift_ for 1845, published late in 1844. Republished +in the volume, _Western Clearings_ (1845), by Caroline M.S. +Kirkland. + + + + +THE WATKINSON EVENING[13] + +By Eliza Leslie (1787–1858) + + +Mrs. Morland, a polished and accomplished woman, was the widow of +a distinguished senator from one of the western states, of which, +also, her husband had twice filled the office of governor. Her +daughter having completed her education at the best boarding-school +in Philadelphia, and her son being about to graduate at Princeton, +the mother had planned with her children a tour to Niagara and +the lakes, returning by way of Boston. On leaving Philadelphia, +Mrs. Morland and the delighted Caroline stopped at Princeton to be +present at the annual commencement, and had the happiness of seeing +their beloved Edward receive his diploma as bachelor of arts; +after hearing him deliver, with great applause, an oration on the +beauties of the American character. College youths are very prone +to treat on subjects that imply great experience of the world. +But Edward Morland was full of kind feeling for everything and +everybody; and his views of life had hitherto been tinted with a +perpetual rose-color. + +Mrs. Morland, not depending altogether upon the celebrity of her +late husband, and wishing that her children should see specimens +of the best society in the northern cities, had left home with +numerous letters of introduction. But when they arrived at New +York, she found to her great regret, that having unpacked and +taken out her small traveling desk, during her short stay in +Philadelphia, she had strangely left it behind in the closet +of her room at the hotel. In this desk were deposited all her +letters, except two which had been offered to her by friends in +Philadelphia. The young people, impatient to see the wonders of +Niagara, had entreated her to stay but a day or two in the city of +New York, and thought these two letters would be quite sufficient +for the present. In the meantime she wrote back to the hotel, +requesting that the missing desk should be forwarded to New York as +soon as possible. + +On the morning after their arrival at the great commercial +metropolis of America, the Morland family took a carriage to ride +round through the principal parts of the city, and to deliver their +two letters at the houses to which they were addressed, and which +were both situated in the region that lies between the upper part +of Broadway and the North River. In one of the most fashionable +streets they found the elegant mansion of Mrs. St. Leonard; but +on stopping at the door, were informed that its mistress was not +at home. They then left the introductory letter (which they had +prepared for this mischance, by enclosing it in an envelope with +a card), and proceeding to another street considerably farther +up, they arrived at the dwelling of the Watkinson family, to the +mistress of which the other Philadelphia letter was directed. It +was one of a large block of houses all exactly alike, and all shut +up from top to bottom, according to a custom more prevalent in New +York than in any other city. + +Here they were also unsuccessful; the servant who came to the +door telling them that the ladies were particularly engaged and +could see no company. So they left their second letter and card +and drove off, continuing their ride till they reached the Croton +water works, which they quitted the carriage to see and admire. On +returning to the hotel, with the intention after an hour or two of +rest to go out again, and walk till near dinner-time, they found +waiting them a note from Mrs. Watkinson, expressing her regret that +she had not been able to see them when they called; and explaining +that her family duties always obliged her to deny herself the +pleasure of receiving morning visitors, and that her servants had +general orders to that effect. But she requested their company for +that evening (naming nine o’clock as the hour), and particularly +desired an immediate answer. + +“I suppose,” said Mrs. Morland, “she intends asking some of her +friends to meet us, in case we accept the invitation; and therefore +is naturally desirous of a reply as soon as possible. Of course +we will not keep her in suspense. Mrs. Denham, who volunteered +the letter, assured me that Mrs. Watkinson was one of the most +estimable women in New York, and a pattern to the circle in which +she moved. It seems that Mr. Denham and Mr. Watkinson are connected +in business. Shall we go?” + +The young people assented, saying they had no doubt of passing a +pleasant evening. + +The billet of acceptance having been written, it was sent off +immediately, entrusted to one of the errand-goers belonging to the +hotel, that it might be received in advance of the next hour for +the dispatch-post—and Edward Morland desired the man to get into +an omnibus with the note that no time might be lost in delivering +it. “It is but right”—said he to his mother—“that we should give +Mrs. Watkinson an ample opportunity of making her preparations, and +sending round to invite her friends.” + +“How considerate you are, dear Edward”—said Caroline—“always so +thoughtful of every one’s convenience. Your college friends must +have idolized you.” + +“No”—said Edward—“they called me a prig.” Just then a remarkably +handsome carriage drove up to the private door of the hotel. From +it alighted a very elegant woman, who in a few moments was ushered +into the drawing-room by the head waiter, and on his designating +Mrs. Morland’s family, she advanced and gracefully announced +herself as Mrs. St. Leonard. This was the lady at whose house they +had left the first letter of introduction. She expressed regret at +not having been at home when they called; but said that on finding +their letter, she had immediately come down to see them, and to +engage them for the evening. “Tonight”—said Mrs. St. Leonard—“I +expect as many friends as I can collect for a summer party. The +occasion is the recent marriage of my niece, who with her husband +has just returned from their bridal excursion, and they will be +soon on their way to their residence in Baltimore. I think I can +promise you an agreeable evening, as I expect some very delightful +people, with whom I shall be most happy to make you acquainted.” + +Edward and Caroline exchanged glances, and could not refrain from +looking wistfully at their mother, on whose countenance a shade of +regret was very apparent. After a short pause she replied to Mrs. +St. Leonard—“I am truly sorry to say that we have just answered in +the affirmative a previous invitation for this very evening.” + +“I am indeed disappointed”—said Mrs. St. Leonard, who had been +looking approvingly at the prepossessing appearance of the two +young people. “Is there no way in which you can revoke your +compliance with this unfortunate first invitation—at least, I am +sure, it is unfortunate for me. What a vexatious _contretemps_ that +I should have chanced to be out when you called; thus missing the +pleasure of seeing you at once, and securing that of your society +for this evening? The truth is, I was disappointed in some of the +preparations that had been sent home this morning, and I had to go +myself and have the things rectified, and was detained away longer +than I expected. May I ask to whom you are engaged this evening? +Perhaps I know the lady—if so, I should be very much tempted to go +and beg you from her.” + +“The lady is Mrs. John Watkinson”—replied Mrs. Morland—“most +probably she will invite some of her friends to meet us.” + +“That of course”—answered Mrs. St. Leonard—“I am really very +sorry—and I regret to say that I do not know her at all.” + +“We shall have to abide by our first decision,” said Mrs. Morland. +“By Mrs. Watkinson, mentioning in her note the hour of nine, it +is to be presumed she intends asking some other company. I cannot +possibly disappoint her. I can speak feelingly as to the annoyance +(for I have known it by my own experience) when after inviting a +number of my friends to meet some strangers, the strangers have +sent an excuse almost at the eleventh hour. I think no inducements, +however strong, could tempt me to do so myself.” + +“I confess that you are perfectly right,” said Mrs. St. Leonard. +“I see you must go to Mrs. Watkinson. But can you not divide the +evening, by passing a part of it with her and then finishing with +me?” + +At this suggestion the eyes of the young people sparkled, for they +had become delighted with Mrs. St. Leonard, and imagined that a +party at her house must be every way charming. Also, parties were +novelties to both of them. + +“If possible we will do so,” answered Mrs. Morland, “and with what +pleasure I need not assure you. We leave New York to-morrow, but we +shall return this way in September, and will then be exceedingly +happy to see more of Mrs. St. Leonard.” + +After a little more conversation Mrs. St. Leonard took her leave, +repeating her hope of still seeing her new friends at her house +that night; and enjoining them to let her know as soon as they +returned to New York on their way home. + +Edward Morland handed her to her carriage, and then joined his +mother and sister in their commendations of Mrs. St. Leonard, +with whose exceeding beauty were united a countenance beaming +with intelligence, and a manner that put every one at their ease +immediately. + +“She is an evidence,” said Edward, “how superior our women of +fashion are to those of Europe.” + +“Wait, my dear son,” said Mrs. Morland, “till you have been in +Europe, and had an opportunity of forming an opinion on that point +(as on many others) from actual observation. For my part, I believe +that in all civilized countries the upper classes of people are +very much alike, at least in their leading characteristics.” + +“Ah! here comes the man that was sent to Mrs. Watkinson,” said +Caroline Morland. “I hope he could not find the house and has +brought the note back with him. We shall then be able to go at +first to Mrs. St. Leonard’s, and pass the whole evening there.” + +The man reported that he _had_ found the house, and had delivered +the note into Mrs. Watkinson’s own hands, as she chanced to be +crossing the entry when the door was opened; and that she read it +immediately, and said “Very well.” + +“Are you certain that you made no mistake in the house,” said +Edward, “and that you really _did_ give it to Mrs. Watkinson?” + +“And it’s quite sure I am, sir,” replied the man, “when I first +came over from the ould country I lived with them awhile, and +though when she saw me to-day, she did not let on that she +remembered my doing that same, she could not help calling me James. +Yes, the rale words she said when I handed her the billy-dux was, +‘Very well, James.’” + +“Come, come,” said Edward, when they found themselves alone, “let +us look on the bright side. If we do not find a large party at Mrs. +Watkinson’s, we may in all probability meet some very agreeable +people there, and enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul. +We may find the Watkinson house so pleasant as to leave it with +regret even for Mrs. St. Leonard’s.” + +“I do not believe Mrs. Watkinson is in fashionable society,” said +Caroline, “or Mrs. St. Leonard would have known her. I heard some +of the ladies here talking last evening of Mrs. St. Leonard, and +I found from what they said that she is among the _élite_ of the +_lite_.” + +“Even if she is,” observed Mrs. Morland, “are polish of manners and +cultivation of mind confined exclusively to persons of that class?” + +“Certainly not,” said Edward, “the most talented and refined youth +at our college, and he in whose society I found the greatest +pleasure, was the son of a bricklayer.” + +In the ladies’ drawing-room, after dinner, the Morlands heard a +conversation between several of the female guests, who all seemed +to know Mrs. St. Leonard very well by reputation, and they talked +of her party that was to “come off” on this evening. + +“I hear,” said one lady, “that Mrs. St. Leonard is to have an +unusual number of lions.” + +She then proceeded to name a gallant general, with his elegant wife +and accomplished daughter; a celebrated commander in the navy; two +highly distinguished members of Congress, and even an ex-president. +Also several of the most eminent among the American literati, and +two first-rate artists. + +Edward Morland felt as if he could say, “Had I three ears I’d hear +thee.” + +“Such a woman as Mrs. St. Leonard can always command the best lions +that are to be found,” observed another lady. + +“And then,” said a third, “I have been told that she has such +exquisite taste in lighting and embellishing her always elegant +rooms. And her supper table, whether for summer or winter parties, +is so beautifully arranged; all the viands are so delicious, and +the attendance of the servants so perfect—and Mrs. St. Leonard does +the honors with so much ease and tact.” + +“Some friends of mine that visit her,” said a fourth lady, +“describe her parties as absolute perfection. She always manages +to bring together those persons that are best fitted to enjoy each +other’s conversation. Still no one is overlooked or neglected. Then +everything at her reunions is so well proportioned—she has just +enough of music, and just enough of whatever amusement may add to +the pleasure of her guests; and still there is no appearance of +design or management on her part.” + +“And better than all,” said the lady who had spoken firsts “Mrs. +St. Leonard is one of the kindest, most generous, and most +benevolent of women—she does good in every possible way.” + +“I can listen no longer,” said Caroline to Edward, rising to +change her seat. “If I hear any more I shall absolutely hate the +Watkinsons. How provoking that they should have sent us the first +invitation. If we had only thought of waiting till we could hear +from Mrs. St. Leonard!” + +“For shame, Caroline,” said her brother, “how can you talk so of +persons you have never seen, and to whom you ought to feel grateful +for the kindness of their invitation; even if it has interfered +with another party, that I must confess seems to offer unusual +attractions. Now I have a presentiment that we shall find the +Watkinson part of the evening very enjoyable.” + +As soon as tea was over, Mrs. Morland and her daughter repaired to +their toilettes. Fortunately, fashion as well as good taste, has +decided that, at a summer party, the costume of the ladies should +never go beyond an elegant simplicity. Therefore our two ladies +in preparing for their intended appearance at Mrs. St. Leonard’s, +were enabled to attire themselves in a manner that would not seem +out of place in the smaller company they expected to meet at the +Watkinsons. Over an under-dress of lawn, Caroline Morland put on a +white organdy trimmed with lace, and decorated with bows of pink +ribbon. At the back of her head was a wreath of fresh and beautiful +pink flowers, tied with a similar ribbon. Mrs. Morland wore a black +grenadine over a satin, and a lace cap trimmed with white. + +It was but a quarter past nine o’clock when their carriage stopped +at the Watkinson door. The front of the house looked very dark. +Not a ray gleamed through the Venetian shutters, and the glimmer +beyond the fan-light over the door was almost imperceptible. After +the coachman had rung several times, an Irish girl opened the door, +cautiously (as Irish girls always do), and admitted them into the +entry, where one light only was burning in a branch lamp. “Shall +we go upstairs?” said Mrs. Morland. “And what for would ye go +upstairs?” said the girl in a pert tone. “It’s all dark there, and +there’s no preparations. Ye can lave your things here a-hanging +on the rack. It is a party ye’re expecting? Blessed are them what +expects nothing.” + +The sanguine Edward Morland looked rather blank at this +intelligence, and his sister whispered to him, “We’ll get off to +Mrs. St. Leonard’s as soon as we possibly can. When did you tell +the coachman to come for us?” + +“At half past ten,” was the brother’s reply. + +“Oh! Edward, Edward!” she exclaimed, “And I dare say he will not be +punctual. He may keep us here till eleven.” + +“_Courage, mes enfants_,” said their mother, “_et parlez plus +doucement_.” + +The girl then ushered them into the back parlor, saying, “Here’s +the company.” + +The room was large and gloomy. A checquered mat covered the floor, +and all the furniture was encased in striped calico covers, and +the lamps, mirrors, etc. concealed under green gauze. The front +parlor was entirely dark, and in the back apartment was no other +light than a shaded lamp on a large centre table, round which +was assembled a circle of children of all sizes and ages. On a +backless, cushionless sofa sat Mrs. Watkinson, and a young lady, +whom she introduced as her daughter Jane. And Mrs. Morland in +return presented Edward and Caroline. + +“Will you take the rocking-chair, ma’am?” inquired Mrs. Watkinson. + +Mrs. Morland declining the offer, the hostess took it herself, +and see-sawed on it nearly the whole time. It was a very awkward, +high-legged, crouch-backed rocking-chair, and shamefully unprovided +with anything in the form of a footstool. + +“My husband is away, at Boston, on business,” said Mrs. Watkinson. +“I thought at first, ma’am, I should not be able to ask you here +this evening, for it is not our way to have company in his absence; +but my daughter Jane over-persuaded me to send for you.” + +“What a pity,” thought Caroline. + +“You must take us as you find us, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Watkinson. +“We use no ceremony with anybody; and our rule is never to put +ourselves out of the way. We do not give parties [looking at the +dresses of the ladies]. Our first duty is to our children, and we +cannot waste our substance on fashion and folly. They’ll have cause +to thank us for it when we die.” + +Something like a sob was heard from the centre table, at which the +children were sitting, and a boy was seen to hold his handkerchief +to his face. + +“Joseph, my child,” said his mother, “do not cry. You have no idea, +ma’am, what an extraordinary boy that is. You see how the bare +mention of such a thing as our deaths has overcome him.” + +There was another sob behind the handkerchief, and the Morlands +thought it now sounded very much like a smothered laugh. + +“As I was saying, ma’am,” continued Mrs. Watkinson, “we never give +parties. We leave all sinful things to the vain and foolish. My +daughter Jane has been telling me, that she heard this morning of +a party that is going on to-night at the widow St. Leonard’s. It +is only fifteen years since her husband died. He was carried off +with a three days’ illness, but two months after they were married. +I have had a domestic that lived with them at the time, so I know +all about it. And there she is now, living in an elegant house, +and riding in her carriage, and dressing and dashing, and giving +parties, and enjoying life, as she calls it. Poor creature, how I +pity her! Thank heaven, nobody that I know goes to her parties. If +they did I would never wish to see them again in my house. It is +an encouragement to folly and nonsense—and folly and nonsense are +sinful. Do not you think so, ma’am?” + +“If carried too far they may certainly become so,” replied Mrs. +Morland. + +“We have heard,” said Edward, “that Mrs. St. Leonard, though one +of the ornaments of the gay world, has a kind heart, a beneficent +spirit and a liberal hand.” + +“I know very little about her,” replied Mrs. Watkinson, drawing up +her head, “and I have not the least desire to know any more. It is +well she has no children; they’d be lost sheep if brought up in her +fold. For my part, ma’am,” she continued, turning to Mrs. Morland, +“I am quite satisfied with the quiet joys of a happy home. And no +mother has the least business with any other pleasures. My innocent +babes know nothing about plays, and balls, and parties; and they +never shall. Do they look as if they had been accustomed to a life +of pleasure?” + +They certainly did not! for when the Morlands took a glance at +them, they thought they had never seen youthful faces that were +less gay, and indeed less prepossessing. + +There was not a good feature or a pleasant expression among +them all. Edward Morland recollected his having often read +“that childhood is always lovely.” But he saw that the juvenile +Watkinsons were an exception to the rule. + +“The first duty of a mother is to her children,” repeated Mrs. +Watkinson. “Till nine o’clock, my daughter Jane and myself are +occupied every evening in hearing the lessons that they have +learned for to-morrow’s school. Before that hour we can receive no +visitors, and we never have company to tea, as that would interfere +too much with our duties. We had just finished hearing these +lessons when you arrived. Afterwards the children are permitted to +indulge themselves in rational play, for I permit no amusement that +is not also instructive. My children are so well trained, that even +when alone their sports are always serious.” + +Two of the boys glanced slyly at each other, with what Edward +Morland comprehended as an expression of pitch-penny and marbles. + +“They are now engaged at their game of astronomy,” continued Mrs. +Watkinson. “They have also a sort of geography cards, and a set of +mathematical cards. It is a blessed discovery, the invention of +these educationary games; so that even the play-time of children +can be turned to account. And you have no idea, ma’am, how they +enjoy them.” + +Just then the boy Joseph rose from the table, and stalking up to +Mrs. Watkinson, said to her, “Mamma, please to whip me.” + +At this unusual request the visitors looked much amazed, and Mrs. +Watkinson replied to him, “Whip you, my best Joseph—for what cause? +I have not seen you do anything wrong this evening, and you know my +anxiety induces me to watch my children all the time.” + +“You could not see me,” answered Joseph, “for I have not _done_ +anything very wrong. But I have had a bad thought, and you know Mr. +Ironrule says that a fault imagined is just as wicked as a fault +committed.” + +“You see, ma’am, what a good memory he has,” said Mrs. Watkinson +aside to Mrs. Morland. “But my best Joseph, you make your mother +tremble. What fault have you imagined? What was your bad thought?” + +“Ay,” said another boy, “what’s your thought like?” + +“My thought,” said Joseph, “was ‘Confound all astronomy, and I +could see the man hanged that made this game.’” + +“Oh! my child,” exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, “I am +indeed shocked. I am glad you repented so immediately.” + +“Yes,” returned Joseph, “but I am afraid my repentance won’t last. +If I am not whipped, I may have these bad thoughts whenever I play +at astronomy, and worse still at the geography game. Whip me, ma, +and punish me as I deserve. There’s the rattan in the corner: I’ll +bring it to you myself.” + +“Excellent boy!” said his mother. “You know I always pardon my +children when they are so candid as to confess their faults.” + +“So you do,” said Joseph, “but a whipping will cure me better.” + +“I cannot resolve to punish so conscientious a child,” said Mrs. +Watkinson. + +“Shall I take the trouble off your hands?” inquired Edward, losing +all patience in his disgust at the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this +young Blifil. “It is such a rarity for a boy to request a whipping, +that so remarkable a desire ought by all means to be gratified.” + +Joseph turned round and made a face at him. + +“Give me the rattan,” said Edward, half laughing, and offering to +take it out of his hand. “I’ll use it to your full satisfaction.” + +The boy thought it most prudent to stride off and return to the +table, and ensconce himself among his brothers and sisters; some of +whom were staring with stupid surprise; others were whispering and +giggling in the hope of seeing Joseph get a real flogging. + +Mrs. Watkinson having bestowed a bitter look on Edward, hastened to +turn the attention of his mother to something else. “Mrs. Morland,” +said she, “allow me to introduce you to my youngest hope.” She +pointed to a sleepy boy about five years old, who with head thrown +back and mouth wide open, was slumbering in his chair. + +Mrs. Watkinson’s children were of that uncomfortable species who +never go to bed; at least never without all manner of resistance. +All her boasted authority was inadequate to compel them; they never +would confess themselves sleepy; always wanted to “sit up,” and +there was a nightly scene of scolding, coaxing, threatening and +manoeuvring to get them off. + +“I declare,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “dear Benny is almost asleep. +Shake him up, Christopher. I want him to speak a speech. His +schoolmistress takes great pains in teaching her little pupils to +speak, and stands up herself and shows them how.” + +The child having been shaken up hard (two or three others helping +Christopher), rubbed his eyes and began to whine. His mother went +to him, took him on her lap, hushed him up, and began to coax him. +This done, she stood him on his feet before Mrs. Morland, and +desired him to speak a speech for the company. The child put his +thumb into his mouth, and remained silent. + +“Ma,” said Jane Watkinson, “you had better tell him what speech to +speak.” + +“Speak Cato or Plato,” said his mother. “Which do you call it? Come +now, Benny—how does it begin? ‘You are quite right and reasonable, +Plato.’ That’s it.” + +“Speak Lucius,” said his sister Jane. “Come now, Benny—say ‘your +thoughts are turned on peace.’” + +The little boy looked very much as if they were _not_, and as if +meditating an outbreak. + +“No, no!” exclaimed Christopher, “let him say Hamlet. Come now, +Benny—‘To be or not to be.’” + +“It ain’t to be at all,” cried Benny, “and I won’t speak the least +bit of it for any of you. I hate that speech!” + +“Only see his obstinacy,” said the solemn Joseph. “And is he to be +given up to?” + +“Speak anything, Benny,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “anything so that it +is only a speech.” + +All the Watkinson voices now began to clamor violently at the +obstinate child—“Speak a speech! speak a speech! speak a speech!” +But they had no more effect than the reiterated exhortations with +which nurses confuse the poor heads of babies, when they require +them to “shake a day-day—shake a day-day!” + +Mrs. Morland now interfered, and begged that the sleepy little boy +might be excused; on which he screamed out that “he wasn’t sleepy +at all, and would not go to bed ever.” + +“I never knew any of my children behave so before,” said Mrs. +Watkinson. “They are always models of obedience, ma’am. A look +is sufficient for them. And I must say that they have in every +way profited by the education we are giving them. It is not our +way, ma’am, to waste our money in parties and fooleries, and +fine furniture and fine clothes, and rich food, and all such +abominations. Our first duty is to our children, and to make them +learn everything that is taught in the schools. If they go wrong, +it will not be for want of education. Hester, my dear, come and +talk to Miss Morland in French.” + +Hester (unlike her little brother that would not speak a speech) +stepped boldly forward, and addressed Caroline Morland with: +“_Parlez-vous Français, mademoiselle? Comment se va madame votre +mère? Aimez-vous la musique? Aimez-vous la danse? Bon jour—bon +soir—bon repos. Comprenez-vous?_” + +To this tirade, uttered with great volubility, Miss Morland made no +other reply than, “_Oui—je comprens_.” + +“Very well, Hester—very well indeed,” said Mrs. Watkinson. “You +see, ma’am,” turning to Mrs. Morland, “how very fluent she is in +French; and she has only been learning eleven quarters.” + +After considerable whispering between Jane and her mother, the +former withdrew, and sent in by the Irish girl a waiter with a +basket of soda biscuit, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mrs. +Watkinson invited her guests to consider themselves at home and +help themselves freely, saying: “We never let cakes, sweetmeats, +confectionery, or any such things enter the house, as they would be +very unwholesome for the children, and it would be sinful to put +temptation in their way. I am sure, ma’am, you will agree with me +that the plainest food is the best for everybody. People that want +nice things may go to parties for them; but they will never get any +with me.” + +When the collation was over, and every child provided with a +biscuit, Mrs. Watkinson said to Mrs. Morland: “Now, ma’am, you +shall have some music from my daughter Jane, who is one of Mr. +Bangwhanger’s best scholars.” + +Jane Watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece +of six mortal pages, which she played out of time and out of tune; +but with tremendous force of hands; notwithstanding which, it had, +however, the good effect of putting most of the children to sleep. + +To the Morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long. +Still it was only half past ten when Jane was in the midst of her +piece. The guests had all tacitly determined that it would be best +not to let Mrs. Watkinson know their intention to go directly from +her house to Mrs. St. Leonard’s party; and the arrival of their +carriage would have been the signal of departure, even if Jane’s +piece had not reached its termination. They stole glances at the +clock on the mantel. It wanted but a quarter of eleven, when Jane +rose from the piano, and was congratulated by her mother on the +excellence of her music. Still no carriage was heard to stop; no +doorbell was heard to ring. Mrs. Morland expressed her fears that +the coachman had forgotten to come for them. + +“Has he been paid for bringing you here?” asked Mrs. Watkinson. + +“I paid him when we came to the door,” said Edward. “I thought +perhaps he might want the money for some purpose before he came for +us.” + +“That was very kind in you, sir,” said Mrs. Watkinson, “but not +very wise. There’s no dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he +may be sure of business enough this rainy night he may never come +at all—being already paid for bringing you here.” + +Now, the truth was that the coachman _had_ come at the appointed +time, but the noise of Jane’s piano had prevented his arrival being +heard in the back parlor. The Irish girl had gone to the door when +he rang the bell, and recognized in him what she called “an ould +friend.” Just then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in +the rain came running along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at +a door, the gentleman inquired of the driver if he could not take +them to Rutgers Place. The driver replied that he had just come for +two ladies and a gentleman whom he had brought from the Astor House. + +“Indeed and Patrick,” said the girl who stood at the door, “if I +was you I’d be after making another penny to-night. Miss Jane is +pounding away at one of her long music pieces, and it won’t be over +before you have time to get to Rutgers and back again. And if you +do make them wait awhile, where’s the harm? They’ve a dry roof over +their heads, and I warrant it’s not the first waiting they’ve ever +had in their lives; and it won’t be the last neither.” + +“Exactly so,” said the gentleman; and regardless of the propriety +of first sending to consult the persons who had engaged the +carriage, he told his wife to step in, and following her instantly +himself, they drove away to Rutgers Place. + +Reader, if you were ever detained in a strange house by the +non-arrival of your carriage, you will easily understand the +excessive annoyance of finding that you are keeping a family out +of their beds beyond their usual hour. And in this case, there was +a double grievance; the guests being all impatience to get off to +a better place. The children, all crying when wakened from their +sleep, were finally taken to bed by two servant maids, and Jane +Watkinson, who never came back again. None were left but Hester, +the great French scholar, who, being one of those young imps that +seem to have the faculty of living without sleep, sat bolt upright +with her eyes wide open, watching the uncomfortable visitors. + +The Morlands felt as if they could bear it no longer, and Edward +proposed sending for another carriage to the nearest livery stable. + +“We don’t keep a man now,” said Mrs. Watkinson, who sat nodding +in the rocking-chair, attempting now and then a snatch of +conversation, and saying “ma’am” still more frequently than usual. +“Men servants are dreadful trials, ma’am, and we gave them up three +years ago. And I don’t know how Mary or Katy are to go out this +stormy night in search of a livery stable.” + +“On no consideration could I allow the women to do so,” replied +Edward. “If you will oblige me by the loan of an umbrella, I will +go myself.” + +Accordingly he set out on this business, but was unsuccessful +at two livery stables, the carriages being all out. At last he +found one, and was driven in it to Mr. Watkinson’s house, where +his mother and sister were awaiting him, all quite ready, with +their calashes and shawls on. They gladly took their leave; Mrs. +Watkinson rousing herself to hope they had spent a pleasant +evening, and that they would come and pass another with her on +their return to New York. In such cases how difficult it is to +reply even with what are called “words of course.” + +A kitchen lamp was brought to light them to the door, the entry +lamp having long since been extinguished. Fortunately the rain +had ceased; the stars began to reappear, and the Morlands, when +they found themselves in the carriage and on their way to Mrs. St. +Leonard’s, felt as if they could breathe again. As may be supposed, +they freely discussed the annoyances of the evening; but now those +troubles were over they felt rather inclined to be merry about them. + +“Dear mother,” said Edward, “how I pitied you for having to endure +Mrs. Watkinson’s perpetual ‘ma’aming’ and ‘ma’aming’; for I know +you dislike the word.” + +“I wish,” said Caroline, “I was not so prone to be taken with +ridiculous recollections. But really to-night I could not get that +old foolish child’s play out of my head— + + Here come three knights out of Spain + A-courting of your daughter Jane.” + +“_I_ shall certainly never be one of those Spanish knights,” said +Edward. “Her daughter Jane is in no danger of being ruled by any +‘flattering tongue’ of mine. But what a shame for us to be talking +of them in this manner.” + +They drove to Mrs. St. Leonard’s, hoping to be yet in time to +pass half an hour there; though it was now near twelve o’clock +and summer parties never continue to a very late hour. But as +they came into the street in which she lived they were met by a +number of coaches on their way home, and on reaching the door of +her brilliantly lighted mansion, they saw the last of the guests +driving off in the last of the carriages, and several musicians +coming down the steps with their instruments in their hands. + +“So there _has_ been a dance, then!” sighed Caroline. “Oh, what we +have missed! It is really too provoking.” + +“So it is,” said Edward; “but remember that to-morrow morning we +set off for Niagara.” + +“I will leave a note for Mrs. St. Leonard,” said his mother, +“explaining that we were detained at Mrs. Watkinson’s by our +coachman disappointing us. Let us console ourselves with the hope +of seeing more of this lady on our return. And now, dear Caroline, +you must draw a moral from the untoward events of to-day. When you +are mistress of a house, and wish to show civility to strangers, +let the invitation be always accompanied with a frank disclosure +of what they are to expect. And if you cannot conveniently invite +company to meet them, tell them at once that you will not insist +on their keeping their engagement with _you_ if anything offers +afterwards that they think they would prefer; provided only that +they apprize you in time of the change in their plan.” + +“Oh, mamma,” replied Caroline, “you may be sure I shall always +take care not to betray my visitors into an engagement which they +may have cause to regret, particularly if they are strangers whose +time is limited. I shall certainly, as you say, tell them not to +consider themselves bound to me if they afterwards receive an +invitation which promises them more enjoyment. It will be a long +while before I forget, the Watkinson evening.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[13] From _Godey’s Lady’s Book_, December, 1846. + + + + +TITBOTTOM’S SPECTACLES[14] + +BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824–1892) + + In my mind’s eye, Horatio. + + +Prue and I do not entertain much; our means forbid it. In truth, +other people entertain for us. We enjoy that hospitality of which +no account is made. We see the show, and hear the music, and smell +the flowers of great festivities, tasting as it were the drippings +from rich dishes. Our own dinner service is remarkably plain, +our dinners, even on state occasions, are strictly in keeping, +and almost our only guest is Titbottom. I buy a handful of roses +as I come up from the office, perhaps, and Prue arranges them so +prettily in a glass dish for the centre of the table that even when +I have hurried out to see Aurelia step into her carriage to go out +to dine, I have thought that the bouquet she carried was not more +beautiful because it was more costly. I grant that it was more +harmonious with her superb beauty and her rich attire. And I have +no doubt that if Aurelia knew the old man, whom she must have seen +so often watching her, and his wife, who ornaments her sex with as +much sweetness, although with less splendor, than Aurelia herself, +she would also acknowledge that the nosegay of roses was as fine +and fit upon their table as her own sumptuous bouquet is for +herself. I have that faith in the perception of that lovely lady. +It is at least my habit—I hope I may say, my nature, to believe the +best of people, rather than the worst. If I thought that all this +sparkling setting of beauty—this fine fashion—these blazing jewels +and lustrous silks and airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threaded +embroidery and wrought in a thousand exquisite elaborations, so +that I cannot see one of those lovely girls pass me by without +thanking God for the vision—if I thought that this was all, and +that underneath her lace flounces and diamond bracelets Aurelia was +a sullen, selfish woman, then I should turn sadly homewards, for I +should see that her jewels were flashing scorn upon the object they +adorned, and that her laces were of a more exquisite loveliness +than the woman whom they merely touched with a superficial grace. +It would be like a gaily decorated mausoleum—bright to see, but +silent and dark within. + +“Great excellences, my dear Prue,” I sometimes allow myself to +say, “lie concealed in the depths of character, like pearls at +the bottom of the sea. Under the laughing, glancing surface, how +little they are suspected! Perhaps love is nothing else than the +sight of them by one person. Hence every man’s mistress is apt to +be an enigma to everybody else. I have no doubt that when Aurelia +is engaged, people will say that she is a most admirable girl, +certainly; but they cannot understand why any man should be in love +with her. As if it were at all necessary that they should! And +her lover, like a boy who finds a pearl in the public street, and +wonders as much that others did not see it as that he did, will +tremble until he knows his passion is returned; feeling, of course, +that the whole world must be in love with this paragon who cannot +possibly smile upon anything so unworthy as he.” + +“I hope, therefore, my dear Mrs. Prue,” I continue to say to my +wife, who looks up from her work regarding me with pleased pride, +as if I were such an irresistible humorist, “you will allow me to +believe that the depth may be calm although the surface is dancing. +If you tell me that Aurelia is but a giddy girl, I shall believe +that you think so. But I shall know, all the while, what profound +dignity, and sweetness, and peace lie at the foundation of her +character.” + +I say such things to Titbottom during the dull season at the +office. And I have known him sometimes to reply with a kind of dry, +sad humor, not as if he enjoyed the joke, but as if the joke must +be made, that he saw no reason why I should be dull because the +season was so. + +“And what do I know of Aurelia or any other girl?” he says to +me with that abstracted air. “I, whose Aurelias were of another +century and another zone.” + +Then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane to +interrupt. But as we sit upon our high stools at the desk opposite +each other, I leaning upon my elbows and looking at him; he, with +sidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded a +boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, I cannot +refrain from saying: + +“Well!” + +He turns slowly, and I go chatting on—a little too loquacious, +perhaps, about those young girls. But I know that Titbottom regards +such an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you +could believe it the reflection of a smile from long, long years +ago. + +One day, after I had been talking for a long time, and we had put +up our books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time +by the window, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really +saw something more than the dark court, and said slowly: + +“Perhaps you would have different impressions of things if you saw +them through my spectacles.” + +There was no change in his expression. He still looked from the +window, and I said: + +“Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses. I have never seen +you wearing spectacles.” + +“No, I don’t often wear them. I am not very fond of looking through +them. But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put +them on, and I cannot help seeing.” Titbottom sighed. + +“Is it so grievous a fate, to see?” inquired I. + +“Yes; through my spectacles,” he said, turning slowly and looking +at me with wan solemnity. + +It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and taking our hats +we went out together. The narrow street of business was deserted. +The heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows. From +one or two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by +whose light some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for +his error. A careless clerk passed, whistling. But the great tide +of life had ebbed. We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole +into that silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland +dell. + +“You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?” + +He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were both +glad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying: + +“Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?” + +Titbottom smiled gently, and answered: + +“He might have brought his spectacles with him, and I have been a +happier man for it.” + +Prue looked a little puzzled. + +“My dear,” I said, “you must know that our friend, Mr. Titbottom, +is the happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles. I have +never seen them, indeed; and, from what he says, I should be rather +afraid of being seen by them. Most short-sighted persons are very +glad to have the help of glasses; but Mr. Titbottom seems to find +very little pleasure in his.” + +“It is because they make him too far-sighted, perhaps,” interrupted +Prue quietly, as she took the silver soup-ladle from the sideboard. + +We sipped our wine after dinner, and Prue took her work. Can a man +be too far-sighted? I did not ask the question aloud. The very tone +in which Prue had spoken convinced me that he might. + +“At least,” I said, “Mr. Titbottom will not refuse to tell us the +history of his mysterious spectacles. I have known plenty of magic +in eyes”—and I glanced at the tender blue eyes of Prue—“but I have +not heard of any enchanted glasses.” + +“Yet you must have seen the glass in which your wife looks every +morning, and I take it that glass must be daily enchanted.” said +Titbottom, with a bow of quaint respect to my wife. + +I do not think I have seen such a blush upon Prue’s cheek +since—well, since a great many years ago. + +“I will gladly tell you the history of my spectacles,” began +Titbottom. “It is very simple; and I am not at all sure that a +great many other people have not a pair of the same kind. I have +never, indeed, heard of them by the gross, like those of our young +friend, Moses, the son of the Vicar of Wakefield. In fact, I think +a gross would be quite enough to supply the world. It is a kind +of article for which the demand does not increase with use. If we +should all wear spectacles like mine, we should never smile any +more. Oh—I am not quite sure—we should all be very happy.” + +“A very important difference,” said Prue, counting her stitches. + +“You know my grandfather Titbottom was a West Indian. A large +proprietor, and an easy man, he basked in the tropical sun, +leading his quiet, luxurious life. He lived much alone, and was +what people call eccentric, by which I understand that he was very +much himself, and, refusing the influence of other people, they +had their little revenges, and called him names. It is a habit +not exclusively tropical. I think I have seen the same thing even +in this city. But he was greatly beloved—my bland and bountiful +grandfather. He was so large-hearted and open-handed. He was so +friendly, and thoughtful, and genial, that even his jokes had the +air of graceful benedictions. He did not seem to grow old, and +he was one of those who never appear to have been very young. He +flourished in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle-age. + +“My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands, St. Kit’s, +perhaps, and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a rambling +West Indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas, +covered with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair +was his peculiar seat. They tell me he used sometimes to sit there +for the whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the +sea, watching the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon, +while the evanescent expressions chased each other over his placid +face, as if it reflected the calm and changing sea before him. His +morning costume was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously flowered +silk, and his morning was very apt to last all day. + +“He rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with +his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of +sweet reverie, which any author might be very happy to produce. + +“Society, of course, he saw little. There was some slight +apprehension that if he were bidden to social entertainments he +might forget his coat, or arrive without some other essential +part of his dress; and there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom +family that, having been invited to a ball in honor of the new +governor of the island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered into +the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of +his dressing-gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets, +as usual. There was great excitement, and immense deprecation +of gubernatorial ire. But it happened that the governor and my +grandfather were old friends, and there was no offense. But as +they were conversing together, one of the distressed managers cast +indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who +summoned him, and asked courteously: + +“‘Did you invite me or my coat?’ + +“‘You, in a proper coat,’ replied the manager. + +“The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather. + +“‘My friend,” said he to the manager, ‘I beg your pardon, I forgot.’ + +“The next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball +dress along the streets of the little town. + +“‘They ought to know,’ said he, ‘that I have a proper coat, and +that not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball +in my dressing-gown.’ + +“He did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but +he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile. + +“To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to +weariness. But the old native dons like my grandfather ripen in +the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the Bahama banks, nor +know of existence more desirable. Life in the tropics I take to be +a placid torpidity. During the long, warm mornings of nearly half +a century, my grandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown +and gazed at the sea. But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the +piazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little +vessel, evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spyglass, +and surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighboring +island. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warm +morning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat. The +sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue hung cloudlessly +over. Scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen come +over the horizon, and cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of summer +mornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague faces +through forgotten dreams. But this time he laid down the spyglass, +and leaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel +with an intentness that he could not explain. She came nearer and +nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning. + +“‘Decidedly I must step down and see about that vessel,’ said my +grandfather Titbottom. + +“He gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from +the piazza with no other protection from the sun than the little +smoking cap upon his head. His face wore a calm, beaming smile, as +if he approved of all the world. He was not an old man, but there +was almost a patriarchal pathos in his expression as he sauntered +along in the sunshine towards the shore. A group of idle gazers was +collected to watch the arrival. The little vessel furled her sails +and drifted slowly landward, and as she was of very light draft, +she came close to the shelving shore. A long plank was put out from +her side, and the debarkation commenced. My grandfather Titbottom +stood looking on to see the passengers descend. There were but a +few of them, and mostly traders from the neighboring island. But +suddenly the face of a young girl appeared over the side of the +vessel, and she stepped upon the plank to descend. My grandfather +Titbottom instantly advanced, and moving briskly reached the top of +the plank at the same moment, and with the old tassel of his cap +flashing in the sun, and one hand in the pocket of his dressing +gown, with the other he handed the young lady carefully down the +plank. That young lady was afterwards my grandmother Titbottom. + +“And so, over the gleaming sea which he had watched so long, and +which seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that +sunny morning. + +“‘Of course we are happy,’ he used to say: ‘For you are the gift +of the sun I have loved so long and so well.’ And my grandfather +Titbottom would lay his hand so tenderly upon the golden hair of +his young bride, that you could fancy him a devout Parsee caressing +sunbeams. + +“There were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage; and +my grandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing-gown. +The gentle sweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and +sympathy. He was much older than she, without doubt. But age, as he +used to say with a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling, +not of years. And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side upon the +piazza, her fancy looked through her eyes upon that summer sea and +saw a younger lover, perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing +heroes who occupy the foreground of all young maidens’ visions by +the sea, yet she could not find one more generous and gracious, nor +fancy one more worthy and loving than my grandfather Titbottom. +And if in the moonlit midnight, while he lay calmly sleeping, +she leaned out of the window and sank into vague reveries of +sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming path of the moonlight +upon the water, until the dawn glided over it—it was only that +mood of nameless regret and longing, which underlies all human +happiness,—or it was the vision of that life of society, which she +had never seen, but of which she had often read, and which looked +very fair and alluring across the sea to a girlish imagination +which knew that it should never know that reality. + +“These West Indian years were the great days of the family,” said +Titbottom, with an air of majestic and regal regret, pausing +and musing in our little parlor, like a late Stuart in exile, +remembering England. Prue raised her eyes from her work, and +looked at him with a subdued admiration; for I have observed that, +like the rest of her sex, she has a singular sympathy with the +representative of a reduced family. Perhaps it is their finer +perception which leads these tender-hearted women to recognize the +divine right of social superiority so much more readily than we; +and yet, much as Titbottom was enhanced in my wife’s admiration +by the discovery that his dusky sadness of nature and expression +was, as it were, the expiring gleam and late twilight of ancestral +splendors, I doubt if Mr. Bourne would have preferred him for +bookkeeper a moment sooner upon that account. In truth, I have +observed, down town, that the fact of your ancestors doing nothing +is not considered good proof that you can do anything. But Prue and +her sex regard sentiment more than action, and I understand easily +enough why she is never tired of hearing me read of Prince Charlie. +If Titbottom had been only a little younger, a little handsomer, a +little more gallantly dressed—in fact, a little more of the Prince +Charlie, I am sure her eyes would not have fallen again upon her +work so tranquilly, as he resumed his story. + +“I can remember my grandfather Titbottom, although I was a very +young child, and he was a very old man. My young mother and +my young grandmother are very distinct figures in my memory, +ministering to the old gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown, +and seated upon the piazza. I remember his white hair and his calm +smile, and how, not long before he died, he called me to him, and +laying his hand upon my head, said to me: + +“My child, the world is not this great sunny piazza, nor life the +fairy stories which the women tell you here as you sit in their +laps. I shall soon be gone, but I want to leave with you some +memento of my love for you, and I know nothing more valuable than +these spectacles, which your grandmother brought from her native +island, when she arrived here one fine summer morning, long ago. I +cannot quite tell whether, when you grow older, you will regard it +as a gift of the greatest value or as something that you had been +happier never to have possessed.’ + +“‘But grandpapa, I am not short-sighted.’ + +“‘My son, are you not human?’ said the old gentleman; and how shall +I ever forget the thoughtful sadness with which, at the same time +he handed me the spectacles. + +“Instinctively I put them on, and looked at my grandfather. But +I saw no grandfather, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown: I +saw only a luxuriant palm-tree, waving broadly over a tranquil +landscape. Pleasant homes clustered around it. Gardens teeming +with fruit and flowers; flocks quietly feeding; birds wheeling and +chirping. I heard children’s voices, and the low lullaby of happy +mothers. The sound of cheerful singing came wafted from distant +fields upon the light breeze. Golden harvests glistened out of +sight, and I caught their rustling whisper of prosperity. A warm, +mellow atmosphere bathed the whole. I have seen copies of the +landscapes of the Italian painter Claude which seemed to me faint +reminiscences of that calm and happy vision. But all this peace +and prosperity seemed to flow from the spreading palm as from a +fountain. + +“I do not know how long I looked, but I had, apparently, no power, +as I had no will, to remove the spectacles. What a wonderful island +must Nevis be, thought I, if people carry such pictures in their +pockets, only by buying a pair of spectacles! What wonder that my +dear grandmother Titbottom has lived such a placid life, and has +blessed us all with her sunny temper, when she has lived surrounded +by such images of peace. + +“My grandfather died. But still, in the warm morning sunshine upon +the piazza, I felt his placid presence, and as I crawled into his +great chair, and drifted on in reverie through the still, tropical +day, it was as if his soft, dreamy eye had passed into my soul. +My grandmother cherished his memory with tender regret. A violent +passion of grief for his loss was no more possible than for the +pensive decay of the year. We have no portrait of him, but I see +always, when I remember him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm. And +I think that to have known one good old man—one man who, through +the chances and rubs of a long life, has carried his heart in his +hand, like a palm branch, waving all discords into peace, helps +our faith in God, in ourselves, and in each other, more than many +sermons. I hardly know whether to be grateful to my grandfather for +the spectacles; and yet when I remember that it is to them I owe +the pleasant image of him which I cherish, I seem to myself sadly +ungrateful. + +“Madam,” said Titbottom to Prue, solemnly, “my memory is a long and +gloomy gallery, and only remotely, at its further end, do I see the +glimmer of soft sunshine, and only there are the pleasant pictures +hung. They seem to me very happy along whose gallery the sunlight +streams to their very feet, striking all the pictured walls into +unfading splendor.” + +Prue had laid her work in her lap, and as Titbottom paused a +moment, and I turned towards her, I found her mild eyes fastened +upon my face, and glistening with happy tears. + +“Misfortunes of many kinds came heavily upon the family after the +head was gone. The great house was relinquished. My parents were +both dead, and my grandmother had entire charge of me. But from +the moment that I received the gift of the spectacles, I could not +resist their fascination, and I withdrew into myself, and became a +solitary boy. There were not many companions for me of my own age, +and they gradually left me, or, at least, had not a hearty sympathy +with me; for if they teased me I pulled out my spectacles and +surveyed them so seriously that they acquired a kind of awe of me, +and evidently regarded my grandfather’s gift as a concealed magical +weapon which might be dangerously drawn upon them at any moment. +Whenever, in our games, there were quarrels and high words, and I +began to feel about my dress and to wear a grave look, they all +took the alarm, and shouted, ‘Look out for Titbottom’s spectacles,’ +and scattered like a flock of scared sheep. + +“Nor could I wonder at it. For, at first, before they took the +alarm, I saw strange sights when I looked at them through the +glasses. If two were quarrelling about a marble or a ball, I had +only to go behind a tree where I was concealed and look at them +leisurely. Then the scene changed, and no longer a green meadow +with boys playing, but a spot which I did not recognize, and forms +that made me shudder or smile. It was not a big boy bullying a +little one, but a young wolf with glistening teeth and a lamb +cowering before him; or, it was a dog faithful and famishing—or +a star going slowly into eclipse—or a rainbow fading—or a flower +blooming—or a sun rising—or a waning moon. The revelations of the +spectacles determined my feeling for the boys, and for all whom +I saw through them. No shyness, nor awkwardness, nor silence, +could separate me from those who looked lovely as lilies to +my illuminated eyes. If I felt myself warmly drawn to any one +I struggled with the fierce desire of seeing him through the +spectacles. I longed to enjoy the luxury of ignorant feeling, to +love without knowing, to float like a leaf upon the eddies of +life, drifted now to a sunny point, now to a solemn shade—now over +glittering ripples, now over gleaming calms,—and not to determined +ports, a trim vessel with an inexorable rudder. + +“But, sometimes, mastered after long struggles, I seized my +spectacles and sauntered into the little town. Putting them to my +eyes I peered into the houses and at the people who passed me. Here +sat a family at breakfast, and I stood at the window looking in. O +motley meal! fantastic vision! The good mother saw her lord sitting +opposite, a grave, respectable being, eating muffins. But I saw +only a bank-bill, more or less crumpled and tattered, marked with +a larger or lesser figure. If a sharp wind blew suddenly, I saw it +tremble and flutter; it was thin, flat, impalpable. I removed my +glasses, and looked with my eyes at the wife. I could have smiled +to see the humid tenderness with which she regarded her strange +_vis-à-vis_. Is life only a game of blind-man’s-buff? of droll +cross-purposes? + +“Or I put them on again, and looked at the wife. How many stout +trees I saw,—how many tender flowers,—how many placid pools; +yes, and how many little streams winding out of sight, shrinking +before the large, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping off +into solitude and shade, with a low, inner song for their own +solace. And in many houses I thought to see angels, nymphs, or at +least, women, and could only find broomsticks, mops, or kettles, +hurrying about, rattling, tinkling, in a state of shrill activity. +I made calls upon elegant ladies, and after I had enjoyed the +gloss of silk and the delicacy of lace, and the flash of jewels, +I slipped on my spectacles, and saw a peacock’s feather, flounced +and furbelowed and fluttering; or an iron rod, thin, sharp, and +hard; nor could I possibly mistake the movement of the drapery for +any flexibility of the thing draped,—or, mysteriously chilled, I +saw a statue of perfect form, or flowing movement, it might be +alabaster, or bronze, or marble,—but sadly often it was ice; and +I knew that after it had shone a little, and frozen a few eyes +with its despairing perfection, it could not be put away in the +niches of palaces for ornament and proud family tradition, like +the alabaster, or bronze, or marble statues, but would melt, and +shrink, and fall coldly away in colorless and useless water, be +absorbed in the earth and utterly forgotten. + +“But the true sadness was rather in seeing those who, not having +the spectacles, thought that the iron rod was flexible, and the +ice statue warm. I saw many a gallant heart, which seemed to me +brave and loyal as the crusaders sent by genuine and noble faith to +Syria and the sepulchre, pursuing, through days and nights, and a +long life of devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the +cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart. I watched the earnest, +enthusiastic sacrifice. I saw the pure resolve, the generous faith, +the fine scorn of doubt, the impatience of suspicion. I watched +the grace, the ardor, the glory of devotion. Through those strange +spectacles how often I saw the noblest heart renouncing all other +hope, all other ambition, all other life, than the possible love of +some one of those statues. Ah! me, it was terrible, but they had +not the love to give. The Parian face was so polished and smooth, +because there was no sorrow upon the heart,—and, drearily often, +no heart to be touched. I could not wonder that the noble heart of +devotion was broken, for it had dashed itself against a stone. I +wept, until my spectacles were dimmed for that hopeless sorrow; but +there was a pang beyond tears for those icy statues. + +“Still a boy, I was thus too much a man in knowledge,—I did not +comprehend the sights I was compelled to see. I used to tear my +glasses away from my eyes, and, frightened at myself, run to escape +my own consciousness. Reaching the small house where we then lived, +I plunged into my grandmother’s room and, throwing myself upon +the floor, buried my face in her lap; and sobbed myself to sleep +with premature grief. But when I awakened, and felt her cool hand +upon my hot forehead, and heard the low, sweet song, or the gentle +story, or the tenderly told parable from the Bible, with which she +tried to soothe me, I could not resist the mystic fascination that +lured me, as I lay in her lap, to steal a glance at her through the +spectacles. + +“Pictures of the Madonna have not her rare and pensive beauty. Upon +the tranquil little islands her life had been eventless, and all +the fine possibilities of her nature were like flowers that never +bloomed. Placid were all her years; yet I have read of no heroine, +of no woman great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me she +might have been. The wife and widow of a man who loved his own home +better than the homes of others, I have yet heard of no queen, +no belle, no imperial beauty, whom in grace, and brilliancy, and +persuasive courtesy, she might not have surpassed. + +“Madam,” said Titbottom to my wife, whose heart hung upon his +story; “your husband’s young friend, Aurelia, wears sometimes a +camelia in her hair, and no diamond in the ball-room seems so +costly as that perfect flower, which women envy, and for whose +least and withered petal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes +of Brazil, how many a camelia bud drops from a bush that no eye +has ever seen, which, had it flowered and been noticed, would have +gilded all hearts with its memory. + +“When I stole these furtive glances at my grandmother, half fearing +that they were wrong, I saw only a calm lake, whose shores were +low, and over which the sky hung unbroken, so that the least star +was clearly reflected. It had an atmosphere of solemn twilight +tranquillity, and so completely did its unruffled surface blend +with the cloudless, star-studded sky, that, when I looked through +my spectacles at my grandmother, the vision seemed to me all heaven +and stars. Yet, as I gazed and gazed, I felt what stately cities +might well have been built upon those shores, and have flashed +prosperity over the calm, like coruscations of pearls. + +“I dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken sailed and blown by perfumed +winds, drifting over those depthless waters and through those +spacious skies. I gazed upon the twilight, the inscrutable silence, +like a God-fearing discoverer upon a new, and vast, and dim sea, +bursting upon him through forest glooms, and in the fervor of whose +impassioned gaze, a millennial and poetic world arises, and man +need no longer die to be happy. + +“My companions naturally deserted me, for I had grown wearily +grave and abstracted: and, unable to resist the allurement of +my spectacles, I was constantly lost in a world, of which those +companions were part, yet of which they knew nothing. I grew +cold and hard, almost morose; people seemed to me blind and +unreasonable. They did the wrong thing. They called green, yellow; +and black, white. Young men said of a girl, ‘What a lovely, simple +creature!’ I looked, and there was only a glistening wisp of +straw, dry and hollow. Or they said, ‘What a cold, proud beauty!’ +I looked, and lo! a Madonna, whose heart held the world. Or they +said, ‘What a wild, giddy girl!’ and I saw a glancing, dancing +mountain stream, pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing +through sun and shade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping along +unstained by weed, or rain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching the +flowers with a dewy kiss,—a beam of grace, a happy song, a line of +light, in the dim and troubled landscape. + +“My grandmother sent me to school, but I looked at the master, +and saw that he was a smooth, round ferule—or an improper noun—or +a vulgar fraction, and refused to obey him. Or he was a piece of +string, a rag, a willow-wand, and I had a contemptuous pity. But +one was a well of cool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, one +day, I saw the stars. He gave me all my schooling. With him I used +to walk by the sea, and, as we strolled and the waves plunged in +long legions before us, I looked at him through the spectacles, +and as his eye dilated with the boundless view, and his chest +heaved with an impossible desire, I saw Xerxes and his army tossing +and glittering, rank upon rank, multitude upon multitude, out of +sight, but ever regularly advancing and with the confused roar of +ceaseless music, prostrating themselves in abject homage. Or, as +with arms outstretched and hair streaming on the wind, he chanted +full lines of the resounding Iliad, I saw Homer pacing the AEgean +sands in the Greek sunsets of forgotten times. + +“My grandmother died, and I was thrown into the world without +resources, and with no capital but my spectacles. I tried to find +employment, but men were shy of me. There was a vague suspicion +that I was either a little crazed, or a good deal in league +with the Prince of Darkness. My companions who would persist in +calling a piece of painted muslin a fair and fragrant flower had +no difficulty; success waited for them around every corner, and +arrived in every ship. I tried to teach, for I loved children. But +if anything excited my suspicion, and, putting on my spectacles, I +saw that I was fondling a snake, or smelling at a bud with a worm +in it, I sprang up in horror and ran away; or, if it seemed to me +through the glasses that a cherub smiled upon me, or a rose was +blooming in my buttonhole, then I felt myself imperfect and impure, +not fit to be leading and training what was so essentially superior +in quality to myself, and I kissed the children and left them +weeping and wondering. + +“In despair I went to a great merchant on the island, and asked him +to employ me. + +“‘My young friend,’ said he, ‘I understand that you have some +singular secret, some charm, or spell, or gift, or something, I +don’t know what, of which people are afraid. Now, you know, my +dear,’ said the merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of +his great stomach than of his large fortune, ‘I am not of that +kind. I am not easily frightened. You may spare yourself the +pain of trying to impose upon me. People who propose to come to +time before I arrive, are accustomed to arise very early in the +morning,’ said he, thrusting his thumbs in the armholes of his +waistcoat, and spreading the fingers, like two fans, upon his +bosom. ‘I think I have heard something of your secret. You have a +pair of spectacles, I believe, that you value very much, because +your grandmother brought them as a marriage portion to your +grandfather. Now, if you think fit to sell me those spectacles, I +will pay you the largest market price for glasses. What do you say?’ + +“I told him that I had not the slightest idea of selling my +spectacles. + +“‘My young friend means to eat them, I suppose,’ said he with a +contemptuous smile. + +“I made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, when the +merchant called after me— + +“‘My young friend, poor people should never suffer themselves to +get into pets. Anger is an expensive luxury, in which only men of a +certain income can indulge. A pair of spectacles and a hot temper +are not the most promising capital for success in life, Master +Titbottom.’ + +“I said nothing, but put my hand upon the door to go out, when the +merchant said more respectfully,— + +“‘Well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your spectacles, +perhaps you will agree to sell the use of them to me. That is, you +shall only put them on when I direct you, and for my purposes. +Hallo! you little fool!’ cried he impatiently, as he saw that I +intended to make no reply. + +“But I had pulled out my spectacles, and put them on for my own +purpose, and against his direction and desire. I looked at him, and +saw a huge bald-headed wild boar, with gross chops and a leering +eye—only the more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold-bowed +spectacles, that straddled his nose. One of his fore hoofs was +thrust into the safe, where his bills payable were hived, and the +other into his pocket, among the loose change and bills there. His +ears were pricked forward with a brisk, sensitive smartness. In +a world where prize pork was the best excellence, he would have +carried off all the premiums. + +“I stepped into the next office in the street, and a mild-faced, +genial man, also a large and opulent merchant, asked me my business +in such a tone, that I instantly looked through my spectacles, +and saw a land flowing with milk and honey. There I pitched my +tent, and stayed till the good man died, and his business was +discontinued. + +“But while there,” said Titbottom, and his voice trembled away +into a sigh, “I first saw Preciosa. Spite of the spectacles, I +saw Preciosa. For days, for weeks, for months, I did not take +my spectacles with me. I ran away from them, I threw them up on +high shelves, I tried to make up my mind to throw them into the +sea, or down the well. I could not, I would not, I dared not look +at Preciosa through the spectacles. It was not possible for me +deliberately to destroy them; but I awoke in the night, and could +almost have cursed my dear old grandfather for his gift. I escaped +from the office, and sat for whole days with Preciosa. I told her +the strange things I had seen with my mystic glasses. The hours +were not enough for the wild romances which I raved in her ear. +She listened, astonished and appalled. Her blue eyes turned upon +me with a sweet deprecation. She clung to me, and then withdrew, +and fled fearfully from the room. But she could not stay away. She +could not resist my voice, in whose tones burned all the love that +filled my heart and brain. The very effort to resist the desire of +seeing her as I saw everybody else, gave a frenzy and an unnatural +tension to my feeling and my manner. I sat by her side, looking +into her eyes, smoothing her hair, folding her to my heart, which +was sunken and deep—why not forever?—in that dream of peace. I +ran from her presence, and shouted, and leaped with joy, and sat +the whole night through, thrilled into happiness by the thought +of her love and loveliness, like a wind-harp, tightly strung, and +answering the airiest sigh of the breeze with music. Then came +calmer days—the conviction of deep love settled upon our lives—as +after the hurrying, heaving days of spring, comes the bland and +benignant summer. + +“‘It is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy,’ I said to +her, one day; and there came no answer, for happiness is speechless. + +“We are happy then,” I said to myself, “there is no excitement now. +How glad I am that I can now look at her through my spectacles.” + +“I feared lest some instinct should warn me to beware. I escaped +from her arms, and ran home and seized the glasses and bounded +back again to Preciosa. As I entered the room I was heated, my +head was swimming with confused apprehension, my eyes must have +glared. Preciosa was frightened, and rising from her seat, stood +with an inquiring glance of surprise in her eyes. But I was bent +with frenzy upon my purpose. I was merely aware that she was +in the room. I saw nothing else. I heard nothing. I cared for +nothing, but to see her through that magic glass, and feel at once, +all the fulness of blissful perfection which that would reveal. +Preciosa stood before the mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager +movements, unable to distinguish what I had in my hands, and seeing +me raise them suddenly to my face, she shrieked with terror, and +fell fainting upon the floor, at the very moment that I placed the +glasses before my eyes, and beheld—myself, reflected in the mirror, +before which she had been standing. + +“Dear madam,” cried Titbottom, to my wife, springing up and falling +back again in his chair, pale and trembling, while Prue ran to him +and took his hand, and I poured out a glass of water—“I saw myself.” + +There was silence for many minutes. Prue laid her hand gently upon +the head of our guest, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed +softly, like an infant in sleeping. Perhaps, in all the long years +of anguish since that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow, +nor wiped away the damps of a bitter sorrow. Perhaps the tender, +maternal fingers of my wife soothed his weary head with the +conviction that he felt the hand of his mother playing with the +long hair of her boy in the soft West Indian morning. Perhaps it +was only the natural relief of expressing a pent-up sorrow. When +he spoke again, it was with the old, subdued tone, and the air of +quaint solemnity. + +“These things were matters of long, long ago, and I came to this +country soon after. I brought with me, premature age, a past +of melancholy memories, and the magic spectacles. I had become +their slave. I had nothing more to fear. Having seen myself, I +was compelled to see others, properly to understand my relations +to them. The lights that cheer the future of other men had gone +out for me. My eyes were those of an exile turned backwards upon +the receding shore, and not forwards with hope upon the ocean. I +mingled with men, but with little pleasure. There are but many +varieties of a few types. I did not find those I came to clearer +sighted than those I had left behind. I heard men called shrewd and +wise, and report said they were highly intelligent and successful. +But when I looked at them through my glasses, I found no halo of +real manliness. My finest sense detected no aroma of purity and +principle; but I saw only a fungus that had fattened and spread in +a night. They all went to the theater to see actors upon the stage. +I went to see actors in the boxes, so consummately cunning, that +the others did not know they were acting, and they did not suspect +it themselves. + +“Perhaps you wonder it did not make me misanthropical. My dear +friends, do not forget that I had seen myself. It made me +compassionate, not cynical. Of course I could not value highly +the ordinary standards of success and excellence. When I went to +church and saw a thin, blue, artificial flower, or a great sleepy +cushion expounding the beauty of holiness to pews full of eagles, +half-eagles, and threepences, however adroitly concealed in +broadcloth and boots: or saw an onion in an Easter bonnet weeping +over the sins of Magdalen, I did not feel as they felt who saw in +all this, not only propriety, but piety. Or when at public meetings +an eel stood up on end, and wriggled and squirmed lithely in every +direction, and declared that, for his part, he went in for rainbows +and hot water—how could I help seeing that he was still black and +loved a slimy pool? + +“I could not grow misanthropical when I saw in the eyes of so +many who were called old, the gushing fountains of eternal youth, +and the light of an immortal dawn, or when I saw those who were +esteemed unsuccessful and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace +and plenty, either in themselves, or more perfectly in another—a +realm and princely possession for which they had well renounced a +hopeless search and a belated triumph. I knew one man who had been +for years a by-word for having sought the philosopher’s stone. But +I looked at him through the spectacles and saw a satisfaction in +concentrated energies, and a tenacity arising from devotion to a +noble dream, which was not apparent in the youths who pitied him in +the aimless effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clever gentlemen who +cracked their thin jokes upon him over a gossiping dinner. + +“And there was your neighbor over the way, who passes for a woman +who has failed in her career, because she is an old maid. People +wag solemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake +in not marrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years +her suitor. It is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom +for her. The young people make tender romances about her as they +watch her, and think of her solitary hours of bitter regret, and +wasting longing, never to be satisfied. When I first came to town +I shared this sympathy, and pleased my imagination with fancying +her hard struggle with the conviction that she had lost all that +made life beautiful. I supposed that if I looked at her through +my spectacles, I should see that it was only her radiant temper +which so illuminated her dress, that we did not see it to be heavy +sables. But when, one day, I did raise my glasses and glanced at +her, I did not see the old maid whom we all pitied for a secret +sorrow, but a woman whose nature was a tropic, in which the sun +shone, and birds sang, and flowers bloomed forever. There were +no regrets, no doubts and half wishes, but a calm sweetness, a +transparent peace. I saw her blush when that old lover passed by, +or paused to speak to her, but it was only the sign of delicate +feminine consciousness. She knew his love, and honored it, although +she could not understand it nor return it. I looked closely at +her, and I saw that although all the world had exclaimed at her +indifference to such homage, and had declared it was astonishing +she should lose so fine a match, she would only say simply and +quietly— + +“‘If Shakespeare loved me and I did not love him, how could I marry +him?’ + +“Could I be misanthropical when I saw such fidelity, and dignity, +and simplicity? + +“You may believe that I was especially curious to look at that old +lover of hers, through my glasses. He was no longer young, you +know, when I came, and his fame and fortune were secure. Certainly +I have heard of few men more beloved, and of none more worthy +to be loved. He had the easy manner of a man of the world, the +sensitive grace of a poet, and the charitable judgment of a wide +traveller. He was accounted the most successful and most unspoiled +of men. Handsome, brilliant, wise, tender, graceful, accomplished, +rich, and famous, I looked at him, without the spectacles, in +surprise, and admiration, and wondered how your neighbor over the +way had been so entirely untouched by his homage. I watched their +intercourse in society, I saw her gay smile, her cordial greeting; +I marked his frank address, his lofty courtesy. Their manner +told no tales. The eager world was balked, and I pulled out my +spectacles. + +“I had seen her, already, and now I saw him. He lived only in +memory, and his memory was a spacious and stately palace. But he +did not oftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless +hospitality and feasting—nor did he loiter much in reception rooms, +where a throng of new visitors was forever swarming—nor did he +feed his vanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored +the trophies of his varied triumphs—nor dream much in the great +gallery hung with pictures of his travels. But from all these lofty +halls of memory he constantly escaped to a remote and solitary +chamber, into which no one had ever penetrated. But my fatal +eyes, behind the glasses, followed and entered with him, and saw +that the chamber was a chapel. It was dim, and silent, and sweet +with perpetual incense that burned upon an altar before a picture +forever veiled. There, whenever I chanced to look, I saw him kneel +and pray; and there, by day and by night, a funeral hymn was +chanted. + +“I do not believe you will be surprised that I have been content +to remain deputy bookkeeper. My spectacles regulated my ambition, +and I early learned that there were better gods than Plutus. The +glasses have lost much of their fascination now, and I do not often +use them. Sometimes the desire is irresistible. Whenever I am +greatly interested, I am compelled to take them out and see what it +is that I admire. + +“And yet—and yet,” said Titbottom, after a pause, “I am not sure +that I thank my grandfather.” + +Prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word of +the story. I saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask, +and had been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare +her the necessity of asking. But Titbottom had resumed his usual +tone, after the momentary excitement, and made no further allusion +to himself. We all sat silently; Titbottom’s eyes fastened musingly +upon the carpet: Prue looking wistfully at him, and I regarding +both. + +It was past midnight, and our guest arose to go. He shook hands +quietly, made his grave Spanish bow to Prue, and taking his hat, +went towards the front door. Prue and I accompanied him. I saw in +her eyes that she would ask her question. And as Titbottom opened +the door, I heard the low words: + +“And Preciosa?” + +Titbottom paused. He had just opened the door and the moonlight +streamed over him as he stood, turning back to us. + +“I have seen her but once since. It was in church, and she was +kneeling with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me. But I +rubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily, +whose stem was broken, but which was fresh; and luminous, and +fragrant, still.” + +“That was a miracle,” interrupted Prue. + +“Madam, it was a miracle,” replied Titbottom, “and for that one +sight I am devoutly grateful for my grandfather’s gift. I saw, that +although a flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it +may still bloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven.” + +The door closed, and he was gone. But as Prue put her arm in mine +and we went upstairs together, she whispered in my ear: + +“How glad I am that you don’t wear spectacles.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[14] From _Putnam’s Monthly_, December, 1854. Republished in the +volume, _Prue and I_ (1856), by George William Curtis (Harper & +Brothers). + + + + +MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME[15] + +By Edward Everett Hale (1822–1909) + + +It is not often that I trouble the readers of _The Atlantic +Monthly_. I should not trouble them now, but for the importunities +of my wife, who “feels to insist” that a duty to society is +unfulfilled, till I have told why I had to have a double, and +how he undid me. She is sure, she says, that intelligent persons +cannot understand that pressure upon public servants which alone +drives any man into the employment of a double. And while I fear +she thinks, at the bottom of her heart, that my fortunes will never +be re-made, she has a faint hope, that, as another Rasselas, I +may teach a lesson to future publics, from which they may profit, +though we die. Owing to the behavior of my double, or, if you +please, to that public pressure which compelled me to employ him, I +have plenty of leisure to write this communication. + +I am, or rather was, a minister, of the Sandemanian connection. I +was settled in the active, wide-awake town of Naguadavick, on one +of the finest water-powers in Maine. We used to call it a Western +town in the heart of the civilization of New England. A charming +place it was and is. A spirited, brave young parish had I; and it +seemed as if we might have all “the joy of eventful living” to our +hearts’ content. + +Alas! how little we knew on the day of my ordination, and in those +halcyon moments of our first housekeeping! To be the confidential +friend in a hundred families in the town—cutting the social trifle, +as my friend Haliburton says, “from the top of the whipped-syllabub +to the bottom of the sponge-cake, which is the foundation”—to keep +abreast of the thought of the age in one’s study, and to do one’s +best on Sunday to interweave that thought with the active life of +an active town, and to inspirit both and make both infinite by +glimpses of the Eternal Glory, seemed such an exquisite forelook +into one’s life! Enough to do, and all so real and so grand! If +this vision could only have lasted. + +The truth is, that this vision was not in itself a delusion, nor, +indeed, half bright enough. If one could only have been left to +do his own business, the vision would have accomplished itself +and brought out new paraheliacal visions, each as bright as the +original. The misery was and is, as we found out, I and Polly, +before long, that, besides the vision, and besides the usual human +and finite failures in life (such as breaking the old pitcher +that came over in the Mayflower, and putting into the fire the +alpenstock with which her father climbed Mont Blanc)—besides, +these, I say (imitating the style of Robinson Crusoe), there +were pitchforked in on us a great rowen-heap of humbugs, handed +down from some unknown seed-time, in which we were expected, +and I chiefly, to fulfil certain public functions before the +community, of the character of those fulfilled by the third row +of supernumeraries who stand behind the Sepoys in the spectacle +of the _Cataract of the Ganges_. They were the duties, in a word, +which one performs as member of one or another social class or +subdivision, wholly distinct from what one does as A. by himself A. +What invisible power put these functions on me, it would be very +hard to tell. But such power there was and is. And I had not been +at work a year before I found I was living two lives, one real and +one merely functional—for two sets of people, one my parish, whom +I loved, and the other a vague public, for whom I did not care two +straws. All this was in a vague notion, which everybody had and +has, that this second life would eventually bring out some great +results, unknown at present, to somebody somewhere. + +Crazed by this duality of life, I first read Dr. Wigan on the +_Duality of the Brain_, hoping that I could train one side of my +head to do these outside jobs, and the other to do my intimate and +real duties. For Richard Greenough once told me that, in studying +for the statue of Franklin, he found that the left side of the +great man’s face was philosophic and reflective, and the right side +funny and smiling. If you will go and look at the bronze statue, +you will find he has repeated this observation there for posterity. +The eastern profile is the portrait of the statesman Franklin, +the western of Poor Richard. But Dr. Wigan does not go into these +niceties of this subject, and I failed. It was then that, on my +wife’s suggestion, I resolved to look out for a Double. + +I was, at first, singularly successful. We happened to be +recreating at Stafford Springs that summer. We rode out one day, +for one of the relaxations of that watering-place, to the great +Monsonpon House. We were passing through one of the large halls, +when my destiny was fulfilled! I saw my man! + +He was not shaven. He had on no spectacles. He was dressed in a +green baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, worn sadly at +the knee. But I saw at once that he was of my height, five feet +four and a half. He had black hair, worn off by his hat. So have +and have not I. He stooped in walking. So do I. His hands were +large, and mine. And—choicest gift of Fate in all—he had, not +“a strawberry-mark on his left arm,” but a cut from a juvenile +brickbat over his right eye, slightly affecting the play of that +eyebrow. Reader, so have I!—My fate was sealed! + +A word with Mr. Holley, one of the inspectors, settled the whole +thing. It proved that this Dennis Shea was a harmless, amiable +fellow, of the class known as shiftless, who had sealed his +fate by marrying a dumb wife, who was at that moment ironing in +the laundry. Before I left Stafford, I had hired both for five +years. We had applied to Judge Pynchon, then the probate judge at +Springfield, to change the name of Dennis Shea to Frederic Ingham. +We had explained to the Judge, what was the precise truth, that +an eccentric gentleman wished to adopt Dennis under this new name +into his family. It never occurred to him that Dennis might be more +than fourteen years old. And thus, to shorten this preface, when +we returned at night to my parsonage at Naguadavick, there entered +Mrs. Ingham, her new dumb laundress, myself, who am Mr. Frederic +Ingham, and my double, who was Mr. Frederic Ingham by as good right +as I. + +Oh, the fun we had the next morning in shaving his beard to my +pattern, cutting his hair to match mine, and teaching him how to +wear and how to take off gold-bowed spectacles! Really, they were +electroplate, and the glass was plain (for the poor fellow’s eyes +were excellent). Then in four successive afternoons I taught him +four speeches. I had found these would be quite enough for the +supernumerary-Sepoy line of life, and it was well for me they were. +For though he was good-natured, he was very shiftless, and it was, +as our national proverb says, “like pulling teeth” to teach him. +But at the end of the next week he could say, with quite my easy +and frisky air: + +1. “Very well, thank you. And you?” This for an answer to casual +salutations. + +2. “I am very glad you liked it.” + +3. “There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, +that I will not occupy the time.” + +4. “I agree, in general, with my friend on the other side of the +room.” + +At first I had a feeling that I was going to be at great cost for +clothing him. But it proved, of course, at once, that, whenever he +was out, I should be at home. And I went, during the bright period +of his success, to so few of those awful pageants which require a +black dress-coat and what the ungodly call, after Mr. Dickens, a +white choker, that in the happy retreat of my own dressing-gowns +and jackets my days went by as happily and cheaply as those of +another Thalaba. And Polly declares there was never a year when +the tailoring cost so little. He lived (Dennis, not Thalaba) in +his wife’s room over the kitchen. He had orders never to show +himself at that window. When he appeared in the front of the house, +I retired to my sanctissimum and my dressing-gown. In short, the +Dutchman and, his wife, in the old weather-box, had not less to do +with, each other than he and I. He made the furnace-fire and split +the wood before daylight; then he went to sleep again, and slept +late; then came for orders, with a red silk bandanna tied round +his head, with his overalls on, and his dress-coat and spectacles +off. If we happened to be interrupted, no one guessed that he was +Frederic Ingham as well as I; and, in the neighborhood, there grew +up an impression that the minister’s Irishman worked day-times in +the factory village at New Coventry. After I had given him his +orders, I never saw him till the next day. + +I launched him by sending him to a meeting of the Enlightenment +Board. The Enlightenment Board consists of seventy-four members, +of whom sixty-seven are necessary to form a quorum. One becomes a +member under the regulations laid down in old Judge Dudley’s will. +I became one by being ordained pastor of a church in Naguadavick. +You see you cannot help yourself, if you would. At this particular +time we had had four successive meetings, averaging four hours +each—wholly occupied in whipping in a quorum. At the first only +eleven men were present; at the next, by force of three circulars, +twenty-seven; at the third, thanks to two days’ canvassing by +Auchmuty and myself, begging men to come, we had sixty. Half the +others were in Europe. But without a quorum we could do nothing. +All the rest of us waited grimly for our four hours, and adjourned +without any action. At the fourth meeting we had flagged, and +only got fifty-nine together. But on the first appearance of my +double—whom I sent on this fatal Monday to the fifth meeting—he was +the _sixty-seventh_ man who entered the room. He was greeted with +a storm of applause! The poor fellow had missed his way—read the +street signs ill through his spectacles (very ill, in fact, without +them)—and had not dared to inquire. He entered the room—finding +the president and secretary holding to their chairs two judges +of the Supreme Court, who were also members _ex officio_, and +were begging leave to go away. On his entrance all was changed. +_Presto_, the by-laws were amended, and the Western property was +given away. Nobody stopped to converse with him. He voted, as I +had charged him to do, in every instance, with the minority. I +won new laurels as a man of sense, though a little unpunctual—and +Dennis, _alias_ Ingham, returned to the parsonage, astonished to +see with how little wisdom the world is governed. He cut a few of +my parishioners in the street; but he had his glasses off, and I am +known to be nearsighted. Eventually he recognized them more readily +than I. + +I “set him again” at the exhibition of the New Coventry Academy; +and here he undertook a “speaking part”—as, in my boyish, worldly +days, I remember the bills used to say of Mlle. Celeste. We are all +trustees of the New Coventry Academy; and there has lately been +“a good deal of feeling” because the Sandemanian trustees did not +regularly attend the exhibitions. It has been intimated, indeed, +that the Sandemanians are leaning towards Free-Will, and that we +have, therefore, neglected these semi-annual exhibitions, while +there is no doubt that Auchmuty last year went to Commencement at +Waterville. Now the head master at New Coventry is a real good +fellow, who knows a Sanskrit root when he sees it, and often cracks +etymologies with me—so that, in strictness, I ought to go to their +exhibitions. But think, reader, of sitting through three long July +days in that Academy chapel, following the program from + + TUESDAY MORNING. ENGLISH COMPOSITION. Sunshine. Miss Jones, + +round to + + Trio on Three Pianos. Duel from opera of Midshipman Easy. + MARRYATT. + +coming in at nine, Thursday evening! Think of this, reader, for +men who know the world is trying to go backward, and who would +give their lives if they could help it on! Well! The double had +succeeded so well at the Board, that I sent him to the Academy. +(Shade of Plato, pardon!) He arrived early on Tuesday, when, +indeed, few but mothers and clergymen are generally expected, and +returned in the evening to us, covered with honors. He had dined +at the right hand of the chairman, and he spoke in high terms of +the repast. The chairman had expressed his interest in the French +conversation. “I am very glad you liked it,” said Dennis; and the +poor chairman, abashed, supposed the accent had been wrong. At +the end of the day, the gentlemen present had been called upon +for speeches—the Rev. Frederic Ingham first, as it happened; upon +which Dennis had risen, and had said, “There has been so much +said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the +time.” The girls were delighted, because Dr. Dabney, the year +before, had given them at this occasion a scolding on impropriety +of behavior at lyceum lectures. They all declared Mr. Ingham was a +love—and _so_ handsome! (Dennis is good-looking.) Three of them, +with arms behind the others’ waists, followed him up to the wagon +he rode home in; and a little girl with a blue sash had been sent +to give him a rosebud. After this debut in speaking, he went to +the exhibition for two days more, to the mutual satisfaction of +all concerned. Indeed, Polly reported that he had pronounced the +trustees’ dinners of a higher grade than those of the parsonage. +When the next term began, I found six of the Academy girls had +obtained permission to come across the river and attend our church. +But this arrangement did not long continue. + +After this he went to several Commencements for me, and ate the +dinners provided; he sat through three of our Quarterly Conventions +for me—always voting judiciously, by the simple rule mentioned +above, of siding with the minority. And I, meanwhile, who had +before been losing caste among my friends, as holding myself aloof +from the associations of the body, began to rise in everybody’s +favor. “Ingham’s a good fellow—always on hand”; “never talks +much—but does the right thing at the right time”; “is not as +unpunctual as he used to be—he comes early, and sits through to the +end.” “He has got over his old talkative habit, too. I spoke to a +friend of his about it once; and I think Ingham took it kindly,” +etc., etc. + +This voting power of Dennis was particularly valuable at the +quarterly meetings of the Proprietors of the Naguadavick Ferry. +My wife inherited from her father some shares in that enterprise, +which is not yet fully developed, though it doubtless will become a +very valuable property. The law of Maine then forbade stockholders +to appear by proxy at such meetings. Polly disliked to go, not +being, in fact, a “hens’-rights hen,” and transferred her stock to +me. I, after going once, disliked it more than she. But Dennis went +to the next meeting, and liked it very much. He said the armchairs +were good, the collation good, and the free rides to stockholders +pleasant. He was a little frightened when they first took him upon +one of the ferry-boats, but after two or three quarterly meetings +he became quite brave. + +Thus far I never had any difficulty with him. Indeed, being of +that type which is called shiftless, he was only too happy to be +told daily what to do, and to be charged not to be forthputting +or in any way original in his discharge of that duty. He learned, +however, to discriminate between the lines of his life, and very +much preferred these stockholders’ meetings and trustees’ dinners +and commencement collations to another set of occasions, from +which he used to beg off most piteously. Our excellent brother, +Dr. Fillmore, had taken a notion at this time that our Sandemanian +churches needed more expression of mutual sympathy. He insisted +upon it that we were remiss. He said, that, if the Bishop came to +preach at Naguadavick, all the Episcopal clergy of the neighborhood +were present; if Dr. Pond came, all the Congregational clergymen +turned out to hear him; if Dr. Nichols, all the Unitarians; and +he thought we owed it to each other that, whenever there was an +occasional service at a Sandemanian church, the other brethren +should all, if possible, attend. “It looked well,” if nothing +more. Now this really meant that I had not been to hear one of Dr. +Fillmore’s lectures on the Ethnology of Religion. He forgot that +he did not hear one of my course on the Sandemanianism of Anselm. +But I felt badly when he said it; and afterwards I always made +Dennis go to hear all the brethren preach, when I was not preaching +myself. This was what he took exceptions to—the only thing, as I +said, which he ever did except to. Now came the advantage of his +long morning-nap, and of the green tea with which Polly supplied +the kitchen. But he would plead, so humbly, to be let off, only +from one or two! I never excepted him, however. I knew the lectures +were of value, and I thought it best he should be able to keep the +connection. + +Polly is more rash than I am, as the reader has observed in the +outset of this memoir. She risked Dennis one night under the +eyes of her own sex. Governor Gorges had always been very kind +to us; and when he gave his great annual party to the town, +asked us. I confess I hated to go. I was deep in the new volume +of Pfeiffer’s _Mystics_, which Haliburton had just sent me from +Boston. “But how rude,” said Polly, “not to return the Governor’s +civility and Mrs. Gorges’s, when they will be sure to ask why you +are away!” Still I demurred, and at last she, with the wit of +Eve and of Semiramis conjoined, let me off by saying that, if I +would go in with her, and sustain the initial conversations with +the Governor and the ladies staying there, she would risk Dennis +for the rest of the evening. And that was just what we did. She +took Dennis in training all that afternoon, instructed him in +fashionable conversation, cautioned him against the temptations +of the supper-table—and at nine in the evening he drove us all +down in the carryall. I made the grand star-entrée with Polly and +the pretty Walton girls, who were staying with us. We had put +Dennis into a great rough top-coat, without his glasses—and the +girls never dreamed, in the darkness, of looking at him. He sat in +the carriage, at the door, while we entered. I did the agreeable +to Mrs. Gorges, was introduced to her niece. Miss Fernanda—I +complimented Judge Jeffries on his decision in the great case of +D’Aulnay _vs._ Laconia Mining Co.—I stepped into the dressing-room +for a moment—stepped out for another—walked home, after a nod with +Dennis, and tying the horse to a pump—and while I walked home, Mr. +Frederic Ingham, my double, stepped in through the library into the +Gorges’s grand saloon. + +Oh! Polly died of laughing as she told me of it at midnight! And +even here, where I have to teach my hands to hew the beech for +stakes to fence our cave, she dies of laughing as she recalls +it—and says that single occasion was worth all we have paid for it. +Gallant Eve that she is! She joined Dennis at the library door, +and in an instant presented him to Dr. Ochterlong, from Baltimore, +who was on a visit in town, and was talking with her, as Dennis +came in. “Mr. Ingham would like to hear what you were telling us +about your success among the German population.” And Dennis bowed +and said, in spite of a scowl from Polly, “I’m very glad you liked +it.” But Dr. Ochterlong did not observe, and plunged into the tide +of explanation, Dennis listening like a prime-minister, and bowing +like a mandarin—which is, I suppose, the same thing. Polly declared +it was just like Haliburton’s Latin conversation with the Hungarian +minister, of which he is very fond of telling. “_Quoene sit +historia Reformationis in Ungariâ?_” quoth Haliburton, after some +thought. And his _confrère_ replied gallantly, “_In seculo decimo +tertio_,” etc., etc., etc.; and from _decimo tertio_[16] to the +nineteenth century and a half lasted till the oysters came. So was +it that before Dr. Ochterlong came to the “success,” or near it, +Governor Gorges came to Dennis and asked him to hand Mrs. Jeffries +down to supper, a request which he heard with great joy. + +Polly was skipping round the room, I guess, gay as a lark. +Auchmuty came to her “in pity for poor Ingham,” who was so bored +by the stupid pundit—and Auchmuty could not understand why I +stood it so long. But when Dennis took Mrs. Jeffries down, Polly +could not resist standing near them. He was a little flustered, +till the sight of the eatables and drinkables gave him the same +Mercian courage which it gave Diggory. A little excited then, he +attempted one or two of his speeches to the Judge’s lady. But +little he knew how hard it was to get in even a _promptu_ there +edgewise. “Very well, I thank you,” said he, after the eating +elements were adjusted; “and you?” And then did not he have to +hear about the mumps, and the measles, and arnica, and belladonna, +and chamomile-flower, and dodecathem, till she changed oysters +for salad—and then about the old practice and the new, and what +her sister said, and what her sister’s friend said, and what the +physician to her sister’s friend said, and then what was said +by the brother of the sister of the physician of the friend of +her sister, exactly as if it had been in Ollendorff? There was a +moment’s pause, as she declined champagne. “I am very glad you +liked it,” said Dennis again, which he never should have said, +but to one who complimented a sermon. “Oh! you are so sharp, Mr. +Ingham! No! I never drink any wine at all—except sometimes in +summer a little currant spirits—from our own currants, you know. +My own mother—that is, I call her my own mother, because, you +know, I do not remember,” etc., etc., etc.; till they came to +the candied orange at the end of the feast—when Dennis, rather +confused, thought he must say something, and tried No. 4—“I agree, +in general, with my friend the other side of the room”—which he +never should have said but at a public meeting. But Mrs. Jeffries, +who never listens expecting to understand, caught him up instantly +with, “Well, I’m sure my husband returns the compliment; he always +agrees with you—though we do worship with the Methodists—but +you know, Mr. Ingham,” etc., etc., etc., till the move was made +upstairs; and as Dennis led her through the hall, he was scarcely +understood by any but Polly, as he said, “There has been so much +said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not occupy the +time.” + +His great resource the rest of the evening was standing in the +library, carrying on animated conversations with one and another +in much the same way. Polly had initiated him in the mysteries +of a discovery of mine, that it is not necessary to finish your +sentence in a crowd, but by a sort of mumble, omitting sibilants +and dentals. This, indeed, if your words fail you, answers even in +public extempore speech—but better where other talking is going +on. Thus: “We missed you at the Natural History Society, Ingham.” +Ingham replies: “I am very gligloglum, that is, that you were +m-m-m-m-m.” By gradually dropping the voice, the interlocutor is +compelled to supply the answer. “Mrs. Ingham, I hope your friend +Augusta is better.” Augusta has not been ill. Polly cannot think +of explaining, however, and answers: “Thank you, ma’am; she is +very rearason wewahwewob,” in lower and lower tones. And Mrs. +Throckmorton, who forgot the subject of which she spoke, as soon +as she asked the question, is quite satisfied. Dennis could see +into the card-room, and came to Polly to ask if he might not go and +play all-fours. But, of course, she sternly refused. At midnight +they came home delightedly: Polly, as I said, wild to tell me the +story of victory; only both the pretty Walton girls said: “Cousin +Frederic, you did not come near me all the evening.” + +We always called him Dennis at home, for convenience, though his +real name was Frederic Ingham, as I have explained. When the +election day came round, however, I found that by some accident +there was only one Frederic Ingham’s name on the voting-list; and, +as I was quite busy that day in writing some foreign letters to +Halle, I thought I would forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay +quietly at home, telling Dennis that he might use the record on +the voting-list and vote. I gave him a ticket, which I told him he +might use, if he liked to. That was that very sharp election in +Maine which the readers of _The Atlantic_ so well remember, and it +had been intimated in public that the ministers would do well not +to appear at the polls. Of course, after that, we had to appear by +self or proxy. Still, Naguadavick was not then a city, and this +standing in a double queue at townmeeting several hours to vote was +a bore of the first water; and so, when I found that there was but +one Frederic Ingham on the list, and that one of us must give up, +I stayed at home and finished the letters (which, indeed, procured +for Fothergill his coveted appointment of Professor of Astronomy +at Leavenworth), and I gave Dennis, as we called him, the chance. +Something in the matter gave a good deal of popularity to the +Frederic Ingham name; and at the adjourned election, next week, +Frederic Ingham was chosen to the legislature. Whether this was I +or Dennis, I never really knew. My friends seemed to think it was +I; but I felt, that, as Dennis had done the popular thing, he was +entitled to the honor; so I sent him to Augusta when the time came, +and he took the oaths. And a very valuable member he made. They +appointed him on the Committee on Parishes; but I wrote a letter +for him, resigning, on the ground that he took an interest in our +claim to the stumpage in the minister’s sixteenths of Gore A, next +No. 7, in the 10th Range. He never made any speeches, and always +voted with the minority, which was what he was sent to do. He made +me and himself a great many good friends, some of whom I did not +afterwards recognize as quickly as Dennis did my parishioners. On +one or two occasions, when there was wood to saw at home, I kept +him at home; but I took those occasions to go to Augusta myself. +Finding myself often in his vacant seat at these times, I watched +the proceedings with a good deal of care; and once was so much +excited that I delivered my somewhat celebrated speech on the +Central School District question, a speech of which the State of +Maine printed some extra copies. I believe there is no formal rule +permitting strangers to speak; but no one objected. + +Dennis himself, as I said, never spoke at all. But our experience +this session led me to think, that if, by some such “general +understanding” as the reports speak of in legislation daily, every +member of Congress might leave a double to sit through those +deadly sessions and answer to roll-calls and do the legitimate +party-voting, which appears stereotyped in the regular list of +Ashe, Bocock, Black, etc., we should gain decidedly in working +power. As things stand, the saddest state prison I ever visit is +that Representatives’ Chamber in Washington. If a man leaves for +an hour, twenty “correspondents” may be howling, “Where was Mr. +Prendergast when the Oregon bill passed?” And if poor Prendergast +stays there! Certainly, the worst use you can make of a man is to +put him in prison! + +I know, indeed, that public men of the highest rank have resorted +to this expedient long ago. Dumas’s novel of _The Iron Mask_ turns +on the brutal imprisonment of Louis the Fourteenth’s double. There +seems little doubt, in our own history, that it was the real +General Pierce who shed tears when the delegate from Lawrence +explained to him the sufferings of the people there—and only +General Pierce’s double who had given the orders for the assault +on that town, which was invaded the next day. My charming friend, +George Withers, has, I am almost sure, a double, who preaches his +afternoon sermons for him. This is the reason that the theology +often varies so from that of the forenoon. But that double is +almost as charming as the original. Some of the most well-defined +men, who stand out most prominently on the background of history, +are in this way stereoscopic men; who owe their distinct relief to +the slight differences between the doubles. All this I know. My +present suggestion is simply the great extension of the system, so +that all public machine-work may be done by it. + +But I see I loiter on my story, which is rushing to the plunge. +Let me stop an instant more, however, to recall, were it only +to myself, that charming year while all was yet well. After the +double had become a matter of course, for nearly twelve months +before he undid me, what a year it was! Full of active life, full +of happy love, of the hardest work, of the sweetest sleep, and +the fulfilment of so many of the fresh aspirations and dreams of +boyhood! Dennis went to every school-committee meeting, and sat +through all those late wranglings which used to keep me up till +midnight and awake till morning. He attended all the lectures to +which foreign exiles sent me tickets begging me to come for the +love of Heaven and of Bohemia. He accepted and used all the tickets +for charity concerts which were sent to me. He appeared everywhere +where it was specially desirable that “our denomination,” or +“our party,” or “our class,” or “our family,” or “our street,” +or “our town,” or “our country,” or “our state,” should be fully +represented. And I fell back to that charming life which in +boyhood one dreams of, when he supposes he shall do his own duty +and make his own sacrifices, without being tied up with those of +other people. My rusty Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, +French, Italian, Spanish, German and English began to take polish. +Heavens! how little I had done with them while I attended to my +_public_ duties! My calls on my parishioners became the friendly, +frequent, homelike sociabilities they were meant to be, instead +of the hard work of a man goaded to desperation by the sight of +his lists of arrears. And preaching! what a luxury preaching was +when I had on Sunday the whole result of an individual, personal +week, from which to speak to a people whom all that week I had been +meeting as hand-to-hand friend! I never tired on Sunday, and was +in condition to leave the sermon at home, if I chose, and preach +it extempore, as all men should do always. Indeed, I wonder, when +I think that a sensible people like ours—really more attached to +their clergy than they were in the lost days, when the Mathers and +Nortons were noblemen—should choose to neutralize so much of their +ministers’ lives, and destroy so much of their early training, +by this undefined passion for seeing them in public. It springs +from our balancing of sects. If a spirited Episcopalian takes an +interest in the almshouse, and is put on the Poor Board, every +other denomination must have a minister there, lest the poorhouse +be changed into St. Paul’s Cathedral. If a Sandemanian is chosen +president of the Young Men’s Library, there must be a Methodist +vice-president and a Baptist secretary. And if a Universalist +Sunday-School Convention collects five hundred delegates, the next +Congregationalist Sabbath-School Conference must be as large, “lest +‘they’—whoever _they_ may be—should think ‘we’—whoever _we_ may +be—are going down.” + +Freed from these necessities, that happy year, I began to know my +wife by sight. We saw each other sometimes. In those long mornings, +when Dennis was in the study explaining to map-peddlers that I +had eleven maps of Jerusalem already, and to school-book agents +that I would see them hanged before I would be bribed to introduce +their textbooks into the schools—she and I were at work together, +as in those old dreamy days—and in these of our log-cabin again. +But all this could not last—and at length poor Dennis, my double, +overtasked in turn, undid me. + +It was thus it happened. There is an excellent fellow—once a +minister—I will call him Isaacs—who deserves well of the world +till he dies, and after—because he once, in a real exigency, did +the right thing, in the right way, at the right time, as no other +man could do it. In the world’s great football match, the ball by +chance found him loitering on the outside of the field; he closed +with it, “camped” it, charged, it home—yes, right through the +other side—not disturbed, not frightened by his own success—and +breathless found himself a great man—as the Great Delta rang +applause. But he did not find himself a rich man; and the football +has never come in his way again. From that moment to this moment he +has been of no use, that one can see, at all. Still, for that great +act we speak of Isaacs gratefully and remember him kindly; and he +forges on, hoping to meet the football somewhere again. In that +vague hope, he had arranged a “movement” for a general organization +of the human family into Debating Clubs, County Societies, State +Unions, etc., etc., with a view of inducing all children to take +hold of the handles of their knives and forks, instead of the +metal. Children have bad habits in that way. The movement, of +course, was absurd; but we all did our best to forward, not it, but +him. It came time for the annual county-meeting on this subject +to be held at Naguadavick. Isaacs came round, good fellow! to +arrange for it—got the townhall, got the Governor to preside (the +saint!—he ought to have triplet doubles provided him by law), and +then came to get me to speak. “No,” I said, “I would not speak, if +ten Governors presided. I do not believe in the enterprise. If I +spoke, it should be to say children should take hold of the prongs +of the forks and the blades of the knives. I would subscribe ten +dollars, but I would not speak a mill.” So poor Isaacs went his +way, sadly, to coax Auchmuty to speak, and Delafield. I went out. +Not long after, he came back, and told Polly that they had promised +to speak—the Governor would speak—and he himself would close with +the quarterly report, and some interesting anecdotes regarding. +Miss Biffin’s way of handling her knife and Mr. Nellis’s way of +footing his fork. “Now if Mr. Ingham will only come and sit on the +platform, he need not say one word; but it will show well in the +paper—it will show that the Sandemanians take as much interest +in the movement as the Armenians or the Mesopotamians, and will +be a great favor to me.” Polly, good soul! was tempted, and she +promised. She knew Mrs. Isaacs was starving, and the babies—she +knew Dennis was at home—and she promised! Night came, and I +returned. I heard her story. I was sorry. I doubted. But Polly had +promised to beg me, and I dared all! I told Dennis to hold his +peace, under all circumstances, and sent him down. + +It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with +excitement—in a perfect Irish fury—which it was long before I +understood. But I knew at once that he had undone me! + +What happened was this: The audience got together, attracted by +Governor Gorges’s name. There were a thousand people. Poor Gorges +was late from Augusta. They became impatient. He came in direct +from the train at last, really ignorant of the object of the +meeting. He opened it in the fewest possible words, and said other +gentlemen were present who would entertain them better than he. +The audience were disappointed, but waited. The Governor, prompted +by Isaacs, said, “The Honorable Mr. Delafield will address you.” +Delafield had forgotten the knives and forks, and was playing the +Ruy Lopez opening at the chess club. “The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty will +address you.” Auchmuty had promised to speak late, and was at the +school committee. “I see Dr. Stearns in the hall; perhaps he will +say a word.” Dr. Stearns said he had come to listen and not to +speak. The Governor and Isaacs whispered. The Governor looked at +Dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but Isaacs, to give +him his due, shook his head. But the look was enough. A miserable +lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it would sound +well to call for me, and peeped out, “Ingham!” A few more wretches +cried, “Ingham! Ingham!” Still Isaacs was firm; but the Governor, +anxious, indeed, to prevent a row, knew I would say something, +and said, “Our friend Mr. Ingham is always prepared—and though we +had not relied upon him, he will say a word, perhaps.” Applause +followed, which turned Dennis’s head. He rose, flattered, and +tried No. 3: “There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so +well said, that I will not longer occupy the time!” and sat down, +looking for his hat; for things seemed squally. But the people +cried, “Go on! go on!” and some applauded. Dennis, still confused, +but flattered by the applause, to which neither he nor I are used, +rose again, and this time tried No. 2: “I am very glad you liked +it!” in a sonorous, clear delivery. My best friends stared. All +the people who did not know me personally yelled with delight at +the aspect of the evening; the Governor was beside himself, and +poor Isaacs thought he was undone! Alas, it was I! A boy in the +gallery cried in a loud tone, “It’s all an infernal humbug,” just +as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried No. 4: +“I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room.” +The poor Governor doubted his senses, and crossed to stop him—not +in time, however. The same gallery-boy shouted, “How’s your +mother?”—and Dennis, now completely lost, tried, as his last shot, +No. 1, vainly: “Very well, thank you; and you?” + +I think I must have been undone already. But Dennis, like another +Lockhard chose “to make sicker.” The audience rose in a whirl of +amazement, rage, and sorrow. Some other impertinence, aimed at +Dennis, broke all restraint, and, in pure Irish, he delivered +himself of an address to the gallery, inviting any person who +wished to fight to come down and do so—stating, that they were all +dogs and cowards—that he would take any five of them single-handed, +“Shure, I have said all his Riverence and the Misthress bade me +say,” cried he, in defiance; and, seizing the Governor’s cane from +his hand, brandished it, quarter-staff fashion, above his head. He +was, indeed, got from the hall only with the greatest difficulty +by the Governor, the City Marshal, who had been called in, and the +Superintendent of my Sunday School. + +The universal impression, of course, was, that the Rev. Frederic +Ingham had lost all command of himself in some of those haunts +of intoxication which for fifteen years I have been laboring to +destroy. Till this moment, indeed, that is the impression in +Naguadavick. This number of _The Atlantic_ will relieve from it a +hundred friends of mine who have been sadly wounded by that notion +now for years—but I shall not be likely ever to show my head there +again. + +No! My double has undone me. + +We left town at seven the next morning. I came to No. 9, in the +Third Range, and settled on the Minister’s Lot, In the new towns in +Maine, the first settled minister has a gift of a hundred acres of +land. I am the first settled minister in No. 9. My wife and little +Paulina are my parish. We raise corn enough to live on in summer. +We kill bear’s meat enough to carbonize it in winter. I work on +steadily on my _Traces of Sandemanianism in the Sixth and Seventh +Centuries_, which I hope to persuade Phillips, Sampson & Co. to +publish next year. We are very happy, but the world thinks we are +undone. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[15] From _The Atlantic Monthly_, September, 1859. Republished in +the volume, _The Man Without a Country, and Other Tales_ (1868), by +Edward Everett Hale (Little, Brown & Co.). + +[16] Which means, “In the thirteenth century,” my dear little +bell-and-coral reader. You have rightly guessed that the question +means, “What is the history of the Reformation in Hungary?” + + + + +A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS[17] + +By Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809–1894) + + +Having just returned from a visit to this admirable Institution +in company with a friend who is one of the Directors, we propose +giving a short account of what we saw and heard. The great success +of the Asylum for Idiots and Feeble-minded Youth, several of the +scholars from which have reached considerable distinction, one +of them being connected with a leading Daily Paper in this city, +and others having served in the State and National Legislatures, +was the motive which led to the foundation of this excellent +charity. Our late distinguished townsman, Noah Dow, Esquire, as +is well known, bequeathed a large portion of his fortune to this +establishment— “being thereto moved,” as his will expressed it, “by +the desire of _N. Dowing_ some public Institution for the benefit +of Mankind.” Being consulted as to the Rules of the Institution and +the selection of a Superintendent, he replied, that “all Boards +must construct their own Platforms of operation. Let them select +_anyhow_ and he should be pleased.” N.E. Howe, Esq., was chosen in +compliance with this delicate suggestion. + +The Charter provides for the support of “One hundred aged and +decayed Gentlemen-Punsters.” On inquiry if there way no provision +for _females_, my friend called my attention to this remarkable +psychological fact, namely: + +THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A FEMALE PUNSTER. + +This remark struck me forcibly, and on reflection I found that _I +never knew nor heard of one_, though I have once or twice heard a +woman make a _single detached_ pun, as I have known a hen to crow. + +On arriving at the south gate of the Asylum grounds, I was about to +ring, but my friend held my arm and begged me to rap with my stick, +which I did. An old man with a very comical face presently opened +the gate and put out his head. + +“So you prefer _Cane_ to _A bell_, do you?” he said—and began +chuckling and coughing at a great rate. + +My friend winked at me. + +“You’re here still, Old Joe, I see,” he said to the old man. + +“Yes, yes—and it’s very odd, considering how often I’ve _bolted_, +nights.” + +He then threw open the double gates for us to ride through. + +“Now,” said the old man, as he pulled the gates after us, “you’ve +had a long journey.” + +“Why, how is that, Old Joe?” said my friend. + +“Don’t you see?” he answered; “there’s the _East hinges_ on the +one side of the gate, and there’s the _West hinges_ on t’other +side—haw! haw! haw!” + +We had no sooner got into the yard than a feeble little gentleman, +with a remarkably bright eye, came up to us, looking very serious, +as if something had happened. + +“The town has entered a complaint against the Asylum as a gambling +establishment,” he said to my friend, the Director. + +“What do you mean?” said my friend. + +“Why, they complain that there’s a _lot o’ rye_ on the premises,” +he answered, pointing to a field of that grain—and hobbled away, +his shoulders shaking with laughter, as he went. + +On entering the main building, we saw the Rules and Regulations for +the Asylum conspicuously posted up. I made a few extracts which may +be interesting: + + +SECT. I. OF VERBAL EXERCISES. + + 5. Each Inmate shall be permitted to make Puns freely from eight + in the morning until ten at night, except during Service in the + Chapel and Grace before Meals. + + 6. At ten o’clock the gas will be turned off, and no further + Puns, Conundrums, or other play on words will be allowed to be + uttered, or to be uttered aloud. + + 9. Inmates who have lost their faculties and cannot any longer + make Puns shall be permitted to repeat such as may be selected + for them by the Chaplain out of the work of _Mr. Joseph Miller_. + + 10. Violent and unmanageable Punsters, who interrupt others when + engaged in conversation, with Puns or attempts at the same, + shall be deprived of their _Joseph Millers_, and, if necessary, + placed in solitary confinement. + + +SECT. III. OF DEPORTMENT AT MEALS. + + 4. No Inmate shall make any Pun, or attempt at the same, until + the Blessing has been asked and the company are decently seated. + + 7. Certain Puns having been placed on the _Index Expurgatorius_ + of the Institution, no Inmate shall be allowed to utter them, on + pain of being debarred the perusal of _Punch_ and _Vanity Fair_, + and, if repeated, deprived of his _Joseph Miller_. + + Among these are the following: + + Allusions to _Attic salt_, when asked to pass the salt-cellar. + + Remarks on the Inmates being _mustered_, etc., etc. + + Associating baked beans with the _bene_-factors of the + Institution. + + Saying that beef-eating is _befitting_, etc., etc. + + The following are also prohibited, excepting to such Inmates as + may have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make Puns of + their own: + + “——your own _hair_ or a wig”; “it will be _long enough_,” etc., + etc.; “little of its age,” etc., etc.; also, playing upon the + following words: _hos_pital; _mayor_; _pun_; _pitied_; _bread_; + _sauce_, etc., etc., etc. _See_ INDEX EXPURGATORIUS, _printed + for use of Inmates_. + + The subjoined Conundrum is not allowed: Why is Hasty Pudding + like the Prince? Because it comes attended by its _sweet_; nor + this variation to it, _to wit_: Because the _’lasses runs after + it_. + +The Superintendent, who went round with us, had been a noted +punster in his time, and well known in the business world, but lost +his customers by making too free with their names—as in the famous +story he set afloat in ’29 _of four Jerries_ attaching to the names +of a noted Judge, an eminent Lawyer, the Secretary of the Board +of Foreign Missions, and the well-known Landlord at Springfield. +One of the _four Jerries_, he added, was of gigantic magnitude. +The play on words was brought out by an accidental remark of +Solomons, the well-known Banker. “_Capital punishment_!” the Jew +was overheard saying, with reference to the guilty parties. He was +understood, as saying, _A capital pun is meant_, which led to an +investigation and the relief of the greatly excited public mind. + +The Superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went +round with us. + +“Do you know”—he broke out all at once—“why they don’t take steppes +in Tartary for establishing Insane Hospitals?” + +We both confessed ignorance. + +“Because there are _nomad_ people to be found there,” he said, with +a dignified smile. + +He proceeded to introduce us to different Inmates. The first was +a middle-aged, scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a +_Webster’s Dictionary_ and a sheet of paper before him. + +“Well, what luck to-day, Mr. Mowzer?” said the Superintendent. + +“Three or four only,” said Mr. Mowzer. “Will you hear ’em now—now +I’m here?” + +We all nodded. + +“Don’t you see Webster _ers_ in the words cent_er_ and theat_er_? + +“If he spells leather _lether_, and feather _fether_, isn’t there +danger that he’ll give us a _bad spell of weather_? + +“Besides, Webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow _u_ to +rest quietly in the _mould_. + +“And again, because Mr. Worcester inserts an illustration in his +text, is that any reason why Mr. Webster’s publishers should hitch +one on in their appendix? It’s what I call a _Connect-a-cut_ trick. + +“Why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven? Because it +is _under bread_.” + +“Mowzer!” said the Superintendent, “that word is on the Index!” + +“I forgot,” said Mr. Mowzer; “please don’t deprive me of _Vanity +Fair_ this one time, sir.” + +“These are all, this morning. Good day, gentlemen.” Then to the +Superintendent: “Add you, sir!” + +The next Inmate was a semi-idiotic-looking old man. He had a heap +of block-letters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed, +without saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them +on the table. They were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of +transposing the letters of the words employed without addition or +subtraction. Here are a few of them: + + TIMES. SMITE! + POST. STOP! + + TRIBUNE. TRUE NIB. + WORLD. DR. OWL. + + ADVERTISER. { RES VERI DAT. + { IS TRUE. READ! + + ALLOPATHY. ALL O’ TH’ PAY. + HOMŒOPATHY. O, THE ——! O! O, MY! PAH! + +The mention of several New York papers led to two or three +questions. Thus: Whether the Editor of _The Tribune_ was _H.G. +really_? If the complexion of his politics were not accounted for +by his being _an eager_ person himself? Whether Wendell _Fillips_ +were not a reduced copy of John _Knocks_? Whether a New York +_Feuilletoniste_ is not the same thing as a _Fellow down East_? + +At this time a plausible-looking, bald-headed man joined us, +evidently waiting to take a part in the conversation. + +“Good morning, Mr. Riggles,” said the Superintendent, “Anything +fresh this morning? Any Conundrum?” + +“I haven’t looked at the cattle,” he answered, dryly. + +“Cattle? Why cattle?” + +“Why, to see if there’s any _corn under ’em_!” he said; and +immediately asked, “Why is Douglas like the earth?” + +We tried, but couldn’t guess. + +“Because he was _flattened out at the polls_!” said Mr. Riggles. + +“A famous politician, formerly,” said the Superintendent. “His +grandfather was a _seize-Hessian-ist_ in the Revolutionary War. By +the way, I hear the _freeze-oil_ doctrines don’t go down at New +Bedford.” + +The next Inmate looked as if he might have been a sailor formerly. + +“Ask him what his calling was,” said the Superintendent. + +“Followed the sea,” he replied to the question put by one of us. +“Went as mate in a fishing-schooner.” + +“Why did you give it up?” + +“Because I didn’t like working for _two mast-ers_,” he replied. + +Presently we came upon a group of elderly persons, gathered about +a venerable gentleman with flowing locks, who was propounding +questions to a row of Inmates. + +“Can any Inmate give me a motto for M. Berger?” he said. + +Nobody responded for two or three minutes. At last one old man, +whom I at once recognized as a Graduate of our University (Anno +1800) held up his hand. + +“Rem _a cue_ tetigit.” + +“Go to the head of the class, Josselyn,” said the venerable +patriarch. + +The successful Inmate did as he was told, but in a very rough way, +pushing against two or three of the Class. + +“How is this?” said the Patriarch. + +“You told me to go up _jostlin’_,” he replied. + +The old gentlemen who had been shoved about enjoyed the pun too +much to be angry. + +Presently the Patriarch asked again: + +“Why was M. Berger authorized to go to the dances given to the +Prince?” + +The Class had to give up this, and he answered it himself: + +“Because every one of his carroms was a _tick-it_ to the ball.” + +“Who collects the money to defray the expenses of the last campaign +in Italy?” asked the Patriarch. + +Here again the Class failed. + +“The war-cloud’s rolling _Dun_,” he answered. + +“And what is mulled wine made with?” + +Three or four voices exclaimed at once: + +“_Sizzle-y_ Madeira!” + +Here a servant entered, and said, “Luncheon-time.” The old +gentlemen, who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one +of them politely asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of +bread and a little mite of cheese. + +“There is one thing I have forgotten to show you,” said the +Superintendent, “the cell for the confinement of violent and +unmanageable Punsters.” + +We were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the +alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could +possibly be made. + +The Superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then +along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into +another passageway, and opened a large door which looked out on the +main entrance. + +“We have not seen the cell for the confinement of ‘violent and +unmanageable’ Punsters,” we both exclaimed. + +“This is the _sell_!” he exclaimed, pointing to the outside +prospect. + +My friend, the Director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly +that I had to laugh. + +“We like to humor the Inmates,” he said. “It has a bad effect, +we find, on their health and spirits to disappoint them of their +little pleasantries. Some of the jests to which we have listened +are not new to me, though I dare say you may not have heard them +often before. The same thing happens in general society, with this +additional disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for +‘violent and unmanageable’ Punsters, as in our Institution.” + +We made our bow to the Superintendent and walked to the place +where our carriage was waiting for us. On our way, an exceedingly +decrepit old man moved slowly toward us, with a perfectly blank +look on his face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak. + +“Look!” said the Director—“that is our Centenarian.” + +The ancient man crawled toward us, cocked one eye, with which he +seemed to see a little, up at us, and said: + +“Sarvant, young Gentlemen. Why is a—a—a—like a—a—a—? Give it up? +Because it’s a—a—a—a—.” + +He smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough. + +“One hundred and seven last Christmas,” said the Director. “Of late +years he puts his whole Conundrums in blank—but they please him +just as well.” + +We took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit, +hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the Records of +this excellent Charity and making extracts for the benefit of our +Readers. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[17] From _The Atlantic Monthly_, January, 1861. Republished in +_Soundings from the Atlantic_ (1864), by Oliver Wendell Holmes, +whose authorized publishers are the Houghton Mifflin Company. + + + + +THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY[18] + +By Mark Twain (1835–1910) + + +In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote +me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon +Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, +as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a +lurking suspicion that _Leonidas W._ Smiley is a myth; and that my +friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured +that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his +infamous _Jim Smiley_, and he would go to work and bore me to death +with some exasperating reminiscence of him as long and as tedious +as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it succeeded. + +I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of +the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel’s, and I +noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of +winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. +He roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend had +commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion +of his boyhood named _Leonidas W_. Smiley—_Rev. Leonidas W._ +Smiley, a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one +time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could +tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel +under many obligations to him. + +Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there +with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous +narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never +frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key +to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the +slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable +narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, +which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there +was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it +as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of +transcendent genius in _finesse_. I let him go on in his own way, +and never interrupted him once. + +“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, there was a feller here +once by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or may be it +was the spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though +what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember +the big flume warn’t finished when he first came to the camp; but +any way, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything +that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the +other side; and if he couldn’t he’d change sides. Any way that +suited the other man would suit _him_—any way just so’s he got a +bet, _he_ was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; +he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for +a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry thing mentioned but that +feller’d offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I +was just telling you. If there was a horse-race, you’d find him +flush or you’d find him busted at the end of it; if there was a +dog-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on +it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there was +two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly +first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg’lar +to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter +about here, and he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a +straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it +would take him to get to—to wherever he _was_ going to, and if you +took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what +he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on +the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley and can tell +you about him. Why, it never made no difference to _him_—he’d bet +on _any_ thing—the dangest feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very +sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going +to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley up and asked +him how she was, and he said she was considerable better—thank the +Lord for his inf’nit’ mercy—and coming on so smart that with the +blessing of Prov’dence she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he +thought, says, ‘Well, I’ll risk two-and-a-half she don’t anyway.’” + +Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her the fifteen-minute +nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she +was faster than that—and he used to win money on that horse, for +all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, +or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give +her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under +way; but always at the fag-end of the race she’d get excited +and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and +scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and +sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up +m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and +sneezing and blowing her nose—and always fetch up at the stand just +about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down. + +And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you’d think +he warn’t worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay +for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him +he was a different dog; his under-jaw’d begin to stick out like the +fo’-castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine +like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, +and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, +and Andrew Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew Jackson +would never let on but what _he_ was satisfied, and hadn’t expected +nothing else—and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other +side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a +sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j’int of his hind +leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand, but only just grip +and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. +Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog +once that didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed off +in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, +and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his +pet holt, he see in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how +the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared +surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn’t +try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He +gave Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it +was _his_ fault, for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for +him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, +and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a +good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for +hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius—I +know it, because he hadn’t no opportunities to speak of, and it +don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he +could under them circumstances if he hadn’t no talent. It always +makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’n, and +the way it turned out. + +Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and +tom-cats and all of them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, +and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match +you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he +cal’lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three +months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And +you bet you he _did_ learn him, too. He’d give him a little punch +behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air +like a doughnut—see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if +he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like +a cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep’ +him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as fur +as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, +and he could do ’most anything—and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen +him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—Dan’l Webster was the +name of the frog—and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l, flies!” and quicker’n +you could wink he’d spring straight up and snake a fly off’n the +counter there, and flop down on the floor ag’in as solid as a +gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his +hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’ +any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and +straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it +come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over +more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever +see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; +and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long +as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well +he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, +all said he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see. + +Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to +fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a +stranger in the camp, he was—come acrost him with his box, and says: + +“What might be that you’ve got in the box?” + +And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, “It might be a parrot, or +it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t—it’s only just a frog.” + +And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it +round this way and that, and says, “H’m—so ’tis. Well, what’s _he_ +good for?” + +“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for _one_ +thing, I should judge—he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.” + +The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular +look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, +“Well,” he says, “I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any +better’n any other frog.” + +“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs and +maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and +maybe you ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_ +opinion and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in +Calaveras County.” + +And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, +“Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I +had a frog, I’d bet you.” + +And then Smiley says, “That’s all right—that’s all right—if +you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so +the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with +Smiley’s, and set down to wait. + +So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, +and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a +teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot—filled! him pretty near +up to his chin—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the +swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he +ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, +and says: + +“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his +forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.” Then he +says, “One—two—three—_git_!” and him and the feller touched up the +frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l +give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but +it warn’t no use—he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a +church, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out. +Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he +didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course. + +The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going +out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder—so—at +Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “_I_ don’t +see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.” + +Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a +long time, and at last says, “I do wonder what in the nation that +frog throwed off for—I wonder if there ain’t something the matter +with him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched +Dan’l up by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, “Why +blame my cats if he don’t weigh five pounds!” and turned him upside +down and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see +how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set the frog down and +took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And—— + +(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and +got up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me as he moved away, +he said: “Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain’t +going to be gone a second.” + +But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the +history of the enterprising vagabond _Jim_ Smiley would be likely +to afford me much information concerning the Rev. _Leonidas W._ +Smiley, and so I started away. + +At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he +buttonholed me and recommenced: + +“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller, one-eyed cow that didn’t have +no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and——” + +However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear +about the afflicted cow, but took my leave. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[18] From _The Saturday Press_, Nov. 18, 1865. Republished in _The +Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches_ +(1867), by Mark Twain, all of whose works are published by Harper & +Brothers. + + + + +ELDER BROWN’S BACKSLIDE[19] + +By Harry Stillwell Edwards (1855- ) + + +I + +Elder Brown told his wife good-by at the farmhouse door as +mechanically as though his proposed trip to Macon, ten miles away, +was an everyday affair, while, as a matter of fact, many years had +elapsed since unaccompanied he set foot in the city. He did not +kiss her. Many very good men never kiss their wives. But small +blame attaches to the elder for his omission on this occasion, +since his wife had long ago discouraged all amorous demonstrations +on the part of her liege lord, and at this particular moment was +filling the parting moments with a rattling list of directions +concerning thread, buttons, hooks, needles, and all the many +etceteras of an industrious housewife’s basket. The elder was +laboriously assorting these postscript commissions in his memory, +well knowing that to return with any one of them neglected would +cause trouble in the family circle. + +Elder Brown mounted his patient steed that stood sleepily +motionless in the warm sunlight, with his great pointed ears +displayed to the right and left, as though their owner had grown +tired of the life burden their weight inflicted upon him, and was, +old soldier fashion, ready to forego the once rigid alertness of +early training for the pleasures of frequent rest on arms. + +“And, elder, don’t you forgit them caliker scraps, or you’ll be +wantin’ kiver soon an’ no kiver will be a-comin’.” + +Elder Brown did not turn his head, but merely let the whip hand, +which had been checked in its backward motion, fall as he answered +mechanically. The beast he bestrode responded with a rapid whisking +of its tail and a great show of effort, as it ambled off down the +sandy road, the rider’s long legs seeming now and then to touch the +ground. + +But as the zigzag panels of the rail fence crept behind him, and +he felt the freedom of the morning beginning to act upon his +well-trained blood, the mechanical manner of the old man’s mind +gave place to a mild exuberance. A weight seemed to be lifting +from it ounce by ounce as the fence panels, the weedy corners, the +persimmon sprouts and sassafras bushes crept away behind him, so +that by the time a mile lay between him and the life partner of his +joys and sorrows he was in a reasonably contented frame of mind, +and still improving. + +It was a queer figure that crept along the road that cheery May +morning. It was tall and gaunt, and had been for thirty years or +more. The long head, bald on top, covered behind with iron-gray +hair, and in front with a short tangled growth that curled and +kinked in every direction, was surmounted by an old-fashioned +stove-pipe hat, worn and stained, but eminently impressive. An +old-fashioned Henry Clay cloth coat, stained and threadbare, +divided itself impartially over the donkey’s back and dangled on +his sides. This was all that remained of the elder’s wedding suit +of forty years ago. Only constant care, and use of late years +limited to extra occasions, had preserved it so long. The trousers +had soon parted company with their friends. The substitutes were +red jeans, which, while they did not well match his court costume, +were better able to withstand the old man’s abuse, for if, in +addition to his frequent religious excursions astride his beast, +there ever was a man who was fond of sitting down with his feet +higher than his head, it was this selfsame Elder Brown. + +The morning expanded, and the old man expanded with it; for while +a vigorous leader in his church, the elder at home was, it must be +admitted, an uncomplaining slave. To the intense astonishment of +the beast he rode, there came new vigor into the whacks which fell +upon his flanks; and the beast allowed astonishment to surprise +him into real life and decided motion. Somewhere in the elder’s +expanding soul a tune had begun to ring. Possibly he took up the +far, faint tune that came from the straggling gang of negroes away +off in the field, as they slowly chopped amid the threadlike rows +of cotton plants which lined the level ground, for the melody he +hummed softly and then sang strongly, in the quavering, catchy +tones of a good old country churchman, was “I’m glad salvation’s +free.” + +It was during the singing of this hymn that Elder Brown’s regular +motion-inspiring strokes were for the first time varied. He began +to hold his hickory up at certain pauses in the melody, and beat +the changes upon the sides of his astonished steed. The chorus +under this arrangement was: + + I’m _glad_ salvation’s _free_, + I’m _glad_ salvation’s _free_, + I’m _glad_ salvation’s _free_ for _all_, + I’m _glad_ salvation’s _free_. + +Wherever there is an italic, the hickory descended. It fell about +as regularly and after the fashion of the stick beating upon the +bass drum during a funeral march. But the beast, although convinced +that something serious was impending, did not consider a funeral +march appropriate for the occasion. He protested, at first, with +vigorous whiskings of his tail and a rapid shifting of his ears. +Finding these demonstrations unavailing, and convinced that some +urgent cause for hurry had suddenly invaded the elder’s serenity, +as it had his own, he began to cover the ground with frantic leaps +that would have surprised his owner could he have realized what +was going on. But Elder Brown’s eyes were half closed, and he +was singing at the top of his voice. Lost in a trance of divine +exaltation, for he felt the effects of the invigorating motion, +bent only on making the air ring with the lines which he dimly +imagined were drawing upon him the eyes of the whole female +congregation, he was supremely unconscious that his beast was +hurrying. + +And thus the excursion proceeded, until suddenly a shote, surprised +in his calm search for roots in a fence corner, darted into the +road, and stood for an instant gazing upon the newcomers with that +idiotic stare which only a pig can imitate. The sudden appearance +of this unlooked-for apparition acted strongly upon the donkey. +With one supreme effort he collected himself into a motionless mass +of matter, bracing his front legs wide apart; that is to say, he +stopped short. There he stood, returning the pig’s idiotic stare +with an interest which must have led to the presumption that never +before in all his varied life had he seen such a singular little +creature. End over end went the man of prayer, finally bringing up +full length in the sand, striking just as he should have shouted +“free” for the fourth time in his glorious chorus. + +Fully convinced that his alarm had been well founded, the shote +sped out from under the gigantic missile hurled at him by the +donkey, and scampered down the road, turning first one ear and +then the other to detect any sounds of pursuit. The donkey, +also convinced that the object before which he had halted was +supernatural, started back violently upon seeing it apparently turn +to a man. But seeing that it had turned to nothing but a man, he +wandered up into the deserted fence corner, and began to nibble +refreshment from a scrub oak. + +For a moment the elder gazed up into the sky, half impressed with +the idea that the camp-meeting platform had given way. But the +truth forced its way to the front in his disordered understanding +at last, and with painful dignity he staggered into an upright +position, and regained his beaver. He was shocked again. Never +before in all the long years it had served him had he seen it +in such shape. The truth is, Elder Brown had never before tried +to stand on his head in it. As calmly as possible he began to +straighten it out, caring but little for the dust upon his +garments. The beaver was his special crown of dignity. To lose it +was to be reduced to a level with the common woolhat herd. He did +his best, pulling, pressing, and pushing, but the hat did not look +natural when he had finished. It seemed to have been laid off into +counties, sections, and town lots. Like a well-cut jewel, it had a +face for him, view it from whatever point he chose, a quality which +so impressed him that a lump gathered in his throat, and his eyes +winked vigorously. + +Elder Brown was not, however, a man for tears. He was a man of +action. The sudden vision which met his wandering gaze, the donkey +calmly chewing scrub buds, with the green juice already oozing +from the corners of his frothy mouth, acted upon him like magic. +He was, after all, only human, and when he got hands upon a piece +of brush he thrashed the poor beast until it seemed as though even +its already half-tanned hide would be eternally ruined. Thoroughly +exhausted at last, he wearily straddled his saddle, and with his +chin upon his breast resumed the early morning tenor of his way. + + +II + +“Good-mornin’, sir.” + +Elder Brown leaned over the little pine picket which divided the +bookkeepers’ department of a Macon warehouse from the room in +general, and surveyed the well-dressed back of a gentleman who was +busily figuring at a desk within. The apartment was carpetless, and +the dust of a decade lay deep on the old books, shelves, and the +familiar advertisements of guano and fertilizers which decorated +the room. An old stove, rusty with the nicotine contributed by +farmers during the previous season while waiting by its glowing +sides for their cotton to be sold, stood straight up in a bed of +sand, and festoons of cobwebs clung to the upper sashes of the +murky windows. The lower sash of one window had been raised, and +in the yard without, nearly an acre in extent, lay a few bales +of cotton, with jagged holes in their ends, just as the sampler +had left them. Elder Brown had time to notice all these familiar +points, for the figure at the desk kept serenely at its task, and +deigned no reply. + +“Good-mornin’, sir,” said Elder Brown again, in his most dignified +tones. “Is Mr. Thomas in?” + +“Good-morning, sir,” said the figure. “I’ll wait on you in a +minute.” The minute passed, and four more joined it. Then the desk +man turned. + +“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” + +The elder was not in the best of humor when he arrived, and his +state of mind had not improved. He waited full a minute as he +surveyed the man of business. + +“I thought I mout be able to make some arrangements with you to git +some money, but I reckon I was mistaken.” The warehouse man came +nearer. + +“This is Mr. Brown, I believe. I did not recognize you at once. You +are not in often to see us.” + +“No; my wife usually ’tends to the town bizness, while I run the +church and farm. Got a fall from my donkey this morning,” he said, +noticing a quizzical, interrogating look upon the face before him, +“and fell squar’ on the hat.” He made a pretense of smoothing it. +The man of business had already lost interest. + +“How much money will you want, Mr. Brown?” + +“Well, about seven hundred dollars,” said the elder, replacing his +hat, and turning a furtive look upon the warehouse man. The other +was tapping with his pencil upon the little shelf lying across the +rail. + +“I can get you five hundred.” + +“But I oughter have seven.” + +“Can’t arrange for that amount. Wait till later in the season, +and come again. Money is very tight now. How much cotton will you +raise?” + +“Well, I count on a hundr’d bales. An’ you can’t git the sev’n +hundr’d dollars?” + +“Like to oblige you, but can’t right now; will fix it for you later +on.” + +“Well,” said the elder, slowly, “fix up the papers for five, an’ +I’ll make it go as far as possible.” + +The papers were drawn. A note was made out for $552.50, for the +interest was at one and a half per cent. for seven months, and a +mortgage on ten mules belonging to the elder was drawn and signed. +The elder then promised to send his cotton to the warehouse to be +sold in the fall, and with a curt “Anything else?” and a “Thankee, +that’s all,” the two parted. + +Elder Brown now made an effort to recall the supplemental +commissions shouted to him upon his departure, intending to execute +them first, and then take his written list item by item. His mental +resolves had just reached this point when a new thought made itself +known. Passersby were puzzled to see the old man suddenly snatch +his headpiece off and peer with an intent and awestruck air into +its irregular caverns. Some of them were shocked when he suddenly +and vigorously ejaculated: + +“Hannah-Maria-Jemimy! goldarn an’ blue blazes!” + +He had suddenly remembered having placed his memoranda in that hat, +and as he studied its empty depths his mind pictured the important +scrap fluttering along the sandy scene of his early-morning tumble. +It was this that caused him to graze an oath with less margin that +he had allowed himself in twenty years. What would the old lady say? + +Alas! Elder Brown knew too well. What she would not say was what +puzzled him. But as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight a sense +of utter desolation came and dwelt with him. His eye rested upon +sleeping Balaam anchored to a post in the street, and so as he +recalled the treachery that lay at the base of all his affliction, +gloom was added to the desolation. + +To turn back and search for the lost paper would have been worse +than useless. Only one course was open to him, and at it went +the leader of his people. He called at the grocery; he invaded +the recesses of the dry-goods establishments; he ransacked the +hardware stores; and wherever he went he made life a burden for +the clerks, overhauling show-cases and pulling down whole shelves +of stock. Occasionally an item of his memoranda would come to +light, and thrusting his hand into his capacious pocket, where lay +the proceeds of his check, he would pay for it upon the spot, and +insist upon having it rolled up. To the suggestion of the slave +whom he had in charge for the time being that the articles be laid +aside until he had finished, he would not listen. + +“Now you look here, sonny,” he said, in the dry-goods store, “I’m +conducting this revival, an’ I don’t need no help in my line. Just +you tie them stockin’s up an’ lemme have ’em. Then I _know_ I’ve +_got_ ’em.” As each purchase was promptly paid for, and change had +to be secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day at least. + +So it was when, near the heat of the day, the good man arrived at +the drugstore, the last and only unvisited division of trade, he +made his appearance equipped with half a hundred packages, which +nestled in his arms and bulged out about the sections of his +clothing that boasted of pockets. As he deposited his deck-load +upon the counter, great drops of perspiration rolled down his face +and over his waterlogged collar to the floor. + +There was something exquisitely refreshing in the great glasses +of foaming soda that a spruce young man was drawing from a marble +fountain, above which half a dozen polar bears in an ambitious +print were disporting themselves. There came a break in the run of +customers, and the spruce young man, having swept the foam from +the marble, dexterously lifted a glass from the revolving rack +which had rinsed it with a fierce little stream of water, and asked +mechanically, as he caught the intense look of the perspiring +elder, “What syrup, sir?” + +Now it had not occurred to the elder to drink soda, but the +suggestion, coming as it did in his exhausted state, was +overpowering. He drew near awkwardly, put on his glasses, and +examined the list of syrups with great care. The young man, being +for the moment at leisure, surveyed critically the gaunt figure, +the faded bandanna, the antique clawhammer coat, and the battered +stove-pipe hat, with a gradually relaxing countenance. He even +called the prescription clerk’s attention by a cough and a quick +jerk of the thumb. The prescription clerk smiled freely, and +continued his assaults upon a piece of blue mass. + +“I reckon,” said the elder, resting his hands upon his knees and +bending down to the list, “you may gimme sassprilla an’ a little +strawberry. Sassprilla’s good for the blood this time er year, an’ +strawberry’s good any time.” + +The spruce young man let the syrup stream into the glass as he +smiled affably. Thinking, perhaps, to draw out the odd character, +he ventured upon a jest himself, repeating a pun invented by the +man who made the first soda fountain. With a sweep of his arm he +cleared away the swarm of insects as he remarked, “People who like +a fly in theirs are easily accommodated.” + +It was from sheer good-nature only that Elder Brown replied, with +his usual broad, social smile, “Well, a fly now an’ then don’t hurt +nobody.” + +Now if there is anybody in the world who prides himself on knowing +a thing or two, it is the spruce young man who presides over a soda +fountain. This particular young gentleman did not even deem a reply +necessary. He vanished an instant, and when he returned a close +observer might have seen that the mixture in the glass he bore had +slightly changed color and increased in quantity. But the elder saw +only the whizzing stream of water dart into its center, and the +rosy foam rise and tremble on the glass’s rim. The next instant he +was holding his breath and sipping the cooling drink. + +As Elder Brown paid his small score he was at peace with the world. +I firmly believe that when he had finished his trading, and the +little blue-stringed packages had been stored away, could the poor +donkey have made his appearance at the door, and gazed with his +meek, fawnlike eyes into his master’s, he would have obtained full +and free forgiveness. + +Elder Brown paused at the door as he was about to leave. A +rosy-cheeked schoolgirl was just lifting a creamy mixture to her +lips before the fountain. It was a pretty picture, and he turned +back, resolved to indulge in one more glass of the delightful +beverage before beginning his long ride homeward. + +“Fix it up again, sonny,” he said, renewing his broad, confiding +smile, as the spruce young man poised a glass inquiringly. The +living automaton went through the same motions as before, and again +Elder Brown quaffed the fatal mixture. + +What a singular power is habit! Up to this time Elder Brown had +been entirely innocent of transgression, but with the old alcoholic +fire in his veins, twenty years dropped from his shoulders, and a +feeling came over him familiar to every man who has been “in his +cups.” As a matter of fact, the elder would have been a confirmed +drunkard twenty years before had his wife been less strong-minded. +She took the reins into her own hands when she found that his +business and strong drink did not mix well, worked him into the +church, sustained his resolutions by making it difficult and +dangerous for him to get to his toddy. She became the business head +of the family, and he the spiritual. Only at rare intervals did he +ever “backslide” during the twenty years of the new era, and Mrs. +Brown herself used to say that the “sugar in his’n turned to gall +before the backslide ended.” People who knew her never doubted it. + +But Elder Brown’s sin during the remainder of the day contained an +element of responsibility. As he moved majestically down toward +where Balaam slept in the sunlight, he felt no fatigue. There was +a glow upon his cheek-bones, and a faint tinge upon his prominent +nose. He nodded familiarly to people as he met them, and saw not +the look of amusement which succeeded astonishment upon the various +faces. When he reached the neighborhood of Balaam it suddenly +occurred to him that he might have forgotten some one of his +numerous commissions, and he paused to think. Then a brilliant idea +rose in his mind. He would forestall blame and disarm anger with +kindness—he would purchase Hannah a bonnet. + +What woman’s heart ever failed to soften at sight of a new bonnet? + +As I have stated, the elder was a man of action. He entered a store +near at hand. + +“Good-morning,” said an affable gentleman with a Hebrew +countenance, approaching. + +“Good-mornin’, good-mornin’,” said the elder, piling his bundles on +the counter. “I hope you are well?” Elder Brown extended his hand +fervidly. + +“Quite well, I thank you. What—” + +“And the little wife?” said Elder Brown, affectionately retaining +the Jew’s hand. + +“Quite well, sir.” + +“And the little ones—quite well, I hope, too?” + +“Yes, sir; all well, thank you. Something I can do for you?” + +The affable merchant was trying to recall his customer’s name. + +“Not now, not now, thankee. If you please to let my bundles stay +untell I come back—” + +“Can’t I show you something? Hat, coat—” + +“Not now. Be back bimeby.” + +Was it chance or fate that brought Elder Brown in front of a +bar? The glasses shone bright upon the shelves as the swinging +door flapped back to let out a coatless clerk, who passed him +with a rush, chewing upon a farewell mouthful of brown bread and +bologna. Elder Brown beheld for an instant the familiar scene +within. The screws of his resolution had been loosened. At sight +of the glistening bar the whole moral structure of twenty years +came tumbling down. Mechanically he entered the saloon, and laid a +silver quarter upon the bar as he said: + +“A little whiskey an’ sugar.” The arms of the bartender worked like +a faker’s in a side show as he set out the glass with its little +quota of “short sweetening” and a cut-glass decanter, and sent a +half-tumbler of water spinning along from the upper end of the bar +with a dime in change. + +“Whiskey is higher’n used to be,” said Elder Brown; but the +bartender was taking another order, and did not hear him. Elder +Brown stirred away the sugar, and let a steady stream of red liquid +flow into the glass. He swallowed the drink as unconcernedly as +though his morning tod had never been suspended, and pocketed the +change. “But it ain’t any better than it was,” he concluded, as +he passed out. He did not even seem to realize that he had done +anything extraordinary. + +There was a millinery store up the street, and thither with +uncertain step he wended his way, feeling a little more elate, and +altogether sociable. A pretty, black-eyed girl, struggling to keep +down her mirth, came forward and faced him behind the counter. +Elder Brown lifted his faded hat with the politeness, if not the +grace, of a Castilian, and made a sweeping bow. Again he was in his +element. But he did not speak. A shower of odds and ends, small +packages, thread, needles, and buttons, released from their prison, +rattled down about him. + +The girl laughed. She could not help it. And the elder, leaning +his hand on the counter, laughed, too, until several other girls +came half-way to the front. Then they, hiding behind counters and +suspended cloaks, laughed and snickered until they reconvulsed the +elder’s vis-à-vis, who had been making desperate efforts to resume +her demure appearance. + +“Let me help you, sir,” she said, coming from behind the counter, +upon seeing Elder Brown beginning to adjust his spectacles for +a search. He waved her back majestically. “No, my dear, no; +can’t allow it. You mout sile them purty fingers. No, ma’am. No +gen’l’man’ll ’low er lady to do such a thing.” The elder was gently +forcing the girl back to her place. “Leave it to me. I’ve picked up +bigger things ’n them. Picked myself up this mornin’. Balaam—you +don’t know Balaam; he’s my donkey—he tumbled me over his head in +the sand this mornin’.” And Elder Brown had to resume an upright +position until his paroxysm of laughter had passed. “You see this +old hat?” extending it, half full of packages; “I fell clear inter +it; jes’ as clean inter it as them things thar fell out’n it.” He +laughed again, and so did the girls. “But, my dear, I whaled half +the hide off’n him for it.” + +“Oh, sir! how could you? Indeed, sir. I think you did wrong. The +poor brute did not know what he was doing, I dare say, and probably +he has been a faithful friend.” The girl cast her mischievous +eyes towards her companions, who snickered again. The old man +was not conscious of the sarcasm. He only saw reproach. His face +straightened, and he regarded the girl soberly. + +“Mebbe you’re right, my dear; mebbe I oughtn’t.” + +“I am sure of it,” said the girl. “But now don’t you want to buy a +bonnet or a cloak to carry home to your wife?” + +“Well, you’re whistlin’ now, birdie; that’s my intention; set ’em +all out.” Again the elder’s face shone with delight. “An’ I don’t +want no one-hoss bonnet neither.” + +“Of course not. Now here is one; pink silk, with delicate pale +blue feathers. Just the thing for the season. We have nothing +more elegant in stock.” Elder Brown held it out, upside down, at +arm’s-length. + +“Well, now, that’s suthin’ like. Will it soot a sorter redheaded +’ooman?” + +A perfectly sober man would have said the girl’s corsets must have +undergone a terrible strain, but the elder did not notice her dumb +convulsion. She answered, heroically: + +“Perfectly, sir. It is an exquisite match.” + +“I think you’re whistlin’ again. Nancy’s head’s red, red as a +woodpeck’s. Sorrel’s only half-way to the color of her top-knot, +an’ it do seem like red oughter to soot red. Nancy’s red an’ the +hat’s red; like goes with like, an’ birds of a feather flock +together.” The old man laughed until his cheeks were wet. + +The girl, beginning to feel a little uneasy, and seeing a customer +entering, rapidly fixed up the bonnet, took fifteen dollars out +of a twenty-dollar bill, and calmly asked the elder if he wanted +anything else. He thrust his change somewhere into his clothes, and +beat a retreat. It had occurred to him that he was nearly drunk. + +Elder Brown’s step began to lose its buoyancy. He found himself +utterly unable to walk straight. There was an uncertain straddle in +his gait that carried him from one side of the walk to the other, +and caused people whom he met to cheerfully yield him plenty of +room. + +Balaam saw him coming. Poor Balaam. He had made an early start that +day, and for hours he stood in the sun awaiting relief. When he +opened his sleepy eyes and raised his expressive ears to a position +of attention, the old familiar coat and battered hat of the elder +were before him. He lifted up his honest voice and cried aloud for +joy. + +The effect was electrical for one instant. Elder Brown surveyed the +beast with horror, but again in his understanding there rang out +the trumpet words. + +“Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, -er-unc, -unc, -unc.” + +He stooped instinctively for a missile with which to smite his +accuser, but brought up suddenly with a jerk and a handful of sand. +Straightening himself up with a majestic dignity, he extended his +right hand impressively. + +“You’re a goldarn liar, Balaam, and, blast your old buttons, you +kin walk home by yourself, for I’m danged if you sh’ll ride me er +step.” + +Surely Coriolanus never turned his back upon Rome with a grander +dignity than sat upon the old man’s form as he faced about and left +the brute to survey with anxious eyes the new departure of his +master. + +He saw the elder zigzag along the street, and beheld him about to +turn a friendly corner. Once more he lifted up his mighty voice: + +“Drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, drer-unc, -erunc, -unc, -unc.” + +Once more the elder turned with lifted hand and shouted back: + +“You’re a liar, Balaam, goldarn you! You’re er iffamous liar.” Then +he passed from view. + + +III + +Mrs. Brown stood upon the steps anxiously awaiting the return of +her liege lord. She knew he had with him a large sum of money, or +should have, and she knew also that he was a man without business +methods. She had long since repented of the decision which sent him +to town. When the old battered hat and flour-covered coat loomed +up in the gloaming and confronted her, she stared with terror. The +next instant she had seized him. + +“For the Lord sakes, Elder Brown, what ails you? As I live, if the +man ain’t drunk! Elder Brown! Elder Brown! for the life of me can’t +I make you hear? You crazy old hypocrite! you desavin’ old sinner! +you black-hearted wretch! where have you ben?” + +The elder made an effort to wave her off. + +“Woman,” he said, with grand dignity, “you forgit yus-sef; shu +know ware I’ve ben ’swell’s I do. Ben to town, wife, an’ see yer +wat I’ve brought—the fines’ hat, ole woman, I could git. Look’t +the color. Like goes ’ith like; it’s red an’ you’re red, an’ +it’s a dead match. What yer mean? Hey! hole on! ole woman!—you! +Hannah!—you.” She literally shook him into silence. + +“You miserable wretch! you low-down drunken sot! what do you mean +by coming home and insulting your wife?” Hannah ceased shaking him +from pure exhaustion. + +“Where is it, I say? where is it?” + +By this time she was turning his pockets wrong side out. From one +she got pills, from another change, from another packages. + +“The Lord be praised, and this is better luck than I hoped! Oh, +elder! elder! elder! what did you do it for? Why, man, where is +Balaam?” + +Thought of the beast choked off the threatened hysterics. + +“Balaam? Balaam?” said the elder, groggily. “He’s in town. The +infernal ole fool ’sulted me, an’ I lef’ him to walk home.” + +His wife surveyed him. Really at that moment she did think his mind +was gone; but the leer upon the old man’s face enraged her beyond +endurance. + +“You did, did you? Well, now, I reckon you’ll laugh for some cause, +you will. Back you go, sir—straight back; an’ don’t you come home +’thout that donkey, or you’ll rue it, sure as my name is Hannah +Brown. Aleck!—you Aleck-k-k!” + +A black boy darted round the corner, from behind which, with +several others, he had beheld the brief but stirring scene. + +“Put a saddle on er mule. The elder’s gwine back to town. And don’t +you be long about it neither.” + +“Yessum.” Aleck’s ivories gleamed in the darkness as he disappeared. + +Elder Brown was soberer at that moment than he had been for hours. + +“Hannah, you don’t mean it?” + +“Yes, sir, I do. Back you go to town as sure as my name is Hannah +Brown.” + +The elder was silent. He had never known his wife to relent on any +occasion after she had affirmed her intention, supplemented with +“as sure as my name is Hannah Brown.” It was her way of swearing. +No affidavit would have had half the claim upon her as that simple +enunciation. + +So back to town went Elder Brown, not in the order of the early +morn, but silently, moodily, despairingly, surrounded by mental and +actual gloom. + +The old man had turned a last appealing glance upon the angry +woman, as he mounted with Aleck’s assistance, and sat in the light +that streamed from out the kitchen window. She met the glance +without a waver. + +“She means it, as sure as my name is Elder Brown,” he said, +thickly. Then he rode on. + + +IV + +To say that Elder Brown suffered on this long journey back to Macon +would only mildly outline his experience. His early morning’s fall +had begun to make itself felt. He was sore and uncomfortable. +Besides, his stomach was empty, and called for two meals it had +missed for the first time in years. + +When, sore and weary, the elder entered the city, the electric +lights shone above it like jewels in a crown. The city slept; +that is, the better portion of it did. Here and there, however, +the lower lights flashed out into the night. Moodily the elder +pursued his journey, and as he rode, far off in the night there +rose and quivered a plaintive cry. Elder Brown smiled wearily: +it was Balaam’s appeal, and he recognized it. The animal he rode +also recognized it, and replied, until the silence of the city was +destroyed. The odd clamor and confusion drew from a saloon near by +a group of noisy youngsters, who had been making a night of it. +They surrounded Elder Brown as he began to transfer himself to +the hungry beast to whose motion he was more accustomed, and in +the “hail fellow well met” style of the day began to bandy jests +upon his appearance. Now Elder Brown was not in a jesting humor. +Positively he was in the worst humor possible. The result was that +before many minutes passed the old man was swinging several of +the crowd by their collars, and breaking the peace of the city. +A policeman approached, and but for the good-humored party, upon +whom the elder’s pluck had made a favorable impression, would have +run the old man into the barracks. The crowd, however, drew him +laughingly into the saloon and to the bar. The reaction was too +much for his half-rallied senses. He yielded again. The reviving +liquor passed his lips. Gloom vanished. He became one of the boys. + +The company into which Elder Brown had fallen was what is known as +“first-class.” To such nothing is so captivating as an adventure +out of the common run of accidents. The gaunt countryman, with his +battered hat and clawhammer coat, was a prize of an extraordinary +nature. They drew him into a rear room, whose gilded frames and +polished tables betrayed the character and purpose of the place, +and plied him with wine until ten thousand lights danced about him. +The fun increased. One youngster made a political speech from the +top of the table; another impersonated Hamlet; and finally Elder +Brown was lifted into a chair, and sang a camp-meeting song. This +was rendered by him with startling effect. He stood upright, with +his hat jauntily knocked to one side, and his coat tails ornamented +with a couple of show-bills, kindly pinned on by his admirers. In +his left hand he waved the stub of a cigar, and on his back was an +admirable representation of Balaam’s head, executed by some artist +with billiard chalk. + +As the elder sang his favorite hymn, “I’m glad salvation’s free,” +his stentorian voice awoke the echoes. Most of the company rolled +upon the floor in convulsions of laughter. + +The exhibition came to a close by the chair overturning. Again +Elder Brown fell into his beloved hat. He arose and shouted: +“Whoa, Balaam!” Again he seized the nearest weapon, and sought +satisfaction. The young gentleman with political sentiments was +knocked under the table, and Hamlet only escaped injury by beating +the infuriated elder into the street. + +What next? Well, I hardly know. How the elder found Balaam is a +mystery yet: not that Balaam was hard to find, but that the old man +was in no condition to find anything. Still he did, and climbing +laboriously into the saddle, he held on stupidly while the hungry +beast struck out for home. + + +V + +Hannah Brown did not sleep that night. Sleep would not come. Hour +after hour passed, and her wrath refused to be quelled. She tried +every conceivable method, but time hung heavily. It was not quite +peep of day, however, when she laid her well-worn family Bible +aside. It had been her mother’s, and amid all the anxieties and +tribulations incident to the life of a woman who had free negroes +and a miserable husband to manage, it had been her mainstay and +comfort. She had frequently read it in anger, page after page, +without knowing what was contained in the lines. But eventually the +words became intelligible and took meaning. She wrested consolation +from it by mere force of will. + +And so on this occasion when she closed the book the fierce anger +was gone. + +She was not a hard woman naturally. Fate had brought her conditions +which covered up the woman heart within her, but though it lay +deep, it was there still. As she sat with folded hands her eyes +fell upon—what? + +The pink bonnet with the blue plume! + +It may appear strange to those who do not understand such natures, +but to me her next action was perfectly natural. She burst into a +convulsive laugh; then, seizing the queer object, bent her face +upon it and sobbed hysterically. When the storm was over, very +tenderly she laid the gift aside, and bareheaded passed out into +the night. + +For a half-hour she stood at the end of the lane, and then hungry +Balaam and his master hove in sight. Reaching out her hand, she +checked the beast. + +“William,” said she, very gently, “where is the mule?” + +The elder had been asleep. He woke and gazed upon her blankly. + +“What mule, Hannah?” + +“The mule you rode to town.” + +For one full minute the elder studied her face. Then it burst from +his lips: + +“Well, bless me! if I didn’t bring Balaam and forgit the mule!” + +The woman laughed till her eyes ran water. + +“William,” said she, “you’re drunk.” + +“Hannah,” said he, meekly, “I know it. The truth is, Hannah, I—” + +“Never mind, now, William,” she said, gently. “You are tired and +hungry. Come into the house, husband.” + +Leading Balaam, she disappeared down the lane; and when, a few +minutes later, Hannah Brown and her husband entered through the +light that streamed out of the open door her arms were around him, +and her face upturned to his. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[19] From _Harper’s Magazine_, August, 1885; copyright, 1885, by +Harper & Bros.; republished in the volume, _Two Runaways, and Other +Stories_ (1889), by Harry Stillwell Edwards (The Century Co.). + + + + +THE HOTEL EXPERIENCE OF MR. PINK FLUKER[20] + +BY RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON (1822–1898) + + +I + +Mr. Peterson Fluker, generally called Pink, for his fondness for +as stylish dressing as he could afford, was one of that sort of +men who habitually seem busy and efficient when they are not. He +had the bustling activity often noticeable in men of his size, and +in one way and another had made up, as he believed, for being so +much smaller than most of his adult acquaintance of the male sex. +Prominent among his achievements on that line was getting married +to a woman who, among other excellent gifts, had that of being +twice as big as her husband. + +“Fool who?” on the day after his marriage he had asked, with a look +at those who had often said that he was too little to have a wife. + +They had a little property to begin with, a couple of hundreds of +acres, and two or three negroes apiece. Yet, except in the natural +increase of the latter, the accretions of worldly estate had been +inconsiderable till now, when their oldest child, Marann, was some +fifteen years old. These accretions had been saved and taken care +of by Mrs. Fluker, who was as staid and silent as he was mobile and +voluble. + +Mr. Fluker often said that it puzzled him how it was that he made +smaller crops than most of his neighbors, when, if not always +convincing, he could generally put every one of them to silence in +discussions upon agricultural topics. This puzzle had led him to +not unfrequent ruminations in his mind as to whether or not his +vocation might lie in something higher than the mere tilling of the +ground. These ruminations had lately taken a definite direction, +and it was after several conversations which he had held with his +friend Matt Pike. + +Mr. Matt Pike was a bachelor of some thirty summers, a foretime +clerk consecutively in each of the two stores of the village, but +latterly a trader on a limited scale in horses, wagons, cows, and +similar objects of commerce, and at all times a politician. His +hopes of holding office had been continually disappointed until +Mr. John Sanks became sheriff, and rewarded with a deputyship some +important special service rendered by him in the late very close +canvass. Now was a chance to rise, Mr. Pike thought. All he wanted, +he had often said, was a start. Politics, I would remark, however, +had been regarded by Mr. Pike as a means rather than an end. It +is doubtful if he hoped to become governor of the state, at least +before an advanced period in his career. His main object now was to +get money, and he believed that official position would promote him +in the line of his ambition faster than was possible to any private +station, by leading him into more extensive acquaintance with +mankind, their needs, their desires, and their caprices. A deputy +sheriff, provided that lawyers were not too indulgent in allowing +acknowledgment of service of court processes, in postponing levies +and sales, and in settlement of litigated cases, might pick up +three hundred dollars, a good sum for those times, a fact which Mr. +Pike had known and pondered long. + +It happened just about then that the arrears of rent for the +village hotel had so accumulated on Mr. Spouter, the last occupant, +that the owner, an indulgent man, finally had said, what he had +been expected for years and years to say, that he could not wait +on Mr. Spouter forever and eternally. It was at this very nick, so +to speak, that Mr. Pike made to Mr. Fluker the suggestion to quit +a business so far beneath his powers, sell out, or rent out, or +tenant out, or do something else with his farm, march into town, +plant himself upon the ruins of Jacob Spouter, and begin his upward +soar. + +Now Mr. Fluker had many and many a time acknowledged that he had +ambition; so one night he said to his wife: + +“You see how it is here, Nervy. Farmin’ somehow don’t suit my +talons. I need to be flung more ’mong people to fetch out what’s +in me. Then thar’s Marann, which is gittin’ to be nigh on to a +growd-up woman; an’ the child need the s’iety which you ’bleeged to +acknowledge is sca’ce about here, six mile from town. Your brer Sam +can stay here an’ raise butter, chickens, eggs, pigs, an’—an’—an’ +so forth. Matt Pike say he jes’ know they’s money in it, an’ +special with a housekeeper keerful an’ equinomical like you.” + +It is always curious the extent of influence that some men have +upon wives who are their superiors. Mrs. Fluker, in spite of +accidents, had ever set upon her husband a value that was not +recognized outside of his family. In this respect there seems a +surprising compensation in human life. But this remark I make only +in passing. Mrs. Fluker, admitting in her heart that farming was +not her husband’s forte, hoped, like a true wife, that it might be +found in the new field to which he aspired. Besides, she did not +forget that her brother Sam had said to her several times privately +that if his brer Pink wouldn’t have so many notions and would +let him alone in his management, they would all do better. She +reflected for a day or two, and then said: + +“Maybe it’s best, Mr. Fluker. I’m willin’ to try it for a year, +anyhow. We can’t lose much by that. As for Matt Pike, I hain’t the +confidence in him you has. Still, he bein’ a boarder and deputy +sheriff, he might accidentally do us some good. I’ll try it for a +year providin’ you’ll fetch me the money as it’s paid in, for you +know I know how to manage that better’n you do, and you know I’ll +try to manage it and all the rest of the business for the best.” + +To this provision Mr. Fluker gave consent, qualified by the claim +that he was to retain a small margin for indispensable personal +exigencies. For he contended, perhaps with justice, that no man in +the responsible position he was about to take ought to be expected +to go about, or sit about, or even lounge about, without even a +continental red in his pocket. + +The new house—I say _new_ because tongue could not tell the amount +of scouring, scalding, and whitewashing that that excellent +housekeeper had done before a single stick of her furniture went +into it—the new house, I repeat, opened with six eating boarders at +ten dollars a month apiece, and two eating and sleeping at eleven, +besides Mr. Pike, who made a special contract. Transient custom +was hoped to hold its own, and that of the county people under the +deputy’s patronage and influence to be considerably enlarged. + +In words and other encouragement Mr. Pike was pronounced. He could +commend honestly, and he did so cordially. + +“The thing to do, Pink, is to have your prices reg’lar, and make +people pay up reg’lar. Ten dollars for eatin’, jes’ so; eleb’n for +eatin’ _an_’ sleepin’; half a dollar for dinner, jes’ so; quarter +apiece for breakfast, supper, and bed, is what I call reason’ble +bo’d. As for me, I sca’cely know how to rig’late, because, you +know, I’m a’ officer now, an’ in course I natchel _has_ to be away +sometimes an’ on expenses at ’tother places, an’ it seem like some +’lowance ought by good rights to be made for that; don’t you think +so?” + +“Why, matter o’ course, Matt; what you think? I ain’t so powerful +good at figgers. Nervy is. S’posen you speak to her ’bout it.” + +“Oh, that’s perfec’ unuseless, Pink. I’m a’ officer o’ the law, +Pink, an’ the law consider women—well, I may say the law, _she_ +deal ’ith _men_, not women, an’ she expect her officers to +understan’ figgers, an’ if I hadn’t o’ understood figgers Mr. Sanks +wouldn’t or darsnt’ to ’p’int me his dep’ty. Me ’n’ you can fix +them terms. Now see here, reg’lar bo’d—eatin’ bo’d, I mean—is ten +dollars, an’ sleepin’ and singuil meals is ’cordin’ to the figgers +you’ve sot for ’em. Ain’t that so? Jes’ so. Now, Pink, you an’ +me’ll keep a runnin’ account, you a-chargin’ for reg’lar bo’d, +an’ I a’lowin’ to myself credics for my absentees, accordin’ to +transion customers an’ singuil mealers an’ sleepers. Is that fa’r, +er is it not fa’r?” + +Mr. Fluker turned his head, and after making or thinking he had +made a calculation, answered: + +“That’s—that seem fa’r, Matt.” + +“Cert’nly ’tis, Pink; I knowed you’d say so, an’ you know I’d never +wish to be nothin’ but fa’r ’ith people I like, like I do you an’ +your wife. Let that be the understandin’, then, betwix’ us. An’ +Pink, let the understandin’ be jes’ betwix’ _us_, for I’ve saw +enough o’ this world to find out that a man never makes nothin’ +by makin’ a blowin’ horn o’ his business. You make the t’others +pay up spuntial, monthly. You ’n’ me can settle whensomever it’s +convenant, say three months from to-day. In course I shall talk up +for the house whensomever and wharsomever I go or stay. You know +that. An’ as for my bed,” said Mr. Pike finally, “whensomever I +ain’t here by bed-time, you welcome to put any transion person in +it, an’ also an’ likewise, when transion custom is pressin’, and +you cramped for beddin’, I’m willin’ to give it up for the time +bein’; an’ rather’n you should be cramped too bad, I’ll take my +chances somewhars else, even if I has to take a pallet at the head +o’ the sta’r-steps.” + +“Nervy,” said Mr. Fluker to his wife afterwards, “Matt Pike’s a +sensibler an’ a friendlier an’ a ’commodatiner feller’n I thought.” + +Then, without giving details of the contract, he mentioned merely +the willingness of their boarder to resign his bed on occasions of +pressing emergency. + +“He’s talked mighty fine to me and Marann,” answered Mrs. Fluker. +“We’ll see how he holds out. One thing I do not like of his doin’, +an’ that’s the talkin’ ’bout Sim Marchman to Marann, an’ makin’ +game o’ his country ways, as he call ’em. Sech as that ain’t right.” + +It may be as well to explain just here that Simeon Marchman, the +person just named by Mrs. Fluker, a stout, industrious young +farmer, residing with his parents in the country near by where the +Flukers had dwelt before removing to town, had been eying Marann +for a year or two, and waiting upon her fast-ripening womanhood +with intentions that, he believed to be hidden in his own breast, +though he had taken less pains to conceal them from Marann than +from the rest of his acquaintance. Not that he had ever told her of +them in so many words, but—Oh, I need not stop here in the midst +of this narration to explain how such intentions become known, or +at least strongly suspected by girls, even those less bright than +Marann Fluker. Simeon had not cordially indorsed the movement into +town, though, of course, knowing it was none of his business, he +had never so much as hinted opposition. I would not be surprised, +also, if he reflected that there might be some selfishness in his +hostility, or at least that it was heightened by apprehensions +personal to himself. + +Considering the want of experience in the new tenants, matters went +on remarkably well. Mrs. Fluker, accustomed to rise from her couch +long before the lark, managed to the satisfaction of all,—regular +boarders, single-meal takers, and transient people. Marann went +to the village school, her mother dressing her, though with +prudent economy, as neatly and almost as tastefully as any of her +schoolmates; while, as to study, deportment, and general progress, +there was not a girl in the whole school to beat her, I don’t care +who she was. + + +II + +During a not inconsiderable period Mr. Fluker indulged the +honorable conviction that at last he had found the vein in which +his best talents lay, and he was happy in foresight of the +prosperity and felicity which that discovery promised to himself +and his family. His native activity found many more objects for +its exertion than before. He rode out to the farm, not often, but +sometimes, as a matter of duty, and was forced to acknowledge +that Sam was managing better than could have been expected in the +absence of his own continuous guidance. In town he walked about +the hotel, entertained the guests, carved at the meals, hovered +about the stores, the doctors’ offices, the wagon and blacksmith +shops, discussed mercantile, medical, mechanical questions with +specialists in all these departments, throwing into them all more +and more of politics as the intimacy between him and his patron and +chief boarder increased. + +Now as to that patron and chief boarder. The need of extending his +acquaintance seemed to press upon Mr. Pike with ever-increasing +weight. He was here and there, all over the county; at the +county-seat, at the county villages, at justices’ courts, at +executors’ and administrators’ sales, at quarterly and protracted +religious meetings, at barbecues of every dimension, on hunting +excursions and fishing frolics, at social parties in all +neighborhoods. It got to be said of Mr. Pike that a freer acceptor +of hospitable invitations, or a better appreciator of hospitable +intentions, was not and needed not to be found possibly in the +whole state. Nor was this admirable deportment confined to the +county in which he held so high official position. He attended, +among other occasions less public, the spring sessions of the +supreme and county courts in the four adjoining counties: the guest +of acquaintance old and new over there. When starting upon such +travels, he would sometimes breakfast with his traveling companion +in the village, and, if somewhat belated in the return, sup with +him also. + +Yet, when at Flukers’, no man could have been a more cheerful and +otherwise satisfactory boarder than Mr. Matt Pike. He praised every +dish set before him, bragged to their very faces of his host and +hostess, and in spite of his absences was the oftenest to sit and +chat with Marann when her mother would let her go into the parlor. +Here and everywhere about the house, in the dining-room, in the +passage, at the foot of the stairs, he would joke with Marann about +her country beau, as he styled poor Sim Marchman, and he would talk +as though he was rather ashamed of Sim, and wanted Marann to string +her bow for higher game. + +Brer Sam did manage well, not only the fields, but the yard. Every +Saturday of the world he sent in something or other to his sister. +I don’t know whether I ought to tell it or not, but for the sake of +what is due to pure veracity I will. On as many as three different +occasions Sim Marchman, as if he had lost all self-respect, or had +not a particle of tact, brought in himself, instead of sending by a +negro, a bucket of butter and a coop of spring chickens as a free +gift to Mrs. Fluker. I do think, on my soul, that Mr. Matt Pike +was much amused by such degradation—however, he must say that they +were all first-rate. As for Marann, she was very sorry for Sim, and +wished he had not brought these good things at all. + +Nobody knew how it came about; but when the Flukers had been in +town somewhere between two and three months, Sim Marchman, who (to +use his own words) had never bothered her a great deal with his +visits, began to suspect that what few he made were received by +Marann lately with less cordiality than before; and so one day, +knowing no better, in his awkward, straightforward country manners, +he wanted to know the reason why. Then Marann grew distant, and +asked Sim the following question: + +“You know where Mr. Pike’s gone, Mr. Marchman?” + +Now the fact was, and she knew it, that Marann Fluker had never +before, not since she was born, addressed that boy as _Mister_. + +The visitor’s face reddened and reddened. + +“No,” he faltered in answer; “no—no—_ma’am_, I should say. I—I +don’t know where Mr. Pike’s gone.” + +Then he looked around for his hat, discovered it in time, took it +into his hands, turned it around two or three times, then, bidding +good-bye without shaking hands, took himself off. + +Mrs. Fluker liked all the Marchmans, and she was troubled somewhat +when she heard of the quickness and manner of Sim’s departure; for +he had been fully expected by her to stay to dinner. + +“Say he didn’t even shake hands, Marann? What for? What you do to +him?” + +“Not one blessed thing, ma; only he wanted to know why I wasn’t +gladder to see him.” Then Marann looked indignant. + +“Say them words, Marann?” + +“No, but he hinted ’em.” + +“What did you say then?” + +“I just asked, a-meaning nothing in the wide world, ma—I asked him +if he knew where Mr. Pike had gone.” + +“And that were answer enough to hurt his feelin’s. What you want to +know where Matt Pike’s gone for, Marann?” + +“I didn’t care about knowing, ma, but I didn’t like the way Sim +talked.” + +“Look here, Marann. Look straight at me. You’ll be mighty fur +off your feet if you let Matt Pike put things in your head that +hain’t no business a-bein’ there, and special if you find yourself +a-wantin’ to know where he’s a-perambulatin’ in his everlastin’ +meanderin’s. Not a cent has he paid for his board, and which your +pa say he have a’ understandin’ with him about allowin’ for his +absentees, which is all right enough, but which it’s now goin’ on +to three mont’s, and what is comin’ to us I need and I want. He +ought, your pa ought to let me bargain with Matt Pike, because he +know he don’t understan’ figgers like Matt Pike. He don’t know +exactly what the bargain were; for I’ve asked him, and he always +begins with a multiplyin’ of words and never answers me.” + +On his next return from his travels Mr. Pike noticed a coldness +in Mrs. Fluker’s manner, and this enhanced his praise of the +house. The last week of the third month came. Mr. Pike was often +noticed, before and after meals, standing at the desk in the hotel +office (called in those times the bar-room) engaged in making +calculations. The day before the contract expired Mrs. Fluker, +who had not indulged herself with a single holiday since they had +been in town, left Marann in charge of the house, and rode forth, +spending part of the day with Mrs. Marchman, Sim’s mother. All were +glad to see her, of course, and she returned smartly, freshened +by the visit. That night she had a talk with Marann, and oh, how +Marann did cry! + +The very last day came. Like insurance policies, the contract was +to expire at a certain hour. Sim Marchman came just before dinner, +to which he was sent for by Mrs. Fluker, who had seen him as he +rode into town. + +“Hello, Sim,” said Mr. Pike as he took his seat opposite him. “You +here? What’s the news in the country? How’s your health? How’s +crops?” + +“Jest mod’rate, Mr. Pike. Got little business with you after +dinner, ef you can spare time.” + +“All right. Got a little matter with Pink here first. ’Twon’t take +long. See you arfter amejiant, Sim.” + +Never had the deputy been more gracious and witty. He talked and +talked, outtalking even Mr. Fluker; he was the only man in town who +could do that. He winked at Marann as he put questions to Sim, some +of the words employed in which Sim had never heard before. Yet Sim +held up as well as he could, and after dinner followed Marann with +some little dignity into the parlor. They had not been there more +than ten minutes when Mrs. Fluker was heard to walk rapidly along +the passage leading from the dining-room, to enter her own chamber +for only a moment, then to come out and rush to the parlor door +with the gig-whip in her hand. Such uncommon conduct in a woman +like Mrs. Pink Fluker of course needs explanation. + +When all the other boarders had left the house, the deputy and Mr. +Fluker having repaired to the bar-room, the former said: + +“Now, Pink, for our settlement, as you say your wife think we +better have one. I’d ’a’ been willin’ to let accounts keep on +a-runnin’, knowin’ what a straightforrards sort o’ man you was. +Your count, ef I ain’t mistakened, is jes’ thirty-three dollars, +even money. Is that so, or is it not?” + +“That’s it, to a dollar, Matt. Three times eleben make +thirty-three, don’t it?” + +“It do, Pink, or eleben times three, jes’ which you please. Now +here’s my count, on which you’ll see, Pink, that not nary cent have +I charged for infloonce. I has infloonced a consider’ble custom +to this house, as you know, bo’din’ and transion. But I done that +out o’ my respects of you an’ Missis Fluker, an’ your keepin’ of a +fa’r—I’ll say, as I’ve said freckwent, a _very_ fa’r house. I let +them infloonces go to friendship, ef you’ll take it so. Will you, +Pink Fluker?” + +“Cert’nly, Matt, an’ I’m a thousand times obleeged to you, an’—” + +“Say no more, Pink, on that p’int o’ view. Ef I like a man, I know +how to treat him. Now as to the p’ints o’ absentees, my business +as dep’ty sheriff has took me away from this inconsider’ble town +freckwent, hain’t it?” + +“It have, Matt, er somethin’ else, more’n I were a expectin’, an’—” + +“Jes’ so. But a public officer, Pink, when jooty call on him to go, +he got to go; in fack he got to _goth_, as the Scripture say, ain’t +that so?” + +“I s’pose so, Matt, by good rights, a—a official speakin’.” + +Mr. Fluker felt that he was becoming a little confused. + +“Jes’ so. Now, Pink, I were to have credics for my absentees +’cordin’ to transion an’ single-meal bo’ders an’ sleepers; ain’t +that so?” + +“I—I—somethin’ o’ that sort, Matt,” he answered vaguely. + +“Jes’ so. Now look here,” drawing from his pocket a paper. “Itom +one. Twenty-eight dinners at half a dollar makes fourteen dollars, +don’t it? Jes’ so. Twenty-five breakfasts at a quarter makes six +an’ a quarter, which make dinners an’ breakfasts twenty an’ a +quarter. Foller me up, as I go up, Pink. Twenty-five suppers at a +quarter makes six an’ a quarter, an’ which them added to the twenty +an’ a quarter makes them twenty-six an’ a half. Foller, Pink, an’ +if you ketch me in any mistakes in the kyarin’ an’ addin’, p’int it +out. Twenty-two an’ a half beds—an’ I say _half_, Pink, because you +’member one night when them A’gusty lawyers got here ’bout midnight +on their way to co’t, rather’n have you too bad cramped, I ris to +make way for two of ’em; yit as I had one good nap, I didn’t think +I ought to put that down but for half. Them makes five dollars half +an’ seb’n pence, an’ which kyar’d on to the t’other twenty-six an’ +a half, fetches the whole cabool to jes’ thirty-two dollars an’ +seb’n pence. But I made up my mind I’d fling out that seb’n pence, +an’ jes’ call it a dollar even money, an’ which here’s the solid +silver.” + +In spite of the rapidity with which this enumeration of +counter-charges was made, Mr. Fluker commenced perspiring at the +first item, and when the balance was announced his face was covered +with huge drops. + +It was at this juncture that Mrs. Fluker, who, well knowing her +husband’s unfamiliarity with complicated accounts, had felt her +duty to be listening near the bar-room door, left, and quickly +afterwards appeared before Marann and Sim as I have represented. + +“You think Matt Pike ain’t tryin’ to settle with your pa with a +dollar? I’m goin’ to make him keep his dollar, an’ I’m goin’ to +give him somethin’ to go ’long with it.” + +“The good Lord have mercy upon us!” exclaimed Marann, springing up +and catching hold of her mother’s skirts, as she began her advance +towards the bar-room. “Oh, ma! for the Lord’s sake!—Sim, Sim, Sim, +if you care _any_thing for me in this wide world, don’t let ma go +into that room!” + +“Missis Fluker,” said Sim, rising instantly, “wait jest two minutes +till I see Mr. Pike on some pressin’ business; I won’t keep you +over two minutes a-waitin’.” + +He took her, set her down in a chair trembling, looked at her a +moment as she began to weep, then, going out and closing the door, +strode rapidly to the bar-room. + +“Let me help you settle your board-bill, Mr. Pike, by payin’ you a +little one I owe you.” + +Doubling his fist, he struck out with a blow that felled the deputy +to the floor. Then catching him by his heels, he dragged him out of +the house into the street. Lifting his foot above his face, he said: + +“You stir till I tell you, an’ I’ll stomp your nose down even +with the balance of your mean face. ’Tain’t exactly my business +how you cheated Mr. Fluker, though, ’pon my soul, I never knowed +a trifliner, lowdowner trick. But _I_ owed you myself for your +talkin’ ’bout and your lyin’ ’bout me, and now I’ve paid you; an’ +ef you only knowed it, I’ve saved you from a gig-whippin’. Now you +may git up.” + +“Here’s his dollar, Sim,” said Mr. Fluker, throwing it out of the +window. “Nervy say make him take it.” + +The vanquished, not daring to refuse, pocketed the coin, and slunk +away amid the jeers of a score of villagers who had been drawn to +the scene. + +In all human probability the late omission of the shaking of Sim’s +and Marann’s hands was compensated at their parting that afternoon. +I am more confident on this point because at the end of the year +those hands were joined inseparably by the preacher. But this was +when they had all gone back to their old home; for if Mr. Fluker +did not become fully convinced that his mathematical education was +not advanced quite enough for all the exigencies of hotel-keeping, +his wife declared that she had had enough of it, and that she and +Marann were going home. Mr. Fluker may be said, therefore, to have +followed, rather than led, his family on the return. + +As for the deputy, finding that if he did not leave it voluntarily +he would be drummed out of the village, he departed, whither I do +not remember if anybody ever knew. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[20] From _The Century Magazine_, June, 1886; copyright, 1886, +by The Century Co.; republished in the volume, _Mr. Absalom +Billingslea, and Other Georgia Folk_ (1888), by Richard Malcolm +Johnston (Harper & Brothers). + + + + +THE NICE PEOPLE[21] + +By Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855–1896) + + +“They certainly are nice people,” I assented to my wife’s +observation, using the colloquial phrase with a consciousness that +it was anything but “nice” English, “and I’ll bet that their three +children are better brought up than most of——” + +“_Two_ children,” corrected my wife. + +“Three, he told me.” + +“My dear, she said there were _two_.” + +“He said three.” + +“You’ve simply forgotten. I’m _sure_ she told me they had only +two—a boy and a girl.” + +“Well, I didn’t enter into particulars.” + +“No, dear, and you couldn’t have understood him. Two children.” + +“All right,” I said; but I did not think it was all right. As a +nearsighted man learns by enforced observation to recognize persons +at a distance when the face is not visible to the normal eye, so +the man with a bad memory learns, almost unconsciously, to listen +carefully and report accurately. My memory is bad; but I had +not had time to forget that Mr. Brewster Brede had told me that +afternoon that he had three children, at present left in the care +of his mother-in-law, while he and Mrs. Brede took their summer +vacation. + +“Two children,” repeated my wife; “and they are staying with his +aunt Jenny.” + +“He told me with his mother-in-law,” I put in. My wife looked at me +with a serious expression. Men may not remember much of what they +are told about children; but any man knows the difference between +an aunt and a mother-in-law. + +“But don’t you think they’re nice people?” asked my wife. + +“Oh, certainly,” I replied. “Only they seem to be a little mixed up +about their children.” + +“That isn’t a nice thing to say,” returned my wife. I could not +deny it. + + * * * * * + +And yet, the next morning, when the Bredes came down and seated +themselves opposite us at table, beaming and smiling in their +natural, pleasant, well-bred fashion, I knew, to a social +certainty, that they were “nice” people. He was a fine-looking +fellow in his neat tennis-flannels, slim, graceful, twenty-eight or +thirty years old, with a Frenchy pointed beard. She was “nice” in +all her pretty clothes, and she herself was pretty with that type +of prettiness which outwears most other types—the prettiness that +lies in a rounded figure, a dusky skin, plump, rosy cheeks, white +teeth and black eyes. She might have been twenty-five; you guessed +that she was prettier than she was at twenty, and that she would be +prettier still at forty. + +And nice people were all we wanted to make us happy in Mr. +Jacobus’s summer boarding-house on top of Orange Mountain. For a +week we had come down to breakfast each morning, wondering why we +wasted the precious days of idleness with the company gathered +around the Jacobus board. What joy of human companionship was to +be had out of Mrs. Tabb and Miss Hoogencamp, the two middle-aged +gossips from Scranton, Pa.—out of Mr. and Mrs. Biggle, an indurated +head-bookkeeper and his prim and censorious wife—out of old Major +Halkit, a retired business man, who, having once sold a few shares +on commission, wrote for circulars of every stock company that was +started, and tried to induce every one to invest who would listen +to him? We looked around at those dull faces, the truthful indices +of mean and barren minds, and decided that we would leave that +morning. Then we ate Mrs. Jacobus’s biscuit, light as Aurora’s +cloudlets, drank her honest coffee, inhaled the perfume of the late +azaleas with which she decked her table, and decided to postpone +our departure one more day. And then we wandered out to take our +morning glance at what we called “our view”; and it seemed to us as +if Tabb and Hoogencamp and Halkit and the Biggleses could not drive +us away in a year. + +I was not surprised when, after breakfast, my wife +invited the Bredes to walk with us to “our view.” The +Hoogencamp-Biggle-Tabb-Halkit contingent never stirred off +Jacobus’s veranda; but we both felt that the Bredes would not +profane that sacred scene. We strolled slowly across the fields, +passed through the little belt of woods and, as I heard Mrs. +Brede’s little cry of startled rapture, I motioned to Brede to look +up. + +“By Jove!” he cried, “heavenly!” + +We looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteen miles +of billowing green, to where, far across a far stretch of pale +blue lay a dim purple line that we knew was Staten Island. Towns +and villages lay before us and under us; there were ridges and +hills, uplands and lowlands, woods and plains, all massed and +mingled in that great silent sea of sunlit green. For silent it +was to us, standing in the silence of a high place—silent with a +Sunday stillness that made us listen, without taking thought, for +the sound of bells coming up from the spires that rose above the +tree-tops—the tree-tops that lay as far beneath us as the light +clouds were above us that dropped great shadows upon our heads +and faint specks of shade upon the broad sweep of land at the +mountain’s foot. + +“And so that is _your_ view?” asked Mrs. Brede, after a moment; +“you are very generous to make it ours, too.” + +Then we lay down on the grass, and Brede began to talk, in a gentle +voice, as if he felt the influence of the place. He had paddled a +canoe, in his earlier days, he said, and he knew every river and +creek in that vast stretch of landscape. He found his landmarks, +and pointed out to us where the Passaic and the Hackensack flowed, +invisible to us, hidden behind great ridges that in our sight were +but combings of the green waves upon which we looked down. And yet, +on the further side of those broad ridges and rises were scores of +villages—a little world of country life, lying unseen under our +eyes. + +“A good deal like looking at humanity,” he said; “there is such a +thing as getting so far above our fellow men that we see only one +side of them.” + +Ah, how much better was this sort of talk than the chatter +and gossip of the Tabb and the Hoogencamp—than the Major’s +dissertations upon his everlasting circulars! My wife and I +exchanged glances. + +“Now, when I went up the Matterhorn” Mr. Brede began. + +“Why, dear,” interrupted his wife, “I didn’t know you ever went up +the Matterhorn.” + +“It—it was five years ago,” said Mr. Brede, hurriedly. “I—I didn’t +tell you—when I was on the other side, you know—it was rather +dangerous—well, as I was saying—it looked—oh, it didn’t look at all +like this.” + +A cloud floated overhead, throwing its great shadow over the field +where we lay. The shadow passed over the mountain’s brow and +reappeared far below, a rapidly decreasing blot, flying eastward +over the golden green. My wife and I exchanged glances once more. + +Somehow, the shadow lingered over us all. As we went home, the +Bredes went side by side along the narrow path, and my wife and I +walked together. + +“_Should you think_,” she asked me, “that a man would climb the +Matterhorn the very first year he was married?” + +“I don’t know, my dear,” I answered, evasively; “this isn’t the +first year I have been married, not by a good many, and I wouldn’t +climb it—for a farm.” + +“You know what I mean,” she said. + +I did. + + * * * * * + +When we reached the boarding-house, Mr. Jacobus took me aside. + +“You know,” he began his discourse, “my wife she uset to live in N’ +York!” + +I didn’t know, but I said “Yes.” + +“She says the numbers on the streets runs criss-cross-like. +Thirty-four’s on one side o’ the street an’ thirty-five on t’other. +How’s that?” + +“That is the invariable rule, I believe.” + +“Then—I say—these here new folk that you ’n’ your wife seem so +mighty taken up with—d’ye know anything about ’em?” + +“I know nothing about the character of your boarders, Mr. Jacobus,” +I replied, conscious of some irritability. “If I choose to +associate with any of them——” + +“Jess so—jess so!” broke in Jacobus. “I hain’t nothin’ to say +ag’inst yer sosherbil’ty. But do ye _know_ them?” + +“Why, certainly not,” I replied. + +“Well—that was all I wuz askin’ ye. Ye see, when _he_ come here +to take the rooms—you wasn’t here then—he told my wife that he +lived at number thirty-four in his street. An’ yistiddy _she_ told +her that they lived at number thirty-five. He said he lived in an +apartment-house. Now there can’t be no apartment-house on two sides +of the same street, kin they?” + +“What street was it?” I inquired, wearily. + +“Hundred ’n’ twenty-first street.” + +“May be,” I replied, still more wearily. “That’s Harlem. Nobody +knows what people will do in Harlem.” + +I went up to my wife’s room. + +“Don’t you think it’s queer?” she asked me. + +“I think I’ll have a talk with that young man to-night,” I said, +“and see if he can give some account of himself.” + +“But, my dear,” my wife said, gravely, “_she_ doesn’t know whether +they’ve had the measles or not.” + +“Why, Great Scott!” I exclaimed, “they must have had them when they +were children.” + +“Please don’t be stupid,” said my wife. “I meant _their_ children.” + +After dinner that night—or rather, after supper, for we had dinner +in the middle of the day at Jacobus’s—I walked down the long +verandah to ask Brede, who was placidly smoking at the other end, +to accompany me on a twilight stroll. Half way down I met Major +Halkit. + +“That friend of yours,” he said, indicating the unconscious figure +at the further end of the house, “seems to be a queer sort of a +Dick. He told me that he was out of business, and just looking +round for a chance to invest his capital. And I’ve been telling him +what an everlasting big show he had to take stock in the Capitoline +Trust Company—starts next month—four million capital—I told you all +about it. ‘Oh, well,’ he says, ‘let’s wait and think about it.’ +‘Wait!’ says I, ‘the Capitoline Trust Company won’t wait for _you_, +my boy. This is letting you in on the ground floor,’ says I, ‘and +it’s now or never.’ ‘Oh, let it wait,’ says he. I don’t know what’s +in-_to_ the man.” + +“I don’t know how well he knows his own business, Major,” I said as +I started again for Brede’s end of the veranda. But I was troubled +none the less. The Major could not have influenced the sale of one +share of stock in the Capitoline Company. But that stock was a +great investment; a rare chance for a purchaser with a few thousand +dollars. Perhaps it was no more remarkable that Brede should +not invest than that I should not—and yet, it seemed to add one +circumstance more to the other suspicious circumstances. + + * * * * * + +When I went upstairs that evening, I found my wife putting her hair +to bed—I don’t know how I can better describe an operation familiar +to every married man. I waited until the last tress was coiled up, +and then I spoke: + +“I’ve talked with Brede,” I said, “and I didn’t have to catechize +him. He seemed to feel that some sort of explanation was looked +for, and he was very outspoken. You were right about the +children—that is, I must have misunderstood him. There are only +two. But the Matterhorn episode was simple enough. He didn’t +realize how dangerous it was until he had got so far into it that +he couldn’t back out; and he didn’t tell her, because he’d left her +here, you see, and under the circumstances——” + +“Left her here!” cried my wife. “I’ve been sitting with her the +whole afternoon, sewing, and she told me that he left her at +Geneva, and came back and took her to Basle, and the baby was born +there—now I’m sure, dear, because I asked her.” + +“Perhaps I was mistaken when I thought he said she was on this side +of the water,” I suggested, with bitter, biting irony. + +“You poor dear, did I abuse you?” said my wife. “But, do you know, +Mrs. Tabb said that _she_ didn’t know how many lumps of sugar he +took in his coffee. Now that seems queer, doesn’t it?” + +It did. It was a small thing. But it looked queer, Very queer. + + * * * * * + +The next morning, it was clear that war was declared against the +Bredes. They came down to breakfast somewhat late, and, as soon +as they arrived, the Biggleses swooped up the last fragments that +remained on their plates, and made a stately march out of the +dining-room, Then Miss Hoogencamp arose and departed, leaving a +whole fish-ball on her plate. Even as Atalanta might have dropped +an apple behind her to tempt her pursuer to check his speed, so +Miss Hoogencamp left that fish-ball behind her, and between her +maiden self and contamination. + +We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before the Bredes +appeared. We talked it over, and agreed that we were glad that we +had not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony. + +After breakfast, it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus +household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their +pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat +under a trellis covered with a grapevine that had borne no grapes +in the memory of man. This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, +on that pleasant summer morning, shielded from us two persons +who were in earnest conversation in the straggling, half-dead +flower-garden at the side of the house. + +“I don’t want,” we heard Mr. Jacobus say, “to enter in no man’s +_pry_-vacy; but I do want to know who it may be, like, that I hev +in my house. Now what I ask of _you_, and I don’t want you to take +it as in no ways _personal_, is—hev you your merridge-license with +you?” + +“No,” we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. “Have you yours?” + +I think it was a chance shot; but it told all the same. The Major +(he was a widower) and Mr. Biggle and I looked at each other; and +Mr. Jacobus, on the other side of the grape-trellis, looked at—I +don’t know what—and was as silent as we were. + +Where is _your_ marriage-license, married reader? Do you know? +Four men, not including Mr. Brede, stood or sat on one side or +the other of that grape-trellis, and not one of them knew where +his marriage-license was. Each of us had had one—the Major had +had three. But where were they? Where is _yours_? Tucked in your +best-man’s pocket; deposited in his desk—or washed to a pulp in his +white waistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), +washed out of existence—can you tell where it is? Can you—unless +you are one of those people who frame that interesting document and +hang it upon their drawing-room walls? + +Mr. Brede’s voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed +like five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds: + +“Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay +it? I shall leave by the six o’clock train. And will you also send +the wagon for my trunks?” + +“I hain’t said I wanted to hev ye leave——” began Mr. Jacobus; but +Brede cut him short. + +“Bring me your bill.” + +“But,” remonstrated Jacobus, “ef ye ain’t——” + +“Bring me your bill!” said Mr. Brede. + + * * * * * + +My wife and I went out for our morning’s walk. But it seemed to +us, when we looked at “our view,” as if we could only see those +invisible villages of which Brede had told us—that other side of +the ridges and rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills +or from the heights of human self-esteem. We meant to stay out +until the Bredes had taken their departure; but we returned just +in time to see Pete, the Jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, the +brasher of coats, the general handy-man of the house, loading the +Brede trunks on the Jacobus wagon. + +And, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came Mrs. Brede, leaning +on Mr. Brede’s arm, as though she were ill; and it was clear that +she had been crying. There were heavy rings about her pretty black +eyes. + +My wife took a step toward her. + +“Look at that dress, dear,” she whispered; “she never thought +anything like this was going to happen when she put _that_ on.” + +It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow-striped +affair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow-striped silk of the same +colors—maroon and white—and in her hand she held a parasol that +matched her dress. + +“She’s had a new dress on twice a day,” said my wife, “but that’s +the prettiest yet. Oh, somehow—I’m _awfully_ sorry they’re going!” + +But going they were. They moved toward the steps. Mrs. Brede looked +toward my wife, and my wife moved toward Mrs. Brede. But the +ostracized woman, as though she felt the deep humiliation of her +position, turned sharply away, and opened her parasol to shield +her eyes from the sun. A shower of rice—a half-pound shower of +rice—fell down over her pretty hat and her pretty dress, and fell +in a spattering circle on the floor, outlining her skirts—and there +it lay in a broad, uneven band, bright in the morning sun. + +Mrs. Brede was in my wife’s arms, sobbing as if her young heart +would break. + +“Oh, you poor, dear, silly children!” my wife cried, as Mrs. Brede +sobbed on her shoulder, “why _didn’t_ you tell us?” + +“W-W-W-We didn’t want to be t-t-taken for a b-b-b-b-bridal couple,” +sobbed Mrs. Brede; “and we d-d-didn’t _dream_ what awful lies we’d +have to tell, and all the aw-awful mixed-up-ness of it. Oh, dear, +dear, dear!” + + * * * * * + +“Pete!” commanded Mr. Jacobus, “put back them trunks. These folks +stays here’s long’s they wants ter. Mr. Brede”—he held out a large, +hard hand—“I’d orter’ve known better,” he said. And my last doubt +of Mr. Brede vanished as he shook that grimy hand in manly fashion. + +The two women were walking off toward “our view,” each with an arm +about the other’s waist—touched by a sudden sisterhood of sympathy. + +“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Brede, addressing Jacobus, Biggle, the Major +and me, “there is a hostelry down the street where they sell honest +New Jersey beer. I recognize the obligations of the situation.” + +We five men filed down the street. The two women went toward the +pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded the forehead of the great +hill. On Mr. Jacobus’s veranda lay a spattered circle of shining +grains of rice. Two of Mr. Jacobus’s pigeons flew down and picked +up the shining grains, making grateful noises far down in their +throats. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[21] From _Puck_, July 30, 1890. Republished in the volume, _Short +Sixes: Stories to Be Read While the Candle Burns_ (1891), by Henry +Cuyler Bunner; copyright, 1890, by Alice Larned Bunner; reprinted +by permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner’a Sons. + + + + +THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT[22] + +BY FRANK RICHARD STOCKTON (1834–1902) + + +“I tell you, William,” said Thomas Buller to his friend Mr. +Podington, “I am truly sorry about it, but I cannot arrange for it +this year. Now, as to _my_ invitation—that is very different.” + +“Of course it is different,” was the reply, “but I am obliged to +say, as I said before, that I really cannot accept it.” + +Remarks similar to these had been made by Thomas Buller and William +Podington at least once a year for some five years. They were old +friends; they had been schoolboys together and had been associated +in business since they were young men. They had now reached a +vigorous middle age; they were each married, and each had a house +in the country in which he resided for a part of the year. They +were warmly attached to each other, and each was the best friend +which the other had in this world. But during all these years +neither of them had visited the other in his country home. + +The reason for this avoidance of each other at their respective +rural residences may be briefly stated. Mr. Buller’s country house +was situated by the sea, and he was very fond of the water. He had +a good cat-boat, which he sailed himself with much judgment and +skill, and it was his greatest pleasure to take his friends and +visitors upon little excursions on the bay. But Mr. Podington was +desperately afraid of the water, and he was particularly afraid of +any craft sailed by an amateur. If his friend Buller would have +employed a professional mariner, of years and experience, to steer +and manage his boat, Podington might have been willing to take an +occasional sail; but as Buller always insisted upon sailing his own +boat, and took it ill if any of his visitors doubted his ability +to do so properly, Podington did not wish to wound the self-love +of his friend, and he did not wish to be drowned. Consequently he +could not bring himself to consent to go to Buller’s house by the +sea. + +To receive his good friend Buller at his own house in the beautiful +upland region in which he lived would have been a great joy to Mr. +Podington; but Buller could not be induced to visit him. Podington +was very fond of horses and always drove himself, while Buller +was more afraid of horses than he was of elephants or lions. To +one or more horses driven by a coachman of years and experience +he did not always object, but to a horse driven by Podington, who +had much experience and knowledge regarding mercantile affairs, +but was merely an amateur horseman, he most decidedly and strongly +objected. He did not wish to hurt his friend’s feelings by refusing +to go out to drive with him, but he would not rack his own nervous +system by accompanying him. Therefore it was that he had not yet +visited the beautiful upland country residence of Mr. Podington. + +At last this state of things grew awkward. Mrs. Buller and Mrs. +Podington, often with their families, visited each other at their +country houses, but the fact that on these occasions they were +never accompanied by their husbands caused more and more gossip +among their neighbors both in the upland country and by the sea. + +One day in spring as the two sat in their city office, where Mr. +Podington had just repeated his annual invitation, his friend +replied to him thus: + +“William, if I come to see you this summer, will you visit me? The +thing is beginning to look a little ridiculous, and people are +talking about it.” + +Mr. Podington put his hand to his brow and for a few moments closed +his eyes. In his mind he saw a cat-boat upon its side, the sails +spread out over the water, and two men, almost entirely immersed +in the waves, making efforts to reach the side of the boat. One of +these was getting on very well—that was Buller. The other seemed +about to sink, his arms were uselessly waving in the air—that was +himself. But he opened his eyes and looked bravely out of the +window; it was time to conquer all this; it was indeed growing +ridiculous. Buller had been sailing many years and had never been +upset. + +“Yes,” said he; “I will do it; I am ready any time you name.” + +Mr. Buller rose and stretched out his hand. + +“Good!” said he; “it is a compact!” + +Buller was the first to make the promised country visit. He had not +mentioned the subject of horses to his friend, but he knew through +Mrs. Buller that Podington still continued to be his own driver. +She had informed him, however, that at present he was accustomed to +drive a big black horse which, in her opinion, was as gentle and +reliable as these animals ever became, and she could not imagine +how anybody could be afraid of him. So when, the next morning after +his arrival, Mr. Buller was asked by his host if he would like to +take a drive, he suppressed a certain rising emotion and said that +it would please him very much. + +When the good black horse had jogged along a pleasant road for +half an hour Mr. Buller began to feel that, perhaps, for all +these years he had been laboring under a misconception. It seemed +to be possible that there were some horses to which surrounding +circumstances in the shape of sights and sounds were so irrelevant +that they were to a certain degree entirely safe, even when guided +and controlled by an amateur hand. As they passed some meadow-land, +somebody behind a hedge fired a gun; Mr. Buller was frightened, but +the horse was not. + +“William,” said Buller, looking cheerfully around him, + +“I had no idea that you lived in such a pretty country. In fact, I +might almost call it beautiful. You have not any wide stretch of +water, such as I like so much, but here is a pretty river, those +rolling hills are very charming, and, beyond, you have the blue of +the mountains.” + +“It is lovely,” said his friend; “I never get tired of driving +through this country. Of course the seaside is very fine, but here +we have such a variety of scenery.” + +Mr. Buller could not help thinking that sometimes the seaside was +a little monotonous, and that he had lost a great deal of pleasure +by not varying his summers by going up to spend a week or two with +Podington. + +“William,” said he, “how long have you had this horse?” + +“About two years,” said Mr. Podington; “before I got him, I used to +drive a pair.” + +“Heavens!” thought Buller, “how lucky I was not to come two years +ago!” And his regrets for not sooner visiting his friend greatly +decreased. + +Now they came to a place where the stream, by which the road ran, +had been dammed for a mill and had widened into a beautiful pond. + +“There now!” cried Mr. Buller. “That’s what I like. William, you +seem to have everything! This is really a very pretty sheet of +water, and the reflections of the trees over there make a charming +picture; you can’t get that at the seaside, you know.” + +Mr. Podington was delighted; his face glowed; he was rejoiced at +the pleasure of his friend. “I tell you, Thomas,” said he, “that——” + +“William!” exclaimed Buller, with a sudden squirm in his seat, +“what is that I hear? Is that a train?” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Podington, “that is the ten-forty, up.” + +“Does it come near here?” asked Mr. Buller, nervously. “Does it go +over that bridge?” + +“Yes,” said Podington, “but it can’t hurt us, for our road goes +under the bridge; we are perfectly safe; there is no risk of +accident.” + +“But your horse! Your horse!” exclaimed Buller, as the train came +nearer and nearer. “What will he do?” + +“Do?” said Podington; “he’ll do what he is doing now; he doesn’t +mind trains.” + +“But look here, William,” exclaimed Buller, “it will get there just +as we do; no horse could stand a roaring up in the air like that!” + +Podington laughed. “He would not mind it in the least,” said he. + +“Come, come now,” cried Buller. “Really, I can’t stand this! Just +stop a minute, William, and let me get out. It sets all my nerves +quivering.” + +Mr. Podington smiled with a superior smile. “Oh, you needn’t get +out,” said he; “there’s not the least danger in the world. But I +don’t want to make you nervous, and I will turn around and drive +the other way.” + +“But you can’t!” screamed Buller. “This road is not wide enough, +and that train is nearly here. Please stop!” + +The imputation that the road was not wide enough for him to turn +was too much for Mr. Podington to bear. He was very proud of his +ability to turn a vehicle in a narrow place. + +“Turn!” said he; “that’s the easiest thing in the world. See; a +little to the right, then a back, then a sweep to the left and we +will be going the other way.” And instantly he began the maneuver +in which he was such an adept. + +“Oh, Thomas!” cried Buller, half rising in his seat, “that train is +almost here!” + +“And we are almost——” Mr. Podington was about to say “turned +around,” but he stopped. Mr. Buller’s exclamations had made him a +little nervous, and, in his anxiety to turn quickly, he had pulled +upon his horse’s bit with more energy than was actually necessary, +and his nervousness being communicated to the horse, that animal +backed with such extraordinary vigor that the hind wheels of the +wagon went over a bit of grass by the road and into the water. The +sudden jolt gave a new impetus to Mr. Buller’s fears. + +“You’ll upset!” he cried, and not thinking of what he was about, he +laid hold of his friend’s arm. The horse, startled by this sudden +jerk upon his bit, which, combined with the thundering of the +train, which was now on the bridge, made him think that something +extraordinary was about to happen, gave a sudden and forcible start +backward, so that not only the hind wheels of the light wagon, +but the fore wheels and his own hind legs went into the water. +As the bank at this spot sloped steeply, the wagon continued to +go backward, despite the efforts of the agitated horse to find a +footing on the crumbling edge of the bank. + +“Whoa!” cried Mr. Buller. + +“Get up!” exclaimed Mr. Podington, applying his whip upon the +plunging beast. + +But exclamations and castigations had no effect upon the horse. The +original bed of the stream ran close to the road, and the bank was +so steep and the earth so soft that it was impossible for the horse +to advance or even maintain his footing. Back, back he went, until +the whole equipage was in the water and the wagon was afloat. + +This vehicle was a road wagon, without a top, and the joints of its +box-body were tight enough to prevent the water from immediately +entering it; so, somewhat deeply sunken, it rested upon the water. +There was a current in this part of the pond and it turned the +wagon downstream. The horse was now entirely immersed in the water, +with the exception of his head and the upper part of his neck, and, +unable to reach the bottom with his feet, he made vigorous efforts +to swim. + +Mr. Podington, the reins and whip in his hands, sat horrified +and pale; the accident was so sudden, he was so startled and so +frightened that, for a moment, he could not speak a word. Mr. +Buller, on the other hand, was now lively and alert. The wagon +had no sooner floated away from the shore than he felt himself at +home. He was upon his favorite element; water had no fears for +him. He saw that his friend was nearly frightened out of his wits, +and that, figuratively speaking, he must step to the helm and take +charge of the vessel. He stood up and gazed about him. + +“Put her across stream!” he shouted; “she can’t make headway +against this current. Head her to that clump of trees on the other +side; the bank is lower there, and we can beach her. Move a little +the other way, we must trim boat. Now then, pull on your starboard +rein.” + +Podington obeyed, and the horse slightly changed his direction. + +“You see,” said Buller, “it won’t do to sail straight across, +because the current would carry us down and land us below that +spot.” + +Mr. Podington said not a word; he expected every moment to see the +horse sink into a watery grave. + +“It isn’t so bad after all, is it, Podington? If we had a rudder +and a bit of a sail it would be a great help to the horse. This +wagon is not a bad boat.” + +The despairing Podington looked at his feet. “It’s coming in,” he +said in a husky voice. “Thomas, the water is over my shoes!” + +“That is so,” said Buller. “I am so used to water I didn’t notice +it. She leaks. Do you carry anything to bail her out with?” + +“Bail!” cried Podington, now finding his voice. “Oh, Thomas, we are +sinking!” + +“That’s so,” said Buller; “she leaks like a sieve.” + +The weight of the running-gear and of the two men was entirely too +much for the buoyancy of the wagon body. The water rapidly rose +toward the top of its sides. + +“We are going to drown!” cried Podington, suddenly rising. + +“Lick him! Lick him!” exclaimed Buller. “Make him swim faster!” + +“There’s nothing to lick,” cried Podington, vainly lashing at the +water, for he could not reach the horse’s head. The poor man was +dreadfully frightened; he had never even imagined it possible that +he should be drowned in his own wagon. + +“Whoop!” cried Buller, as the water rose over the sides. “Steady +yourself, old boy, or you’ll go overboard!” And the next moment the +wagon body sunk out of sight. + +But it did not go down very far. The deepest part of the channel of +the stream had been passed, and with a bump the wheels struck the +bottom. + +“Heavens!” exclaimed Buller, “we are aground.” + +“Aground!” exclaimed Podington, “Heaven be praised!” + +As the two men stood up in the submerged wagon the water was above +their knees, and when Podington looked out over the surface of the +pond, now so near his face, it seemed like a sheet of water he had +never seen before. It was something horrible, threatening to rise +and envelop him. He trembled so that he could scarcely keep his +footing. + +“William,” said his companion, “you must sit down; if you don’t, +you’ll tumble overboard and be drowned. There is nothing for you to +hold to.” + +“Sit down,” said Podington, gazing blankly at the water around him, +“I can’t do that!” + +At this moment the horse made a slight movement. Having touched +bottom after his efforts in swimming across the main bed of the +stream, with a floating wagon in tow, he had stood for a few +moments, his head and neck well above water, and his back barely +visible beneath the surface. Having recovered his breath, he now +thought it was time to move on. + +At the first step of the horse Mr. Podington began to totter. +Instinctively he clutched Buller. + +“Sit down!” cried the latter, “or you’ll have us both overboard.” +There was no help for it; down sat Mr. Podington; and, as with a +great splash he came heavily upon the seat, the water rose to his +waist. + +“Ough!” said he. “Thomas, shout for help.” + +“No use doing that,” replied Buller, still standing on his nautical +legs; “I don’t see anybody, and I don’t see any boat. We’ll get out +all right. Just you stick tight to the thwart.” + +“The what?” feebly asked the other. + +“Oh, the seat, I mean. We can get to the shore all right if you +steer the horse straight. Head him more across the pond.” + +“I can’t head him,” cried Podington. “I have dropped the reins!” + +“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Buller, “that’s bad. Can’t you steer him +by shouting ‘Gee’ and ‘Haw’?” + +“No,” said Podington, “he isn’t an ox; but perhaps I can stop him.” +And with as much voice as he could summon, he called out: “Whoa!” +and the horse stopped. + +“If you can’t steer him any other way,” said Buller, “we must get +the reins. Lend me your whip.” + +“I have dropped that too,” said Podington; “there it floats.” + +“Oh, dear,” said Buller, “I guess I’ll have to dive for them; if he +were to run away, we should be in an awful fix.” + +“Don’t get out! Don’t get out!” exclaimed Podington. “You can reach +over the dashboard.” + +“As that’s under water,” said Buller, “it will be the same thing as +diving; but it’s got to be done, and I’ll try it. Don’t you move +now; I am more used to water than you are.” + +Mr. Buller took off his hat and asked his friend to hold it. He +thought of his watch and other contents of his pockets, but there +was no place to put them, so he gave them no more consideration. +Then bravely getting on his knees in the water, he leaned over the +dashboard, almost disappearing from sight. With his disengaged hand +Mr. Podington grasped the submerged coat-tails of his friend. + +In a few seconds the upper part of Mr. Buller rose from the water. +He was dripping and puffing, and Mr. Podington could not but think +what a difference it made in the appearance of his friend to have +his hair plastered close to his head. + +“I got hold of one of them,” said the sputtering Buller, “but it +was fast to something and I couldn’t get it loose.” + +“Was it thick and wide?” asked Podington. + +“Yes,” was the answer; “it did seem so.” + +“Oh, that was a trace,” said Podington; “I don’t want that; the +reins are thinner and lighter.” + +“Now I remember they are,” said Buller. “I’ll go down again.” + +Again Mr. Buller leaned over the dashboard, and this time he +remained down longer, and when he came up he puffed and sputtered +more than before. + +“Is this it?” said he, holding up a strip of wet leather. + +“Yes,” said Podington, “you’ve got the reins.” + +“Well, take them, and steer. I would have found them sooner if his +tail had not got into my eyes. That long tail’s floating down there +and spreading itself out like a fan; it tangled itself all around +my head. It would have been much easier if he had been a bob-tailed +horse.” + +“Now then,” said Podington, “take your hat, Thomas, and I’ll try to +drive.” + +Mr. Buller put on his hat, which was the only dry thing about him, +and the nervous Podington started the horse so suddenly that even +the sea-legs of Buller were surprised, and he came very near going +backward into the water; but recovering himself, he sat down. + +“I don’t wonder you did not like to do this, William,” said he. +“Wet as I am, it’s ghastly!” + +Encouraged by his master’s voice, and by the feeling of the +familiar hand upon his bit, the horse moved bravely on. + +But the bottom was very rough and uneven. Sometimes the wheels +struck a large stone, terrifying Mr. Buller, who thought they were +going to upset; and sometimes they sank into soft mud, horrifying +Mr. Podington, who thought they were going to drown. + +Thus proceeding, they presented a strange sight. At first Mr. +Podington held his hands above the water as he drove, but he soon +found this awkward, and dropped them to their usual position, so +that nothing was visible above the water but the head and neck of a +horse and the heads and shoulders of two men. + +Now the submarine equipage came to a low place in the bottom, and +even Mr. Buller shuddered as the water rose to his chin. Podington +gave a howl of horror, and the horse, with high, uplifted head, was +obliged to swim. At this moment a boy with a gun came strolling +along the road, and hearing Mr. Podington’s cry, he cast his eyes +over the water. Instinctively he raised his weapon to his shoulder, +and then, in an instant, perceiving that the objects he beheld were +not aquatic birds, he dropped his gun and ran yelling down the road +toward the mill. + +But the hollow in the bottom was a narrow one, and when it was +passed the depth of the water gradually decreased. The back of the +horse came into view, the dashboard became visible, and the bodies +and the spirits of the two men rapidly rose. Now there was vigorous +splashing and tugging, and then a jet black horse, shining as if he +had been newly varnished, pulled a dripping wagon containing two +well-soaked men upon a shelving shore. + +“Oh, I am chilled to the bones!” said Podington. + +“I should think so,” replied his friend; “if you have got to be +wet, it is a great deal pleasanter under the water.” + +There was a field-road on this side of the pond which Podington +well knew, and proceeding along this they came to the bridge and +got into the main road. + +“Now we must get home as fast as we can,” cried Podington, “or we +shall both take cold. I wish I hadn’t lost my whip. Hi now! Get +along!” + +Podington was now full of life and energy, his wheels were on the +hard road, and he was himself again. + +When he found his head was turned toward his home, the horse set +off at a great rate. + +“Hi there!” cried Podington. “I am so sorry I lost my whip.” + +“Whip!” said Buller, holding fast to the side of the seat; “surely +you don’t want him to go any faster than this. And look here, +William,” he added, “it seems to me we are much more likely to take +cold in our wet clothes if we rush through the air in this way. +Really, it seems to me that horse is running away.” + +“Not a bit of it,” cried Podington. “He wants to get home, and he +wants his dinner. Isn’t he a fine horse? Look how he steps out!” + +“Steps out!” said Buller, “I think I’d like to step out myself. +Don’t you think it would be wiser for me to walk home, William? +That will warm me up.” + +“It will take you an hour,” said his friend. “Stay where you are, +and I’ll have you in a dry suit of clothes in less than fifteen +minutes.” + +“I tell you, William,” said Mr. Buller, as the two sat smoking +after dinner, “what you ought to do; you should never go out +driving without a life-preserver and a pair of oars; I always take +them. It would make you feel safer.” + +Mr. Buller went home the next day, because Mr. Podington’s clothes +did not fit him, and his own outdoor suit was so shrunken as to +be uncomfortable. Besides, there was another reason, connected +with the desire of horses to reach their homes, which prompted his +return. But he had not forgotten his compact with his friend, and +in the course of a week he wrote to Podington, inviting him to +spend some days with him. Mr. Podington was a man of honor, and +in spite of his recent unfortunate water experience he would not +break his word. He went to Mr. Buller’s seaside home at the time +appointed. + +Early on the morning after his arrival, before the family were up, +Mr. Podington went out and strolled down to the edge of the bay. +He went to look at Buller’s boat. He was well aware that he would +be asked to take a sail, and as Buller had driven with him, it +would be impossible for him to decline sailing with Buller; but +he must see the boat. There was a train for his home at a quarter +past seven; if he were not on the premises he could not be asked to +sail. If Buller’s boat were a little, flimsy thing, he would take +that train—but he would wait and see. + +There was only one small boat anchored near the beach, and a +man—apparently a fisherman—informed Mr. Podington that it belonged +to Mr. Buller. Podington looked at it eagerly; it was not very +small and not flimsy. + +“Do you consider that a safe boat?” he asked the fisherman. + +“Safe?” replied the man. “You could not upset her if you tried. +Look at her breadth of beam! You could go anywhere in that boat! +Are you thinking of buying her?” + +The idea that he would think of buying a boat made Mr. Podington +laugh. The information that it would be impossible to upset the +little vessel had greatly cheered him, and he could laugh. + +Shortly after breakfast Mr. Buller, like a nurse with a dose of +medicine, came to Mr. Podington with the expected invitation to +take a sail. + +“Now, William,” said his host, “I understand perfectly your feeling +about boats, and what I wish to prove to you is that it is a +feeling without any foundation. I don’t want to shock you or make +you nervous, so I am not going to take you out to-day on the bay +in my boat. You are as safe on the bay as you would be on land—a +little safer, perhaps, under certain circumstances, to which we +will not allude—but still it is sometimes a little rough, and this, +at first, might cause you some uneasiness, and so I am going to let +you begin your education in the sailing line on perfectly smooth +water. About three miles back of us there is a very pretty lake +several miles long. It is part of the canal system which connects +the town with the railroad. I have sent my boat to the town, and we +can walk up there and go by the canal to the lake; it is only about +three miles.” + +If he had to sail at all, this kind of sailing suited Mr. +Podington. A canal, a quiet lake, and a boat which could not be +upset. When they reached the town the boat was in the canal, ready +for them. + +“Now,” said Mr. Buller, “you get in and make yourself comfortable. +My idea is to hitch on to a canal-boat and be towed to the lake. +The boats generally start about this time in the morning, and I +will go and see about it.” + +Mr. Podington, under the direction of his friend, took a seat in +the stern of the sailboat, and then he remarked: + +“Thomas, have you a life-preserver on board? You know I am not used +to any kind of vessel, and I am clumsy. Nothing might happen to the +boat, but I might trip and fall overboard, and I can’t swim.” + +“All right,” said Buller; “here’s a life-preserver, and you can put +it on. I want you to feel perfectly safe. Now I will go and see +about the tow.” + +But Mr. Buller found that the canal-boats would not start at their +usual time; the loading of one of them was not finished, and he was +informed that he might have to wait for an hour or more. This did +not suit Mr. Buller at all, and he did not hesitate to show his +annoyance. + +“I tell you, sir, what you can do,” said one of the men in charge +of the boats; “if you don’t want to wait till we are ready to +start, we’ll let you have a boy and a horse to tow you up to the +lake. That won’t cost you much, and they’ll be back before we want +’em.” + +The bargain was made, and Mr. Buller joyfully returned to his +boat with the intelligence that they were not to wait for the +canal-boats. A long rope, with a horse attached to the other end of +it, was speedily made fast to the boat, and with a boy at the head +of the horse, they started up the canal. + +“Now this is the kind of sailing I like,” said Mr. Podington. “If +I lived near a canal I believe I would buy a boat and train my +horse to tow. I could have a long pair of rope-lines and drive him +myself; then when the roads were rough and bad the canal would +always be smooth.” + +“This is all very nice,” replied Mr. Buller, who sat by the tiller +to keep the boat away from the bank, “and I am glad to see you in a +boat under any circumstances. Do you know, William, that although +I did not plan it, there could not have been a better way to begin +your sailing education. Here we glide along, slowly and gently, +with no possible thought of danger, for if the boat should suddenly +spring a leak, as if it were the body of a wagon, all we would have +to do would be to step on shore, and by the time you get to the +end of the canal you will like this gentle motion so much that you +will be perfectly ready to begin the second stage of your nautical +education.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Podington. “How long did you say this canal is?” + +“About three miles,” answered his friend. “Then we will go into the +lock and in a few minutes we shall be on the lake.” + +“So far as I am concerned,” said Mr. Podington, “I wish the canal +were twelve miles long. I cannot imagine anything pleasanter than +this. If I lived anywhere near a canal—a long canal, I mean, this +one is too short—I’d—” + +“Come, come now,” interrupted Buller. “Don’t be content to stay +in the primary school just because it is easy. When we get on the +lake I will show you that in a boat, with a gentle breeze, such +as we are likely to have to-day, you will find the motion quite as +pleasing, and ever so much more inspiriting. I should not be a bit +surprised, William, if after you have been two or three times on +the lake you will ask me—yes, positively ask me—to take you out on +the bay!” + +Mr. Podington smiled, and leaning backward, he looked up at the +beautiful blue sky. + +“You can’t give me anything better than this, Thomas,” said he; +“but you needn’t think I am weakening; you drove with me, and I +will sail with you.” + +The thought came into Buller’s mind that he had done both of these +things with Podington, but he did not wish to call up unpleasant +memories, and said nothing. + +About half a mile from the town there stood a small cottage where +house-cleaning was going on, and on a fence, not far from the +canal, there hung a carpet gaily adorned with stripes and spots of +red and yellow. + +When the drowsy tow-horse came abreast of the house, and the carpet +caught his eye, he suddenly stopped and gave a start toward the +canal. Then, impressed with a horror of the glaring apparition, he +gathered himself up, and with a bound dashed along the tow-path. +The astounded boy gave a shout, but was speedily left behind. The +boat of Mr. Buller shot forward as if she had been struck by a +squall. + +The terrified horse sped on as if a red and yellow demon were after +him. The boat bounded, and plunged, and frequently struck the +grassy bank of the canal, as if it would break itself to pieces. +Mr. Podington clutched the boom to keep himself from being thrown +out, while Mr. Buller, both hands upon the tiller, frantically +endeavored to keep the boat from the bank. + +“William!” he screamed, “he is running away with us; we shall be +dashed to pieces! Can’t you get forward and cast off that line?” + +“What do you mean?” cried Podington, as the boom gave a great jerk +as if it would break its fastenings and drag him overboard. + +“I mean untie the tow-line. We’ll be smashed if you don’t! I can’t +leave this tiller. Don’t try to stand up; hold on to the boom and +creep forward. Steady now, or you’ll be overboard!” + +Mr. Podington stumbled to the bow of the boat, his efforts greatly +impeded by the big cork life-preserver tied under his arms, and the +motion of the boat was so violent and erratic that he was obliged +to hold on to the mast with one arm and to try to loosen the knot +with the other; but there was a great strain on the rope, and he +could do nothing with one hand. + +“Cut it! Cut it!” cried Mr. Buller. + +“I haven’t a knife,” replied Podington. + +Mr. Buller was terribly frightened; his boat was cutting through +the water as never vessel of her class had sped since sail-boats +were invented, and bumping against the bank as if she were a +billiard-ball rebounding from the edge of a table. He forgot he was +in a boat; he only knew that for the first time in his life he was +in a runaway. He let go the tiller. It was of no use to him. + +“William,” he cried, “let us jump out the next time we are near +enough to shore!” + +“Don’t do that! Don’t do that!” replied Podington. “Don’t jump out +in a runaway; that is the way to get hurt. Stick to your seat, my +boy; he can’t keep this up much longer. He’ll lose his wind!” + +Mr. Podington was greatly excited, but he was not frightened, as +Buller was. He had been in a runaway before, and he could not help +thinking how much better a wagon was than a boat in such a case. + +“If he were hitched up shorter and I had a snaffle-bit and a stout +pair of reins,” thought he, “I could soon bring him up.” + +But Mr. Buller was rapidly losing his wits. The horse seemed to be +going faster than ever. The boat bumped harder against the bank, +and at one time Buller thought they could turn over. + +Suddenly a thought struck him. + +“William,” he shouted, “tip that anchor over the side! Throw it in, +any way!” + +Mr. Podington looked about him, and, almost under his feet, saw +the anchor. He did not instantly comprehend why Buller wanted it +thrown overboard, but this was not a time to ask questions. The +difficulties imposed by the life-preserver, and the necessity of +holding on with one hand, interfered very much with his getting at +the anchor and throwing it over the side, but at last he succeeded, +and just as the boat threw up her bow as if she were about to jump +on shore, the anchor went out and its line shot after it. There was +an irregular trembling of the boat as the anchor struggled along +the bottom of the canal; then there was a great shock; the boat +ran into the bank and stopped; the tow-line was tightened like a +guitar-string, and the horse, jerked back with great violence, came +tumbling in a heap upon the ground. + +Instantly Mr. Podington was on the shore and running at the top of +his speed toward the horse. The astounded animal had scarcely begun +to struggle to his feet when Podington rushed upon him, pressed his +head back to the ground, and sat upon it. + +“Hurrah!” he cried, waving his hat above his head. “Get out, +Buller; he is all right now!” + +Presently Mr. Buller approached, very much shaken up. + +“All right?” he said. “I don’t call a horse flat in a road with a +man on his head all right; but hold him down till we get him loose +from my boat. That is the thing to do. William, cast him loose from +the boat before you let him up! What will he do when he gets up?” + +“Oh. he’ll be quiet enough when he gets up,” said Podington. “But +if you’ve got a knife you can cut his traces—-I mean that rope—but +no, you needn’t. Here comes the boy. We’ll settle this business in +very short order now.” + +When the horse was on his feet, and all connection between the +animal and the boat had been severed, Mr. Podington looked at his +friend. + +“Thomas,” said he, “you seem to have had a hard time of it. +You have lost your hat and you look as if you had been in a +wrestling-match.” + +“I have,” replied the other; “I wrestled with that tiller and I +wonder it didn’t throw me out.” + +Now approached the boy. “Shall I hitch him on again, sir?” said he. +“He’s quiet enough now.” + +“No,” cried Mr. Buller; “I want no more sailing after a horse, +and, besides, we can’t go on the lake with that boat; she has been +battered about so much that she must have opened a dozen seams. The +best thing we can do is to walk home.” + +Mr. Podington agreed with his friend that walking home was the +best thing they could do. The boat was examined and found to be +leaking, but not very badly, and when her mast had been unshipped +and everything had been made tight and right on board, she was +pulled out of the way of tow-lines and boats, and made fast until +she could be sent for from the town. + +Mr. Buller and Mr. Podington walked back toward the town. They had +not gone very far when they met a party of boys, who, upon seeing +them, burst into unseemly laughter. + +“Mister,” cried one of them, “you needn’t be afraid of tumbling +into the canal. Why don’t you take off your life-preserver and let +that other man put it on his head?” + +The two friends looked at each other and could not help joining in +the laughter of the boys. + +“By George! I forgot all about this,” said Podington, as he +unfastened the cork jacket. “It does look a little super-timid to +wear a life-preserver just because one happens to be walking by the +side of a canal.” + +Mr. Buller tied a handkerchief on his head, and Mr. Podington +rolled up his life-preserver and carried it under his arm. Thus +they reached the town, where Buller bought a hat, Podington +dispensed with his bundle, and arrangements were made to bring back +the boat. + +“Runaway in a sailboat!” exclaimed one of the canal boatmen when he +had heard about the accident. “Upon my word! That beats anything +that could happen to a man!” + +“No, it doesn’t,” replied Mr. Buller, quietly. “I have gone to the +bottom in a foundered road-wagon.” + +The man looked at him fixedly. + +“Was you ever struck in the mud in a balloon?” he asked. + +“Not yet,” replied Mr. Buller. + +It required ten days to put Mr. Buller’s sailboat into proper +condition, and for ten days Mr. Podington stayed with his friend, +and enjoyed his visit very much. They strolled on the beach, they +took long walks in the back country, they fished from the end of a +pier, they smoked, they talked, and were happy and content. + +“Thomas,” said Mr. Podington, on the last evening of his stay, “I +have enjoyed myself very much since I have been down here, and +now, Thomas, if I were to come down again next summer, would you +mind—would you mind, not——” + +“I would not mind it a bit,” replied Buller, promptly. “I’ll never +so much as mention it; so you can come along without a thought +of it. And since you have alluded to the subject, William,” he +continued, “I’d like very much to come and see you again; you +know my visit was a very short one this year. That is a beautiful +country you live in. Such a variety of scenery, such an opportunity +for walks and rambles! But, William, if you could only make up your +mind not to——” + +“Oh, that is all right!” exclaimed Podington. “I do not need to +make up my mind. You come to my house and you will never so much as +hear of it. Here’s my hand upon it!” + +“And here’s mine!” said Mr. Buller. + +And they shook hands over a new compact. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[22] From _Scribner’s Magazine_, August, 1897. Republished in +_Afield and Afloat_, by Frank Richard Stockton; copyright, 1900, by +Charles Scribner’s Sons. Reprinted by permission of the publishers. + + + + +COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF[23] + +By Bret Harte (1839–1902) + + +It had been a day of triumph for Colonel Starbottle. First, for +his personality, as it would have been difficult to separate +the Colonel’s achievements from his individuality; second, for +his oratorical abilities as a sympathetic pleader; and third, +for his functions as the leading counsel for the Eureka Ditch +Company _versus_ the State of California. On his strictly legal +performances in this issue I prefer not to speak; there were those +who denied them, although the jury had accepted them in the face +of the ruling of the half-amused, half-cynical Judge himself. For +an hour they had laughed with the Colonel, wept with him, been +stirred to personal indignation or patriotic exaltation by his +passionate and lofty periods—what else could they do than give him +their verdict? If it was alleged by some that the American eagle, +Thomas Jefferson, and the Resolutions of ’98 had nothing whatever +to do with the contest of a ditch company over a doubtfully worded +legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the State Attorney +and his political motives had not the slightest connection with +the legal question raised—it was, nevertheless, generally accepted +that the losing party would have been only too glad to have the +Colonel on their side. And Colonel Starbottle knew this, as, +perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons +of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical +spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above +it as he strutted from the courtroom amidst the hand-shakings and +acclamations of his friends. + +And here an unprecedented thing occurred. The Colonel absolutely +declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring Palmetto Saloon, +and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in +the adjoining square. Nevertheless the Colonel quitted the building +alone, and apparently unarmed except for his faithful gold-headed +stick, which hung as usual from his forearm. The crowd gazed after +him with undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck. +It was remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to +him at the conclusion of his speech—evidently a challenge from the +State Attorney. It was quite plain that the Colonel—a practised +duellist—was hastening home to answer it. + +But herein they were wrong. The note was in a female hand, and +simply requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer +at the Colonel’s office as soon as he left the court. But it was an +engagement that the Colonel—as devoted to the fair sex as he was +to the “code”—was no less prompt in accepting. He flicked away the +dust from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his +handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar +as he neared his office. He was surprised, however, on opening the +door of his private office to find his visitor already there; he +was still more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and +plainly attired. But the Colonel was brought up in a school of +Southern politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow +of courtesy belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped +trousers. No one could have detected his disappointment in his +manner, albeit his sentences were short and incomplete. But the +Colonel’s colloquial speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies +of his larger oratorical utterances. + +“A thousand pardons—for—er—having kept a lady waiting—er! +But—er—congratulations of friends—and—er—courtesy due to +them—er—interfered with—though perhaps only heightened—by +procrastination—pleasure of—ha!” And the Colonel completed his +sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept +hand. + +“Yes! I came to see you along o’ that speech of yours. I was in +court. When I heard you gettin’ it off on that jury, I says to +myself that’s the kind o’ lawyer _I_ want. A man that’s flowery and +convincin’! Just the man to take up our case.” + +“Ah! It’s a matter of business, I see,” said the Colonel, inwardly +relieved, but externally careless. “And—er—may I ask the nature of +the case?” + +“Well! it’s a breach-o’-promise suit,” said the visitor, calmly. + +If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really +startled, and with an added horror that required all his politeness +to conceal. Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion. He +had always held them to be a kind of litigation which could have +been obviated by the prompt killing of the masculine offender—in +which case he would have gladly defended the killer. But a suit +for damages!—_damages!_—with the reading of love-letters before +a hilarious jury and court, was against all his instincts. His +chivalry was outraged; his sense of humor was small—and in the +course of his career he had lost one or two important cases through +an unexpected development of this quality in a jury. + +The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its +cause. “It ain’t me—but my darter.” + +The Colonel recovered his politeness. “Ah! I am relieved, my dear +madam! I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to—er—er—throw +away such evident good fortune—or base enough to deceive the +trustfulness of womanhood—matured and experienced only in the +chivalry of our sex, ha!” + +The woman smiled grimly. “Yes!—it’s my darter, Zaidee Hooker—so ye +might spare some of them pretty speeches for _her_—before the jury.” + +The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but +smiled. “Ha! Yes!—certainly—the jury. But—er—my dear lady, need +we go as far as that? Cannot this affair be settled—er—out of +court? Could not this—er—individual—be admonished—told that he +must give satisfaction—personal satisfaction—for his dastardly +conduct—to —er—near relative—or even valued personal friend? +The—er—arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would +undertake.” + +He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that +fire which a pretty woman or an “affair of honor” could alone +kindle. The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said, slowly: + +“And what good is that goin’ to do _us_?” + +“Compel him to—er—perform his promise,” said the Colonel, leaning +back in his chair. + +“Ketch him doin’ it!” said the woman, scornfully. “No—that ain’t +wot we’re after. We must make him _pay_! Damages—and nothin’ short +o’ _that_.” + +The Colonel bit his lip. “I suppose,” he said, gloomily, “you have +documentary evidence—written promises and protestations—er—er— +love-letters, in fact?” + +“No—nary a letter! Ye see, that’s jest it—and that’s where _you_ +come in. You’ve got to convince that jury yourself. You’ve got to +show what it is—tell the whole story your own way. Lord! to a man +like you that’s nothin’.” + +Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer, +Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it. The absence of any +mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own +powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy. He lightly put +aside the compliment with a wave of his white hand. + +“Of course,” said the Colonel, confidently, “there is strongly +presumptive and corroborative evidence? Perhaps you can give +me—er—a brief outline of the affair?” + +“Zaidee kin do that straight enough, I reckon,” said the woman; +“what I want to know first is, kin you take the case?” + +The Colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued. “I +certainly can. I have no doubt your daughter will put me in +possession of sufficient facts and details—to constitute what we +call—er—a brief.” + +“She kin be brief enough—or long enough—for the matter of that,” +said the woman, rising. The Colonel accepted this implied witticism +with a smile. + +“And when may I have the pleasure of seeing her?” he asked, +politely. + +“Well, I reckon as soon as I can trot out and call her. She’s just +outside, meanderin’ in the road—kinder shy, ye know, at first.” + +She walked to the door. The astounded Colonel nevertheless +gallantly accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and +called, shrilly, “You Zaidee!” + +A young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the +ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down +towards the office door. Like her mother, she was plainly dressed; +unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure +mouth and downcast eyes. This was all the Colonel saw as he bowed +profoundly and led the way into his office, for she accepted his +salutations without lifting her head. He helped her gallantly +to a chair, on which she seated herself sideways, somewhat +ceremoniously, with her eyes following the point of her parasol as +she traced a pattern on the carpet. A second chair offered to the +mother that lady, however, declined. “I reckon to leave you and +Zaidee together to talk it out,” she said; turning to her daughter, +she added, “Jest you tell him all, Zaidee,” and before the Colonel +could rise again, disappeared from the room. In spite of his +professional experience, Starbottle was for a moment embarrassed. +The young girl, however, broke the silence without looking up. + +“Adoniram K. Hotchkiss,” she began, in a monotonous voice, as if +it were a recitation addressed to the public, “first began to take +notice of me a year ago. Arter that—off and on——” + +“One moment,” interrupted the astounded Colonel; “do you mean +Hotchkiss the President of the Ditch Company?” He had recognized +the name of a prominent citizen—a rigid ascetic, taciturn, +middle-aged man—a deacon—and more than that, the head of the +company he had just defended. It seemed inconceivable. + +“That’s him,” she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol +and without changing her monotonous tone—“off and on ever since. +Most of the time at the Free-Will Baptist church—at morning +service, prayer-meetings, and such. And at home—outside—er—in the +road.” + +“Is it this gentleman—Mr. Adoniram K. Hotchkiss—who—er—promised +marriage?” stammered the Colonel. + +“Yes.” + +The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. “Most extraordinary! +for—you see—my dear young lady—this becomes—a—er—most delicate +affair.” + +“That’s what maw said,” returned the young woman, simply, yet with +the faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast +cheek. + +“I mean,” said the Colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, +“that this—er—gentleman—is in fact—er—one of my clients.” + +“That’s what maw said, too, and of course your knowing him will +make it all the easier for you,” said the young woman. + +A slight flush crossed the Colonel’s cheek as he returned quickly +and a little stiffly, “On the contrary—er—it may make it impossible +for me to—er—act in this matter.” + +The girl lifted her eyes. The Colonel held his breath as the long +lashes were raised to his level. Even to an ordinary observer that +sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with +subtle witchery. They were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with +an extraordinary penetration and prescience. They were the eyes of +an experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child. What +else the Colonel saw there Heaven only knows! He felt his inmost +secrets plucked from him—his whole soul laid bare—his vanity, +belligerency, gallantry—even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and +yet illuminated, in that single glance. And when the eyelids fell +again, he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up +in them. + +“I beg your pardon,” he said, hurriedly. “I mean—this matter +may be arranged—er—amicably. My interest with—and as you wisely +say—my—er—knowledge of my client—er—Mr. Hotchkiss—may affect—a +compromise.” + +“And _damages_,” said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as +if she had never looked up. + +The Colonel winced. “And—er—undoubtedly _compensation_—if you do +not press a fulfilment of the promise. Unless,” he said, with an +attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, +the recollection of her eyes made difficult, “it is a question +of—er—the affections?” + +“Which?” said his fair client, softly. + +“If you still love him?” explained the Colonel, actually blushing. + +Zaidee again looked up; again taking the Colonel’s breath away +with eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what +he had _said_, but of what he thought and had not said, and with +an added subtle suggestion of what he might have thought. “That’s +tellin’,” she said, dropping her long lashes again. The Colonel +laughed vacantly. Then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced +an equally weak gravity. “Pardon me—I understand there are no +letters; may I know the way in which he formulated his declaration +and promises?” + +“Hymn-books,” said the girl, briefly. + +“I beg your pardon,” said the mystified lawyer. + +“Hymn-books—marked words in them with pencil—and passed ’em on to +me,” repeated Zaidee. “Like ‘love,’ ‘dear,’ ‘precious,’ ‘sweet,’ +and ‘blessed,’” she added, accenting each word with a push of her +parasol on the carpet. “Sometimes a whole line outer Tate and +Brady—and _Solomon’s Song_, you know, and sich.” + +“I believe,” said the Colonel, loftily, “that the—er—phrases of +sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections. +But in regard to the distinct promise of marriage—was there—er—no +_other_ expression?” + +“Marriage Service in the prayer-book—lines and words outer +that—all marked,” said Zaidee. The Colonel nodded naturally and +approvingly. “Very good. Were others cognizant of this? Were there +any witnesses?” + +“Of course not,” said the girl. “Only me and him. It was generally +at church-time—or prayer-meeting. Once, in passing the plate, he +slipped one o’ them peppermint lozenges with the letters stamped on +it ‘I love you’ for me to take.” + +The Colonel coughed slightly. “And you have the lozenge?” + +“I ate it,” said the girl, simply. + +“Ah,” said the Colonel. After a pause he added, delicately: “But +were these attentions—er—confined to—er—-sacred precincts? Did he +meet you elsewhere?” + +“Useter pass our house on the road,” returned the girl, dropping +into her monotonous recital, “and useter signal.” + +“Ah, signal?” repeated the Colonel, approvingly. + +“Yes! He’d say ‘Kerrow,’ and I’d say ‘Kerree.’ Suthing like a bird, +you know.” + +Indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call the +Colonel thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike. At least +as _she_ gave it. With his remembrance of the grim deacon he had +doubts as to the melodiousness of _his_ utterance. He gravely made +her repeat it. + +“And after that signal?” he added, suggestively. + +“He’d pass on,” said the girl. + +The Colonel coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his +pen-holder. + +“Were there any endearments—er—caresses—er—such as taking your +hand—er—clasping your waist?” he suggested, with a gallant yet +respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head;—“er— +slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance—I mean,” +he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough—“in the passing of +the plate?” + +“No;—he was not what you’d call ’fond,’” returned the girl. + +“Ah! Adoniram K. Hotchkiss was not ’fond’ in the ordinary +acceptance of the word,” said the Colonel, with professional +gravity. + +She lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her +own. She also said “Yes,” although her eyes in their mysterious +prescience of all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any +answer at all. He smiled vacantly. There was a long pause. On which +she slowly disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern and stood +up. + +“I reckon that’s about all,” she said. + +“Er—yes—but one moment,” said the Colonel, vaguely. He would have +liked to keep her longer, but with her strange premonition of him +he felt powerless to detain her, or explain his reason for doing +so. He instinctively knew she had told him all; his professional +judgment told him that a more hopeless case had never come to his +knowledge. Yet he was not daunted, only embarrassed. “No matter,” +he said, vaguely. “Of course I shall have to consult with you +again.” Her eyes again answered that she expected he would, but she +added, simply, “When?” + +“In the course of a day or two,” said the Colonel, quickly. “I will +send you word.” She turned to go. In his eagerness to open the +door for her he upset his chair, and with some confusion, that was +actually youthful, he almost impeded her movements in the hall, +and knocked his broad-brimmed Panama hat from his bowing hand in a +final gallant sweep. Yet as her small, trim, youthful figure, with +its simple Leghorn straw hat confined by a blue bow under her round +chin, passed away before him, she looked more like a child than +ever. + +The Colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries. +He found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had +a small ranch on the cross-roads, near the new Free-Will Baptist +church—the evident theatre of this pastoral. They led a secluded +life; the girl being little known in the town, and her beauty and +fascination apparently not yet being a recognized fact. The Colonel +felt a pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he +could not account for. His few inquiries concerning Mr. Hotchkiss +only confirmed his own impressions of the alleged lover—a +serious-minded, practically abstracted man—abstentive of youthful +society, and the last man apparently capable of levity of the +affections or serious flirtation. The Colonel was mystified—but +determined of purpose—whatever that purpose might have been. + +The next day he was at his office at the same hour. He was alone—as +usual—the Colonel’s office really being his private lodgings, +disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for +consultation. He had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by +his faithful body-servant and ex-slave “Jim” to another firm who +did his office-work since the death of Major Stryker—the Colonel’s +only law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous. With a +fine constancy the Colonel still retained his partner’s name on +his door-plate—and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a +certain invincibility also through the _manes_ of that lamented and +somewhat feared man. + +The Colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed +the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined +for its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness +of breath in his fob. At the same moment he heard a step in the +passage, and the door opened to Adoniram K. Hotchkiss. The Colonel +was impressed; he had a duellist’s respect for punctuality. + +The man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a +busy man. As his feet crossed that sacred threshold the Colonel +became all courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took +his hat from his half-reluctant hand. He then opened a cupboard and +brought out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. + +“A—er—slight refreshment, Mr. Hotchkiss,” he suggested, politely. +“I never drink,” replied Hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a +total abstainer. “Ah—er—not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by +a Kentucky friend? No? Pardon me! A cigar, then—the mildest Havana.” + +“I do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form,” repeated Hotchkiss, +ascetically. “I have no foolish weaknesses.” + +The Colonel’s moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client’s +sallow face. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half +closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: “Your +reply, Mr. Hotchkiss, reminds me of—er—sing’lar circumstances +that —er—occurred, in point of fact—at the St. Charles Hotel, +New Orleans. Pinkey Hornblower—personal friend—invited Senator +Doolittle to join him in social glass. Received, sing’larly enough, +reply similar to yours. ‘Don’t drink nor smoke?’ said Pinkey. +‘Gad, sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.’ Ha!” The +Colonel paused long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from +Hotchkiss’s cheek, and went on, half closing his eyes: “‘I allow no +man, sir, to discuss my personal habits,’ said Doolittle, over his +shirt collar. ‘Then I reckon shootin’ must be one of those habits,’ +said Pinkey, coolly. Both men drove out on the Shell Road back of +cemetery next morning. Pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through +Doolittle’s temple. Poor Doo never spoke again. Left three wives +and seven children, they say —two of ’em black.” + +“I got a note from you this morning,” said Hotchkiss, with badly +concealed impatience. “I suppose in reference to our case. You +have taken judgment, I believe.” The Colonel, without replying, +slowly filled a glass of whiskey and water. For a moment he held it +dreamily before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences +called up by the act. Then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with +a large white handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his +chair, said, with a wave of his hand, “The interview I requested, +Mr. Hotchkiss, concerns a subject—which I may say is—er—er—at +present _not_ of a public or business nature—although _later_ it +might become—er—er—both. It is an affair of some—er—delicacy.” + +The Colonel paused, and Mr. Hotchkiss regarded him with increased +impatience. The Colonel, however, continued, with unchanged +deliberation: “It concerns—er—a young lady—a beautiful, high-souled +creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness— er—er—I +may say is of one of the first families of Missouri, and— +er—not—remotely connected by marriage with one of—er—er—my +boyhood’s dearest friends. The latter, I grieve to say, was a pure +invention of the Colonel’s—an oratorical addition to the scanty +information he had obtained the previous day. The young lady,” he +continued, blandly, “enjoys the further distinction of being the +object of such attention from you as would make this interview— +really—a confidential matter—er—er—among friends and—er—er— +relations in present and future. I need not say that the lady I +refer to is Miss Zaidee Juno Hooker, only daughter of Almira Ann +Hooker, relict of Jefferson Brown Hooker, formerly of Boone County, +Kentucky, and latterly of—er—Pike County, Missouri.” + +The sallow, ascetic hue of Mr. Hotchkiss’s face had passed through +a livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a +sullen red. “What’s all this about?” he demanded, roughly. The +least touch of belligerent fire came into Starbottle’s eye, but his +bland courtesy did not change. “I believe,” he said, politely, “I +have made myself clear as between—er—gentlemen, though perhaps not +as clear as I should to—er—er—jury.” + +Mr. Hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in +the lawyer’s reply. “I don’t know,” he said, in a lower and more +cautious voice, “what you mean by what you call ‘my attentions’ +to—any one—or how it concerns you. I have not exhausted half a +dozen words with—the person you name—have never written her a +line—nor even called at her house.” He rose with an assumption of +ease, pulled down his waistcoat, buttoned his coat, and took up his +hat. The Colonel did not move. “I believe I have already indicated +my meaning in what I have called ‘your attentions,’” said the +Colonel, blandly, “and given you my ‘concern’ for speaking as—er—er +mutual friend. As to _your_ statement of your relations with Miss +Hooker, I may state that it is fully corroborated by the statement +of the young lady herself in this very office yesterday.” + +“Then what does this impertinent nonsense mean? Why am I summoned +here?” said Hotchkiss, furiously. + +“Because,” said the Colonel, deliberately, “that statement is +infamously—yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!” + +Mr. Hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and +inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually +cautious and timid man. He caught up the Colonel’s stick, which +was lying on the table. At the same moment the Colonel, without +any apparent effort, grasped it by the handle. To Mr. Hotchkiss’s +astonishment, the stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle +and about two feet of narrow glittering steel in the Colonel’s +hand. The man recoiled, dropping the useless fragment. The Colonel +picked it up, fitting the shining blade in it, clicked the spring, +and then rising, with a face of courtesy yet of unmistakably +genuine pain, and with even a slight tremor in his voice, said, +gravely: + +“Mr. Hotchkiss, I owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that—er— a +weapon should be drawn by me—even through your own inadvertence— +under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man. +I beg your pardon, sir, and I even withdraw the expressions which +provoked that inadvertence. Nor does this apology prevent you from +holding me responsible—personally responsible—_elsewhere_ for an +indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady—my—er—client.” + +“Your client? Do you mean you have taken her case? You, the +counsel for the Ditch Company?” said Mr. Hotchkiss, in trembling +indignation. + +“Having won _your_ case, sir,” said the Colonel, coolly, +“the—er—usages of advocacy do not prevent me from espousing the +cause of the weak and unprotected.” + +“We shall see, sir,” said Hotchkiss, grasping the handle of the +door and backing into the passage. “There are other lawyers who—” + +“Permit me to see you out,” interrupted the Colonel, rising +politely. + +“—will be ready to resist the attacks of blackmail,” continued +Hotchkiss, retreating along the passage. + +“And then you will be able to repeat your remarks to me _in the +street_,” continued the Colonel, bowing, as he persisted in +following his visitor to the door. + +But here Mr. Hotchkiss quickly slammed it behind him, and hurried +away. The Colonel returned to his office, and sitting down, took +a sheet of letter paper bearing the inscription “Starbottle and +Stryker, Attorneys and Counsellors,” and wrote the following lines: + + Hooker _versus_ Hotchkiss. + + DEAR MADAM,—Having had a visit from the defendant in above, we + should be pleased to have an interview with you at 2 P.M. + to-morrow. Your obedient servants, + + STARBOTTLE AND STRYKER. + +This he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant Jim, and then +devoted a few moments to reflection. It was the custom of the +Colonel to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards. + +He knew that Hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival +counsel. He knew that they would advise him that Miss Hooker had +“no case”—that she would be nonsuited on her own evidence, and he +ought not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial. He believed, +however, that Hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his +own instincts had been at first against that remedy, he was now +instinctively in favor of it. He remembered his own power with a +jury; his vanity and his chivalry alike approved of this heroic +method; he was bound by the prosaic facts—he had his own theory +of the case, which no mere evidence could gainsay. In fact, Mrs. +Hooker’s own words that “he was to tell the story in his own way” +actually appeared to him an inspiration and a prophecy. + +Perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady’s +wonderful eyes, of which he had thought much. Yet it was not her +simplicity that affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her +apparent intelligent reading of the character of her recreant +lover—and of his own! Of all the Colonel’s previous “light” or +“serious” loves none had ever before flattered him in that way. And +it was this, combined with the respect which he had held for their +professional relations, that precluded his having a more familiar +knowledge of his client, through serious questioning, or playful +gallantry. I am not sure it was not part of the charm to have a +rustic _femme incomprise_ as a client. + +Nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she +entered his office the next day. He even affected not to notice +that she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared +as when she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions +of Deacon Hotchkiss at church. A white virginal muslin was belted +around her slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her Leghorn hat was +drawn around her oval cheek by a bow of the same color. She had a +Southern girl’s narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid +slippers, which were crossed primly before her as she sat in a +chair, supporting her arm by her faithful parasol planted firmly +on the floor. A faint odor of southernwood exhaled from her, and, +oddly enough, stirred the Colonel with a far-off recollection of a +pine-shaded Sunday school on a Georgia hillside and of his first +love, aged ten, in a short, starched frock. Possibly it was the +same recollection that revived something of the awkwardness he had +felt then. + +He, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly, +and placed his fingertips together. “I have had an—er—interview +with Mr. Hotchkiss, but—I—er—regret to say there seems to be +no prospect of—er—compromise.” He paused, and to his surprise +her listless “company” face lit up with an adorable smile. “Of +course!—ketch him!” she said. “Was he mad when you told him?” She +put her knees comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply. + +For all that, wild horses could not have torn from the Colonel +a word about Hotchkiss’s anger. “He expressed his intention of +employing counsel—and defending a suit,” returned the Colonel, +affably basking in her smile. She dragged her chair nearer his +desk. “Then you’ll fight him tooth and nail?” she said eagerly; +“you’ll show him up? You’ll tell the whole story your own way? +You’ll give him fits?—and you’ll make him pay? Sure?” she went on, +breathlessly. + +“I—er—will,” said the Colonel, almost as breathlessly. + +She caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table, +between her own and lifted it to her lips. He felt her soft +young fingers even through the lisle-thread gloves that encased +them and the warm moisture of her lips upon his skin. He felt +himself flushing—but was unable to break the silence or change his +position. The next moment she had scuttled back with her chair to +her old position. + +“I—er—certainly shall do my best,” stammered the Colonel, in an +attempt to recover his dignity and composure. + +“That’s enough! You’ll _do_ it,” said the girl, enthusiastically. +“Lordy! Just you talk for _me_ as ye did for _his_ old Ditch +Company, and you’ll fetch it—every time! Why, when you made that +jury sit up the other day—when you got that off about the Merrikan +flag waving equally over the rights of honest citizens banded +together in peaceful commercial pursuits, as well as over the +fortress of official proflig—” + +“Oligarchy,” murmured the Colonel, courteously. + +“Oligarchy,” repeated the girl, quickly, “my breath was just took +away. I said to maw, ‘Ain’t he too sweet for anything!’ I did, +honest Injin! And when you rolled it all off at the end—never +missing a word—(you didn’t need to mark ’em in a lesson-book, but +had ’em all ready on your tongue), and walked out—Well! I didn’t +know you nor the Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run +over and kissed you there before the whole court!” + +She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were +cast down. Alack! the Colonel’s face was equally flushed, and +his own beady eyes were on his desk. To any other woman he would +have voiced the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look +forward to that reward, but the words never reached his lips. He +laughed, coughed slightly, and when he looked up again she had +fallen into the same attitude as on her first visit, with her +parasol point on the floor. + +“I must ask you to—er—direct your memory—to—er—another point; the +breaking off of the—er—er—er—engagement. Did he—er—give any reason +for it? Or show any cause?” + +“No; he never said anything,” returned the girl. + +“Not in his usual way?—er—no reproaches out of the hymn-book?—or +the sacred writings?” + +“No; he just _quit_.” + +“Er—ceased his attentions,” said the Colonel, gravely. “And +naturally you—er—were not conscious of any cause for his doing so.” +The girl raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly +without reply in any other way that the Colonel could only +hurriedly say: “I see! None, of course!” + +At which she rose, the Colonel rising also. “We—shall begin +proceedings at once. I must, however, caution you to answer no +questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are +in court.” + +She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod. +He accompanied her to the door. As he took her proffered hand he +raised the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned +gallantry. As if that act had condoned for his first omissions and +awkwardness, he became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his +coat, pulled out his shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk. + +A day or two later it was known throughout the town that Zaidee +Hooker had sued Adoniram Hotchkiss for breach of promise, and +that the damages were laid at five thousand dollars. As in those +bucolic days the Western press was under the secure censorship of +a revolver, a cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip +was confined to personal expression, and even then at the risk of +the gossiper. Nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest +curiosity. The Colonel was approached—until his statement that he +should consider any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy +a personal reflection withheld further advances. The community +were left to the more ostentatious information of the defendant’s +counsel, Messrs. Kitcham and Bilser, that the case was “ridiculous” +and “rotten,” that the plaintiff would be nonsuited, and the +fire-eating Starbottle would be taught a lesson that he could not +“bully” the law—and there were some dark hints of a conspiracy. +It was even hinted that the “case” was the revengeful and +preposterous outcome of the refusal of Hotchkiss to pay Starbottle +an extravagant fee for his late services to the Ditch Company. +It is unnecessary to say that these words were not reported to +the Colonel. It was, however, an unfortunate circumstance for +the calmer, ethical consideration of the subject that the church +sided with Hotchkiss, as this provoked an equal adherence to +the plaintiff and Starbottle on the part of the larger body of +non-church-goers, who were delighted at a possible exposure of the +weakness of religious rectitude. “I’ve allus had my suspicions o’ +them early candle-light meetings down at that gospel shop,” said +one critic, “and I reckon Deacon Hotchkiss didn’t rope in the gals +to attend jest for psalm-singing.” “Then for him to get up and +leave the board afore the game’s finished and try to sneak out of +it,” said another. “I suppose that’s what they call _religious_.” + +It was therefore not remarkable that the courthouse three weeks +later was crowded with an excited multitude of the curious and +sympathizing. The fair plaintiff, with her mother, was early in +attendance, and under the Colonel’s advice appeared in the same +modest garb in which she had first visited his office. This and her +downcast modest demeanor were perhaps at first disappointing to the +crowd, who had evidently expected a paragon of loveliness—as the +Circe of the grim ascetic defendant, who sat beside his counsel. +But presently all eyes were fixed on the Colonel, who certainly +made up in _his_ appearance any deficiency of his fair client. +His portly figure was clothed in a blue dress-coat with brass +buttons, a buff waistcoat which permitted his frilled shirt front +to become erectile above it, a black satin stock which confined +a boyish turned-down collar around his full neck, and immaculate +drill trousers, strapped over varnished boots. A murmur ran round +the court. “Old ‘Personally Responsible’ had got his war-paint on,” +“The Old War-Horse is smelling powder,” were whispered comments. +Yet for all that the most irreverent among them recognized vaguely, +in this bizarre figure, something of an honored past in their +country’s history, and possibly felt the spell of old deeds and old +names that had once thrilled their boyish pulses. The new District +Judge returned Colonel Starbottle’s profoundly punctilious bow. +The Colonel was followed by his negro servant, carrying a parcel +of hymn-books and Bibles, who, with a courtesy evidently imitated +from his master, placed one before the opposite counsel. This, +after a first curious glance, the lawyer somewhat superciliously +tossed aside. But when Jim, proceeding to the jury-box, placed with +equal politeness the remaining copies before the jury, the opposite +counsel sprang to his feet. + +“I want to direct the attention of the Court to this unprecedented +tampering with the jury, by this gratuitous exhibition of matter +impertinent and irrelevant to the issue.” + +The Judge cast an inquiring look at Colonel Starbottle. + +“May it please the Court,” returned Colonel Starbottle with +dignity, ignoring the counsel, “the defendant’s counsel will +observe that he is already furnished with the matter—which I regret +to say he has treated—in the presence of the Court—and of his +client, a deacon of the church—with—er—-great superciliousness. +When I state to your Honor that the books in question are +hymn-books and copies of the _Holy Scriptures_, and that they are +for the instruction of the jury, to whom I shall have to refer them +in the course of my opening, I believe I am within my rights.” + +“The act is certainly unprecedented,” said the Judge, dryly, +“but unless the counsel for the plaintiff expects the jury to +_sing_ from these hymn-books, their introduction is not improper, +and I cannot admit the objection. As defendant’s counsel are +furnished with copies also, they cannot plead ‘surprise,’ as in +the introduction of new matter, and as plaintiff’s counsel relies +evidently upon the jury’s attention to his opening, he would not +be the first person to distract it.” After a pause he added, +addressing the Colonel, who remained standing, “The Court is with +you, sir; proceed.” + +But the Colonel remained motionless and statuesque, with folded +arms. + +“I have overruled the objection,” repeated the Judge; “you may go +on.” + +“I am waiting, your Honor, for the—er—withdrawal by the defendant’s +counsel of the word ‘tampering,’ as refers to myself, and of +‘impertinent,’ as refers to the sacred volumes.” + +“The request is a proper one, and I have no doubt will be acceded +to,” returned the Judge, quietly. The defendant’s counsel rose and +mumbled a few words of apology, and the incident closed. There +was, however, a general feeling that the Colonel had in some +way “scored,” and if his object had been to excite the greatest +curiosity about the books, he had made his point. + +But impassive of his victory, he inflated his chest, with his right +hand in the breast of his buttoned coat, and began. His usual high +color had paled slightly, but the small pupils of his prominent +eyes glittered like steel. The young girl leaned forward in her +chair with an attention so breathless, a sympathy so quick, and +an admiration so artless and unconscious that in an instant she +divided with the speaker the attention of the whole assemblage. It +was very hot; the court was crowded to suffocation; even the open +windows revealed a crowd of faces outside the building, eagerly +following the Colonel’s words. + +He would remind the jury that only a few weeks ago he stood there +as the advocate of a powerful company, then represented by the +present defendant. He spoke then as the champion of strict justice +against legal oppression; no less should he to-day champion the +cause of the unprotected and the comparatively defenseless—save +for that paramount power which surrounds beauty and innocence—even +though the plaintiff of yesterday was the defendant of to-day. +As he approached the court a moment ago he had raised his eyes +and beheld the starry flag flying from its dome—and he knew that +glorious banner was a symbol of the perfect equality, under the +Constitution, of the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak—an +equality which made the simple citizen taken from the plough in +the veld, the pick in the gulch, or from behind the counter in +the mining town, who served on that jury, the equal arbiters of +justice with that highest legal luminary whom they were proud to +welcome on the bench to-day. The Colonel paused, with a stately bow +to the impassive Judge. It was this, he continued, which lifted +his heart as he approached the building. And yet—he had entered it +with an uncertain—he might almost say—a timid step. And why? He +knew, gentlemen, he was about to confront a profound—aye! a sacred +responsibility! Those hymn-books and holy writings handed to the +jury were _not_, as his Honor surmised, for the purpose of enabling +the jury to indulge in—er—preliminary choral exercise! He might, +indeed, say “alas not!” They were the damning, incontrovertible +proofs of the perfidy of the defendant. And they would prove as +terrible a warning to him as the fatal characters upon Belshazzar’s +wall. There was a strong sensation. Hotchkiss turned a sallow +green. His lawyers assumed a careless smile. + +It was his duty to tell them that this was not one of those +ordinary “breach-of-promise” cases which were too often the +occasion of ruthless mirth and indecent levity in the courtroom. +The jury would find nothing of that here, There were no +love-letters with the epithets of endearment, nor those mystic +crosses and ciphers which, he had been credibly informed, chastely +hid the exchange of those mutual caresses known as “kisses.” There +was no cruel tearing of the veil from those sacred privacies of the +human affection—there was no forensic shouting out of those fond +confidences meant only for _one_. But there was, he was shocked +to say, a new sacrilegious intrusion. The weak pipings of Cupid +were mingled with the chorus of the saints—the sanctity of the +temple known as the “meeting-house” was desecrated by proceedings +more in keeping with the shrine of Venus—and the inspired writings +themselves were used as the medium of amatory and wanton flirtation +by the defendant in his sacred capacity as Deacon. + +The Colonel artistically paused after this thunderous denunciation. +The jury turned eagerly to the leaves of the hymn-books, but +the larger gaze of the audience remained fixed upon the speaker +and the girl, who sat in rapt admiration of his periods. After +the hush, the Colonel continued in a lower and sadder voice: +“There are, perhaps, few of us here, gentlemen—with the exception +of the defendant—who can arrogate to themselves the title of +regular churchgoers, or to whom these humbler functions of the +prayer-meeting, the Sunday-school, and the Bible class are +habitually familiar. Yet”—more solemnly—“down in your hearts is +the deep conviction of our short-comings and failings, and a +laudable desire that others at least should profit by the teachings +we neglect. Perhaps,” he continued, closing his eyes dreamily, +“there is not a man here who does not recall the happy days of his +boyhood, the rustic village spire, the lessons shared with some +artless village maiden, with whom he later sauntered, hand in hand, +through the woods, as the simple rhyme rose upon their lips, + + Always make it a point to have it a rule + Never to be late at the Sabbath-school. + +He would recall the strawberry feasts, the welcome annual picnic, +redolent with hunks of gingerbread and sarsaparilla. How would +they feel to know that these sacred recollections were now forever +profaned in their memory by the knowledge that the defendant was +capable of using such occasions to make love to the larger girls +and teachers, whilst his artless companions were innocently—the +Court will pardon me for introducing what I am credibly informed +is the local expression ‘doing gooseberry’?” The tremulous flicker +of a smile passed over the faces of the listening crowd, and the +Colonel slightly winced. But he recovered himself instantly, and +continued: + +“My client, the only daughter of a widowed mother—who has for +years stemmed the varying tides of adversity—in the western +precincts of this town—stands before you to-day invested only in +her own innocence. She wears no—er—rich gifts of her faithless +admirer—is panoplied in no jewels, rings, nor mementoes of +affection such as lovers delight to hang upon the shrine of their +affections; hers is not the glory with which Solomon decorated +the Queen of Sheba, though the defendant, as I shall show later, +clothed her in the less expensive flowers of the king’s poetry. +No! gentlemen! The defendant exhibited in this affair a certain +frugality of—er—pecuniary investment, which I am willing to admit +may be commendable in his class. His only gift was characteristic +alike of his methods and his economy. There is, I understand, a +certain not unimportant feature of religious exercise known as +‘taking a collection.’ The defendant, on this occasion, by the +mute presentation of a tip plate covered with baize, solicited +the pecuniary contributions of the faithful. On approaching the +plaintiff, however, he himself slipped a love-token upon the +plate and pushed it towards her. That love-token was a lozenge—a +small disk, I have reason to believe, concocted of peppermint +and sugar, bearing upon its reverse surface the simple words, +‘I love you!’ I have since ascertained that these disks may be +bought for five cents a dozen—or at considerably less than one +half-cent for the single lozenge. Yes, gentlemen, the words ‘I love +you!‘—the oldest legend of all; the refrain, ‘when the morning +stars sang together’—were presented to the plaintiff by a medium so +insignificant that there is, happily, no coin in the republic low +enough to represent its value. + +“I shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury,” said the Colonel, +solemnly, drawing a _Bible_ from his coat-tail pocket, “that +the defendant, for the last twelve months, conducted an amatory +correspondence with the plaintiff by means of underlined words of +sacred writ and church psalmody, such as ‘beloved,’ ‘precious,’ +and ‘dearest,’ occasionally appropriating whole passages which +seemed apposite to his tender passion. I shall call your attention +to one of them. The defendant, while professing to be a total +abstainer—a man who, in my own knowledge, has refused spirituous +refreshment as an inordinate weakness of the flesh, with shameless +hypocrisy underscores with his pencil the following passage and +presents it to the plaintiff. The gentlemen of the jury will find +it in the _Song of Solomon_, page 548, chapter II, verse 5.” After +a pause, in which the rapid rustling of leaves was heard in the +jury-box, Colonel Starbottle declaimed in a pleading, stentorian +voice, “‘Stay me with —er—_flagons_, comfort me with—er—apples—for +I am—er—sick of love.’ Yes, gentlemen!—yes, you may well turn +from those accusing pages and look at the double-faced defendant. +He desires—to—er—be —‘stayed with flagons’! I am not aware, at +present, what kind of liquor is habitually dispensed at these +meetings, and for which the defendant so urgently clamored; but it +will be my duty before this trial is over to discover it, if I have +to summon every barkeeper in this district. For the moment, I will +simply call your attention to the _quantity_. It is not a single +drink that the defendant asks for—not a glass of light and generous +wine, to be shared with his inamorata—but a number of flagons or +vessels, each possibly holding a pint measure—_for himself_!” + +The smile of the audience had become a laugh. The Judge looked up +warningly, when his eye caught the fact that the Colonel had again +winced at this mirth. He regarded him seriously. Mr. Hotchkiss’s +counsel had joined in the laugh affectedly, but Hotchkiss himself +was ashy pale. There was also a commotion in the jury-box, a +hurried turning over of leaves, and an excited discussion. + +“The gentlemen of the jury,” said the Judge, with official gravity, +“will please keep order and attend only to the speeches of counsel. +Any discussion _here_ is irregular and premature—and must be +reserved for the jury-room—after they have retired.” + +The foreman of the jury struggled to his feet. He was a powerful +man, with a good-humored face, and, in spite of his unfelicitous +nickname of “The Bone-Breaker,” had a kindly, simple, but somewhat +emotional nature. Nevertheless, it appeared as if he were laboring +under some powerful indignation. + +“Can we ask a question, Judge?” he said, respectfully, although his +voice had the unmistakable Western-American ring in it, as of one +who was unconscious that he could be addressing any but his peers. + +“Yes,” said the Judge, good-humoredly. + +“We’re finding in this yere piece, out of which the Kernel hes +just bin a-quotin’, some language that me and my pardners allow +hadn’t orter to be read out afore a young lady in court—and we +want to know of you—ez a fair-minded and impartial man—ef this +is the reg’lar kind o’ book given to gals and babies down at the +meetin’-house.” + +“The jury will please follow the counsel’s speech, without +comment,” said the Judge, briefly, fully aware that the defendant’s +counsel would spring to his feet, as he did promptly. “The Court +will allow us to explain to the gentlemen that the language they +seem to object to has been accepted by the best theologians for +the last thousand years as being purely mystic. As I will explain +later, those are merely symbols of the Church—” + +“Of wot?” interrupted the foreman, in deep scorn. + +“Of the Church!” + +“We ain’t askin’ any questions o’ _you_—and we ain’t takin’ any +answers,” said the foreman, sitting down promptly. + +“I must insist,” said the Judge, sternly, “that the plaintiff’s +counsel be allowed to continue his opening without interruption. +You” (to defendant’s counsel) “will have your opportunity to reply +later.” + +The counsel sank down in his seat with the bitter conviction +that the jury was manifestly against him, and the case as good +as lost. But his face was scarcely as disturbed as his client’s, +who, in great agitation, had begun to argue with him wildly, and +was apparently pressing some point against the lawyer’s vehement +opposal. The Colonel’s murky eyes brightened as he still stood +erect with his hand thrust in his breast. + +“It will be put to you, gentlemen, when the counsel on the other +side refrains from mere interruption and confines himself to reply, +that my unfortunate client has no action—no remedy at law—because +there were no spoken words of endearment. But, gentlemen, it will +depend upon _you_ to say what are and what are not articulate +expressions of love. We all know that among the lower animals, with +whom you may possibly be called upon to classify the defendant, +there are certain signals more or less harmonious, as the case +may be. The ass brays, the horse neighs, the sheep bleats—the +feathered denizens of the grove call to their mates in more musical +roundelays. These are recognized facts, gentlemen, which you +yourselves, as dwellers among nature in this beautiful land, are +all cognizant of. They are facts that no one would deny—and we +should have a poor opinion of the ass who, at—er—such a supreme +moment, would attempt to suggest that his call was unthinking and +without significance. But, gentlemen, I shall prove to you that +such was the foolish, self-convicting custom of the defendant. With +the greatest reluctance, and the—er—greatest pain, I succeeded in +wresting from the maidenly modesty of my fair client the innocent +confession that the defendant had induced her to correspond +with him in these methods. Picture to yourself, gentlemen, the +lonely moonlight road beside the widow’s humble cottage. It is a +beautiful night, sanctified to the affections, and the innocent +girl is leaning from her casement. Presently there appears upon +the road a slinking, stealthy figure—the defendant, on his way to +church. True to the instruction she has received from him, her +lips part in the musical utterance” (the Colonel lowered his voice +in a faint falsetto, presumably in fond imitation of his fair +client),“‘Kerree!’ Instantly the night became resonant with the +impassioned reply” (the Colonel here lifted his voice in stentorian +tones), “‘Kerrow.’ Again, as he passes, rises the soft ‘Kerree’; +again, as his form is lost in the distance, comes back the deep +‘Kerrow.’” + +A burst of laughter, long, loud, and irrepressible, struck the +whole courtroom, and before the Judge could lift his half-composed +face and take his handkerchief from his mouth, a faint “Kerree” +from some unrecognized obscurity of the courtroom was followed by a +loud “Kerrow” from some opposite locality. “The sheriff will clear +the court,” said the Judge, sternly; but alas, as the embarrassed +and choking officials rushed hither and thither, a soft “Kerree” +from the spectators at the window, _outside_ the courthouse, was +answered by a loud chorus of “Kerrows” from the opposite windows, +filled with onlookers. Again the laughter arose everywhere—even the +fair plaintiff herself sat convulsed behind her handkerchief. + +The figure of Colonel Starbottle alone remained erect—white and +rigid. And then the Judge, looking up, saw what no one else in the +court had seen—that the Colonel was sincere and in earnest; that +what he had conceived to be the pleader’s most perfect acting, +and most elaborate irony, were the deep, serious, mirthless +_convictions_ of a man without the least sense of humor. There was +a touch of this respect in the Judge’s voice as he said to him, +gently, “You may proceed, Colonel Starbottle.” + +“I thank your Honor,” said the Colonel, slowly, “for recognizing +and doing all in your power to prevent an interruption that, +during my thirty years’ experience at the bar, I have never yet +been subjected to without the privilege of holding the instigators +thereof responsible—_personally_ responsible. It is possibly my +fault that I have failed, oratorically, to convey to the gentlemen +of the jury the full force and significance of the defendant’s +signals. I am aware that my voice is singularly deficient in +producing either the dulcet tones of my fair client or the +impassioned vehemence of the defendant’s repose. I will,” continued +the Colonel, with a fatigued but blind fatuity that ignored the +hurriedly knit brows and warning eyes of the Judge, “try again. +The note uttered by my client” (lowering his voice to the faintest +of falsettos) “was ‘Kerree’; the response was ‘Kerrow’”—and the +Colonel’s voice fairly shook the dome above him. + +Another uproar of laughter followed this apparently audacious +repetition, but was interrupted by an unlooked-for incident. +The defendant rose abruptly, and tearing himself away from the +withholding hand and pleading protestations of his counsel, +absolutely fled from the courtroom, his appearance outside being +recognized by a prolonged “Kerrow” from the bystanders, which +again and again followed him in the distance. In the momentary +silence which followed, the Colonel’s voice was heard saying, “We +rest here, your Honor,” and he sat down. No less white, but more +agitated, was the face of the defendant’s counsel, who instantly +rose. + +“For some unexplained reason, your Honor, my client desires to +suspend further proceedings, with a view to effect a peaceable +compromise with the plaintiff. As he is a man of wealth and +position, he is able and willing to pay liberally for that +privilege. While I, as his counsel, am still convinced of his legal +irresponsibility, as he has chosen, however, to publicly abandon +his rights here, I can only ask your Honor’s permission to suspend +further proceedings until I can confer with Colonel Starbottle.” + +“As far as I can follow the pleadings,” said the Judge, gravely, +“the case seems to be hardly one for litigation, and I approve of +the defendant’s course, while I strongly urge the plaintiff to +accept it.” + +Colonel Starbottle bent over his fair client. Presently he rose, +unchanged in look or demeanor. “I yield, your Honor, to the wishes +of my client, and—er—lady. We accept.” + +Before the court adjourned that day it was known throughout the +town that Adoniram K. Hotchkiss had compromised the suit for four +thousand dollars and costs. + +Colonel Starbottle had so far recovered his equanimity as to strut +jauntily towards his office, where he was to meet his fair client. +He was surprised, however, to find her already there, and in +company with a somewhat sheepish-looking young man—a stranger. If +the Colonel had any disappointment in meeting a third party to the +interview, his old-fashioned courtesy did not permit him to show +it. He bowed graciously, and politely motioned them each to a seat. + +“I reckoned I’d bring Hiram round with me,” said the young lady, +lifting her searching eyes, after a pause, to the Colonel’s, +“though he was awful shy, and allowed that you didn’t know him from +Adam—or even suspected his existence. But I said, ‘That’s just +where you slip up, Hiram; a pow’ful man like the Colonel knows +everything—and I’ve seen it in his eye.’ Lordy!” she continued, +with a laugh, leaning forward over her parasol, as her eyes again +sought the Colonel’s, “don’t you remember when you asked me if I +loved that old Hotchkiss, and I told you ‘That’s tellin’,’ and you +looked at me, Lordy! I knew _then_ you suspected there was a Hiram +_somewhere_—as good as if I’d told you. Now, you, jest get up, +Hiram, and give the Colonel a good handshake. For if it wasn’t for +_him_ and _his_ searchin’ ways, and _his_ awful power of language, +I wouldn’t hev got that four thousand dollars out o’ that flirty +fool Hotchkiss—enough to buy a farm, so as you and me could get +married! That’s what you owe to _him_. Don’t stand there like a +stuck fool starin’ at him. He won’t eat you—though he’s killed many +a better man. Come, have _I_ got to do _all_ the kissin’!” + +It is of record that the Colonel bowed so courteously and so +profoundly that he managed not merely to evade the proffered hand +of the shy Hiram, but to only lightly touch the franker and more +impulsive fingertips of the gentle Zaidee. “I—er—offer my sincerest +congratulations—though I think you—er—overestimate—my—er—powers +of penetration. Unfortunately, a pressing engagement, which may +oblige me also to leave town to-night, forbids my saying more. I +have—er—left the—er—business settlement of this—er—case in the +hands of the lawyers who do my office-work, and who will show you +every attention. And now let me wish you a very good afternoon.” + +Nevertheless, the Colonel returned to his private room, and it was +nearly twilight when the faithful Jim entered, to find him sitting +meditatively before his desk. “‘Fo’ God! Kernel—I hope dey ain’t +nuffin de matter, but you’s lookin’ mightly solemn! I ain’t seen +you look dat way, Kernel, since de day pooh Marse Stryker was +fetched home shot froo de head.” + +“Hand me down the whiskey, Jim,” said the Colonel, rising slowly. + +The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle. +The Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his +old deliberation. + +“You’re quite right, Jim,” he said, putting down his glass, “but +I’m—er—getting old—and—somehow—I am missing poor Stryker damnably!” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[23] From _Harper’s Magazine_, March, 1901. Republished in the +volume, _Openings in the Old Trail_ (1902), by Bret Harte; +copyright, 1902, by Houghton Mifflin Company, the authorized +publishers of Bret Harte’s complete works; reprinted by their +permission. + + + + +THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES[24] + +By O. Henry (1862–1910) + + +When Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, +Miss Lydia Talbot, came to Washington to reside, they selected for +a boarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of +the quietest avenues. It was an old-fashioned brick building, with +a portico upheld by tall white pillars. The yard was shaded by +stately locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its +pink and white blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes +lined the fence and walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of +the place that pleased the eyes of the Talbots. + +In this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, +including a study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing +chapters to his book, _Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama +Army, Bench, and Bar_. + +Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little +interest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period +before the Civil War when the Talbots owned thousands of acres +of fine cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family +mansion was the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests +from the aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had +brought all its old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and +punctilious politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe. + +Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The Major +was tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion +he called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. +That garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago +ceased to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed hats of Southern +Congressmen. One of the boarders christened it a “Father Hubbard,” +and it certainly was high in the waist and full in the skirt. + +But the Major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of +plaited, raveling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie +with the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and +liked in Mrs. Vardeman’s select boarding house. Some of the young +department clerks would often “string him,” as they called it, +getting him started upon the subject dearest to him—the traditions +and history of his beloved Southland. During his talks he would +quote freely from the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_. But they were +very careful not to let him see their designs, for in spite of his +sixty-eight years he could make the boldest of them uncomfortable +under the steady regard of his piercing gray eyes. + +Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with +smoothly drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still +older. Old-fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not +radiate from her as it did from the Major. She possessed a thrifty +common sense, and it was she who handled the finances of the +family, and met all comers when there were bills to pay. The Major +regarded board bills and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They +kept coming in so persistently and so often. Why, the Major wanted +to know, could they not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some +convenient period—say when the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ had +been published and paid for? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her +sewing and say, “We’ll pay as we go as long as the money lasts, and +then perhaps they’ll have to lump it.” + +Most of Mrs. Vardeman’s boarders were away during the day, being +nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of +them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. +This was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves—every one in +the house addressed him by his full name—who was engaged at one of +the popular vaudeville theaters. Vaudeville has risen to such a +respectable plane in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such +a modest and well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no +objection to enrolling him upon her list of boarders. + +At the theater Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect +comedian, having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and +black-face specialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often +spoke of his great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy. + +This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major +Talbot. Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern +reminiscences, or repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, +Hargraves could always be found, the most attentive among his +listeners. + +For a time the Major showed an inclination to discourage the +advances of the “play actor,” as he privately termed him; but soon +the young man’s agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of +the old gentleman’s stories completely won him over. + +It was not long before the two were like old chums. The Major set +apart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. +During the anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly +the right point. The Major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one +day that young Hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a +gratifying respect for the old régime. And when it came to talking +of those old days—if Major Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was +entranced to listen. + +Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the Major loved to +linger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days +of the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the +name of the negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain +minor happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such +a year; but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On +the contrary, he would advance questions on a variety of subjects +connected with the life of that time, and he never failed to +extract ready replies. + +The fox hunts, the ’possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in +the negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when +invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with +the neighboring gentry; the Major’s duel with Rathbone Culbertson +about Kitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South +Carolina; and private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; +the quaint beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the +old slaves—all these were subjects that held both the Major and +Hargraves absorbed for hours at a time. + +Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to +his room after his turn at the theater was over, the Major would +appear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going +in, Hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar +bowl, fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint. + +“It occurred to me,” the Major would begin—he was always +ceremonious—“that perhaps you might have found your duties at +the—at your place of occupation—sufficiently arduous to enable you, +Mr. Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in +his mind when he wrote, ‘tired Nature’s sweet restorer’—one of our +Southern juleps.” + +It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took +rank among artists when he began, and he never varied the process. +With what delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety +he estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped +the compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green +fringe! And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered +it, after the selected oat straws had been plunged into its +tinkling depths! + +After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one +morning that they were almost without money. The _Anecdotes and +Reminiscences_ was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the +collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small +house which they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. +Their board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss +Lydia called her father to a consultation. + +“No money?” said he with a surprised look. “It is quite annoying to +be called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I—” + +The Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, +which he returned to his vest pocket. + +“I must attend to this at once, Lydia,” he said. “Kindly get me my +umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from +our district, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he +would use his influence to get my book published at an early date. +I will go to his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been +made.” + +With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his “Father +Hubbard” and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow +profoundly. + +That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman +Fulghum had seen the publisher who had the Major’s manuscript for +reading. That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were +carefully pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the +sectional and class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end +to end, he might consider its publication. + +The Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his +equanimity, according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in +Miss Lydia’s presence. + +“We must have money,” said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above +her nose. “Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle +Ralph for some to-night.” + +The Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and +tossed it on the table. + +“Perhaps it was injudicious,” he said mildly, “but the sum was so +merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It’s +a new war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness +its first production in Washington. I am told that the South has +very fair treatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the +performance myself.” + +Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair. + +Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So +that evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively +overture, even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, +for the hour, to second place. The Major, in spotless linen, with +his extraordinary coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, +and his white hair smoothly roached, looked really fine and +distinguished. The curtain went up on the first act of _A Magnolia +Flower_, revealing a typical Southern plantation scene. Major +Talbot betrayed some interest. + +“Oh, see!” exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to +her program. + +The Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of +characters that her fingers indicated. + +Col. Webster Calhoun .... Mr. Hopkins Hargraves. + +“It’s our Mr. Hargraves,” said Miss Lydia. “It must be his first +appearance in what he calls ‘the legitimate.’ I’m so glad for him.” + +Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the +stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff, +glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a +little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand. +For Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot +as one pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the +ends, the aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling +shirt front, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, +were almost exactly duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, +he wore the twin to the Major’s supposed to be unparalleled coat. +High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot +lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed +from no other pattern. From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia +sat bewitched, and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty +Talbot “dragged,” as the Major afterward expressed it, “through the +slanderous mire of a corrupt stage.” + +Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the +Major’s little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation +and his pompous courtliness to perfection—exaggerating all to the +purpose of the stage. When he performed that marvelous bow that +the Major fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the +audience sent forth a sudden round of hearty applause. + +Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father. +Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as +if to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she +could not entirely suppress. + +The culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the +third act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of +the neighboring planters in his “den.” + +Standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends +grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character +monologue so famous in _A Magnolia Flower_, at the same time that +he deftly makes juleps for the party. + +Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard +his best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced +and expanded, and the dream of the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ +served, exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative—that of his +duel with Rathbone Culbertson—was not omitted, and it was delivered +with more fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into +it. + +The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little +lecture on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. +Here Major Talbot’s delicate but showy science was reproduced to a +hair’s breadth—from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed—“the +one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, +and you extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this +heaven-bestowed plant”—to his solicitous selection of the oaten +straws. + +At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of +appreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and +thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten. +After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, +his rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of +success. + +At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin +nostrils were working like the gills of a fish. He laid both +shaking hands upon the arms of his chair to rise. + +“We will go, Lydia,” he said chokingly. “This is an +abominable—desecration.” + +Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat. + +“We will stay it out,” she declared. “Do you want to advertise the +copy by exhibiting the original coat?” So they remained to the end. + +Hargraves’s success must have kept him up late that night, for +neither at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear. + +About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major +Talbot’s study. The Major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with +his hands full of the morning papers—too full of his triumph to +notice anything unusual in the Major’s demeanor. + +“I put it all over ’em last night, Major,” he began exultantly. “I +had my inning, and, I think, scored. Here’s what _The Post_ says: + +“‘His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, +with his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint +idioms and phrases, his motheaten pride of family, and his really +kind heart, fastidious sense of honor, and lovable simplicity, is +the best delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. +The coat worn by Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an +evolution of genius. Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.’ + +“How does that sound, Major, for a first-nighter?” + +“I had the honor”—the Major’s voice sounded ominously frigid—“of +witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night.” + +Hargraves looked disconcerted. + +“You were there? I didn’t know you ever—I didn’t know you cared for +the theater. Oh, I say, Major Talbot,” he exclaimed frankly, “don’t +you be offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that +helped out wonderfully in the part. But it’s a type, you know—not +individual. The way the audience caught on shows that. Half the +patrons of that theater are Southerners. They recognized it.” + +“Mr. Hargraves,” said the Major, who had remained standing, “you +have put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my +person, grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. +If I thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the +sign manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you +out, sir, old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir.” + +The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to +take in the full meaning of the old gentleman’s words. + +“I am truly sorry you took offense,” he said regretfully. “Up here +we don’t look at things just as you people do. I know men who would +buy out half the house to have their personality put on the stage +so the public would recognize it.” + +“They are not from Alabama, sir,” said the Major haughtily. + +“Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, Major; let me quote +a few lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet +given in—Milledgeville, I believe—you uttered, and intend to have +printed, these words: + +“‘The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except +in so far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial +profit. He will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon +the honor of himself or his loved ones that does not bear with +it the consequence of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives +with a liberal hand; but it must be heralded with the trumpet and +chronicled in brass.’ + +“Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of +Colonel Calhoun last night?” + +“The description,” said the Major, frowning, “is—not without +grounds. Some exag—latitude must be allowed in public speaking.” + +“And in public acting,” replied Hargraves. + +“That is not the point,” persisted the Major, unrelenting. “It was +a personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir.” + +“Major Talbot,” said Hargraves, with a winning smile, “I wish you +would understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of +insulting you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take +what I want, and what I can, and return it over the footlights. +Now, if you will, let’s let it go at that. I came in to see you +about something else. We’ve been pretty good friends for some +months, and I’m going to take the risk of offending you again. +I know you are hard up for money—never mind how I found out, a +boarding house is no place to keep such matters secret—and I want +you to let me help you out of the pinch. I’ve been there often +enough myself. I’ve been getting a fair salary all the season, and +I’ve saved some money. You’re welcome to a couple hundred—or even +more—until you get——” + +“Stop!” commanded the Major, with his arm outstretched. “It seems +that my book didn’t lie, after all. You think your money salve will +heal all the hurts of honor. Under no circumstances would I accept +a loan from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would +starve before I would consider your insulting offer of a financial +adjustment of the circumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat +my request relative to your quitting the apartment.” + +Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left +the house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the +supper table, nearer the vicinity of the downtown theater, where _A +Magnolia Flower_ was booked for a week’s run. + +Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There +was no one in Washington to whom the Major’s scruples allowed him +to apply for a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, +but it was doubtful whether that relative’s constricted affairs +would permit him to furnish help. The Major was forced to make +an apologetic address to Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed +payment for board, referring to “delinquent rentals” and “delayed +remittances” in a rather confused strain. + +Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source. + +Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old +colored man who wanted to see Major Talbot. The Major asked that +he be sent up to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the +doorway, with his hat in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy +foot. He was quite decently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His +big, coarse shoes shone with a metallic luster suggestive of stove +polish. His bushy wool was gray—almost white. After middle life, it +is difficult to estimate the age of a negro. This one might have +seen as many years as had Major Talbot. + +“I be bound you don’t know me, Mars’ Pendleton,” were his first +words. + +The Major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of +address. It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; +but they had been widely scattered, and he could not recall the +voice or face. + +“I don’t believe I do,” he said kindly—“unless you will assist my +memory.” + +“Don’t you ’member Cindy’s Mose, Mars’ Pendleton, what ’migrated +’mediately after de war?” + +“Wait a moment,” said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the +tips of his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with +those beloved days. “Cindy’s Mose,” he reflected. “You worked among +the horses—breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the +surrender, you took the name of—don’t prompt me—Mitchell, and went +to the West—to Nebraska.” + +“Yassir, yassir,”—the old man’s face stretched with a delighted +grin—“dat’s him, dat’s it. Newbraska. Dat’s me—Mose Mitchell. Old +Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars’, your pa, gimme a +pah of dem mule colts when I lef’ fur to staht me goin’ with. You +’member dem colts, Mars’ Pendleton?” + +“I don’t seem to recall the colts,” said the Major. “You know. +I was married the first year of the war and living at the old +Follinsbee place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I’m glad to +see you. I hope you have prospered.” + +Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor +beside it. + +“Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to +Newbraska, dey folks come all roun’ me to see dem mule colts. Dey +ain’t see no mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for +three hundred dollars. Yessir—three hundred. + +“Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought +some lan’. Me and my old ’oman done raised up seb’m chillun, and +all doin’ well ’cept two of ’em what died. Fo’ year ago a railroad +come along and staht a town slam ag’inst my lan’, and, suh, Mars’ +Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb’m thousand dollars in money, +property, and lan’.” + +“I’m glad to hear it,” said the Major heartily. “Glad to hear it.” + +“And dat little baby of yo’n, Mars’ Pendleton—one what you name +Miss Lyddy—I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody +wouldn’t know her.” + +The Major stepped to the door and called: “Lydie, dear, will you +come?” + +Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in +from her room. + +“Dar, now! What’d I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed +up. You don’t ’member Uncle Mose, child?” + +“This is Aunt Cindy’s Mose, Lydia,” explained the Major. “He left +Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old.” + +“Well,” said Miss Lydia, “I can hardly be expected to remember you, +Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I’m ’plum growed up,’ and +was a blessed long time ago. But I’m glad to see you, even if I +can’t remember you.” + +And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible +had come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and +talked over the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting +or prompting each other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and +days. + +The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home. + +“Uncle Mose am a delicate,” he explained, “to de grand Baptis’ +convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein’ a residin’ +elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent +me along.” + +“And how did you know we were in Washington?” inquired Miss Lydia. + +“Dey’s a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from +Mobile. He told me he seen Mars’ Pendleton comin’ outen dish here +house one mawnin’. + +“What I come fur,” continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his +pocket—“besides de sight of home folks—was to pay Mars’ Pendleton +what I owes him. + +“Yessir—three hundred dollars.” He handed the Major a roll of +bills. “When I lef’ old mars’ says: ‘‘Take dem mule colts, Mose, +and, if it be so you gits able, pay fur ’em.’ Yessir—dem was his +words. De war had done lef’ old mars’ po’ hisself. Old mars’ bein’ +long ago dead, de debt descends to Mars’ Pendleton. Three hundred +dollars. Uncle Mose is plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad +buy my lan’ I laid off to pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars’ +Pendleton. Dat’s what I sold dem mules fur. Yessir.” + +Tears were in Major Talbot’s eyes. He took Uncle Mose’s hand and +laid his other upon his shoulder. + +“Dear, faithful, old servitor,” he said in an unsteady voice, “I +don’t mind saying to you that ‘‘Mars’ Pendleton spent his last +dollar in the world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle +Mose, since, in a way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token +of the loyalty and devotion of the old régime. Lydia, my dear, take +the money. You are better fitted than I to manage its expenditure.” + +“Take it, honey,” said Uncle Mose. “Hit belongs to you. Hit’s +Talbot money.” + +After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry—-for joy; and +the Major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe +volcanically. + +The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. +Miss Lydia’s face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a +new frock coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying +the memory of his golden age. Another publisher who read the +manuscript of the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ thought that, with +a little retouching and toning down of the high lights, he could +make a really bright and salable volume of it. Altogether, the +situation was comfortable, and not without the touch of hope that +is often sweeter than arrived blessings. + +One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid +brought a letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed +that it was from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, +in a mild flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the +letter with her scissors. This was what she read: + + DEAR MISS TALBOT: + + I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have + received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week + by a New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in _A + Magnolia Flower_. + + There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you’d + better not tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some + amends for the great help he was to me in studying the part, and + for the bad humor he was in about it. He refused to let me, so I + did it anyhow. I could easily spare the three hundred. + + Sincerely yours, + H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES. + + P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose? + +Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia’s door open +and stopped. + +“Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?” he asked. + +Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress. + +“_The Mobile Chronicle_ came,” she said promptly. “It’s on the +table in your study.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[24] From _The Junior Munsey_, February, 1902. Republished in the +volume, _Sixes and Sevens_ (1911), by O. Henry; copyright, 1911, by +Doubleday, Page & Co.; reprinted by their permission. + + + + +BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE[25] + +By George Randolph Chester (1869- ) + + +I + +Just as the stage rumbled over the rickety old bridge, creaking +and groaning, the sun came from behind the clouds that had frowned +all the way, and the passengers cheered up a bit. The two richly +dressed matrons who had been so utterly and unnecessarily oblivious +to the presence of each other now suspended hostilities for the +moment by mutual and unspoken consent, and viewed with relief the +little, golden-tinted valley and the tree-clad road just beyond. +The respective husbands of these two ladies exchanged a mere +glance, no more, of comfort. They, too, were relieved, though more +by the momentary truce than by anything else. They regretted very +much to be compelled to hate each other, for each had reckoned up +his vis-à-vis as a rather proper sort of fellow, probably a man of +some achievement, used to good living and good company. + +Extreme iciness was unavoidable between them, however. When one +stranger has a splendidly preserved blonde wife and the other a +splendidly preserved brunette wife, both of whom have won social +prominence by years of hard fighting and aloofness, there remains +nothing for the two men but to follow the lead, especially when +directly under the eyes of the leaders. + +The son of the blonde matron smiled cheerfully as the welcome light +flooded the coach. + +He was a nice-looking young man, of about twenty-two, one might +judge, and he did his smiling, though in a perfectly impersonal +and correct sort of manner, at the pretty daughter of the brunette +matron. The pretty daughter also smiled, but her smile was demurely +directed at the trees outside, clad as they were in all the flaming +glory of their autumn tints, glistening with the recent rain and +dripping with gems that sparkled and flashed in the noonday sun as +they fell. + +It is marvelous how much one can see out of the corner of the eye, +while seeming to view mere scenery. + +The driver looked down, as he drove safely off the bridge, and +shook his head at the swirl of water that rushed and eddied, dark +and muddy, close up under the rotten planking; then he cracked his +whip, and the horses sturdily attacked the little hill. + +Thick, overhanging trees on either side now dimmed the light again, +and the two plump matrons once more glared past the opposite +shoulders, profoundly unaware of each other. The husbands took on +the politely surly look required of them. The blonde son’s eyes +still sought the brunette daughter, but it was furtively done and +quite unsuccessfully, for the daughter was now doing a little +glaring on her own account. The blonde matron had just swept her +eyes across the daughter’s skirt, estimating the fit and material +of it with contempt so artistically veiled that it could almost be +understood in the dark. + + +II + +The big bays swung to the brow of the hill with ease, and dashed +into a small circular clearing, where a quaint little two-story +building, with a mossy watering-trough out in front, nestled under +the shade of majestic old trees that reared their brown and scarlet +crowns proudly into the sky. A long, low porch ran across the front +of the structure, and a complaining sign hung out announcing, in +dim, weather-flecked letters on a cracked board, that this was the +“Tutt House.” A gray-headed man, in brown overalls and faded blue +jumper, stood on the porch and shook his fist at the stage as it +whirled by. + +“What a delightfully old-fashioned inn!” exclaimed the pretty +daughter. “How I should like to stop there over night!” + +“You would probably wish yourself away before morning, Evelyn,” +replied her mother indifferently. “No doubt it would be a mere +siege of discomfort.” + +The blonde matron turned to her husband. The pretty daughter had +been looking at the picturesque “inn” between the heads of this +lady and her son. + +“Edward, please pull down the shade behind me,” she directed. +“There is quite a draught from that broken window.” + +The pretty daughter bit her lip. The brunette matron continued to +stare at the shade in the exact spot upon which her gaze had been +before directed, and she never quivered an eyelash. The young man +seemed very uncomfortable, and he tried to look his apologies to +the pretty daughter, but she could not see him now, not even if her +eyes had been all corners. + +They were bowling along through another avenue of trees when the +driver suddenly shouted, “Whoa there!” + +The horses were brought up with a jerk that was well nigh fatal to +the assortment of dignity inside the coach. A loud roaring could +be heard, both ahead and in the rear, a sharp splitting like a +fusillade of pistol shots, then a creaking and tearing of timbers. +The driver bent suddenly forward. + +“Gid ap!” he cried, and the horses sprang forward with a lurch. +He swung them around a sharp bend with a skillful hand and poised +his weight above the brake as they plunged at terrific speed down +a steep grade. The roaring was louder than ever now, and it became +deafening as they suddenly emerged from the thick underbrush at the +bottom of the declivity. + +“Caught, by gravy!” ejaculated the driver, and, for the second +time, he brought the coach to an abrupt stop. + +“Do see what is the matter, Ralph,” said the blonde matron +impatiently. + +Thus commanded, the young man swung out and asked the driver about +it. + +“Paintsville dam’s busted,” he was informed. “I been a-lookin’ fer +it this many a year, an’ this here freshet done it. You see the +holler there? Well, they’s ten foot o’ water in it, an’ it had ort +to be stone dry. The bridge is tore out behind us, an’ we’re stuck +here till that water runs out. We can’t git away till to-morry, +anyways.” + +He pointed out the peculiar topography of the place, and Ralph got +back in the coach. + +“We’re practically on a flood-made island,” he exclaimed, with one +eye on the pretty daughter, “and we shall have to stop over night +at that quaint, old-fashioned inn we passed a few moments ago.” + +The pretty daughter’s eyes twinkled, and he thought he caught a +swift, direct gleam from under the long lashes—but he was not sure. + +“Dear me, how annoying,” said the blonde matron, but the brunette +matron still stared, without the slightest trace of interest in +anything else, at the infinitesimal spot she had selected on the +affronting window-shade. + +The two men gave sighs of resignation, and cast carefully concealed +glances at each other, speculating on the possibility of a cigar +and a glass, and maybe a good story or two, or possibly even a game +of poker after the evening meal. Who could tell what might or might +not happen? + + +III + +When the stage drew up in front of the little hotel, it found Uncle +Billy Tutt prepared for his revenge. In former days the stage had +always stopped at the Tutt House for the noonday meal. Since the +new railway was built through the adjoining county, however, the +stage trip became a mere twelve-mile, cross-country transfer from +one railroad to another, and the stage made a later trip, allowing +the passengers plenty of time for “dinner” before they started. Day +after day, as the coach flashed by with its money-laden passengers, +Uncle Billy had hoped that it would break down. But this was +better, much better. The coach might be quickly mended, but not the +flood. + +“I’m a-goin’ t’ charge ’em till they squeal,” he declared to the +timidly protesting Aunt Margaret, “an’ then I’m goin’ t’ charge ’em +a least mite more, drat ’em!” + +He retreated behind the rough wooden counter that did duty as a +desk, slammed open the flimsy, paper-bound “cash book” that served +as a register, and planted his elbows uncompromisingly on either +side of it. + +“Let ’em bring in their own traps,” he commented, and Aunt Margaret +fled, ashamed and conscience-smitten, to the kitchen. It seemed +awful. + +The first one out of the coach was the husband of the brunette +matron, and, proceeding under instructions, he waited neither for +luggage nor women folk, but hurried straight into the Tutt House. +The other man would have been neck and neck with him in the race, +if it had not been that he paused to seize two suitcases and had +the misfortune to drop one, which burst open and scattered a choice +assortment of lingerie from one end of the dingy coach to the other. + +In the confusion of rescuing the fluffery, the owner of the +suitcase had to sacrifice her hauteur and help her husband and +son block up the aisle, while the other matron had the ineffable +satisfaction of being _kept waiting_, at last being enabled to say, +sweetly and with the most polite consideration: + +“Will you kindly allow me to pass?” + +The blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly +flat. She was pale but collected. Her husband was pink but +collected. Her son was crimson and uncollected. The brunette +daughter could not have found an eye anywhere in his countenance as +she rustled out after her mother. + +“I do hope that Belmont has been able to secure choice quarters,” +the triumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the +ground. “This place looked so very small that there can scarcely be +more than one comfortable suite in it.” + +It was a vital thrust. Only a splendidly cultivated self-control +prevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate +who had muddled things. Even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of +volumes. + +The man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight black +scrawl, “J. Belmont Van Kamp, wife, and daughter.” There being no +space left for his address, he put none down. + +“I want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible,” he demanded. + +“Three!” exclaimed Uncle Billy, scratching his head. “Won’t two do +ye? I ain’t got but six bedrooms in th’ house. Me an’ Marg’t sleeps +in one, an’ we’re a-gittin’ too old fer a shake-down on th’ floor. +I’ll have t’ save one room fer th’ driver, an’ that leaves four. +You take two now—-” + +Mr. Van Kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, The other man +was getting out of the coach. His own wife was stepping on the +porch. + +“What do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?” +he interrupted. + +The decisive moment had arrived. Uncle Billy drew a deep breath. + +“Two dollars a head!” he defiantly announced. There! It was out! He +wished Margaret had stayed to hear him say it. + +The guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and Uncle Billy was +beginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when Mr. Van +Kamp stopped the landlord’s own breath. + +“I’ll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the +house,” he calmly said, and Landlord Tutt gasped as the money +fluttered down under his nose. + +“Jis’ take yore folks right on up, Mr. Kamp,” said Uncle Billy, +pouncing on the money. “Th’ rooms is th’ three right along th’ hull +front o’ th’ house. I’ll be up and make on a fire in a minute. Jis’ +take th’ _Jonesville Banner_ an’ th’ _Uticky Clarion_ along with +ye.” + +As the swish of skirts marked the passage of the Van Kamps up the +wide hall stairway, the other party swept into the room. + +The man wrote, in a round flourish, “Edward Eastman Ellsworth, +wife, and son.” + +“I’d like three choice rooms, en suite,” he said. + +“Gosh!” said Uncle Billy, regretfully. “That’s what Mr. Kamp +wanted, fust off, an’ he got it. They hain’t but th’ little room +over th’ kitchen left. I’ll have to put you an’ your wife in that, +an’ let your boy sleep with th’ driver.” + +The consternation in the Ellsworth party was past calculating by +any known standards of measurement. The thing was an outrage! It +was not to be borne! They would not submit to it! + +Uncle Billy, however, secure in his mastery of the situation, +calmly quartered them as he had said. “An’ let ’em splutter all +they want to,” he commented comfortably to himself. + + +IV + +The Ellsworths were holding a family indignation meeting on the +broad porch when the Van Ramps came contentedly down for a walk, +and brushed by them with unseeing eyes. + +“It makes a perfectly fascinating suite,” observed Mrs. Van Kamp, +in a pleasantly conversational tone that could be easily overheard +by anyone impolite enough to listen. “That delightful old-fashioned +fireplace in the middle apartment makes it an ideal sitting-room, +and the beds are so roomy and comfortable.” + +“I just knew it would be like this!” chirruped Miss Evelyn. “I +remarked as we passed the place, if you will remember, how charming +it would be to stop in this dear, quaint old inn over night. All my +wishes seem to come true this year.” + +These simple and, of course, entirely unpremeditated remarks were +as vinegar and wormwood to Mrs. Ellsworth, and she gazed after the +retreating Van Kamps with a glint in her eye that would make one +understand Lucretia Borgia at last. + +Her son also gazed after the retreating Van Kamp. She had an +exquisite figure, and she carried herself with a most delectable +grace. As the party drew away from the inn she dropped behind the +elders and wandered off into a side path to gather autumn leaves. + +Ralph, too, started off for a walk, but naturally not in the same +direction. + +“Edward!” suddenly said Mrs. Ellsworth. “I want you to turn those +people out of that suite before night!” + +“Very well,” he replied with a sigh, and got up to do it. He had +wrecked a railroad and made one, and had operated successful +corners in nutmegs and chicory. No task seemed impossible. He +walked in to see the landlord. + +“What are the Van Kamps paying you for those three rooms?” he asked. + +“Fifteen dollars,” Uncle Billy informed him, smoking one of Mr. Van +Kamp’s good cigars and twiddling his thumbs in huge content. + +“I’ll give you thirty for them. Just set their baggage outside and +tell them the rooms are occupied.” + +“No sir-ree!” rejoined Uncle Billy. “A bargain’s a bargain, an’ I +allus stick to one I make.” + +Mr. Ellsworth withdrew, but not defeated. He had never supposed +that such an absurd proposition would be accepted. It was only a +feeler, and he had noticed a wince of regret in his landlord. He +sat down on the porch and lit a strong cigar. His wife did not +bother him. She gazed complacently at the flaming foliage opposite, +and allowed him to think. Getting impossible things was his +business in life, and she had confidence in him. + +“I want to rent your entire house for a week,” he announced to +Uncle Billy a few minutes later. It had occurred to him that the +flood might last longer than they anticipated. + +Uncle Billy’s eyes twinkled. + +“I reckon it kin be did,” he allowed. “I reckon a _ho_-tel man’s +got a right to rent his hull house ary minute.” + +“Of course he has. How much do you want?” + +Uncle Billy had made one mistake in not asking this sort of folks +enough, and he reflected in perplexity. + +“Make me a offer,” he proposed. “Ef it hain’t enough I’ll tell ye. +You want to rent th’ hull place, back lot an’ all?” + +“No, just the mere house. That will be enough,” answered the other +with a smile. He was on the point of offering a hundred dollars, +when he saw the little wrinkles about Mr. Tutt’s eyes, and he said +seventy-five. + +“Sho, ye’re jokin’!” retorted Uncle Billy. He had been considered a +fine horse-trader in that part of the country. “Make it a hundred +and twenty-five, an’ I’ll go ye.” + +Mr. Ellsworth counted out some bills. + +“Here’s a hundred,” he said. “That ought to be about right.” + +“Fifteen more,” insisted Uncle Billy. + +With a little frown of impatience the other counted off the extra +money and handed it over. Uncle Billy gravely handed it back. + +“Them’s the fifteen dollars Mr. Kamp give me,” he explained. +“You’ve got the hull house fer a week, an’ o’ course all th’ money +that’s tooken in is your’n. You kin do as ye please about rentin’ +out rooms to other folks, I reckon. A bargain’s a bargain, an’ I +allus stick to one I make.” + + +V + +Ralph Ellsworth stalked among the trees, feverishly searching for +squirrels, scarlet leaves, and the glint of a brown walking-dress, +this last not being so easy to locate in sunlit autumn woods. Time +after time he quickened his pace, only to find that he had been +fooled by a patch of dogwood, a clump of haw bushes or even a +leaf-strewn knoll, but at last he unmistakably saw the dress, and +then he slowed down to a careless saunter. + +She was reaching up for some brilliantly colored maple leaves, and +was entirely unconscious of his presence, especially after she had +seen him. Her pose showed her pretty figure to advantage, but, of +course, she did not know that. How should she? + +Ralph admired the picture very much. The hat, the hair, the gown, +the dainty shoes, even the narrow strip of silken hose that was +revealed as she stood a-uptoe, were all of a deep, rich brown that +proved an exquisite foil for the pink and cream of her cheeks. He +remembered that her eyes were almost the same shade, and wondered +how it was that women-folk happened on combinations in dress that +so well set off their natural charms. The fool! + +He was about three trees away, now, and a panic akin to that +which hunters describe as “buck ague” seized him. He decided that +he really had no excuse for coming any nearer. It would not do, +either, to be seen staring at her if she should happen to turn her +head, so he veered off, intending to regain the road. It would be +impossible to do this without passing directly in her range of +vision, and he did not intend to try to avoid it. He had a fine, +manly figure of his own. + +He had just passed the nearest radius to her circle and was +proceeding along the tangent that he had laid out for himself, when +the unwitting maid looked carefully down and saw a tangle of roots +at her very feet. She was so unfortunate, a second later, as to +slip her foot in this very tangle and give her ankle ever so slight +a twist. + +“Oh!” cried Miss Van Kamp, and Ralph Ellsworth flew to the rescue. +He had not been noticing her at all, and yet he had started to her +side before she had even cried out, which was strange. She had a +very attractive voice. + +“May I be of assistance?” he anxiously inquired. + +“I think not, thank you,” she replied, compressing her lips to keep +back the intolerable pain, and half-closing her eyes to show the +fine lashes. Declining the proffered help, she extricated her foot, +picked up her autumn branches, and turned away. She was intensely +averse to anything that could be construed as a flirtation, even of +the mildest, he could certainly see that. She took a step, swayed +slightly, dropped the leaves, and clutched out her hand to him. + +“It is nothing,” she assured him in a moment, withdrawing the hand +after he had held it quite long enough. “Nothing whatever. I gave +my foot a slight wrench, and turned the least bit faint for a +moment.” + +“You must permit me to walk back, at least to the road, with you,” +he insisted, gathering up her armload of branches. “I couldn’t +think of leaving you here alone.” + +As he stooped to raise the gay woodland treasures he smiled to +himself, ever so slightly. This was not _his_ first season out, +either. + +“Delightful spot, isn’t it?” he observed as they regained the road +and sauntered in the direction of the Tutt House. + +“Quite so,” she reservedly answered. She had noticed that smile as +he stooped. He must be snubbed a little. It would be so good for +him. + +“You don’t happen to know Billy Evans, of Boston, do you?” he asked. + +“I think not. I am but very little acquainted in Boston.” + +“Too bad,” he went on. “I was rather in hopes you knew Billy. All +sorts of a splendid fellow, and knows everybody.” + +“Not quite, it seems,” she reminded him, and he winced at the +error. In spite of the sly smile that he had permitted to himself, +he was unusually interested. + +He tried the weather, the flood, the accident, golf, books and +three good, substantial, warranted jokes, but the conversation +lagged in spite of him. Miss Van Kamp would not for the world have +it understood that this unconventional meeting, made allowable +by her wrenched ankle, could possibly fulfill the functions of a +formal introduction. + +“What a ripping, queer old building that is!” he exclaimed, making +one more brave effort as they came in sight of the hotel. + +“It is, rather,” she assented. “The rooms in it are as quaint and +delightful as the exterior, too.” + +She looked as harmless and innocent as a basket of peaches as she +said it, and never the suspicion of a smile deepened the dimple in +the cheek toward him. The smile was glowing cheerfully away inside, +though. He could feel it, if he could not see it, and he laughed +aloud. + +“Your crowd rather got the better of us there,” he admitted with +the keen appreciation of one still quite close to college days. + +“Of course, the mater is furious, but I rather look on it as a +lark.” + +She thawed like an April icicle. + +“It’s perfectly jolly,” she laughed with him. “Awfully selfish of +us, too, I know, but such loads of fun.” + +They were close to the Tutt House now, and her limp, that had +entirely disappeared as they emerged from the woods, now became +quite perceptible. There might be people looking out of the +windows, though it is hard to see why that should affect a limp. + +Ralph was delighted to find that a thaw had set in, and he made one +more attempt to establish at least a proxy acquaintance. + +“You don’t happen to know Peyson Kingsley, of Philadelphia, do you?” + +“I’m afraid I don’t,” she replied. “I know so few Philadelphia +people, you see.” She was rather regretful about it this time. He +really was a clever sort of a fellow, in spite of that smile. + +The center window in the second floor of the Tutt House swung open, +its little squares of glass flashing jubilantly in the sunlight. +Mrs. Ellsworth leaned out over the sill, from the quaint old +sitting-room of the _Van Kamp apartments_! + +“Oh, Ralph!” she called in her most dulcet tones. “Kindly excuse +yourself and come right on up to our suite for a few moments!” + + +VI + +It is not nearly so easy to take a practical joke as to perpetrate +one. Evelyn was sitting thoughtfully on the porch when her father +and mother returned. Mrs. Ellsworth was sitting at the center +window above, placidly looking out. Her eyes swept carelessly over +the Van Kamps, and unconcernedly passed on to the rest of the +landscape. + +Mrs. Van Kamp gasped and clutched the arm of her husband. There +was no need. He, too, had seen the apparition. Evelyn now, for the +first time, saw the real humor of the situation. She smiled as she +thought of Ralph. She owed him one, but she never worried about her +debts. She always managed to get them paid, principal and interest. + +Mr. Van Kamp suddenly glowered and strode into the Tutt House. +Uncle Billy met him at the door, reflectively chewing a straw, and +handed him an envelope. Mr. Van Kamp tore it open and drew out a +note. Three five-dollar bills came out with it and fluttered to the +porch floor. This missive confronted him: + + MR. J. BELMONT VAN KAMP, + + DEAR SIR: This is to notify you that I have rented the entire + Tutt House for the ensuing week, and am compelled to assume + possession of the three second-floor front rooms. Herewith I am + enclosing the fifteen dollars you paid to secure the suite. You + are quite welcome to make use, as my guest, of the small room + over the kitchen. You will find your luggage in that room. + Regretting any inconvenience that this transaction may cause + you, I am, + + Yours respectfully, + EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH. + +Mr. Van Kamp passed the note to his wife and sat down on a large +chair. He was glad that the chair was comfortable and roomy. Evelyn +picked up the bills and tucked them into her waist. She never +overlooked any of her perquisites. Mrs. Van Kamp read the note, and +the tip of her nose became white. She also sat down, but she was +the first to find her voice. + +“Atrocious!” she exclaimed. “Atrocious! Simply atrocious, Belmont. +This is a house of public entertainment. They _can’t_ turn us out +in this high-minded manner! Isn’t there a law or something to that +effect?” + +“It wouldn’t matter if there was,” he thoughtfully replied. “This +fellow Ellsworth would be too clever to be caught by it. He would +say that the house was not a hotel but a private residence during +the period for which he has rented it.” + +Personally, he rather admired Ellsworth. Seemed to be a resourceful +sort of chap who knew how to make money behave itself, and do its +little tricks without balking in the harness. + +“Then you can make him take down the sign!” his wife declared. + +He shook his head decidedly. + +“It wouldn’t do, Belle,” he replied. “It would be spite, not +retaliation, and not at all sportsmanlike. The course you suggest +would belittle us more than it would annoy them. There must be some +other way.” + +He went in to talk with Uncle Billy. + +“I want to buy this place,” he stated. “Is it for sale?” + +“It sartin is!” replied Uncle Billy. He did not merely twinkle this +time. He grinned. + +“How much?” + +“Three thousand dollars.” Mr. Tutt was used to charging by this +time, and he betrayed no hesitation. + +“I’ll write you out a check at once,” and Mr. Van Kamp reached in +his pocket with the reflection that the spot, after all, was an +ideal one for a quiet summer retreat. + +“Air you a-goin’ t’ scribble that there three thou-san’ on a piece +o’ paper?” inquired Uncle Billy, sitting bolt upright. “Ef you air +a-figgerin’ on that, Mr. Kamp, jis’ you save yore time. I give a +man four dollars fer one o’ them check things oncet, an’ I owe +myself them four dollars yit.” + +Mr. Van Kamp retired in disorder, but the thought of his wife and +daughter waiting confidently on the porch stopped him. Moreover, +the thing had resolved itself rather into a contest between +Ellsworth and himself, and he had done a little making and breaking +of men and things in his own time. He did some gatling-gun thinking +out by the newel-post, and presently rejoined Uncle Billy. + +“Mr. Tutt, tell me just exactly what Mr. Ellsworth rented, please,” +he requested. + +“Th’ hull house,” replied Billy, and then he somewhat sternly +added: “Paid me spot cash fer it, too.” + +Mr. Van Kamp took a wad of loose bills from his trousers pocket, +straightened them out leisurely, and placed them in his bill book, +along with some smooth yellowbacks of eye-bulging denominations. +Uncle Billy sat up and stopped twiddling his thumbs. + +“Nothing was said about the furniture, was there?” suavely inquired +Van Kamp. + +Uncle Billy leaned blankly back in his chair. Little by little the +light dawned on the ex-horse-trader. The crow’s feet reappeared +about his eyes, his mouth twitched, he smiled, he grinned, then he +slapped his thigh and haw-hawed. + +“No!” roared Uncle Billy. “No, there wasn’t, by gum!” + +“Nothing but the house?” + +“His very own words!” chuckled Uncle Billy. “‘‘Jis’ th’ mere +house,’ says he, an’ he gits it. A bargain’s a bargain, an’ I allus +stick to one I make.” + +“How much for the furniture for the week?” + +“Fifty dollars!” Mr. Tutt knew how to do business with this kind of +people now, you bet. + +Mr. Van Kamp promptly counted out the money. + +“Drat it!” commented Uncle Billy to himself. “I could ’a’ got more!” + +“Now where can we make ourselves comfortable with this furniture?” + +Uncle Billy chirked up. All was not yet lost. + +“Waal,” he reflectively drawled, “there’s th’ new barn. It hain’t +been used for nothin’ yit, senct I built it two years ago. I jis’ +hadn’t th’ heart t’ put th’ critters in it as long as th’ ole one +stood up.” + +The other smiled at this flashlight on Uncle Billy’s character, and +they went out to look at the barn. + + +VII + +Uncle Billy came back from the “Tutt House Annex,” as Mr. Van Kamp +dubbed the barn, with enough more money to make him love all the +world until he got used to having it. Uncle Billy belongs to a +large family. + +Mr. Van Kamp joined the women on the porch, and explained the +attractively novel situation to them. They were chatting gaily when +the Ellsworths came down the stairs. Mr. Ellsworth paused for a +moment to exchange a word with Uncle Billy. + +“Mr. Tutt,” said he, laughing, “if we go for a bit of exercise will +you guarantee us the possession of our rooms when we come back?” + +“Yes sir-ree!” Uncle Billy assured him. “They shan’t nobody take +them rooms away from you fer money, marbles, ner chalk. A bargain’s +a bargain, an’ I allus stick to one I make,” and he virtuously took +a chew of tobacco while he inspected the afternoon sky with a clear +conscience. + +“I want to get some of those splendid autumn leaves to decorate our +cozy apartments,” Mrs. Ellsworth told her husband as they passed in +hearing of the Van Kamps. “Do you know those old-time rag rugs are +the most oddly decorative effects that I have ever seen. They are +so rich in color and so exquisitely blended.” + +There were reasons why this poisoned arrow failed to rankle, but +the Van Kamps did not trouble to explain. They were waiting for +Ralph to come out and join his parents. Ralph, it seemed, however, +had decided not to take a walk. He had already fatigued himself, he +had explained, and his mother had favored him with a significant +look. She could readily believe him, she had assured him, and had +then left him in scorn. + +The Van Kamps went out to consider the arrangement of the barn. +Evelyn returned first and came out on the porch to find a +handkerchief. It was not there, but Ralph was. She was very much +surprised to see him, and she intimated as much. + +“It’s dreadfully damp in the woods,” he explained. “By the way, +you don’t happen to know the Whitleys, of Washington, do you? Most +excellent people.” + +“I’m quite sorry that I do not,” she replied. “But you will have +to excuse me. We shall be kept very busy with arranging our +apartments.” + +Ralph sprang to his feet with a ludicrous expression. + +“Not the second floor front suite!” he exclaimed. + +“Oh, no! Not at all,” she reassured him. + +He laughed lightly. + +“Honors are about even in that game,” he said. + +“Evelyn,” called her mother from the hall. “Please come and take +those front suite curtains down to the barn.” + +“Pardon me while we take the next trick,” remarked Evelyn with a +laugh quite as light and gleeful as his own, and disappeared into +the hall. + +He followed her slowly, and was met at the door by her father. + +“You are the younger Mr. Ellsworth, I believe,” politely said Mr. +Van Kamp. + +“Ralph Ellsworth. Yes, sir.” + +“Here is a note for your father. It is unsealed. You are quite at +liberty to read it.” + +Mr. Van Kamp bowed himself away, and Ralph opened the note, which +read: + + EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH, ESQ., + + DEAR SIR: This is to notify you that I have rented the entire + furniture of the Tutt House for the ensuing week, and am + compelled to assume possession of that in the three second floor + front rooms, as well as all the balance not in actual use by Mr. + and Mrs. Tutt and the driver of the stage. You are quite welcome, + however, to make use of the furnishings in the small room over + the kitchen. Your luggage you will find undisturbed. Regretting + any inconvenience that this transaction may cause you, I remain, + + Yours respectfully, + J. BELMONT VAN KAMP. + +Ralph scratched his head in amused perplexity. It devolved upon +him to even up the affair a little before his mother came back. +He must support the family reputation for resourcefulness, but it +took quite a bit of scalp irritation before he aggravated the right +idea into being. As soon as the idea came, he went in and made a +hide-bound bargain with Uncle Billy, then he went out into the hall +and waited until Evelyn came down with a huge armload of window +curtains. + +“Honors are still even,” he remarked. “I have just bought all the +edibles about the place, whether in the cellar, the house or any of +the surrounding structures, in the ground, above the ground, dead +or alive, and a bargain’s a bargain as between man and man.” + +“Clever of you, I’m sure,” commented Miss Van Kamp, reflectively. +Suddenly her lips parted with a smile that revealed a double row of +most beautiful teeth. He meditatively watched the curve of her lips. + +“Isn’t that rather a heavy load?” he suggested. “I’d be delighted +to help you move the things, don’t you know.” + +“It is quite kind of you, and what the men would call ‘‘game,’ I +believe, under the circumstances,” she answered, “but really it +will not be necessary. We have hired Mr. Tutt and the driver to do +the heavier part of the work, and the rest of it will be really a +pleasant diversion.” + +“No doubt,” agreed Ralph, with an appreciative grin. “By the way, +you don’t happen to know Maud and Dorothy Partridge, of Baltimore, +do you? Stunning pretty girls, both of them, and no end of swells.” + +“I know so very few people in Baltimore,” she murmured, and tripped +on down to the barn. + +Ralph went out on the porch and smoked. There was nothing else that +he could do. + + +VIII + +It was growing dusk when the elder Ellsworths returned, almost +hidden by great masses of autumn boughs. + +“You should have been with us, Ralph,” enthusiastically said his +mother. “I never saw such gorgeous tints in all my life. We have +brought nearly the entire woods with us.” + +“It was a good idea,” said Ralph. “A stunning good idea. They may +come in handy to sleep on.” + +Mrs. Ellsworth turned cold. + +“What do you mean?” she gasped. + +“Ralph,” sternly demanded his father, “you don’t mean to tell us +that you let the Van Kamps jockey us out of those rooms after all?” + +“Indeed, no,” he airily responded. “Just come right on up and see.” + +He led the way into the suite and struck a match. One solitary +candle had been left upon the mantel shelf. Ralph thought that this +had been overlooked, but his mother afterwards set him right about +that. Mrs. Van Kamp had cleverly left it so that the Ellsworths +could see how dreadfully bare the place was. One candle in three +rooms is drearier than darkness anyhow. + +Mrs. Ellsworth took in all the desolation, the dismal expanse +of the now enormous apartments, the shabby walls, the hideous +bright spots where pictures had hung, the splintered flooring, the +great, gaunt windows—and she gave in. She had met with snub after +snub, and cut after cut, in her social climb, she had had the +cook quit in the middle of an important dinner, she had had every +disconcerting thing possible happen to her, but this—this was the +last _bale_ of straw. She sat down on a suitcase, in the middle of +the biggest room, and cried! + +Ralph, having waited for this, now told about the food transaction, +and she hastily pushed the last-coming tear back into her eye. + +“Good!” she cried. “They will be up here soon. They will be +compelled to compromise, and they must not find me with red eyes.” + +She cast a hasty glance around the room, then, in a sudden panic, +seized the candle and explored the other two. She went wildly +out into the hall, back into the little room over the kitchen, +downstairs, everywhere, and returned in consternation. + +“There’s not a single mirror left in the house!” she moaned. + +Ralph heartlessly grinned. He could appreciate that this was a +characteristic woman trick, and wondered admiringly whether Evelyn +or her mother had thought of it. However, this was a time for +action. + +“I’ll get you some water to bathe your eyes,” he offered, and ran +into the little room over the kitchen to get a pitcher. A cracked +shaving-mug was the only vessel that had been left, but he hurried +down into the yard with it. This was no time for fastidiousness. + +He had barely creaked the pump handle when Mr. Van Kamp hurried up +from the barn. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Van Kamp, “but this water +belongs to us. My daughter bought it, all that is in the ground, +above the ground, or that may fall from the sky upon these +premises.” + + +IX + +The mutual siege lasted until after seven o’clock, but it was +rather one-sided. The Van Kamps could drink all the water they +liked, it made them no hungrier. If the Ellsworths ate anything, +however, they grew thirstier, and, moreover, water was necessary +if anything worth while was to be cooked. They knew all this, +and resisted until Mrs. Ellsworth was tempted and fell. She ate +a sandwich and choked. It was heartbreaking, but Ralph had to be +sent down with a plate of sandwiches and an offer to trade them for +water. + +Halfway between the pump and the house he met Evelyn coming with a +small pail of the precious fluid. They both stopped stock still; +then, seeing that it was too late to retreat, both laughed and +advanced. + +“Who wins now?” bantered Ralph as they made the exchange. + +“It looks to me like a misdeal,” she gaily replied, and was moving +away when he called her back. + +“You don’t happen to know the Gately’s, of New York, do you?” he +was quite anxious to know. + +“I am truly sorry, but I am acquainted with so few people in New +York. We are from Chicago, you know.” + +“Oh,” said he blankly, and took the water up to the Ellsworth suite. + +Mrs. Ellsworth cheered up considerably when she heard that Ralph +had been met half-way, but her eyes snapped when he confessed that +it was Miss Van Kamp who had met him. + +“I hope you are not going to carry on a flirtation with that +overdressed creature,” she blazed. + +“Why mother,” exclaimed Ralph, shocked beyond measure. “What right +have you to accuse either this young lady or myself of flirting? +Flirting!” + +Mrs. Ellsworth suddenly attacked the fire with quite unnecessary +energy. + + +X + +Down at the barn, the wide threshing floor had been covered with +gay rag-rugs, and strewn with tables, couches, and chairs in +picturesque profusion. Roomy box-stalls had been carpeted deep with +clean straw, curtained off with gaudy bed-quilts, and converted +into cozy sleeping apartments. The mow and the stalls had been +screened off with lace curtains and blazing counterpanes, and the +whole effect was one of Oriental luxury and splendor. Alas, it +was only an “effect”! The red-hot parlor stove smoked abominably, +the pipe carried other smoke out through the hawmow window, only +to let it blow back again. Chill cross-draughts whistled in from +cracks too numerous to be stopped up, and the miserable Van Kamps +could only cough and shiver, and envy the Tutts and the driver, +non-combatants who had been fed two hours before. + +Up in the second floor suite there was a roaring fire in the big +fireplace, but there was a chill in the room that no mere fire +could drive away—the chill of absolute emptiness. + +A man can outlive hardships that would kill a woman, but a woman +can endure discomforts that would drive a man crazy. + +Mr. Ellsworth went out to hunt up Uncle Billy, with an especial +solace in mind. The landlord was not in the house, but the yellow +gleam of a lantern revealed his presence in the woodshed, and Mr. +Ellsworth stepped in upon him just as he was pouring something +yellow and clear into a tumbler from a big jug that he had just +taken from under the flooring. + +“How much do you want for that jug and its contents?” he asked, +with a sigh of gratitude that this supply had been overlooked. + +Before Mr. Tutt could answer, Mr. Van Kamp hurried in at the door. + +“Wait a moment!” he cried. “I want to bid on that!” + +“This here jug hain’t fer sale at no price,” Uncle Billy +emphatically announced, nipping all negotiations right in the bud. +“It’s too pesky hard to sneak this here licker in past Marge’t, but +I reckon it’s my treat, gents. Ye kin have all ye want.” + +One minute later Mr. Van Kamp and Mr. Ellsworth were seated, one +on a sawbuck and the other on a nail-keg, comfortably eyeing each +other across the work bench, and each was holding up a tumbler +one-third filled with the golden yellow liquid. + +“Your health, sir,” courteously proposed Mr. Ellsworth. + +“And to you, sir,” gravely replied Mr. Van Kamp. + + +XI + +Ralph and Evelyn happened to meet at the pump, quite accidentally, +after the former had made half a dozen five-minute-apart trips for +a drink. It was Miss Van Kamp, this time, who had been studying on +the mutual acquaintance problem. + +“You don’t happen to know the Tylers, of Parkersburg, do you?” she +asked. + +“The Tylers! I should say I do!” was the unexpected and +enthusiastic reply. “Why, we are on our way now to Miss Georgiana +Tyler’s wedding to my friend Jimmy Carston. I’m to be best man.” + +“How delightful!” she exclaimed. “We are on the way there, too. +Georgiana was my dearest chum at school, and I am to be her ‘‘best +girl.’” + +“Let’s go around on the porch and sit down,” said Ralph. + + +XII + +Mr. Van Kamp, back in the woodshed, looked about him with an eye of +content. + +“Rather cozy for a woodshed,” he observed. “I wonder if we couldn’t +scare up a little session of dollar limit?” + +Both Uncle Billy and Mr. Ellsworth were willing. Death and poker +level all Americans. A fourth hand was needed, however. The stage +driver was in bed and asleep, and Mr. Ellsworth volunteered to find +the extra player. + +“I’ll get Ralph,” he said. “He plays a fairly stiff game.” He +finally found his son on the porch, apparently alone, and stated +his errand. + +“Thank you, but I don’t believe I care to play this evening,” was +the astounding reply, and Mr. Ellsworth looked closer. He made out, +then, a dim figure on the other side of Ralph. + +“Oh! Of course not!” he blundered, and went back to the woodshed. + +Three-handed poker is a miserable game, and it seldom lasts long. +It did not in this case. After Uncle Billy had won the only +jack-pot deserving of the name, he was allowed to go blissfully to +sleep with his hand on the handle of the big jug. + +After poker there is only one other always available amusement +for men, and that is business. The two travelers were quite well +acquainted when Ralph put his head in at the door. + +“Thought I’d find you here,” he explained. “It just occurred to me +to wonder whether you gentlemen had discovered, as yet, that we are +all to be house guests at the Carston-Tyler wedding.” + +“Why, no!” exclaimed his father in pleased surprise. “It is a most +agreeable coincidence. Mr. Van Kamp, allow me to introduce my son, +Ralph. Mr. Van Kamp and myself, Ralph, have found out that we shall +be considerably thrown together in a business way from now on. He +has just purchased control of the Metropolitan and Western string +of interurbans.” + +“Delighted, I’m sure,” murmured Ralph, shaking hands, and then he +slipped out as quickly as possible. Some one seemed to be waiting +for him. + +Perhaps another twenty minutes had passed, when one of the men had +an illuminating idea that resulted, later on, in pleasant relations +for all of them. It was about time, for Mrs. Ellsworth, up in the +bare suite, and Mrs. Van Kamp, down in the draughty barn, both +wrapped up to the chin and both still chilly, had about reached the +limit of patience and endurance. + +“Why can’t we make things a little more comfortable for all +concerned?” suggested Mr. Van Kamp. “Suppose, as a starter, that we +have Mrs. Van Kamp give a shiver party down in the barn?” + +“Good idea,” agreed Mr. Ellsworth. “A little diplomacy will do it. +Each one of us will have to tell his wife that the other fellow +made the first abject overtures.” + +Mr. Van Kamp grinned understandingly, and agreed to the infamous +ruse. + +“By the way,” continued Mr. Ellsworth, with a still happier +thought, “you must allow Mrs. Ellsworth to furnish the dinner for +Mrs. Van Kamp’s shiver party.” + +“Dinner!” gasped Mr. Van Kamp. “By all means!” + +Both men felt an anxious yawning in the region of the appetite, +and a yearning moisture wetted their tongues. They looked at the +slumbering Uncle Billy and decided to see Mrs. Tutt themselves +about a good, hot dinner for six. + +“Law me!” exclaimed Aunt Margaret when they appeared at the kitchen +door. “I swan I thought you folks ’u’d never come to yore senses. +Here I’ve had a big pot o’ stewed chicken ready on the stove fer +two mortal hours. I kin give ye that, an’ smashed taters an’ +chicken gravy, an’ dried corn, an’ hot corn-pone, an’ currant +jell, an’ strawberry preserves, an’ my own cannin’ o’ peaches, an’ +pumpkin-pie an’ coffee. Will that do ye?” Would it _do_! _Would_ it +do!! + +As Aunt Margaret talked, the kitchen door swung wide, and the two +men were stricken speechless with astonishment. There, across +from each other at the kitchen table, sat the utterly selfish and +traitorous younger members of the rival houses of Ellsworth and +Van Kamp, deep in the joys of chicken, and mashed potatoes, and +gravy, and hot corn-pone, and all the other “fixings,” laughing and +chatting gaily like chums of years’ standing. They had seemingly +just come to an agreement about something or other, for Evelyn, +waving the shorter end of a broken wishbone, was vivaciously saying +to Ralph: + +“A bargain’s a bargain, and I always stick to one I make.” + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[25] From McClure’s Magazine, June, 1905; copyright, 1905, by the +S.S. McClure Co.; republished by the author’s permission. + + + + +A CALL[26] + +By Grace MacGowan Cooke (1863- ) + + +A boy in an unnaturally clean, country-laundered collar walked down +a long white road. He scuffed the dust up wantonly, for he wished +to veil the all-too-brilliant polish of his cowhide shoes. Also the +memory of the whiteness and slipperiness of his collar oppressed +him. He was fain to look like one accustomed to social diversions, +a man hurried from hall to hall of pleasure, without time between +to change collar or polish boot. He stooped and rubbed a crumb of +earth on his overfresh neck-linen. + +This did not long sustain his drooping spirit. He was mentally +adrift upon the _Hints and Helps to Young Men in Business and +Social Relations_, which had suggested to him his present +enterprise, when the appearance of a second youth, taller and +broader than himself, with a shock of light curling hair and a +crop of freckles that advertised a rich soil threw him a lifeline. +He put his thumbs to his lips and whistled in a peculiarly +ear-splitting way. The two boys had sat on the same bench at +Sunday-school not three hours before; yet what a change had come +over the world for one of them since then! + +“Hello! Where you goin’, Ab?” asked the newcomer, gruffly. + +“Callin’,” replied the boy in the collar, laconically, but with +carefully averted gaze. + +“On the girls?” inquired the other, awestruck. In Mount Pisgah you +saw the girls home from night church, socials, or parties; you +could hang over the gate; and you might walk with a girl in the +cemetery of a Sunday afternoon; but to ring a front-door bell and +ask for Miss Heart’s Desire one must have been in long trousers at +least three years—and the two boys confronted in the dusty road had +worn these dignifying garments barely six months. + +“Girls,” said Abner, loftily; “I don’t know about girls—I’m just +going to call on one girl—Champe Claiborne.” He marched on as +though the conversation was at an end; but Ross hung upon his +flank. Ross and Champe were neighbors, comrades in all sorts of +mischief; he was in doubt whether to halt Abner and pummel him, or +propose to enlist under his banner. + +“Do you reckon you could?” he debated, trotting along by the +irresponsive Jilton boy. + +“Run home to your mother,” growled the originator of the plan, +savagely. “You ain’t old enough to call on girls; anybody can see +that; but I am, and I’m going to call on Champe Claiborne.” + +Again the name acted as a spur on Ross. “With your collar and boots +all dirty?” he jeered. “They won’t know you’re callin’.” + +The boy in the road stopped short in his dusty tracks. He was +an intense creature, and he whitened at the tragic insinuation, +longing for the wholesome stay and companionship of freckle-faced +Ross. “I put the dirt on o’ purpose so’s to look kind of careless,” +he half whispered, in an agony of doubt. “S’pose I’d better go into +your house and try to wash it off? Reckon your mother would let me?” + +“I’ve got two clean collars,” announced the other boy, proudly +generous. “I’ll lend you one. You can put it on while I’m getting +ready. I’ll tell mother that we’re just stepping out to do a little +calling on the girls.” + +Here was an ally worthy of the cause. Abner welcomed him, in spite +of certain jealous twinges. He reflected with satisfaction that +there were two Claiborne girls, and though Alicia was so stiff +and prim that no boy would ever think of calling on her, there +was still the hope that she might draw Ross’s fire, and leave +him, Abner, to make the numerous remarks he had stored up in his +mind from _Hints and Helps to Young Men in Social and Business +Relations_ to Champe alone. + +Mrs. Pryor received them with the easy-going kindness of the mother +of one son. She followed them into the dining-room to kiss and feed +him, with an absent “Howdy, Abner; how’s your mother?” + +Abner, big with the importance of their mutual intention, inclined +his head stiffly and looked toward Ross for explanation. He +trembled a little, but it was with delight, as he anticipated the +effect of the speech Ross had outlined. But it did not come. + +“I’m not hungry, mother,” was the revised edition which the +freckle-faced boy offered to the maternal ear. “I—we are going over +to Mr. Claiborne’s—on—er—on an errand for Abner’s father.” + +The black-eyed boy looked reproach as they clattered up the stairs +to Ross’s room, where the clean collar was produced and a small +stock of ties. + +“You’d wear a necktie—wouldn’t you?” Ross asked, spreading them +upon the bureau-top. + +“Yes. But make it fall carelessly over your shirt-front,” advised +the student of _Hints and Helps_. “Your collar is miles too big for +me. Say! I’ve got a wad of white chewing-gum; would you flat it out +and stick it over the collar button? Maybe that would fill up some. +You kick my foot if you see me turning my head so’s to knock it +off.” + +“Better button up your vest,” cautioned Ross, laboring with the +“careless” fall of his tie. + +“Huh-uh! I want ‘‘that easy air which presupposes familiarity with +society’—that’s what it says in my book,” objected Abner. + +“Sure!” Ross returned to his more familiar jeering attitude. +“Loosen up all your clothes, then. Why don’t you untie your shoes? +Flop a sock down over one of ’em—that looks ‘‘easy’ all right.” + +Abner buttoned his vest. “It gives a man lots of confidence to know +he’s good-looking,” he remarked, taking all the room in front of +the mirror. + +Ross, at the wash-stand soaking his hair to get the curl out of it, +grumbled some unintelligible response. The two boys went down the +stairs with tremulous hearts. + +“Why, you’ve put on another clean shirt, Rossie!” Mrs. Pryor called +from her chair—mothers’ eyes can see so far! “Well—don’t get into +any dirty play and soil it.” The boys walked in silence—but it was +a pregnant silence; for as the roof of the Claiborne house began to +peer above the crest of the hill, Ross plumped down on a stone and +announced, “I ain’t goin’.” + +“Come on,” urged the black-eyed boy. “It’ll be fun—and everybody +will respect us more. Champe won’t throw rocks at us in +recess-time, after we’ve called on her. She couldn’t.” + +“Called!” grunted Ross. “I couldn’t make a call any more than a +cow. What’d I say? What’d I do? I can behave all right when you +just go to people’s houses—but a call!” + +Abner hesitated. Should he give away his brilliant inside +information, drawn from the _Hints and Helps_ book, and be rivalled +in the glory of his manners and bearing? Why should he not pass on +alone, perfectly composed, and reap the field of glory unsupported? +His knees gave way and he sat down without intending it. + +“Don’t you tell anybody and I’ll put you on to exactly what +grown-up gentlemen say and do when they go calling on the girls,” +he began. + +“Fire away,” retorted Ross, gloomily. “Nobody will find out from +me. Dead men tell no tales. If I’m fool enough to go, I don’t +expect to come out of it alive.” + +Abner rose, white and shaking, and thrusting three fingers into the +buttoning of his vest, extending the other hand like an orator, +proceeded to instruct the freckled, perspiring disciple at his feet. + +“‘Hang your hat on the rack, or give it to a servant.’” Ross +nodded intelligently. He could do that. + +“‘Let your legs be gracefully disposed, one hand on the knee, the +other—’” + +Abner came to an unhappy pause. “I forget what a fellow does +with the other hand. Might stick it in your pocket, loudly, or +expectorate on the carpet. Indulge in little frivolity. Let a rich +stream of conversation flow.’” + +Ross mentally dug within himself for sources of rich streams of +conversation. He found a dry soil. “What you goin’ to talk about?” +he demanded, fretfully. “I won’t go a step farther till I know what +I’m goin’ to say when I get there.” + +Abner began to repeat paragraphs from _Hints and Helps_. “‘‘It is +best to remark,’” he opened, in an unnatural voice, “‘‘How well you +are looking!’ although fulsome compliments should be avoided. When +seated ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.’” + +“What’s a composer?” inquired Ross, with visions of soothing-syrup +in his mind. + +“A man that makes up music. Don’t butt in that way; you put me all +out—‘‘composer is. Name yours. Ask her what piece of music she +likes best. Name yours. If the lady is musical, here ask her to +play or sing.’” + +This chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the +freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time Abner came to the +repetend, “Name yours.” + +“I’m tired already,” he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and +fare farther. + +When they had entered the Claiborne gate, they leaned toward each +other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches +to keep what shallow foothold on earth remained. + +“You’re goin’ in first,” asserted Ross, but without conviction. It +was his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on +his father’s old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for Champe as +he approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed +such errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung +now by the hypnotism of Abner’s scheme. + +“‘‘Walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on +the servant,’” quoted Abner, who had never heard of a server. + +“‘‘Lay your card on the servant!’” echoed Ross. “Cady’d dodge. +There’s a porch to cross after you go up the steps—does it say +anything about that?” + +“It says that the card should be placed on the servant,” Abner +reiterated, doggedly. “If Cady dodges, it ain’t any business of +mine. There are no porches in my book. Just walk across it like +anybody. We’ll ask for Miss Champe Claiborne.” + +“We haven’t got any cards,” discovered Ross, with hope. + +“I have,” announced Abner, pompously. “I had some struck off in +Chicago. I ordered ’em by mail. They got my name Pillow, but +there’s a scalloped gilt border around it. You can write your name +on my card. Got a pencil?” + +He produced the bit of cardboard; Ross fished up a chewed stump of +lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the +square with eccentric scribblings. + +“They’ll know who it’s meant for,” he said, apologetically, +“because I’m here. What’s likely to happen after we get rid of the +card?” + +“I told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your +legs.” + +“I remember now,” sighed Ross. They had been going slower and +slower. The angle of inclination toward each other became more and +more pronounced. + +“We must stand by each other,” whispered Abner. + +“I will—if I can stand at all,” murmured the other boy, huskily. + +“Oh, Lord!” They had rounded the big clump of evergreens and +found Aunt Missouri Claiborne placidly rocking on the front +porch! Directed to mount steps and ring bell, to lay cards upon +the servant, how should one deal with a rosy-faced, plump lady of +uncertain years in a rocking-chair. What should a caller lay upon +her? A lion in the way could not have been more terrifying. Even +retreat was cut off. Aunt Missouri had seen them. “Howdy, boys; how +are you?” she said, rocking peacefully. The two stood before her +like detected criminals. + +Then, to Ross’s dismay, Abner sank down on the lowest step of the +porch, the westering sun full in his hopeless eyes. He sat on his +cap. It was characteristic that the freckled boy remained standing. +He would walk up those steps according to plan and agreement, if +at all. He accepted no compromise. Folding his straw hat into a +battered cone, he watched anxiously for the delivery of the card. +He was not sure what Aunt Missouri’s attitude might be if it +were laid on her. He bent down to his companion. “Go ahead,” he +whispered. “Lay the card.” + +Abner raised appealing eyes. “In a minute. Give me time,” he +pleaded. + +“Mars’ Ross—Mars’ Ross! Head ’em off!” sounded a yell, and Babe, +the house-boy, came around the porch in pursuit of two half-grown +chickens. + +“Help him, Rossie,” prompted Aunt Missouri, sharply. “You boys can +stay to supper and have some of the chicken if you help catch them.” + +Had Ross taken time to think, he might have reflected that +gentlemen making formal calls seldom join in a chase after the main +dish of the family supper. But the needs of Babe were instant. +The lad flung himself sidewise, caught one chicken in his hat, +while Babe fell upon the other in the manner of a football player. +Ross handed the pullet to the house-boy, fearing that he had done +something very much out of character, then pulled the reluctant +negro toward to the steps. + +“Babe’s a servant,” he whispered to Abner, who had sat rigid +through the entire performance. “I helped him with the chickens, +and he’s got to stand gentle while you lay the card on.” + +Confronted by the act itself, Abner was suddenly aware that he knew +not how to begin. He took refuge in dissimulation. + +“Hush!” he whispered back. “Don’t you see Mr. Claiborne’s come +out?—He’s going to read something to us.” + +Ross plumped down beside him. “Never mind the card; tell ’em,” he +urged. + +“Tell ’em yourself.” + +“No—let’s cut and run.” + +“I—I think the worst of it is over. When Champe sees us she’ll—” + +Mention of Champe stiffened Ross’s spine. If it had been glorious +to call upon her, how very terrible she would make it should they +attempt calling, fail, and the failure come to her knowledge! Some +things were easier to endure than others; he resolved to stay till +the call was made. + +For half an hour the boys sat with drooping heads, and the old +gentleman read aloud, presumably to Aunt Missouri and themselves. +Finally their restless eyes discerned the two Claiborne girls +walking serene in Sunday trim under the trees at the edge of the +lawn. Arms entwined, they were whispering together and giggling a +little. A caller, Ross dared not use his voice to shout nor his +legs to run toward them. + +“Why don’t you go and talk to the girls, Rossie?” Aunt Missouri +asked, in the kindness of her heart. “Don’t be noisy—it’s Sunday, +you know—and don’t get to playing anything that’ll dirty up your +good clothes.” + +Ross pressed his lips hard together; his heart swelled with the +rage of the misunderstood. Had the card been in his possession, he +would, at that instant, have laid it on Aunt Missouri without a +qualm. + +“What is it?” demanded the old gentleman, a bit testily. + +“The girls want to hear you read, father,” said Aunt Missouri, +shrewdly; and she got up and trotted on short, fat ankles to the +girls in the arbor. The three returned together, Alicia casting +curious glances at the uncomfortable youths, Champe threatening to +burst into giggles with every breath. + +Abner sat hard on his cap and blushed silently. Ross twisted his +hat into a three-cornered wreck. + +The two girls settled themselves noisily on the upper step. The +old man read on and on. The sun sank lower. The hills were red +in the west as though a brush fire flamed behind their crests. +Abner stole a furtive glance at his companion in misery, and the +dolor of Ross’s countenance somewhat assuaged his anguish. The +freckle-faced boy was thinking of the village over the hill, a +certain pleasant white house set back in a green yard, past whose +gate, the two-plank sidewalk ran. He knew lamps were beginning to +wink in the windows of the neighbors about, as though the houses +said, “Our boys are all at home—but Ross Pryor’s out trying to call +on the girls, and can’t get anybody to understand it.” Oh, that +he were walking down those two planks, drawing a stick across the +pickets, lifting high happy feet which could turn in at that gate! +He wouldn’t care what the lamps said then. He wouldn’t even mind if +the whole Claiborne family died laughing at him—if only some power +would raise him up from this paralyzing spot and put him behind the +safe barriers of his own home! + +The old man’s voice lapsed into silence; the light was becoming +too dim for his reading. Aunt Missouri turned and called over her +shoulder into the shadows of the big hall: “You Babe! Go put two +extra plates on the supper-table.” + +The boys grew red from the tips of their ears, and as far as any +one could see under their wilting collars. Abner felt the lump of +gum come loose and slip down a cold spine. Had their intentions +but been known, this inferential invitation would have been most +welcome. It was but to rise up and thunder out, “We came to call on +the young ladies.” + +They did not rise. They did not thunder out anything. Babe brought +a lamp and set it inside the window, and Mr. Claiborne resumed his +reading. Champe giggled and said that Alicia made her. Alcia drew +her skirts about her, sniffed, and looked virtuous, and said she +didn’t see anything funny to laugh at. The supper-bell rang. The +family, evidently taking it for granted that the boys would follow, +went in. + +Alone for the first time, Abner gave up. “This ain’t any use,” he +complained. “We ain’t calling on anybody.” + +“Why didn’t you lay on the card?” demanded Ross, fiercely. “Why +didn’t you say: ‘‘We’ve-just-dropped-into-call-on-Miss-Champe. +It’s-a-pleasant-evening. We-feel-we-must-be-going,’ like you +said you would? Then we could have lifted our hats and got away +decently.” + +Abner showed no resentment. + +“Oh, if it’s so easy, why didn’t you do it yourself?” he groaned. + +“Somebody’s coming,” Ross muttered, hoarsely. “Say it now. Say it +quick.” + +The somebody proved to be Aunt Missouri, who advanced only as far +as the end of the hall and shouted cheerfully: “The idea of a +growing boy not coming to meals when the bell rings! I thought you +two would be in there ahead of us. Come on.” And clinging to their +head-coverings as though these contained some charm whereby the +owners might be rescued, the unhappy callers were herded into the +dining-room. There were many things on the table that boys like. +Both were becoming fairly cheerful, when Aunt Missouri checked the +biscuit-plate with: “I treat my neighbors’ children just like I’d +want children of my own treated. If your mothers let you eat all +you want, say so, and I don’t care; but if either of them is a +little bit particular, why, I’d stop at six!” + +Still reeling from this blow, the boys finally rose from the table +and passed out with the family, their hats clutched to their +bosoms, and clinging together for mutual aid and comfort. During +the usual Sunday-evening singing Champe laughed till Aunt Missouri +threatened to send her to bed. Abner’s card slipped from his hand +and dropped face up on the floor. He fell upon it and tore it into +infinitesimal pieces. + +“That must have been a love-letter,” said Aunt Missouri, in a pause +of the music. “You boys are getting ‘‘most old enough to think +about beginning to call on the girls.” Her eyes twinkled. + +Ross growled like a stoned cur. Abner took a sudden dive into +_Hints and Helps_, and came up with, “You flatter us, Miss +Claiborne,” whereat Ross snickered out like a human boy. They all +stared at him. + +“It sounds so funny to call Aunt Missouri ‘‘Mis’ Claiborne,’” the +lad of the freckles explained. + +“Funny?” Aunt Missouri reddened. “I don’t see any particular joke +in my having my maiden name.” + +Abner, who instantly guessed at what was in Ross’s mind, turned +white at the thought of what they had escaped. Suppose he had laid +on the card and asked for Miss Claiborne! + +“What’s the matter, Champe?” inquired Ross, in a fairly natural +tone. The air he had drawn into his lungs when he laughed at Abner +seemed to relieve him from the numbing gentility which had bound +his powers since he joined Abner’s ranks. + +“Nothing. I laughed because you laughed,” said the girl. + +The singing went forward fitfully. Servants traipsed through the +darkened yard, going home for Sunday night. Aunt Missouri went +out and held some low-toned parley with them. Champe yawned with +insulting enthusiasm. Presently both girls quietly disappeared. +Aunt Missouri never returned to the parlor—evidently thinking that +the girls would attend to the final amenities with their callers. +They were left alone with old Mr. Claiborne. They sat as though +bound in their chairs, while the old man read in silence for a +while. Finally he closed his book, glanced about him, and observed +absently: + +“So you boys were to spend the night?” Then, as he looked at their +startled faces: “I’m right, am I not? You are to spent the night?” + +Oh, for courage to say: “Thank you, no. We’ll be going now. We just +came over to call on Miss Champe.” But thought of how this would +sound in face of the facts, the painful realization that they dared +not say it because they _had_ not said it, locked their lips. Their +feet were lead; their tongues stiff and too large for their mouths. +Like creatures in a nightmare, they moved stiffly, one might have +said creakingly, up the stairs and received each—a bedroom candle! + +“Good night, children,” said the absent-minded old man. The two +gurgled out some sounds which were intended for words and doged +behind the bedroom door. + +“They’ve put us to bed!” Abner’s black eyes flashed fire. His +nervous hands clutched at the collar Ross had lent him. “That’s +what I get for coming here with you, Ross Pryor!” And tears of +humiliation stood in his eyes. + +In his turn Ross showed no resentment. “What I’m worried about is +my mother,” he confessed. “She’s so sharp about finding out things. +She wouldn’t tease me—she’d just be sorry for me. But she’ll think +I went home with you.” + +“I’d like to see my mother make a fuss about my calling on the +girls!” growled Abner, glad to let his rage take a safe direction. + +“Calling on the girls! Have we called on any girls?” demanded +clear-headed, honest Ross. + +“Not exactly—yet,” admitted Abner, reluctantly. “Come on—let’s +go to bed. Mr. Claiborne asked us, and he’s the head of this +household. It isn’t anybody’s business what we came for.” + +“I’ll slip off my shoes and lie down till Babe ties up the dog in +the morning,” said Ross. “Then we can get away before any of the +family is up.” + +Oh, youth—youth—youth, with its rash promises! Worn out with misery +the boys slept heavily. The first sound that either heard in the +morning was Babe hammering upon their bedroom door. They crouched +guiltily and looked into each other’s eyes. “Let pretend we ain’t +here and he’ll go away,” breathed Abner. + +But Babe was made of sterner stuff. He rattled the knob. He turned +it. He put in a black face with a grin which divided it from ear +to ear. “Cady say I mus’ call dem fool boys to breakfus’,” he +announced. “I never named you-all dat. Cady, she say dat.” + +“Breakfast!” echoed Ross, in a daze. + +“Yessuh, breakfus’,” reasserted Babe, coming entirely into the room +and looking curiously about him. “Ain’t you-all done been to bed at +all?” wrapping his arms about his shoulders and shaking with silent +ecstasies of mirth. The boys threw themselves upon him and ejected +him. + +“Sent up a servant to call us to breakfast,” snarled Abner. “If +they’d only sent their old servant to the door in the first place, +all this wouldn’t ’a’ happened. I’m just that way when I get thrown +off the track. You know how it was when I tried to repeat those +things to you—I had to go clear back to the beginning when I got +interrupted.” + +“Does that mean that you’re still hanging around here to begin over +and make a call?” asked Ross, darkly. “I won’t go down to breakfast +if you are.” + +Abner brightened a little as he saw Ross becoming wordy +in his rage. “I dare you to walk downstairs and say, +‘‘We-just-dropped-in-to-call-on-Miss-Champe’!” he said. + +“I—oh—I—darn it all! there goes the second bell. We may as well +trot down.” + +“Don’t leave me, Ross,” pleaded the Jilton boy. “I can’t stay +here—and I can’t go down.” + +The tone was hysterical. The boy with freckles took his companion +by the arm without another word and marched him down the stairs. +“We may get a chance yet to call on Champe all by herself out on +the porch or in the arbor before she goes to school,” he suggested, +by way of putting some spine into the black-eyed boy. + +An emphatic bell rang when they were half-way down the stairs. +Clutching their hats, they slunk into the dining-room. Even Mr. +Claiborne seemed to notice something unusual in their bearing as +they settled into the chairs assigned to them, and asked them +kindly if they had slept well. + +It was plain that Aunt Missouri had been posting him as to her +understanding of the intentions of these young men. The state of +affairs gave an electric hilarity to the atmosphere. Babe travelled +from the sideboard to the table, trembling like chocolate pudding. +Cady insisted on bringing in the cakes herself, and grinned as she +whisked her starched blue skirts in and out of the dining-room. A +dimple even showed itself at the corners of pretty Alicia’s prim +little mouth. Champe giggled, till Ross heard Cady whisper: + +“Now you got one dem snickerin’ spells agin. You gwine bust yo’ +dress buttons off in the back ef you don’t mind.” + +As the spirits of those about them mounted, the hearts of the two +youths sank—if it was like this among the Claibornes, what would +it be at school and in the world at large when their failure +to connect intention with result became village talk? Ross bit +fiercely upon an unoffending batter-cake, and resolved to make a +call single-handed before he left the house. + +They went out of the dining-room, their hats as ever pressed to +their breasts. With no volition of their own, their uncertain young +legs carried them to the porch. The Claiborne family and household +followed like small boys after a circus procession. When the two +turned, at bay, yet with nothing between them and liberty but a +hypnotism of their own suggestion, they saw the black faces of the +servants peering over the family shoulders. + +Ross was the boy to have drawn courage from the desperation of +their case, and made some decent if not glorious ending. But at +the psychological moment there came around the corner of the house +that most contemptible figure known to the Southern plantation, +a shirt-boy—a creature who may be described, for the benefit of +those not informed, as a pickaninny clad only in a long, coarse +cotton shirt. While all eyes were fastened upon him this inglorious +ambassador bolted forth his message: + +“Yo’ ma say”—his eyes were fixed upon Abner—“ef yo’ don’ come home, +she gwine come after yo’—an’ cut yo’ into inch pieces wid a rawhide +when she git yo’. Dat jest what Miss Hortense say.” + +As though such a book as _Hints and Helps_ had never existed, +Abner shot for the gate—he was but a hobbledehoy fascinated with +the idea of playing gentleman. But in Ross there were the makings +of a man. For a few half-hearted paces, under the first impulse +of horror, he followed his deserting chief, the laughter of the +family, the unrestrainable guffaws of the negroes, sounding in the +rear. But when Champe’s high, offensive giggle, topping all the +others, insulted his ears, he stopped dead, wheeled, and ran to +the porch faster than he had fled from it. White as paper, shaking +with inexpressible rage, he caught and kissed the tittering girl, +violently, noisily, before them all. + +The negroes fled—they dared not trust their feelings; even Alicia +sniggered unobtrusively; Grandfather Claiborne chuckled, and Aunt +Missouri frankly collapsed into her rocking-chair, bubbling with +mirth, crying out: + +“Good for you, Ross! Seems you did know how to call on the girls, +after all.” + +But Ross, paying no attention, walked swiftly toward the gate. +He had served his novitiate. He would never be afraid again. +With cheerful alacrity he dodged the stones flung after him with +friendly, erratic aim by the girl upon whom, yesterday afternoon, +he had come to make a social call. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[26] From _Harper’s Magazine_, August, 1906. Copyright, 1906, by +Harper & Brothers. Republished by the author’s permission. + + + + +HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON[27] + +By William James Lampton ( -1917) + + +Of course the Widow Stimson never tried to win Deacon Hawkins, nor +any other man, for that matter. A widow doesn’t have to try to win +a man; she wins without trying. Still, the Widow Stimson sometimes +wondered why the deacon was so blind as not to see how her fine +farm adjoining his equally fine place on the outskirts of the town +might not be brought under one management with mutual benefit to +both parties at interest. Which one that management might become +was a matter of future detail. The widow knew how to run a farm +successfully, and a large farm is not much more difficult to run +than one of half the size. She had also had one husband, and knew +something more than running a farm successfully. Of all of which +the deacon was perfectly well aware, and still he had not been +moved by the merging spirit of the age to propose consolidation. + +This interesting situation was up for discussion at the Wednesday +afternoon meeting of the Sisters’ Sewing Society. + +“For my part,” Sister Susan Spicer, wife of the Methodist minister, +remarked as she took another tuck in a fourteen-year-old girl’s +skirt for a ten-year-old—“for my part, I can’t see why Deacon +Hawkins and Kate Stimson don’t see the error of their ways and +depart from them.” + +“I rather guess _she_ has,” smiled Sister Poteet, the grocer’s +better half, who had taken an afternoon off from the store in order +to be present. + +“Or is willing to,” added Sister Maria Cartridge, a spinster still +possessing faith, hope, and charity, notwithstanding she had been +on the waiting list a long time. + +“Really, now,” exclaimed little Sister Green, the doctor’s wife, +“do you think it is the deacon who needs urging?” + +“It looks that way to me,” Sister Poteet did not hesitate to affirm. + +“Well, I heard Sister Clark say that she had heard him call her +‘Kitty’ one night when they were eating ice-cream at the Mite +Society,” Sister Candish, the druggist’s wife, added to the fund of +reliable information on hand. + +“‘Kitty,’ indeed!” protested Sister Spicer. “The idea of anybody +calling Kate Stimson ‘Kitty’! The deacon will talk that way to +’most any woman, but if she let him say it to her more than once, +she must be getting mighty anxious, I think.” + +“Oh,” Sister Candish hastened to explain, “Sister Clark didn’t say +she had heard him say it twice.’” + +“Well, I don’t think she heard him say it once,” Sister Spicer +asserted with confidence. + +“I don’t know about that,” Sister Poteet argued. “From all I can +see and hear I think Kate Stimson wouldn’t object to ’most anything +the deacon would say to her, knowing as she does that he ain’t +going to say anything he shouldn’t say.” + +“And isn’t saying what he should,” added Sister Green, with a sly +snicker, which went around the room softly. + +“But as I was saying—” Sister Spicer began, when Sister Poteet, +whose rocker, near the window, commanded a view of the front gate, +interrupted with a warning, “’Sh-’sh.” + +“Why shouldn’t I say what I wanted to when—” Sister Spicer began. + +“There she comes now,” explained Sister Poteet, “and as I live the +deacon drove her here in his sleigh, and he’s waiting while she +comes in. I wonder what next,” and Sister Poteet, in conjunction +with the entire society, gasped and held their eager breaths, +awaiting the entrance of the subject of conversation. + +Sister Spicer went to the front door to let her in, and she was +greeted with the greatest cordiality by everybody. + +“We were just talking about you and wondering why you were so late +coming,” cried Sister Poteet. “Now take off your things and make up +for lost time. There’s a pair of pants over there to be cut down to +fit that poor little Snithers boy.” + +The excitement and curiosity of the society were almost more +than could be borne, but never a sister let on that she knew the +deacon was at the gate waiting. Indeed, as far as the widow could +discover, there was not the slightest indication that anybody had +ever heard there was such a person as the deacon in existence. + +“Oh,” she chirruped, in the liveliest of humors, “you will have to +excuse me for to-day. Deacon Hawkins overtook me on the way here, +and here said I had simply got to go sleigh-riding with him. He’s +waiting out at the gate now.” + +“Is that so?” exclaimed the society unanimously, and rushed to the +window to see if it were really true. + +“Well, did you ever?” commented Sister Poteet, generally. + +“Hardly ever,” laughed the widow, good-naturedly, “and I don’t want +to lose the chance. You know Deacon Hawkins isn’t asking somebody +every day to go sleighing with him. I told him I’d go if he would +bring me around here to let you know what had become of me, and so +he did. Now, good-by, and I’ll be sure to be present at the next +meeting. I have to hurry because he’ll get fidgety.” + +The widow ran away like a lively schoolgirl. All the sisters +watched her get into the sleigh with the deacon, and resumed the +previous discussion with greatly increased interest. + +But little recked the widow and less recked the deacon. He had +bought a new horse and he wanted the widow’s opinion of it, for the +Widow Stimson was a competent judge of fine horseflesh. If Deacon +Hawkins had one insatiable ambition it was to own a horse which +could fling its heels in the face of the best that Squire Hopkins +drove. In his early manhood the deacon was no deacon by a great +deal. But as the years gathered in behind him he put off most of +the frivolities of youth and held now only to the one of driving a +fast horse. No other man in the county drove anything faster except +Squire Hopkins, and him the deacon had not been able to throw the +dust over. The deacon would get good ones, but somehow never could +he find one that the squire didn’t get a better. The squire had +also in the early days beaten the deacon in the race for a certain +pretty girl he dreamed about. But the girl and the squire had lived +happily ever after and the deacon, being a philosopher, might have +forgotten the squire’s superiority had it been manifested in this +one regard only. But in horses, too—that graveled the deacon. + +“How much did you give for him?” was the widow’s first query, after +they had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the +deacon had let him out for a length or two. + +“Well, what do you suppose? You’re a judge.” + +“More than I would give, I’ll bet a cookie.” + +“Not if you was as anxious as I am to show Hopkins that he can’t +drive by everything on the pike.” + +“I thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse,” +said the widow, rather disapprovingly. + +“I do, but I could love him a good deal harder if he would stay in +front of Hopkins’s best.” + +“Does he know you’ve got this one?” + +“Yes, and he’s been blowing round town that he is waiting to pick +me up on the road some day and make my five hundred dollars look +like a pewter quarter.” + +“So you gave five hundred dollars for him, did you?” laughed the +widow. + +“Is it too much?” + +“Um-er,” hesitated the widow, glancing along the graceful lines of +the powerful trotter, “I suppose not if you can beat the squire.” + +“Right you are,” crowed the deacon, “and I’ll show him a thing or +two in getting over the ground,” he added with swelling pride. + +“Well, I hope he won’t be out looking for you to-day, with me in +your sleigh,” said the widow, almost apprehensively, “because, you +know, deacon, I have always wanted you to beat Squire Hopkins.” + +The deacon looked at her sharply. There was a softness in her +tones that appealed to him, even if she had not expressed such +agreeable sentiments. Just what the deacon might have said or done +after the impulse had been set going must remain unknown, for at +the crucial moment a sound of militant bells, bells of defiance, +jangled up behind them, disturbing their personal absorption, and +they looked around simultaneously. Behind the bells was the squire +in his sleigh drawn by his fastest stepper, and he was alone, as +the deacon was not. The widow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, +net—which is weighting a horse in a race rather more than the law +allows. + +But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except +his cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a +twist hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and +let him out for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and +the deacon. The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. +The track couldn’t have been in better condition. The Hopkins +colors were not five rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got +away. For half a mile it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging +his horse and the widow encouraging the deacon, and then the squire +began creeping up. The deacon’s horse was a good one, but he was +not accustomed to hauling freight in a race. A half-mile of it was +as much as he could stand, and he weakened under the strain. + +Not handicapped, the squire’s horse forged ahead, and as his nose +pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon’s sleigh, that good man +groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit. The +widow was mad all over that Squire Hopkins should take such a mean +advantage of his rival. Why didn’t he wait till another time when +the deacon was alone, as he was? If she had her way she never +would, speak to Squire Hopkins again, nor to his wife, either. But +her resentment was not helping the deacon’s horse to win. + +Slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon’s horse, +realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely, +but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for +him, and he dropped to the rear. The squire shouted in triumph as +he drew past the deacon, and the dejected Hawkins shrivelled into +a heap on the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold +the lines. He had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and +that, too, with the best horse that he could hope to put against +the ever-conquering squire. Here sank his fondest hopes, here ended +his ambition. From this on he would drive a mule or an automobile. +The fruit of his desire had turned to ashes in his mouth. + +But no. What of the widow? She realized, if the deacon did not, +that she, not the squire’s horse, had beaten the deacon’s, and she +was ready to make what atonement she could. As the squire passed +ahead of the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep +bed of drifted snow lay close by the side of the road not far in +front. It was soft and safe and she smiled as she looked at it as +though waiting for her. Without a hint of her purpose, or a sign +to disturb the deacon in his final throes, she rose as the sleigh +ran near its edge, and with a spring which had many a time sent her +lightly from the ground to the bare back of a horse in the meadow, +she cleared the robes and lit plump in the drift. The deacon’s +horse knew before the deacon did that something had happened in +his favor, and was quick to respond. With his first jump of relief +the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes came fast again, his blood +retingled, he gathered himself, and, cracking his lines, he shot +forward, and three minutes later he had passed the squire as though +he were hitched to the fence. For a quarter of a mile the squire +made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, but effort +was useless, and finally concluding that he was practically left +standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane to +find some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat. +The deacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his +shoulder as wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he +saw the squire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along +with the apparent intention of continuing indefinitely. Presently +an idea struck him, and he looked around for the widow. She was +not where he had seen her last. Where was she? In the enthusiasm +of victory he had forgotten her. He was so dejected at the moment +she had leaped that he did not realize what she had done, and two +minutes later he was so elated that, shame on him! he did not care. +With her, all was lost; without her, all was won, and the deacon’s +greatest ambition was to win. But now, with victory perched on his +horse-collar, success his at last, he thought of the widow, and he +did care. He cared so much that he almost threw his horse off his +feet by the abrupt turn he gave him, and back down the pike he flew +as if a legion of squires were after him. + +He did not know what injury she might have sustained; She might +have been seriously hurt, if not actually killed. And why? Simply +to make it possible for him to win. The deacon shivered as he +thought of it, and urged his horse to greater speed. The squire, +down the lane, saw him whizzing along and accepted it profanely +as an exhibition for his especial benefit. The deacon now had +forgotten the squire as he had only so shortly before forgotten the +widow. Two hundred yards from the drift into which she had jumped +there was a turn in the road, where some trees shut off the sight, +and the deacon’s anxiety increased momentarily until he reached +this point. From here he could see ahead, and down there in the +middle of the road stood the widow waving her shawl as a banner of +triumph, though she could only guess at results. The deacon came +on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in a condition of +nervousness he didn’t think possible to him. + +“Hooray! hooray!” shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the +air. “You beat him. I know you did. Didn’t you? I saw you pulling +ahead at the turn yonder. Where is he and his old plug?” + +“Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Are +you hurt?” gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the +lines in his hand. “Are you hurt?” he repeated, anxiously, though +she looked anything but a hurt woman. + +“If I am,” she chirped, cheerily, “I’m not hurt half as bad as I +would have been if the squire had beat you, deacon. Now don’t you +worry about me. Let’s hurry back to town so the squire won’t get +another chance, with no place for me to jump.” + +And the deacon? Well, well, with the lines in the crook of his +elbow the deacon held out his arms to the widow and——. The sisters +at the next meeting of the Sewing Society were unanimously of the +opinion that any woman who would risk her life like that for a +husband was mighty anxious. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[27] From Harper’s Bazaar, April, 1911; copyright, 1911, by Harper +& Brothers; republished by permission. + + + + +GIDEON[28] + +By Wells Hastings (1878- ) + + +“An’ de next’ frawg dat houn’ pup seen, he pass him by wide.” + +The house, which had hung upon every word, roared with laughter, +and shook with a storming volley of applause. Gideon bowed to +right and to left, low, grinning, assured comedy obeisances; but +as the laughter and applause grew he shook his head, and signaled +quietly for the drop. He had answered many encores, and he was an +instinctive artist. It was part of the fuel of his vanity that his +audience had never yet had enough of him. Dramatic judgment, as +well as dramatic sense of delivery, was native to him, qualities +which the shrewd Felix Stuhk, his manager and exultant discoverer, +recognized and wisely trusted in. Off stage Gideon was watched +over like a child and a delicate investment, but once behind the +footlights he was allowed to go his own triumphant gait. + +It was small wonder that Stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest +managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was +continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation. +He was rapidly becoming rich, and there were bright prospects of +even greater triumphs, with proportionately greater reward. He had +made Gideon a national character, a headliner, a star of the first +magnitude in the firmament of the vaudeville theater, and all in +six short months. Or, at any rate, he had helped to make him all +this; he had booked him well and given him his opportunity. To be +sure, Gideon had done the rest; Stuhk was as ready as any one to do +credit to Gideon’s ability. Still, after all, he, Stuhk, was the +discoverer, the theatrical Columbus who had had the courage and the +vision. + +A now-hallowed attack of tonsilitis had driven him to Florida, +where presently Gideon had been employed to beguile his +convalescence, and guide him over the intricate shallows of that +long lagoon known as the Indian River in search of various fish. +On days when fish had been reluctant Gideon had been lured into +conversation, and gradually into narrative and the relation of +what had appeared to Gideon as humorous and entertaining; and +finally Felix, the vague idea growing big within him, had one day +persuaded his boatman to dance upon the boards of a long pier where +they had made fast for lunch. There, with all the sudden glory of +crystallization, the vague idea took definite form and became the +great inspiration of Stuhk’s career. + +Gideon had grown to be to vaudeville much what _Uncle Remus_ is to +literature: there was virtue in his very simplicity. His artistry +itself was native and natural. He loved a good story, and he told +it from his own sense of the gleeful morsel upon his tongue as +no training could have made him. He always enjoyed his story and +himself in the telling. Tales never lost their savor, no matter how +often repeated; age was powerless to dim the humor of the thing, +and as he had shouted and gurgled and laughed over the fun of +things when all alone, or holding forth among the men and women and +little children of his color, so he shouted and gurgled and broke +from sonorous chuckles to musical, falsetto mirth when he fronted +the sweeping tiers of faces across the intoxicating glare of the +footlights. He had that rare power of transmitting something of his +own enjoyments. When Gideon was on the stage, Stuhk used to enjoy +peeping out at the intent, smiling faces of the audience, where +men and women and children, hardened theater-goers and folk fresh +from the country, sat with moving lips and faces lit with an eager +interest and sympathy for the black man strutting in loose-footed +vivacity before them. + +“He’s simply unique,” he boasted to wondering local +managers—“unique, and it took me to find him. There he was, a +little black gold-mine, and all of ’em passed him by until I came. +Some eye? What? I guess you’ll admit you have to hand it some to +your Uncle Felix. If that coon’s health holds out, we’ll have all +the money there is in the mint.” + +That was Felix’s real anxiety—“If his health holds out.” Gideon’s +health was watched over as if he had been an ailing prince. His +bubbling vivacity was the foundation upon which his charm and his +success were built. Stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic, +eternally searching for symptoms in his protégé; Gideon’s tongue, +Gideon’s liver, Gideon’s heart were matters to him of an unfailing +and anxious interest. And of late—of course it might be imagination +—Gideon had shown a little physical falling off. He ate a bit less, +he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he +laughed less frequently. + +As a matter of fact, there was ground for Stuhk’s apprehension. It +was not all a matter of managerial imagination: Gideon was less +himself. Physically there was nothing the matter with him; he could +have passed his rigid insurance scrutiny as easily as he had done +months before, when his life and health had been insured for a sum +that made good copy for his press-agent. He was sound in every +organ, but there was something lacking in general tone. Gideon +felt it himself, and was certain that a “misery,” that embracing +indisposition of his race, was creeping upon him. He had been fed +well, too well; he was growing rich, too rich; he had all the +praise, all the flattery that his enormous appetite for approval +desired, and too much of it. White men sought him out and made much +of him; white women talked to him about his career; and wherever he +went, women of color—black girls, brown girls, yellow girls—wrote +him of their admiration, whispered, when he would listen, of their +passion and hero-worship. “City niggers” bowed down before him; +the high gallery was always packed with them. Musk-scented notes +scrawled upon barbaric, “high-toned” stationery poured in upon +him. Even a few white women, to his horror and embarrassment, +had written him of love, letters which he straightway destroyed. +His sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud of it. +There might be “folks outer their haids,” but he had the sense to +remember. For months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity, +but at last his appetite had begun to falter. He was sated; his +soul longed to wipe a spiritual mouth on the back of a spiritual +hand, and have done. His face, now that the curtain was down and he +was leaving the stage, was doleful, almost sullen. + +Stuhk met him anxiously in the wings, and walked with him to his +dressing-room. He felt suddenly very weary of Stuhk. + +“Nothing the matter, Gideon, is there? Not feeling sick or +anything?” + +“No, Misteh Stuhk; no, seh. Jes don’ feel extry pert, that’s all.” + +“But what is it—anything bothering you?” + +Gideon sat gloomily before his mirror. + +“Misteh Stuhk,” he said at last, “I been steddyin’ it oveh, and I +about come to the delusion that I needs a good po’k-chop. Seems +foolish, I know, but it do’ seem as if a good po’k-chop, fried jes +right, would he’p consid’able to disumpate this misery feelin’ +that’s crawlin’ and creepin’ round my sperit.” + +Stuhk laughed. + +“Pork-chop, eh? Is that the best you can think of? I know what you +mean, though. I’ve thought for some time that you were getting a +little overtrained. What you need is—let me see—yes, a nice bottle +of wine. That’s the ticket; it will ease things up and won’t do you +any harm. I’ll go, with you. Ever had any champagne, Gideon?” + +Gideon struggled for politeness. + +“Yes, seh, I’s had champagne, and it’s a nice kind of lickeh sho +enough; but, Misteh Stuhk, seh, I don’ want any of them high-tone +drinks to-night, an’ ef yo’ don’ mind, I’d rather amble off ’lone, +or mebbe eat that po’k-chop with some otheh cullud man, ef I kin +fin’ one that ain’ one of them no-’count Carolina niggers. Do you +s’pose yo’ could let me have a little money to-night, Misteh Stuhk?” + +Stuhk thought rapidly. Gideon had certainly worked hard, and he was +not dissipated. If he wanted to roam the town by himself, there +was no harm in it. The sullenness still showed in the black face; +Heaven knew what he might do if he suddenly began to balk. Stuhk +thought it wise to consent gracefully. + +“Good!” he said. “Fly to it. How much do you want? A hundred?” + +“How much is coming to me?” + +“About a thousand, Gideon.” + +“Well, I’d moughty like five hun’red of it, ef that’s ’greeable to +yo’.” + +Felix whistled. + +“Five hundred? Pork-chops must be coming high. You don’t want to +carry all that money around, do you?” + +Gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy. + +Stuhk hastened to cheer him. + +“Of course you can have anything you want. Wait a minute, and I +will get it for you. + +“I’ll bet that coon’s going to buy himself a ring or something,” he +reflected as he went in search of the local manager and Gideon’s +money. + +But Stuhk was wrong. Gideon had no intention of buying himself +a ring. For the matter of that, he had several that were amply +satisfactory. They had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond +brilliance that rings need to have; and for none of them had he +paid much over five dollars. He was amply supplied with jewelry in +which he felt perfect satisfaction. His present want was positive, +if nebulous; he desired a fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible +evidence of his miraculous success. Ever since Stuhk had found him, +life had had an unreal quality for him. His Monte Cristo wealth +was too much like a fabulous, dream-found treasure, money that +could not be spent without danger of awakening. And he had dropped +into the habit of storing it about him, so that in any pocket into +which he plunged his hand he might find a roll of crisp evidence of +reality. He liked his bills to be of all denominations, and some +so large as exquisitely to stagger imagination, others charming by +their number and crispness—the dignified, orange paper of a man +of assured position and wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of +which tinged the whole with actuality. He was specially partial +to engravings of President Lincoln, the particular savior and +patron of his race. This five hundred dollars he was adding to an +unreckoned sum of about two thousand, merely as extra fortification +against a growing sense of gloom. He wished to brace his flagging +spirits with the gay wine of possession, and he was glad, when the +money came, that it was in an elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it +was pleasantly uncomfortable in his pocket as he left his manager. + +As he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber +alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance +at his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors +of the theater. He could read, and the large block type always +pleased him. “THIS WEEK: GIDEON.” That was all. None of the fulsome +praise, the superlative, necessary definition given to lesser +performers. He had been, he remembered, “GIDEON, America’s Foremost +Native Comedian,” a title that was at once boast and challenge. +That necessity was now past, for he was a national character; +any explanatory qualification would have been an insult to the +public intelligence. To the world he was just “Gideon”; that was +enough. It gave him pleasure, as he sauntered along, to see the +announcement repeated on window cards and hoardings. + +Presently he came to a window before which he paused in delighted +wonder. It was not a large window; to the casual eye of the +passer-by there was little to draw attention. By day it lighted +the fractional floor space of a little stationer, who supplemented +a slim business by a sub-agency for railroad and steamship lines; +but to-night this window seemed the framework of a marvel of +coincidence. On the broad, dusty sill inside were propped two +cards: the one on the left was his own red-lettered announcement +for the week; the one at the right—oh, world of wonders!—was a +photogravure of that exact stretch of the inner coast of Florida +which Gideon knew best, which was home. + +There it was, the Indian River, rippling idly in full sunlight, +palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular +sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of +the picture. There was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and, +yes—he could just make it out—there was his own ramshackle little +pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged, +wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina +into deep water. + +He thought at first that this picture of his home was some new +and delicate device put forth by his press-agent. His name on +one side of a window, his birthplace upon the other—what could +be more tastefully appropriate? Therefore, as he spelled out +the reading-matter beneath the photogravure, he was sharply +disappointed. It read: + + Spend this winter in balmy Florida. + Come to the Land of Perpetual Sunshine. + Golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of + the best. + +There was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed +and puzzled. This picture had, after all, nothing to do with him. +It was a chance, and yet, what a strange chance! It troubled and +upset him. His black, round-featured face took on deep wrinkles of +perplexity. The “misery” which had hung darkly on his horizon for +weeks engulfed him without warning. But in the very bitterness of +his melancholy he knew at last his disease. It was not champagne +or recreation that he needed, not even a “po’k-chop,” although his +desire for it had been a symptom, a groping for a too homeopathic +remedy: he was homesick. + +Easy, childish tears came into his eyes, and ran over his shining +cheeks. He shivered forlornly with a sudden sense of cold, and +absently clutched at the lapels of his gorgeous, fur-lined ulster. + +Then in abrupt reaction he laughed aloud, so that the shrill, +musical falsetto startled the passers-by, and in another moment +a little semicircle of the curious watched spellbound as a black +man, exquisitely appareled, danced in wild, loose grace before the +dull background of a somewhat grimy and apparently vacant window. A +newsboy recognized him. + +He heard his name being passed from mouth to mouth, and came partly +to his senses. He stopped dancing, and grinned at them. + +“Say, you are Gideon, ain’t you?” his discoverer demanded, with a +sort of reverent audacity. + +“Yaas, _seh_,” said Gideon; “that’s me. Yo’ shu got it right.” He +broke into a joyous peal of laughter—the laughter that had made him +famous, and bowed deeply before him. “Gideon—posi-_tive_-ly his +las’ puffawmunce.” Turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and, +still laughing, swung aboard. + +He was naturally honest. In a land of easy morality his friends +had accounted him something of a paragon; nor had Stuhk ever had +anything but praise for him. But now he crushed aside the ethics +of his intent without a single troubled thought. Running away has +always been inherent in the negro. He gave one regretful thought to +the gorgeous wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not +return for it. Stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back +to their rooms. He must content himself with the reflection that he +was at that moment wearing his best. + +The trolley seemed too slow for him, and, as always happened +nowadays, he was recognized; he heard his name whispered, and was +aware of the admiring glances of the curious. Even popularity +had its drawbacks. He got down in front of a big hotel and chose +a taxicab from the waiting rank, exhorting the driver to make +his best speed to the station. Leaning back in the soft depths +of the cab, he savored his independence, cheered already by the +swaying, lurching speed. At the station he tipped the driver in +lordly fashion, very much pleased with himself and anxious to give +pleasure. Only the sternest prudence and an unconquerable awe of +uniform had kept him from tossing bills to the various traffic +policemen who had seemed to smile upon his hurry. + +No through train left for hours; but after the first disappointment +of momentary check, he decided that he was more pleased than +otherwise. It would save embarrassment. He was going South, where +his color would be more considered than his reputation, and on the +little local he chose there was a “Jim Crow” car—one, that is, +specially set aside for those of his race. That it proved crowded +and full of smoke did not trouble him at all, nor did the admiring +pleasantries which the splendor of his apparel immediately called +forth. No one knew him; indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken +for a prosperous gambler, a not unflattering supposition. In the +yard, after the train pulled out, he saw his private car under a +glaring arc light, and grinned to see it left behind. + +He spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack, +and the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for +weeks, hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a +North Carolina junction. The express would have brought him to +Jacksonville in twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it, +boarding any local that happened to be going south, and leaving it +for meals or sometimes for sleep or often as the whim possessed +him, filled five happy days. There he took a night train, and dozed +from Jacksonville until a little north of New Smyrna. + +He awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty. The +train was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead. Gideon +stretched himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized +him. For all his journey the South had seemed to welcome him, but +here at last was the country he knew. He went out upon the platform +and threw back his head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with +the mysterious thrill of unplowed acres, the wondrous existence +of primordial jungle, where life has rioted unceasingly above +unceasing decay. It was dry with the fine dust of waste places, and +wet with the warm mists of slumbering swamps; it seemed to Gideon +to tremble with the songs of birds, the dry murmur of palm leaves, +and the almost inaudible whisper of the gray moss that festooned +the live-oaks. + +“Um-m-m,” he murmured, apostrophizing it, “yo’ ’s the right kind o’ +breeze, yo’ is. Yo’-all’s healthy.” Still sniffing, he climbed down +to the dusty road-bed. + +The negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on +the ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight. +The train had evidently been there for some time, and there were +no signs of an immediate departure. He bought some oranges of a +little, bowlegged black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and +to give up his mind to enjoyment. The sun was hot upon him, and his +thoughts were vague and drowsy. He was glad that he was alive, glad +to be back once more among familiar scenes. Down the length of the +train he saw white passengers from the Pullmans restlessly pacing +up and down, getting into their cars and out of them, consulting +watches, attaching themselves with gesticulatory expostulation +to various officials; but their impatience found no echo in his +thought. What was the hurry? There was plenty of time. It was +sufficient to have come to his own land; the actual walls of home +could wait. The delay was pleasant, with its opportunity for drowsy +sunning, its relief from the grimy monotony of travel. He glanced +at the orange-colored “Jim Crow” with distaste, and inspiration, +dawning slowly upon him, swept all other thought before it in its +great and growing glory. + +A brakeman passed, and Gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him. + +“Misteh, how long yo’-all reckon this train goin’ to be?” + +“About an hour.” + +The question had been a mere matter of form. Gideon had made up his +mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he +would not have changed it. He climbed back into the car for his +coat and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps +again and slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub. + +“’Most made the mistake of ma life,” he chuckled, “stickin’ to that +ol’ train foheveh. ’Tisn’t the right way at, all foh Gideon to come +home.” + +The river was not far away. He could catch the dancing blue of it +from time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered +directly. His coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather +ties pinched and burned and demanded detours around swampy places, +but he was happy. + +As he went along, his plan perfected itself. He would get into +loose shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old +clothes, too. The bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor +suggested that. + +He laughed when the Florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up +from under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery +with red squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly +to a familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp +sound of the rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for +some instrument of destruction, as at any other time he would have +done, but instead peered cautiously over the log before him, and +spoke in tolerant admonition: + +“Now, Misteh Rattlesnake, yo’ jes min’ yo’ own business. Nobody’s +goin’ step on yo’, ner go triflin’ roun’ yo’ in no way whatsomeveh. +Yo’ jes lay there in the sun an’ git ’s fat ’s yo’ please. Don’ yo’ +tu’n yo’ weeked li’l’ eyes on Gideon. He’s jes goin’ ’long home, +an’ ain’ lookin’ foh no muss.” + +He came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a +little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes +and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged +out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail. This he provisioned with +a jug of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide +strip of lean razorback bacon. + +As he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze +that blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed +him. The idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current +in eternal indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight +with a merry surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little +boat more swiftly on its way. Mosquito Inlet opened broadly before +him, and skirting the end of Merritt’s Island he came at last into +that longest lagoon, with which he was most familiar, the Indian +River. Here the wind died down to a mere breath, which barely kept +his boat in motion; but he made no attempt to row. As long as he +moved at all, he was satisfied. He was living the fulfilment of his +dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in the ancient clothes he +had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably before him in their +broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other hanging overside +so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over heel. From +time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points of +interest—some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled +branch. Or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in +the water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that +he carried in his head. But for the most part his broad black +face was turned up to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking +contemplation; his keen eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied +whites, reveled in the heights above him, swinging from horizon to +horizon in the wake of an orderly file of little bluebill ducks, +winging their way across the river, or brightening with interest at +the rarer sight of a pair of mallards or redheads, lifting with the +soaring circles of the great bald-headed eagle, or following the +scattered squadron of heron—white heron, blue heron, young and old, +trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches, clear even against the bright +white and blue of the sky above them. + +Often he laughed aloud, sending a great shout of mirth across +the water in fresh relish of those comedies best known and best +enjoyed. It was as excruciatingly funny as it had ever been, when +his boat nosed its way into a great flock of ducks idling upon the +water, to see the mad paddling haste of those nearest him, the +reproachful turn of their heads, or, if he came too near, their +spattering run out of water, feet and wings pumping together as +they rose from the surface, looking for all the world like fat +little women, scurrying with clutched skirts across city streets. +The pelicans, too, delighted him as they perched with pedantic +solemnity upon wharf-piles, or sailed in hunched and huddled +gravity twenty feet above the river’s surface in swift, dignified +flight, which always ended suddenly in an abrupt, up-ended plunge +that threw dignity to the winds in its greedy haste, and dropped +them crashing into the water. + +When darkness came suddenly at last, he made in toward shore, +mooring to the warm-fretted end of a fallen and forgotten landing. +A straggling orange-grove was here, broken lines of vanquished +cultivation, struggling little trees swathed and choked in the +festooning gray moss, still showing here and there the valiant +golden gleam of fruit. Gideon had seen many such places, had +seen settlers come and clear themselves a space in the jungle, +plant their groves, and live for a while in lazy independence; +and then for some reason or other they would go, and before they +had scarcely turned their backs, the jungle had crept in again, +patiently restoring its ancient sovereignty. The place was eery +with the ghost of dead effort; but it pleased him. + +He made a fire and cooked supper, eating enormously and with +relish. His conscience did not trouble him at all. Stuhk and +his own career seemed already distant; they took small place in +his thoughts, and served merely as a background for his present +absolute content. He picked some oranges, and ate them in +meditative enjoyment. For a while he nodded, half asleep, beside +his fire, watching the darkened river, where the mullet, shimmering +with phosphorescence, still leaped starkly above the surface, and +fell in spattering brilliance. Midnight found him sprawled asleep +beside his fire. + +Once he awoke. The moon had risen, and a little breeze waved the +hanging moss, and whispered in the glossy foliage of orange and +palmetto with a sound like falling rain. Gideon sat up and peered +about him, rolling his eyes hither and thither at the menacing +leap and dance of the jet shadows. His heart was beating thickly, +his muscles twitched, and the awful terrors of night pulsed and +shuddered over him. Nameless specters peered at him from every +shadow, ingenerate familiars of his wild, forgotten blood. He +groaned aloud in a delicious terror; and presently, still twitching +and shivering, fell asleep again. It was as if something magical +had happened; his fear remembered the fear of centuries, and yet +with the warm daylight was absolutely forgotten. + +He got up a little after sunrise, and went down to the river to +bathe, diving deep with a joyful sense of freeing himself from the +last alien dust of travel. Once ashore again, however, he began to +prepare his breakfast with some haste. For the first time in his +journey he was feeling a sense of loneliness and a longing for his +kind. He was still happy, but his laughter began to seem strange to +him in the solitude. He tried the defiant experiment of laughing +for the effect of it, an experiment which brought him to his feet +in startled terror; for his laughter was echoed. As he stood +peering about him, the sound came again, not laughter this time, +but a suppressed giggle. It was human beyond a doubt. Gideon’s face +shone with relief and sympathetic amusement; he listened for a +moment, and then strode surely forward toward a clump of low palms. +There he paused, every sense alert. His ear caught a soft rustle, a +little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot moved cautiously. + +“Missy,” he said tentatively, “I reckon yo’-all’s come jes ’bout ’n +time foh breakfus. Yo’ betteh have some. Ef yo’ ain’ too white to +sit down with a black man.” + +The leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as Gideon’s own +regarded him in shy amusement. + +“Who is yo’, man?” + +“I mought be king of Kongo,” he laughed, “but I ain’t. Yo’ +see befo’ yo’ jes Gideon—at yo’r ’steemed sehvice.” He bowed +elaborately in the mock humility of assured importance, watching +her face in pleasant anticipation. + +But neither awe nor rapture dawned there. She repeated the name, +inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to +her. She was merely trying its sound. “Gideon, Gideon. I don’ call +to min’ any sech name ez that. Yo’-all’s f’om up No’th likely.” He +was beyond the reaches of fame. + +“No,” said Gideon, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry—“no, +I live south of heah. What-all’s yo’ name?” + +The girl giggled deliciously. + +“Man,” she said, “I shu got the mos’ reediculoustest name you eveh +did heah. They call me Vashti—yo’ bacon’s bu’nin’.” She stepped +out, and ran past him to snatch his skillet deftly from the fire. + +“Vashti”—a strange and delightful name. Gideon followed her slowly. +Her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too, +he thought her beautiful. She was scarcely more than a girl, slim +and strong and almost of his own height. She was barefooted, but +her blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small +waist. He remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did, +one of the numerous “diving beauties” of the vaudeville stage. + +She cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate +gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces, +garnishing his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about +their picnic breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from +the recent days of his fame. And he saw that he pleased her, and +with her open admiration essayed still greater flights of polished +manner. + +He made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking +in pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it +vexed him. + +“Vashty! Vashty!” a woman’s voice sounded thin and far away. +“Vashty-y! Yo’ heah me, chile?” + +Vashti rose to her feet with a sigh. + +“That’s my ma,” she said regretfully. + +“What do yo’ care?” asked Gideon. “Let her yell awhile.” + +The girl shook her head. + +“Ma’s a moughty pow’ful ’oman, and she done got a club ’bout the +size o’ my wrist.” She moved off a step or so, and glanced back at +him. + +Gideon leaped to his feet. + +“When yo’ comin’ back? Yo’—yo’ ain’ goin’ without——” He held out +his arms to her, but she only giggled and began to walk slowly +away. With a bound he was after her, one hand catching her lightly +by the shoulder. He felt suddenly that he must not lose sight of +her. + +“Let me go! Tu’n me loose, yo’!” The girl was still laughing, but +evidently troubled. She wrenched herself away with an effort, only +to be caught again a moment later. She screamed and struck at him +as he kissed her; for now she was really in terror. + +The blow caught Gideon squarely in the mouth, and with such force +that he staggered back, astonished, while the girl took wildly to +her heels. He stood for a moment irresolute, for something was +happening to him. For months he had evaded love with a gentle +embarrassment; now, with the savage crash of that blow, he knew +unreasoningly that he had found his woman. + +He leaped after her again, running as he had not run in years, +in savage, determined pursuit, tearing through brier and scrub, +tripping, falling, rising, never losing sight of the blue-clad +figure before him until at last she tripped and fell, and he stood +panting above her. + +He took a great breath or so, and leaned over and picked her up +in his arms, where she screamed and struck and scratched at him. +He laughed, for he felt no longer sensible to pain, and, still +chuckling, picked his way carefully back to the shore, wading deep +into the water to unmoor his boat. Then with a swift movement he +dropped the girl into the bow, pushed free, and clambered actively +aboard. + +The light, early morning breeze had freshened, and he made out +well toward the middle of the river, never even glancing around at +the sound of the hallooing he now heard from shore. His exertions +had quickened his breathing, but he felt strong and joyful. Vashti +lay a huddle of blue in the bow, crouched in fear and desolation, +shaken and torn with sobbing; but he made no effort to comfort +her. He was untroubled by any sense of wrong; he was simply and +unreasoningly satisfied with what he had done. Despite all his +gentle, easy-going, laughter-loving existence, he found nothing +incongruous or unnatural in this sudden act of violence. He was +aglow with happiness; he was taking home a wife. The blind tumult +of capture had passed; a great tenderness possessed him. + +The leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy +of movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in +the sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat’s low side, +tossing tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white +here and there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray. Gideon went +softly about the business of shortening his small sail, and came +quietly back to his steering-seat again. Soon he would have to be +making for what lea the western shore offered; but he was holding +to the middle of the river as long as he could, because with every +mile the shores were growing more familiar, calling to him to make +what speed he could. Vashti’s sobbing had grown small and ceased; +he wondered if she had fallen asleep. + +Presently, however, he saw her face raised—a face still shining +with tears. She saw that he was watching her, and crouched low +again. A dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up +frightened, glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes +came back to him, and this time she got up, still small and +crouching, and made her way slowly and painfully down the length of +the boat, until at last Gideon moved aside for her, and she sank in +the bottom beside him, hiding her eyes in her gingham sleeve. + +Gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and +with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his. + +“Honey,” said Gideon—“Honey, yo’ ain’ mad, is yo’?” + +She shook her head, not looking at him. + +“Yo’ ain’ grievin’ foh yo’ ma?” + +Again she shook her head. + +“Because,” said Gideon, smiling down at her, “I ain’ got no beeg +club like she has.” + +A soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time Vashti +looked up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of +contentment. + +Gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and +all the world. He rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a +black hand, pointing. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[28] From _The Century Magazine_, April, 1914; copyright, 1914, by +The Century Co.; republished by the author’s permission. + + +END OF VOLUME + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10947 *** |