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.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
_Alexander Jessup_
THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS (1839)
_George Pope Morris_
THE ANGEL OF THE ODD (1844)
_Edgar Allan Poe_
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS (1844)
_Caroline M.S. Kirkland_
THE WATKINSON EVENING (1846)
_Eliza Leslie_
TITBOTTOM'S SPECTACLES (1854)
_George William Curtis_
MY DOUBLE; AND HOW HE UNDID ME (1859)
_Edward Everett Hale_
A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS (1861)
_Oliver Wendell Holmes_
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY (1865)
_Mark Twain_
ELDER BROWN'S BACKSLIDE (1885)
_Harry Stillwell Edwards_
THE HOTEL EXPERIENCE OF MR. PINK FLUKER (1886)
_Richard Malcolm Johnston_
THE NICE PEOPLE (1890)
_Henry Cuyler Bunner_
THE BULLER-PODINGTON COMPACT (1897)
_Frank Richard Stockton_
COLONEL STARBOTTLE FOR THE PLAINTIFF (1901)
_Bret Harte_
THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES (1902)
_O. Henry_
BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE (1905)
_George Randolph Chester_
A CALL (1906)
_Grace MacGowan Cooke_
HOW THE WIDOW WON THE DEACON (1911)
_William James Lampton_
GIDEON (1914)
_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.
[Footnote 1: This I have attempted in _Representative American Short
Stories_ (Allyn & Bacon: Boston, 1922).]
[Footnote 2: Will D. Howe, in _The Cambridge History of American
Literature_, Vol. II, pp. 158-159 (G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1918).]
[Footnote 3: _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, p. 317
(The Century Co.: 1915).]
[Footnote 4: _A History of American Literature Since 1870_, pp 79-81.]
[Footnote 5: "The Works of Bret Harte," twenty volumes. The Houghton
Mifflin Company, Boston.]
[Footnote 6: _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II,
p. 386.]
[Footnote 7: See this Introduction.]
[Footnote 8: _The Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II,
p. 385.]
[Footnote 9: Fred Lewis Pattee, in The Cambridge History of American
Literature, Vol. II, p. 394.]
* * * * *
To: CHARLES GOODRICH WHITING, Critic, Poet, Friend
* * * * *
THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN AND HIS WATER LOTS
BY GEORGE POPE MORRIS (1802-1864)
[From _The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots, with Other Sketches of
the Times_ (1839), by George Pope Morris.]
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 every-day 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_.
THE ANGEL OF THE ODD
[From _The Columbian Magazine_, October, 1844.]
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.
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S PROGRESS
By Caroline M.S. Kirkland (1801-1864)
[From _The Gift_ for 1845, published late in 1844. Republished in the
volume, _Western Clearings_ (1845), by Caroline M.S. Kirkland.]
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.
