COLLIER "MEMORIAL EDITION"
"JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY COMPLETE WORKS"
Vol 9, Part 2
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TODDARD ANDERSON was the boy's name, though had you made inquiry for Stoddard Anderson of any boy of the town in which he lived—and I myself lived there, a handy boy in the dim old days—you doubtless would have been informed that nobody of that name was there. Your juvenile informant, however, by way of gratuitous intelligence, might have gone on to state that two families of the name of Anderson resided there,—"Old Do-good" Anderson, the preacher, and his brother John. But had you asked for "Tod" Anderson, or simply "Tod," your boy would have known Tod; your boy, in all likelihood, would have had especial reasons for remembering Tod, although his modesty, perhaps, might not allow him to inform you how Tod had "waxed it to him more'n onet"I But he would have told you, as I tell you now, that Tod Anderson was the preacher's boy, and lived at the parsonage. Tod was a queer boy.
Stoddard Anderson was named in honor of some obscure divine his father had joined church under when a boy. It was a peculiar weakness of the father to relate the experience of his early conviction; and as he never tired of repeating it, by way
7293
2294 TOD
of precept and admonition to the wayward lambkins of his flock, Tod mastered its most intricate and sacred phraseology, together even with the father's more religious formulas, to a degree of perfection that enabled him to preside at mock meetings in the hay-loft, and offer the baptismal service at the "swimmin'-hole."
In point of personal or moral resemblance, Tod was in nowise like his father. Some said he was the picture of his mother, they who could remember her, for she fell asleep when Tod was three days old, with her mother-arms locked around him so closely that he cried, and they had to take him away from her. No.—Death had taken her away from him.
It needs now no chronicle to tell how Tod thrived in spite of his great loss, and how he grew to be a big, fat, two-fisted baby with a double chin, the pride and constant worry of the dear old grandmother into whose care he had fallen. It requires no space in history's crowded page to tell how he could stand up by a chair when eight months old, and crow and laugh and doddle his little chubby arms till he quite upset his balance, and, pulling the chair down with him, would laugh and crow louder than ever, and kick, and crawl, and sprawl, and jabber; and never lift a whimper of distress but when being rocked to sleep. Let a babyhood of usual interest be inferred—then add a few more years, and you will have the Tod of ten I knew.
0 moral, saintlike, and consistent Christian, what is it in the souls of little children so antagonistic to
TOD 2295
your own sometimes? What is it in their wayward and impulsive natures that you can not brook? And what strange tincture of rebellious feeling is it that embitters all the tenderness and love you pour out so lavishly upon their stubborn and resentful hearts? Why is it you so covetously cherish the command divine, "Children, obey your parents," and yet find no warm nook within the breast for that old house-less truth that goes wailing through the world:
"A boy's will is the wind's
will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts"?
Tod went to school—the thriftless Tod!—not wholly thriftless, either; for, although he had not that apt way of skimming like a swallow down the placid rills of learning, he did possess, in some mysterious strength, a most extraordinary knack of acquiring just such information as was not taught at school, and had no place within the busy hive of knowledge.
Tod was a failure in arithmetic. Tod couldn't tell twice ten from twice eternity. Tod knew absolutely nothing of either Christopher Columbus or the glorious country he discovered expressly for the use of industry and learning, as the teacher would have had him implicitly believe. Tod couldn't tell you anything of John Smith, even, that very noted captain who walks cheek by jowl with the dusky Pocahontas across the illimitable fancy of the ten-year-old schoolboy of our glorious republic. Tod knew all about the famous Captain Kidd, however. In fact,
2296 TOD
Tod could sing his history with more lively interest and real appreciation than his fellow schoolmates sang geography. The simple Tod once joined the geographical chorus with :
"I'd a Bible in my hand,
As
I
sailed, as I sailed,
And
I
sunk her in the sand,
As I sailed."
And Tod—not Captain Kidd—had a ringing in his ears as he sang, as he sang, and an overflow of tears as he sang. And then he ran away from school that afternoon, and sang Captain Kidd, from A to izzard, in the full hearing of the "Industrial Hive," to the very evident amusement of "the workers," and the discomfiture of the ruler of "the swarm."
The teacher called on the good minister that evening, and after a long talk on the back porch, left late in the dusk, wiping his eyes with one hand, and shaking the other very warmly with the preacher. And Tod slipped noiselessly along the roof above them, and slid down the other side, and watched the teacher's departure with a puzzled face.
Tod was at school next morning long before the call of "Books"; in fact, so early, that he availed himself of his isolated situation to chalk the handle of the teacher's pointer, to bore a gimlet-hole in the water-bucket, to slip a chip under one corner of the clock in order to tilt it out of balance and time, and in many more ingenious ways to contribute to the coming troubles of the day. The most audacious act,
TOD
however, was to climb above the teacher's desk and paste a paper scrap over a letter "o" in the motto, "Be good," that had offered him its vain advice for years. As one by one these depredations met the teacher's notice through the day, the culprit braced himself for some disastrous issue, but his only punishment was the assured glance the teacher always gave him, and the settled yet forbearing look of pain upon his face. In sheer daring Tod laughed aloud—a hollow, hungry laugh that had no mirth in it—but as suddenly subsided in a close investigation of a problem in mental arithmetic, when the teacher backed slowly toward his desk and stood covertly awaiting further developments. But Tod was left again to his own inclinations, after having, with a brazen air of innocence, solicited and gained the master's assistance in the solution of a very knotty problem, which it is needless to say he knew no more of than before. Throughout the remainder of the day Tod was thoughtful, and was evidently evolving in his mind a problem far more serious than could be found in books. Of his own accord, that evening at the close of school, he stayed in for some mysterious reason that even his own deskmate could not comprehend. When, an hour later, this latter worthy, from the old barn opposite, watched Tod and the teacher hand in hand come slowly down the walk, he whispered to himself with bated breath : "What's the durn fool up to, anyhow ?"
From that time Tod grew to be a deeper mystery than he could fathom, inasmuch as some strange
2296 TOD
spirit of industry fell upon him, and he became a student.
Though a perverse fate had seemingly decreed that Tod should remain a failure in all branches wherein most schoolboys readily succeed, he rapidly advanced in reading; and in the declamatory art he soon acquired a fame that placed him high above the reach of competitors.
Tod never cried when he got up to "speak." Tod never blanched, looked silly, and hung down his head. Tod never mumbled in an undertone, was never at a loss to use his hands, nor ever had "his piece" so poorly memorized that he must hesitate with awkward repetitions, to sit down at last in wordless misery among the unfeeling and derisive plaudits of the school. Tod, in a word, knew no such word as fail when his turn was called to entertain his hearers either with the gallant story of the youthful "Casabianca," "The Speech of Logan," or "Catiline's Defiance." Let a pupil be in training for the old-time exercises of Friday afternoon, and he was told to speak out clear and full—not hang his head—not let his arms hang down like empty sleeves,—but to stand up like a king, look everybody in the face, as though he were doing something to be proud of—in short, to take Tod for his model, and "speak out like a man"
When Tod failed to make his appearance with his usual promptness one Friday afternoon, and the last day of the term, there was evidence of gen‑
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era] disappointment. Tod was to deliver an oration written especially for that occasion by the teacher. The visitors were all there—the school committee, and the minister, Tod's father, who occupied Tod's desk alone when "Books" was called. The teacher, with his pallid, care-worn face, tiptoed up and down the aisles, bending occasionally to ask a whispered question, and to let the look of anxious wonder deepen on his face as the respectful pupils shook their heads in silent response. But upon a whispered colloquy with the minister, his face brightened, as he learned that "Tod was practising his oration in the wood-house half an hour before the ringing of the bell."
A boy was sent to bring him, but returned alone, to say that he had not been able to find any trace of him.
"Oh, he'll be here in time enough," said the teacher apologetically to the sad-faced minister. "He's deeply interested in his effort for this afternoon, and I'm certain he wouldn't purposely disappoint me." The good man in reply shook his head resignedly, with a prayerful flight of the' eyes indicative of long-suffering and forbearance.
The opening services of singing and prayer. No Tod.
First class in arithmetic called—examined. No Tod.
Second class, ditto; still no Tod. Primary class in ditto, composed of little twin sisters, aged six,
2300 TOD
with very red hair and very fair skin, and very short dresses and very slim legs. Tod failed to join his class.
The long-suffering minister was ill at ease. The exercise failed in some way to appease the hunger of the soul within. He looked out of the open window nervously, and watched a saucy little sapsucker hopping up and down a tree ; first up one side and then down the other, suddenly disappearing near the roots, and as suddenly surprising him with a mischievous pecking near the top fork. He thought of his poor, wayward boy, with a vague, vague hope that he might yet, in some wise ruling of a gracious Providence, escape the gallows ; and with a deep sigh turned to the noisy quiet of the schoolroom ; he did not even smile as he took up Tod's geography, opened at the boy's latest work,—a picture of the State seal, where a stalwart pioneer in his shirtsleeves hacked away at a gnarled and stubborn-looking tree, without deigning to notice a stampeding herd of buffalo that dashed by in most alarming proximity. The nonchalance of the sturdy yeoman was intensified by Tod's graphic pen, which had mounted each plunging monster with a daring rider, holding a slack bridle-rein in one hand, and with the other swinging a plug-hat in the most exultant and defiant manner. This piece of grotesque art and others equally suggestive of the outcropping genius of their author, were put wearily aside, only serving, as it seemed, to deepen rather than dissolve the gloom enshrouding the good father's face. And so
TOD 2301
the exercises wore along till recess came, and with it came the missing Tod.
"I'm in time, am I? Goody!" shouted Tod, jumping over a small boy who had stooped to pick up a slate-pencil, and stopping abruptly in front of the teacher's desk.
"Why, Tod; what in the world!"
Tod's features wore a proud, exultant smile, though somewhat glamoured with a network of spiteful-looking scratches ; and his eyes were more than usually bright, although their lids were blue, and swollen to a size that half concealed them. His head, held jauntily erect, suggested nothing but boyish spirit ; but his hair, tousled beyond all reason, with little wisps of it glued together with clots of blood; his best clothes soiled and torn; a bruised and naked knee showing through a straight rent across one leg of his trousers, conveyed the idea of a recent passage through some gantlet of disastrous fortune.
It was nothing, Tod said, only on his way to school he had come upon a blind man who played the fiddle and sold lead-pencils, and the boy who had been leading him had stolen something from him; and Tod had voluntarily started in pursuit of the fugitive, to overtake him only after a prolonged chase of more than a mile. "And now I've got you out o' town," said the offender, wheeling suddenly upon him, "I'll jes' meller your head fer you I" After a long pause, in which Tod's face was hidden
2302 TOD
from the curious group about him, as the teacher bent above him at the back steps pouring water on his head, he continued : "Didn't think the little cuss was so stout! Ohl I'm scratched up, but you ought to see him ! And you ought to hear him holler 'huff!' and you ought to see him hand over three boxes of pens and them penholders and pencils he stol'd, and a whole bunch o' envelopes; there's blood on some of 'em, and the blind man said I could keep 'em, and he give me a lead-pencil, too, with red in one end and blue in the other. Father, you sharpen it."
Tod never spoke better in his life than on that memorable afternoon—so well indeed did he acquit himself that the good old father failed to censure him that evening for the sin of fighting, and perhaps never would have done so had not the poor blind man so far forgotten the dignity of his great affliction as to get as drunk as he was blind two evenings following, and play the fiddle in front of the meeting-house during divine service.
It was in the vacation following these latter-mentioned incidents that a far more serious occurrence took place.
Tod had never seen a circus, for until this eventful epoch in our simple history the humble little village had never been honored with the presence of this "most highly moral and instructive exhibition of the age." When the grand cavalcade, with its blaring music and its richly caparisoned horses, with their nodding plumes and spangles, four abreast,
TOD 2303
drawing the identical "fiery chariot" Tod had heard his father talk about ; when all the highly painted wagons with their mysterious contents, and the cunning fairy ponies with their little, fluffy manes and flossy tails—when all this burst upon Tod's enraptured eyes, he fell mutely into place behind the band-wagon, with its myriad followers ; and so, dazed, awestricken and entranced, accompanied the pageant on its grand triumphal march around the town.
Tod carried water for the animals ; Tod ran errands of all kinds for the showmen ; Tod looked upon the gruff, ill-tempered canvas-hand with an awe approaching reverence. Tod was going to the show, too, for he had been most fortunate in exchanging his poor services of the morning for the "open sesame" of all the dreamed-of wonders of the arena. Tod would laugh and whisper to himself, hugging the ticket closely to his palpitating side, as he ran about on errands of a hundred kinds, occupying every golden interlude of time in drawing the magic passport from his pocket and gloating over the cabalistic legend "Complimentary," with the accompanying autograph of the fat old manager with the broad, bejeweled expanse of shirt-front, and a watch-seal as big as a walnut ; while on the reverse side he would glut his vision with an "exterior view of the monster pavilion," where a "girl poised high in air on a cord, in spangled dress," was kissing her hand to a mighty concourse of people, who waved their hats and handkerchiefs in wild‑
2304 TOD
est token of approval and acclaim. Nor was this the sole cause of Tod's delight, for the fat man with the big watch-seal had seemed to take a special fancy to him, and had told him he might bring a friend along, that his ticket would pass two. As the gleeful Tod was scampering off to ask the teacher if he wouldn't go, he met his anxious father in a deep state of distress, and was led home to listen in agony and tears to a dismal dissertation on the wickedness of shows, and the unending punishment awaiting the poor, giddy moths that fluttered round them. Tod was missed next morning. He had retired very early the evening previous. "He acted strange-like," said the good grandmother, recalling vaguely that he hadn't eaten any supper, "and I thought I heard him crying in the night. What was the matter with him, Isaac?"
Two weeks later Tod was discovered by his distracted father and an officer, cowering behind a roll of canvas, whereon a fat man sat declaring with a breezy nonchalance that no boy of Tod's description was "along o' this-'ere party." And the defiant Tod, when brought to light, emphatically asserted that the fat man was in nowise blamable ; that he had run away on his own hook, and would do it again if he wanted to. But he broke there with a heavy sob; and the fat man said: "There! there! Cootsey, go along with the old 'un, and here's a dollar for you." And Tod cried aloud.
The good minister had brought a letter for him,
TOD 2305
WO, and as the boy read it through his tears he turned homeward almost eagerly.
DEAR Ton lit ran], I have been quite sick since you left me. You must come back, for I miss you, and I can never get well again without you. I've got a new kink on a pair of stilts I've made you, but I can't tell how long to make them till you come back. Fanny comes over every day, and talks about you so much I half believe sometimes she likes you better than she does her old sick uncle; but I can stand that, because you deserve it, and I'm too old for little girls to like very much. It'll soon be the Fourth, you know, and we must be getting ready for a big time. Come home at once, for I am waiting.
To Stoddard Anderson, from his old friend and teacher.
Tod went home. He hastened to the teacher's darkened room. The dear old face had grown pale —so very pale! The kindly hand reached out to grasp the boy's was thin and wasted, and the gentle voice that he had learned to love was faint and low —so very low, it sounded like a prayer. The good minister turned silently and left the two old friends together; and there were tear-drops in his eyes.
And so the little, staggering life went on alone. Some old woman gossip, peering through the eye of a needle on the institution known as the "Ladies' Benevolent Sewing Society," said that it 'peared to her like that boy of the preacher's jes' kep' a-pinin' and a-pinin' away like, ever sence they fetched him back from his runaway scrape. She'd seen him time and time again sence then, and although the little snipe was innocent-like to all ap
23C6 TOD
pearances, she'd be bound that he was in devilment enough! Reckoned he was too proud to march in the school p'cession at the teacher's funer'l ; and he didn't go to the meetin'-house at all, but putt off to the graveyard by hisse'f ; and when they got there with the corpse, Tod was a-settin' with his legs a-hangin' in the grave, and a-pitchin' clods in, and a-smilin. "And only jes' the other evening," she continued, "as I was comin' past there kind o' in the dusk-like, that boy was a-settin' a-straddle o' the grave, and jes' a-cryin' 1 And I thought it kind o' strange-like, and stopped and hollered : 'What's the matter of ye, Tod?' and he ups and hollers back: `Stumpt my toe, durn ye!' and thinks I, 'My youngster, they'll be a day o' reckonin' fer you l' "
The old world worried on, till July came at last, and with it that most glorious day that wrapped the baby nation in its swaddling-clothes of stripes and stars and laid it in the lap of Liberty. And what a day that was! And how the birds did sing that morning from the green tops of the trees when the glad sunlight came glancing through the jeweled leaves and woke them! And not more joyous were the birds, or more riotous their little throbbing hearts to "pipe the trail and cheep and twitter twenty million loves," than the merry children that came fluttering to the grove to join their revelry.
0 brighter than a dream swept the procession of children from the town toward the boy that swung his hat from the tree-top near the brook. And he flushed with some strange ecstasy r he saw
TOD 2307
a little girl in white, with a wreath of evergreen, wave her crimson sash in answer to him, while the column slowly filed across the open bridge, where yet again he saw her reappear in the reflection in the stream below. Then, after the dull opening of prayer, and the more tedious exercises following, how the woods did ring with laughter ; how the boys vied with one another in their labors of arranging swings and clearing underbrush away preparatory to a day of unconfined enjoyment ; and how the girls shrieked to "see the black man coming," and how coquettishly they struggled when captured and carried off by that dread being, and yet what eagerness they displayed in his behalf And "Ring"—men and women even joining in the game, and kissing one another's wives and husbands like mad. Why, even the ugly old gentleman with a carbuncle on the back of his neck, grew riotous with mirth, and when tripped full length upon the sward by the little widow in half-mourning, bustled nimbly to his feet and kissed her, with some wicked pun about "grass" widows, that made him laugh till his face grew as red as his carbuncle. That bashful young man who had straggled off alone, sitting so uncomfortably upon a log, killing bugs and spiders, like an ugly giant with a monster club—how he must have envied the airy freedom of those "old boys and girls."
Then there was a group of older men talking so long and earnestly about the weather and the crops that they had not discovered that the shade of the
2305 TOD
old beech they sat beneath had stolen silently away and left them sitting in the sun, and was even then performing its refreshing office for a big, sore-eyed dog, who, with panting jaws and lolling tongue, was winking away the lives of a swarm of gnats with the most stoical indifference.
And so time wore along till dinner came, and women, with big open baskets, bent above the snowy cloths spread out upon the grass, arranging "the substantials" and the dainties of a feast too varied and too toothsome for anything but epicurean memories to describe. And then the abandon of the voracious guests! No dainty affectations—no formality—no etiquette—no anything but the full sway of healthful appetites incited by the exhilarant exercises of the day into keenest rapacity and relish.
"Don't you think it's goin' to rain ?" asked some one, suddenly. A little rosy-gilled gentleman, with the aid of a chicken-leg for a lever, raised his fat face skyward, and after a serious contemplation of the clouds, wouldn't say for certain whether it would rain or not, but informed the unfortunate querist, after pulling his head into its usual position and laying down the lever to make room for a bite of bread, that "if it didn't rain there'd be a long dry spell"; and then he snorted a mimic snow-storm of bread-crumbs on his vis-a-vis, who looked wronged, and said he "guessed he'd take another piece of that-air pie down there."
It was looking very much like rain by the time the dinner things were cleared away. Anxious
TOD 230)
mothers, with preserve-stains on their dresses, were running here and there with such exclamations to the men-folks as "Do hurry up!" and "For goodness' sake, John, take the baby till I find my parasol," and "There, Thomas, don't lug that basket off till I find my pickle-dish 1"
Already the girls had left the swings, which were being taken down, and were tying handkerchiefs over their hats and standing in despairing contemplation of the ruin of their dresses. Some one called from the stand for the ladies not to be at all alarmed, it wasn't going to rain, and there wasn't a particle of danger of —; but there a clap of thunder interrupted, and went on growling menacingly, while a little girl, with her hair blown wildly over her bare shoulders, and with a face, which a moment before glowed like her crimson scarf, now grown whiter than her snowy dress, ran past the stand and fell fainting to the ground. "Is there a doctor on the grounds?" called a loud voice in the distance, and, without waiting for a response--"For God's sake, come here quick ; a boy has fallen from the swing, and maybe killed himself l"
And then the crowd gathered round him there, men with white faces, and frightened women and little, shivering children.
"Whose boy is it?"
"Hush; here comes his father." And the good minister, with stark features and clenched hands, passed through the surging throng that closed behind him even as the waves on Pharaoh.
2310 TOD
Did I say all were excited? Not all ; for there was one calm face, though very pale—paler yet for being pillowed on the green grass and the ferns.
"You mustn't move me," the boy said when he could speak ; "tell 'em to come here." He smiled and tried to lift and fold his arms about his father's neck. "Poor father! poor father!" as though speaking to himself, "I always loved you, father, only you'd never believe it—never believe it. Now you will. I'll see mother, now—mother. Don't cry—I'm hurt, and I don't cry. And I'll see the teacher, too. He said I would. He said we would always be together there. Where's Fanny? Tell her—tell her—" But that strange unending silence fell upon his lips, and as the dying eyes looked up and out beyond the sighing tree-tops, he smiled to catch a gleam of sunshine through the foolish cloud that tried so hard to weep.
IN the early winter 1875, returning from a rather
lengthy sojourn in the Buckeye State, where a Hoosier is scrutinized as critically as a splinter in the thumb of a near-sighted man, I mentally resolved that just as soon as the lazy engine dragging me toward home had poked its smutty nose into the selvage of my native state, I would disembark, lift my voice, and shout for joy for being safely delivered out of a land of perpetual strangers.
This opportunity was afforded me at Unicn City —a fussy old-hen-of-a-town, forever clucking over its little brood of railroads, as though worried to see them running over the line, and bristling with the importance of its charge.
The place is not an attractive one, as one steps from the train in the early dusk of a December evening; in fact, the immediate view of the town is at. most entirely concealed by a big square-faced hotel, standing, as it were, on the very platform, as though its "runners" were behind time, and it had come down to solicit its own custom. A walk of sixty steps, however, gave me a sweeping view of the main business street of the city ; and here it was,
2311
2312 A REMARKABLE MAN
by one of those rare freaks of circumstance, that I suddenly found myself standing face to face with an old friend. "Smith I" said I. "Correct!" said he, and all lacking to complete the tableau was the red light. And now, as my story has more to do with a more remarkable man than either Smith or myself, I shall hasten to that notable—only introducing humbler personages as necessity demands.
That night was a bragging, blustering, bullying sort of a night. The wind was mad—stark, staring mad ; running over and around the town, howling and whooping like a maniac. It whirled and whizzed, and wheeled about and whizzed again. It pelted the pedestrian's face with dust that stung like sleet. It wrenched at the signs, and rattled the doors and windows till the lights inside shivered as with affright The unfurled awnings fluttered and flapped over the deserted streets like monstrous bats or birds of prey; and, gritting their iron teeth, the shutters lunged and snapped at their fastenings convulsively. Such a night as we like to hide away from, and with a good cigar, a good friend, and a good fire, talk of soothing things and dream. My friend and I were not so isolated, however, upon this occasion ; for the suddenness of the storm had driven us, for shelter, into "Bower's Emporium"; and, seated in the rear of the spacious and brightly illuminated store, we might almost dream we "dwelt in marble halls," were it not for the rather profuse display of merchandise and a voluminous complement of show-cards, reading "Bargains in Over‑
A REMARKABLE MAN 2313
coats," "Best and Cheapest Underwear," "Buy Bowers's Boots I" etc.
The clerks were all idle, and employing their leisure in listening to a "fine-art" conversation, casually introduced by my friend's remarking the extraordinary development of the bust and limbs of a danseuse on a paper collar-box ; and after deploring the prostitution to which real talent was subjected, and satirizing the general degeneracy of modern art, he had drifted back to the rare old days of Hans Holbein, Albert Darer, and that guild. And while dwelling enthusiastically upon the genius of Angelo, I became aware that among the listeners was a remarkable man. It was not his figure that impressed me, for that was of the ordinary mold, and rather shabbily attired in a tattered and ill-fitting coat of blue, sadly faded and buttonless ; a short-waisted vest of no particular pattern, fastened together by means of a loosened loop of binding pulled through a buttonhole, and held to its place by a stumpy lead-pencil with a preponderance of rubber at the end ; the pantaloons very baggy and fraying at the bottoms, as though in excessive sympathy with a pair of coarse, ungainly army shoes that wore the appearance of having been through Sherman's march to the sea.
Not remarkable, I say, in these particulars, for since "tramping" has arrived at the dignity of a profession, such characteristics are by no means uncommon ; but when taken in conjunction with a head and face that would have served as model for either
A REMARKABLE MAN 2315
ere my "stock in hand" had dwindled down to the insignificant "yes-and-of-course" verbosity that is not worth the giving away. He dwelt with particular fondness upon literature; frequently asking me what works I most admired, and pointing out the beauties and excellence of old authors—Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Dryden, and a host of others long dead and gone, whose works live on eternally. All these, as they were successively reviewed, he quoted in a manner that evinced a thorough knowledge of their worth.
At last, after no little artifice and strategy, I drew him to his own history, which grew fantastically interesting as he proceeded. His father, passing rich, had educated him for the ministry; but the profession did not suit him—or, rather, he did not suit the profession ; for to be frank he was rather inclined in his younger days to be a "graceless dog"; and so, when it became evident that he must shift for himself, more at the instigation of literary friends than from any ambition or choice, he entered the field of journalism, beginning at the bottom of the ladder—the bottom—and gradually rising from the compositor's case to the very rung of editorial success—when there came a crash,—a flaw in the grain, my boy, a flaw in the grain—and that flaw— Well, no matted—The noblest minds had toppled from the height, and crumbled to the merest debris of pauper intellect. The grandest tomb the finger of the nation could point out was glutted with such food. Did he not remember poor Prentice, and, in
2316 A REMARKABLE MAN
memory, recall him now as vividly as though but yesterday, entering the sanctum of the Louisville Journal, with the old-time greeting: "Ah, Charles ; ready for work, I see. Well, here am I—punctual as Death." And then, after a good stiff brandy, which he could hardly raise to his lips with both trembling hands, poor George I how he would dictate, so rapidly that he (Charles) could scarcely put it down, although a clever hand at writing in those days. Served as amanuensis for five years, and transcribed with his own hand, " 'Tis Midnight's Holy Hour," at ten o'clock in the morning, and had the poem entire ready for the compositor at half past. At such times it was nothing uncommon for George to say, "Well done, thou Good and Faithful! the big end of the day is left you to transcribe as your pleasure may dictate. Only bear in mind, I shall expect a little gem from your individual pen for to-morrow's issue!"
"And do you write?" I broke in abruptly.
"I used to write," he answered, as though loath to make the acknowledgment—"that is, I sometimes rode Pegasus as a groom might ride his master's horse—but my flights were never high—never high I"
"For what reason, may I inquire? Surely you had no lack of inspiration with such men as Prentice about you?"
"Ay, there's the rub!" he sighed, with a negative shake. "The association of great men does not always tend to develop genius; the more especially
A REMARKABLE MAN 2317
when one's subservient position causes one to degenerate into a mere machine. Yet I found some time, of course, for verse-making; and, chiefly owing to the kindly encouragement of Mr. Prentice, I 'gave to the world,' as he was pleased to say, many little poems ; but of them those that survive to-day are vagrants, like myself, and are drifting about at the mercy of the press." Here the old man sighed heavily and mechanically fumbled his pencil.
I was growing deeply interested in the strange character before me, and although the faces of the group smiled at me significantly, I was not to be beguiled from my new acquaintance.
"There is a question," said I, "I would like to ask you, since from actual experience you are doubtless well informed upon it :—I have often heard it argued that the best productions of authors—poets in particular—are written under the influence of what they are pleased to term 'inspiration.' Can you enlighten me as to the truth of that assertion ?"
"I can say in reply," said the old man, with his unwavering eyes fixed upon mine—"I can say in reply that the best productions of authors—poets in particular—are written under the influence of what they are pleased to term 'inspiration.' I have seen it proved."
"How proved ?" I asked.
"Listen. Take, for example, an instance I will cite: A man worn and enfeebled by age, whose eyes are dimmed almost to sightlessness ; whose mind, once clear and vivid as the light of day, is now way‑
2318 A REMARKABLE MAN
ering and fickle as the wind: and yet at times this influence comes upon him like an avalanche, and as irresistible; a voice cries, 'Write I write write!' nor does he know, when he has obeyed that summons, what his trembling hand has written. Further proof that this is divine inspiration is that his fragmentary productions will oftentimes be in the exact manner and diction of writers long since passed away; and I am satisfied they are produced at the direct dictation of the departed. I know this l"
"You astonish me," said I, in unfeigned wonder; "you say you know this—how do you know it?" "Because I am the man."
Although the assertion, in my mind, was simply preposterous, there was a certain majesty in the utterance that held me half in awe. I looked upon him as one might look upon some curious being from an unknown world. He was moving now—pacing grotesquely up and down a little space of half a dozen steps, and wheeling, at the limits of his walk, as nimbly as the harlequin in the pantomime, and repeating, as though to himself, "I am the man ; I am the man."
"Well, sir," said I, forcing myself into an air of indifference I did not feel—"well, sir, not for a moment questioning your own belief as to this strange influence which may possess you at times, you will pardon me for expressing the vaguest skepticism, since I have never been so fortunate as to witness an actual demonstration." He was about to interrupt me, but I continued coolly, "By what
A REMARKABLE MAN 2319
circumstance is this influence introduced—or how produced—is it—"
He broke in on me with a ken little pang of a laugh that almost made we shudder. "You are my convert," he exclaimed excitedly. "Quick! Give me paper—give me paper!" But before I could take my note-book frost my pocket he had hurriedly snatched a scrap of wrapping-paper from the counter, and bending over it, was writing with great rapidity.
His manner was decidedly singular. In the occasional pauses he made, he would lean his forehead in the palm of his left hand, with the fingers dancing nervously upon the bald spot on the summit of his head, while with the hand that held the pencil he kept up a continued rotary movement in the air. Then he would suddenly pounce down upon the paper before him as though in a perfect frenzy of delight, and line after line would appear as if by magic, each succeeding one preluded by that sharp little yelp of a laugh : and ere three minutes had elapsed, he had covered both sides of the paper. He then threw down his pencil, as though reluctantly, pushed me the scrap and motioned me to read.
I was at first completely mystified, for what I had confidently expected to be rhyme was prose; but ere I had examined it far I was as highly gratified as at first disappointed. The writing, although so recklessly scrawled, was quite legible, and here and there gave evidence of more than ordinary grace
2320 A REMARKABLE MAN
and elegance ; the punctuation, so far as I was able to judge, seemed perfect in every part ; and, in fact, the entire production bore the appearance of having been executed by a skilful hand.
I copy it verbatim from the original scrap, which now lies before me:
By this time they had come upon the figure of the old hag, seated by the roadside, and, in a harsh, cracked voice, crooning a dismal ballad. "By God's rood," quoth the knight, in a burst of admiration, "did I not tell thee 'twas some fair princess, decoyed from her father's castle and thus transformed, through the despicable arts of some wicked enchanter; for thou bast but to perk an ear to have the sense of hearing bathed and overflowed with melody. Dost thou not also note rare grace and sweetest dignity voiced, as it were, from the very tatters that en-clothe her form?" "Indeed thou mayest," said the squire; "for I have heard it said 'rags may enfold the purest gold.'—Yet in this instance I am restrained to think it more like the hidalgo's dinner—'very little meat and a good deal of tablecloth.'" "Hold thy peace, bladderhead," exclaimed the knight, "lest I make thee gnaw thy words with loosened teeth. Listen what liquid syllables are spilled upon the atmosphere:"
"My father's halls, so rich and rare, Are desolate and bleak and bare; My father's heart and halls are one, Since I, their life and light, am gone.
"0, valiant knight, with hand of steel And heart of gold, hear my appeal: Release me from the spoiler's charms, And bear me to my father's arms."
The knight had by this time thrown himself from his
A REMARKABLE MAN 2321
steed, and with lance reversed and visor doffed he sank upon his knees in the slime and ooze of the dike, exclaiming: "Be of good heart, fair princess! Thy succor is at hand, since the Fates have woven thee—the pearl of pearls—into the warp and woof of my great destiny. Nay, nay! No thanks! Thy father's beaming eye alone shall be my guerdon, for home thou shalt go, even though I must needs truckle thee thither on a barrow."
"Good," said I, grasping the old man by the hand. "Hail, Cervantes!"
"Cervantes? Cervantes ?" he mused, as though bewildered ; "why, what have I been writing? Is it not poetry?"
"Yes," I replied enthusiastically, "both prose and poetry, and that of the rarest school. Read for yourself."
I handed him the scrap, but he pushed it from him with a gesture of impatience. "I told you once I could not read it, nor do I know what I have written. Read it aloud."
Although I hastened to comply, I did it with a decided air of incredulity as to the belief that he did not already know every word of it, and even closed with the gratuitous comment that I felt assured the quotation was perfect in every particular.
"Quotation I" repeated the old man, commiseratively ; "quotation! Were you as well versed in such works, my son, as you led me at first to presume, you would know at once that not a single line of that occurs in 'Don Quixote,' although I do grant that I am the humble instrument through
2322 A REMARKABLE MAN
which the great Cervantes has just spoken." With this remark, delivered in a half-rebuking, half-compassionate tone, he stood milking his beard and blinking at the chandelier.
I acknowledged my error, and asked pardon for the insinuation, which I begged he would believe was not intended to offend ; and that, upon second thought, I was satisfied that no such matter did exist in the printed history, which fact I have since proved by a thorough investigation.
It required, however, considerable inventive tact and show of admiration to counteract the effect of my indiscreet remark ; and this was not effectually accomplished until I had incidentally discovered a marked resemblance of his brow to Shakespeare's, which, by actual measurement, I found to correspond to a fraction with the measurement of the mask of that illustrious bard, as furnished by an exhaustive article I had seen a short time previous in one of our magazines.
This happily brought about the result I so much longed for, as I was extremely desirous of a further opportunity in which to study the character of this remarkable man. "Ah, Shakespeare l" said he, in a burst of genuine eloquence,—"there was a mind the gods endowed with wisdom ages have yet to learn ; for bright and lustrous as it shines to-daythe Morning Star of human intellect—its glittering purity has yet a million million dawns, each brighter than the last. Its chastened rays are yet to blaze
A REMARKABLE MAN 2323
and radiate the darkened ways— Hold My pencil! Quick—quick!"
He snatched at the paper wildly, and bending over it, began writing with a vindictiveness of effort that was alarming. He slashed the es and stabbed the punctuation-points savagely. The writing continued, interspersed occasionally with a pause in which he would flourish his pencil like a dripping sword, only to plunge it again and again into the quivering breast of its victim. Finally he dashed it down, pushed the paper from him as one would spurn a vanquished enemy, and sank, limp and exhausted, into a chair. I snatched up the paper eagerly, and read :
Falstaff. I call him dog, forsooth, because he snarls—Snarls, d'ye hear?—and laves his rabid fangs In slobber-froth that drips in slimy gouts Of venomous slander. Out upon the curl He sets his mangy foot upon the sod, And grass grows rank and withers at the touch, And tangles into wiry thatch for snakes To spawn beneath. The very air he breathes Becomes a poison gas, and generates
Disease and pestilence. Would he were here, That I might whet my sword against his ribs, Although his rotten, putrid soul unhoused
Would breed a stench worse than my barber's breath. The dog! The damnable
Pistol. Hist! here he comes!
God's body! master, has he overheard, 'Tis cock-crow with thy ghost!
2324 A REMARKABLE MAN
Point (entering). How now, my Jack
Prince ass of Jacks, methought I heard thee bray.
Falstaff. Ay, well and marry I for this varlet here Deserves more brays than praise, the scurvy dog! Good lack! thou might'st have heard me call him dog
A pebble's toss from this; but now that thou art come, My dagger-points of wrath do melt away Before thy genial smile as icicles
Might ooze to nothingness at summer noon. That other flask, you dog! and have a care Thou handle it more gently than the first, Lest I, as thou didst it, thy noddle burst."
Although expecting something after the Shakespearian school, I was not prepared for this, and in reading it aloud I actually found myself endeavoring to imitate the stage manner of Hackett, whom years ago I had seen in "King Henry IV" at the old Metropolitan, Indianapolis. "Ah I" said the old man, "you are more familiar with that, I see. Tell me, have you ever seen those lines in Shakespeare?" There was such a look of conscious triumph in his face, so self-satisfied an expression, that I—although half believing I was in some way being duped—could but reply that I was most thoroughly convinced the lines did not occur in any of the works of that great master.
"They do not," said the old man briefly.
"But how," said I, "is it possible for you to imitate his style so perfectly, not only in language, but theme, expression, force, character, grotesqueness—"
A REMARKABLE MAN 2325
"Stop, my son ; stop I" he broke in. "Must I again remind you that it is not imitation: I take no credit to myself—how dare I, when in writing thus my individual mind is gone, simply chaotic? It is not imitation ; it is Shakespeare."
I could venture no further comment without fear of offending, and he already stood as though hesitating to depart.
"Stay, then," said I, "until I see a further exercise of this marvelous power you possess. Here, sit down, rest a while ; you seem almost exhausted."
"I am nearly so," he replied, "but there is no rest for me until this influence is entirely subsided. No rest for me yet ; no rest! no rest!"
He was again pacing his old walk, now like a weary sentinel, and I thought as I gazed upon him, "What riddle of the human kind is this?' Over and over again came the question ; and over and over an old rhyme I had somewhere read, mockingly responded
"Rain, rain, and sunl a rainbow in the sky! A young man will be wiser by and by; An old man's wit may wander ere he die."
And lulled by the mild monotony of this, I was fast drifting into a dreamy train of thought, when the old man halted suddenly, and with one elbow leaning on the counter and his head resting on his hand, he began humming a tune—a strangely sweet and tender air ; low, and just a little harsh at first and indistinct, but welling softly into cadence wonder‑
2326 A REMARKABLE MAN
fully rich and pure ; then quavering again in minor swoons of melody so delicately beautiful I can but liken the effect produced to that ethereal mystery of sound unraveled from the zithern by a master hand,
"A slender thread of song in saddest tune."
I had leaned forward with my own head resting in my hand, that I might listen the better, and was not aware, until the song abruptly ended, that the old man had been writing as he sang.
"There," said he, handing me the scrap, "you have heard the tune; here are the words, perhaps."
It may have been a very foolish thing, it may have been weak and womanish, yet as my eyes bent over it and read, the lines grew curiously blurred toward the last ; nor did I guess the cause until a tear—a great ripe tear-drop--fell upon my hand. And, reader, could I present the song to you just as it came to me, with all the strange surroundings—the stranger experience of the hour ; the solemn silence of the group ; the wailing of the wind outside as though the world, weary of itself, could only sigh, sigh, sigh I—could I prelude it with that low, sweet murmuring of melody that haunts me even now, your own eyes needs must moisten as you read :
THE HARP OF THE MINSTREL
The harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, For the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;
A REMARKABLE MAN 2327
But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart A sorrow to one in an alien clime,
Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.
The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim
That once were his passionate love and his pride; And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him
Have fallen away as the flowers have died.
The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath
And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath
The grass and the stubble—the frost and the snow.
Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings
Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings,
And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone
As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, And the magical touch of his fingers alone
Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.
I had read the lines over to myself, and although recognizing many touches decidedly like those of the famous author of "Lalla Rookh," I was not wholly satisfied with the production; and it struck me with peculiar force that an ethereal composition would surely not be so lavishly tinctured with unutterable sorrow—aside from being far inferior to a hundred earthly songs of Moore's. So, with this argument for my weapon, I determined to conquer the superstition that had almost overpowered me. I had noticed, too, in both former instances a singu‑
2328 A REMARKABLE MAN
lar fact: The old man, though so ready to fend off all comment that might reflect a single ray of praise upon himself, listened with more of the air of a critic than one whose interest was merely that of curiosity, and still when the fragmentary productions were read aloud, a look of more than ordinary satisfaction would lighten up his eyes. The facts, hastily reviewed, determined me upon a course of action I had instant opportunity to adopt.
"Read it aloud," said the old man, impatiently; "read it aloud I"
I complied with more than usual enthusiasm, reading verbatim from the copy, until I came to the repetition of the first four lines, which I thus transposed, or, rather, paraphrased.
"The harp of the minstrel has never a note
As sad as the song in his bosom expressed,
And the magical touch of his fingers afloat
Drifts over the echoes that sleep in the breast."
This I was careful to deliver without emphasis or mark of any kind by which he might discover any imposition on my part. As I closed I stole a hasty glance at his face, and was gratified to find it wearing a rather startled expression: not only did his features betray a puzzled and questioning air, but his hand was mechanically extended, as though reaching for the paper in my own.
"Do you want to see it?" I asked suddenly, handing him the scrap.
"Yes. I—Oh, no—no," he broke in, dropping his
A REMARKABLE MAN 2329
hand, and his face colored vividly. But turning again as quickly, he added: "Yes, give it to me. Where are the others? I must be going."
"Why must you go?" I asked, still retaining the scrap; "I had hoped—"
"I am going!" he interrupted bruskly, snatching up the scraps that lay upon the counter, and reaching for the one I still held. "Give me the poem. I will trouble you no longer."
"Allow me to retain it, I beg of you," said I, with a significant smile, and the slightest tinge of sarcasm in my voice. "Let me keep it as a befitting memento of the 'inspiration' I have seen so potently exercised."
His face was pale with anger as he replied:
"I will not. When you want rhyme write it yourself. You can at least write doggerel"
"Very neat," said I, laughing. "We understand each other, so let's be friends. Here is my hand and a dollar besides. Give me the other scraps—I want them all."
I took them from him as he clutched at the bill, which he smothered in his palm, and then turned away without a word.
"Here, Charley," called one of the bystanders, "half of that's enough for you to-night."
The door slammed violently and he was gone. "Old Cain will have that dollar in just five mine utes," continued the man.
"And who's Old Cain?" I asked.
"Keeps the doggery just over the line."
a.
2330 A REMARKABLE MAN
"Old Charley" M— is a well-known character in Union City—his home, in fact, although he often disappears for long periods, but, as my informant remarked, "always turns up again like a bad penny."
His story of his early life is at least based upon the truth, but now so highly colored it is a decidedly difficult matter to detect that simple element.
Originally he was a printer, but he early abandoned that vocation for another, and that in turn for another, and so on, until by easy gradations he had become, as the old saw has it, "Jack of all trades and master of none."
Among his many accomplishments he is a musician of considerable skill—plays the flute, violin, and guitar—all quite passably ; is a great reader, a fine conversationalist—which accomplishment I personally vouch for. But chief of all his accomplishments is that of writing clever imitations of the old authors and poets. These productions he prepares with great care, commits to memory, and is ready to dispose of by as ingenious a method.
And yet, although he be a vagabond; although his friends—such as they are—are first to call him sot; although the selfish world that hurries past may jostle him unnoticed from the path ; and although he styles himself a "graceless dog,"—in all candor, and in justice to my true belief, I call him a remarkable man.
|
A |
N 'adjustable lunatic'?" "Yes, sir, an adjustable lunatic—you may know I don't make a business of insanity, or I wouldn't be running at large here in the streets of the city."
It was on the morning of St. Patrick's Day. I had been drifting aimlessly around the city for hours, tossed about by the restless tide of humanity that ebbed and flowed in true sea-fashion at the Washington and Illinois street crossing. The few friends I had been fortunate enough to fall in with prior to the parade I had been unfortunate enough to lose in the flurry and excitement attending that event ; and, brought to a sudden anchorage at the Bates House landing, I found myself at the mercy of a boundless throng that held not one familiar face. It was a literal jam at that juncture, and anxious and impatient as I was to break away, I was forced into a bondage which, though not exactly agreeable, was at least the source of an experi-, ence that will linger in my memory fresh and clear when every other feature of the day shall have faded.
I
had been crowded into a position on a step of
2331
2332 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
the stairway that gave me a lean upon the balustrade and placed me head and shoulders above the crowd ; and although I comprehended the helplessness of my position, I was, in a manner, thankful for the opportunity it afforded me to study the unsuspecting subjects just below. As my hungry eyes went foraging about from face to face they fell upon the features of an individual so singularly abstracted in appearance and so apparently oblivious to his surroundings, that I mentally congratulated him upon his enviable disposition.
He was a slender man, of thirty years, perhaps ; not tall, but something over medium height ; he had dark hair and eyes, with a complexion much too fair to correspond ; was not richly dressed, but neatly, and in good taste.
Instinctively I wondered who and what he was ; and my speculative fancy went to work and made a lawyer of him—then a minister—an artist—a musician—an actor—and a dancing-master. Suddenly I found my stare returned with equal fervor, and tried to look away, but something held me. He was elbowing his way to where I stood, and smiling as he came.
"I don't know you," he said, when, after an almost superhuman effort, he had gained my side, to the discomfiture of a brace of mangy little bootblacks that occupied the step below—"I don't know you personally, but you look bored. I'm troubled with the same disease and want company—as the poet of the Sierras wails, 'How all alone a man may
AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC 2333
be in crowds!' " Something in the utterance made me offer him my hand.
He grasped it warmly. "It's curious," he said, "how friends are made and where true fellowship begins. Now we've known each other all our lives and never met before. What d'ye say?"
I smiled approval at the odd assertion.
"But tell me," he continued, "what conclusion you have arrived at in your study of me ; come, now, be frank—what do you make of me?"
Although I found myself considerably startled, I feigned composure and acknowledged that I had been speculating as to who and what he was, but found myself unable to define a special character.
"I thought so," he said. "No one ever reads my character—no one ever will. Why, I've had phrenologists groping around among my bumps by the hour to no purpose, and physiognomists driving themselves cross-eyed ; but they never found it, and they never will. The very things of which I am capable they invariably place beyond my capacity ; and, with like sageness, the very things I can't do they declare me to be a master hand at. But I like to worry them ; it's fun for me. Why, old Fowler himself, here the other night, thumbed my head as mellow as a May-apple, and never came within a mile of it! Some characters are readable enough, I'm willing to admit. Your face, for instance, is a bulletin-board to me, but you can't read mine, for I'm neither a doctor, lawyer, artist, actor, musician, nor anything else you may have in your
2334 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
mind. You might guess your way all through the dictionary and then not get it. It's simply an impossibility, that's all."
I laughed uneasily, for although amused at the quaint humor of his language, a nervous fluttering of the eyes and a spasmodic twitching of the corners of his mouth made me think his manner merely an affectation. But I was interested, and as his conversation seemed to invite the interrogation, I flatly asked him to indulge my curiosity and tell me what he was.
"Wait till the crowd thins, and maybe I will. In the meantime here's a cigar and here's a light—as Mr. Qui1p playfully remarks to Tom Scott—'Smoke away, you dog you 1' "
"Well, you're a character," said I, dubiously. "Yes," he replied, "but you can't tell what kind,
and I can tell you the very trade you work at." I smiled incredulously.
"Now don't look lofty and assume a professional air, for you're only a mechanic, and a sign-painter at that."
Although he spoke with little courtesy of address, there was a subtle something in his eye that drew me magnet-like and held me. I was silent.
"Want to know how I became aware of that fact?" he went on, with a quick, sharp glance at my bewildered face. "There's nothing wonderful about my knowing that ; I've had my eye on you for two hours, and you stare at every sign-board you pass, worse than a country-jake ; and once or twice I saw
AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC 2335
you stop and study carefully some fresh design, or some new style of letter. You're a stranger here in the city, too. Want to know how I can tell? Because you walk like you were actually going some place; but I notice that you never get there, for continually crossing and recrossing streets, and back-tracking past show-windows, and congratulating yourself, doubtless, upon the thorough business air of your reflection in the plate glass. Come, we can get through now ; let's walk."
I followed him unhesitatingly. To say that I was simply curious would be too mild; I was fascinated, and to that degree I actually fastened on his arm, and clung there till we had quite escaped the crowd. "I like you, some way," he said, "but you're too impulsive; you let your fancy get away with your better judgment. Now, you don't know me, and I'm even pondering whether to frankly unbosom to you, or give you the slip ; and I'll not leave the proposition to you to decide, for I know you'd say 'unbosom' ; so I'll think about it quietly for a while yet and give you an unbiased verdict."
We walked on in silence for the distance, perhaps, of half a dozen blocks, turning and angling about till we came upon an open stairway in an old unpainted brick building, where my strange companion seemed to pause mechanically.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
"I stay here," he replied, "for I don't call it living to be fastened up in this old sepulcher. I like it well enough at night, for then I feast and fatten on the
2336 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
gloom and glower that infest it; but in the normal atmosphere of day my own room looks repellent, and I only visit it, as now, out of sheer desperation."
If I had at first been mystified with this curious being, I was by this time thoroughly bewildered. The more I studied him the more at a loss I was to fathom him ; and as I stood staring blankly in his face, he exclaimed almost derisively: "You give it up, don't you?"
I nodded.
"Well," he continued, "that's a good sign, and I've concluded to 'unbosom':—I'm an adjustable lunatic."
"An 'adjustable lunatic'!" I repeated, blankly. And after the remarkable proposition that ushers in the story, he continued smilingly:
"Don't be alarmed, now, for I'm glad to assure you of the fact that I'm as harmless as a baby-butterfly. Nobody knows I'm crazy, nobody ever dreams of such a thing—and why?—Because the faculty is adjustable, don't you see, and self-controlling. I never allow it to interfere with business matters, and only let it on at leisure intervals for the amusement it affords me in the pleasurable break it makes in the monotony of a matter-of-fact existence. I'm off duty to-day—in fact, I've been off duty for a week; or, to be franker still, I lost my situation ten days ago, and I've been humoring this propensity in the meanwhile; and now, if you're inclined to go up to my room with me—the
AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC 2337
windows are both raised, you see, and you can call for help should occasion require; people are constantly passing—if you feel inclined, I say, to go up with me, I'll do my best to entertain you. I like you, as I said before, and you can trust me, I assure you. Come."
If I were to attempt a description of the feelings that possessed me as I followed my strange acquaintance up the stairway, I should fail as utterly as one who would attempt to portray the experience of lying in a nine-days' trance, so I leave the reader's fancy to befriend me, and hasten on to more tangible matters.
We paused at the first landing, my companion unlocking a door on the right, and handing me the key with the remark : "You may feel safer with it. And don't be frightened," he continued, "when I open the door, for it always whines like somebody had stepped on its knob," and I laughed at the odd figure as he threw the door open and motioned me to enter.
It was a queer apartment, filled with a jumbled array of old chairs and stands; old trunks, a lounge, and a stack of odd-shaped packages. A frowzy carpet thrown over the floor like a blanket, and a candle-box spittoon with a broken lamp-chimney in it. A little swinging shelf of dusty books, with a railroad map pasted just above it. A narrow table with a telegraph instrument attached, and wires like ivy-vines running all about the walls; and scattered around the instrument was an end‑
2338 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
less array of zinc and copper scraps, and bits of brass, spiral springs, and queer-shaped little tools. A flute propped up one window, and near it, on another stand, were a cornet and an old guitar, a pencil sketch half finished, and a stuffed glove with a pencil in its fingers lying on it, a spirit-lamp, a lump of beeswax, and a hundred other odds and ends, betokening the presence of some mechanical, musical, scientific genius.
"It's a bachelor's room," said the host, noting my inquisitive air.—"It's a bachelor's room, so you'll expect no apologies. Sit down when you're through with the industrial, and turn your attention to the art department."
I followed the direction of his hand, and my eyes fell upon a painted face of such ineffable sweetness and beauty I was fairly dazed. It was not an earthly form, at least in coloring, for the features seemed to glow with beatific light. The eyes were large, dark, and dewy, thrown upward with a longing look, and filled with such intensity of tenderness one could but sigh to see them. The hair, swept negligently back, fell down the gleaming shoulders like a silken robe, and nestled in its glossy waves the ears peeped shyly out like lily-blooms. The lips were parted with an utterance that one could almost hear, and weep for because the blessed voice was mute. The hands were folded on a crumpled letter and pressed close against the heart, and a curl of golden hair was coiled around the fingers.
''Is it a creation of the fancy ?" I asked.
AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC 2339
"Well, yes," he answered, with a dreamy drawl. "I call it fancy, when in a normal state; but now," he continued, in a fainter tone, "I will designate it as a portrait." And oh, so sad, so hopeless and despairing was the utterance, it seemed to well up from the fountain of his heart lace a spray of purest sorrow.
"Who painted it ?" I asked.
"'Who painted it ?'" he repeated, drowsily" 'who painted it ?' Oh, no ; I mustn't tell you that ; for if I answered you with 'Raphael,' you'd say, 'Ah, no! the paint's too fresh for that, and he's been dead for ages.' 'Who painted it? No, no, I mustn't tell you that !"
"But are you not an artist ?—I see an easel in the corner there, and here's a mahlstick lying on the mantel."
"I an artist? Why, man, what ails you ? I told you not ten minutes since that I was an adjustable lunatic ; and don't you see I am?—You can't mislead me nor throw me off my guard. When it comes to reason or solid logic, don't you find me there? And here again, to show the clearness of my judgment, I remove the cause of our little dissension, and our friendly equanimity is restored—" and he turned the picture to the wall.
I could but smile at the gravity and adroitness of his language and demeanor.
"There," said he, smiling in return ; "your face is brighter than the day outside; let's change the topic Do you like music?"
2340 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
"Passionately," I responded. "Will you play?" "No ; I will sing."
He took the guitar from the table, and, with a prelude wilder than the "Witches' Dance," he sang a song he called "The Dream of Death," a grievously sad song, so full of minor tones and wailing words, the burden of it still lingers in my ears:
"0 gentle death, bow down and sip The soul that lingers on my lip;
0 gentle death, bow down and keep Eternal vigil o'er my sleep;
For I am weary and would rest Forever on your loving breast."
His voice, as plaintive as a dove's, went trailing through the rondel like weariness itself ; and when at last it died away in one long quaver of ecstatic melody, though I felt within my heart an echoing of grief
"Too sweetly sad to name as pain,"
I broke the silence following to remind him of his having told me he was not a musician.
"Only a novice," he responded.—"One may' twang a lute and yet not be a troubadour. By the way," he broke off abruptly, "is that expression original with me, or have I picked it up in some old book of rhyme?—Oh, yes! How do you like poetry?"
He sprang to his feet as he spoke, and without
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awaiting an answer to his query went diving about in a huge waste-basket standing near the table.
"It's a thing I dislike to acknowledge," he went on, "but I don't mind telling you. The fact is, I'm a follower of Wegg and sometimes 'drop into poetry—as a friend,' you understand; and if you'll 'lend me your ears,' I'll give you a specimen of my versification."
He had drawn up a roll of paper from the debris of the basket, and unrolling it with a flourish, and a mock-heroic air of inspiration, he read as follows:
"A fantasy that came to me
As wild and wantonly designed
As ever any dream might be Unraveled from a madman's mind,—
A tangle-work of tissue, wrought By cunning of the spider-brain, And woven, in an hour of pain,
To trap the giddy flies of thought—."
He paused, and with a look of almost wild entreaty he pleaded: "You understand it, don't you?" I nodded hesitatingly.
"Why, certainly you do. The meaning's the plainest thing in it. What's your idea of its meaning? tell me!—Why don't you tell me!"
"Read it again that I may note it carefully." He repeated it.
"Why," said "it appears to me to be the introduction to a poem written under peculiar circumstances, and containing, perhaps, some strange ideas
2342 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
that the author would excuse for the reason of their coming in the way they did."
"Right!" he exclaimed, joyously ; "and now if you'll give me your most critical attention, and promise not to interrupt, I'll read the poem entire."
"Go on," I said, for I was far more eager to listen than I would have him know.
"And will you excuse any little wildness of gesture or expression that I may see fit to introduce in the rendition?"
"Certainly," said I, "certainly ; go on!"
"And you won't interrupt or get excited? Light another cigar ; and here's a chair to throw your feet across. Now, unbutton your coat and lean back. Are you thoroughly comfortable?"
"Thoroughly," said I, impatiently—"a thousand thoroughlies."
"All right," he said ; "I'm glad to hear you say it ; but before I proceed I desire to call your attention to the fact that this poem is a literary orphan —a foundling, you understand?"
"I understand ; go on."
And with a manner all too wild to be described, he read, or rather recited, the following monstrosity of rhyme:
"I stood beneath a summer moon
All
swollen
to
uncanny girth,
And hanging, like the sun at noon, Above the center of the earth; But with a sad and sallow light, As it had sickened of the night
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And fallen in a pallid swoon. Around me I could hear the rush Of sullen winds, and feel the whir Of unseen wings apast me brush Like phantoms round a sepulcher;
And, like a carpeting of plush,
A lawn unrolled beneath my feet, Bespangled o'er with flowers as sweet To look upon as those that nod Within the garden-fields of God, But odorless as those that blow In ashes in the shades below.
"And on my hearing fell a storm Of gusty music, sadder yet Than every whimper of regret
That sobbing utterance could form,
And patched with scraps of sound that seemed Torn out of tunes that demons dreamed,
And pitched to such a piercing key, It stabbed the ear with agony; And when at last it lulled and died, I stood aghast and terrified.
I shuddered and I shut my eyes, And still could see, and feel aware Some mystic presence waited there;
And staring, with a dazed surprise, I saw a creature so divine
That never subtle thought of mine May reproduce to inner sight So fair a vision of delight.
"A syllable of dew that drips From out a lily's laughing lips Could not be sweeter than the word I listened to, yet never heard.—For, oh, the woman hiding there Within the shadows of her hair,
2344 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
SpaIce to me in an undertone So delicate, my soul alone But understood it as a moan Of some weak melody of wind
A heavenward breeze had left behind.
"A tracery of trees, grotesque Against the sky, behind her seen,
Like
shapeless shapes of arabesque
Wrought in an
oriental screen;
And tall, austere and statuesque
She loomed before it—e'en as though The spirit-hand of Angelo
Had chiseled her to life complete,
With chips of moonshine round her feet.
And I grew jealous of the dusk, To see it softly touch her face, As lover-like, with fond embrace,
It folded round her like a husk:
But when the glitter of her hand, Like wasted glory, beckoned me,
My eyes grew blurred and dull and dim–. My vision failed—I could not see
I could not stir—I could ,but stand, Till, quivering in every limb,
I flung me prone, as though to swim The tide of grass whose waves of green Went rolling ocean-wide between My helpless shipwrecked heart and her Who claimed me for a worshiper.
'''And writhing thus in my despair,
I heard a weird, unearthly sound,
That seemed to lift me from the ground And hold me floating in the air. I looked, and lol I saw her bow
Above a harp within her hands;
A crown of blossoms bound her brow.
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And on her harp were twisted strands Of silken starlight, rippling o'er With music never heard before By mortal ears; and, at the strain, I felt my Spirit snap its chain And break away,—and I could see It as it turned and fled from me To greet its mistress, where she smiled To see the phantom dancing wild, And wizard-like before the spell Her mystic fingers knew so well!'
I sat throughout it all as though under the strange influence of an Eastern drug. My fancy was so wrought upon I only saw the reader mistily, and clothed, as it were, in a bedragoned costume of the Orient. My mind seemed idle—steeped in drowse and languor, and yet peopled with a thousand shadowy fancies that came trooping from chaotic hiding-places, and mingling in a revelry of such riotous extravagance it seemed a holiday of elfish thought.
I shook my head, I rubbed my eyes, arose bewildered, and sat down again ; arose again and walked across the room, my strange companion following every motion with an intensity of gaze almost mesmeric.
"You fail to comprehend it ?" he queried. I shook my head.
"You can almost grasp it, can't you?"
"Yes," I answered.
"But not quite?"
"Not quite."
"Does it worry you?"
it -II
2346 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
"Yes."
"Think it will cling to you, and fret you, vex you, haunt you?"
"I know it will."
"Think you'll ever fully comprehend it?"
"I can't say," I replied, thoughtfully.—"Perhaps
I may in time. Will you allow me to copy it ?" "What do you want with it ?"
"I want to study it," I replied.
"And you're sure you don't understand it, and it worries you, and frets you, and vexes you, and haunts you? Good! I'll read you the final clause now ; that may throw a light of some kind on it" ; and, opening the scroll, again he read:
"What is it? Who will rightly guess if it be aught but nothingness
That dribbles from a wayward pen
To spatter in the eyes of men?
What matter! I will call it mine,
And I will take the changeling home And bathe its face with morning-shine, And comb it with a golden comb
Till every tangled tress of rhyme
Will fairer be than summer-time:
And I will nurse it on my knee,
And dandle it beyond the clasp
Of hands that grip and hands that grasp, Through life and all eternity r'
"Now what do you think of it?" he asked with a savageness that startled me.
"I am more at sea than ever," I replied.
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"Well, I wish you a prosperous voyage! Here's the poem; I've another copy. 'Read and reflect,' as the railroad poster says, but don't you publish hat least while I'm alive, for I've no thirst for literary fame—I only write for home-use; but you're a good fellow, and I like you for all your weak points, and I trust the confidence I repose will not be disregarded. Come!"
He had opened the door and was holding out his hand for the key.
I gave it to him and followed out mechanically. He left the door ajar and followed to the bottom of the stairs.
"And now if you'll pardon me," he said, "I'll say good-by to you here; I've some packing to do and ought to be at it."
"Why, you're not going to leave the city?' I asked.
"Well, no, not to-day; but the jig's up with me here, and it's only a question of time—I can't hold out much longer—as our rural friend remarks, 'Money matters is mighty sceerce'; and if I don't pull out shortly I'll have to 'fold my tent like the Bedouin and silently plagiarize away!' "
"If I could be of any assistance to you—" I began, but he checked me abruptly with, "Oh, no, I don't require it, I assure you; I've two dollars to your one, doubtless. Thank you just the same, and good-by. Here's my card ; it's not my name, however, but it'll answer; I'll not see you again, though
2348 AN ADJUSTABLE LUNATIC
you should live to be as bald as a brickyard, for, my dear young friend, I'm going away. Good-by, and may all good things overtake you!"
He gripped my hand like a vise, and turning quickly, went skipping up the stairway two steps at a time.
"Good-by!" I called to him, sorrowfully ; then turned reluctantly away, examining the card he had given me, which, to my astonishment, was not his card at all, but a railroad ticket entitling the bearer to a ride from Danville, Illinois, to York, Pennsylvania; this fact I remember quite distinctly, as I read it over and over, revolving in my mind the impression that this was but another instance of his eccentricity, or perhaps a trick by which I might be victimized in some undreamed-of way. But upon second thought I concluded it to be simply a mistake, and so turned back and called him to the window above and explained.
He came down and begged my pardon for the trouble he had given me, took the ticket, thanked me, and said good-by again.
"But," said I, "you haven't given me your real card in exchange."
"Oh, no matter!" he said smilingly. "Call me Smith, Jones or Robinson, it's all the same; good-by, and don't forget your old friend and well-wisher, the Adjustable Lunatic." And even thus he vanished from my sight forever.
The remainder of the day and half of the night I spent in studious contemplation of the curious corn‑
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position, but without arriving at any tangible conclusion. I am still engaged with my investigation. Sometimes the meaning seems almost within my mental grasp; but, balancing, adjusting, and comparing its many curious bearings, I find my judgment persistently at fault. It has puzzled and bewildered me for weeks. No line of it but canters through my brain like a fractious nightmare; no syllable but fastens on my fancy like a leech, and sucks away the life-blood of my every thought. I am troubled, worried, fretted, vexed, and haunted ; and I write this now in the earnest hope that wiser minds may have an opportunity of making it a subject of investigation, and because one week ago today my eyes fell upon the following special telegram to The Indianapolis Journal:
Puy, Imo, April 12.—An unknown man committed suicide in the eastward-bound train on the Wabash road, just below Waverly, at about 11 o'clock this morning. He had in his possession, besides the revolver with which he shot himself, a ticket from Danville, Illinois, to York, Pennsylvania, a gold watch, S19 in money, a small valise, and some letters and other papers which indicated his name to be George S. Clofling.
He was shot twice in the region of the heart, and his revolver showed that between the first and last shots two cartridges missed fire.