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PROVINCIAL TYPES IN 
 AMERICAN FICTION 
 
 BY 
 
 HORACE SPENCER FISKE 
 
 EXTENSION LECTURER IN ENGLISH LITERATURE, THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BALLAD OF MANILA BAY AND OTHER 
 
 VERSES," " CHICAGO IN PICTURE AND POETRY," 
 
 ETC. 
 
 Cljautauqua 
 
 CHAUTAUQUA, NEW YORK 
 MCMVII 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY 
 THE CHAUTAUQUA PRESS. 
 
 Reprinted 1907. 
 
 Kotfaoolr 
 
 J. S. Ciuhing & Co. Berwick ft Smith Co. 
 Norwood, HIM., U.S.A. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE field of American fiction is so wide and so varied 
 that only one phase of it has been touched upon in the 
 present volume, certain types of American provincial 
 life as studied since the Civil War by authors in New 
 England, the South, the Middle West, and the Far West. 
 The literature of these sections of the country written 
 since the Civil War is so embarrassingly rich that, with 
 one exception, nothing of the flood of very recent fiction 
 is included in the scope of this limited study. The effort 
 of the writer has been to confine himself largely to what 
 is rather indefinitely called " realistic " literature, and to 
 emphasize the truth of characterization found in such 
 fiction as has come to be generally recognized for its 
 special significance and permanent value as a reflection 
 of certain phases of our national life. 
 
 The present volume can, of course, be only suggestive, 
 but if it succeeds in stimulating to an appreciative study 
 and enjoyment of the dozen works of fiction considered, 
 it will have largely accomplished its purpose. 
 
 In tracing the development of provincial character in 
 any particular novel or story, it has seemed best to give 
 
 iii 
 
 193658 
 
iv Preface 
 
 as much as possible of the author s individuality of con 
 ception and flavor of style, rather than to indulge in long 
 descriptive writing and cumbersome paraphrase, in the 
 hope that the peculiar charm of the author considered 
 may stir a desire for more intimate acquaintance, and so 
 lead on to a genuine appreciation of what is best in 
 American fiction. 
 
 HORACE SPENCER FISKE. 
 CHICAGO, April, 1903. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PROVINCIAL TYPES IN NEW ENGLAND 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A Brief Survey of the Field I 
 
 II. " The Rise of Silas Lapham " by William Dean Howells 1 1 
 
 III. " Pembroke " by Mary E. Wilkins .... 43 
 
 IV. " Deephaven," by Sarah Orne Jewett .... 64 
 
 PROVINCIAL TYPES IN THE SOUTH 
 
 V. A Brief Survey of the Field 75 
 
 VI. " In Ole Virginia " by Thomas Nelson Page ... 87 
 
 VII. " Colonel Carter of Cartersville " by F. Hopkinson Smith 97 
 VIII. " Uncle Remus : His Songs and His Sayings " by Joel 
 
 Chandler Harris 106 
 
 IX. " The Grandissimes " by George W. Cable . . .118 
 X. "The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains" by 
 
 " Charles Egbert Craddock " 133 
 
 PROVINCIAL TYPES IN THE MISSISSIPPI 
 VALLEY 
 
 XI. A Brief Survey of the Field 144 
 
 XII. "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" by "Mark 
 
 Twain" 152 
 
 v 
 
vi Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 XIII. "The Hoosier Schoolmaster " by Edward Eggleston . 167 
 
 XIV. Main-Traveled Roads " by Hamlin Garland . .179 
 
 PROVINCIAL TYPES IN THE FAR WEST 
 
 XV. A Brief Survey of the Field 208 
 
 XVI. " The Virginian " by Owen Wister . . . .215 
 
 XVII. "The Luck of Roaring Camp " by Bret Harte . . 241 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 GF 
 
 PROVINCIAL TYPES IN NEW 
 ENGLAND 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FIELD 
 
 IP, in the fiction written in America since the Civil War, 
 there has not yet appeared the long-looked- for great " Ameri 
 can " novel, there has nevertheless been written much that 
 is a true and delightful reflection of genuine American char 
 acter, particularly of that character as seen in the country 
 and in those sections that have been least affected by the 
 progress of a growing national unity. American literature 
 may, in fact, be said to be made up of an aggregation of 
 sectional literatures the literatures of New England, the 
 South, the Middle West, and the Far West. This aggrega 
 tion naturally lacks unity, but it is all American ; and perhaps 
 at some time these diverse characteristics may be fused by 
 some masterly writer of fiction into a harmonious whole, 
 which shall, by its vast variety yet unifying American spirit, 
 be recognized as the great American novel. 
 
 From the time of the production of " Rip Van Winkle " and 
 "Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving, of the "Leather- 
 stocking Tales " by James Fenimore Cooper, and of " The 
 Scarlet Letter" and "The House of the Seven Gables" 
 by Nathaniel Hawthorne, to the present, the men who have 
 
 B I 
 
2 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 done the most effective literary work and shown us most 
 vividly certain phases of American life have usually been 
 those who wrought in somewhat circumscribed fields 
 fields that they personally knew and loved. And among 
 the writers of so-called " realistic " fiction in America none 
 has had a more distinct place as a leader or a wider recog 
 nition among readers than William Dean Howells. Although 
 bora in the Middle West, Mr. Howells lived for a number 
 of years in Boston, and notwithstanding his later life in New 
 York, he is still recognized as distinctly and successfully a 
 portrayer of New England character. Three of his finest 
 achievements in faction have to do almost entirely with New 
 England life, "A Modern Instance," " The Lady of the 
 AroostookT 1 " and "The Rise of Silas Lapham." These are 
 all in what is known as his " earlier " manner, before his 
 literary art became so subtle, sociological, and photographic, 
 and give in a remarkably real way various phases of that 
 typical New England character which the world has come 
 to believe combines in itself many of the elements of the 
 American national mind. In the first-mentioned book 
 Mr. Howells s characterization of Bartley Hubbard as the 
 "smart" young newspaper man, who is reading law in 
 Squire Gaylord s office, and who later wooes and wins and 
 divorces Marcia, the Squire s daughter, is so masterly that 
 at one time we can hardly help admiring the breeziness and 
 audacity and acuteness of the character, and at another we 
 are driven in repulsion from its cheapness and baseness and 
 brutal cynicism. And when the old Squire "Mr. F. J. 
 Gaylord, of Equity, Equity County, Maine " pleads in the 
 Tecumseh court-house in his own daughter s behalf, and 
 charges his son-in-law with perjury, the pathos and dramatic 
 quality of the scene go far to divert from Mr. Howells the 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 3 
 
 oft-repeated charge that he is enamored of the common 
 place. 
 
 As Mr. Harry Thurston Peck, the editor of The Bookman, 
 remarks of " The Lady of the Aroostook," it would be diffi 
 cult to find in American realistic fiction a more happily 
 developed and delightful story than that of Lydia Blood, 
 the provincial New England girl, who, reared in the grim 
 and almost joyless rural community of South Bradfield in the 
 hills of Northern Massachusetts, shows herself on board the 
 sailing vessel Aroostook to be, unconsciously to herself, but 
 very charmingly to her exclusively male companions, a 
 genuine " lady," though to the eye of the European critic 
 such a middle-class provincial type could hardly come under 
 the designation of " a lady " at all. And in Venice itself, 
 under the well-meant but embarrassing surveillance of her 
 half-Europeanized aunt, Lydia is as easily the true and self- 
 possessed and irresistible " lady " as she was under the eyes 
 of the chivalrous old sea-captain Jenness, the vulgar and 
 drunken Hicks, or the hypercritical and cynical Staniford. 
 Mr. Howells has given to this unique story a distinctly 
 provincial setting, his opening and closing chapters bringing 
 before the mind with almost perfect art the characteristic 
 figures of fussy but undemonstrative Aunt Maria, Deacon 
 Latham, the domesticated and uncertain old grandfather, 
 Ezra Perkins, the dumb and formal driver of the yellow 
 Concord coach, besides the picture of the "blue-cold" 
 meeting-house, the savage desolation of the snow-hidden 
 hills, the graveyard, as animated as the rest of the village, 
 the sheet-iron stove in the parlor, the horsehair furniture, 
 and the pea-green lamp with the red woolen wick that lights 
 up this typical New England village with an immortal glow. 
 
 But the most distinctively and broadly national figure that 
 
4 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 Mr. Ho wells has drawn is probably that in " Silas Lapham," 
 the character of the paint manufacturer, that typical 
 product of the American nouveaux riches, who has struggled 
 out and up from the bleak Vermont hills into a prosperous 
 and expanding business in Boston, and who yet hangs sus 
 pended above the precipice of social failure when he pitifully 
 discovers that his hard-earned money cannot buy him posi 
 tion or friendships or culture. Here are the braggadocio 
 of the self-made man who is praising his creator and 
 is yet self-depreciative, the shrewd and refreshing humor, 
 the instinctive generosity and genuine nobility, the undying 
 energy and sure eye to the main chance, and the merciless 
 conscientiousness that pursues even to self-ruin these are 
 all here, united in a Yankee nature that stirs one s sense of 
 the ridiculous, the pathetic, and the positively heroic. And 
 much of this is felt even in the first few pages of " The Rise 
 of Silas Lapham," through the subtle and vivid power of 
 the novelist, in that memorable interview with Bartley 
 Hubbard, who seems unerringly to penetrate every weak 
 little vanity of the boastful and self-centered man, and 
 draw from him without reserve the wearisome minutiae of 
 a commonplace life. 
 
 Another convincing study of a rural type under urban 
 conditions is found in " The Minister s Charge," in which, 
 through the unwilling agency of a Boston preacher, Lem 
 uel Barker, a raw New England boy from Willoughby 
 Pastures, smitten with the egotism of literary creation, 
 comes to the city bent on publishing a poem ; and by 
 strangely connected causes the poor boy is driven on from 
 one emergency to another, through love and poverty and 
 ambition and shame and self-sacrifice, to an apparently 
 impotent end. And with him are involved such strongly 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 5 
 
 provincial types as his first sweetheart, Statira Dudley, 
 her garrulous and insuppressible companion, Manda Grier, 
 and his strong-minded, self-forgetting, bloomer-wearing 
 old mother. 
 
 Among the many writers who have attempted to set 
 forth the salient characteristics of the provincial New 
 England type, few can be ranked above Miss Wilkins, 
 whose realistic art has a sure and sympathetic touch for 
 the grim, gaunt, indomitable figures that move through 
 the fields and remoter villages of the Puritan s country. 
 In her " Humble Romance," her " New England Nun and 
 Other Stories," and her more ambitious work, " Pem 
 broke," she has given faithful and vivid pictures of rural 
 and community life, in fact, they are often so closely 
 drawn as to be almost painful in their embodiment of 
 merciless conscience, unrelenting will, joyless religious 
 life, a certain moral intolerance, and a lack of the sweet 
 and lovable and beautiful. Will and conscience dominate 
 some of her stories like passions, and they sometimes run 
 to tragic and grotesque excesses in their manifestations, 
 which may be true enough and characteristic enough, but 
 which make us exclaim at times, " Why this eternal round 
 of unrelieved rigidity and self-imposed tragedy and mis 
 ery ? " But here and there, in truth to life also, are the 
 lighter touches of humor and charity and intense but un 
 demonstrative love. 
 
 Many of Miss Wilkins s people are so "set," as the 
 Yankees themselves would say, that they almost pass the 
 bounds of the reader s patience ; and, as in " Pembroke," 
 a young man will sooner give up the girl he loves than go 
 back on a rashly spoken word, a father will sooner see 
 his daughter go through a long life unmarried and em- 
 
6 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 bittered than suffer himself to speak a word of apology 
 for a hot-tempered outbreak. This idolatry of self-esteem 
 and self-will is most vividly shown in the dominating spirit 
 of Deborah Thayer in "Pembroke" a veritable she- 
 Puritan, who stands before us thin-lipped, insistent, unfor 
 giving. And her son, Barney Thayer, is like unto herself 
 as "set" and as hopelessly stubborn. With his new 
 house all but finished, with an attractive and loyal woman, 
 Charlotte Barnard, ready to marry him, he comes for 
 almost the last of many visits to woo his sweetheart. But 
 on that fatal night his will clashes with the equally impe 
 rious will of his prospective father-in-law, Cephas Barnard; 
 the old man orders him from the house, and Barney Thayer 
 vows never to cross the threshold again, " I never will, 
 by the Lord Almighty." The door slams after him, but 
 his sweetheart, Charlotte, eagerly follows him, calling his 
 name ; yet he does not even turn his head. And through 
 long years he kept his stubborn word, the new house 
 occupied only by the ghost of a thwarted love, and the 
 lives of himself and the woman he loved dragging on in 
 needless misery and daily bitterness. 
 
 Yet underneath all this apparent rigidness of nature is 
 glowing in the book the intense flame of passion that will 
 not be put out, and in its scorching effect even the grim 
 stiffness of Deborah Thayer suffers. For her own daugh 
 ter, Rebecca, when thwarted by her mother in her strong 
 love for William Berry, secretly yields to his passion ; 
 and as the languid, pining girl is submitting to the fitting 
 of a new dress, which is being made by her mother as a 
 sort of consoling gift, the truth that she has loved not 
 wisely but too well is only too evident. Her mother orders 
 her from the house even in the midst of a snow-storm 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 7 
 
 she is more relentless than the fury of the storm itself. 
 Later, after Rebecca s forced marriage and the birth of 
 her dead child, her mother seems ignorant of her exist 
 ence ; and no one ventures to mention Rebecca s name 
 in her presence. 
 
 The reader is sometimes tempted to inquire if there is 
 really blood in the veins of some of these people presented 
 by the pitiless art of Miss Wilkins. Mr. Barrie s " Auld 
 Lichts," grim as they are, are softly human in comparison 
 with some of these New England types. But in extenua 
 tion it must be said that characters like Deborah Thayer 
 are often religious in their motives and action, and confuse 
 their own will with the imagined will of the God of all. 
 And this is pathetically illustrated in the punishment of 
 her invalid son, Ephraim, which resulted so unexpectedly 
 in his death. His mother was doing it, she thought, for 
 his present and eternal good. 
 
 A kindlier, sweeter phase of New England life is seen 
 in the satisfying art of the books written by Sarah Orne 
 Jewett, who, for subtle sympathy with her characters, an 
 appreciation of their finer, higher qualities, and a medium 
 of expression Greek-like in its simplicity and serenity, 
 must take a very high place in the portrayal of provincial 
 New England types. In " Country By-Ways," " Tales of 
 New England," and " A Country Doctor," and especially 
 in " A Marsh Island" and " Deephaven," Miss Jewett has 
 done very much to preserve in permanent literary form 
 the quaint and beautiful traits of rural New England. As 
 one recalls the people in " A Marsh Island," the exquisite 
 and lovable figure of Doris Owen emerges in the dawn- 
 light of that memorable morning when she made her trem 
 bling and heroic way to Westmarket to confess her love 
 
8 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 and dissuade her angry lover from embarking for the 
 Banks. And there is Doris s dear old father with the touch 
 of sentiment and imagination and love of nature, and the 
 tireless and ambitious mother, and Jim Fales, and the jeal 
 ous but virile and constant Dan Lester, a group of rural 
 figures made all the more interesting by the unique back 
 ground of quiet beauty and color that Miss Jewett knows 
 how to draw so easily and so effectively. 
 
 In Miss Jewett s " Deephaven " we have a collection of 
 short sketches and stories that show her art at its highest, 
 and so realistic as to lead many readers to suppose that 
 " Deephaven " is a veritable New England seaport known 
 to themselves. Miss Jewett, however, in her preface, dis 
 claims any close identity in her characterizations, and 
 denies that " Deephaven " is on the actual map of New 
 England. The two Boston girls who spent that mem 
 orable summer in the quaint old Brandon house at Deep- 
 haven make delightfully fresh and interesting figures 
 amid the decayed aristocracy and retired sea-captains and 
 talkative widows and sedate spinsters of the inactive but 
 charming old seaport. The optimistic and humorous Mrs. 
 Kew,wife of the lighthouse keeper, the reminiscent "Widow 
 Jim," who could make rugs and preside at funerals, and 
 had " faculty " ; the pipe-smoking, story-telling old sea- 
 captains, like Captain Isaac Horn ; Captain Lant, who, 
 though now devoted to farming, had to take "a day s 
 fishing every hand s turn, to keep the old hulk clear of 
 barnacles ;" the lame, red-shirted " Danny," with his cat 
 and hospital stories; and the visionary Captain Sands, 
 who had a sort of marine museum and was a specialist in 
 weather and the mysteries of telepathy, some of these 
 types seem done from the life, and over them all is a 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 9 
 
 misty light of remoteness and tradition that softens and 
 endears. 
 
 Another volume that is redolent of New England sea air 
 is " Caleb West, Master Diver," which was written out of 
 the actual experiences of the author, F. Hopkinson Smith, 
 who, as is generally known, is a marine engineer and archi 
 tect, as well as a painter, lecturer, and novelist. The book 
 is alive with struggle against wind and wave, with a sense 
 of the truly heroic in the daily achievements of such honest 
 and noble types as Captain Joe and Caleb West two as 
 real men as often walk in the pages of a novel. They are 
 rough, weather-beaten men, but not coarse and their 
 work as builders of submarine structures is a definitely 
 shaping influence that accounts for iron in the blood and 
 a splendid self-reliance. And their moral make-ups are as 
 wholesome and invigorating as the sea air in which they 
 work and live. Aunty Bell s kitchen is a place to eat in 
 and to be happy in, and her husband s gospel of compas 
 sion and forgiveness for the " hoodooed " but sweet- 
 natured Betty, the master diver s young wife, has in it a 
 touch of the divine. The " Pocomokian," Major Slocomb, 
 from the South, is suggestive of that even more delightful 
 character, Colonel Carter of Cartersville, a type of 
 inconsequential, shiftless, but chivalric and engagingly 
 social, qualities that Mr. Smith has a peculiar aptitude in 
 depicting. 
 
 New England has proved a rich theme for portrayers of 
 provincial character, as we have already seen, and a long 
 list of fiction writers covering this particular field might 
 easily be made out ; but it is sufficient for our present pur 
 pose to mention only a few of the more conspicuous, like 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps-Ward, who excels in the emotional 
 
io Provincial Types in New England 
 
 force of her intense characters ; Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 
 whose " Stillwater Tragedy " presents with great vividness 
 and charm the life of a New England factory town ; Sally 
 Pratt McLean, with her minutely finished portraits of 
 " Cape Cod Folks " ; and Arlo Bates, whose " Diary of a 
 Saint " presents, in striking contrast to the title, one of the 
 most intense local dramas in New England life. 
 
 Although New York and Pennsylvania have not been so 
 prolific a field as New England in furnishing provincial 
 literary types, the former state found in Harold Frederic 
 a sympathetic interpreter of his native valley of the Mo 
 hawk, and he produced a unique series of local novels in 
 " Seth s Brother s Wife," " In the Valley," " The Lawton 
 Girl," and " The Damnation of Theron Ware." Rebecca 
 Harding Davis has written several tales with a Pennsylva 
 nia background, and Margaret Deland made a village in 
 Allegheny County the scene of " John Ward, Preacher." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 "THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM " BY WILLIAM DEAN 
 HOWELLS 
 
 PERHAPS the most virile and typically American charac 
 ter created by Mr. Howells is that of Silas Lapham, the 
 paint manufacturer, who struggled up the ladder of mate 
 rial prosperity out of the hills of Northern Vermont, ex 
 panded into a great business in Boston, where for the sake 
 of his two daughters he made a pathetic effort to achieve 
 something of a social position, and then through others 
 dishonesty, his own speculation, and an unrelenting con 
 scientiousness, collapsed financially, and was obliged to 
 return to his starting-point in the little Vermont town of 
 hard beginnings. 
 
 In the first few pages of the novel, by means of a news 
 paper interview, the author has depicted, with a vivid thor 
 oughness and a humorous touch, the laborious and self-made 
 career of the central figure of the story. Bartley Hubbard, 
 a shrewd and cynical newspaper man, is writing what he 
 calls the " Solid Men of Boston " series for The Events, 
 and he desires to include the millionaire paint manufac 
 turer in the list. As Bartley waits expectantly, with his 
 note-book on his lap, Lapham, absorbed in his business 
 correspondence, suddenly swings in his swivel-chair, so as 
 to face his interviewer, and asks, with characteristic humor, 
 
 ii 
 
12 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 " So you want my life, death, and Christian sufferings, do 
 you, young man ? " Hartley s reply, " Your money or your 
 life," suggests to Lapham the rather pungent comment, 
 " I guess you wouldn t want my life without the money." 
 Bartley, however, insists that he doesn t want Lapham s 
 money without his life, but adds significantly, " You re 
 just one million times more interesting to the public than 
 if you hadn t a dollar." And thereupon, while he waited 
 for Lapham to continue, Bartley jotted down this graphic 
 individual sketch in his note-book : " In personal appear 
 ance Silas Lapham is a fine type of the successful Ameri 
 can. He has a square, bold chin, only partially concealed 
 by the short reddish-gray beard, growing to the edges of 
 his firmly closing lips. His nose is short and straight ; 
 his forehead good, but broad rather than high ; his eyes 
 blue, and with a light in them that is kindly or sharp ac 
 cording to his mood. He is of medium height, and fills an 
 average arm-chair with a solid bulk. . . . His head droops 
 somewhat from a short neck which does not trouble itself 
 to rise far from a pair of massive shoulders." 
 
 When Lapham expressed a doubt as to where the inter 
 viewer wanted him to begin, Bartley rather pleased his 
 victim by remarking, " Might begin with your birth ; that s 
 where most of us begin." Lapham gives the information 
 that he was born some fifty-five years before, pretty well 
 up under the Canadian line, but " I was bound to be an 
 American citizen of some sort, from the word Go ! " " Par 
 ents poor, of course," suggested Bartley. " Any barefoot 
 business ? Early deprivations of any kind, that would en 
 courage the youthful reader to go and do likewise ? Or 
 phan myself, you know." But the abiding sense of the 
 hard seriousness of his early struggles stirred the quiet 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 13 
 
 self-respect of Lapham to say that, if the interviewer re 
 garded Lapham s early life as a joke, the interview was at 
 an end. The unabashed Hartley only wrote in his note 
 book how Lapham s parents " taught their children the 
 simple virtues of the Old Testament and Poor Richard s 
 Almanac." 
 
 When Lapham again grew reminiscent he felt a lump in 
 his throat at the tender thought of his mother s assiduous 
 care and heroic self-sacrifice for her boys : " She was a lit 
 tle, frail thing, not bigger than a good-sized intermediate 
 schoolgirl ; but she did the whole work of a family of boys, 
 and boarded the hired men besides. She cooked, swept, 
 washed, ironed, made, and mended from daylight till dark, 
 and from dark till daylight, I was going to say ; for I 
 don t know how she got any time for sleep." He recalls 
 how she always found time, too, to go to church, to teach 
 her boys to read the Bible, and to " misunderstand it in the 
 old way." " She was good. But it ain t her on her knees 
 in church that comes back to me so much like the sight of 
 an angel as her on her knees before me at night, washing 
 my poor, dirty little feet, that I d run bare in all day, and 
 making me decent for bed. ... I can feel her hands on 
 my feet yet ! " Whereupon Bartley, the unsentimental, 
 looked down at Silas s No. 10 boots and gently whistled 
 through his teeth. 
 
 Lapham s suggestion that he would like to paint his 
 mother s hard and stunted life for the modern women who 
 complain of their empty existence is a cue to the inter 
 viewer to swing his subject over to the matter of the min 
 eral paint that has proved the foundation of Lapham s 
 present fortune. The latter eagerly relates how his father 
 found the deposit of mineral paint in a hole made by the 
 
14 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 upturned roots of a tree that had blown down. But the 
 country at that time was too poor for paint, and Silas s 
 father had no facilities for putting it on the market. So 
 that the paint-mine got to be a kind of joke with the Lap- 
 ham family. Finally all the other boys went West and 
 took up land, while Silas stayed by the farm, " not because 
 the paint-mine was on it, but because the old house was 
 and the graves. " Even Silas himself went off, to try Texas, 
 but after three months of it he found that Vermont was 
 "good enough " for him. He married the school-teacher 
 in Lumberville, and together they ran the hotel. His wife 
 urged him to "paint up," till at last he yielded, and to 
 gether they drove out to the farm and brought back " a 
 bushel of the stuff." " I tried it crude, and I tried it burnt ; 
 and I liked it. ... There wa n t any painter by trade in 
 the village, and I mixed it myself. Well, sir, that tavern s 
 got that coat of paint on it yet." When Silas Lapham got 
 the first coat on, his sympathetic and filial memory called 
 up the picture of his old father who had failed, and in 
 recounting the incident to his interviewer Silas sadly re 
 marked, " I ve noticed that most things get along too late 
 for most people." He recalled how his wife Persis came 
 out from the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and sat 
 down beside him on the trestle, and how he asked, " What 
 do you think, Persis ? " " And says she, Well, you hain t 
 got a paint-mine, Silas Lapham ; you ve got a gold-mmeS " 
 As a memorial to his father, Silas wanted to call the 
 paint the " Nehemiah Lapham Mineral Paint," but finding 
 the name too long he had stamped on every barrel, keg, 
 bottle, and package, big or little, the initials and figures 
 " N. L. f. 1835, S. L. t. 1855," which being interpreted 
 read, " Father found it in 1835, and I tried it in 1855." 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 15 
 
 By analysis a man from Boston showed that the ore con 
 tained seventy-five per cent of the peroxide of iron, and 
 the scientific phrase was pronounced by Lapham with a 
 sort of reverent satisfaction, being accented as if it were 
 spelled " purr-ox-eyed." Silas enthusiastically related 
 how the expert sat down and told him that he had a 
 paint that would drive every other mineral paint out of 
 the market. " Why, says he, * it ll drive em right into 
 the Back Bay 1 That paint has got hydraulic cement in 
 it, and it can stand fire and water and acids. When 
 you ve got your arrangements for burning it properly, 
 you re going to have a paint that will stand like the ever 
 lasting hills, in every climate under the sun. " And then, 
 after Lapham himself had indulged in a eulogy of the 
 manifold virtues of his paint, detailing how it could be 
 used on the inside of a cistern, or a bath-tub, or a steam- 
 boiler, or on the outside of a brick wall, or a railroad car, 
 or a steamboat deck, the newspaper man naively sug 
 gested, " Never tried it on the human conscience, I sup 
 pose." To which Lapham gravely replied, " I guess you 
 want to keep that as free from paint as you can, if you 
 want much use of it. I never cared to try any of it on 
 mine." 
 
 On shelves over his office desk Lapham pointed out with 
 peculiar pride the finest grade of his paint put up in flaw 
 less glass jars, with the different tints showing through ; 
 and Bartley read on one of the labels, "The Persis Brand," 
 which Lapham said, with much satisfaction, he had put 
 on the market in honor of his wife on her last birthday. 
 In his grateful pride over the stanch cooperation of his 
 wife in their early struggles to succeed with the paint, 
 Lapham reminded his interviewer how he used to say, 
 
1 6 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 " It wa n t the seventy-five per cent of purr-ox-eyed of iron 
 in the ore that made that paint go ; it was the seventy-five 
 per cent of purr-ox-eyed of iron in her" 
 
 Lapham s esthetic sense could find nothing wrong in 
 covering the scenery with advertisements of his paint, and, 
 as he told Hubbard, he never could see anything so very 
 sacred about a big rock that it wouldn t do to put mineral 
 paint on it in three colors. " I wish some of the people 
 that talk about the landscape, and write about it, had to 
 bu st one of them rocks out of the landscape with powder, 
 or dig a hole to bury it in, as we used to have to do up on 
 the farm ; I guess they d sing a little different tune about 
 the profanation of scenery." On Lapham s insisting 
 that the landscape was made for man, and not man for the 
 landscape, his interviewer ironically remarked, " Yes, it was 
 made for the stove-polish man and the kidney-cure man ; " 
 and when Silas, in his attempt to resume his narrative, asked 
 where he was, Bartley softly suggested, "decorating the 
 landscape." 
 
 But the Civil War proved too much for the mineral 
 paint, and Lapham s wife, seeing a providence in the failure 
 to sell it, recognized that he had a country worth fighting 
 for. "Well, sir, I went. I knew she meant business. 
 It might kill her to have me go, but it would kill her sure 
 if I stayed." And the fruit of his going was a ball in his 
 leg, which he called his " thermometer." His return from 
 the war was the beginning of wider operations in the paint 
 business, and, much against his will but with his wife s 
 urgent advice, he took a partner with capital, who knew 
 nothing about paint; and in a year or two the partner 
 withdrew with, as Bartley suggested, "the experience." 
 This episode, as Bartley surmised, was the sore spot in 
 
if 
 
 n . c c ., 
 e Rise of Silas Lapham 17 
 
 Silas s memory, and was to have a ruinous significance in 
 his later life. But as he went on, Lapham s enthusiasm 
 over his paint grew unbounded, his paint was almost 
 his religion. " You pass a ton of that paint dry through 
 a blast-furnace, and you ll get a quarter of a ton of pig- 
 iron. I believe in my paint. I believe it s a blessing to 
 the world. When folks come in, and kind of smell round, 
 and ask me what I mix it with, I always say, Well, in the 
 first place, I mix it with Faith > and after that I grind it up 
 with the best quality of boiled linseed oil that money will 
 buy. " 
 
 Leaving his interviewer at the newspaper office, Lapham 
 drove to Nankeen Square at the South End of Boston, 
 where he had not built, but had bought very cheap, with 
 a characteristic sense for a bargain, a house that be 
 longed to a " terrified gentleman of good extraction who 
 discovered too late that the South End was not the thing, 
 and who, in the eagerness of his flight to the Back Bay, 
 threw in his carpets and shades for almost nothing." 
 Neither Silas Lapham nor his sensible, self-reliant wife 
 had ever felt the personal disadvantage of being in an 
 unfashionable neighborhood ; but after Mrs. Lapham and 
 her daughters had accidentally, on a summer trip to a 
 Canadian watering-place, been thrown in somewhat inti 
 mate contact with a cultivated and aristocratic Boston 
 family with an eligible son in it, it began to suggest itself 
 that a new home " on the water side of Beacon Street " 
 might be a social advantage to the daughters. 
 
 In discussing with her husband the impression these 
 
 refined Bostonians had made on her, they made her feel, 
 
 she said, "as if we had always lived in the backwoods," 
 
 she asked him if he knew them, and added, with 
 
 c 
 
1 8 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 reference to the head of the family, " What busi 
 ness is he in?" "I guess he ain t in anything," said 
 Lapham. " They were very nice," said Mrs. Lapham, in 
 impartial tone. " Well, they d ought to be," returned the 
 Colonel, "never done anything else." When his wife 
 insisted that they never seemed " stuck up," her husband 
 with the all-sufficient pride of new-won wealth ironically 
 answered, " They d no need to with you. I could buy 
 him and sell him, twice over." In illustration of his proud 
 financial ability, when his wife received from Mrs. Corey 
 a lithographed circular asking for subscriptions to a very 
 praiseworthy charity, Lapham promptly drew his check 
 for five hundred dollars, which his wife promptly tore in 
 two, remarking as she did so that a hundred would do, as 
 she " didn t want to show off before them." 
 
 After much artful broaching of the subject of building 
 on his new lot in Beacon Street, the Colonel persuaded his 
 wife to drive over and see the site, and as they jogged 
 along they talked of the different kinds of architecture along 
 the streets and admired the worst. Now and then they 
 noticed a young man lifting his hat in response to some 
 salutation from a window, and it suggested to Lapham that 
 his own girls wouldn t " look very bad behind one of those 
 big panes." This called to the mother s mind the thought 
 of the young Corey whom they had met the summer before 
 in Canada and been so much impressed by. Upon her 
 husband s inquiry as to whether the young man was with 
 his family in Boston, and her reply that he was on a ranch 
 in Texas with a friend and had apparently got something 
 to do, the Colonel sarcastically commented, with all the 
 confidence of an energetic business man, " Yes ; gentle 
 man ing as a profession has got to play out in a generation 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lap ham " 19 
 
 or two." At "tea" that evening, with Penelope and 
 Irene, the two daughters, his wife, in her affectionate 
 banter, intimated that if her husband wanted to he could 
 run his own furnace and shovel his own sidewalk until 
 he got over to Beacon Street anyway. Whereupon the 
 redoubtable Colonel asserted, " A man can be a man on 
 Beacon Street as well as anywhere, I guess." " Well, I ll do 
 the wash, as I used to in Lumberville," said Mrs. Lapham. 
 " I presume you ll let me have set tubs, Si." But, despite 
 the joking about it, the Colonel seemed really to have made 
 up his mind to build on "the water side of Beacon." 
 
 Lapham s architectural ideas were definite enough, but 
 they were curiously antiquated and inharmonious. In the 
 merciless hands of an architect, however, a revolution was 
 wrought in the Colonel s -crude ideas of a house ; for, as 
 the author remarks, nearly all architects are skillful in 
 playing upon " that simple instrument, Man." Of all the 
 construction the pile-driving interested Lapham most, and 
 every day he would drive over with his wife to see and 
 hear the engine carry the big iron weight to the top of the 
 framework and let it drop with a mighty force on the iron- 
 bound head of the pile. " By gracious ! " he would say, 
 " there ain t anything like that in this world for business, 
 Persis ! " One day, as they were inspecting the new house, 
 the Colonel s former partner, Rogers, whom Lapham 
 had crowded out just before his great success came, ap 
 peared on the scene and made a very uncomfortable 
 situation. His wife accused Lapham of having made his 
 paint his god, and charged him with not being able to look 
 his old partner in the face, at which Lapham lost his 
 temper, turned his horse suddenly toward home, and re 
 marked hotly, " I guess you don t want to ride with me 
 
2O Provincial Types in New England 
 
 any more to-day." His wife, in her indignation, had the 
 last word : " Don t you ask me to go to that house with 
 you any more. You can sell it, for all me. I shan t live 
 in it. There s blood on it." Yet they ignored their 
 quarrel later, and the wife recognized that in a way his 
 paint was something more than a business to him ; it was 
 a sentiment, and almost a passion, the poetry of a nature 
 that was otherwise so intensely prosaic. 
 
 A few days later the family went over to look at the 
 interior arrangements of the house ; and when at the fa 
 ther s invitation the daughters sat by his side on a trestle in 
 the bay window and somewhat scornfully laughed at the 
 position, the Colonel, rather enjoying their superior ways, 
 reminded them that their mother wasn t ashamed to sit 
 with him on a trestle the first time he ever tried his paint 
 on a house. " Yes ; we ve heard that story," said Penel 
 ope, " we were brought up on that story." 
 
 Upon young Corey s unexpected entrance and his intro 
 duction to the father, the Colonel, with a little shock to 
 his rather sensitive daughters, jocularly asked, " Have a 
 trestle ? " And in a free and somewhat boastful tone the 
 Colonel enlarged upon his ideas and plans, declaring that 
 there wouldn t be an unpleasant room in the house, and 
 that they were going to have the best rooms for themselves, 
 and that he had the best architect in Boston. " And if 
 money can do it, I guess I m going to be suited. ... I 
 started out to build a forty thousand house. Well, sir ! 
 that fellow has got me in for more than sixty thousand 
 already, and I doubt if I get out of it much under a hun 
 dred. . . . It s just like ordering a picture of a painter. 
 You pay him enough, and he can afford to paint you a 
 first-class picture." 
 
"The Rise of Silas Lapham " 21 
 
 Young Corey s appreciative remark as to how well the 
 Memorial Hall and the Cambridge spires worked up from 
 the bay window started another egotistical strain of garrulity 
 on the Colonel s part: " Yes, sir, it s about the sightliest 
 view I know of. I always did like the water side of 
 Beacon. . . . When they talk about Commonwealth 
 Avenue, I don t know what they mean. It don t hold a 
 candle to the water side of Beacon." The Colonel s 
 continued assertiveness was hard for his daughters to 
 hear, and when they got home Penelope, the elder, enter 
 tained her sister Irene with a very good imitation of 
 her father s characteristic talk. However, in recounting 
 his experience at the new Lapham house, Tom Corey 
 said to his father, with reference to the Colonel : " Do 
 you know that, in spite of his syntax, I rather like him ? . . . 
 He struck me as very simple-hearted and rather wholesome. 
 Of course he could be tiresome ; we all can ; and I suppose 
 his range of ideas is limited. But he is a force, and not 
 a bad one." And the Colonel on his part had taken a 
 great liking to Tom Corey, remarking emphatically to his 
 wife, "If I had that fellow in the business with me, I 
 would make a man of him." 
 
 What was his delighted surprise, a few days after, 
 to have the identical young man, son of the well- 
 known and aristocratic Bromfield Corey, open his office 
 door and ask if the Colonel would take him into 
 the mineral paint business ! The Colonel would have 
 given any sum of money if his wife could have over 
 heard the request, the approaches of the aristocratic 
 are so gratifying to the ambitious pride of the suddenly 
 rich. But Mrs. Corey s insinuation that young Corey 
 would feel himself too good for the mineral paint busi- 
 
22 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 ness made the Colonel a little resentful, and his first 
 attitude toward the young man was that of making him 
 appreciate how good a thing the Lapham paint was. 
 However, when young Corey declared that he had 
 already made inquiries about the paint and believed in it, 
 Lapham warmed and softened toward him in every way. 
 He enthusiastically showed him a photograph of the 
 locality of the mine, adding, as if the photographic art 
 had slighted the features of some beloved face, " it don t 
 half do the place justice." Then he went on and on, 
 telling his paint story with loving and unsparing detail. 
 Although the young man offered to represent the business 
 in foreign parts without salary and purely on a com 
 mission, the matter could not be settled so quickly, and 
 the Colonel took him down to his summer cottage at 
 Nantasket to consider the proposition more fully. And 
 when, at the landing, he took the reins from his coachman 
 and told Corey to get into the back seat with his daughter 
 Penelope, who had driven to the boat for her father, 
 the Colonel gave her a wink of supreme content at 
 having so unexpected and aristocratic a guest, and exulted 
 in his prospective triumph over Mrs. Lapham. As he 
 would himself have said, he was feeling "about right." 
 The matter of business having been fairly settled after 
 "tea," the family and their guest met in the parlor; and 
 a volume of " Middlemarch " lying on the table suggested 
 to Corey a question about George Eliot, which only dis 
 closed the fact that the younger daughter, Irene, did not 
 know who she was. Lapham declared himself in favor of 
 stereopticon lectures and the theater something to make 
 you laugh, and confessed that all he could find time to 
 read was newspapers. "When the girls want a novel, I 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 23 
 
 tell em to get it out of the library. That s what the 
 library s for." Lapham was hardly a bibliophile, though 
 as near to being one as many other business men in 
 modern life. 
 
 When, by what he imagined was his finesse, he got the 
 girls to take Mr. Corey out to show him- the night view of 
 the hotels from the rocks, he exultingly gave his wife a 
 detailed account of how the young man happened to be 
 their guest. To his wife s mind the chief significance of 
 Corey s request to come into the business was its supposed 
 reference to their younger daughter s hand ; and her hus 
 band had evidently thought of the same thing, although he 
 pretended that it had never occurred to him before. But 
 his wife penetrated his thin disguise and reminded him 
 that if the young man didn t " take a fancy " to Irene, the 
 Colonel could hardly do him justice, even if he had taken 
 him into the business. The Colonel protested against this 
 interpretation of his motives and his ambition for his 
 daughter; but in reality having this scion of a well-known 
 family, with an assured social position, apply for a place 
 in his business and possibly, later, for his daughter s hand, 
 made up one of the sweetest moments in his success. Next 
 to winning the school-teacher in Lumberville as his wife, 
 the possibility of Corey s permanent connection with his 
 family had moved his heavy imagination. 
 
 Yet in all his business relations with young Corey he 
 was careful to preserve the pride that comes from self- 
 making, and he in no way distinguished the young man 
 from the rest of his clerks. Indirectly his immense satis 
 faction over the presence of Corey in his office would 
 be illustrated by some such remark as the following: 
 " Did you notice that fellow at the desk facing my type- 
 
24 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 writer girl ? Well, sir, that s the son of Bromfield Corey 
 old Phillips Corey s grandson. . . . He s got charge of 
 the foreign correspondence. We re pushing the paint 
 everywhere." 
 
 His actual liking for the young fellow and -genuine ap 
 preciation of his parts even deflected the Colonel s earlier 
 judgment on the qualifications essential to business suc 
 cess. " I used to believe in what old Horace Greeley 
 said about college graduates being the poorest kind of 
 horned cattle ; but I ve changed my mind a little. You 
 take that fellow Corey. He s been through Harvard. . . . 
 Been everywhere, and talks half a dozen languages like 
 English. I suppose he s got money enough to live with 
 out lifting a hand, any more than his father does ; son of 
 Bromfield Corey, you know. But the thing was in him. 
 He s a natural-born business man; and I ve had many a 
 fellow with me that had come up out of the street, and 
 worked hard all his life, without ever losing his original 
 opposition to the thing. But Corey likes it. I don t know 
 where he got it. I guess it must be his grandfather, old 
 Phillips Corey; it often skips a generation, you know." 
 And then the paint manufacturer grew sagely philosophical 
 and spoke with all the certainty of self-sufficient knowl 
 edge : " What I say is, a thing has got to be born in a 
 man ; and if it ain t born in him, all the privations in the 
 world won t put it there, and if it is, all the college train 
 ing won t take it out." 
 
 All efforts of the Colonel to bring the young Corey 
 down to Nantasket to see his family were thwarted by the 
 ridicule of his wife, whose pride forbade any " running 
 after " the young man as a match for their daughter Irene. 
 All of Lapham s subterfuges and thin disguises with that 
 
"The Rise of Silas Lapham" 25 
 
 in view were penetrated by his wife s quick intuition, much 
 to his irritation. But he always had his mare as a last 
 resort for a spin with Corey out over the Milldam, when 
 Lapham s chief topics of conversation were his horse and 
 his paint, the new house and himself. 
 
 Lapham s special resentment seemed directed against 
 Bromfield Corey, the father of his new clerk, because he 
 made no call upon him and no social advances ; but his 
 wife, with all her sensitive pride, could see things as they 
 were and could recognize that the two families had en 
 tirely different social relations. Her husband would ask 
 indignantly: " Are they any better than we are ? My note 
 of hand would be worth ten times what Bromfield Corey s 
 is on the street to-day. And I made my money. I haven t 
 loafed my life away." To which came the penetrating 
 retort of the wife : " Oh, it isn t what you ve got, and it 
 isn t what you ve done exactly. It s what you are." 
 
 By the masterly diplomacy of his architect the Colonel 
 went on from one outlay to another, under the delusion, 
 often, that what the architect had deftly won he himself 
 had seen or perhaps conceived, until his prudent wife was 
 impelled to call a halt and limit the cost of the new house 
 to a hundred thousand dollars. Incidentally, in account 
 ing for the fact that he had an abundance of money to put 
 into his building scheme, he confessed that he had been mak 
 ing a very good thing in stocks. " In stocks ? When did 
 you take up gambling for a living ? " And the guilty hus 
 band protestingly replied, " Gambling? Stuff! What gam 
 bling? Who said it was gambling ? " And when his wife 
 reminded him that that was what he once called gambling, 
 his naive defense took this form of explanation : " Oh, yes, 
 buying and selling on a margin. But this was a bonafide 
 
26 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 transaction. I bought at forty-three for an investment, 
 and I sold at a hundred and seven ; and the money passed 
 both times." His wife s warning prophecy, however, was, 
 " Next time you ll buy at a hundred and seven and sell at 
 forty-three. Then where ll you be ? " " Left," admitted 
 the Colonel. And his wife s final injunction was, " You 
 better stick to paint awhile yet." 
 
 One night the Colonel came down to their summer cot 
 tage at Nantasket with a peculiarly radiant air, and after 
 long guessing on his wife s part he divulged, with much 
 happiness and a sense of relief, that greatly to his surprise 
 his former partner Rogers whom he had crowded out 
 of the paint business at a time when he saw a large future 
 for it had called and asked for a loan, and Lapham 
 had granted it on practically worthless security. The 
 loan he made was of the money his wife had prevented 
 him from putting into the new house. His wife joyfully 
 saw in the whole transaction a kindly providence, and 
 said approvingly, " You ve taken the one spot the one 
 speck off you that was ever there, and I m satisfied." 
 " There wa n t ever any speck there," Lapham doggedly 
 protested, "and what I done I done for you, Persis." 
 But this generosity for his wife s sake, by the irony of fate, 
 was later to aid in his undoing. 
 
 The long-looked-for call from Bromfield Cory had the 
 effect on Lapham of stirring his characteristic boastfulness, 
 and there was much self-satisfaction in the Colonel s 
 praise of young Corey as if he were a mere office-boy. 
 " I had faith in him, and I saw that he meant business 
 from the start." All this to illustrate in part his own 
 shrewd penetration. And when the father modestly and 
 humorously remarked that he was afraid his son hadn t 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 27 
 
 inherited such business qualities from him, the Colonel 
 compassionately said, " Well, sir, we can t help those 
 things. Some of us have got it, and some of us haven t. 
 The idea is to make the most of what we have got." Then 
 he impressed upon his caller that his own (Lapham s) 
 latent strength came into full consciousness only by the 
 development of experience ; and he added somewhat 
 patronizingly : " And I can see that it s going to be just 
 so with your son. His going through college won t hurt 
 him, he ll soon slough all that off, and his bringing up 
 won t; don t be anxious about it." He found it neces 
 sary, also, to call Mr. Corey s attention to The Events, in 
 which Lapham s biography had appeared, but unfortu 
 nately Bromfield Corey read only the Boston Daily Adver 
 tiser. In reporting Corey s call that night to his wife, 
 Lapham said, " Don t know as I ever saw a much pleas- 
 anter man. Dunno but what he s about the pleasantest 
 man I ever did see." And then Mr. Howells, with an illu 
 minating touch, makes this significant comment : " He was 
 not letting his wife see in his averted face the struggle 
 that revealed itself there the struggle of stalwart 
 achievement not to feel flattered at the notice of sterile 
 elegance, not to be sneakingly glad of its amiability, but 
 to stand up and look at it with eyes on the same level." 
 
 On the spur of Corey s call the Colonel s social ambition 
 took a leap, he told his wife that he was going to push 
 the new house, and at least invite Corey to " a fish din 
 ner at Taft s " ; whereupon his wife s contempt knew no 
 bounds. That night the Colonel failed to rest well ; he 
 failed to appear at the office next day, and young Corey 
 came down to Nantasket to inquire about his health. 
 Mrs. Lapham insisted on her husband s not showing him- 
 
28 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 self in his dressing-gown, and when the visitor met the 
 vanquished Colonel indoors the latter was still buttoning 
 up his double-breasted frock-coat. But a courteous call 
 of inquiry after one s health was not the usual thing in 
 Lapham s circle, and surprise was mingled with gratifica 
 tion at the young man s polite solicitude. Corey s re 
 peated visits began to make Mrs. Lapham feel that in 
 some way they were taking advantage of his family s 
 absence from the city ; but the Colonel remarked that the 
 young man was of age, and indignantly declared, " To 
 hear you talk, you d think those Coreys were too good for 
 this world, and we wa n t fit for em to walk on." As his 
 indignation grew his language became more emphatic : 
 " Once for all, now, don t you ever let me hear you say 
 anything like that again ! I m worth nigh on to a million, 
 and I ve made it every cent myself ; and my girls are 
 the equals of anybody, I don t care who it is." Thus, 
 here and there, the pride of his honest manhood mingles 
 with the pride of his self-created success, despite his sense 
 of social deficiency. 
 
 The Corey invitation to dinner naturally created in the 
 Lapham family something of a sensation. In the formal 
 note of invitation, Mrs. Corey had spoken of " General " 
 Lapham, and the Colonel s comment at supper had a touch 
 of his characteristic humor in it : "I didn t know I was a 
 general. I guess I shall have to be looking up my back pay." 
 In accepting the invitation, Mrs. Lapham, who had no spe 
 cial sense " of the awful and binding nature of a dinner invi 
 tation," made no mention of the fact that her elder daughter 
 Penelope had refused to go, and in the hope that her daugh 
 ter might relent, cherished the easy belief that her absence 
 might be readily excused after the Laphams arrival at the 
 
"The Rise of Silas Lapham" 29 
 
 dinner party. In her note of acceptance Mrs. Lapham, 
 after long hesitation between her husband s given name 
 and her own, signed herself, " Yours truly, Mrs. S. 
 Lapham." 
 
 What to wear at a formal dinner party was the next 
 momentous question to harass the breasts of the Lapham 
 family. The wife and mother anxiously remarked, " / 
 don t know what to wear ; or the girls either. I do won 
 der I ve heard that people go to dinner in low necks. 
 Do you suppose it s the custom ? " 
 
 "How should /know?" demanded the Colonel. "I 
 guess you ve got clothes enough. Any rate, you needn t 
 fret about it. You just go round to White s or Jordan & 
 Marsh s, and ask for a dinner dress. I guess that ll settle 
 it ; they ll know. Get some of them imported dresses. I 
 see em in the window every time I pass, lots of em." 
 
 The Colonel s bravery of attitude began soon, however, 
 to weaken under all the dress-making effort and discussion 
 in the house, and vague apprehensions in regard to his 
 own clothes hovered in the background of his imagination. 
 " An ideal of the figure in which he should go presented 
 itself to his mind. He should not wear any dress-coat, 
 because, for one thing, he considered that a man looked 
 like a fool in a dress-coat, and, for another thing, he had 
 none had none on principle. He would go in a frock- 
 coat and black pantaloons, and perhaps a white waistcoat, 
 but a black cravat anyway." But this ideal was too much 
 for the rest of the family, and particularly his daughter 
 Irene, who recalled how a few years before he had been 
 the only person without a dress-coat at a corps reunion 
 dinner. And she remembered her awful feeling about it 
 at the time. Even his wife, who would ordinarily have 
 
jo Provincial Types in New England 
 
 admired his independent attitude, shook her head, and 
 remarked apprehensively, " I don t see but what you ll 
 have to get you one, Si. I don t believe they ever go with 
 out em to a private house." 
 
 Openly confident, he nevertheless, on the next day, " cast 
 anchor before his tailor s door and got measured for a 
 dress-coat." Next he was torn with doubt as to his waist 
 coat, but, buying a book of etiquette for the purpose, he 
 found that it decided against white waistcoats. He began, 
 also, to waver on black cravats, and on the critical subject 
 of gloves the book of etiquette also said nothing. Drops 
 of perspiration gathered on the Colonel s forehead in the 
 strenuousness of this inner debate ; he groaned, and even 
 swore a little in the " compromise profanity " that was 
 peculiar to him. His ironical daughter Penelope naively 
 asked why he didn t go to Jordan & Marsh s and order 
 one of the imported dresses for himself. This gave them 
 all the relief of a laugh, but it was a painful laugh for the 
 Colonel. The Colonel devised in his own mind how, by 
 an incidental question to young Corey in the office, he 
 might find out all about dinner gloves, but his provincial 
 pride kept him from even a mention of the prospective 
 dinner. However, he finally bought a pair, and on the 
 night of the dinner, as he stood on the landing of the Corey 
 staircase waiting for his wife and daughter to come down, 
 his saffron-tinted gloves (the tint had been recommended 
 by the shop-girl) on his large fists made them look sug 
 gestively " like canvassed hams." "He stood staring at 
 his hands, now open and now shut, and breathing hard." 
 Suddenly young Tom Corey appeared, and when the 
 Colonel discovered that his host s son wore no gloves, he 
 began with an assumed indifference to pull off his own. 
 
"The Rise of Silas Lap ham " 31 
 
 Mrs. Lapham had decided against low necks, and had 
 " intrenched herself in the safety of a black silk," while 
 Irene, her daughter, "trailed a delicate splendor across 
 the carpet in her mother s wake." Lapham himself, thank 
 ing God that he should have been spared the shame of 
 wearing gloves where no one else did, yet at the same 
 time depressed that Corey should have seen him in them, 
 had " an unwonted aspect of almost pathetic refinement." 
 
 Addressing herself to Mr. Lapham, the hostess, Mrs. 
 Corey, called him " General " Lapham ; the honest man 
 modestly protested, " No, ma am, only Colonel," but the 
 correction was lost upon his hostess. When he failed to 
 get clearly the name of the person to whom he was intro 
 duced, he held the person s hand, and leaning sympatheti 
 cally forward, inquired, " What name ? " a social method 
 he was quite sure was right because it had been used with 
 himself by some great man to whom he had been intro 
 duced on a public platform. When the hostess, being 
 under the impression apparently that the elder Lapham 
 daughter was still in the dressing-room, asked if she could 
 send any one to be of assistance^ to her, Mrs. Lapham, 
 turning fire-red, bluntly said in her embarrassment, " She 
 isn t upstairs. She didn t feel just like coming to-night. 
 I don t know as she s feeling very well." Mrs. Corey, the 
 hostess, "emitted a very small O ! very small, very 
 cold, which began to grow larger and hotter and to 
 burn into Mrs. Lapham s soul " before Mrs. Corey, the 
 lady, expressed her regret, and her hope that there was 
 nothing serious. 
 
 In their determination not to be the first at the dinner 
 party, Mrs. Lapham perceived they had really been the 
 last to arrive and must have kept the other guests waiting. 
 
32 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 The hostess slipped her hand through the Colonel s arm, 
 and they passed out to dinner last of all, though why the 
 Colonel did not know. As he sank into his seat, a long 
 sigh of relief came from Mr. Lapham, for he now felt sure 
 if he only watched the others he could keep himself safe 
 from blunder. The hostess s cousin, James Bellingham, 
 had a little mannerism of tucking the corner of his napkin 
 into his collar, and thereupon the Colonel followed suit ; 
 but seeing that no one but Bellingham did so, he became 
 doubtful and slyly pulled it out. On principle the Colonel 
 was a prohibitionist, and he apprehensively fingered the 
 wine-glasses in his effort to decide whether to turn them 
 all down, as he had once seen a well-known politician do. 
 But it seemed a rather conspicuous thing to do, and so he 
 let the servant fill them all, and drank from each so as not 
 to appear peculiar. He was not at all sure that he ought 
 not to decline some of the dishes or at least leave most of 
 some of them on his plate. However, in his dilemma he 
 took everything and ate everything. 
 
 The Colonel noted with satisfaction that his wife seemed 
 to be holding her own with Mr. Corey, the host, and he 
 himself was getting on famously with the hostess, who had 
 the intuition to introduce the subject of his new house. 
 But in the general conversation about the creative side of 
 architecture, social settlement work, and the function of the 
 modern novel, the Colonel despairingly lost his bearings ; 
 and whenever something appropriate to what they were 
 saying came into his mind he was unable to get it out before 
 they were off on something else ; " they jumped about so, 
 he could not keep up," and he had a general uneasy feel 
 ing that he was not doing himself justice. Being thirsty, 
 and not liking to ask for more water, he freely drank the 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 33 
 
 wine, and it was beginning to have its effect on his unac 
 customed brain. 
 
 When the ladies withdrew to the other room and 
 the Colonel sat with the gentlemen, he felt more at 
 home with the fuming cigar between his lips. He turned 
 sidewise in his chair, intertwined the fingers of both 
 hands, and smoked "at large ease." References were 
 made to the carnage of a particular battle of the Civil 
 War in which the Colonel had been engaged as a mem 
 ber of a Vermont regiment, and it was evidently expected 
 that he would have something interesting to say in the 
 way of reminiscence ; but all he was able to get out was a 
 slight confirmatory remark. Now and then the haze that 
 seemed to envelop his mind would clear away, and allow 
 him some brief significant word that naturally called for 
 more ; and finally he was able to tell them a little story 
 about a fellow in his own company that sacrificed his life 
 for the Colonel s. The story was effective enough, as told 
 in the Colonel s simple, vivid way, to make an impression. 
 The Colonel felt it and was going to deepen that impres 
 sion, when another glass of wine seemed suddenly to make 
 his brain a blank, and the host came to the rescue with, 
 " Shall we join the ladies ? " 
 
 The Colonel noticed that his daughter Irene was look 
 ing beautiful, but not talking much, and under the exhila 
 rating influence of the wine he now perceived that a 
 dinner party was the place to talk. He had, in fact, a 
 certain consciousness of having talked very well himself ; 
 he now carried an air of great dignity, and assumed a 
 grave and weighty deliberateness. He was invited into 
 the library, where he, of course, had to give his ideas on 
 books, remarking, as he did so, that newspapers were 
 
34 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 about all he could find time for. He thanked Bromfield 
 Corey for his son s suggestion of books for his new 
 library, and he also announced that he was going to have 
 pictures. He even asked Mr. Corey " who was about the 
 best American painter going now." He rapidly grew 
 boastful, under the relaxing effect of the wine, and nat 
 urally swung off from pictures to his own mineral paint. 
 He offered to have Mr. Corey run up with him to the 
 Works, where he could also show him some of the finest 
 Jersey grades in the country ; he told about his brother 
 William, the judge in Dubuque, and a farm out there of 
 his own that paid for itself every year in wheat. Losing all 
 fear, he lifted his voice and hammered the chair by way 
 of emphasis. Bromfield Corey seemed impressed, and the 
 other gentlemen would stop now and then to look at the 
 Colonel ; so that the latter was surprised himself by his 
 ease among men whose names he had previously stood in 
 awe of. He grew familiar, and called his host by his sur 
 name alone ; and noticing young Corey, the Colonel took 
 occasion to tell the company how he had once said to his 
 wife that he could make a man of him if he had him in 
 the business. In fact, the Colonel soon had all the talk 
 to himself, and he talked unceasingly, feeling, as he did 
 so, that it was all a great social triumph. 
 
 Word came that Mrs. Lapham was going, but he refused 
 to hurry ; he cordially invited each of the gentlemen pres 
 ent to drop in and see him at his office, and made them 
 promise to do so; and he genially remarked to James 
 Bellingham that it had always been his ambition to know 
 him, and that if any one had said, when he first came to 
 Boston, that in ten years he should be hobnobbing with 
 Jim Bellingham, he should have told that person he lied. 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 35 
 
 He would also have told anybody he lied that had told 
 him, ten years ago, that a son of Bromfield Corey would 
 come and ask him to take him into the business. And 
 thus the man s real secret feeling of immense gratification 
 over his present social privilege came vulgarly and piti 
 fully to the surface. 
 
 The Colonel even specified the amount of his fortune 
 and how many thousand dollars he had just loaned his 
 former partner ; with " patronizing affection " he took 
 leave of the minister, telling him to come around if he got 
 into " a tight place " with his parish work; and turning to 
 his host, Bromfield Corey, he jocularly remarked, " Why, 
 when your wife sent to mine last fall, I drew a check for 
 five hundred dollars, but my wife wouldn t take more than 
 one hundred ; said she wasn t going to show off before 
 Mrs. Corey. I call that a pretty good joke on Mrs. 
 Corey. I must tell her how Mrs. Lapham done her out of 
 a cool four hundred dollars." And then he went away 
 without saying good night to his hostess ! "In the cold 
 gray light of the [next] morning the glories of the night 
 before showed poorer. Here and there a painful doubt 
 obtruded itself and marred them with its awkward 
 shadow." And in his office that morning he turned to 
 Tom Corey, son of his host, and demanded, " Was I drunk 
 last night ? " 
 
 The abject self-abasement of his employer, Colonel 
 Lapham, in the presence of young Corey, as if he were 
 suddenly made aware of an intrinsic social inferiority that 
 was hopeless ; the agony of his discovery that the young 
 man had really been loving his oldest daughter Penelope, 
 instead of the beautiful but somewhat insipid Irene, 
 through whom the ambitious Colonel and his wife had 
 
36 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 ardently hoped for a social alliance with the aristocratic 
 Coreys ; and the Colonel s appeal in his helpless misery 
 to the minister, Mr. Sewell, whom he met at the Corey 
 dinner, are moving and dramatic phases in the develop 
 ment of this crude, strong provincial type that is suddenly 
 called upon to face strange conditions and new forces in 
 its widening life. His almost inarticulate sympathy with 
 the stolid suffering of Irene, and his steadfast sense of 
 justice to the other daughter who had been the innocent 
 cause of this suffering, illustrate the depth of love and the 
 spirit of fairness inherent in Lapham s nature. 
 
 In his effort to deal generously with his old partner, 
 Rogers, whom he had forced out of the paint business 
 at a time when its future was assured, Lapham had, as 
 he phrased it, been throwing good money after bad ; and 
 for the sake of his wife, who was particularly sensitive as 
 to the Colonel s former treatment of his partner, Lapham 
 had gone deeper into Rogers s financial schemes than he 
 really wanted to or judged was best. He casually but 
 meaningly remarked to his wife in connection with the 
 matter that " pretty near everybody but the fellows that 
 owe me seem to expect me to do a cash business, all of a 
 sudden." His wife s question of alarm brought out his re 
 assurance that it was all right. " I ain t going to let the 
 grass grow under my feet, though, especially while 
 Rogers digs the ground away from the roots." " If it has 
 to come to that, I m going to squeeze him." The Colonel s 
 face lighted up with the joy of expected revenge. " Milton 
 K. Rogers is a rascal, if you want to know. . . . But I 
 guess he ll find he s got his come-uppance." And then the 
 Colonel proceeded to tell his wife how Rogers, by dab 
 bling in wildcat stocks, patent-rights, land speculations, 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 37 
 
 and oil claims, had " run through about everything," and 
 how with a certain big mill property he should have gotten 
 rich. " But you can t make Milton K. Rogers rich, any 
 more than you can fat a hide-bound colt. It ain t in him. 
 He d run through Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, and Tom Scott 
 rolled into one in less than six months, give him a chance, 
 and come out and want to borrow money of you." The 
 Colonel s vow was thereupon registered never to let this 
 Rogers borrow from him again. 
 
 In his effort to get back what he had already loaned 
 Rogers, Lapham had become more deeply implicated, and 
 in his confession to his wife he made a clean breast of it. 
 She, recalling how she had urged her husband to make 
 restitution to his old partner for having forced him out of 
 the paint business, fixed the blame entirely upon herself. 
 " She came back to this, with her helpless longing, inbred 
 in all Puritan souls, to have some one specifically 
 suffer for the evil in the world, even if it must be 
 herself." 
 
 But when the opportunity presented itself of getting rid 
 of the mill property that had fallen into Lapham s hands 
 as security in his dealing with Rogers, Lapham s robust 
 but tempted honesty and sense of fair play proved so 
 strong that it stood in the way of his own financial recov 
 ery. And this rugged virtue of exact honesty and charac 
 teristic sense of fair play were confirmed, though sadly, 
 by his sympathetic and courageous wife. Her pride in 
 him was one of his strongest props in the strain of great 
 emergencies. She was willing to fall with him, so long as 
 in that fall their honor and honesty were retained. Yet 
 she tried to be optimistic for his sake : " I don t suppose 
 but what there s plenty would help you if they knew you 
 
38 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 needed it, Si." But the husband sardonically replied : 
 " They would if they knew I didn t need it." 
 
 The fluctuations in Lapham s affairs told upon his face 
 and temper, he grew old and thin and irascible, and his 
 wife and daughter Penelope had to endure in the home 
 the silence or the petulance of the gloomy, secret man. 
 His troubles thickened when he was least able to bear 
 them, he was obliged to shut down the Works at Lap- 
 ham, where the fire had never been out since it was first 
 kindled, a fact he had always bragged about as " the 
 last expression of his sense of success " ; a new and 
 equally good West Virginia paint, which could be pro 
 duced by a cheaper fuel, had come into the market, 
 already overstocked, with a competition that could not 
 be met; the suddenly roused jealousy of his wife 
 though in fact due to a misinterpretation of his unselfish 
 charity toward a drunken widow and her daughter for 
 a time isolated him from her helpful sympathy ; and, last 
 of all, he was compelled to make up his mind to sell his 
 new house, which had stood for so much in his hopes and 
 ideals. Yet the Colonel s depression was often alternated 
 with the spirit of optimism, when by some vague imagina 
 tion it seemed to him that all things would in some mirac 
 ulous way be made right. " The process of Lapham s 
 financial disintegration was like the course of some 
 chronic disorder which has fastened itself upon the 
 constitution, but advances with continual reliefs, with 
 apparent amelioration, and at times seems not to 
 advance at all, when it gives hope of final recovery 
 not only to the sufferer but to the eye of science." 
 Lapham s adversity was not always like " the adversity 
 we figure in allegory ; it had its moments of being like 
 
"The Rise of Silas Lapham " 39 
 
 prosperity, and if upon the whole it was continual, it was 
 not incessant." 
 
 In shrinking from the making of an assignment because 
 of its publicity, he even determined, as already suggested, 
 upon the sale of his new house " on the water side of 
 Beacon Street." But his pride would not allow the prop 
 erty to be described or his own name given by the broker 
 unless " parties meant business." In fact, there did come 
 a specific offer from some one who had seen the house in 
 the fall to pay for it what it had cost up to that time. But 
 so much of his hope for himself and his children had gone 
 into the house that the thought of selling it made him 
 tremulous and sick. With his nerves shaken by want of 
 sleep and the shock of this sudden question of sale, Lap- 
 ham left his office early and went at sunset to look at his 
 house and come to some conclusion. The very street 
 lamps, as they flared down the beautiful perspective 
 toward the sunset, seemed to Silas not merely a part of 
 the landscape, but " a part of his pride and glory, his suc 
 cess, his triumphant life s work, which was fading into 
 failure in his helpless hands." He looked up and recalled 
 how he and his daughter Irene had stood one night before 
 the house and she had said that she should never live 
 there. There was no such facade on the street, he thought ; 
 the whole design " appealed to him as an exquisite bit of 
 harmony appeals to the unlearned ear." He went up into 
 the music room, and the whim seized him to test the chim 
 ney by a fire in the grate. He watched the burning shav 
 ings and blocks as he sat on a nail-keg and noted the 
 chimney s success, and the proud resolution came to him 
 never to sell the house so long as he had a dollar. Hav 
 ing optimistically smoked his cigar, he stamped upon 
 
40 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 the embers still aglow and went home with a buoyant 
 heart. 
 
 But alas ! for human hopes ; as he and his daughter 
 Penelope, after the theater that night, walked around to 
 see the new house by starlight, what should be lighting 
 up the sky with its lurid flames but the burning house of 
 Silas Lapham ! "I guess I done it, Pen," was all he 
 said ; and as Penelope drew her father away toward the 
 nearest carriage, they caught the humorous remark : " He 
 ought to have had a coat of his non-combustible paint on 
 it." When he had reached home and his wife falteringly 
 intimated that people would think he had set fire to the 
 house to get the insurance, Lapham pathetically set her 
 mind at rest by his answer : " I had a builder s risk on it, 
 but it expired last week. It s a dead loss." "Oh, thank 
 the merciful Lord ! " cried his wife. " Merciful ! " said 
 Lapham. "Well, -it s a queer way of showing it." And 
 the sleep that he sank into that night might be called a 
 torpor rather than a sleep. The next morning he wished 
 for a moment that he never had wakened. 
 
 Though sorely tempted by the offer of his former part 
 ner and of English agents to take his mill property at a 
 good price, especially since it would mean his own 
 financial salvation, the Colonel sturdily held to his 
 original point of view that the first condition of sale was 
 to be a complete explanation of the circumstances sur 
 rounding the property namely, that the Great Lacustrine 
 & Polar Railroad, on which the mills were dependent, 
 would probably want the mills, and if it did, what it was 
 willing to pay would fix the ultimate value of the property. 
 To come to this conclusion against the subtle wiles of 
 Rogers, his old partner, required an all-night struggle with 
 
" The Rise of Silas Lapham " 41 
 
 his conscience, and even without his wife s usual help, but 
 he was victorious in the end, even to his own undoing. 
 And likewise, when he had an opportunity to sell an inter 
 est in his paint works at Lapham to a willing purchaser, 
 he had lost his chance and all it would have meant to him 
 at that crisis in his affairs by conscientiously telling of the 
 existence of the competing company in West Virginia, and 
 its facilities for cheaper production. 
 
 Finally, after desperate efforts to save himself, and 
 with spasmodic hopes that he would succeed, the gradual 
 process of his ruin brought him to the actual consumma 
 tion of bankruptcy. And all concerned in his affairs said 
 that he behaved well, there was a return to him of his 
 earlier prudence and good sense which he seemed tempo 
 rarily to have lost in his too abundant prosperity; he 
 saw the futility of further operations in Boston; he put 
 the house at Nankeen Square, with everything he had, into 
 the payment of his debts ; and recognized heroically that 
 back in the Vermont hills where he began was the place 
 where he should have to begin again, although the going 
 back was as much the end to him of his proud, prosperous 
 life as death itself could have been. 
 
 In truth, life had lost most of its buoyant quality for 
 him, and even the long-hoped-for alliance with the aristo 
 cratic Corey s, through the marriage of Penelope Lapham 
 with young Corey, failed to bring that sense of gratified 
 social ambition which would once have been so keen a 
 delight. Both the Colonel and his wife took a good deal 
 of satisfaction in his clean-handedness through the whole 
 process of his business collapse ; and when Mr. Sewell 
 and his wife, the next summer after Lapham had sold out, 
 stopped to see him on their way from the White Mountains 
 
42 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 to Lake Champlain, he gave the minister his own interpre 
 tation of the workings of his life, a sort of rude doctrine 
 about the inescapable influence of evil action : " Some 
 times I get to thinking it all over, and it seems to me I 
 done wrong about Rogers in the first place ; that the 
 whole trouble came from that. It was just like starting a 
 row of bricks. I tried to catch up and stop em from 
 going, but they all tumbled, one after another. It wa n t 
 in the nature of things that they could be stopped till the 
 last brick went." 
 
 And when the minister delicately inquired if Lapham 
 ever had any regrets, the Colonel characteristically re 
 plied : " About what I done ? Well, it don t always seem 
 as if I done it. Seems sometimes as if it was a hole 
 opened for me, and I crept out of it. ... I don t know 
 as I should always say it paid ; but if I done it, and the 
 thing was to do over again, right in the same way, I guess 
 I should have to do it." 
 
 This, at the end, is really an essential note in the con- 
 ; vincing portrayal of a self-made Yankee type, strong, yet 
 crude ; ambitious, yet ludicrously provincial at times ; full 
 of an unostentatious philanthropy and a grateful loyalty ; 
 driven with energy, yet kindly and shrewdly humorous; 
 proud and boastful of its own creation, yet almost grovel 
 ing at times in its effort to accomplish its social advance 
 ment ; virile and normal in its ordinary manifestations, but 
 often coarsely vulgar in its pleasures, and ignorant of the 
 delightful worlds of art and literary enjoyment ; and reli 
 giously conscientious in its steadfast honesty, even when 
 that honesty meant the cruel blasting of every hope and 
 achievement. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 "PEMBROKE" BY MARY E. WILKINS 
 
 WHEN the New England short story is mentioned the 
 mind naturally turns to Miss Wilkins (now Mary Wilkins 
 Freeman), because of her certain touch in portraying the 
 various provincial types in that special form of literary art. 
 But in her more sustained effort of " Pembroke " one gets 
 more fully the interaction of many village types and a deeper 
 impression of the prevailing grimness and rigidity of much 
 of New England s remote community life, a life that has, 
 too, its pleasing contrasts, its often unconscious humor, and 
 its strength of loyal love and self-sacrifice ; yet as painted 
 by Miss Wilkins it is gaunt and " set," intensely and formally 
 religious, and lacking much in the spirit of mirth and the 
 love of beauty. As has elsewhere been said, conscience and 
 will dominate these lives like passions, they are driven 
 before them like ships with bare masts before the storm. 
 Life often ceases to be joy and becomes only duty, 
 duty of the most exacting and unrelenting kind; or else 
 some cruel stubbornness or inactivity of will works itself out 
 almost unconsciously into a lifelong tragedy of suffering and 
 misery. 
 
 Miss Wilkins s opening picture in " Pembroke " is that 
 of the Thayer family sitting in semicircle about the kitchen 
 fire, the great leather-bound Bible resting on the knees of 
 Caleb Thayer, the father, who is reading from it in solemn 
 
 43 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
44 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 voice ; while his wife, Deborah, " her large face tilted with 
 a judicial and argumentative air," sits straight in her chair 
 and enjoys with much relish one of the imprecatory psalms 
 her husband is reading. Her eyes were gleaming with 
 warlike energy, she was confusing " King David s enemies 
 with those people who crossed her own will." As her eldest 
 son, Barney, came into the kitchen on his way to make a 
 Sunday-night call on his sweetheart, Ephraim, the younger 
 son, stared at his brother s smooth, scented hair, the black 
 satin vest with a pattern of blue flowers on it, the blue coat 
 with brass buttons, and the shining boots, and softly whistled 
 under his breath. 
 
 Mrs. Thayer enjoined her son not to stay later than nine 
 o clock, and to emphasize her injunction " she jerked her 
 chin down heavily as if it were made of iron." But Barnabas, 
 a chip of the maternal block, slammed the door as he went 
 out, and the mother remarked that if he were a few years 
 younger, she would make him shut that door " over again." 
 " Barney " was to be married to Charlotte Barnard in June ; 
 and as he passed under the apple blossoms and looked up, 
 he thought of his share of the income from apples, and how 
 Charlotte after their marriage should have one new silk dress 
 every year and two new bonnets, for his mother had often 
 noted with scorn that Charlotte wore her summer bonnet 
 with another ribbon on it in winter. In his loving pride he 
 had once bought Charlotte a little blue-figured shawl, which 
 her father in the answering pride of poverty had bidden her 
 return. " I ain t goin to have any young sparks buyin your 
 clothes while you are under my roof." 
 
 On his way to Charlotte Barnard s he stopped at the little 
 story-and-a-half cottage house which he had been building 
 in anticipation of his marriage. His father, in his inherited 
 
" Pembroke " 45 
 
 terror of wind, had urged the safety of a one-story house, 
 but Barney scornfully insisted on a story and a half. Through 
 the kitchen window he could see a straight, dark column of 
 smoke rising from Charlotte s home. He imagined how pleased 
 she would be with the sunniness of the windows in this cozy 
 room, and said to himself, " Her rocking-chair can set there." 
 In the fullness of his emotion at the thought of their happi 
 ness the tears came to his eyes, and, laying his cheek against 
 a partition wall of his new house, he suddenly kissed it. As 
 he went out of the house, he thought of their long future 
 together and the solemn end, "I shall lie in my coffin 
 in the north room, and it will be all over," but his heart 
 was leaping with joy and he felt the proud strength of a 
 soldier. 
 
 In the Barnard kitchen, after a somewhat nervous welcome 
 to the lover on the part of Charlotte s mother and Aunt 
 Sylvia, the sudden and gruff voice of Cephas Barnard, the 
 father, bade his daughter light the candle, although it was 
 hardly late enough to justify such a proceeding. But the 
 grim, black-eyed Cephas suspected that the young lover 
 would be likely to hold his daughter s hand in the dusk, 
 and he was going to prevent it. 
 
 Barnabas listened for the welcome crackle of the fire in 
 the parlor where he hoped to sit alone with Charlotte, but 
 this particular Sunday night he failed to hear it. With 
 aggressive opposition Charlotte s father had sometimes pro 
 claimed, " If Barnabas Thayer can t set here with the rest 
 of us, he can go home." His hard and at times almost 
 savage manner was loyally interpreted by Mrs. Barnard to 
 her daughter as "your father s way." As Miss Wilkins 
 remarks, " Miss Barnard herself had spelt out her husband 
 like a hard and seemingly cruel text in the Bible. She 
 
46 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 marveled at its darkness in her light, but she believed in it 
 reverently, and even pugnaciously." But her elder sister 
 Hannah stood in no particular awe of her brother-in-law, 
 and his autocratic whims she was quick to characterize in 
 a somewhat pungent style : " His way ! Keepin you all 
 on rye meal one spell, an not lettin you eat a mite of 
 Injun, an then keepin you on Injun without a mite of 
 rye ! Makin you eat nothin but greens an garden stuff, 
 an jest turnin you out to graze an chew your cuds like 
 horned animals one spell, an then makin you live on meat i " 
 
 Tragically enough, on this eventful night Cephas Barnard 
 and his prospective son-in-law, the one a Whig and the 
 other a Democrat, fell into an ugly political discussion, 
 which waxed uglier, until in his sudden rage the father 
 ordered Barnabas from the house. " Get out of this house, 
 an don t you ever darse darken these doors again while the 
 Lord Almighty reigns ! " Whereupon, in an awful voice, 
 Barnabas rejoined, " I never will, by the Lord Almighty ! " 
 and slammed the door behind him. That quarrel and that 
 vow, in the grimly ordered village tragedy of Miss Wilkins, 
 affected the life of a whole community. Given the " set " 
 New England character and the idolatry of self-will, and 
 some very tragic consequences may result from seemingly 
 trivial causes. 
 
 Against her father s will and even forcibly, Charlotte 
 pushed out into the night calling after her lover to come 
 back, but with characteristic stubbornness he never turned 
 his head ; and there she stood alone, finally shouting to him 
 imperiously, " If you re ever coming back, you come now ! " 
 Locked out from her home by her angry father, Charlotte 
 sat motionless on the door-stone till her Aunt Sylvia s appear 
 ance suggested that she spend the night with her. And as 
 
" Pembroke " 47 
 
 they went by, all unknown to them, Barnabas Thayer, the 
 maddened lover, watched them from the window of his new 
 house, and bewailed the hardness of his fate, which he inevi 
 tably connected with the will of God. " What have I done 
 to be treated in this way ? he demanded, setting his face 
 ahead in the darkness ; and he did not see Cephas Barnard s 
 threatening countenance, but another, gigantic with its vague 
 outlines, which his fancy could not limit, confronting him 
 with terrible negative power like a stone image. He struck 
 out against it, and the blows fell back on his own heart." 
 
 Involved in the misery of Charlotte and Barnabas, is the 
 sweet and lifelike " old maid," Aunt Sylvia Crane, who, de 
 tained by the quarrel of Cephas and Barnabas, had missed at 
 her own home the regular Sunday-night call of Richard 
 Alger, her quasi-lover for the past eighteen years. The 
 previous Sunday night he had come so perilously near to 
 " PPP m g tne question " that he had managed to move over 
 from his chair to the haircloth sofa on which she expectantly 
 sat ; he had actually begun a sort of declaration of love when 
 the clock struck ten and startled him into a sense of the late 
 ness of the hour, putting a sudden end to his long-delayed 
 and long-hoped-for proposal. And so through the following 
 week Sylvia Crane had trembled and sighed and yearned for 
 the next Sunday night, when, perhaps, Richard would end 
 his long wooing and add the crown of happiness to her 
 patient life. But alas ! when he did actually come he found 
 the stone which the Crane family from time immemorial 
 had rolled before the front door in their absence blocking 
 the way, and he abruptly returned to his home. That night, 
 while her niece, Charlotte Barnard, lay sobbing upstairs and 
 muttering to herself, " Poor Barney ! Poor Barney ! " her 
 Aunt Sylvia, below, kept repeating piteously : " Poor Rich- 
 
48 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 ard ! Poor Richard ! " And the next morning, after a long 
 night of restless grief, the old maid felt that the disappoint 
 ment of her niece was as nothing in comparison with the 
 sorrow of her own maturity. " I guess she ain t had any 
 such night as I have. Girls don t know much about it." 
 The hopelessness of her sorrow took the surprising form of 
 petulance and hostile criticism, and the naturally sweet- 
 tempered woman even dared to strike at the willful eccentric 
 ities of her brother-in-law. She maintained with remarkable 
 audacity that Barney was no more " set " than Cephas ; and 
 when her sister defended her husband, with the remark, 
 " Cephas ain t set. It s jest his way," Sylvia grew strangely 
 ironical : " Folks had better been created without ways, 
 then. . . . They d been enough sight happier an better 
 off, and so would other folks that they have to do with, than 
 to have so many ways, an not sense enough to manage 
 them." Sylvia even went so far in her sudden reaction 
 against fate as to inveigh against the doctrine of free will, 
 which naturally had a horrifying effect on her other sister, the 
 strong-willed, churchly, and dominating Hannah Berry. 
 " Sylvy Crane, you ain t goin to deny one of the doctrines 
 of the Church, at your time of life?" And being bravely 
 answered by Sylvia in the affirmative, Mrs. Berry exclaimed : 
 " Then all I ve got to say is you d ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself. Why, I should think you was crazy, Sylvy Crane, 
 settin up yourself agin the doctrines of the Word." 
 
 The garrulous and outspoken Hannah was not lacking 
 either in criticism of her brother-in-law ; but his wife Sarah 
 came to his defense, recalling his morning s talk on food. 
 " He said this mornin that he didn t know but we were 
 eatin the wrong kind of food. Lately he s had an idea that 
 mebbe we d ought to eat more meat ; he s thought it was 
 
" Pembroke " 49 
 
 more strengthenin , an we d ought to eat things as near like 
 what we wanted to strengthen as could be. I ve made a 
 good deal of bone soup. But now he says he thinks mebbe 
 he s been mistaken, an animal food kind of quickens the 
 animal nature in us, an that we d better eat green things 
 an garden sass." To which the sarcastic Hannah, with a 
 sniff, retorted : " I guess garden sass will strengthen the 
 other kind of sass that Cephas Barnard has got in him, full 
 as much as bone soup has." When later Cephas came over 
 and marched back, with his wife and daughter following 
 close behind, Hannah Berry s parting comment was : " Well, 
 all I ve got to say is I m thankful I ain t got a man like that, 
 an you ought to be mighty thankful you ain t got any man 
 at all, Sylvy Crane." But poor Sylvia could hardly agree. 
 
 When, at home, Charlotte had put off her purple gown, 
 which was to have been a part of the wedding wardrobe, 
 and clad in a common dress, descended to the kitchen, she 
 found her mother facing her father with unwonted spirit. 
 She was remonstrating with him for his latest whim, he 
 had turned vegetarian with such a vengeance that he was in 
 sisting on sorrel pies, and he wanted them made without lard. 
 His wife argued the impossibility of such cookery, although 
 she made the confession that " Mebbe the sorrel, if it had 
 some molasses on it for juice, wouldn t taste very bad." 
 When both wife and daughter leagued against him in the 
 matter of such pastry, Cephas came out of the pantry carry 
 ing the mixing-board and rolling-pin "like a shield and a 
 club," and set to work himself with characteristic stubborn 
 ness. His wife softly intimated that she had some pumpkin 
 that would make good pies, but the perverse vegetarian said 
 he knew that pumpkin pies had milk in them, " An I tell 
 you I ain t goin to have anything of an animal nature in 
 E 
 
50 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 " terribly ugly, an they don t eat a mite of meat," Cephas 
 crushingly replied : " Ain t I told ye once horses were the 
 exceptions. There has to be exceptions. If there wa n t 
 any exceptions there couldn t be any rule, an there bein 
 exceptions shows there is a rule. Women can t ever get 
 hold of things straight. Their minds slant off sideways, the 
 way their arms do when they fling a stone." 
 
 In the midst of his pie-making that she-Puritan, Deborah 
 Thayer, abruptly entered. "She moved, a stately, high- 
 hipped figure, her severe face almost concealed in a scoop 
 ing, green, barege hood, to the center of the floor, and stood 
 there with a pose that might have answered for a statue of 
 Judgment." She came to see what her son Barnabas, the 
 night before, had done that Cephas Barnard should order 
 him from the house forever. " If it s anything wrong, I 
 shall be jest as hard on him as the Lord for it." Charlotte s 
 exclamation that Barney had done nothing wrong was simply 
 ignored by his mother, who fiercely assailed Cephas for the 
 reason. Cephas, grimly silent, at last opened his mouth as 
 if perforce, declaring that they " got to talkin about the 
 lection," and that, according to his own reasoning, what 
 they ate had a good deal to do with it. " I think if you d 
 kept your family on less meat, and given em more garden- 
 stuff to eat, Barney wouldn t have been so up an comin . 
 It s what he s eat that s made him what he is." This was 
 too much for the logical theories of Deborah Thayer, and 
 she gazed at Cephas in stern amazement. " You re tryin to 
 make out, as near as I can tell, that whatever my son has done 
 wrong is due to what he s eat, and not to original sin. I 
 knew you had queer ideas, Cephas Barnard, but I didn t 
 know you wa n t sound in your faith." 
 
"Pembroke" 51 
 
 Suddenly Charlotte leaped up in fierce resentment against 
 the injustice of her father, and in loyal defense of her lover, 
 laying the blame for the quarrel largely on the former. And 
 as Deborah Thayer retired, after discovering the sorrel pies, 
 she remarked, with fierce conscientiousness : " I m goin to 
 try to make my son do his duty. I don t expect he will, 
 but I shall do all I can, tempers or no tempers, and sorrel 
 pies or no sorrel pies." 
 
 Mrs. Thayer s daughter Rebecca, in company with Rose 
 Berry, her cousin, after the latter s somewhat self-inter 
 ested effort to reconcile Barney and Charlotte, makes a 
 charming picture in Silas Berry s great country store, as she 
 stands waiting to sell her basket of eggs, her face blooming 
 " deeply pink in the green tunnel of her sunbonnet," her 
 black eyes as " soft and wary as a baby s," her full red lips 
 wearing a grave, innocent expression. She is standing be 
 fore her lover, Silas Berry s son William, who is ardently 
 eager to give her a generous allowance of sugar for her eggs, 
 if only he can escape the watchful supervision of his penuri 
 ous father in the rear of the store. The old man s hard 
 voice sounds out, " You ain t offerin of her two pound of 
 sugar for two dozen eggs ? " And when the son replies that 
 it was two and a half pounds, Silas excitedly cries out, " Be 
 you gone crazy?" Despite his daughter s petition and his 
 son s resolute determination to give the modest Rebecca a 
 full exchange, old Silas pulled himself up " a joint at a time," 
 came forward at a stiff halt, and said : " Sugar is fourteen 
 cents a pound, an eggs is fetchin ten cents a dozen ; you 
 can have a pound and a half of sugar for them eggs if you 
 can give me a cent to boot." Poor Rebecca colored, and 
 replied that she hadn t brought her purse, whereupon the 
 old man enjoined her to tell her mother about it and come 
 
52 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 back with the cent by and by. But this mean bargaining 
 was too much for the young lover, William, who shouldered 
 his father to one side with sudden energy, sternly whispering 
 to him to " leave it alone." However, the old man s 
 chronic " closeness " reasserted itself in the expostulating 
 remark : " I ain t goin to stan by an see you givin twice 
 as much for eggs as they re worth, cause it s a gal you re 
 tradin with. That wa n t never my way of doin business, 
 an I ain t goin to have it done in my store." William, 
 with steady resolution, recklessly heaped the sugar on some 
 paper, and laid it on the steelyards ; the old man pushed 
 forward and bent over the steelyards, wrathfully exclaiming, 
 " You ve weighed out nigh three." Suddenly something in 
 the son s face made the old man stop, the combination of 
 mental and superior physical force in the son dominated the 
 father. " His son towered over him in what seemed the 
 might of his own lost strength and youth, brandishing his 
 own old weapons." Yet nature reasserted itself, for when 
 William had put the sugar in Rebecca s basket, the old man 
 began counting the eggs, only to find that " there ain t but 
 twenty- three eggs here." Under the fierce whisperings of 
 William, however, Silas finally subsided into sullen mut- 
 terings. 
 
 Rebecca s arrival at home found her mother, Deborah 
 Thayer, vigorously making cake, looking as " full of stern 
 desperation as a soldier on the battlefield. Deborah never 
 yielded to any of the vicissitudes of life ; she met them in 
 fair fight like enemies, and vanquished them, not with trum 
 pet and spear, but with daily duties. It was a village story 
 how Deborah Thayer " cleaned all the windows in the house 
 one afternoon when her first child had died in the morning." 
 She was now making cake in the midst of her bitter misery 
 
" Pembroke " 
 
 53 
 
 over her son s quarrel with Cephas Barnard and his sweetheart 
 Charlotte. She insisted on Rebecca s staying in the kitchen 
 to cream the butter and sugar, and she already had her younger 
 and somewhat invalid son, Ephraim, stoning raisins. Though 
 forbidden to eat any, Ephraim would fill his mouth when his 
 mother turned away to watch Barney, the older son, at work 
 in the field. Ephraim s mouth was " demure with mischief," 
 and his " gawky figure perpetually uneasy and twisting, as if 
 to find entrance into small forbidden places." When his 
 mother looked suddenly at him there was a curious expres 
 sion in his face that continually led his mother to infer that 
 he had been transgressing, and she would cry out sharply, 
 " What have you been doin , Ephraim ? " but she was always 
 routed by Ephraim s " innocent, wondering grin in response." 
 At the end of his raisin-stoning he plaintively asked, " Can t 
 I have just one raisin, mother?" "Yes, you may, if you 
 ain t eat any while you was pickin of em over." Where 
 upon little innocent Ephraim selected a large fat "plum," 
 and ate it with " ostentatious relish." 
 
 As his mother turned to go out, Ephraim whiningly asked 
 if he couldn t go too. " There were times when the spirit 
 of rebellion in him made illness and even his final demise 
 flash before his eyes like sweet overhanging fruit, since they 
 were so strenuously forbidden." Meeting her son Barnabas, 
 who was plowing in the field, Deborah issued her ultima 
 tum, and their first silent glances were as if " two wills clashed 
 swords in advance." " I ain t never goin to say anything 
 more to you about it," referring to the proposed apology to 
 Cephas Barnard, " but there s one thing you needn t come 
 home to dinner. You sha n t ever sit down to a meal in your 
 father s and mother s house whilst this thing goes on." And 
 the only response that came from the " set " Barnabas was 
 
54 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 " G lang ! " Caleb, the father, also pleaded with the son, 
 but without the least effect ; and as he sat sobbing under the 
 wild cherry tree, his face in his old red handkerchief, 
 Rebecca, coming out to feed the hens, attempted to console 
 him with the remark, "Barney ll get over it." To which 
 Caleb despairingly responded : " No, he won t ; no, he 
 won t. He s jest like your mother." 
 
 One of the delightful and relieving pictures in " Pembroke " 
 is that of the cherry party in Silas Berry s orchard where 
 the young people of the village were in the habit of picnick 
 ing, until old Silas s greed overreached itself and some college 
 friends of Squire Payne s son, refusing to pay the exorbitant 
 price, went by singing " Who lives here ? " with the mocking 
 response, "Old Silas Berry, who charges sixpence for a 
 cherry." The comment of his wife on the impolicy of his 
 greed, "You re jest a-puttin your own eyes out, Silas 
 Berry," proved too true a prophecy, for his orchard was 
 regularly boycotted by the young people and purchasers gen 
 erally. This season, however, the old man seemed afflicted 
 with spasmodic generosity, he had even offered Rose, his 
 daughter, the privilege of a cherry party without pay ; whereat 
 Rose fairly gasped. " The vague horror of the unusual stole 
 over her. A new phase of her father s character stood be 
 tween her and all her old memories like a supernatural pres 
 ence." As she said to her mother, she was dreadfully afraid 
 he was going to have another "shock." 
 
 In making the plans for the party Rose and her mother 
 decided to include all the available young people, " The 
 Lord only knows when your father ll have another freak like 
 this. I guess it s like an eclipse of the sun, and won t come 
 again very soon." And there was Charlotte Barnard, her 
 " smooth hair gleaming in the sun, her neck showing pink 
 
" Pembroke " 
 
 55 
 
 through her embroidered lace kerchief," apparently not see 
 ing her old lover, Barnabas, but knowing full well when he 
 came ; and Barney, in his best suit, slender and handsome, 
 with a stern and almost martial air, standing apart, and feel 
 ing a fierce sense of ownership in Charlotte, whose basket 
 the Squire s son Thomas was filling with the ripest cherries 
 from the top of the tree. But Barney yielded to the charm 
 of Rose Berry s frank and winning ways, of Rose, who, in 
 the heart of her New England, and bred after the precepts 
 of orthodoxy, was yet a pagan, and " worshiped Love 
 himself." " Barney was simply the statue that represented 
 the divinity ; another might have done as well had the sculp 
 ture been as fine." 
 
 " Copenhagen " was the favorite game that afternoon 
 under the cherry trees ; and as the young people clung to 
 the swaying rope, looping this way and that as the pursuers 
 neared them, their radiant faces " had the likeness of one 
 family of flowers, through their one expression." The 
 tossing cherry boughs above their heads, the old red tavern 
 wall with a great mass of blooming phlox against it, " vague 
 with distance like a purple smoke," the glistening fence 
 rails, a singing bluebird, these were all unthought of by 
 the merrymakers, and only one note, the note of joyous 
 love, they listened to ; even Charlotte and Barney felt 
 the old touch of love s exhilaration, except that it was Rose 
 and not Charlotte that Barney kissed so fiercely, for at 
 that very moment the handsome face of Thomas Payne, his 
 rival, was meeting Charlotte s. "The girls cheeks flushed 
 deeper, their smooth locks became roughened. The laughter 
 waxed louder and longer ; the matrons looking on doubled 
 their broad backs with responsive merriment. It became 
 like a little bacchanalian rout in a New England field on a 
 
56 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 summer afternoon, but they did not know it in their simple 
 hearts." 
 
 But on this free-hearted merriment scowled the avaricious 
 face of the owner of the cherry trees, Silas Berry, whose 
 predominant trait seemed to " mold his face to itself 
 unchangeably, as the face of a hunting dog is molded to 
 his speed and watchfulness." As the happy party were 
 passing homeward they had confirmed with a chorus of 
 assents the remark of Thomas Payne that he guessed the 
 old man wasn t so bad after all, when suddenly Silas himself 
 advanced toward them, drew out a roll of paper, and handed 
 it to Thomas Payne. At Thomas s inquiry as to what it 
 was, the old man s face lighted up with the ingenuous smile 
 of a child, and he replied in a wheedling whisper, " It s 
 nothin but the bill ... for the cherries you eat. I ve 
 always been in the habit of chargin more, but I ve took off 
 a leetle this time." Thomas in disgusted surprise crammed 
 the amount of the bill into the eagerly outstretched hand 
 of the old man, but before the party had reached the foot 
 of the hill the running feet of William Berry, the old man s 
 son, were heard, and a hoarse voice called out to Thomas 
 Payne to stop. William sternly demanded the amount the 
 latter had paid his father for the cherries, and paid it back 
 with trembling fingers, remarking as he did so, "Take it, 
 for God s sake ! " 
 
 Despite their efforts to ease his chagrin over his father s 
 unparalleled meanness, William Berry broke from them 
 and " pelted up the hill with his heart so bitterly sore that 
 it seemed as if he trod on it at every step." But a voice 
 kept crying after him, there was "a soft flutter of girlish 
 skirts," and presently the hand of Rebecca Thayer touched 
 his arm. It was the touch of love and sympathy, and 
 
" Pembroke 
 
 57 
 
 William blushed. " Don t you feel bad ; don t you feel bad. 
 You aren t to blame." " Isn t he my father? " "You aren t 
 to blame for that." " Disgrace comes without blame," said 
 William bitterly as he moved on. But protesting her desire 
 to be with him and to sympathize with him, Rebecca raised 
 both her arms and put them about his neck. " He leaned 
 his cheek down against her soft hair. Poor William, she 
 whispered, as if he had been her child instead of her lover." 
 Yet such spontaneous and heroic love in the presence of 
 disgrace and public ridicule was destined to melt the con 
 ventional bonds of virtue and bring upon itself the nemesis 
 of social and family ostracism. 
 
 Rebecca s mother, Deborah, on her daughter s return 
 home, cross-examined her as to her lateness, and discover 
 ing something of the real situation with reference to William 
 Berry, pitilessly ordered Rebecca to give up all thought of 
 marriage with him, threatening, in fact, to disown her if she 
 married against her parents wishes : " I shan t have any 
 child but Ephraim left, that s all ! " 
 
 Ephraim, the professional boy invalid, whiningly pleaded 
 with his mother to know what Rebecca had done, but he 
 was suddenly sent to the pump to wash his face and hands ; 
 and as soon as he had filled himself with milk toast and 
 been denied a piece of pie, he was sent from the table to 
 begin his nightly study of the catechism. Muttering angrily 
 under his breath, Ephraim got the catechism out of the top 
 drawer of his father s desk and began " droning out in his 
 weak, sulky voice the first question therein, What is the 
 chief end of man ? " He had been nightly drilled for the 
 last five years on the "Assembly s Catechism," when his 
 general health admitted "and sometimes, it seemed to 
 Ephraim, when it had not admitted." In fact, his mother, 
 
58 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 fearing a sudden death for her youngest son, was striving 
 to fit him for a higher state to which he might soon be 
 called. And so, before the "Catechism," Ephraim had 
 been driven laboriously through the whole Bible, chapter by 
 chapter. His mother was pitiless in this regard, and with 
 stern pathos she would say to his protesting and sympathetic 
 father : " If he can t learn nothin about books, he s got to 
 learn about his own soul. He s got to, whether it hurts 
 him or not." 
 
 The iron insistence of Deborah Thayer that her daughter 
 Rebecca should not marry William Berry, the young man 
 of her choice, had resulted in the daughter s illustrating her 
 mother s own obstinacy and in Rebecca s going secretly 
 with William until she had come to love him not wisely but 
 too well. The unfortunate result had become the talk of 
 the little community, especially of the gossipmongers, 
 but as yet it had not been revealed to the iron-willed mother. 
 She had indeed noticed a peculiar change in Rebecca, 
 an expression in her face that was foreign to it, a growing 
 antipathy to society, and a certain air of misery that was 
 inexplicable even to the penetrating eyes of Deborah 
 Thayer. She began to relent toward her daughter, to 
 watch over her with a sort of fierce tenderness. "She 
 brewed great bowls of domestic medicines from nuts and 
 herbs, and made her drink whether she would or not. She 
 sent her to bed early, and debarred her from the night air." 
 But not a shadow of suspicion ever crossed her mind that 
 night after night that same daughter slipped across the 
 north parlor and out the front door into the darkness to 
 meet her forbidden lover. The mother, in fact, was 
 secretly dreaming high dreams for her daughter s matrimonial 
 future j and late at night, after Rebecca had gone to bed 
 
" Pembroke " 
 
 59 
 
 in her little room off the north parlor, the sternly ambitious 
 mother knitted yard after yard of lace that should properly 
 furnish forth her daughter as a bride. She even drove 
 alone on a windy and snowy December day to a neighboring 
 village to buy material for a new dress for Rebecca. It 
 was snowing hard as she returned, and her green veil was 
 white as she entered the kitchen. " I kept the dress under 
 the buffalo-robe, an that ain t hurt any," she vigorously 
 remarked; but when, after proudly shaking out the folds 
 of the gleaming crimson thibet, she got no answering enthu 
 siasm from her daughter, she cried out sharply, " You don t 
 deserve to have a new dress ; you act like a stick of wood." 
 The next morning Deborah worked assiduously at cutting 
 and making the new dress for Rebecca, and about the mid 
 dle of the forenoon she was ready to try it on. She made 
 Rebecca stand up in the middle of the kitchen floor and 
 began fitting the crimson gown to her ; when, suddenly rec 
 ognizing something significant in Rebecca s heavily drooping 
 form, she gave a great start, pushed her daughter violently 
 from her, and stood aloof, looking at her, while the clock 
 ticked in the dreadful silence. " Look at me," said Deb 
 orah. " And Rebecca looked ; it was like uncovering a 
 disfigurement or a sore." The truth of premature passion 
 was out, and Rebecca s eyes and soul shrank from her mother 
 as the latter cried, " Go out of this house." And Rebecca 
 obeyed without a sound. Immediately after dinner Deb 
 orah plodded through the snow to her son Barney s, and in 
 a strange voice bade him go after William Berry and make 
 him marry Rebecca. And when the startled Barney inquired 
 Rebecca s whereabouts, his mother harshly retorted : " I 
 don t know where she is. I turned her out because I 
 wouldn t have her in the house. You brought it all on us ; 
 
60 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 if you hadn t acted so I shouldn t have felt as I did about 
 her marryin . Now you can go and find her, and get Wil 
 liam Berry an make him marry her. I ain t got anything 
 more to do with it." 
 
 When this marriage by compulsion was accomplished and 
 Rebecca was established in the old Bennett house as Mrs. 
 William Berry, she lived with curtains down and doors bolted. 
 Never a neighbor saw her face at door or window, and she 
 would not go to the door if anybody knocked. Even to her 
 own brother Barney she was not at home, though he begged 
 to be admitted, and declared he didn t want to say anything 
 hard. And William himself was scarcely noticed by his own 
 father and mother, such was the unforgiving hardness of 
 their sense of disgrace and their " righteous " wrath and as 
 for his mother s going to see her son s wife, " Hannah Berry 
 would have set herself up in a pillory" sooner than do that. 
 As for Rebecca s mother, Deborah Thayer, she never spoke 
 of her daughter ; and when Rebecca s little dead child went 
 by in the hearse, Deborah would not attend the funeral, 
 though Rebecca s poor old father did. 
 
 Since Rebecca s forced marriage Ephraim, her sickly 
 younger brother, had had a sterner experience than ever 
 with his mother, Deborah, who with her strenuous Puritan 
 soul was bent on fitting her invalid boy for heaven. Since 
 all her vigorous training had failed in the case of his sister, 
 the mother redoubled her spiritual discipline over her last 
 child until his life became an almost intolerable series of 
 restraints and duties. On account of his chronic illness he 
 was shut up to a very scanty and simple diet, no cake, no 
 pie, no plum from a pie ; and he now had daily a double 
 stint in the catechism. One brilliant moonlight night, feel 
 ing a little better as he lay propped up with pillows in his 
 
"Pembroke" 61 
 
 bedroom, and feeling also the irrepressible boy in him, 
 Ephraim stole out of the house, when his father and mother 
 were safely asleep, took his brother s sled, and coasted alone 
 till midnight, having the one playtime of his life. " He ig 
 nored his feeble and laboring breath of life. He trod upon, 
 he outspeeded, all infirmities of the flesh in his wild triumph 
 of the spirit." His shouts and halloos rang out as he shot 
 down the hill ; and when he got home and was ready for 
 bed once more this invalid boy bethought him of the forbid 
 den mince pie in the pantry. He slid as " noiseless as a 
 shadow in the moonlight " through the kitchen, past his par 
 ents door, climbed a " meal-bucket," reached his pie, broke 
 out a " great jagged half," and back on the edge of his bed 
 devoured his juicy feast. He had had his first good time. 
 The next morning he was actually ill, but kept it from his 
 mother. As she went out to drive to a neighboring town 
 for sugar and tea, which she refused to buy of her son-in-law, 
 she left word with Ephraim to tell his father to finish paring 
 the apples so that she could make them into " sauce " on her 
 return. He promised, but when his mother got out of sight 
 he forgot his promise and played " holly-gull " with his father. 
 When his mother discovered on her return that Ephraim had 
 ignored her order she went out to the shed. Meanwhile the 
 boy, now actually very ill, seemed to have lost all fear of 
 her ; he felt very strange and " as if he were sinking away 
 from it all through deep abysses." Deborah returned with 
 a stout stick, and, against the protests of her husband, led 
 the way to Ephraim s bedroom. The boy staggered as he 
 went, and she saw how ill he looked ; but she could not this 
 time be daunted by that from her high spiritual purpose. 
 " Ephraim," said his mother, " I have spared the rod with 
 you all my life because you were sick. Your brother and 
 
62 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 your sister have both rebelled against the Lord and against 
 me. You are all the child I ve got left. You ve got to mind 
 me and do right. I ain t goin to spare you any longer be 
 cause you ain t well. It is better you should be sick than 
 be well and wicked and disobedient. It is better that your 
 body should suffer than your immortal soul. Stand still." 
 And with that the stick descended, the boy made a strange 
 noise, and then sank in a heap upon the floor. All of Deb 
 orah Thayer s mustard and hot water, all of her remorseful 
 agony of prayer, had no effect to stir once more the life in 
 poor little Ephraim s body. Indeed, she prayed all night 
 for justification, and the watchers over Ephraim s dead body 
 looked at each other with shocked significance. When later 
 it became known to Deborah Thayer, through the kind 
 offices of the doctor s wife, that her boy had indulged, the 
 night before his death, in hours of coasting and in mince-pie 
 eating, her agonized mind was somewhat relieved ; but the 
 recent tragedy of her life and the sudden shock of relief 
 proved too much for this fiercely torn soul, driven by the 
 nemesis of Puritan conscience and her own implacable will, 
 and she sank out of life as suddenly as the son whom she 
 had punished for his eternal good. 
 
 With patient sweetness amid a secret poverty that finally 
 brought her " on the town," Sylvia Crane, had waited twenty 
 years for Richard Alger, her regular Sunday-night wooer; 
 and finally, the morning following the wedding of her niece, 
 Rose Berry, Sylvia, with a bundle of bedding, a chest, and a 
 rocking-chair, had started on a wood-sled for the poorhouse, 
 But, strange to say, as they passed Richard Alger s home, 
 he appeared as a rescuer, compelled the old man to drive 
 back to the Crane house, and there made a contrite confes 
 sion to Sylvia, who in all her own poverty and blasted hope 
 

 " Pembroke " 63 
 
 kept a heart of sympathy and pity open for Richard. " I ve 
 been meaner than sin," said Richard, " an I don t know as 
 it makes it any better because I couldn t seem to help it. I 
 didn t forget you a single minute, Sylvia, an I was awful sorry 
 for you, an there wasn t a Sabbath night that I didn t want 
 to come more than I wanted to go to heaven. But I couldn t. 
 I couldn t nohow. I ve always had to travel in tracks, an 
 no man livin knows how deep a track he s in till he gets 
 jolted out of it an can t get back. But I ve got into a 
 track now, an I ll die before I get out of it." And Sylvia s 
 face flushed " like an old flower revived in a new spring." 
 He married her one Sunday morning at the minister s, and 
 then together they went to " meetin ," although Sylvia s 
 sister, Hannah Berry, was for having a public wedding, caus 
 tically observing : " If I d been goin with a feller as long as 
 you have with him, I wouldn t get cheated out of a weddin , 
 anyhow. I d have a weddin , an I d have cake, an I d ask 
 folks, especially after what s happened. I d let em see I wa n t 
 quite so far gone, if I had set out for the poorhouse once." 
 
 And ten years after his quarrel with Charlotte Barnard 
 and her father, Barney Thayer, heroically nursed in the 
 face of public opinion by the loyal Charlotte, finally was 
 able to conquer his constitutional " setness," as Richard 
 Alger had done ; and resolutely getting up from his sick bed 
 he marched laboriously up the hill to the Barnard house to 
 announce to his old and never wavering sweetheart that he 
 had at last " come back." 
 
 By such unrelenting characterization as this has the author 
 set forth in " Pembroke " the story of a New England com 
 munity whose grim rigidity of life would be incredible were 
 it not confirmed by the strong and subtle art of so realistic 
 a writer as Miss Wilkins. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 "DEEPHAVEN" BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT 
 
 JUST before his death James Russell Lowell wrote to Miss 
 J ewett s publishers in London : " I am very glad to hear that 
 Miss Jewett s delightful stories are to be reprinted in Eng 
 land. Nothing more pleasingly characteristic of rural life 
 in New England has been written, and they have long been 
 valued by the judicious here." And the world of "judicious " 
 American readers still agrees with this discriminating judg 
 ment. The daughter of " A Country Doctor," Miss Jewett 
 had all the advantages, as a girl, of going about the country 
 with her father on his visits to inland farms or along the 
 seacoast ; and " when the time came that my own world of 
 imagination was more real to me than any other, I was some 
 times perplexed at my father s directing my attention to cer 
 tain points of interest in the characters or surroundings of 
 our acquaintances. I cannot help believing that he recog 
 nized, long before I did myself, in what direction the current 
 of purpose in my life was setting. Now as I write my 
 sketches of country life, I remember again and again the 
 wise things he said, and the sights he made me see." 
 
 Such peculiar preparation for portraying in permanent 
 literary form the characteristics of certain provincial types in 
 New England life bore fruit in " Deephaven," her first literary 
 and artistic success. The fact, too, that her early life was 
 
 64 
 
" Deephaven " 65 
 
 spent in the old Maine settlement of Berwick, with its once 
 flourishing shipping trade, its sailors and " sea-tanned cap 
 tains," and that her own grandfather had been a sea-cap 
 tain, gave to the writing of such a collection of sketches as 
 " Deephaven " an authoritative and natural touch that 
 constitutes much of their charm and value. To all these 
 favorable conditions must be added the possession by Miss 
 Jevvett of a literary art that is almost classic in its clearness 
 and grace, its vital sympathy, and its unaffected sincerity. 
 If, as she herself says, " the distinction of modern literature 
 is the evocation of sympathy," and if, as Plato said, the best 
 thing that can be done for the people of a state is to make 
 them acquainted with one another, Miss Jewett s literary 
 purpose has been very happily accomplished. 
 
 The summer that Kate Lancaster spent at the old Bran 
 don house in Deephaven, in company with her friend who 
 recounts the narrative, was indeed a summer of unique 
 charm and delight for Deephaven was a quaint old place 
 with high rocks and woods and hills, and Brandon house 
 is suggestive of that fine old home in Berwick, Maine, built 
 in 1750, where Miss Jewett herself was born. Twelve miles 
 from Deephaven the two girls left the railway and took 
 passage in a stage-coach, with only one passenger besides 
 themselves, who was a very large, thin, weather-beaten 
 woman that looked tired, lonesome, and good-natured. 
 She was delighted to respond to the remark that it was 
 very dusty, with another remark to the effect that she 
 should think everybody was sweeping, and that she always 
 felt, after being in the cars awhile, as if she " had been 
 taken all to pieces and left in the different places." This 
 genial and talkative fellow-passenger, Mrs. Kew, proved to 
 be the wife of the keeper of the Deephaven light, and she 
 
66 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 and her husband were destined to give the two young ladies 
 some very unusual diversions during the summer. 
 
 Upon the inquiry as to whether Mrs. Kew knew the 
 Brandon house in Deephaven, the genial soul replied that 
 she knew it as well as the meeting-house. " ( He wrote me 
 some o Mrs. Lancaster s folks were going to take the 
 Brandon house this summer, an so you are the ones? 
 It s a sightly old place ; I used to go and see Miss Kath- 
 erine. She must have left a power of chinaware." Mrs. 
 Kew also told how she herself would always be " a real up- 
 country woman " if she lived there a hundred years. " The 
 sea doesn t come natural to me, it kind of worries me, 
 though you won t find a happier woman than I be, long 
 shore." 
 
 As the stage drove up to the old Brandon " place," the 
 young ladies noted with satisfaction the row of poplars in 
 front of the great white house, the tall lilacs, the crowds of 
 rose bushes still in bloom, the box borders, and the great 
 elms at the side of the house and down the road. And the 
 hall door stood wide open. Within, it was a home of great 
 possibilities, four large rooms on the lower floor, and six 
 above, a wide hall in each story, and a " fascinating garret " 
 over the whole, where were many mysterious old chests and 
 boxes, in one of which the girls found the love-letters of 
 Kate s grandmother. The rooms all had elaborate cornices, 
 and the lower hall was very fine, with an archway dividing 
 it, and all kinds of panelings, and a great door at either 
 end. But " the best chamber " rather inspired dread. It 
 had a huge curtained bed, and the paper on the walls had 
 been captured in a French prize some time in the last cen 
 tury, the color of it being an " unearthly pink and a for 
 bidding maroon, with dim white spots, which gave it the 
 
" Deephaven " 67 
 
 appearance of having molded." The great lounge made 
 the girls low-spirited, after hearing that Miss Brandon her 
 self didn t like it, because she had seen so many of her rela 
 tives lie there dead. There were fantastic china ornaments 
 from Bible subjects on the mantel, and the only picture was 
 one of the Maid of Orleans, tied with an "unnecessarily strong 
 rope to a very stout stake." The west parlor downstairs 
 proved to be the girls favorite room, with its great fireplace 
 framed in blue and white Dutch tiles which represented 
 graphically the careers of the good and the bad man. The 
 last two of the series were of very high art, a great coffin 
 stood in the foreground of each, and the virtuous man was 
 being led off by " two disagreeable-looking angels," while 
 the wicked one was hastening from an " indescribable but 
 unpleasant assemblage of claws and horns and eyes which is 
 rapidly advancing from the distance, open-mouthed, and 
 bringing a chain with it." 
 
 In their visits to Mrs. Kew and the lighthouse Kate and 
 her friend were particularly interested in a row of marks on 
 the back of the wide " fore door," where Mrs. Kew had 
 tried to keep account one summer of the number of people 
 who innocently inquired about the depredations of the 
 neighbors chickens ; and they were also specially interested 
 in Mrs. Kew s collection of " relations " in the form of pho 
 tographs, and in her critical remarks about special features 
 in the faces. " That s my oldest brother s wife, Clorinthy 
 Adams that was. She s well-featured, if it were not for her 
 nose, and that looks as if it had been thrown at her, and she 
 wasn t particular about having it on firm, in hopes of getting 
 a better one. She sets by her looks though." 
 
 Among the first of Deephaven callers on the two girls 
 from Boston was a prim little old woman by the name of 
 
68 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 Mrs. Patton. She wore a neat cap and " front," but no 
 bonnet, and had over her shoulders a little three-cornered 
 shawl. She was very short and straight and thin, and 
 "darted like a pickerel " when she moved about. She im 
 pressed Kate s friend as an undoubtedly capable person with 
 " faculty." When Kate remarked that she had been inquir 
 ing whether Mrs. Patton was still in Deephaven, the prim 
 little woman excitedly exclaimed : " Land o compassion ! 
 Where d ye s pose I d be, dear? I ain t like to move away 
 from Deephaven now, after I ve held by the place so long 
 I ve got as many roots as the big ellum." 
 
 The care-taking Mrs. Patton hoped that Kate and her 
 friend had found the house in " middling order," for " me 
 and Mis Dockum have done the best we knew, opened 
 the windows and let in the air and tried to keep it from get 
 ting damp. I fixed all the woolens with fresh camphire and 
 tobacco the last o the winter ; you have to be dreadful care 
 ful in one o these old houses, less every thing gets creaking 
 with moths in no time. ... I set a trap there, but it was 
 older n the ten commandments, that trap was, and the 
 spring s rusty. ... I see your aunt s cat setting out on the 
 front steps. She never was no great of a mouser, but it went 
 to my heart to see how pleased she looks ! Come right 
 back, didn t she?" She continued in a reminiscent strain 
 of pleased garrulity, recalling the funeral of Kate s aunt, 
 Miss Brandon, and pronouncing this unqualified eulogy : 
 "She was a good Christian woman, Miss Katherine was. 
 The memory of the just is blessed ; that s what Mr. 
 Lorimer said in his sermon the Sunday after she died, and 
 there wasn t a blood relation there to hear it." So spoke 
 in grateful stream the " Widow Jim " (to distinguish her from 
 the widow of Jack Patton), who was a distinctly useful per- 
 
" Dcephaven "- 69 
 
 sonage in the community of Deephaven. She made elab 
 orate rugs and carpets, she " cleaned house " at the Carews 
 and Lorimers , she had no equal in sickness and could brew 
 every old-fashioned dose and every variety of herb tea, and 
 she often served her patient after death by being commander- 
 in-chief at her funeral, even to the making out of the 
 order of the procession, since she had all the local genealogy 
 and relationship at her tongue s end. In fact, a mistake in 
 precedence at a funeral was counted an awful thing in Deep- 
 haven ; and the young ladies once chanced to hear some 
 bitter remarks because the cousins of the departed wife had 
 been placed after the husband s relatives, "the blood 
 relations ridin behind them that was only kin by marriage ! " 
 The good opinion in which Mrs. Patton was held in the 
 community was generously reflected by Mrs. Dockum, as 
 the young ladies were returning from the post-office after 
 their call on the Widow Jim. " Willin woman," said Mrs. 
 Dockum, "always been respected; got an uncommon 
 facility o speech. . . . Dreadful tough time of it with 
 her husband, shifless and drunk all his time," continued 
 Mrs. Dockum, in the pleasure of painful reminiscence. 
 " Noticed that dent in the side of her forehead, I s pose ? 
 That s where he liked to have killed her; slung a stone 
 bottle at her." At the exclamation of shocked interest on 
 the part of the young ladies, Mrs. Dockum considerately 
 went into details : " She don t like to have it inquired about ; 
 but she and I were sitting up with Manda Darner one night, 
 and she gave me the particulars. . . . Had sliced cucum 
 bers for breakfast that morning ; he was very partial to them, 
 and he wanted some vinegar. Happened to be two bottles 
 in the cellar-way; were just alike, and one of em was 
 vinegar and the other had sperrit in it at haying-time. He 
 
jo Provincial Types in New England 
 
 takes up the wrong one and pours on quick, and out come 
 the hayseed and flies, and he give the bottle a sling and it 
 hit her there where you see the scar ; might put the end of 
 your finger into the dent. He said he meant to break 
 the bottle ag in the door, but it went slantwise, sort of. ... 
 He died in debt ; drank like a fish." And then Mrs. 
 Dockum rounded her story with a concise eulogy of the 
 widow : " Yes, twas a shame, nice woman ; good consistent 
 church member ; always been respected ; useful among the 
 sick." 
 
 Among the most interesting types in Deephaven society 
 were the ancient mariners who sunned themselves like 
 turtles every pleasant summer morning on the wharves. 
 They were known by etiquette as " captains," though the 
 author is inclined to believe that some of them took their 
 title by brevet upon arriving at the proper age. They used 
 to sit close together because so many of them were deaf, 
 and their reminiscences ran upon the voyage of the Sea 
 Duck or the wanderings of the Ocean Rover. The captains 
 used occasionally to get into violent altercations over the 
 tonnage of some craft; they pulled away at little black 
 pipes, consuming tobacco in fabulous quantities ; and, need 
 less to say, much of their attention was given to the weather. 
 The appearance of an outsider was wont to cause a " dis 
 approving silence"; but the girls were once bold enough 
 to overhear from behind the corner of the warehouse the 
 oldest and wisest of them all, Captain Isaac Horn, who was 
 evidently giving one of his favorite stories, about some cloth 
 he had once purchased in Bristol, which the shopkeeper 
 delayed sending till just as they were ready to sail. 
 
 " I happened to take a look at that cloth," droned the cap 
 tain in a loud voice, " and as quick as I got sight of it, I spoke 
 

 Copyright 1893, by Houghion, M(fflin & Co. 
 
 THE OLD CAPTAINS. 
 
 From " Deephaven," by Sarah Orne Jewett. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
" Deephaven " 71 
 
 onpleasant of that swindling English fellow, and the crew, 
 they stood back. I was dreadful high-tempered in them days, 
 mind ye ; and I had the gig manned. We was out in the 
 stream, just ready to sail. Tvvas no use waiting any longer 
 for the wind to change, and we was going north-about I 
 went ashore, and when I walks into his shop ye never see a 
 creatur so wilted. Ye see the miser ble sculpin thought I d 
 never stop to open the goods, an it was a chance I did, 
 mind ye ! Lor/ says he, grinning and turning the color of 
 a biled lobster, I s posed ye were a standing out to sea by 
 this time. No, says I, and I ve got my men out here on 
 the quay a landing that cloth o yourn, and if you don t send 
 just what I bought and paid for down there to go back in 
 the gig within fifteen minutes, I ll take ye by the collar and 
 drop ye into the dock. I was twice the size of him, mind 
 ye, and master strong. Don t ye like it? says he, edging 
 round ; I ll change it for ye, then. Ter ble perlite he 
 was. Like it ? says I, it looks as if it were built of dog s 
 hair and divil s wool, kicked together by spiders ; and it s 
 coarser than Irish frieze ; three threads to an armful, 
 says I." 
 
 And there was Captain Lant, who knew all the local family 
 history and how to bring the conversation around to a point 
 where he could work in one of his pet stories, the one he 
 told with special relish, and with the solemn declaration that 
 it was true, being a strange story of telepathy, which Miss 
 Jewett gives in the captain s quaint and vivid language and 
 with all his love of detail. The last letter received from the 
 old captain by the young ladies on their return to Boston 
 was headed with the latitude and longitude of Deephaven, 
 and was signed, " Respectfully yours with esteem, Jacob 
 Lant (condemned as unseaworthy)." 
 
72 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 One of the fishermen whom Kate and her friend knew 
 least of all was an odd-looking, silent sort of man, more sun 
 burnt and weather-beaten than any of the others. He was 
 locally known as " Danny/ and one morning, finding him at 
 work cleaning fish in a shed, Kate s friend ventured the 
 judgment that she thought mackerel were the prettiest fish 
 that swim. " So do I, miss, not to say but I ve seen more 
 fancy-looking fish down in Southern waters, bright as any 
 flower you ever see ; but a mackerel," holding up one 
 admiringly, " why, they re so clean-built and trig-looking ! 
 Put a cod alongside, and he looks as lumbering as an old- 
 fashioned Dutch brig aside a yacht." And tossing some 
 fish heads to the cats that suddenly walked in as if they felt 
 at home, he was reminded of a good cat story, which he 
 proceeded to tell. At the conclusion of his narrative, when 
 he expressed his preference for haddock over cod, and 
 Kate asked whether it was cod or haddock that had a black 
 stripe along their sides, Kate s friend cried out with superior 
 knowledge, " Oh, those are haddock ; they say that the 
 Devil caught a haddock once, and it slipped through his 
 fingers and got scorched ; so all the haddock had the same 
 mark afterward." Whereat Danny, smiling at her peculiar 
 lore, remarked wisely, " Ye mustn t believe all the old 
 stories ye hear, mind ye ! " 
 
 There was also the prominent but somewhat visionary 
 Captain Sands, who had a sort of marine museum in an 
 old warehouse and was "a great hand for keeping things." 
 He took the young ladies out to Black Rock to fish for 
 cunners, and on the way gave them some of his judgments 
 on the weather, observing that his "gran ther" used to say 
 that " a growing moon chaws up the clouds." "Some folks 
 lay all the weather to the moon, accordin to where she 
 
"Deephaven" 73 
 
 quarters, and when she s in perigee we re going to have 
 this kind of weather, and when she s in apogee she s got 
 to do so and so for sartain ; but gran ther he used to laugh 
 at all them things. . . . Well, he did use to depend on 
 the moon some ; everybody knows we aren t so likely to 
 have foul weather in a growing moon as we be when she s 
 waning. But some folks I could name, they can t do noth 
 ing without having the moon s opinion on it." 
 
 Deephaven had as peculiar types, also, old Mrs. Bonny 
 and Miss Sally Chauncey the former, to whom the minister 
 took the young ladies for a call, living a few miles from the 
 town in company with a little black horse, a yellow-and- 
 white dog, and a flock of hens ; and the latter remaining 
 alone in her ruined home and imagining in her harmless 
 insanity that she was still part of the social aristocracy 
 to which she formerly belonged. Mrs. Bonny s costume 
 was somewhat masculine in its make-up, as she wore a 
 man s coat, cut off so that it made an odd short jacket, and 
 a pair of men s boots. She had, besides, short skirts, and 
 two or three aprons, the inner one being a dress-apron 
 and the outer ones being thrown aside on the entrance of 
 the visitors. A tight cap with strings completed her cos 
 tume. Behind the stove in the kitchen a sick turkey was 
 being nursed, while the flock of hens was remorselessly 
 hustled out with a hemlock broom, since callers were 
 present. 
 
 In the conversation that ensued with the eccentric widow, 
 the minister s reminder that Parson Reid preached the fol 
 lowing Sunday in the neighboring schoolhouse recalled to 
 Mrs. Bonny old Parson Padelford. " He d get worked up, 
 and he d shut up the Bible and preach the hair off your 
 head, long at the end of the sermon." And she also 
 
74 Provincial Types in New England 
 
 described to them with much relish a recent revival where 
 she found one of her uncertain neighbors praying, old 
 Ben Patey, " he always lays out to get converted, and 
 he kep it up diligent till I couldn t stand it no longer; 
 and by and by says he, I ve been a wanderer ; and I up 
 and says, Yes, you have, I ll back ye up on that, Ben; 
 ye ve wandered around my wood lot and spoilt half the 
 likely young oaks and ashes I ve got, a-stealing your basket 
 stuff. And the folks laughed out loud, and up he got and 
 cleared. He s an awful old thief, and he s no idea of being 
 anything else. I wa n t a-goin to set there and hear him 
 makin b lieve to the Lord." 
 
 Like Miss Sally Chauncey there were many in Deephaven 
 who imagined they were still in the circle of the privileged 
 class, and who had distinct pity for people who were obliged 
 to live in other parts of the world. As Miss Honora Carew 
 loftily remarked, the tone of Deephaven society had always 
 been very high, and it was very nice that there had never 
 been any manufacturing element introduced, any dis 
 agreeable foreign population. Truly a delightful old sea 
 port is Deephaven, even if it is such only in name, for 
 Sarah Orne Jewett once dropped anchor there. 
 
 
PROVINCIAL TYPES IN THE SOUTH 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FIELD 
 
 SINCE the Civil War the " New South " has made a remarkable 
 record in creative literature, and among its truest and most 
 sympathetic and artistic interpreters few have so high a 
 rank as Thomas Nelson Page. Such books as " The Burial 
 of the Guns," " Elsket," "The Old Gentleman of the Black 
 Stock," and "Red Rock" give with close insight and un 
 failing charm phases of Southern life that have passed, or 
 are passing, away; while "In Ole Virginia," Mr. Page s 
 best-known collection of short stories, has become almost 
 a classic in its presentation, through the negro dialect, of the 
 humor and moving pathos, the hospitality and grace and 
 heroic chivalry, associated with the best Southern types. 
 Whether we see the breaking tragedy of war and love when 
 Miss Anne kisses the dead face of" Marse Chan," or whether 
 we hear the loyal old negro, when the minister asks 
 who gives " Meh Lady" to the Northern " Cun l," re 
 spond proudly and protectingly, " Ole Billy," we know we 
 are in the presence of brave, strong, beautiful life that was 
 the finest fruitage of the Old South. 
 
 Few more likable darkies have been created than F. 
 Hopkinson Smith s Nebuchadnezzar or " Chad " for short, 
 found in " Colonel Carter of Cartersville." As a delightfully 
 
 75 
 
j6 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 humorous and sympathetic characterization of certain Vir 
 ginia types the book goes naturally with the literature of the 
 South ; and while much of it is in the nature of an extrava 
 ganza, the figure and face of the inimitable Colonel Carter 
 will long remain the index of an irresistible personality in 
 American fiction. Whether he is royally presiding at dinner 
 with the Major and Fitz, or financing in his imagination 
 " The Cartersville and Warrentown Air Line Railroad " 
 which is to furnish " the garden spot of Virginia " an outlet 
 to the sea, or preparing in dead earnest for " the field of 
 honah," or gallantly filling his glass to " that greatest of all 
 blessings a true Southern lady," he is a refreshing and 
 alluring type of Southern humanity developed by the " old 
 school." And then there is Miss Nancy with her subtle 
 generosity and her rustling silk and her perfume of sweet 
 lavender; and the pugnacious Major Yancey, late of the 
 Confederate army, with his affinity for mint julep ; and his 
 impressive but bibulous friend, the Honorable I. B. Kerfoot, 
 presiding " jedge " of the district court of Fairfax County, 
 Virginia. 
 
 The Georgia negro and " cracker " have been peculiarly 
 fortunate in having as an interpreter Joel Chandler Harris, 
 whose " Free Joe " and " Mingo " have had so wide a read 
 ing. As Mr. Howells suggests, Mr. Harris s work as a 
 student of white character (albeit of low life) has not been 
 fully recognized, by reason of the remarkable popularity of 
 "Uncle Remus" and his absorbing animal stories. Yet 
 " At Teague Poteet s " presents with subtle humor and 
 dramatic sense the unique and adventurous life of the 
 " moonshining " mountaineers, with its rough but loyal 
 camaraderie, its sudden raids by revenue officers, its des 
 perate daring, and its instinctive hospitality. Hog Moun- 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 77 
 
 tain had its Teague Poteet, with his little fifty-acre farm 
 overlooking Gullettsville, and it had its wild flowers, chief 
 of which was Sis Poteet, daughter of Puss Poteet ; and the 
 time came when Sis must needs be educated in the academy 
 at Gullettsville. Whereat Sis protested because she had no 
 " cloze." Teague, her father, tramping skyward for game, 
 came suddenly upon the cap and worm of a disused whisky 
 still, and saw the clothes problem solved. Whisky educated 
 Sis Poteet ; and in time a deputy marshal, Woodward by 
 name, fell in love with her (who could help it ?) ; her neigh 
 bors, Mrs. Hightower and Mrs. Parmalee, gave their un 
 stinted approval; and when Sis and "Cap" were married, 
 everybody on Hog Mountain sent a contribution, and even 
 Uncle Jake Norris set a "jug er licker," that had actually 
 been " stomped by the govunment," behind Teague s stable 
 door for the necessary refreshment of the wedding guests. 
 Teague and Uncle Jake and Sis are strongly individualized, 
 and the unconventional charm of the mountain girl is an 
 alluring element in the story. 
 
 Mr. Harris s most distinct contribution to American 
 fiction, however, is of course the legends of old plantation 
 life as told in the unconsciously droll dialect of " Uncle 
 Remus," that white-haired old philosopher who is the uni 
 versal authority on " Brer Rabbit," " Brer Wolf," " Mr. Pos 
 sum," and " Brer Fox," and all their little stratagems and 
 wiles. One s imagination can always see the spectacled old 
 darky, pegging at his coarse shoes or making horse-collars 
 out of " wahoo " bark, while the large-eyed " little boy " sits 
 close and watches his authoritative face for fear of losing a 
 word about how Brer Rabbit outwitted Brer Fox, or how, for 
 once, through the inimitable "Tar- Baby," Brer Fox proved 
 too much for the redoubtable rabbit, or about the " awful 
 
7 8 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 fate of Mr. Wolf" when Brer Rabbit cured him of fleas 
 by scalding him to death in the big chest. How Mr. 
 Rabbit finds his match at last in the subtlety of Brer Terra 
 pin, who beats him in the race and takes the money, much 
 to the enjoyment of " Miss Meadows en de gals," and how 
 Brer Fox, in his envious pursuit of Mr. Rabbit, who was 
 " fishin fer suckers " at the bottom of a well, went down in 
 one bucket as Brer Rabbit came up in the other, singing 
 philosophically, 
 
 " Good-by, Brer Fox, take keer yo 1 cloze, 
 Fer dis is de way de worril goes ; 
 Some goes up en some goes down, 
 You ll git ter de bottom all safe en soun ," 
 
 how all this happened with such beautiful inconsistency no 
 one but Joel Chandler Harris can tell us. 
 
 He has touched in so many delightful phases the old 
 negro s sublime credulity, unconscious drollery, fellow-sym 
 pathy with the more helpless of the animals, and tender love 
 of the "little boy," that it is difficult to decide whether 
 " Uncle Remus and his Friends," or " Nights with Uncle 
 Remus," or "Uncle Remus; His Songs and Sayings" 
 should take precedence. But since Mr. Frost has illustrated 
 the last-mentioned volume with more than a hundred draw 
 ings, some of which are a perfect embodiment of the spirit 
 of the text, one is inclined to give his first choice to this 
 particular collection of legends. Mr. Harris himself says, in 
 his dedication of the book to Mr. Frost, "The book was 
 mine, but now you have made it yours, both sap and pith." 
 And to one who has delighted in the inimitable illustrations 
 of the book the praise of Mr. Frost is not unmerited. 
 
 Dividing in a way the attention of the literary world to 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 79 
 
 Southern fiction, Mr. George W. Cable stands with Mr. 
 Harris, though in so distinct a field that the question of 
 which is the greater is neither important nor perhaps possi 
 ble. Even if Mr. Cable s shorter Creole stories are said in 
 the judgment of some critics to have had their day (and a 
 very bright one it was), it is hard to conceive when the 
 delicate charm and trembling devotion of " Madame Del- 
 phine " will cease to touch the imagination and sympathy; 
 or the rich humanity of Pere Jerome, or the mysterious per 
 sonality of Monsieur Vignevielle (alias Capitaine Lemaitre, 
 the pirate), or the vision of white loveliness he stole that 
 memorable night when the moon shone and the mocking 
 bird broke into song, or the prostrate figure of the dead 
 mother at the confessional, the quadroon mother who 
 sinned for her daughter s happiness. Nor can one easily 
 forget how under the enthusiastic eye of " Bonaventure " 
 the children rang the bell for "light, libbuty, and education" ; 
 or the impressive visit to Bonaventure s school of the im 
 mortal George Washington Tarbox, a forerunner of his 
 own "Album of Universal Information " \ or the secret but 
 finally triumphant passion of Bonaventure for the queenlike 
 Sidonie. 
 
 With all the changing conditions that accompanied the 
 cession of Louisiana in 1803 as a background, with the 
 pall of slavery hanging over it, and the picturesqueness yet 
 impossibility of an absurd but heroic devotion to a social 
 theory of caste as an element in his story, Mr. Cable has 
 written in " The Grandissimes " one of the most striking and 
 artistic pieces of fiction in American literature. And although 
 the Creoles of New Orleans have resented what they consider 
 a prejudiced presentation of their attitude toward slavery 
 and the quadroon class, they have great cause for gratifica- 
 
8o Provincial Types in the South 
 
 tion that a novelist of such imagination, insight, and delicate 
 touch has individualized in permanent literary form such rare 
 and winning types as Honore" Grandissime, the broad-minded 
 and gracefully heroic merchant who foresaw the true des 
 tiny of his people ; such bewitching, shy, and dainty beings 
 as Aurore de Grapion and her daughter Clotilde ; and such 
 free-hearted, naive, and irrepressible traits as go to the mak 
 ing of Raoul Innerarity, the painter of " Louisiana rif-using 
 to hanter de h- Union." The immigrant Joseph Frowenfeld 
 may perhaps be criticised as a lay figure, but he stands for 
 sanity and justness, and in the end reaches even the most 
 fastidious of Creole hearts. Agricola Fusilier, as the em 
 bodiment of the unreasoning, ridiculous, but relentless, caste 
 spirit and of opposition to the new " Ame"ricain " government, 
 may lack a certain definiteness of characterization ; but as, 
 dying, he joins the hands of Aurore, the daughter of his old 
 enemy, and Honore", his nephew, the promise of all that 
 was best in the Creole future he becomes a very signifi 
 cant and essential part of the story. As for Palmyre Phi- 
 losophe, the vengeful practicer of voudou arts, where in 
 literature will you find a stranger figure or one that appeals 
 more directly to the imagination and sympathy? Her hope 
 less love for the white Honore" and the hopeless love of her 
 self on the part of the less white Honore", "f. m. c." (free 
 man of color) , her strange power over the black giant, Bras- 
 Coupe , and her terrorizing of Agricola himself, bring her 
 into a wide circle of absorbing interest. Whether the hor 
 rible fate of poor Clemence seems, as it does in the judg 
 ment of some critics, to be unnecessarily detailed for the 
 purposes of art, or whether by it Mr. Cable intended to illus 
 trate the power of superstition over master as well as slave, 
 it doubtless is true enough to certain phases of slave life ; 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 81 
 
 and for dramatic strength and haunting vividness the story 
 of " Bras-Coupe" " stands out like a picture painted in blood. 
 Bras-Coupe", with chains on his feet, chains on his wrists, and 
 an iron yoke about his neck ; Bras-Coupe, with his tiger eyes 
 softening before Palmyre, whom he loved ; Bras-Coup^, his 
 gigantic length prostrate in the dust as he worshiped the sister 
 of Honore" Grandissime ; the same imperious giant, at the 
 wedding, felling his Spanish master to the floor, or amid 
 snakes and bats and lizards living a hunted outlaw in the 
 heart of the swamps ; Bras-Coupe, with uplifted palm spread 
 ing his malediction over house and fields, or lassoed by the 
 Spanish police in his wild and drunken dance, or strapped 
 face down and smitten with the lash, or shorn of his ears 
 and with severed tendons and bleeding back stretched on 
 a bed of dry grass ; and last of all the mutilated slave hold 
 ing his dead master s little child and dropping his first tears 
 upon the infant s hand, and inaudibly moving his lips as he 
 waves his hand abroad and lifts the dreadful curse, such 
 is the series of pictures that Mr. Cable paints in this power 
 ful epitome of the savage side of slavery. But, after all, the 
 surviving impressions of this great novel are not those of 
 wrong and senseless social systems, but of those delightful 
 and sparkling women, Aurore and Clotilde, drawn with 
 such exquisite art by Mr. Cable, and of that finished and 
 masterly type of Creole character, Honore" Grandissime. 
 
 Besides their presentation in the work of Mr. Cable, New 
 Orleans and Louisiana have been fortunate also in the inti 
 mate and sympathetic treatment given them in the short 
 stories of Grace King, such as "Tales of a Time and 
 Place," "Monsieur Motte," and "Balcony Stories"; while 
 Ruth McEnery Stuart, a native of Louisiana, has written 
 with convincing closeness to Southern life the tale of 
 
82 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 "Babette, A Little Creole Girl," " Sonny " (the story of an 
 Arkansas boy), and " Napoleon Jackson : The Gentleman 
 of the Plush Rocker." 
 
 Kentucky has a striking phase of her life set forth with 
 essential truth and dramatic interest in such short stories as 
 " A Cumberland Vendetta," by John Fox, Jr., the charac 
 teristic family feud, which ends only with the extinction of 
 the male members of the family, as is so vividly illustrated 
 by Mr. Clemens in his " Huckleberry Finn," and in some of 
 the stories of Miss Murfree. The desperate hand-to-hand 
 fight on the mountain side as pictured in " A Cumberland 
 Vendetta" between Rome Stetson and Jasper Lewallen, 
 the boyish representatives of those rival families, was a criti 
 cal one, for it meant that whichever was " whooped " was 
 thereby compelled to leave the mountains forever. The 
 desperation and treachery and sudden death in this encoun 
 ter are given with a dramatic vividness that speaks well for 
 the literary art of the writer ; and the final picture in which 
 the hunted young outlaw, the last of his family, and Martha 
 Lewallen, the last survivor of hers, set fire to her home, near 
 the fresh-made graves of her father and brother, and face 
 together the dying sunset and the unknown West, is a 
 graphic and pathetic illustration of the desolating effects of 
 family hatreds. Kentucky is to be congratulated, also, in 
 having a citizen who appreciates the romance of her history, 
 and is able, as is James Lane Allen, to throw over it the 
 glamor of his own imagination. His " Flute and Violin, 
 and Other Kentucky Stories," his " Kentucky Cardinal " 
 and " Choir Invisible," and his romance of the Kentucky 
 hemp fields, "The Reign of Law," abound in poetic 
 description of their native setting and in loyal sentiment for 
 the history of the state. 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 83 
 
 Eastern Tennessee found in Miss Murfree, better known 
 as "Charles Egbert Craddock," an interpreter that was 
 thoroughly familiar with the background of her stories, ap 
 preciated with an artist s love of color the marvelous pano 
 rama of sky and mountain scenery, and entered with full 
 sympathy and .loving insight into the strange, free, supersti 
 tious, and primitive lives of the isolated mountaineers. So 
 much of description is given at times to the environment 
 of sky and peak, that Miss Murfree is sometimes spoken of as 
 belonging to the "landscape school" in literary art; and it 
 must be confessed that her frequently elaborate descriptive 
 writing seems now and then to delay the movement of her 
 stories, and, except to the highly poetic mind, grows somewhat 
 wearisome. But, nevertheless, when one is past these par 
 ticular descriptive portions, and is immersed in the intense 
 action of her vigorous characters, one is sure to feel the rare 
 originality of her work and to be absorbed in the dramatic 
 interest with which she portrays the desperate " moon 
 shiner" and the shy mountain lover, the superstitiously 
 religious folk who get "convicted," the gaunt and work- 
 worn old women, and the wild, sweet, unsophisticated 
 beauty and proud strength of will that belong to certain 
 girlish types among the villages and remote farms of the 
 mountain regions of Tennessee. The latter type is seen in 
 the alluring "Euphemy" Sims, who, in "The Juggler," 
 makes her lover, Owen Haines, decide between herself and 
 " prayin for the power " in public, and who, by the charm 
 of her great gray eyes and the sparkles of gold in her hair, 
 and the innocent sweetness of her nature, wins the tempo 
 rary love of the "Juggler" himself, Lucien Royce, the 
 accomplished man of the city and the world. 
 
 " In the Clouds," and the collection of short stories enti- 
 
84 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 tied " In the Tennessee Mountains," and " In the Stranger 
 People s Country," contain, also, Miss Murfree s varied and 
 successful treatment of mountain life ; but it is in " The 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains " that one gets the 
 largest impression of her knowledge of primitive types, and 
 of her versatile skill in portraying sudden and dramatic 
 action. The opening dialogue far up the mountain side 
 between Dorinda Cayce, the old " moonshiner s " daughter, 
 and her outlawed lover, Rick Tyler, presents a unique 
 picture, Dorinda, impressive in her simple beauty and 
 buoyant youthfulness, plowing the corn with the gaunt old 
 ox, and Rick, with jingling spurs and dangling pistols, help 
 ing her with his horse. A vivid touch of the dramatic is 
 felt when old " Ground-hog " Cayce, on his return at night, 
 learns from " Dorindy " that Cajah Green, the sheriff in 
 pursuit of Rick, had threatened her with jail if she refused to 
 tell the whereabouts of her lover. The fierce old man, hold 
 ing his rifle in the moonlight, insisted that his insulted 
 daughter should make a mark on its barrel in memory of 
 the sheriff s words ; but she, knowing that the mark meant 
 certain death to the sheriff, instinctively drew back ; where 
 upon her brother seized her hand, which tremblingly held 
 the long, sharp knife, and guided it in the form of a cross 
 near the rifle s muzzle. 
 
 Rick s desperate visit to the " Settlement " to reenforce 
 his powder supply ; his treacherous capture by Gid Fletcher, 
 the blacksmith, for blood money ; the appealing, tempes 
 tuous tones of Parson Kelsey, the " Prophet of the Great 
 Smoky Mountains," as he wrestled in prayer on the great 
 "bald"; his meeting with the blacksmith, and his heroic 
 turning of his other cheek when the blacksmith had suddenly 
 struck him in the face; his uncompromising " prophecy " 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 85 
 
 that Micajah Green would never be reflected sheriff; his 
 holding the blacksmith at bay with a " six-shooter " to end 
 the gander-pulling contest ; and the mystifying escape of 
 Rick from his temporary prison in the blacksmith shop, 
 all these are set forth with a picturesque power that makes 
 them live in the memory. 
 
 Brother Jake Tobin s unctuous and dramatic reading of 
 the Scriptures in the little log meeting-house on Sunday, 
 and his desperate calling on Brother Reuben Bates to " lead 
 in prayer," were only preliminary to the expected sermon 
 by Hi Kelsey, the "prophet " of the Big Smoky; and not 
 even the tragic words of Arthur Dimmesdale on the scaffold, 
 when he revealed the " scarlet letter " and made his dying 
 confession, had a more horrifying and sensational effect 
 than the prophet s confession that he had lost his faith, and 
 that Hell and the Devil had prevailed against him. 
 
 What more satisfying picture than that of the worn and 
 armed outlaw, Rick, sitting before the fire and stealing a 
 sweet interview with Dorinda spinning at her wheel. And 
 how exultant his heart when Dorinda s flashing eyes told 
 him that she would dare to marry him and live in his house, 
 even though a rifle s muzzle or a sheriff s revolver might 
 peek through the rails of the fence ! And when he finally 
 announced to her that the real murderer had confessed the 
 crime with which he himself was charged, his delight over 
 her faith in his valor took the repeated form of this proud 
 exclamation : " An ye warn t afeard ! Ye would hev mar 
 ried me and resked it. Ye warn t afeard ! " 
 
 The sudden discovery and destruction of Cayce s illicit still 
 in the cave ; the later visit of old Ground-hog Cayce him 
 self to his dismantled den and the silent nursing of his wrath ; 
 the growing inflexibility and hopelessness of Dorinda s face 
 
86 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 which began to look even like her father s lowering coun 
 tenance ; her continued unswerving sympathy with the ac 
 cused "prophet" and her assumed indifference to her lover 
 Rick; the acquittal of the parson and his terrific arraign 
 ment of his enemies in court ; his strange colloquy with the 
 murderous Cayces the night of the snow-storm, when he pro 
 nounced the direful prophecy of future penalties ; the wild 
 cry for help in the night when Cajah Green was captured, 
 and the wilder ride to the mouth of the cave ; and then 
 the truly vicarious sacrifice of the " prophet " as in the con 
 fusion of darkness and haste he was hurled to his death 
 instead of his arch-enemy, the sheriff, such a narrative im 
 presses one not only as a strong piece of dramatic writing 
 but as a convincing " human document " filled with knowl 
 edge of a little-known and peculiar people. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 "IN OLE VIRGINIA" BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
 
 IN this collection of short stories, written by a Southerner 
 about the South, there are two or three that have already 
 become classic, like " Marse Chan," " Meh Lady," and 
 " Polly." One speaks of them now as if they were a recog 
 nized part of American literature ; and it is somewhat sur 
 prising to learn that the first-mentioned story, when sent to 
 the old Scribner s Monthly, brought but eighty dollars, and 
 was held for four years before publication, finally appearing 
 in the new Century magazine. 
 
 Despite the widespread prejudice against mere dialect as 
 a vehicle for literary expression, it must be confessed that 
 " Marse Chan " and " Meh Lady " would lose much of their 
 unique charm and their closeness to Southern life if they 
 did not seem to emanate from the inmost hearts and experi 
 ences of those loyal old " darkies," Sam and Billy. These 
 faithful souls are the natural, unaffected exponents of a phase 
 of Southern life that has largely passed away, they were 
 an integral and essential part of the social system that is 
 here reflected and characterized in all its free-hearted hos 
 pitality, its quick sense of honor and chivalry, its impulsive 
 hot-headedness, and its instinctive bravery. 
 
 Unconsciously typical of the Old South was the negro 
 standing with a hoe and a watering-pot in his hand, waiting 
 
 87 
 
88 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 at the " worm- fence " for the advent down the path of a 
 noble-looking old setter, gray with age and over-round from 
 too abundant feeding. The setter, like some old-time 
 planter, sauntered slowly, and in lordly oblivion of the negro, 
 up to the fence, while the latter began to take down the 
 rails, talking meanwhile to the dog in a pretended tone of 
 criticism : " Now, I got to pull down de gap, I suppose ! 
 Yo so sp ilt yo kyahn hardly walk. Jes ez able to git over 
 it as I is ! Jes like white folks think cuz you s white and 
 Fs black, I got to wait on yo all de time. Ne m mine, I 
 ain gwi do it ! " As his dogship marched sedately through 
 the " gap " and down the road, the negro suddenly dis 
 covered a stranger looking on, and hastened to remark 
 somewhat apologetically : " He know I don mean nothin 
 by what I sez. He s Marse Chan s dawg, an he s so ole he 
 kyahn git long no pearter. He know I se jes prodjickin 
 wid im." 
 
 The darky explained to the stranger that " Marse Chan," 
 (or Channin ) was his young master, that the place with " de 
 rock gate-pos s " which the stranger had just passed was 
 " ole Cun l Chamb lin s," and that since the war " our place " 
 had been acquired by certain "unknowns " who were prob 
 ably " half-strainers." 
 
 At the request of the stranger to tell him all about " Marse 
 Chan " the old negro recalled, " jes like twuz yistiddy," how 
 "ole marster" (Marse Chan s father), smiling "wusn a 
 possum," came out on the porch with his new-born son in 
 his arms, and catching sight of Sam (the narrator, who was 
 then but eight years old), called him up on the porch and 
 put the baby in his arms, with the solemn injunction that 
 Sam was to be the young master s body-servant as long as 
 he lived. " Yo jes ought to a- heard de folks sayin , Lawd ! 
 
"In Ole Virginia" 89 
 
 marster, dat boy ll drap dat chile ! Naw, he won t, sez 
 marster ; I kin trust im. " And then the old master walked 
 after Sam carrying the young master, until Sam entered the 
 house and laid his precious burden on the bed. 
 
 Sam recalled, too, how Marse Chan, when in school, once 
 carried Miss Anne, Colonel Chamberlin s little daughter, on 
 his shoulders across a swollen creek, and how the next day, 
 when his father gave him a pony to show his pleasure over 
 his son s chivalry, Marse Chan came walking home from 
 school, having given his pony to Miss Anne. " Yes, sez 
 ole marster, laughin , I s pose you s already done giv her 
 yo se f, an nex thing 1 know you ll be givin her this planta 
 tion and all my niggers. " It was only a fortnight later 
 that Colonel Chamberlin invited the " ole marster " and his 
 whole family over to dinner, expressly naming Marse 
 Chan in the note, and after dinner two ponies stood at 
 the door, the one Marse Chan had given Miss Anne, and 
 the other a present to Marse Chan from the Colonel. And 
 after a " gre t " speech by the Colonel, the two young lovers 
 went off to ride, while the " grown folks " laughed and 
 chatted and smoked their cigars. 
 
 To the eye of Sam s endearing memory those were the 
 good old times, " de bes Sam ever see! Dey wuz, in 
 fac ! Niggers didn hed nothin t all to do jes hed to 
 ten to de feedin an cleanin de horses, an doin what de 
 marster tell em to do ; an when dey wuz sick, dey had 
 things sont em out de house, an de same doctor come 
 to see em whar ten to de white folks when dey wuz po ly. 
 Dyar warn no trouble nor nothin ." 
 
 The considerate affection shown for the young Sam by 
 Marse Chan was illustrated by the little incident of the 
 punishment inflicted on both of them by the " ole marster " 
 
90 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 for sliding down the straw-stacks against orders. The master 
 first whipped young Marse Chan and then began on Sam, 
 who was using his lungs to lighten the severity of his 
 punishment. Marse Chan took his own whipping without 
 a murmur ; " but soon ez he commence warmin me 
 an I begin to holler, Marse Chan he bu st out cryin , 
 an stept right in befo old marster, an ketchin de whup, 
 sed: 
 
 " Stop, seh ! Yo sha n t whup im ; he b longs to me, 
 an ef you hit im another lick I ll set im free ! . . . 
 
 " Marse Chan he warn mo n eight years ole, an dyah 
 dey wuz ole marster standin wid he whup raised up, 
 an Marse Chan red an cryin , hoPin on to it, an sayin I 
 b longs to im. 
 
 " Ole marster, he raise de whup, an den he drapt it, 
 an broke out in a smile over he face, an he chuck Marse 
 Chan onder de chin, an tu n right roun an went away, 
 laughin to hisse f ; an I heah im tellin ole missis dat evenin , 
 an laughin bout it." 
 
 Sam s vivid memory saw again the picture of the dawnlight 
 on the river when Marse Chan and old Colonel Chamberlin 
 fought their famous duel that grew out of the unfounded 
 charges against Marse Chan s father made by the Colonel 
 in a political speech. Sam could see again the early morn 
 ing light on his young master s face, and could hear the 
 ominous voice of one of the seconds saying, " Gentlemen, 
 are you ready? " 
 
 " An he sez, Fire, one, two an ez he said one ole 
 Cun l Chamb lin raised he pistil an shot right at Marse 
 Chan. De ball went th oo his hat. I seen he hat sort o 
 settle on he head ez de bullit hit it, an he jes tilted his 
 pistil up in de a r an shot bang; an ez de pistil went 
 
"In Ole Virginia" 91 
 
 bang, he sez to Cun l Chamb lin, I mek you a present to 
 yo fam ly, seh ! . . . 
 
 " But ole Cun l Chamb lin he nuver did furgive Marse 
 Chan, an Miss Anne she got mad too. Wimmens is mons us 
 onreasonable nohow. Dey s jes like a catfish : you can 
 n tek hole on em like udder folks, an when you gits m 
 yo can n always hole em." 
 
 In sympathetic and picturesque language the old darky 
 recounted the last meeting between Marse Chan and Miss 
 Anne, as they stood together in the moonlight, and Sam 
 overheard the fateful words of the implacable Southern 
 woman, " But I don love yo . (Jes dem th ee wuds !) 
 De wuds fall right slow like dirt falls out a spade on a 
 coffin when yo s buryin anybody, an seys, Uth to uth. 
 Marse Chan he jes let her hand drap, an he stiddy hisse f 
 g inst de gate-pos , an he didn speak torekly." 
 
 Sam s relation of how Marse Chan went to the war, of how 
 in the tent he knocked down Mr. Ronny for speaking con 
 temptuously of Colonel Chamberlin and his daughter, and 
 of the effect on Marse Chan s face of the letter of reconcilia 
 tion and love he received from Miss Anne, brings the 
 vivid narrative to Marse Chan s splendid charge on the 
 field at the head of the regiment, carrying its fallen flag up 
 the hill, and inspiring it by his dauntless leadership. "I 
 seen im when he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead 
 o ev ry urr hoss, jes like he use to be in a fox-hunt, an 
 de whole rigimint right arfter him." But suddenly the 
 sorrel came galloping back with flying mane, and the rein 
 hanging down on one side to his knee, and poor Sam 
 knew that Marse Chan must be killed. He found his mas 
 ter among the dead men, still holding in his hand the flag 
 as he lay beneath one of the guns. " I tu n im over an 
 
92 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 call im, Marse Chan ! but t wan no use, he wuz done gone 
 home, sho nuff. I pick im up in my arms wid de fleg 
 still in he han s, an toted im back jes like I did dat day 
 when he wuz a baby, an ole marster gin im to me in my 
 arms, an sez he could trus me, an tell me to tek keer on 
 im long ez he lived." 
 
 And when Sam reached home with the body in the ambu 
 lance and had gone over to let Miss Anne know the awful 
 news, that " Marse Chan he done got he furlough," and she 
 had ridden back and prostrated herself before Marse Chan s 
 old mother, there is the close of the tragic story as told by 
 the loyal old negro in these words : 
 
 " Ole missis stood for bout a minit lookin down at her, 
 an den she drapt down on de flo by her, an took her in 
 bofe her arms. 
 
 " I couldn see, I wuz cryin so myse f, an ev ybody wuz 
 cryin . But dey went in arfter a while in de parlor, an shet 
 de do ; an I heahd em say, Miss Anne she tuk de coffin in 
 her arms an kissed it, an kissed Marse Chan, an call im by 
 his name, an her darlin , an ole missis lef her cryin in dyar 
 tell some one on em went in, an found her done faint on de 
 flo ." And it was not long before Miss Anne, broken by nursing 
 in the hospitals and by fever and sorrow, was laid beside the 
 body of Marse Chan. So pathetic and brave and illuminating 
 a story concerning the South at the beginning of the Civil War 
 it would be difficult to find elsewhere in American literature. 
 
 In this collection of short stories "Unc Edinburg s 
 Drowndin " is considered by Mr. Page himself as perhaps 
 his best picture of old Virginia society ; and it does indeed 
 present a variety of phases of the plantation and negro 
 life, drawn with convincing art and a charming element of 
 relieving humor. 
 
"In Ole Virginia 93 
 
 "Ole Billy," peeling cedar fish-poles and introducing with 
 loving detail his story of " Meh Lady," is a typical figure of 
 the loyal, sympathetic, and humorous old house servant that 
 Mr. Page delights to use, and somewhat idealizes, as the 
 spokesman in his dialect stories of the South. Billy, in re 
 calling the looks and ways of Meh Lady as a little girl, bent 
 on following her ambitious brother, Marse Phil, said that she 
 used to look " white mong dem urr chil ns as a clump o 
 blackberry blossoms mong de blackberries. . . . An her 
 eyes ! I do b lieve she laugh mo wid em n wid her mouf. 
 She was de light o dis plantation ! When she d come in 
 you house twuz like you d shove back de winder an let 
 piece o de sun in on de flo you could almos see by 
 her ! " She and Marse Phil, Billy declared, were practically 
 inseparable in all their pursuits until he went to college, and 
 even till he went into the war. And then the old darky 
 relates, with all the vivid detail of an eye-witness, how he 
 started at dawn with the carriage and the " Mistis " and 
 Meh Lady to drive to the battle-field where Marse Phil lay 
 wounded unto death. " I see de soldiers all long de road 
 look at me, an some on em holler to me dat I cyarn go 
 dat way; but I ain t pay no tention to em, I jes push on." 
 Presently he saw in an oat field the house to which Marse 
 Phil had been taken, and he was urging on the horses when 
 three or four men standing in the roadway ahead, cried, 
 " Halt." They cried " Halt " a second time, noticing that 
 he paid no attention to them ; and finally " a spreckle-face 
 feller run up an ketch Remus head, an anurr one done 
 p int he gun right at me." The old servant protested his 
 surprise that they didn t have any better sense than to 
 " ketch holt Mistis horses," and was just on the point of 
 using his whip on one of the men, when the door of the car- 
 
94 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 riage opened and the " Mistis " stepped out. She told them 
 that her son was dying in the house just beyond and she was 
 going to him. " She talk mighty sorf but mighty termined 
 like. Dee sort o reason wid her, but she jes walk on by 
 wid her head up, an tell me to foller her, an dat I did, 
 mon ! an lef em dyah in de road holdin dee gun. De 
 whole army couldn a keep her fum Marse Phil den." 
 Marse Phil died that night in his mother s arms as peace 
 fully as a baby, saying it was just like the old times when he 
 used to go to sleep in her lap in his own room, with her arms 
 around him. And the colonel of his regiment wrote Marse 
 Phil s mother how the Confederacy mourned his loss, and 
 how he was made a colonel on the day he was shot ; and 
 the proud negro added in his narrative that Marse Phil s 
 new title of honor was on the tombstone and that one could 
 still go into the garden and read it. 
 
 The panic among the darkies on the sudden advent of 
 the Yankees; the insults of the irresponsible Northern sol 
 diery ; the protecting attitude of " Ole Billy " standing, ax in 
 hand ; the gallant entrance of Captain Wilton of the Northern 
 army though half Virginian and kinsman to Meh Lady ; 
 the typical unrelenting pride of Meh Lady and the " Mistis" ; 
 the captain s strenuous ride with a letter from General 
 McClellan ; the turning of the old Southern home into a hos 
 pital for Southern soldiers, with " Mistis " and Meh Lady as 
 nurses ; the bringing of the wounded Northern soldier to the 
 house and tenderly nursing him back to life, his interesting 
 convalescence and his unmistakable love for Meh Lady, 
 with her reluctant refusal to marry him on the ground that 
 she couldn t marry a Union soldier, all come in as striking 
 incidents in the development of the story. And the swift 
 reduction of the "Mistis" and Meh Lady to extremest 
 
"In Ole Virginia" 95 
 
 poverty ; the mortgaging of the plantation ; the bitter sur 
 render of Richmond and General Lee ; the renewed effort 
 of Colonel Wilton to be recognized as a lover; Billy s 
 humorous purchase of the mule to help Meh Lady; her 
 brave efforts at school teaching ; and the fading out of her 
 mother s life, these continue the pathetic narrative to the 
 terrible isolation of Meh Lady, and the final uncertain visit 
 of the Northern suitor. Meh Lady s second refusal, old 
 Hannah s message to the Colonel and her upbraiding him 
 with being no " pertector to the chile/ and the Colonel s 
 taking of the reins into his own hands and insisting on an 
 immediate marriage, carry us forward to his important ride 
 to the court-house, with " Ole Billy " following on the col 
 lapsing mule. But alas ! Billy s memory as to Meh Lady s 
 age was all too misty. " I know her age, cause I right dyah 
 when she born; but how ole she is, I don know." It 
 looked, under the circumstances, as if they would have to 
 take a forty-mile ride back to the family records, when sud 
 denly the old negro connected Meh Lady s birth with that 
 of Marse Phil, a legal record of his words was made, the 
 clerk of the court was able himself to confirm the truth of 
 the negro s memory, and the necessary license was 
 triumphantly carried back. 
 
 Such preparations that morning for the unexpected wed 
 ding ! " Hannah she sut n y wuz comical, she ironin an 
 sewin dyah so induschus she oon le me come in meh own 
 house." And when they were all ready for the ceremony, 
 Hannah suddenly flung the door wide open, " An Meh 
 Lady walk out ! Gord ! ef I didn think twuz a angel. 
 She stan dyah jes white as snow fum her head to way back 
 down on de flo behine her, an her veil done fall roun her 
 like white mist, an some roses in her han . Ef it didn 
 
96 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 look like de sun done come th oo de chahmber do wid her, 
 an blaze all over de styars, an de Cun l he look like she 
 bline him. . . . An dyah facin Mistis picture an Marse 
 Phil s (tooken when he wuz a little boy), lookin* down at 
 em bofe, dee wuz married." 
 
 The point in the ceremony where the minister asks " Who 
 gives this woman to this man?" seemed to the faithful 
 darky to make some demand upon himself. " I don know 
 huccome twuz, but I think bout Marse Jeems an Mistis 
 when he ax me dat, an Marse Phil, whar all dead, an all de 
 scufflin we done been th oo, an how de chile ain got no 
 body to teck her part now sep jes me ; an now when he 
 wait an look at me dat way, an ax me dat, I bleeged to 
 speak up ; I jes step for ard an say, Ole Billy. " 
 
 " In Ole Virginia " is completed by the weird and 
 haunting sketch of " No Haid Pawn," " Ole Stracted," and 
 the delightful " Polly," with its inimitable Colonel, a 
 charming kinsman of Hopkinson Smith s " Colonel Carter," 
 its Drinkwater Torm, who was always on the point of 
 being sold the following morning, and the irresistible Polly 
 herself, who knew so well the diplomatic uses of mint. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 "COLONEL CARTER OF CARTERSVILLE " BY 
 F. HOPKINSON SMITH 
 
 THERE is probably no happier illustration of F. Hopkin- 
 son Smith s versatility as a story writer than that found in 
 his " Colonel Carter of Cartersville," where he has drawn, 
 with somewhat extravagant hand, perhaps, a Southern type 
 of rare good fellowship, real bravery and chivalry, bound 
 less hospitality, and delightfully visionary schemes. He be 
 longs to that group of old-time Southern gentlemen so 
 attractively portrayed by Thomas Nelson Page in " Marse 
 Chan " " Meh Lady," and " Polly," and has already become 
 a genial companion to a host of readers. And Chad com 
 bination of cook, butler, body-servant, and boots is a 
 negro type that deserves to associate with Mr. Page s Sam 
 and Billy and Torm. 
 
 The preparations for the Colonel s first dinner are sig 
 nificant of the Colonel s improvident but irresistible ways, 
 he wrote to his friend, the Major : " Will you lend me half 
 a dozen napkins mine are all in the wash, and I want 
 enough to carry me over Sunday. Chad will bring, with your 
 permission, the extra pair of andirons you spoke of." As 
 the Major waited for his host s appearance, he was impressed 
 by the cozy, charming interior of the Colonel s dining room, 
 an irregularly shaped apartment, panelled with a dark wood 
 H 97 
 
98 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 running half way to the low ceiling, and containing two fire 
 places " an open wood fire which laughed at me from be 
 hind my own andirons, and an old-fashioned English grate 
 set into the chimney with wide hobs convenient and nec 
 essary for the various brews and mixtures for which the 
 Colonel was famous." The Major also had time to notice the 
 snow-white cloth resplendent in old India blue, the pair of 
 silver coasters heirlooms from Carter Hall the silver 
 candelabra with candles as the Colonel despised gas 
 and some of the etchings and sketches from his own studio, 
 which he had loaned to the appreciative Colonel. Suddenly 
 he heard the Colonel calling down the back stairs : " Not a 
 minute over eighteen, Chad. You ruined those ducks last 
 Sunday." And the next moment he had his guest by the 
 hand. " My dear Major, I am pa alyzed to think I kep you 
 waitin . . . . Have a drop of sherry and a dash of bitters, 
 or shall we wait for Fitzpa trick? You don t know Fitz? 
 Most extraord nary man ; a great mind, suh ; literature, 
 science, politics, finance, everything at his fingers ends. . . . 
 Put yo body in that chair and yo feet on the fender my 
 fire and yo fender ! No, Fitz s fender and yo andirons ! 
 Charmin combination ! " 
 
 And to make the picture of this hospitable Southerner com 
 plete the Major gives this bit of description : " He is per 
 haps fifty years of age, tall and slightly built. His iron-gray 
 hair is brushed straight back from his forehead, overlapping 
 his collar behind. His eyes are deep-set and twinkling ; 
 nose prominent ; cheeks slightly sunken ; brow wide and 
 high ; and chin and jaw strong and marked. His mustache 
 droops over a firm, well-cut mouth and unites at its ends 
 with a gray goatee which rests on his shirt front. 
 
 " Like most Southerners living away from great cities, his 
 
Copyright 1891, by Houghtuu, Mijjlm * t. 
 
 "Mv FIRE is MY FRIEND." 
 
 From " Colonel Carter of Cartersville," by F. Hopkinson Smith. By permission of 
 Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
" Colonel Carter of Cartersville " 99 
 
 voice is soft and low, and tempered with a cadence that is 
 delicious. 
 
 " He wears a black broadcloth coat a double-breasted 
 garment with similar colored waistcoat and trousers, a 
 turn-down collar, a shirt of many plaits which is under- 
 starched and over-wrinkled but always clean, large cuffs 
 very much frayed, a narrow black or white tie, and low 
 shoes with white cotton stockings." 
 
 This black broadcloth coat, by the way, the Colonel used 
 to adapt to various functions : for a funeral or other serious 
 matter on his mind the Colonel wore this coat buttoned 
 close up under his chin, showing only the upper edge of his 
 white collar and the stray end of a black cravat ; for dinner 
 he buttoned it lower down, revealing a bit of his plaited 
 shirt j and for a wedding it was thrown wide open, discover 
 ing a stiff, starched, white waistcoat with ivory buttons and 
 snowy neck-cloth. 
 
 As the Major incidentally remarks, the Colonel was "hos 
 pitable to the verge of beggary," enthusiastic as he was 
 visionary, tender-hearted and happy as a boy, proud of his 
 ancestry, his state, and himself, and an unswerving believer 
 in states rights, slavery, and the Confederacy ; " and away 
 down in the bottom of his soul still clinging to the belief 
 that the poor white trash of the earth includes about every 
 body outside of Fairfax County." He was beyond the pos 
 sibility of "reconstruction," and he chafed continually under 
 what he believed to be the tyranny of "the Government," 
 which latter term, however, really referred to the distribu 
 tion of certain local offices in his own immediate vicinity. 
 
 Upon the belated arrival of the thick-set, round-faced 
 Fitzpatrick, the Colonel sprang forward, seizing him by the 
 shoulders, and exclaiming, " What the devil do you mean, 
 
ioo Provincial Types in the South 
 
 Fitz, by comin ten minutes late? Don t you know, suh, 
 that the burnin of a canvasback is a crime ? Stuck in the 
 snow? Well, I ll forgive you this once, but Chad won t. 
 Give me yo coat bless me ! it is as wet as a setter 
 dog. . . . Major, Fitz ! Fitz, the Major ! Take hold of 
 each other." And then came the vigorous signal for dinner, 
 three raps on the floor with a poker, and a voice rumbled 
 up from below : " Comin , sah ! " And Chad dished the 
 dinner. " To dine well was with him an inherited instinct. 
 . . . To share with you his last crust was a part of his 
 religion ; to eat alone, a crime." 
 
 Immediately at the close of the next dinner given by the 
 Colonel, he began the discussion with Fitzpatrick and the 
 Major of his darling scheme of furnishing, by his proposed 
 " Cartersville and Warrentown Air Line Railroad," an outlet 
 to the sea for "the garden spot of Virginia," a plan for 
 which he illustrated, in lieu of the map which he had left 
 at the office, by the use at significant points of the mus 
 tard-pot, salt-cellar, cheese, and carving-knife. To the 
 Major s practical inquiry as to the advantage of building 
 twelve additional miles of road to reach Carter Hall, the 
 Colonel rose to his feet in indignant reply : " Any advantage ? 
 Major, I am surprised at you ! A place settled mo than one 
 hundred years ago, belongin to one of the vehy fust fam lies 
 of Virginia, not to be of any advantage to a new enterprise 
 like this ! Why, suh, it will give an air of respectability to 
 the whole thing that nothing else could ever do. Leave 
 out Caarter Hall, suh, and you pa alyze the whole scheme." 
 The prospectus for the new railroad, which Fitz had some 
 what modified to meet the requirements of business, seemed 
 to the Colonel to be deficient in one respect, it provided 
 for no subscriptions in Cartersville, although they were to be 
 

 "Colonel Carter of Carters ville " 101 
 
 opened simultaneously in New York, London, and Rich 
 mond. To Fitzpatrick s innocent question as to whether 
 there was any money in Cartersville, the Colonel proudly 
 replied : " No, suh, not much ; but we can subscribe, can t 
 we ? The name and influence of our leadin citizens would 
 give tone and dignity to any subscription list. Think of 
 this, suh ! " Another criticism of the document by the 
 Colonel was due to Fitzpatrick s inserted phrase, " full pro 
 tection guaranteed." When the Colonel was told that pro 
 tection meant the right to foreclose the mortgage on the 
 non-payment of interest, he authoritatively exclaimed : 
 " Put yo pencil through that line, quick none of that for 
 me. This fo closure business has ruined haalf the gentlemen 
 in our county, suh. But for that foolishness two thirds of 
 our fust fam lies would still be livin 1 in their homes. No, 
 suh, strike it out ! " 
 
 One of the Colonel s unique financial measures in con 
 nection with his great railroad scheme was the proposed 
 issuance of Deferred Debentured Bonds. " No, gentlemen, 
 the plan is not only fair, but reasonable. Two years is not 
 a long period of time in which to foster a great enterprise 
 like the C. & W. A. L. R. R., and it is for this purpose that 
 I issue the Deferred Debentures. Deferred, put off; 
 Debenture owed. What we owe we put off. Simple, 
 easily understood, and honest." And when the Major and 
 Fitz expressed a willingness to join him in subscribing for 
 the fifty thousand founders shares, the Colonel s exhilaration 
 rose to an ecstatic point : " You overwhelm me, gentlemen," 
 rising from his chair and seizing them by the hands. . . . 
 " Fill yo glasses and join me in a sentiment that is dear to 
 me as my life, The Garden Spot of Virginia in search of 
 an Outlet to the Sea. " 
 
IO2 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 On one of the Major s calls, when the Colonel himself was 
 unavoidably detained, Chad grew reminiscent of the good 
 old days in Virginia when the Colonel s father, General John 
 Carter, was alive, and when Chad s prospective wife, Henny, 
 brought him perilously near trouble. Finding a goose roast 
 ing in the big oven, Henny cut off a leg and disappeared 
 round the kitchen corner with the leg in her mouth. Hor 
 rified at what might happen when " Marse John " discovered 
 at dinner the lack of the leg in the presence of " quality," 
 Chad attempted to deny the fact that roast goose was in 
 tended for dinner and served everything else but that. 
 When confronted with the evidence that he helped pick the 
 goose, Chad reluctantly laid it down on the table with the 
 one leg on the upper side. A young lady guest chose a 
 goose leg instead of ham, and a gentleman guest asked for 
 the other leg. " Major, you oughter seen ole Marsa lookin 
 for de udder leg ob dat goose ! He rolled him ober on de 
 dish, dis way an dat way, an den he jabbed dat ole bone- 
 handled caarvin -fork in him an hel him up ober de dish 
 an looked under him an on top ob him, an den he says, 
 kinder sad like, Chad, where is de udder leg ob dat 
 goose? ( It didn t hab none, say I. You mean ter say, 
 Chad, dat de gooses on my plantation on y got one leg ? 
 Some ob em has an some ob em ain t. You see, Marsa, 
 we got two kinds in de pond, an we was a little boddered 
 to-day, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one cause I cotched it 
 fust. " Whereupon the master remarked ominously to 
 Chad : " I ll settle with you after dinner." After dinner 
 the master and his guests, accompanied by the trembling 
 Chad, walked down to the duck-pond, and " dar was de gooses 
 sittin on a log in de middle of dat ole green goose-pond 
 wid one leg stuck down so an de udder tucked under 
 
"Colonel Carter of Cartersville " 103 
 
 de wing." Chad called the attention of his master to the 
 peculiar fact, while all the guests laughed. " Stop, you black 
 scoun rel ! Marsa John says, his face gittln white an he 
 a-jerkin his handkerchief from his pocket. Shoo ! " 
 " Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame 
 grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses didn t put down 
 de udder foot ! " With his cane uplifted to strike, the 
 master angrily exclaimed, " You lyin nigger, I ll show you," 
 when Chad cried out, " Stop, Marsa John ! t ain t fair, 
 t ain t fair. Why ain t it fair? says he. < Cause, says I, 
 you didn t say " Shoo ! " to de goose what was on de table. " 
 And the next day " Marsa John " told Chad he could have 
 Henny for his wife. 
 
 Upon the belated arrival of the Colonel, he told the Major, 
 with evident feeling in his voice, of all Chad s loyalty to the 
 house of Carter. " Do you know, Major, that when I was a 
 prisoner at City Point that darky tramped a hundred miles 
 through the coast swamps to reach me, crossed both lines 
 twice, hung around for three months for his chance, and has 
 carried in his leg ever since the ball intended for me the 
 night I escaped in his clothes, and he was shot in mine. I 
 tell you, suh, the color of a man s skin don t make much 
 diffe ence sometimes. Chad was bawn a gentleman, and 
 he ll never get over it." 
 
 Some of the Colonel s unique traits are illustrated in his 
 buying roses for his Aunt Nancy, when she was considerately 
 and secretly paying his grocery bills ; in his drawing her a 
 note of hand to relieve his sense of indebtedness and protect 
 her against personal loss, in which he promises to pay on 
 demand six hundred dollars, with interest at six per cent, 
 " payable as soon as possible " ; in his swift challenge of old 
 Klutchem, the broker, for alluding to the Colonel s railroad 
 
IO4 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 securities as not worth a yellow dog ; in his sudden drawing 
 of his will and bequeathing to his aunt, " Ann Carter, spin 
 ster," twenty-five thousand shares of " Cartersville and War- 
 rentown Air Line Railroad " stock, a railroad that was as 
 yet only on paper and in the air ; and in his cool attempt, 
 as preparation for the duel, to snuff, at forty yards, a candle 
 held by the confident Chad. 
 
 The prospective duel brought from Virginia, as a second 
 for the Colonel, Major Tom Yancey of the Confederate 
 army, whose personal appearance is described as that of " a 
 short, oily-skinned, perpetually perspiring man of forty, with 
 a decollet^ collar, a double-breasted waistcoat with glass 
 buttons, and skin-tight light trousers held down to a pair of 
 high-heeled boots by leather straps. The space between 
 his waistband and his waistcoat was made good by 
 certain puckerings of his shirt, anxious to escape the thral 
 dom of his suspenders." Unfortunately, the Colonel s 
 challenge had failed to reach Mr. Klutchem, through lack 
 of postage ; and it was then diplomatically suggested by 
 Fitzpatrick that the language used by the satirical Mr. 
 Klutchem was really not insulting. Whereupon this dialogue 
 ensued: "Did he call you a yaller dog?" said Yancey. 
 " No." " Call anybody connected with you a yaller dog ? " 
 " Can t say that he did." " Call yo railroad a yaller dog? " 
 "No, don t think so," said the Colonel, now thoroughly 
 confused and adrift. Yancey consulted with " Jedge " Ker- 
 foot, his companion from the "district co te of Fairfax 
 County," and said gravely : " Unless some mo direct insult 
 is stated, Colonel, we must agree with yo friend, Mr. Fitz 
 patrick, and consider yo action hasty. Now, if you had 
 pressed the gemman, and he had called jw/ a yaller dog or 
 a liar, somethin might be done. Why didn t you press 
 
"Colonel Carter of Cartersville " 105 
 
 him? " " I did, suh. I told him his statements were false 
 and his manners vulgar." " And he did not talk back ? " 
 " No, suh ; on y laughed." " Sneeringly, and in a way that 
 sounded like Yo re another ? " The Colonel had to con 
 fess to the belligerent Yancey that he could not remember 
 that it was. And " Jedge " Kerfoot formulated the general 
 verdict : " The prisoner, Klutchem, is discharged with a 
 reprimand, and the plaintiff, Caarter, leaves the co te-room 
 without a stain on his cha acter. The co te will now take a 
 recess." And the "Jedge," the Major, and Fitzpatrick dis 
 appeared into an underground apartment where they slaked 
 a true Southern thirst. However, for the poor Colonel, 
 whose sense of what a gentleman should be was keen, it was 
 now the only proper thing to call with Mr. Fitzpatrick upon 
 Mr. Klutchem and make a formal apology for attempting to 
 send a challenge on insufficient grounds for action. 
 
 When at last, on the unexpected sale of his coal land to 
 the English syndicate, the Colonel actually became as rich 
 in fact as he had been in hopes and the assurance of his 
 optimistic nature, he was the same man in bearing, manner, 
 and speech as he had been in his impecunious days in 
 Bedford Place ; the same in grateful generosity as he 
 showed the faithful Chad the Englishman s check and told 
 his old servant there was no more hard work for him ; and 
 the same in delightful chivalry as he rose at dinner and 
 proposed the toast to Miss Nancy, " Fill yo glasses, gentle 
 men, and drink to the health of that greatest of all blessings, 
 a true Southern lady ! " Surely Cartersville lies in the 
 "garden spot" of Virginia and the Colonel will always find 
 an " outlet " for it in the interest of American readers. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "UNCLE REMUS: HIS SONGS AND HIS SAYINGS;" 
 "MINGO, AND OTHER SKETCHES IN BLACK AND 
 WHITE" BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 DURING his earlier years as one of the editorial writers 
 on the Atlanta Constitution Mr. Harris occasionally enter 
 tained the other members of the staff with his stories of 
 plantation life ; and it occurred to the editor of the paper 
 that, if these could be put into literary form and published 
 in the Constitution, they would make a popular journalistic 
 feature. After much persuasion Mr. Harris wrote out some 
 of the memories of his boyhood days in Putnam County, 
 Georgia, and put them into the mouth of an old negro 
 named "Uncle Remus." These sketches attracted wide 
 interest, and in 1880 there was published in book form " Uncle 
 Remus: His Songs and His Sayings," a book that dis 
 closed to the world a unique character in fiction, and fixed 
 the fame of the author not only in this country but also in 
 England. "Uncle Remus" as a type of his race presents 
 in Mr. Harris s work some of the more unusual phases of 
 the negro character. As the author in his introduction to 
 the book modestly remarks, "If the language of Uncle 
 Remus fails to give vivid hints of the really poetic imagina 
 tion of the negro ; if it fails to embody the quaint and 
 homely humor which was his most prominent characteristic ; 
 if it does not suggest a certain picturesque sensitiveness, 
 a curious exaltation of mind and temperament not to be 
 
 106 
 
" Brer Rabbit ain t see no peace w atsumever." 
 
 (See page 68.) 
 From Uncle Remits. CopyrigJit 1880, 1895, by D. Appleton and Company 
 

 "Uncle Remus" 107 
 
 defined by words, then I have reproduced the form of the 
 dialect merely, and not the essence, and my attempt may 
 be accounted a failure." One certainly gets, in reading, 
 the qualities Mr. Harris hopes to give, and also others, 
 such as the quaint superstitions, the peculiarly close 
 sympathy with the weaker of the lower animals, which 
 doubtless grew out of the negro s own dependent condition, 
 and his prejudices connected with caste and pride of family. 
 The little boy to whom Uncle Remus tells his legends is a 
 product of the reconstruction that has quietly been going 
 on in the South since the Civil War, while Uncle Remus 
 himself is a surviving result of that social and political 
 system which the war destroyed or greatly modified. And 
 he is a survivor that has only pleasant memories of the time 
 " befo the wah." 
 
 It is significant to notice that in all the contests of subtlety 
 and wit between " Brer Rabbit " on the one hand, and the 
 bear, the wolf, and the fox on the other, the rabbit is almost 
 uniformly successful, the hero is the weakest and most 
 harmless of animals. To use the words of Mr. Harris, " It is 
 not virtue that triumphs, but helplessness ; it is not malice, 
 but mischievousness." In other words, the negro s concep 
 tion of " Brer Rabbit " seems to be a sort of allegory in 
 which are reflected in a measure the relations of the black 
 man to the dominant white race. 
 
 " Miss Sally," in search of her seven-year-old little boy, 
 looked one evening through the window of Uncle Remus s 
 cabin and saw the child s head resting against the old man s 
 arm. His face was turned in intense interest up to the rough, 
 weather-beaten face of Uncle Remus, who was telling him 
 of the various wiles of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox in their 
 ceaseless contests with each other. They had exchanged 
 
io8 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 invitations to dinner, and Brer Rabbit in accepting the fox s 
 invitation was approaching the latter s home when he heard 
 groaning within. On opening the door Brer Rabbit found 
 Brer Fox sitting up in a rocking-chair all wrapped up in 
 flannel and looking " mighty weak." But he saw no dinner, 
 only a dish-pan, and close beside it a carving-knife. Brer 
 Rabbit remarked that all signs pointed to chicken for dinner ; 
 and when Brer Fox assented, Brer Rabbit pulled his mus 
 tache and asked whether the fox had any calamus root. "I 
 done got so now dat I can t eat no chicken ceppin she s 
 seasoned up wid calamus root." And thereupon Brer Rab 
 bit leaped out of the door and watched among the bushes 
 for Brer Fox, who soon crept out of the house with his in 
 valid s disguise gone and was preparing to close in on his 
 reluctant guest. Suddenly Brer Rabbit cried out that he 
 would just lay the fox s calamus root on a neighboring stump, 
 and that the fox ought to get it while it was fresh, and then 
 went leaping homeward. Uncle Remus s final comment 
 was : " En Brer Fox ain t never kotch im yit. En wat s mo , 
 honey, he ain t gwineter." 
 
 The fox s most successful stratagem with Brer Rabbit was 
 the device of the " Tar- Baby," but even that was not entirely 
 successful, at least Uncle Remus leaves the little boy and 
 the rest of us in doubt as to the final issue. Soon after the 
 calamus root episode Brer Fox fixed up with tar and tur 
 pentine " a contrapshun " which he called a Tar- Baby. Put 
 ting it in the road, Brer Fox retired to the bushes to watch the 
 effects. Soon there came pacing down the road Brer Rab 
 bit he came " lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity dez ez 
 sassy ez a jay-bird." Suddenly seeing the Tar- Baby, Brer 
 Rabbit lifted himself on his " behime legs " in curious aston 
 ishment. " Mawnin ! sez Brer Rabbit, sezee nice wed- 
 
" Uncle Remus " 
 
 109 
 
 der dis mawnin , sezee. Tar-Baby ain t sayin nothin , en 
 Brer Fox, he lay low. How duz yo sym tums seem ter 
 segashuate? sez Brer Rabbit, sezee." But the Tar-Baby 
 still " ain t sayin nothin ," and Brer Rabbit offers to speak 
 louder, if this strange little being is deaf. Growing indig 
 nant, the rabbit finally comes to the conclusion that the 
 Tar-Baby is " stuck up " and threatens her : " Ef you don t 
 take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I m gwineter bus you wide 
 open." At last, all patience exhausted by repeated ques 
 tionings, Brer Rabbit draws back and strikes the Tar-Baby 
 with his fist. " Right dar s whaa he broke his merlasses 
 jug." His fist clung to the Tar- Baby, and he couldn t pull 
 it loose. " Ef you don t lemme loose, I ll knock you again," 
 said Brer Rabbit, and with that he struck the Tar-Baby 
 with his other hand, and that also stuck. 
 
 " Tu n me loose, fo I kick de nat al stufrln outen you," 
 said the rabbit ; but the Tar-Baby still "ain t sayin nothin ," 
 but just held on, and Brer Rabbit lost also the use of both 
 his feet. " Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby 
 don t tu n im loose he butt er crank-sided. En den he 
 butted, en his head got stuck." Whereupon Brer Fox, who 
 has been lying low, saunters forth looking as innocent as 
 " one er yo mammy s mockin -birds," and remarks gen 
 ially : " Howdy, Brer Rabbit. You look sorter stuck up 
 dis mawnin ." And then Brer Fox rolled on the ground and 
 laughed and laughed, till he could laugh no more. " I speck 
 you ll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done 
 laid in some calamus root, en I ain t gwineter take no 
 skuse," said the hilarious fox. But whether the fox ate the 
 rabbit or not, Uncle Remus refused to tell the little boy, 
 " Dat s all de fur de tale goes ; " and this autocratic ending 
 was the signal for the little boy to " run long." 
 
 
no Provincial Types in the South 
 
 In half-soling one of his shoes Uncle Remus was much 
 irritated by the little boy s persistent handling of his awls and 
 hammers and knives; and this furnished the old negro a 
 text for his tale about "The Awful Fate of Mr. Wolf." 
 " Folks w at s allers pesterin people, en .bodderin longer 
 dat w at ain t dern, don t never come ter no good eend." 
 And then the old darky proceeded to tell the story of the 
 alliance of Brer Wolf with Brer Fox against Brer Rabbit, 
 and how he " got kotch up wid en he got kotch up wid 
 monstus bad." The little boy s critical attitude of mind 
 toward the past and present history of Brer Wolf proved too 
 much for Uncle Remus s complacent egotism as a story 
 teller who could not be doubted, and he threateningly re 
 minded the little fellow that his mother s voice would soon 
 be calling him, and that his father might possibly bring up 
 the rear " wid dat ar strop w at I made fer im." The child 
 laughingly shook his fist in the simple and serious face of the 
 venerable old man, and then relapsed into an attitude of 
 expectant interest. 
 
 It seems, according to Uncle Remus s narrative, that the 
 wolf had torn down a straw house the rabbit had built, and 
 also a house made of pine tops and one of bark, and each 
 time a child of Brer Rabbit s had been lost. Finally, Brer 
 Rabbit built himself a house of plank, with rock foundations, 
 and could then live in some sense of security. 
 
 One day, with the dogs hard after him, Brer Wolf took 
 refuge in Brer Rabbit s house, and begged the latter for 
 some place to hide in. The rabbit told him to get into a 
 big chest that stood in the room, and when the wolf was 
 inside and the hasp that held the cover down had been 
 shoved into place, Brer Rabbit, in his exultation at having 
 Mr. Wolf securely in his power, " went ter de lookin -glass, 
 
" Uncle Remus " 1 1 1 
 
 he did, en wink at hisse f, en den he draw d de rockin - 
 cheer in front er de fier, he did, and tuck a big chaw ter- 
 barker." 
 
 Soon from the big chest came the anxious voice of Brer 
 Wolf inquiring about the dogs, and Brer Rabbit informed 
 him consolingly that he thought he had just heard one of 
 them smelling round the chimney corner. Then Brer Rab 
 bit filled a kettle with water and put it on the fire. " I m 
 fixin ter make you a nice cup er tea, Brer Wolf." Next he 
 proceeded to bore some holes in the cover of the big chest, 
 to give, as he said, some chance to the wolf to get breath. 
 Then Brer Rabbit increased the fire, with the purpose, as he 
 told the wolf, of keeping him from getting cold. Brer 
 \Volf, in his anxious curiosity to know what was going on, 
 next inquired what Brer Rabbit was then engaged in. " I m 
 a tellin my chilluns," calmly returned the rabbit, " w at a 
 nice man you is, Brer Wolf." " En de chilluns," Uncle 
 Remus smilingly continued, " dey had ter put der han s on 
 der moufs fer ter keep fum laffin ." 
 
 Then Brer Rabbit took the kettle and began to pour the 
 boiling water through the holes in the cover of the chest, 
 and this dialogue ensued : "W at dat I feel, Brer Rabbit?" 
 "You feels de fleas a bitin , Brer Wolf." "Dey er bitin 
 mighty hard, Brer Rabbit." " Tu n over on de udder side, 
 Brer Wolf." " W at dat I feel now, Brer Rabbit? " "Still 
 you feels de fleas, Brer Wolf." " Dey er eatin me up, 
 Brer Rabbit," and these were the last words of Mr. Wolf, 
 " kase de scaldin water done de bizness." And Uncle 
 Remus told the little boy, with a confirmatory touch of 
 realism, that if he should go to Brer Rabbit s house he 
 might still find Brer Wolfs hide " hangin in de back po ch, 
 en all bekase he wuz so bizzy wid udder fo kses doin s." 
 
H2 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 In " A Story of the War," largely told in the dialect of 
 Uncle Remus, and also in his shrewd and humorous " Say 
 ings," contained in the same volume, various aspects of the 
 negro s peculiar character and mental habits are brought 
 out with a quiet but telling art that readers have come to 
 expect in Mr. Harris s writings. 
 
 Mr. Howells s suggestion that too exclusive a stress has 
 been laid upon Mr. Harris s authentic portrayal of negro 
 character, to the neglect of his sketches of Southern white 
 types, brings to mind his story called " At Teague Poteet s," 
 which is included in the volume entitled " Mingo, and 
 Other Sketches in Black and White." 
 
 High up on Hog Mountain and overlooking Gullettsville, 
 lay the fifty-acre farm of Teague Poteet, a Georgia 
 " cracker " ; and at the close of the Civil War, little Sis 
 Poteet, his daughter, had grown old enough to need an 
 education. But when her father suggested that it was time 
 for her to become a lady by getting an education down in 
 Gullettsville, Sis objected in very vigorous terms : " Pap, do 
 you reckon I m fool enough to traipse down to Gullettsville 
 an mix with them people, wearin cloze like these ? Do you 
 reckon I m fool enough to make myself the laughin -stock 
 for them folks?" And Teague was quick to see the point 
 so emphatically made by his self-willed daughter. He took 
 down his rifle, whistled up his dogs, and tramped skyward 
 for game. Passing out through his horse-lot, he came acci 
 dentally upon the cap and worm of a whisky still, and 
 turning the apparatus over with his foot, he remarked with a 
 chuckle : " I ll thes about take you an set up a calico 
 factory. I ll heat you up an make you spin silk an split it 
 into ribbens." And so whisky, in the strange movement 
 of civilization, was to educate Sis Poteet. 
 
"Uncle Remus" 113 
 
 Sis, having an unusual brightness of mind and a peculiar 
 beauty of face and figure, became a great favorite at the 
 academy in Gullettsville, and in time became as thoroughly 
 educated as that somewhat limited institution could be ex 
 pected to make her, for she was ambitious and improved 
 her opportunities to the utmost. She rode from the Moun 
 tain to the Valley and from the Valley to the Mountain " in 
 profound ignorance of the daily sensation she created among 
 the young men of Gullettsville," to whom her beauty and 
 unconscious grace were a sort of revelation. It was only 
 when she met Philip Woodward, a United States deputy 
 marshal sent to arrange for a successful raid upon the moon 
 shiners of Hog Mountain, who included among their num 
 ber her own father, that Sis began to know the attractions 
 of a personal magnetism that belonged to a handsome, quick 
 witted, and adventurous young man familiar with the outside 
 world. Woodward was staying in Gullettsville ostensibly to 
 look up the title of a land- lot somewhere in the vicinity of 
 Hog Mountain, which was practically all that remained of 
 an inheritance swept away by the war. There was a tradi 
 tion or rumor that the land-lot covered a vein of gold, and 
 the desire to investigate this was a part of the young man s 
 business, though strictly subordinate to his function as a 
 deputy sheriff. This interest in the possibilities of his land- 
 lot used to take young Woodward back and forth between 
 Gullettsville and Hog Mountain, and what so natural in that 
 informal region but that he should now and then meet Sis 
 Poteet on her way to school. Sis was a surprise to him, in 
 that region of social destitution, and her intelligence and 
 wild beauty in some way won his heart. And here was a 
 United States deputy sheriff paid to hunt down the moon 
 shiners, and at the same time hopelessly in love with a 
 i 
 
114 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 daughter of one of them ! In this clash between the gov 
 ernment and his heart, all he could do was to resign, but 
 his resignation was not accepted. 
 
 In his advances as a wooer of Sis Poteet, Woodward soon 
 found it necessary to drop all airs of patronage, here was 
 a woman of independent mind, frankness, and splendid free 
 dom of life, as the scholarly principal of the academy in 
 Gullettsville once said, she was " superior to her books." 
 In his despairing efforts to win her, he finally told her that 
 he had failed to hunt up blockade whisky, that he had 
 failed in his search for gold, and that even his resignation 
 was a failure. At such disclosures Sis started up in a rage 
 crying, " Oh, you mean, sneaking wretch ! " and passed 
 swiftly through the kitchen, seized a horn hanging on the 
 wall, and ran out into the darkness. Suddenly were heard the 
 notes of a horn, short, sharp, and strenuous, thrice 
 repeated, and then a little later repeated three times again. 
 And all the dwellers on Hog Mountain knew what it meant, 
 it was the notification that the moonshiners would soon 
 be raided by the revenue men. 
 
 At the sound of the horn Teague Poteet, who owned two 
 stills himself, was looking after some " doublings"; but all 
 he did was to pause and listen and smile. Then he re 
 marked, " Sis talks right out in meetin ; " and added by 
 way of explanation that the message of the horn was to the 
 effect that the raiders would pass his own door. "An I 
 reckon in reason I oughter be home when they go past. 
 They useter be a kinder coolness betweenst me an them 
 revenue fellers." In truth, the news of an approaching raid 
 was like the taste of illicit whisky to these resolute men, it 
 had a sort of exhilarating effect, and meant perhaps a week of 
 diversion in avoiding and fighting the government posse. 
 
"Uncle Remus" 115 
 
 "Come, Tip," said Teague, " yess shet up shop." " Ef 
 Sis ain t a caution," he said, a little later, as he moved about, 
 putting things to rights. " Ef Sis ain t a caution, you kin 
 shoot me. They hain t no mo tellin wher Sis picked up 
 bout thish ere raid than nothin in the worl . Dang me 
 ef I don t b lieve the gal s glad when a raid s a-comin . 
 Wi Sis, hit s movement, movement, day in an day out. 
 They hain t nobody knows that gal less n it s me. She 
 knows how to keep things a-gwine." 
 
 And then the proud father indulged in some domestic 
 reminiscence. " Sometimes she runs an meets me, an 
 says, se she : Pap, mammy s in the dumps ; yess you an 
 me make out we er quollin . Hit ll sorter stir er up ; an 
 then Sis, she ll light in, an by the time we git in the house, 
 she s a-scoldin an a-sassin an I m a-cussin , an airter 
 awhile hit gits so hot an natchul-like that I thes has ter drag 
 Sis out behin the chimbly and buss er to make certain an 
 shore that she ain t accidentally flew off the han le. Bless 
 your soul an body ! she s a caution ! " 
 
 To the inquiry of Uncle Jake as to what Puss Poteet, the 
 mother, was doing meanwhile, Teague replied with a laugh : 
 " Oh, Puss ! Puss, she thes sets thar a-chawin away at er 
 snuff, an a-knittin away at er socks tell she thinks I m 
 a-pushin Sis too clost, an then she blazes out an blows me 
 up. Airter that," Teague continued, " things gits more 
 homelike. Ef t wa n t fer me an Sis, I reckon Puss ud 
 teetotally fret erself away." In wise comment Uncle Jake 
 added, as he took another dram: "St. Paul St. Paul 
 says ther er divers an many wimmin, an I reckon he 
 know d. Ther er some you kin fret an some you can t. 
 Ther s my ole oman ; more espeshually she s one you 
 can t." 
 
n6 Provincial Types in the South. 
 
 On the advice of Teague Poteet the ex-deputy, Wood 
 ward, who was spending the night at Poteet s, joined the 
 band of moonshiners that were starting out to defy the 
 sheriffs posse. He carried himself well and was protected 
 from a quarrel by Teague himself. The posse was misled 
 by the manufactured report of a Jewish peddler that Teague 
 Poteet had been arrested and taken to Atlanta by a man 
 named Woodward, and the posse hastened toward that city 
 to share in the honor of the capture. On their way down 
 the mountain one of their number recklessly shot a fifteen- 
 year-old boy who was out squirrel-hunting, and this so 
 enraged the mountaineers that when Woodward returned 
 to Poteet s he was strongly advised to leave the region at 
 once. 
 
 The effect on Sis of Woodward s sudden departure was 
 a mystery to her father. She became variable in her moods, 
 sometimes as gay as the birds in the trees, and sometimes 
 taciturn and apparently depressed. As Teague described 
 it, " One minnit hit s Sis, an the nex hit s some un else." 
 He talked with his wife Puss about it, but got little conso 
 lation, for she felt that she was somewhat neglected in the 
 attention given her attractive daughter. " It s Sis, Sis, Sis, 
 all the time, an eternally. Ef the calf s fat, the ole cow 
 ain t got much choice betwixt the quogmire an the tan- vat." 
 
 Sis once irrelevantly asked her father if he liked Mr. 
 Woodward, and his reply had no uncertain sound : " Well, 
 I tell you what, he had mighty takin ways. Look in his 
 eye, an you wouldn t see no muddy water ; an he had grit. 
 They hain t no two ways about that." All of his talks with 
 Sis finally swung round to the subject of Woodward, and 
 Teague began vaguely to suspect that possibly Woodward 
 had wronged her. He went to Atlanta with a revolver in 
 
"Uncle Remus" 117 
 
 his pocket, bent on finding out from Woodward himself the 
 true condition of things. Woodward accidentally met him, 
 took him to his room, and asked him in an embarrassed 
 way if he thought his daughter would be willing to marry 
 him. Whereupon, vastly relieved, the old mountaineer 
 replied : " Lem me tell you the honest truth, Cap," placing 
 his hand kindly on the young man s shoulder ; " I might 
 low she would, an I might low she wouldn t ; but I m 
 erbleege to tell you that I dunno nothin bout that gal no 
 more n ef I hadn t a-never seed er. Wimmin is mighty 
 kuse." Some of Sis s actions were inexplicable, but finally 
 she responded with all the strength of her nature to the 
 manly love of Woodward. He was strongly in favor of a 
 quiet wedding, but Teague had different views. "Why, 
 good Lord, Cap ! " he exclaimed, " what ud the boys say? 
 Poteet s gal married an no stools [invitations] give out ! 
 No, siree ! Not much. We hain t that stripe up here, 
 Cap. We hain t got no quality ways, but we allers puts 
 on the pot when comp ny comes. Me an Sis an Puss 
 hain t had many weddin s mongst us, an we re thes a-gwine 
 to try an put the bes foot foremos ." When Hog Mountain 
 heard the news, sent by special messenger with little pink 
 missives written by Sis, it was as proud as Teague himself. 
 
 Certainly Sis and Puss and Teague, Mrs. Hightower and 
 the bibulous Uncle Jake Norris, are a " peculiar people," but 
 they have found in Mr. Harris an author who appreciates 
 their qualities, and sees their deficiencies in a genial, hu 
 morous light. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 "THE GRANDISSIMES " BY GEORGE W. CABLE 
 
 MR. CABLE found in the influence of slavery and the caste 
 spirit upon Creole life in New Orleans, at the opening of the 
 last century, a virgin field that has yielded to American 
 fiction a highly artistic and captivating book in " The Gran- 
 dissimes." Notwithstanding a certain resentment on the 
 part of the Creoles of the South against Mr. Cable s some 
 times satirical but always sympathetic portrayal of their race, 
 they should count themselves fortunate in having so skillful 
 an artist and so fair a man to perpetuate in exquisite liter 
 ary form such charming qualities as are found in types like 
 Aurore and Clotilde and Honore" Grandissime ; while Raoul 
 Innerarity, Palmyre Philosophe, Clemence, and Agricola, 
 though less distinctly individualized perhaps, are yet unique 
 additions to our understanding of New Orleans life at the 
 time of the French cession of Louisiana. 
 
 It was at the bal masque, given for charity, in the Theatre 
 St. Philippe of New Orleans in the fall of 1803 that the beau 
 tiful Aurore Nancanou suddenly unmasked herself to Honor 
 Grandissime, on condition that before the following night 
 he should pay into the hands of the managers two hundred 
 and fifty dollars for sweet charity s sake. And Honore" was 
 more than repaid, although he saw only a stranger, the 
 last of the great Creole family of De Grapion, the long-time 
 
 118 
 
" The Grandissimes " 119 
 
 rivals to the Grandissimes. She was a young widow, living 
 a secluded life of poverty in New Orleans with her daughter 
 Clotilde, and he was the ablest and most progressive Creole 
 in the famous family of the Grandissimes. 
 
 Aurore Nancanou and her daughter lived at No. 19 rue 
 Bienville, in the right-hand half of a single-story, low-roofed 
 tenement, washed with yellow ocher. The bedchamber of 
 the cook was the kitchen and her bed the floor. The only 
 other protector of the house was a hound, the aim of whose 
 life was to get thrust out of the ladies apartments every fif 
 teen minutes. They were living in evident poverty, though 
 neatness, order, and excellence were prevalent qualities in 
 all the details of the interior. The furniture was old-fashioned, 
 rich, French, and imported ; the carpets, though not new, 
 were not cheap ; bits of crystal and silver, here and there, 
 were as bright as they were antiquated ; and the brasswork 
 was brilliantly burnished. Their poverty was in a measure 
 self-inflicted. Aurore s husband, in gambling with Agricola 
 Fusilier, uncle of Honor Grandissime, had staked and lost 
 his whole plantation, including the slaves, and having accused 
 Agricola of cheating and having been challenged to a duel, 
 he fell dead at the first fire of Agricola s pistol. Agricola 
 offered to restore the whole estate, slaves and all, if only the 
 widow, Aurore, would sign a document to the effect that she 
 believed the stakes had been fairly won. But her Creole 
 pride refused, that Creole pride of which Dr. Keene, 
 Aurore s American physician, significantly said, as if making 
 a diagnosis : " Show me any Creole, or any number of 
 Creoles, in any sort of contest, and right down at the 
 foundation of it all, I will find you this same preposterous, 
 apathetic, fantastic, suicidal pride. It is as lethargic and 
 ferocious as an alligator." 
 
I2O Provincial Types in the South 
 
 In the six months that Aurore and Clotilde had been 
 living in their present abode it was not surprising that their 
 neighbors had not been able to decide which was the fairer. 
 " If some young enthusiast compares the daughter in her 
 eighteenth year to a bursting blush rosebud full of promise, 
 some older one immediately retorts that the other in her 
 thirty-fifth is the red, red, full-blown, faultless joy of the 
 garden. If one says the maiden has the dew of youth, 
 But ! cry two or three mothers in a breath, that other 
 one, child, will never grow old. With her it will always be 
 morning. That woman is going to last forever ; ha-a-a-a ! 
 even longer ! " 
 
 The reception of callers on Monday was always in Creole 
 eyes an unfortunate event, to be guarded against only by 
 smearing the front walk or " the banquette " with Venetian 
 red. And this particular Monday the ominous caller on 
 mother and daughter proved to be an errand-boy, who 
 slipped a missive under the door. It read as follows : 
 
 "NEW ORLEANS, 20 Feb re, 1804. 
 
 " MADAME NANCANOU : I muss oblige to ass you for rent 
 of that house whare you living, it is at number 19 Bienville 
 street whare I do not received thos rent from you not since 
 tree mons and I demand you this is mabe thirteen time. 
 And I give to you notice of 19 das writen in Anglish as the 
 new law requi. That witch the law make necessare only 
 for 15 das, and when you not pay me those rent in 19 das 
 till the tense of Marh I will rekes you to move out. That 
 witch make me to be very sorry. I have the honor to 
 remain, Madam, 
 
 " Your humble servant, 
 
 " H. GRANDISSIME, 
 
 "per Z. F." 
 

 " The Grandissimes " 121 
 
 The signature was supposedly that of the man to whom 
 Aurore had laughingly unmasked at the ball for two hundred 
 and fifty dollars to be paid to charity, but it was in reality 
 that of his quadroon brother, the rentier, f. m. c. (free man 
 of color). So that Aurore s tearful scorn on reading the 
 letter was misdirected, though just as intense. " H. Gran- 
 dissime ! Loog ad im ! " She held the letter out before 
 her as if she were lifting something alive by the back of the 
 neck, and to strengthen her indignation she used the hated 
 English language enjoined by the new courts. " Loog ad 
 im ! dat ridge gen leman oo give so mudge money to de 
 ozpill ! " " Bud, maman" suggested her daughter appeas- 
 ingly, " ee do nod know ow we is poor." " Ah ! " retorted 
 Aurore, "par example ! Non ? Ee thingue we is ridge, 
 eh? Ligue his oncle, eh? Ee thing so, too, eh?" She 
 cast upon her daughter the withering look she intended for 
 Agricola Fusilier, the Grandissime who shot her husband 
 in the duel and kept their estate, and added scornfully, 
 " You wan to tague the pard of dose Grandissime ? " 
 Clotilde, with a look of agony on her face, replied : " No, 
 bud a man wad godd some ouses to rend, muz ee nod 
 boun to ged is rend? " Whereupon the mother ironically 
 exclaimed : " Boun to ged ah ! yez ee muz do is possible 
 to ged is rend. Oh ! certain/^. Ee is ridge, bud ee need 
 a lill money, bad, bad. Fo w at?" And then Aurore 
 rose to her feet excitedly and made a show of unfastening 
 her dress for her daughter to carry off to satisfy the usurious 
 demands of the Grandissimes. But the daughter s sudden 
 tears brought the repentant mother to her knees ; she drew 
 her child s head into her bosom, and wept afresh. Then 
 she told her daughter that she was going directly to Honor 
 Grandissime to demand justice; but instead she went 
 
122 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 to consult Palmyre Philosophe, the worker of voudou 
 charms. 
 
 The room which Aurora to use Mr. Cable s preferred 
 spelling entered had furniture of a rude, heavy pattern, 
 Creole-made ; the lofty bedstead was spread and hung with 
 a blue stuff showing through a web of white needlework. 
 " The brazen feet of the chairs were brightly burnished, as 
 were the brass mountings of the bedstead and the brass 
 globes on the cold andirons. Curtains of blue and white 
 hung at the single window. The floor, from habitual 
 scrubbing with the common weed which politeness has to 
 call Helenium autumnale, was stained a bright clean yellow. 
 On it were here and there, in places, white mats woven of 
 bleached palmetto leaf." There was besides a singular bit 
 of fantastic carving, a small table of dark mahogany 
 supported on the upward-writhing images of three scaly 
 serpents. 
 
 A dwarf Congo woman, black as soot, ushered in Aurora, 
 who found Palmyre sitting beside this table. Though it 
 was February, Palmyre was dressed in white. " That barbaric 
 beauty which had begun to bud twenty years before was 
 now in perfect bloom. The united grace and pride of her 
 movement was inspiring, but what shall we say? feline? 
 It was a femininity without humanity, something that 
 made her, with all her superbness, a creature that one would 
 want to find chained." These two women had been chil 
 dren together on the De Grapion plantation, and their 
 greeting was joyously cordial as they advanced toward each 
 other, laughing and talking in their old-time French. 
 
 Aurora s pretended purpose in consulting the voudou 
 worker of charms was to discover a means of getting her 
 rent money; but Palmyre was quick to discover that the 
 
" The Grandissimes " 123 
 
 fluttering little widow was really in love and wanted reas 
 surance that her heart s desire might sometime be realized. 
 The black dwarf brought in a little pound-cake and cordial, 
 a tumbler half filled with the strop naturelle of the cane 
 sugar, and a small piece of candle of the kind made from 
 the fragrant green wax of the candleberry myrtle. " These 
 were set upon the small table, the bit of candle standing, 
 lighted, in the tumbler of sirup, the cake on a plate, the 
 cordial in a wine-glass." As Palmyre closed out all day 
 light from the room and received the offering of silver that 
 "averted guillons (interferences of outside imps) " Aurora 
 " went down upon her knees with her gaze fixed on the 
 candle s flame, and silently called on Assonquer (the imp 
 of good fortune) to cast his snare in her behalf around the 
 mind and heart of she knew not whom." When the 
 flame rose clear and long it was a sign that the imp was 
 on her side, but when it sputtered Aurora trembled. The 
 end of the charred wick suddenly curled down and twisted 
 away from the devotee, and her hope died down with it; 
 but the tall figure of Palmyre intervened, the flame brightened 
 into a cone, and once more the wick turned down, but 
 fortunately this time in the direction of Aurora. It finally 
 fell through the exhausted wax and went out in the sirup. 
 This was all; and then the charm worker handed Aurora 
 some basil to hold between her lips as she walked home 
 ward. To the departing and agitated little widow Palmyre 
 Philosophe ominously exclaimed : " These things that you 
 want, Momselle Aurore, are easy to bring. You have no 
 charms working against you. But, oh ! I wish to God I 
 could work the curse /want to work ! " Her blazing eyes, 
 her heaving bosom, and her clenched hand lifted upward, 
 reenforced her vengeful vow : " I would give this right hand 
 
 
124 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 off at the wrist to catch Agricola Fusilier where I could work 
 him a curse ! But I shall ; I shall some day be revenged ! " 
 The most delightfully inconsequential and free-hearted 
 character in the book is Raoul Innerarity, cousin of Honore 
 Grandissime, who suddenly appeared in the drug store of 
 Joseph Frowenfeld, the immigrant, where various articles 
 were wont to be left for sale. Behind him came a little 
 black boy carrying a large rectangular package. Raoul is 
 described as " a young, auburn- curled, blue-eyed man, 
 whose adolescent buoyancy, as much as his delicate, silver- 
 buckled feet and clothes of perfect fit, pronounced him 
 all-pure Creole." Advancing like a schoolboy coming in 
 after recess, Raoul announced to Mr. Frowenfeld : " I ave 
 somet ing beauteeful to place into yo window." Tearing 
 away the wrappings, he disclosed a painting, which he 
 balanced at arm s length while he admired, and watched 
 the effect on the proprietor of the pharmacy. Frowenfeld 
 gazed long and silently, as if in dumb amazement, and then 
 quietly asked: "What is it?" "Louisiana rif-using to 
 hanter de h-Union ! " replied the ecstatic Creole. Joseph 
 silently wondered at Louisiana s anatomy, and then remarked 
 that the subject was allegorical. " Allegoricon ? No, sir! 
 Allegoricon never saw that pigshoe. If you insist to know 
 who make dat pigshoe de hartis stan bif-ore you ! " 
 And Raoul, the proud, continued : " Tis de work of me, 
 Raoul Innerarity, cousin to de distingwish Honor Grandis 
 sime. I swear to you, sir, on stack of Bible as igh as yo 
 head ! " When asked if he wanted the picture put into the 
 window on sale, Raoul hesitatingly replied : " Sieur Frowen- 
 feP, I think it is a foolishness to be too proud, eh ? I want 
 you to say, My frien , Sieur Innerarity, never care to sell 
 anything; tis , for egshibbyshun ; mats when somebody 
 
" The Grandissimes " 125 
 
 look at it, so," Raoul cast upon his work a look of languish 
 ing covetousness, " You say, foudre tonnere ! what de dev ! 
 I take dat ris-pon-sibble-ty you can have her for two 
 hun red fifty dollah ! Better not be too proud, eh, Sieur 
 Frowenfel ?" 
 
 Raoul then proceeded to show how thoroughly the artistic 
 ideal had gotten hold of him by explaining that only a week 
 before he was making out bills of lading for his cousin 
 Honore", " an now I ham a hartis ! So soon I foun dat, I 
 say, Cousin Honor6 ... I never goin to do anoder lick 
 o work so long I live ; adieu. " As an artist M. Raoul 
 Innerarity was a crude specimen of laughable Creole egotism, 
 but as a drug clerk for Mr. Joseph Frowenfeld, a student 
 of the community, the irrepressible Creole was " a key, a 
 lamp, a lexicon, a microscope, a tabulated statement, a book 
 of heraldry, a city directory, a glass of wine, a Book of 
 Days, a pair of wings, a comic almanac, a diving bell, a 
 Creole veritas" 
 
 Mr. Joseph Frowenfeld s first call upon Aurora and 
 Clotilde Nancanou discloses his own rational and equitable 
 nature, while it serves to bring out as by a foil the deliciously 
 amiable and scintillating qualities of the Creole mother and 
 daughter, whom Mr. Cable has painted with so deft and 
 loving a touch. The story of " Bras-Coup^," told simultane 
 ously by Honore Grandissime and Raoul Innerarity, is a 
 series of pictures drawn in blood that present with startling 
 effect the almost incredible horrors inherent in the savagery 
 of slavery. It helps to account for the present uncanny 
 and dangerous characteristics of Palmyre Philosophe, the 
 weaver of voudou charms, and suggests causes that later may 
 lead to the undoing of that pompous embodiment of unre 
 lenting caste spirit, Agricola Fusilier. 
 
126 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 The sensational end of Frowenfeld s effort to help the 
 sick Dr. Keene, by caring for the wounded Palmyre, re 
 sulted in his finding, dramatically enough, Clotilde Nancanou 
 waiting for him in his shop that she might make some 
 arrangement to pay the next day s rent bill by the sale of 
 her heaviest bracelet. His sudden appearance in the door 
 way, with the sweat of anguish on his brow and the matted 
 blood on the back of his head, the mark left by the billet 
 of Palmyre s Congo dwarf transformed the timid Creole 
 woman into a brave nurse, who bathed his head with her own 
 handkerchief, took him by the arm, and cried : " Asseyez- 
 vous, Monsieu" 1 pliz to give you sev de pens to see down, 
 Sieu Frowenfel ." Pressing back his forehead with a tremu 
 lous tenderness and wiping off the blood, she said, " Mague 
 yo ead back. . . . Were you is urted? " Raoul s un 
 comfortable question as to where Frowenfeld had left his 
 hat brought out a general defense of himself by the apothe 
 cary, in which he despairingly protested his innocence, 
 reaching out both his hands and quite losing his customary 
 self-control. " Sieu Frowenfel ! " impulsively exclaimed 
 Clotilde, the tears springing to her eyes, " I am shoe of it ! " 
 But realizing that in this case the truth only would seem incredi 
 ble, the wounded man gave way to the hopelessness of the 
 situation until Clotilde revived him by a glass of water, and 
 by the heroic and confident assertion : " Sieu Frowenfel , 
 you har a hinnocen man ! Go, hopen yo do s an stan juz 
 as you har ub biffo dad crowd and sesso ! " Suddenly 
 recovering the full stature of his manhood, Frowenfeld 
 called a blessing on her and a reward from God : " You 
 believe in me, and you do not even know me." But saying 
 more than she meant to reveal, and blushing violently at 
 her own words, Clotilde answered : " Mais, I does know you 
 
" The Grandissimes " 
 
 127 
 
 betteh n you know annyt in boud it ! " And Frowenfeld 
 started at this delightful revelation of her secret love. 
 
 Even the cynical and abrupt Dr. Keene used to remark 
 that Clemence the old negress that sold calas and secretly 
 carried voudou charms for the Philosophe was a thinker. 
 It was revealed both in the cunning aptness of her songs and 
 in the droll wisdom of her sayings ; and her shrewd obser 
 vations on the condition of the black race under slavery and 
 the Creole attitude toward it are something of an index, 
 doubtless, to Mr. Cable s own views concerning slavery and 
 the caste spirit which have, directly and indirectly, so large 
 a place in the book. 
 
 Once, in the course of chaffering over the price of calas, 
 Dr. Keene proclaimed the old current conviction, which is 
 still sometimes heard expressed, that the slaves were " the 
 happiest people under the sun." To which Clemence was 
 bold enough to make indignant denial, and was told in re 
 tort that she had " promulgated a falsehood of magnitude." 
 " W y, Mawse Chawlie," she replied, " does you s pose one 
 po nigga kin tell a big lie ? No, sah ! But w en de whole 
 people tell w at ain so if dey know it, aw if dey don 
 know it den dat is a big lie ! " 
 
 Asked if she charged white people with lying, Clemence 
 pretended to make this defense of the whites : " Oh, sakes, 
 Mawse Chawlie, no ! De people don t mek up dat ah ; de 
 debble pass it on em. Don you know de debble ah de 
 grett cyount feiteh ? Ev y piece o money he mek he tek 
 an put some debblemen on de under side, an one o his 
 pootiess lies on top ; an e gilt dat lie, and e rub dat lie on 
 is elbow, an e shine dat lie, an e put is bess licks on dat 
 lie ; entel ev ybody say, Oh, how pooty ! An dey tek it 
 fo good money, yass and pass it ! Dey b lieb it ! " 
 
128 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 The quizzing remark of a bystander, to the effect that the 
 " niggers " didn t know when they were happy, called out 
 the retort on the part of Clemence, " Dass so, Mawse 
 fest vrai, oui ! we donno no mo n white folks ! " This natu 
 rally won the laugh against the speaker ; and when Clemence 
 naively asked the doctor whether all " niggas " were free 
 in Europe, and he replied that something like that was true, 
 the shrewd negress observed : " Well now, Mawse Chawlie, 
 I gwan t ass you a riddle. If dat is so, den fo w y I yeh 
 folks bragg n bout de stayt o s iety in Eu ope ?" 
 
 Making a gesture of attention she continued : " D y ebber 
 yeh w at de cya ge-hoss say w en e see de cyaht-hoss tu n 
 loose in de sem pawstu e wid he, an knowed dat some ow 
 de cyaht gotten be haul ? W y e jiz snawt an kick up is 
 heel " she suited the action to the word " an tah 
 roun de fiel an prance up to de fence an say, l Whoopy ! 
 shoo ! shoo ! dis yeh country gittin too free ! " Another 
 laugh on the part of the onlookers, and Clemence resumed : 
 " Oh, white folks is werry kine. Dey wants us to b lieb we 
 happy dey wants to b lieb we is. W y, you know, dey 
 bleeged to b lieb it fo dey own cyumfut. Tis de sem 
 weh wid de preache s ; dey buiF we ow own sep ate meet n - 
 houses ; dey b leebs us lak it de bess, an dey knows dey lak 
 it de bess." 
 
 Such speeches as these, though smiled at, were not en 
 tirely forgotten by the more prejudiced element among the 
 Creoles, and when later poor Clemence was caught at night 
 in a trap and made to confess at the mouth of a pistol the 
 sender of voudou charms, her often expressed views had 
 not a little influence in determining her awful fate. 
 
 Events like Honore" Grandissime s heroic restitution to 
 Aurore and Clotilde of the Nancanou estate that had come 
 
^ OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 " The Grandissimes 
 
 129 
 
 to his uncle Agricola as the result of a gambling contest, and 
 his still more difficult defiance of the implacable Grandissime 
 caste spirit in recognizing his less-white half-brother and 
 admitting him into the business under the new firm-name 
 of " Grandissime Brothers," such revolutionary things had 
 happened in the absence of Dr. Keene in the West Indies 
 in search of health. Fortunately for him, Raoul Innerarity, 
 artist and new bridegroom, in his impatience to get back to 
 his wife, boarded the schooner bearing the doctor to New 
 Orleans, and became without effort newspaper and local 
 gossip. Raoul s first words were : " My cousin Honore", 
 well you kin jus say e bitray is ole fam ly." And when 
 asked to explain so strong and startling a statement, Raoul 
 indignantly continued : " Well, ce t nly e did ! Di n e 
 gave dat money to Aurora de Grapion ? one undred five 
 t ousan dolla ? Jis as if to say, Yeh s de money my 
 h-uncle stole from you usbanV Hah ! w en I will swear 
 on a stack of Bible as igh as yo head, dat Agricole win 
 dat abitation fair ! If I see it ? No, sir ; I don t ave to 
 see it ! I ll swear to it ! Hah ! " And Raoul added the 
 surprising statement that the receivers of all this money 
 were " livin in de rue Royale in mag-mfycen style on top 
 de drug-sto of Profis-or Frowenfel ." "An listen! You 
 think Honore" di n bitrayed is family? Madame Nan- 
 canou an heh daughtah livin upstair an rissy-ving de finess 
 soci ty in de Province ! an me? down-stair meckin pill ! 
 You call dat justice ? " Ignoring the doctor s inquiry as 
 to whether Honore" and Frowenfeld were callers in the new 
 quarters, the prejudiced Creole addressed a question of his 
 own : " Doctah Keene, I hask you now, plain, don you find 
 dat mighty disgressful to do dat way, lak Honore*?" And 
 at the doctor s expression of ignorance as to the way, the 
 
 K 
 
130 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 excited Raoul asked : "Wat? You dunno? You don yeh 
 ow e gone partner wid a nigga? . . . Yesseh ! e gone 
 partner wid dat quadroon w at call imself Honore" Gran- 
 dissime, seh ! " " What do the family say to that? " " But 
 w at can dey say? It save dem from ruin ! At de sem time, 
 me, I think it is a disgress. Not dat he h-use de money, 
 but it is dat name w at e give de h-establismen Gran- 
 dissime Freres ! H-only for is money we would ave catch 
 dat quadroon gen leman an put some tar and fedder. Gran- 
 dissime Freres ! Agricole don spik to my cousin Honore 
 no mo ." 
 
 After the capture of Clemence, the voudou agent of 
 Palmyre, and the ruling of Agricola out of the council of 
 vengeance, this fierce and irrational embodiment of caste 
 spirit, carrying in one hand his screed on the " Insanity of 
 Educating the Masses," and in the other hand a staff, set out 
 for Frowenfeld s pharmacy. While Agricola was there in 
 conversation with the proprietor, who should walk in for a 
 prescription but Honor Grandissime f. m. c. (free man of 
 color). Agricola s wrathful demand that Frowenfeld should 
 turn that negro out, was followed by another, made directly 
 to the quadroon himself, to take off his hat. The quadroon 
 slowly slipped his thin right hand into his bosom and replied 
 in his soft, low voice, " I wear my hat on my head." 
 Whereupon the furious Agricola struck the quadroon on the 
 head with his staff, and before the onlookers could interfere 
 the men had grappled and fallen, the quadroon beneath. 
 Suddenly from below a long knife was lifted and thrust three 
 times into the old Agricola s back. He was carried upstairs 
 to the apartments of Aurora and Clotilda, the wife and child 
 of his old enemy, and there with his dying words he ex 
 claimed against the new regime the Americain in Louisi- 
 
" The Grandissimes " 131 
 
 ana. " Your Yankee government is a failure, Honore, a 
 drivelling failure. It may live a year or two, not longer. 
 Truth will triumph. The old Louisiana will rise again. 
 She will get back her trampled rights. When she does, 
 remem " but his voice suddenly failed. Addressing him 
 self later to Frowenfeld, he falteringly said : " Beware, my 
 son, of the doctrine of equal rights a bottomless iniquity. 
 Master and man arch and pier arch above pier be 
 low. . . . Society has pyramids to build which make 
 menials a necessity, and Nature furnishes the menials all in 
 dark uniform." His last act, most unexpected and dramatic 
 of all, was to unite with his waning strength the hands of his 
 nephew, Honore Grandissime, with those of Aurora de 
 Grapion, saying as he did so that he had pledged this union 
 to Aurora s father twenty years before. His last words 
 and they were appropriately put upon his tomb were, 
 " Louisian a for ever ! " 
 
 But a deathbed union, such as that performed by Agric- 
 ola Fusilier, was not binding in the eyes of Aurora Nanca- 
 nou; and although her love for Honore Grandissime was 
 beyond doubt in her own mind, she feared that he was 
 merely carrying out the wish of his dying uncle. "An 
 w en someboddie git n ti ed livin wid imsev an big n to fill 
 ole, an wan someboddie to teg de care of im an wan me 
 to gid marri d wid im I thing e s in love wid me." And 
 this love seems to the little Creole widow who is living at 
 the advanced age of thirty-five to bring back her youth. 
 " Some day , Sieur Grandissime, id mague me fo gid my 
 hage ! I thing I m young ! " She has " so mudge troub 
 wit dad hawt " of hers that it seems at times to herself that 
 she is " crezzy " and that she " muz be go n to die torecklie." 
 She feels that in some way Honore" is under obligation to 
 
132 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 marry her : " You know, Sieur Grandissime, id woon be 
 righd ! Id woon be juztiz to you ! An you de bez man I 
 evva know in my life, Sieur Grandissime ! " But finally, 
 after his long and ardent persistency, filled with tormenting 
 doubt, and even with a repeated " no " upon her wayward 
 lips, she bursts into tears and laughter, and allows her splen 
 did suitor, head of a hostile house, to take her in his arms. 
 And all the world rejoices in this dramatic union of beautiful 
 love and high romance. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 "THE PROPHET OF THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS" 
 BY "CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK" 
 
 WHEN Thomas Bailey Aldrich, then editor of the Atlantic 
 Monthly, invited Oliver Wendell Holmes and William Dean 
 Howells to dine with " Charles Egbert Craddock," there was 
 a novel running serially in the Atlantic under the title of 
 " The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains." The virility 
 of the work, as well as that of the preceding short stories 
 collected under the head of" In the Tennessee Mountains," 
 had apparently marked the owner of the pseudonym as un 
 doubtedly a man. There was, too, a certain legal acumen 
 displayed in some of the stories which might belong to a 
 lawyer who had turned to literature for recreation. And 
 then there was the bold, manly handwriting of the heavily 
 inked manuscripts, which once led Mr. Aldrich to remark, " I 
 wonder if Craddock has laid in his winter s ink yet ; perhaps 
 I can get a serial out of him." " Mr." Craddock proved to 
 be Miss Murfree, and the serial was realized in "The 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains." 
 
 There is little cause for wonderment that for six years 
 Miss Murfree s identity was unknown such intimate knowl 
 edge of the pent-up, ignorant, law-defying, hard-headed 
 mountaineers of Tennessee must argue a man s life among 
 the mountains themselves as the only means of obtaining 
 such unique literary material. In reality, Miss Murfree s 
 
134 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 family had been in the habit of spending their summers in 
 the Tennessee mountains, and with her keenness of observa 
 tion, her swift insight into character, and her poetic- sensi 
 bility Miss Murfree was able to portray her strange types and 
 their impressive environment with truth and picturesque 
 effect. 
 
 Above Dorinda Cayce, as she plowed with her one 
 ox down the corn-rows, rolled the mists and vapors of 
 the Great Smoky Mountains, amid which, at times, the 
 " Prophet " used to take refuge and wrestle in prayer for his 
 own soul. Dorinda, the daughter of the old moonshiner, 
 " Ground-hog" Cayce, was being helped in her plow 
 ing by her ardent lover, Rick Tyler, at that time a 
 hunted outlaw with a price upon his head. In their inter 
 mittent conversation, Dorinda suddenly remarked, referring 
 to Parson Kelsey, the "Prophet" : "He lowed ter me ez 
 he have been gin ter view strange sights a many a time in 
 them fogs, an sech." Presently, turning her eyes on her 
 lover, who was plowing with his horse near by, she leaned 
 lightly on the plow-handles and continued : " I lowed tr 
 him ez mebbe he hed drempt them visions. I knows I hev 
 thunk some toler ble cur ous thoughts myself, ef I war tired 
 an sleepin hard. But he said he reckoned I hed drempt 
 no sech dreams ez his n. I can t holp sorrowin fur him 
 some. He lowed ez Satan hev hunted him like a pa tridge 
 on the mounting." 
 
 Rick, the lover, was somewhat jealous of the Prophet, 
 who, as Dorinda said, stopped to rest occasionally at the 
 Cayces on his way down from " the bald," where he went to 
 pray. " In the name o reason," exclaimed the young lover 
 petulantly, "why can t he pray somewhar else? A man ez 
 hev got ter h ist hisself on the bald of a mounting ten mile 
 
<f Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains " 135 
 
 high except what s lackin to git a purchase on prayer 
 hain t got no religion wuth talkin bout. Sinner ez I am, I 
 kin pray in the valley way down yander in Tuckaleechee 
 Cove ez peart ez on enny bald in the Big Smoky." 
 
 But soon, catching the sound of a horse s hoof striking on 
 a stone far down the mountain road, Rick swiftly saddled 
 his horse, from which Dorinda had deftly taken the plow- 
 gear, and disappeared in the dense laurel that screened the 
 mountain fastnesses. 
 
 Dorinda, at twilight time, was hunting for the vagrant cow 
 and now and then calling " soo-cow ! soo ! " when she heard 
 a sound alien to the echoes of her own cry. Now and again 
 from the great " bald " above her came the appealing, tem 
 pestuous tones of the Prophet, and Dorinda said, with a sort 
 of pity in her voice, "He hev fairly beset the throne o 
 grace !" As she passed along singing, she came suddenly, a 
 little later, upon the Prophet himself, standing by his yoke 
 of weary oxen, which he was allowing a few moments of rest 
 after a hard day of plowing. The Prophet was of medium 
 height, "slender but sinewy, dressed in brown jeans, his 
 trousers thrust into the legs of his boots, a rifle on his shoulder, 
 and a broad-brimmed old wool hat surmounting his dark hair, 
 that hung down to the collar of his coat." His eyes had a 
 peculiar luster of fire or inspiration or frenzy, in strange 
 contrast to his otherwise dullard aspect. Dorinda asked 
 solemnly as to how the moral vineyard was thriving, and 
 then remarked encouragingly, " I hearn tell ez thar war a 
 right smart passel o folks baptized over yander in Scola- 
 cutta River." The Prophet replied that he had baptized 
 fourteen, and Dorinda exclaimed, "They hed all fund 
 grace!" "They lowed so," returned the parson. "I 
 hopes they ll prove it by thar works." Asked by Dorinda 
 
136 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 if he had been praying for them on " the bald," he answered, 
 " Naw, I war a-prayin for myself." 
 
 Upon these two in strange dialogue came riding Gid 
 Fletcher, the blacksmith, bringing the news of the capture 
 of Rick Tyler while he was attempting to buy powder at the 
 Settlement. The news made the trees unsteady before the 
 eyes of Dorinda, and the stars became a circle of dazzling 
 gleams. She caught at the yoke, leaned against one of the 
 oxen, and bent every sense into the act of listening. Sud 
 denly there came a change in Parson Kelsey s manner. His 
 fiery eyes turned upon the blacksmith, his face was trans 
 formed with light and life, his figure grew erect and tense, 
 and he stretched forth an accusing gesture. " Twar you- 
 uns, Gid Fletcher, ez tuk the boy ! " This in the minds of 
 the blacksmith and Dorinda was only another confirmation 
 of the parson s power in the mysterious matter of abnormal 
 foreknowledge. And when the blacksmith, with rising 
 blood, inquired why the Prophet should think it was he 
 rather than others that had effected the treacherous capture, 
 the mind- reader fearlessly responded : " Yer heart air ez 
 hard ez yer anvil, Gid Fletcher. Thar ain t another man on 
 the Big Smoky ez would stir himself ter gin over ter the 
 gallus or the pen tiary the frien ez trested him, who hev 
 done no harm, but hev got tangled in a twist of a unjest 
 law." 
 
 The blacksmith s exonerating suggestion that the gov 
 ernor of Tennessee had offered a reward of two hundred 
 dollars for Rick s capture called out the uncompromis 
 ing comment of the parson, " Blood money." The black 
 smith s insistence that the earning of the reward was 
 lawful prompted the fierce exclamation of the Prophet : 
 " Lawful ! Judas war a law-abidin citizen. He mos lawfully 
 
" Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains " 137 
 
 betrayed his Frien ter the law. Them thirty pieces o 
 silver ! Sech currency ain t out o circulation yit ! " 
 
 Quick as a flash the blacksmith s heavy hand struck the 
 Prophet in the face, but the next moment his anger was 
 plunged into fear; for there stood the assaulted and out 
 raged man with a loaded rifle in his hands, and the light 
 nings of heaven flashing in his eyes. But hardly had the 
 blacksmith time to draw the breath he thought would be 
 his last, when the Prophet turned to him the other cheek, 
 and said, with all the dignity of his calling, " In the name of 
 the Master." 
 
 As the blacksmith rode away, he felt that the parson s 
 rifle-ball would have been better than his own loss of moral 
 and spiritual reputation, for in the Big Smoky, piety, or its 
 simulacrum, was the point of honor. What an illustration 
 of iniquity he would furnish for the parson s sermons, what 
 a text ! The blacksmith, cast down and indignant, pon 
 dered on his homeward way the uncomfortable situation in 
 these words : " Fur Hi Kelsey ter be a-puttin up sech a 
 pious mouth, an a-turnin the t other cheek, an sech, ter 
 me, ez hev seen him hold his own ez stiff in a many a free 
 handed fight, an hev drawed his shootin -irons on folks 
 agin an agin ! An he fairly tuk the dep ty, at that thar 
 disturbamint at the meet n -house, by the scruff o the neck, 
 an shuck him ez ef he hed been a rat or suthin , an drapped 
 him out n the door. An now ter be a-turnin the t other 
 cheek ! " 
 
 The parson s fearless interruption of the gander- pulling 
 sport, his uncompromising prediction of Cajah Green s 
 failure to be reflected, and the mysterious escape of Rick 
 Tyler, with which the parson s cooperation was vaguely hinted 
 at, bring us to the time when the parson, riding along the 
 
138 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 valley road and looking up at the mountain heights, was 
 lifted into a sort of spiritual exaltation by the thought 
 that " on a mountain the ark rested ; on a mountain the 
 cross was planted ; the steeps beheld the glories of the 
 transfiguration ; the lofty solitudes heard the prayers of 
 Christ ; and from the heights issued the great sermon in 
 stinct with all the moralities of every creed." But this 
 mood of special exaltation, in which he was almost happy, 
 was miserably broken as he rode along reading his Bible, 
 by the unconscious flattery of a roadside mountaineer, who 
 cried out in the fervor of his admiration, " Kin ye read 
 yer book, pa son, an ride yer beastis all ter wunst? " Alas ! 
 " that tree of knowledge, ah, the wily serpent ! Galilee, 
 it was thousands of miles away across the deep salt seas." 
 
 Closing his book with an exulting smile of pride in his 
 own superior achievement, he said: "The beast don t 
 hender me none. I kin read ennywhar." Whereupon the 
 admiring mountaineer declared his intention of taking the 
 whole family the following Sunday to hear the parson s 
 sermon. " I low ez a man what kin ride a beastis an read 
 a book all ter wunst mus be a powerful exhorter, an 
 mebbe ye ll lead us all ter grace." 
 
 The Prophet s momentary pleasure in this admiration and 
 unconscious flattery fled before the sense of his own vanity 
 and unvvorthiness. " He remembered Peter, the impetuous, 
 and Thomas, the doubter, and the warm generosities of the 
 heart of him whom Jesus loved, and he reckoned that 
 they would not have left Him standing in the road for the 
 joy of hearing their learning praised." "The Lord lifts 
 me up," he said, " ter dash me on the groun ! " 
 
 The afternoon of the same day he reached the house of 
 the Cayces on the slope of the mountain, and being asked 
 
" Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains " 139 
 
 by the old woman to stop and " rest his bones," he tarried 
 awhile in conversation with Dorinda and her mother. To 
 the latter s question, " Be you-uns a-goin ter hold fo th or 
 Brother Jake Tobin ? " the parson replied : " It air me ez 
 air a-goin ter preach." Whereupon the old woman promptly 
 declared : " Then I m a-comin . It do me good ter hear 
 you-uns fairly make the sinners spin. Sech a gift o speech 
 ye hev got ! I fairly see hell when ye talk o thar doom. 
 I see wrath an I smell brimstone. Lord be thanked, I hev 
 fund peace ! An I m jes a-waitin fur the good day ter 
 come when the Lord 11 rescue me from yearth ! " Unfortu 
 nately her daughter Dorinda, as the mother told the parson, 
 was not yet " convicted," and the old woman demanded of 
 him: "Why n t ye speak the truth ter her, pa son? Fix 
 her sins on her." " Sometimes," responded the parson in 
 strange depression, " I dunno ef I hev enny call ter say a 
 word. I hev preached ter others, an I m like ter be a 
 castaway myself." 
 
 In the little log meeting-house at the Notch on the fol 
 lowing Sunday, after a long preliminary service by the unc 
 tuous Brother Jake Tobin and a labored prayer by Brother 
 Reuben Bates, Parson Kelsey stepped forward to the table 
 and opened the book, while the congregation expectantly 
 composed itself to listen to the sermon. He turned the 
 leaves of the New Testament for a text, but suddenly into 
 his mind came skulking a " grewsome company of doubts. 
 In double file they came : fate and free agency, free will 
 and foreordination, infinite mercy and infinite justice, God s 
 loving-kindness and man s intolerable misery, redemption 
 and damnation." They proved too strong for this crudely 
 logical, morbidly conscientious mountain preacher the very 
 opposite type from Edward Eggleston s Mr. Bosaw and 
 
140 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 he closed the Bible with a sudden impulse and the galvanic 
 announcement, " My frien s, I stan not hyar ter preach 
 ter-day, but fur confession." Amid the intense silence 
 following the announcement, he agonizingly cried out : " I 
 hev los my faith ! God ez gin it ef thar is a God 
 hev tuk it away. You-uns kin go on. You-uns kin b lieve. 
 Yer paster b lieves, an he ll lead ye ter grace, leastwise 
 ter a better life. But fur me thar s the nethermost depths 
 of hell, ef ef thar be enny hell." At the rising protest of 
 Parson Tobin, the Prophet lifted his hand in deprecation 
 "bear with me a little; ye ll see me hyar no more. Fur 
 me thar is shame, ah ! an trial, ah ! an doubt, ah ! an 
 despair, ah ! ... My name is ter be a by- word an a 
 reproach mongst ye. ... An I hev hed trials, none 
 like them ez air comin , comin , down the wind." 
 
 He stood erect, he looked bold and youthful, and in his 
 eyes shone the strange light that always marked his inspira 
 tion or frenzy. " I will go forth from mongst ye, I that 
 am not of ye. Another shall gird me an carry me where I 
 would not. Hell an the devil hev prevailed agin me. 
 Pray fur me, brethren, ez I cannot pray fur myself. Pray 
 that God may yet speak ter me, speak from out o the 
 whirlwind." 
 
 There was a sound upon the air, a thrill ran through the 
 horrified congregation, galloping hoof-beats came nearer, 
 the sheriff strode up the aisle and laid his hand upon the 
 preacher s shoulder, and the Prophet was under arrest in his 
 own pulpit ! Self-convicted of the blasphemy of infidelity and 
 arrested as a culprit before the law ! He was accused of 
 having rescued Rick Tyler from the hands of the law, and 
 in his utter innocence he cried in a tense voice, " I never 
 rescued Rick Tyler ! " Brother Jake Tobin consolingly 
 
" Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains " 141 
 
 remarked, " Yer sins hev surely fund ye out, Brother Kel 
 sey," while the Prophet, with a fierce inward struggle, 
 allowed himself to be led away from among them. 
 
 Despite the efforts of Dorinda Cayce to persuade her 
 jealous lover, Rick Tyler, who had been exonorated of 
 his alleged crime, to testify in behalf of Parson Kelsey, or 
 even to have his testimony put in the form of an affidavit, 
 to the effect that Rick was his own rescuer, the innocent 
 parson was brought to trial. The judge strongly charged 
 the jury in favor of the defendant, and, after the verdict of 
 acquittal, stated indignantly that there had been practically 
 no evidence against the parson, and that the whole case was 
 one of flagrant malice. Gid Fletcher, the blacksmith, who 
 was a witness at the trial, reported that the Prophet had 
 risen and reviled both himself and Cajah Green, the sheriff, 
 in open court. " Pears like he hed read the Bible so con 
 stant jes ter 1 arn ev ry creepy soundin curse ez could be 
 called down on the heads o men." 
 
 With the return of Parson Kelsey to the Big Smoky came 
 a snow-storm, covering the ground with a thick whiteness. 
 As he trudged along up the mountain he came to the log- 
 cabin of old Ground-hog Cayce, whose still had been de 
 stroyed through information furnished by Cajah Green, the 
 ex-sheriff. Knocking at the door, the Prophet was admitted 
 to a circle of alert, expectant men, Cayce and his stalwart 
 sons. Kelsey noted their aspect of repressed excitement 
 and how uneasily they shifted their chairs, which grated 
 harshly on the puncheon floor. The conversation finally 
 ran upon Cajah Green and the destruction wrought in the 
 cave where the Cayces illicit still had stood. One of the 
 sons suddenly turned to Kelsey and asked, "Ye w wants 
 him shot, hey, pa son?" And with flashing eye Kelsey 
 
142 Provincial Types in the South 
 
 replied, " I pray that the Lord may cut him off." The par 
 son was thinking of his arrest by Green and of his unjust 
 trial due to the malevolence of the same man. But when 
 he fully realized that the moonshiners were really bent on 
 murdering the ex-sheriff, his mind changed into compassion 
 and into horror at the thought of such cold-blooded crime. 
 Lifting his hand suddenly, with an imperative gesture, and 
 with the old-time religious light in his eyes, the Prophet 
 exclaimed : " Listen ter me ! Ye ll repent o yer deeds this 
 night ! An the jedgmint o the Lord will foller ye ! Yer 
 father s gray hairs will go down in sorrow ter the grave, but 
 his mind will die before his body. An some o you-uns 
 will languish in jail, an know the despair o the bars. . . . 
 An but for the coward in the blood, ye would take yer own 
 life then ! An ye ll look at the grave before ye, an hope ez 
 it all ends thar." He was transfigured before them, and they 
 quailed momentarily in the presence of so dire and authori 
 tative a prophecy. But the effect soon was lost, and when 
 Kelsey attempted to leave, one of the sons threw himself 
 against the door and prevented. 
 
 The night wore on, the fire roared, and the men sat 
 intently listening about the hearth. Suddenly there was a 
 growl from the dogs under the house, and then the sound of 
 crunching hoofs on the snow. The men moved out, swift and 
 silent as shadows, there was a struggle in the road, a wild cry 
 for help, the firing of a pistol, and Cajah Green was a prisoner 
 in the hands of the murderous Cayces. Kelsey, who had no 
 horse, was made to ride with the prisoner and just in front 
 of him, and about them rode the silent squad of moon 
 shiners. Micajah Green begged for his life as he went, 
 he denied, and explained, and promised ; but old man 
 Cayce savagely and briefly commented : " Ye cotton ter 
 
" Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains " 143 
 
 puttin folks in jail, Cajah ! Yer turn now ! We ll put 
 ye whar the dogs won t bite ye." And so in the still night 
 they wound their way through the dense laurel to the 
 mouth of the cave where the Cayce whisky still once 
 stood. They could hear the sound of the dark, cold water 
 rippling in the vaulted place where the dammed current now 
 rose halfway to the roof. The wretched prisoner, foreseeing 
 the savage form of his death, made a last despairing struggle, 
 and Pete Cayce, reaching up, cried out to Kelsey, " Lemme 
 git a holt of him, Hi." " Hyar he be," gasped the parson ; 
 there was another frantic struggle as they tore the doomed 
 man from the horse, a splash, a muffled cry, and a man dis 
 appeared in the black water. A great bowlder hard by was 
 given a push, and fell, completely blocking the cave s mouth. 
 Then the terrorized men mounted their horses in the dark 
 ness and rode away in all directions as if pursued. The 
 next day it was reported that just at daybreak that morning 
 Micajah Green was seen riding by on his big gray horse at a 
 wild rate of speed ; and slowly it dawned on the inhabitants 
 of the Big Smoky that, Christlike, the Prophet had sacrificed 
 himself for his inveterate enemy, and lay dead in the black 
 waters of the cave. 
 
PROVINCIAL TYPES IN THE 
 MISSISSIPPI VALLEY 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FIELD 
 
 IT is a little difficult for a professional humorist to make 
 people think that he is making a positive addition to the 
 knowledge of any section of the country or of its indige 
 nous types ; but even in " Life on the Mississippi " Mr. 
 Clemens has given us some very distinct and picturesque 
 impressions of provincial character in the Southwest. And 
 this is particularly true in " Huckleberry Finn," whose hero 
 became familiar to the world as the notorious son of the 
 town drunkard in "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer." If, 
 as Mr. Howells thinks, Mark Twain s humor is, at its best, 
 " the foamy break of the strong tide of earnestness in him," 
 we should expect to find even in such a work as " Huckle 
 berry Finn " much that is vital in characterization and in 
 teresting for its very truth s sake. Many readers will be 
 surprised to know that one of the most authoritative critics 
 of the world, Mr. Andrew Lang, says that " Huckleberry 
 Finn " is already " an historical novel and more valuable, 
 perhaps, to the historian than Uncle Tom s Cabin, for it 
 is written without partisanship and without *a purpose. 
 . . . The world appreciates it, no doubt, but cultured 
 critics are probably unaware of its singular value." 
 
 144 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 145 
 
 The homely but inimitable tale of how Huck, with his 
 new-found fortune, at interest, yielding a dollar a day 
 " more than a body could tell what to do with " became 
 the adopted son of the Widow Douglass ; and how he re 
 belled from respectability and new clothes and regularity, 
 and particularly from the moral w " pecking " of the "slim 
 old maid," Miss Watson ; and how he escaped in the night 
 to relieve the terrible ennui and joined Tom Sawyer s rob 
 ber gang in the cave ; how he consulted Miss Watson s 
 "nigger," Jim, with his prophetic " hair-ball,**- about 
 Huck s drunken father and his purposes ; and how the 
 father went to law about him with the widow and finally 
 carried his son off up the Mississippi in a skiff and kept 
 him a sort of prisoner in an old log hut, until the restraint 
 and the cowhiding and his father s delirium tremens got 
 to be too much for Huck, and he made his escape down 
 the river in a canoe, such is the beginning of this unique 
 and dramatic story, that gives so many vivid impressions of 
 life on the river and along the fringes of the adjoining 
 states. Huck s night arrival at Jackson s Island, his silent 
 watching of the efforts to raise his supposed dead body 
 from the river by means of the cannon-firing, his sensa 
 tional discovery on the island of Miss Watson s runaway 
 "nigger," Jim, their adventurous life together in the cavern, 
 Huck s disguise as a girl, and the swift penetration of it 
 by Mrs. Judith Loftus of St. Petersburg, and the sudden 
 slipping away of slave and boy from their dangerous island, 
 these are part of the absorbing narrative. And the wreck 
 with its murderous gang, the blinding fogs and measure 
 less depths of star-lit skies, the hopeless missing of Cairo 
 in the night, the smashing of the raft by the big steamer, 
 all pass before us like a panorama of the great stream. 
 L 
 
146 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 And then, what strokes of dramatic power in the descrip 
 tion of the vendetta, the family feud of the fighting 
 Shepherdsons and Grangerfords, and what telling char 
 acterizations in Huck himself, his besotted and brutalized 
 father, the loyal and superstitious Jim, Colonel Sherborne, 
 who coolly shoots old Boggs and superbly quells the 
 mob ; the various old aunts and uncles ; and those humor 
 ous impostors, the " Duke," and the " King." A great 
 variety of phases in the life of the Southwest, forty or fifty 
 years ago, is set forth with realistic power such phases as 
 camp-meetings and circuses and funerals and entertain 
 ments. And nights on the great river, storms, sketches of 
 decayed towns and of changing landscape, woods, and 
 cotton fields are painted with a simple and direct power 
 that makes them the vivid environment of all these varied 
 types of peculiar character. The story, indeed, lapses into 
 a long-drawn and rather tedious burlesque, in the formal 
 freeing of the already free Jim according to Tom Sawyer s 
 " best authorities " ; yet here is a realism of such intense 
 interest and authenticity that occasional defects in taste 
 can easily be overlooked. And through it all is illustrated 
 that humorous power of calm exaggeration which the world 
 has come to recognize as Mr. Clemens s distinctive gift. 
 
 Before the state of Indiana had become a center of 
 literary activity and interest, and the ways of primitive 
 Hoosier life had been little studied, there appeared in 1872 
 " The Hoosier Schoolmaster," written by a man who was 
 born in the southern part of the state in the memorable 
 year of 1837, and who spent his boyhood there in farm 
 labor and as a clerk in a country store. His mother, after 
 the death of his father, had married a Methodist doctor of 
 divinity in Indiana ; and this gave him what people of his 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 147 
 
 neighborhood would have called " a right smart chance of 
 travel." At nineteen this boy became a circuit rider in 
 Indiana for his chosen church ; and in this way Edward 
 Eggleston became peculiarly fitted by environment and 
 experience to portray the provincial and unique types that 
 move so vigorously through the pages of " The Circuit 
 Rider," "The End of the World," " Roxy," and "The 
 Hoosier Schoolmaster." The opening chapter of the last- 
 mentioned book presents a strange picture of one of those 
 crude and almost repulsive families that must have existed 
 in early Indiana history, old Jack Means, the school 
 trustee, to whom Ralph Hartsook made application for the 
 place of schoolmaster in the Flat Crick school; "Bud" 
 Means, who seemed to be measuring the young applicant 
 by the standard of muscle alone ; the giggling " Sis," who was 
 evidently delighted at the prospect of seeing the bulldog 
 take hold of the somewhat disheartened teacher ; " Bill," 
 who on the first morning of school put the puppy in the 
 master s desk; and "Bull" himself, who, despite his threat 
 ening looks, was a bulldog to teach by example the advan 
 tages of " nerve," " Ef Bull once takes a holt, heaven 
 and yarth can t make him let go." 
 
 What with fighting the boys ; incurring the hostility of a 
 gang of horse-thieves and burglars, who have at their head 
 the principal physician among the Flat Crickers; narrowly 
 escaping with his life from the instigated mob ; and being 
 driven to public trial for alleged complicity in robbery, 
 the young schoolmaster has a somewhat tragic history. But 
 he makes his innocence and courage clear in the trial, and 
 finally succeeds in marrying Hannah, the " bound gal," who 
 had proved victorious over him in that most dramatic of 
 events, the country spelling-match. 
 
148 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 Hannah s brother, Shocky, whom " God forgot," at 
 least for a time, is a pathetic little figure, made doubly 
 so by the misery of his mother in the poorhouse and of his 
 sister, Hannah, bound out to service. Old pipe-smoking 
 Mrs. Means, with her thrifty proverb of " Git a plenty while 
 you re a-gittin " ; Squire Hawkins, with his black gloves, 
 waxen-colored wig, glass eye, and false teeth ; Jeems Phil 
 lips, that genius in " Webster s Elementary " ; and the 
 insinuating but silent Dr. Small, are all distinctly indi 
 vidualized from the life. And so are Pete Jones, with his 
 educational theory of " No lickin no larnin " ; Granny 
 Sanders, the fountain-head of gossip ; Miss Martha Hawkins, 
 whose reminiscence always began, "When I was to Bos- 
 ting " ; and the generous-hearted, one-legged, warlike old 
 basket-maker who summed up his observations with the 
 despairing remark that "we re all selfish akordin to my 
 tell." 
 
 In the midst of all the crude religious sects of the 
 time stands out the Rev. Mr. Bosaw of the "Hardshell" 
 Baptist denomination, otherwise known as the " Whisky 
 Baptists " and the " Forty-gallon Baptists," and Mr. 
 Eggleston gives verbatim the incredible sermon preached 
 by the reverend gentleman with the rich, red nose, the 
 nasal resonance, and the melancholy minor key, whose 
 opening words were, " the ox-ah knoweth his owner-ah, 
 and-ah the ass-ah his master s crib-ah." A fit companion 
 type with Mr. Bosaw is " Brother Sodom," who always " shook 
 his brimstone wallet" over the people and pushed them to 
 the edge of hell. 
 
 What might be called a secondary hero of the book is 
 " Bud " Means, the young giant whom the schoolmaster won 
 over by his grit and his character. He has become famous 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 149 
 
 for his founding of " The Church of the Best Licks," which 
 included all who would "put in their best licks for Jesus 
 Christ" (who was himself "a kind of a Flat Cricker"). 
 Another piece of capital character- drawing is that of Miss 
 Nancy Sawyer, the old maid who was a benediction to the 
 whole town as well as to the young schoolmaster and 
 Shocky. And the unspeakable conditions under which 
 Shocky s mother lived in the poorhouse could not have 
 been more repellently described by Dickens himself than 
 they have been in Mr. Eggleston s chapter on " A Charitable 
 Institution." The book as a whole is a convincing study 
 of types and a time that were a significant part of the 
 development of the great Middle West. 
 
 In such short stories as "Ma BowlhY," "Whitsun Harp, 
 Regulator," " Sist Chaney s Black Silk " and " The Mortgage 
 on Jeffy," which appear in the two collections called " Knitters 
 in the Sun " and " Otto the Knight," Miss Alice French, 
 more familiarly known by her pseudonym, " Octave Thanet," 
 has given sketches of life as seen from a plantation in 
 Arkansas, which the author makes her winter home ; and 
 phases of character in other parts of the South are touched 
 in "The Bishop s Vagabond" and "Haifa Curse." But 
 her best-known sketches are those contained in " Stories of 
 a Western Town," in which she shows special knowledge of 
 average types in Iowa and other communities west of the 
 Mississippi. Her portrayal is intimate, vigorous, and sym 
 pathetic, and helps to give a somewhat adequate conception 
 of what the actual life and feeling and aspiration are in 
 certain parts of the Mississippi Valley. 
 
 In his preface to " The Story of a Country Town " Mr. 
 Edgar Watson Howe tells us that the book was written at 
 night after the editorial work of the day was done. Such 
 
150 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 conditions of production may not have influenced its point 
 of view and its prevailing tone. But the book, like the 
 Kansas town that it portrays, lacks a certain sunny quality 
 of ease and geniality, which is doubtless due to the nature of 
 the social life it sets forth so convincingly. Kansas has, 
 also, in William Allen White an interpreter of certain 
 phases of her life, and the interpretation is exceedingly 
 keen in its insight and humorous and vigorous in its 
 expression, as is shown in his volume of sketches entitled 
 "The Real Issue" and in his juvenile "Court of Boyville." 
 
 Hamlin Garland s early life in Wisconsin, Iowa, and Da 
 kota gave him abundant opportunity to study and appreciate 
 the crude, earnest, aspiring, self-sacrificing men and women 
 who made up the bone and sinew of the pioneer population 
 of the great Northwest. Whether in the story of " A Little 
 Norsk," with its Dakota blizzard, its helpless child, and its 
 pathetic burial of " Flaxen s " mother, or in " Prairie Folks " 
 and the remarkable development of a young farm girl s na 
 ture in " Rose of Dutcher s Coolly," or in the depressing 
 short stories of " Main-Traveled Roads," Mr. Garland shows 
 a penetration and a knowledge and a sincerity of sympathy 
 that make his work vital and effective, even if at times it 
 seems to be too regularly keyed to misery and hopelessness. 
 But any one who has lived in the Northwest, and is at all 
 familiar with the grim conditions of the average farmer s 
 family even a few years ago, will be likely to feel that Mr. 
 Garland s relentless depiction is, though heart-sickening, 
 essentially true. 
 
 Few more convincing and powerful pictures of Western 
 provincial types can be found than those in "A Branch 
 Road," "Up the Coolly," and "Under the Lion s Paw"; 
 while underneath the tenderness and patient suffering of "The 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 151 
 
 Return of the Private " is felt the steel-like edge of a right 
 eous satire. " Mrs. Ripley s Trip " has in it a sort of sad 
 humor and a closeness of sympathetic characterization that 
 makes an irresistible appeal to the heart of every man who 
 perchance recalls the laborious and conscientious days of his 
 own unselfish mother. 
 
 The jubilant young farmer, Will Hannan, singing in the 
 September dawn, or, fiercely jealous, laboring with might 
 and main in the strenuous threshing, or at meal-time appar 
 ently ashamed of his sweetheart s open preference for him 
 self in the presence of the other threshers ; his savage 
 resentment at their use of Agnes Dingman s name in connec 
 tion with his own ; and his bitter refusal to wait and take 
 supper with his comrades and his sweetheart, this is the 
 very human and unconventional opening to "A Branch 
 Road." And then the young fellow s eager preparations for 
 the county fair, his swift morning ride behind the lively colts, 
 the maddening accident and delay, the silent house and the 
 drawn curtains and no waiting sweetheart, and his blinding, 
 merciless rage, with all it involved in long years of absence, 
 misery of married life for Agnes Dingman, and bitter repent 
 ance for himself, such is the tragic development from 
 small beginnings ; until he at length enters into the cruelty 
 of his old sweetheart s fate, and desperately carries her and 
 her child out into a world of hope and the happiness of love. 
 Such a story as this with all its sympathy for nature and 
 for human nature comes near to reality, and confirms, 
 like the other stories in the volume, the impression of un 
 relenting hardness in much of the farmers experience in the 
 great Northwest during the latter half of the nineteenth cen 
 tury. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 "THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN" BY 
 "MARK TWAIN" 
 
 IN his sense of duty and of honor, his abounding humor, 
 his energy and dauntless pluck, his simplicity and sympathy 
 and fidelity, Mr. Clemens is justly regarded as a high type 
 of an American citizen. He naturally enough comprehends 
 pretty fully the salient characteristics of American types, 
 and has, besides, the literary art to embody them in enter 
 taining and convincing form. The impression of artistry in 
 his work, however, is likely to be lost in a laugh, the truth 
 and power and dramatic quality in his characterizations are 
 often overlooked in the effects of his humor. As Mr. How- 
 ells suggests, "Mark Twain portrays and interprets real 
 types, not only with exquisite appreciation and sympathy, 
 but with a force and truth of drawing that makes them per 
 manent." And the especial praise of the literary critics is 
 given to " Huckleberry Finn " for its essential truthfulness 
 to certain aspects of provincial life and character along the 
 Mississippi and the borders of adjoining states. Professor 
 Barrett Wendell in our own country and Andrew Lang in 
 England have both borne strong testimony to the value and 
 charm of this portrayal of life in the Mississippi Valley some 
 fifty years ago. 
 
 Mr. Clemens s own boyhood life at Hannibal, Missouri, 
 on the Mississippi River, and his years as a pilot on the 
 
 152 
 
cc The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn " 153 
 
 same river, gave him a vivid background and a close famil 
 iarity with various Southwestern types that proved invaluable 
 in the production of such a book as " Huckleberry Finn." 
 
 Huckleberry Finn first became known to the reading 
 world as the companion of Tom Sawyer, of whose " Adven 
 tures " he was a part. Their good luck in finding the 
 money hidden by the robbers in a cave left Huck in such 
 affluent circumstances that he was getting a dollar a day in 
 interest " more than a body could tell what to do with." 
 He had been adopted by the Widow Douglass, who was 
 bent on civilizing him ; but he found it rough living in the 
 house all the time, considering how "dismal regular and 
 decent the widow was in all her ways." Her attempt to 
 spiritualize Huck is thus described by himself : " After 
 supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses 
 and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all 
 about him ; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been 
 dead a considerable long time ; so then I didn t care no 
 more about him, because I don t take no stock in dead peo 
 ple." And Miss Watson, the slim old-maid sister of the 
 Widow, " took a set " at Huck, also, with the spelling-book 
 and frequent injunctions on conduct. Miss Watson would 
 say, " Don t put your feet up there, Huckleberry ; " and, 
 " Don t scrunch up like that, Huckleberry set up straight ; " 
 and a little later she would say, "Don t gap and stretch 
 like that, Huckleberry why don t you try to behave?" 
 All of which had a wearisome effect on Huck. He called it 
 " pecking " at him. " Then she told me all about the bad 
 place, and I said I wished I was there. She got mad then, 
 but I didn t mean no harm. All I wanted was to get some- 
 wheres; all I wanted was a change; I warn t particular. 
 She said it was wicked to say what I said ; said she wouldn t 
 
154 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 say it for the whole world ; she was going to live so as to go 
 to the good place. Well, I couldn t see no advantage in 
 going where she was going, so I made up my mind I 
 wouldn t try for it." The morning after a night escapade 
 with Tom Sawyer, Miss Watson took Huck into a closet and 
 prayed with him, and told him to pray every day, remarking 
 as an inducement that whatever he prayed for he would get. 
 " But it warn t so. I tried it. Once I got a fishline, but 
 no hooks. It warn t any good to me without hooks. I 
 tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow I 
 couldn t make it work. By and by, one day, I asked Miss 
 Watson to try for me, but she said I was a fool." However, 
 the widow explained to her protege" that he must pray for 
 " spiritual gifts." 
 
 The unexpected appearance of Huck s drunken and vaga 
 bond father in the boy s room at the widow s had, for a 
 moment, a terrifying effect on Huck. After looking his son 
 all over, the father said, with a critical and injured air : 
 " Starchy clothes very. You think you re a good deal of 
 a big-bug, dfoVyou? " To which Huck was non-commit 
 tal ; and the father continued : " You ve put on considerable 
 many frills since I been away. I ll take you down a peg 
 before I get done with you. You re educated, too, they 
 say can read and write. You think you re better n your 
 father, now, don t you, because he can t? / // take it out 
 of you. Who told you you might meddle with such hifalut n 
 foolishness, hey? " On Huck s reply that it was the widow, 
 the father threatened to " learn her how to meddle," and 
 then added, ominously : " And looky here you drop that 
 school, you hear ? I ll learn people to bring up a boy to 
 put on airs over his own father, and let on to be better n 
 what he is. You lemme catch you fooling around that school 
 
From "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. 
 Copyright, 189G, by Harper & Brothers. 
 
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" 155 
 
 again, you hear? Your mother couldn t read, and she 
 couldn t write, nuther, before she died. None of the family 
 couldn t write before they died. I can t ; and here you re 
 a-swelling yourself up like this. I ain t the man to stand it 
 you hear?" Asked by his father to read a little, as an 
 example of what he could do, Huck read something about 
 General Washington and the wars ; when suddenly the father 
 struck the book from his son s hand and cried out angrily : 
 " It s so. You can do it. I had my doubts when you told 
 me. Now, looky here ; you stop that putting on frills. I 
 won t have it. I ll lay for you, my smarty ; and if I catch 
 you about that school, I ll tan you good. First you know 
 you ll get religion. I never see such a son." 
 
 To show his superiority to the widow who had adopted 
 Huck, his father carried him off up the river to an old log 
 hut he had made the headquarters for his vagrant life. The 
 intolerable monotony of a respectable life with the widow 
 was thus done away with; but Huck soon found that his 
 father s restraint, ugly temper, and drunkenness, finally 
 culminating in a night of delirium tremens, were as hard 
 to bear as the widow s respectability, and he escaped down 
 the river to Jackson s Island. The next morning after his 
 arrival he lay and listened to the booming of the cannon 
 by which they were endeavoring to find his dead body ; and 
 a little later the ferry-boat, carrying his own father, Judge 
 Thatcher, who had invested Huck s money for him, and 
 Tom Sawyer, his boon companion, came floating down 
 close to the island in its effort to find some trace of the 
 dead Huck, who was lying behind a log and watching the 
 anxious faces of his friends. 
 
 It was on this island that he discovered Miss Watson s 
 runaway " nigger," Jim, just as he was waking at dawn by 
 
156 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 the side of his camp-fire. Jim, in his amazement at seeing 
 Huck, who had been reported murdered, suddenly sprang 
 up, and then dropped upon his knees and put his hands 
 together, crying superstitiously : " Doan hurt me don t ! 
 I hain t ever done no harm to a ghos . I awlus liked dead 
 people, en done all I could for em. Yo go en git in de 
 river agin, whah you b longs, en doan do nuffin to Ole 
 Jim, at uz awluz yo fr en ." But Jim was soon so much 
 reassured that he told Huck all the details of his own 
 escape. He even grew confidential and told Huck about 
 his past speculation in stock, a cow, and in a bank 
 set up by " Misto Bradish s nigger," at the end of which 
 Jim had only ten cents left. " Well, I uz gwyne to spen 
 it, but I had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a 
 nigger name Balum Balum s Ass dey call him for short ; 
 he s one er dem chuckle-heads, you know. But he s 
 lucky, dey say, en I see I warn t lucky. De dream say let 
 Balum inves de ten cents en he d make a raise for me. 
 Well, Balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church 
 he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po len to 
 de Lord, en boun to git his money back a hund d times. 
 So Balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po , en laid 
 low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." To Huck s 
 inquiry as to what did come of it, the darky replied : 
 " Nufrm never come of it. I couldn manage to k leck dat 
 money no way; en Balum he couldn . I ain gwyne to 
 len no mo money dout I see de security. Boun to git 
 yo money back a hund d times, de preacher says ! Ef I 
 could git de ten cents back, I d call it squah, en be glad 
 er de chanst." Huck s hopeful suggestion that Jim was 
 going to be rich sometime or other according to Jim s 
 own prophecy called to the negro s mind the happy 
 
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" 157 
 
 thought that he was already rich. " I owns myse f, en 
 I s wuth eight hund d dollars. I wisht I had de money, I 
 wouldn want no mo ." 
 
 Huck s discovery in the guise of a girl that there 
 was a reward out for the capture of Jim and that Jackson s 
 Island was a dangerous place, was the signal for their hur 
 ried departure from the island by night. The second night 
 
 they concealed themselves in a " towhead " of cotton- 
 woods during the day the raft they were on ran between 
 seven and eight hours, with a current that carried them 
 along over four miles an hour. " It was kind of solemn," 
 as Huck said, " drifting down the big still river, laying on 
 our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn t ever feel 
 like talking loud, and it warn t often that we laughed 
 only a little kind of a low chuckle. . . . Every night we 
 passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides 
 nothing but just a shiny bed of lights ; not a house could you 
 see. The fifth night we passed St. Louis, and it was like the 
 whole world lit up. In St. Petersburg they used to say 
 there was twenty or thirty thousand people in St. Louis, 
 but I never believed it till I see that wonderful spread of 
 lights at two o clock that still night. There warn t a sound 
 there ; everybody was asleep." 
 
 Huck s escape from the wreck of the raft that had been 
 smashed by a steamboat in the night brought him to the big 
 old-fashioned double log house of Colonel Grangerford, 
 whose dogs refused to let the dripping Huck go by. After 
 a very warlike examination of Huck, he was gradually ad 
 mitted to the house ; and when it was learned that he was in 
 no way connected with the rival house of the Shepherdsons, 
 
 between whom and the Grangerfords there was a deadly 
 feud, Huck was very hospitably received and compassion- 
 
158 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 ately entertained on the strength of his trumped-up story. 
 In the admiring words of Huck : " It was a mighty nice 
 family, and a mighty nice house, too. I hadn t seen no 
 house out in the country before that was so nice and had so 
 much style. It didn t have an iron latch on the front door, 
 nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob 
 to turn, the same as houses in a town. There warn t no 
 bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed ; but heaps of parlors 
 in towns has beds in them. There was a big fireplace that 
 was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean 
 and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with 
 another brick. . . . They had big brass dog-irons that 
 could hold up a saw-log." There was also a wonderful clock 
 (" it was beautiful to hear that clock tick "), and some books 
 piled up with perfect exactness on each corner of the table. 
 " One was a big family Bible full of pictures. One was Pil 
 grim s Progress, about a man that left his family, it didn t 
 say why. I read considerable in it now and then. The 
 statements was interesting but tough. Another was Friend 
 ship s Offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but I 
 didn t read the poetry. Another was Henry Clay s 
 Speeches, and another was Dr. Gunn s Family Medicine, 
 which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or 
 dead." Among the pictures were some strange crayons 
 made at the age of fifteen by a daughter who had since died. 
 " One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under 
 the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the 
 sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black 
 veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, 
 and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was lean 
 ing pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a 
 weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side 
 
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" 159 
 
 holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath 
 the picture it said Shall I Never See Thee More Alas. " 
 A second crayon was entitled " I Shall Never Hear Thy 
 Sweet Chirrup More Alas," and another bore the pathetic 
 announcement, " And Art Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone 
 Alas." Huck has given us his critical judgment on these 
 pictures and also their effect on his feelings. " These was 
 all nice pictures, I reckon, but I didn t somehow seem to 
 take to them, because if ever I was down a little they always 
 give me the fan-tods." 
 
 In the eyes of Huck the proprietor of the place was a 
 gentleman "a gentleman all over." Colonel Granger- 
 ford and he must have been some near relative of the 
 colonel s drawn with so much spirit and liking by Mr. Page 
 and Hopkinson Smith was " very tall and very slim, and 
 had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it any 
 wheres ; he was clean shaved every morning all over his thin 
 face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest 
 kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and 
 the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they 
 seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you 
 may say. His forehead was high, and his hair was black 
 and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long 
 and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt 
 arid a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white 
 it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a 
 blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it." He had a personal 
 dignity that Huck was impressed by, and a pervasive kind 
 liness, and his smile was good to see. In his presence man 
 ners were instinctively good, and there was a genial sunshine 
 about the man that every one liked ; " but when he straight 
 ened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning began 
 
160 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb 
 a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards." 
 
 The tall, handsome older sons, Tom and Bob, dressed, like 
 their father, in white linen from head to foot, and wore broad 
 Panama hats ; and in their home life they had been reared 
 to show especial courtesy to the parents. On the latter s 
 arrival in the dining room the sons always rose from their 
 chairs and remained standing till their parents were seated ; 
 and after mixing at the sideboard a glass of bitters for their 
 father and then for themselves, they would bow and say, 
 "Our duty to you, sir and madam." 
 
 But this Southern family, so chivalrous and courtly toward 
 one another, were in deadly feud with their neighbors, the 
 rival family of the Shepherdsons. Huck s ignorance of a 
 feud was somewhat lessened by Buck Grangerford s defini 
 tion : " Well, a feud is this way : A man has a quarrel with 
 another man, and kills him ; then that other man s brother 
 kills him; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for 
 one another ; then the cousins chip in and by and by 
 everybody s killed off, and there ain t no more feud. But 
 it s kind of slow, and takes a long time." Buck also in 
 formed Huck that their own feud started some thirty years 
 before, when there was " trouble bout something," a law 
 suit, and a shooting of the man who won the suit by the man 
 who lost. Buck was entirely ignorant of the cause of the 
 trouble and whether it was a Grangerford or a Shepherd- 
 son that did the shooting ; but he thought that perhaps his 
 father knew. To Huck s question as to whether many had 
 been killed in the feud, Buck cheerfully replied : " Yes ; 
 right smart chance of funnerals. But they don t always kill. 
 Pa s got a few buckshot in him ; but he don t mind it cuz 
 he don t weigh much, anyway. Bob s been carved up some 
 
" The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn * 161 
 
 with a bowie, and Tom s been hurt once or twice." " Has 
 anybody been killed this year, Buck ? " inquired Huck. 
 "Yes; we got one and they got one." 
 
 Buck, in a truly chivalrous spirit, insisted that there wasn t 
 a coward among " them Shepherdsons," even if they were 
 inveterate enemies. "Why, that old man [Shepherdson] 
 kep up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against 
 three Grangerfords, and come out winner. They was all 
 a-horseback ; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little 
 woodpile, and kep his horse before him to stop the bullets ; 
 but the Grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered 
 around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he 
 peppered away at them. Him and his horse both went 
 home pretty leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had 
 to be fetched home, and one of em was dead, and another 
 died the next day. No, sir ; if a body s out hunting for 
 cowards, he don t want to fool away any time amongst them 
 Shepherdsons, becuz they don t breed any of that kind" 
 
 And Huck himself, from his lookout in a tree, was to see 
 Buck Grangerford and another young man shot to death 
 by the merciless Shepherdsons, one of whose number had 
 run off in the night with Colonel Grangerford s younger 
 daughter 
 
 Mr. Clemens s theme of savage and absurd family wars 
 in the South, while treated in his own unique and satirical 
 way, is suggestive of the annihilating contest described by 
 John T. Fox, Jr., in his "Cumberland Vendetta," and of 
 the remorseless hatred of the Cayce family for Micajah 
 Green, as portrayed so dramatically by Miss Murfree in 
 "The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains." 
 
 Two sublime types of professional humbugs, such as 
 must now and then visit gullible small towns along the 
 
1 62 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 Mississippi in the Southwest, are the "Duke of Bridge- 
 water " and the " King, " whom Huck, under mental protest, 
 rescued from an outraged community. The King was 
 about seventy, with a bald head and very gray whiskers. 
 He wore an old battered-up slouch hat, a greasy blue 
 woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans breeches stuffed into 
 his boot-tops, and home-knit "galluses," or rather only 
 one j and when rescued he and his companion, the Duke, 
 were each carrying a "big, fat, ratty-looking" carpet-bag. 
 They proved to be strangers to each other, and in ex 
 plaining the cause of his trouble the Duke said to his new 
 found acquaintance : " Well, I d been selling an article to 
 take the tartar off the teeth, and it does take it off, too, 
 and gener ly the enamel along with it, but I stayed about 
 one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act 
 of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side 
 of town. . . . That s the whole yarn, what s yourn?" 
 To which the King replied, with a little more detail : 
 " Well, I d ben a-runnin a little temperance revival thar 
 bout a week, and was the pet of the women-folks, big and 
 little, for I was makin it mighty warm for the rummies, I 
 tell you, and takin as much as five or six dollars a night 
 ten cents a head, children and niggers free and business 
 a-growin all the time, when somehow or another a little 
 report got around last night that I had a way of puttin 
 in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted 
 me out this mornin and told me the people was getherin* 
 on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they d be 
 along pretty soon and give me bout half an hour s start, 
 and then run me down if they could ; and if they got me 
 they d tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I 
 didn t wait for no breakfast I warn t hungry." 
 
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" 163 
 
 It seemed feasible that these two "professionals " should 
 from this time forth reenforce each other s talents, the Duke 
 of Bridgewater (the King called it " Bilgewater ") ex 
 plaining first what his " line " was : " Jour printer by trade ; 
 do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor tragedy, 
 you know ; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when 
 there s a chance; teach singing geography school for a 
 change ; sling a lecture sometimes oh, I do lots of things 
 most anything that comes handy, so it ain t work." 
 The King then explained his " lay " : " I ve done consider 
 able in the doctoring way in my time. Layin on o hands is 
 my best holt for cancer and paralysis, and sich things ; 
 and I k n tell a fortune pretty good when I ve got somebody 
 along to find out the facts for me. Preachin s my line, too, 
 and workin camp-meetin s and missionaryin around." 
 
 Learning that a camp-meeting was being held in the 
 woods some two miles back from the little river town near 
 which the raft was tied up for the day, the King " allowed " 
 that he would go and " work it " for all it was worth, and 
 permitted Huck to go with him. The first shed they came 
 to contained a preacher that was "lining" out a hymn. 
 He lined out two lines and everybody sang them ; and then 
 he lined out two more for them to sing, and so on indefi 
 nitely. The people grew more and more animated, and 
 sang louder and louder ; and toward the end some began to 
 groan and some to shout. The preacher was of the loud- 
 voiced, hortatory, unctuous type that Mr. Eggleston has 
 illustrated in " Rev. Mr. Bosaw " and Miss Murfree in 
 " Brother Jake Tobin." In the language of Huck : " He went 
 weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, 
 and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms 
 and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out 
 
164 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 with all his might ; and every now and then he would hold 
 up his Bible and spread it open and kind of pass it around 
 this way and that, shouting, It s the brazen serpent in the 
 wilderness ! Look upon it and live ! and people would 
 shout out, Glory ! A-a-men ! And so he went on, and 
 the people groaning and crying and saying Amen : Oh, 
 come to the mourners bench ! come, black with sin ! 
 (amen /) come, sick and sore ! (amen /) come, lame and 
 halt and blind ! (amen /) come, pore and needy, sunk in 
 shame ! (a-a-men !) Come, all that s worn and soiled and 
 suffering ! come with a broken spirit ! come with a con 
 trite heart ! come in your rags and sin and dirt ! the waters 
 that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open oh, 
 enter in and be at rest ! (A-a-men , glory, glory hallelujah /) " 
 The shouting and crying, as reported by Huck, became so 
 great that the preacher s words could no longer be distin 
 guished. People rose in all parts of the crowd and made 
 their way by sheer strength to the mourners bench, with the 
 tears streaming down their faces ; and when the mourners 
 had filled the front benches in a throng, they sang and 
 shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, "just crazy 
 and wild." 
 
 By playing the part of a converted pirate who had been 
 robbed the night before, and was now returning to the 
 Indian Ocean to convert his brother pirates, the King 
 was able to carry back to the raft some eighty-seven dollars 
 and seventy-five cents which he had "gathered in " at the 
 camp-meeting by a skillful appeal from the platform and 
 passing the hat for a collection. He promised to say to 
 every pirate converted, " Don t you thank me, don t you 
 give me no credit ; it all belongs to them dear people in 
 Pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors 
 
"The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" 165 
 
 of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend 
 a pirate ever had ! " And the King had brought back with 
 him, too, a three-gallon jug of whisky, which he had found 
 under a wagon when he was starting for the raft through the 
 woods. To use Huck s report : " The King said, take it all 
 around, it laid over any day he d ever put in in the mission- 
 arying line. He said it warn t no use talking, heathens don t 
 amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meet 
 ing with." 
 
 A truly Southern provincial type is the fierce-natured, 
 cool-headed Colonel Sherborne who shot down in cold 
 blood the drunken, good-natured, but abusive Boggs ; and 
 when the mob threatened him with lynching, his accurate 
 knowledge of them was shown by his sudden appearance on 
 the porch of his home and his cool defiance, characteristic 
 ally reenforced by a shot gun : " The idea of you lynching 
 anybody ! It s amusing. The idea of you thinking you had 
 pluck enough to lynch a man! . . . You didn t want to 
 come. . . . But if only ka/f-a-mau like Buck Harkness, 
 there shouts Lynch him ! lynch him ! you re afraid to 
 back down afraid you ll be found out to be what you 
 are cowards and so you raise a yell, and hang your 
 selves on to that half-a-man s coat-tail, and come raging up 
 here, swearing what big things you re going to do. The 
 pitifulest thing out is a mob ; that s what an army is a 
 mob ; they don t fight with courage that s born in them, 
 but with courage that s borrowed from their mass, and from 
 their officers. But a mob without any man at the head 
 of it is beneath pitifulness. Now the thing for you to do is 
 droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. . . . Now 
 leave and take your half-a-man with you." As the 
 Colonel tossed his gun up across his left arm and cocked 
 
1 66 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 it, the mob " washed back sudden," broke apart, and dashed 
 into a wild run, with the " half-a-man " bringing up the rear. 
 Old Uncle Silas Phelps, the easy-going, inconsequential 
 farmer and preacher, who had a little log church down back 
 of the plantation and "never charged nothing for his 
 preaching, and it was worth it, too " ; the generous-souled, 
 credulous, and motherly Aunt Sally; and the versatile, un 
 conscionable Tom Sawyer, who insisted on freeing in formal 
 and adventurous style the negro Jim that was already free, 
 these are additional types in " Huckleberry Finn " that 
 Mr. Clemens has characterized with easy and inimitable 
 touch. In fact, much of the characterization in the book 
 seems wrought out of the closest familiarity with those 
 strange, crude, virile types that belonged to life along the 
 Mississippi half a century ago. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "THE HOOSIER SCHOOLMASTER" BY EDWARD 
 EGGLESTON 
 
 IN writing a few years ago, in the Forum, on the " For 
 mative Influences " of his own life, Mr. Eggleston remarked 
 discriminatingly : " If I were a dispassionate critic, and 
 were set to judge my own novels as the writings of another, 
 I should have to say that what distinguishes them from other 
 works of fiction is the prominence which they give to social 
 conditions ; that the individual characters are here treated 
 to a greater degree than elsewhere as parts of a study of a 
 society as in some sense the logical results of the environ 
 ment. Whatever may be the rank assigned to these stories 
 as works of literary art, they will always have a certain value 
 as materials for the student of social history. Not that in 
 writing them any such purpose was consciously present ; it 
 is what we do without exactly intending it that is most char 
 acteristic." 
 
 The old-time residents of Indiana have themselves ac 
 cepted "The Hoosier Schoolmaster" as essentially true to 
 the life and manners of Southern Indiana half a century ago. 
 The sordid, brutal, lawless West of the days before the rail 
 roads, with its hardness and wickedness as well as its courage 
 and heroic industry, Mr. Eggleston seems to have known 
 and understood. And it is not at all surprising, for his own 
 life in Indiana on a farm and as a Methodist " circuit rider/ 1 
 
 167 
 
1 68 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 and also on the frontier in Minnesota in search of health, 
 gave him a vital closeness to primitive types among the pri 
 vations and struggles that were a necessary part of the earlier 
 history of the West. In truth, so close a reflection of provin 
 cial life under such conditions is not entirely captivating, hav 
 ing a certain repulsiveness ; yet it has great interest because 
 it is a transcript, and because it is often intensely dramatic. 
 Few families could be less attractive to a young and some 
 what educated man than was that of " old Jack Means," the 
 school trustee to whom the prospective "schoolmaster" ap 
 plied for a place as teacher of the " Flat Crick " district 
 school. Old Jack was not encouraging the young aspirant : 
 " You might teach a summer school, when nothin but chil 
 dren come. But I low it takes a right smart man to be 
 schoolmaster in Flat Crick in the winter. They d pitch you 
 out of doors, sonny, neck and heels, afore Christmas." 
 " Bud " Means, the elder son, was meanwhile measuring the 
 applicant by the standard of muscle, with that amiable look in 
 his eye " which a big dog turns on a little one before shak 
 ing him." Bud s sister, in the doorway, was giggling over 
 the prospect of seeing their large brindle bulldog "take 
 hold" of the applicant for the school, when the old man 
 himself called off the dog, remarking as he did so : " Ef you 
 think you kin trust your hide in Flat Crick schoolhouse I 
 ha n t got no bjection. But ef you git licked don t come 
 on us. Flat Crick don t pay no nsurance, you bet." He 
 then suggestively added that the last schoolmaster carried a 
 black eye for a month. However, Ralph Hartsook, the 
 applicant, was given permission by Mr. Means to begin work 
 at the school, and invited to stay over Sunday with the 
 Means family, in the process of "boardhV roun ." Bud 
 Means thereupon remarked reassuringly, with reference to 
 
"The Hoosier Schoolmaster" 169 
 
 the threatening attitude of the dog, " Ef Bull once takes a 
 holt, heaven and yarth can t make him let go." 
 
 After the first few days of discouraging experience and a 
 deliberate effort to assume something of the bulldog s per 
 tinacity, the young schoolmaster had this judgment passed 
 upon him by Mr. Pete Jones, an influential neighbor of Mr. 
 Means : " Don t believe he ll do. Don t thrash enough. 
 Boys won t 1 arn less you thrash em, says I. Leastways, 
 mine won t. Lay it on good is what I says to a master. 
 Lay it on good. . . . Lickin and 1 arnin* goes together. 
 No lickin , no Parnin , says I." 
 
 One morning before school, while sitting on the broad 
 hearth smoking her cob pipe, old " Miss " Means grew confi 
 dential to the young schoolmaster, letting him know some 
 thing of the family s early history, how on her advice her 
 husband had invested years before in " Congress " bottom 
 land at a dollar and a quarter an acre : " I says to my ole 
 man, Jack, says I, Jack, do you git a plenty while you re 
 a-gittin . Git a plenty while you re a-gittin , says I, fer 
 twon t never be no cheaper n tis now, and it ha n t been ; 
 I knowed twould n t." Taking the pipe from her mouth to 
 indulge in a reminiscent chuckle at her own financial shrewd 
 ness, Mrs. Means continued : " Jack didn t git rich by hard 
 work. Bless you, no ! Not him. That a n t his way. Hard 
 work a n t, you know. Twas that air six hundred dollars 
 he got along of me, all salted down into Flat Crick bottoms 
 at a dollar and a quarter a acre, and twas my sayin , git 
 a plenty while you re a-gittin , as done it." And then 
 Mrs. Means diplomatically suggested that the man who got 
 her daughter " Mirandy " a weak-eyed and weak-headed 
 giggler would do well " Flat Crick land s wuth nigh upon 
 a hundred a acre." 
 
170 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 The most important social event in the Flat Crick school 
 district was the spelling-school. Every family furnished a 
 candle, and there were yellow " dips " and white dips smok 
 ing and flaring. And there was much ogling and giggling, 
 flirting and courting. " I low," said Mr. Means, the prin 
 cipal trustee, " I low our friend the Square is jest the man 
 to boss this ere consarn to-night. If nobody objects, I ll 
 app int him. Come, Square, don t be bashful." The Squire 
 came to the front, and the new schoolmaster made an in 
 ventory of his appearance. He wore an aged swallowtail 
 coat somewhat too small for him, a pair of black gloves 
 (gloves in Flat Crick were an anomaly) ; a dirty, waxen-col 
 ored wig, which required frequent adjustment to the Squire s 
 smooth pate and was of the wrong color ; a semicircular row 
 of whiskers dyed an impossible dead black ; a pair of spec 
 tacles with tortoise-shell rim ; a glass eye differing in color 
 from its natural mate, and perpetually turning in and out ; 
 and a set of badly-fitting false teeth. 
 
 In accepting the honor gf presiding, Squire Hawkins re 
 marked, with a characteristic twist of his wig : " I feel as if 
 I could be grandiloquent on this interesting occasion, but 
 raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling you 
 want. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand underlying 
 subterfuge, of a good eddication. I put the spellin -book 
 prepared by the great Daniel Webster alongside the Bible. 
 I do, raley. I think I may put it ahead of the Bible. For 
 if it wurn t fer spellin -books and sich occasions as these, 
 where would the Bible be? I should like to know. The 
 man who got up, who compounded this work of inextricable 
 valoo, was a benefactor to the whole human race or any 
 other." Hereupon the Squire s spectacles fell off, he gave 
 his wig another twist, and apprehensively felt of his glass eye. 
 

"The Hoosier Schoolmaster" 171 
 
 In the contest Jim Phillips, a tall, lank, "stoop-shoul 
 dered " fellow, who had spelled down the last three masters, 
 was pitted against the new schoolmaster. Jim spelled as if 
 he " knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah 
 Webster himself." It was done eagerly, confidently, and 
 brilliantly, and the odds, in the eyes of the company, were 
 all in Phillips s favor, especially since the young school 
 master spelled with a certain hesitation and deliberateness 
 that seemed to argue lack of confidence, but really meant 
 only a dogged determination to win. But " theodolite " 
 proved too much for the redoubtable Jim ; and as Ralph, 
 the schoolmaster, spelled it slowly and correctly, the excite 
 ment was so great that the spelling was suspended for a few 
 minutes. " He s powerful smart is the master," said old 
 Jack Means, the school trustee, exultingly. " He ll beat the 
 whole kit and tuck of em afore he s through. I know d he 
 was smart. That s the reason I tuck him." "Yaas, but 
 he don t lick enough. Not nigh," answered Pete Jones. 
 "No lickin , no 1 arnin , says I." 
 
 But what was the excitement when Hannah, the bound 
 girl at old Jack Means s, stood alone, opposed to the school 
 master on the other side, and seemed to be easily holding 
 her own. The sympathy of everybody went over to her 
 side ; indeed, even the schoolmaster, as he looked at her 
 fine, sensitive face, flushing and shining with interest, and 
 saw upon her the quickening effect of applause and sym 
 pathy, began to be smitten with a peculiar feeling of admira 
 tion, and he no longer craved a victory. And finally, when 
 the schoolmaster went down before the serried ranks of new 
 words that the Squire had found outside the spelling-book, and 
 Hannah spelled the word he missed, the climax was dramatic 
 enough to satisfy every one s sense of the unexpected. 
 
172 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 One Saturday afternoon the schoolmaster, in following an 
 unknown path through the woods from Squire Hawkins s, 
 came upon Rocky Hollow and the secluded home of old 
 John Pearson, the one-legged basket-maker, who in his in 
 stinctive kindliness had given a home to Shocky, the young 
 brother of Hannah the bound girl, whose mother had been 
 obliged to go to the poorhouse. Squire Hawkins s daughter 
 Martha was already there on the schoolmaster s arrival, and 
 the old rheumatic wife of Pearson impulsively praised her 
 to the schoolmaster for her thoughtfulness in coming to 
 see them so often. Miss Martha blushingly said she came 
 because Rocky Hollow reminded her of a place she used 
 to know "at the East," and because Mr. and Mrs. Pear 
 son also reminded her of people she knew " at the East." 
 In fact, Miss Hawkins had a characteristic way of beginning 
 a sentence, " When I was to Bosting," etc. 
 
 The old basket-maker was a pretended cynic in his phi 
 losophy of life ; and a favorite judgment of his on the 
 actions and motives of mankind in general, including him 
 self, was put in this laconic form, " We re all selfish akordin 
 to my tell." When Shocky protested that the basket- maker 
 wasn t selfish when he sat up every night for two weeks with 
 Shocky s sick father, the old man insisted : " Yes, I was, too ! 
 Your father was a miserable Britisher. I d fit redcoats in 
 the war of eighteen-twelve, and lost my leg by one of em 
 stickin his dog-on d bagonet right through it, that night at 
 Lundy s Lane ; but my messmate killed him though, which 
 is a satisfaction to think on. And I didn t like your father 
 cause he was a Britisher. But ef he d a died right here in 
 this free country, thout nobody to give him a drink of 
 water, blamed ef I wouldn t a been ashamed to set on the 
 platform at a Fourth of July barbecue, and to hold up my 
 
"The Hoosier Schoolmaster" 173 
 
 wooden leg fer to make the boys cheer ! That was the self- 
 ishest thing I ever done. We re all selfish akordin to my 
 tell." His final compliment to Miss Hawkins, their sym 
 pathetic caller, was genuine though somewhat paradoxical, 
 " Sometimes I d think you was real benev lent ef I didn t 
 know we was all selfish." 
 
 The schoolmaster found one Sunday that his only way of 
 hearing preaching that day at Bethel Meetin -house was to 
 ride on the "clay-bank" mare, with Miss Hawkins up 
 behind. And so, though it was somewhat against his lik 
 ing, he went double ; and after a splashing, muddy ride 
 he took his place on the men s side of the " hewed-log " 
 church to listen to the sounding words of Rev. Mr. Bosaw, 
 of the " Hardshell Baptist " school, sometimes known in 
 that region as the "Whisky Baptists," and the "Forty- 
 gallon Baptists." Their preachers had a habit of singing 
 their sermons out for two or three hours at a stretch, and 
 they were notorious for their illiteracy, not to say frequent 
 drunkenness and viciousness. Mr. Eggleston vouches for 
 the accuracy of the following sermon, although he says 
 that it is impossible to give a picture of the preacher s 
 rich red nose, his seesawing gestures, his nasal resonance, 
 his sniffle, and his melancholy minor key : " My respec 
 tive hearers-ah, you see-ah as how-ah as my tex -ah says 
 that the ox-ah knoweth his owner-ah, and-ah the ass-ah his 
 master s crib-ah. A-h-h ! Now, my respective hearers-ah, 
 they re a mighty sight of resemblance-ah atewxt men-ah and 
 oxen-ah, bekase-ah, you see, men-ah is mighty like oxen-ah. 
 Fer they s a tremengious defference-ah atwext defferent 
 oxen-ah, jest as thar is atwext defferent men-ah; fer the 
 ox knoweth-ah his owner-ah, and the ass-ah his master s 
 crib-ah. Now, my respective hea.rers-ah, you all know-ah 
 
174 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 that your humble speaker-ah has got-ah jest the best yoke 
 of steers-ah in this township-ah. They a n t no sech steers 
 as them air two of mine-ah in this whole kedentry-ah. 
 Them crack oxen over at Clifty-ah ha n t a patchiii to 
 mine-ah. Fer the ox knoweth his owner-ah, and the 
 ass-ah his master s crib-ah. 
 
 " Now, my respective hearers, they s a right smart sight 
 of defference-ah atwext them air two oxen-ah, jest like they 
 is atwext defferent men-ah. Fer-ah. [here the speaker 
 grew vehement in voice and gesticulation, out of all pro 
 portion to the importance of the subject-matter] fer-ah, 
 you see-ah, when I go out-ah in the mornin -ah to 
 yoke-ah up-ah them air steers-ah, and I says-ah, Wo, 
 Berry-ah ! Wo, Berry -ah ! Wo BERRY- AH, why Berry-ah 
 jests stands stock still-ah and don t hardly breathe-ah while 
 I put on the yoke-ah and put in the bow-ah, and put 
 in the key-ah, fer, my brethering-ah and sistering-ah, the 
 ox knoweth his owner-ah, and the ass-ah his master s crib-ah. 
 Hal-le-lu-ger-ah ! 
 
 " But-ah, my hearers-ah, but-ah when I stand at t other 
 eend of the yoke-ah, and say : Come, Buck-ah ! Come, 
 Buck-ah f COME, BUCK-AH ! COME, BUCK-AH ! why, 
 what do you think-ah? Buck-ah, that ornery ole Buck-ah, 
 slid of comin right along- ah and puttin his neck under-ah, 
 acts jest like some men-ah what is fools-ah. Buck-ah jest 
 kinder sorter stands off-ah, and kinder sorter puts his 
 head down-ah this ere way-ah, and kinder looks mad-ah, 
 and says, Roo-w-oo-OO-ah ! " As a preacher Rev. Mr. 
 Bosaw is in a class with the camp-meeting type in " Huckle 
 berry Finn " and with Brother Jake Tobin in " The Prophet 
 of the Great Smoky Mountains." 
 
 Unfortunately for the schoolmaster, Bud Means, the 
 
"The Hoosier Schoolmaster" 
 
 75 
 
 young giant, who was deeply in love with Martha Hawkins, 
 had watched with fiercely jealous eye the arrival at the 
 church of Ralph and Miss Hawkins on the same horse; 
 and as Bud had previously seen the schoolmaster and Miss 
 Hawkins together at the Squire s home, Bud thought he 
 recognized in him a deliberate and dangerous rival for the 
 hand of her who had been " to Bosting." Little did Bud 
 realize that the heart of the schoolmaster was set on the 
 fair, pathetic face of Hannah, the bound girl at Bud s own 
 home. 
 
 In the schoolhouse one day Bud plainly told the master 
 that the latter would have to leave " these ere diggins " or 
 get a thrashing. At the order of Bud, the schoolmaster 
 took off his coat preparatory to a " lickin " ; and the pluck 
 of Ralph in the presence of such burly and superior strength 
 as Bud s stirred the latter s admiration. " Well, you re the 
 grittiest feller I ever did see, and ef you d jest kep off of 
 my ground I wouldn t a touched you. But I a n t agoin to 
 be cut out by no feller a livin thout thrashin him in an 
 inch of his life. You see I wanted to git out of this Flat 
 Crick way. We re a low-lived set here in Flat Crick. . . . 
 And when you come I says, There s one as ll help me. And 
 what did you do with your book-1 arnin and town manners 
 but start right out to git away the gal that I d picked out, 
 when I d picked her out kase I thought, not bein Flat Crick 
 born herself, she might help a feller to do better ! Now I 
 won t let nobody cut me out without givin em the best 
 thrashin it s in these ere arms to give." 
 
 When Bud s mistake became known, and also his sister 
 Miranda s misleading report that her brother was courting 
 Hannah, the bound girl, Bud s indignation and amazement 
 knew no bounds : " Mirandy ! Thunder ! You believed 
 
176 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 Mirandy ! Well ! Now, looky here, Mr. Hartsook, ef you 
 was to say that my sister lied I d lick you till yer hide 
 wouldn t hold shucks. But / say, atwixt you and me and 
 the gate-post, don t you never believe nothing that Mirandy 
 Means says. Her and marm has set theirselves like fools to 
 git you." And then Bud and the schoolmaster put on 
 their coats and shook hands in what proved to be a very 
 loyal alliance. 
 
 It was only a few minutes before Bud, who had left 
 the school-house, reentered and remarked with much em 
 barrassment : "I don t know whether you re a Hardshell or 
 a Softshell, or a Methodist, or a Campbellite, or a New Light, 
 or a United Brother, or a Millerite, or what-not. But I 
 says, the man what can do the clean thing by a ugly feller 
 like me, and stick to it, when I was jest ready to eat him 
 up, is a kind of a man to tie to." In fact, Bud was im 
 pressed by the schoolmaster s honest, heroic, self-sacrificing 
 religious spirit, and wanted to turn over a new leaf. So 
 that when he heard from the schoolmaster s own lips that 
 the man of Nazareth was " a sort of a Flat Creeker himself " 
 and that one could be a follower of His without being bap 
 tized, Bud expressed his immediate intention of putting in 
 his " best licks for Jesus Christ," thus starting in the little 
 log schoolhouse a genuine church militant. And Bud s " first 
 lick " was against Pete Jones, who struck little Shocky with 
 his hog-drover s whip. Pete could only crawl away like a 
 whipped puppy, muttering that he felt "consid able shuck 
 up like." 
 
 Bud s next "lick " was his effort to save the one-legged, 
 outspoken old basket-maker, John Pearson, whose knowl 
 edge of a robbery in the neighborhood, involving some 
 prominent citizens like Pete Jones and Dr. Small, had 
 
"The Hoosier Schoolmaster" 177 
 
 brought upon him the imminent danger of being tarred and 
 feathered. It took a " council of war " to convince the old 
 soldier that it was the part of valor as well as of discretion 
 to leave Flat Creek without delay. " No, I won t leave. 
 You see I jest won t. What would Gin ral Winfield Scott 
 say ef he knew that one of them as fit at Lundy s Lane 
 backed out, retreated, run fer fear of a passel of thieves? 
 No, sir ; me and the old flintlock will live and die together." 
 But, finally, seeing the futility of a stubborn delay, the old 
 basket- maker was glad to take his secret departure in the 
 night on the back of Bud s roan colt, while Bud himself 
 trudged along by his side six miles to Buckeye Run to bring 
 back the colt. 
 
 Bud s next " best lick " was in his effort to save little 
 Shocky whom "God forgot" from being bound out, 
 like his sister Hannah. And this was achieved by the help 
 of the same colt and the schoolmaster, who rode at dawn, 
 with Shocky in his arms, to Lewisburg, and found a refuge 
 for him there with Miss Nancy Sawyer, the old maid who 
 was a sort of benediction to the community. As the school 
 master took the feverish little boy in his arms, for the long 
 ride to Lewisburg, Shocky looked up in his face and said : 
 " You see, Mr. Hartsook, I thought God had forgot. But 
 he ha n t." 
 
 Bud Means s secret notification to the schoolmaster to 
 flee from the community, the minds of which had been 
 subtly instigated against him ; Ralph s finding Squire Haw 
 kins in Clifty, a neighboring village, and asking the Squire 
 to arrest and try him there ; and the public trial in the large 
 schoolhouse in Clifty, all of whose inhabitants, as well as 
 those of Flat Creek, attended, bring the narrative to the 
 various phases of the strangely conflicting testimony given 
 
178 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 in the trial. The testimony of Walter Johnson, a medical 
 student in Dr. Small s office, was peculiarly uncertain, due 
 to the fact that the weak and wavering Johnson, who had 
 been an eye-witness of the robbery and was sworn to secrecy 
 by Dr. Small, the actual head of an organized gang of 
 thieves, had been taken by the astute Bud to hear the 
 Rev. Mr. Soden (the scoffers called him " Brother Sodom "). 
 " Brother Sodom s " sulphurous preaching had so aroused 
 the conscience of young Johnson that, on the witness stand, 
 despite the intimidating glances of Dr. Small, he had made 
 a full confession, exonerating the schoolmaster and directly 
 implicating the doctor and the Joneses. Through Bud s 
 influence, also, Hank Banta, the old-time enemy of the 
 schoolmaster, confessed that his own testimony had been 
 false ; and even old Jack Means, the school trustee, who had 
 always had a warm side for the master, proposed three 
 cheers for him at the conclusion of the trial. But Mrs. 
 Means gave it as her opinion that " Jack Means allers wuz a 
 fool ! " 
 
 Old Jack Means in his function of school trustee, Bud, 
 as a founder of the church militant, and Rev. Mr. Bosaw, 
 the unctuous " Hardshell " preacher ; the pathetic and poetic 
 little Shocky, the pale and patient bound girl, Hannah, and 
 the giggling " Mirandy " ; the one-legged basket-maker who 
 " fit " at Lundy s Lane and believed in the general selfishness 
 of mankind ; the Squire whose eyes turned different ways 
 and who was an authority on spelling ; and the strenuous 
 little schoolmaster himself, these figures for a long time to 
 come will be associated in the minds of the reading world 
 with the crude and lawless conditions of pioneer life in 
 Southern Indiana. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 " MAIN-TRAVELED ROADS " BY HAMLIN GARLAND 
 
 " Main-Traveled Roads " has a significant dedication. 
 It reads : " To my father and mother, whose half-century 
 pilgrimage on the main-traveled road of life has brought 
 them only toil and deprivation, this book of stories is dedi 
 cated by a son to whom every day brings a deepening sense 
 of his parents silent heroism." In fact, the strenuous 
 early life of Mr. Garland himself, in Wisconsin and on the 
 prairies of Iowa, gave him certain hard and vivid experi 
 ences that later made him so sympathetic with the grim and 
 tedious lives of a farmer s family in the great Northwest. 
 
 A writer in the Atlantic Monthly, in speaking of the effect 
 produced upon him by the book under consideration, said : 
 "The best proof of the solid merit of Main-Traveled 
 Roads is that, in spite of all, it convinces the reader, willy- 
 nilly, of its general fidelity to fact, and lifts him off his criti 
 cal feet by its sheer brute force. ... It shows strikingly 
 what may be done by strong native talent, working with the 
 help of a single sound formula for effective composition; 
 for here most emphatically Mr. Garland has written of what 
 he knows. The book is unique in American literature; 
 passionate, vivid, written with absolute certainty of touch, 
 native and virile as the red man." And Mr. Howells, also 
 bearing witness to the essential truthfulness of the book, 
 wrote in Harpers Magazine : " These stories are full of the 
 
 179 
 
180 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 bitter and burning dust, the foul and trampled slush, of the 
 common avenues of life, the life of the men who hopelessly 
 and cheerlessly make the wealth that enriches the alien and 
 the idler, and impoverishes the producer." 
 
 In the opening of the first sketch in "Main-Traveled 
 Roads," called "A Branch Road," one gets a fine sense of the 
 freedom and sweetness of that hour in the country when the 
 night is losing its sway, the grass was crisp with frost, 
 the air was stimulating and resonant, the autumn maples 
 were flaming amid the still green oaks, and above the tim 
 ber belt in the east rose swiftly " a vast dome of pale undaz- 
 zling gold." " In the windless September dawn a voice 
 went ringing clear and sweet, a man s voice, singing a cheap 
 and common air." Such is the note of spontaneous joy 
 breathed out by nature and human nature in unison, in 
 what suggestive contrast to the later depression and grimness 
 of the story ! 
 
 The singing voice was that of a young man on his way to 
 help a neighbor do his " thrashing," a time of the intensest 
 work for the farmer, who is then getting into final shape the 
 product of his spring and summer s labor. As Will Hannan, 
 carrying his pitchfork, came in sight of his neighbors, he 
 could see the horses in a circle, hitched to the ends of the 
 six sweeps, and the great red and gold-striped threshing 
 machine standing among the stacks. Will and his rival, Ed 
 Kinney, took their places on the highest stack, and the 
 voice of big David McTurg, the owner of the thresher, was 
 heard calling out as the men raised the long stacker into 
 position. "Come, come, every sucker of yeh, git hold 
 o something. All ready." And then, to use the words of 
 Mr. Garland himself in describing this typical, strenuous 
 phase of Western farm life : " Boo-oo-oo-oorn, Boo-woo-woo- 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 1 8 1 
 
 oom-oom-ow-owm, yarr,yarr ! The whirling cylinder boomed, 
 roared, and snarled as it rose in speed. At last, when its 
 tone became a rattling yell, David nodded to the pitchers 
 and rasped his hands together. The sheaves began to fall 
 from the stack ; the band-cutter, knife in hand, slashed the 
 bands in twain ; and the feeder, with easy, majestic move 
 ment, gathered them under his arm and rolled them out into 
 an even belt of entering wheat, on which the cylinder tore 
 with its smothered, ferocious snarl." 
 
 It was only the night before that Agnes Dingman, whose 
 father was having his wheat threshed, had given Will Han- 
 nan an assurance of her love ; and so he worked steadily on 
 the stack beside Ed Kinney with a secure sense of triumph 
 that made him perfectly happy. But Agnes s open prefer 
 ence for himself at dinner-time, and her pleasant, smiling 
 ways with some of the other men, in some way irritated and 
 maddened the lover in his peculiarly sensitive mood ; and 
 later he was almost plunged into a quarrel with one of the 
 threshers, because of remarks about Agnes s evident liking 
 for him. He worked savagely on during the rest of the day, 
 resenting, with a sense of ownership in her, every pleasant 
 attention she received from the other men. Even when she 
 came out near his stack, looking very pretty in her straw 
 hat, and seeking an explanation for his strange attitude 
 toward her, he worked fiercely on, with his hat pulled over 
 his eyes, and with barely a notice of her. At the end of 
 the day, when all stayed for supper at the Dingmans, Will 
 refused an invitation to wait and eat with the rest, but turned 
 away hungry and tired, " so tired he stumbled and so un 
 happy he wept." 
 
 It was another beautiful dawn, and Will was busily wash 
 ing the mud from his brother s carriage, preparatory to 
 
1 82 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 taking his sweetheart Agnes to the county fair, an arrange 
 ment to that effect having been made with her the Sunday 
 before. He had not seen her, however, since Monday, 
 the day of the threshing, and it was now Thursday. He 
 sang at his work ; " he had regained his real self, and, hav 
 ing passed through a bitter period of shame, was now joyous 
 with anticipation of forgiveness. He looked forward to the 
 day, with its chances of doing a thousand little things to 
 show his regret and his love." 
 
 Will, in his best suit, sprang into the carriage, after an 
 early breakfast, and started off with the lively colts for 
 Agnes Dingman s home, where he had arranged to meet her 
 at eight o clock. But on the way, by an unfortunate acci 
 dent, he was delayed till ten o clock. He imagined his 
 sweetheart as tearful and pouting, and as sitting by the win 
 dow with her hat and gloves on, waiting for him after the 
 others had gone. Alas for human illusions ! when the lover 
 drove up, no smiling or tearful face waited at the window ; the 
 house was silent, and the curtains down. Something rose 
 chokingly in his throat; he called "Agnes," and announced 
 that he was "here at last." There was no response. Sud 
 denly an old man came round the corner, grinning as he 
 came, and said, "She ain t here. She s gone." To Will s 
 amazed inquiry, "Who d she go with?" the old man an 
 swered, with a malicious grin, " Ed Kinney. I guess your 
 goose is cooked." And this was the expected sweetness of 
 reconciliation with Agnes ! He lashed his horses into a 
 run ; his face was white and his teeth were set ; and when 
 once more at home he wrote this savage, brutal letter to the 
 gentle girl that really loved him : " If you want to go to hell 
 with Ed Kinney, you can. I won t say a word. That s 
 where he ll take you. You won t see me again." He knew 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 183 
 
 it would tear and sear an innocent, happy heart, but that 
 thought was a wicked satisfaction to him as he rode away in 
 the train to the South. 
 
 Seven years of hard but successful life among the cliffs 
 and treeless swells of the Southwest, and Will Hannan was 
 back in his boyhood home, among the trees and rustling 
 cornfields and cattle pastures of Southern Wisconsin. The 
 very crickets and peacefully feeding cattle were dear to him ; 
 and the softened sound of the distant reaper seemed like 
 " the hum of a bluebottle fly buzzing heedlessly about his 
 ears." Retrospective and repentant, he was filled with a 
 sort of strange sadness and despair. As he waited by the 
 roadside for the passing of a drove of cattle he recognized 
 in the hard-featured old driver the father of his early rival, 
 Ed Kinney. Will innocently inquired of the old man the 
 whereabouts of Will Hannan. " William ? Oh ! he s a bad 
 aig he lit out f r the West somewhere. He was a hard 
 boy. He stole a hatful o my plums once. He left home 
 kind o sudden. He ! he ! I s pose he was purty well cut 
 up jest about them days." The old man chuckled and con 
 tinued : " Well, y see, they was both courtin Agnes then, 
 an my son cut William out. Then William he lit out f r 
 the West, Arizony, r California, r somewhere out West. 
 Never been back sence." 
 
 Will walked on until he came to the old home of Agnes, 
 his former sweetheart. " The barn had been moved away, 
 the garden plowed up, and the house, turned into a gran 
 ary, stood with boards nailed across its dusty, cobwebbed 
 windows. The tears started into the man s eyes. ... In 
 the face of this house the seven years that he had last lived 
 stretched away into a wild waste of time. It stood as a 
 symbol of his wasted, ruined life. It was personal, inti- 
 
184 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 mately personal, this decay of her home." And his mind 
 reverted to that last impression of the Dingman home 
 the roar of the threshing machine, the whistle of the driver, 
 the shouts of the men, and the streaming lamplight as he 
 turned away from the door, " tired, hungry, sullen with rage 
 and jealousy. Oh, if he had only had the courage of a 
 man ! " But his old sweetheart he must see her just once 
 more. 
 
 The next morning Will drove up to her home. It had 
 been his own home until it passed from his mother s posses 
 sion into the hands of old Kinney. There he had been 
 born, and there his mother had toiled for thirty years. It 
 was a strange meeting this coming together of old-time 
 lovers in a quick recognition that love was not yet dead. 
 Will explained his identity to Ed s old father and mother, 
 the latter exclaiming : " Dew tell ! I want o know ! Wai, I 
 never ! An you re my little Willy boy who ust o be in my 
 class? Well ! Well ! W y, pa, ain t he grovved tall ! Grew 
 handsome tew. I ust to think he was a dretful humly boy ; 
 but my sakes, that mustache " 
 
 But what a change in the old Agnes, with the dimples and 
 the sunny hair ! She was now plainly a farmer s house 
 drudge. " She was worn and wasted incredibly. The blue 
 of her eyes seemed dimmed and faded by weeping, and the 
 old-time scarlet of her lips had been washed away. The 
 sinews of her neck showed painfully when she turned her 
 head, and her trembling hands were worn, discolored, and 
 lumpy at the joints." As she moved about, getting dinner 
 at the demand of the old people, Will listened gloomily to 
 the " clack " of the old man, and observed the details of the 
 room. It was a poor little " sitting room," with furniture 
 " worn and shapeless ; hardly a touch of pleasant color, save 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 185 
 
 here and there a little bit of Agnes s handiwork. The 
 lounge, covered with calico, was rickety ; the rocking-chair 
 matched it, and the carpet of rags was patched and darned 
 with twine in twenty places. Everywhere was the influence 
 of the Kinneys. The furniture looked like them, in fact." 
 
 Suddenly old Mrs. Kinney s hawklike eyes discovered 
 something unheard-of: "Well, I declare, if you hain t put 
 the butter on in one o my blue chainy saucers? Now you 
 know I don t allow that saucer to be took down by nobody. 
 I don t see what s got into yeh ! Anybody d s pose you 
 never see any comp ny b fore wouldn t they, pa ? " " Sh d 
 say th would," said pa. " Seems as if we couldn t keep 
 anything in this house sep rit from the rest." Accidentally 
 Agnes dropped a plate, the crash of which started Granny 
 Kinney once more. "Good land o Goshen ! " she screamed. 
 " If you ain t the worst I ever see. I ll bet that s my grape 
 vine plate. If it is Well, of all the mercies, it ain t. But 
 it might a ben. I never see your beat never ! that s the 
 third plate since I came to live here." In the midst of all 
 this exasperating and characteristic criticism, there sounded 
 unexpectedly the brutal voice of Agnes s husband, Ed, who 
 had come home for his Sunday dinner after a horse trade at 
 a neighbor s : "What the devul is all this row about? Agg, 
 can t you get along without stirring up the old folks every 
 time I m out o the house?" Ed, clad in greasy overalls 
 and a hickory shirt, lounged in with insolent swagger, and 
 greeted his old-time rival with easy familiarity. Then he 
 led the way to dinner. "Well, let s go out and set up. 
 Come, Dad, sling away that Bible and come to grub. 
 Mother, what the devul are you snifflin at? Say, now, 
 look here ! if I hear any more about this row, I ll simply 
 let you walk down to meetin ." 
 
1 86 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 The dinner conversation was of the same humiliating and 
 fault-finding tone. When Ed discovered that it was only 
 a white dish that his wife had broken, he cut short his 
 mother s whining criticism of her daughter-in-law with a 
 somewhat vigorous protest : " Well, now, I ll git into that 
 dog-gasted cubberd some day an break the whole eternal 
 outfit. I ain t goin to have this damned jawin goin on." 
 After dinner, as Ed drove away with his old father and 
 mother for the "meetin ," the latter screamed at her 
 daughter-in-law : " Don t you leave them dishes f r me to 
 wash. An if we don t git home by five, them caaves orter 
 be fed." 
 
 Out of this heart-sickening round of drudgery and abuse, 
 Will Hannan persuaded Agnes to go with him, leaving a 
 loveless husband and a dreary house, but taking with her 
 her little child. Through the open door he pointed to the 
 sunlight shining on a field of wheat : " That s where I ll take 
 you, out into the sunshine," the sunshine of renewed 
 hope and appreciative love. And forgetful of the mistaken 
 past, of social custom, and of public prejudice, they went 
 forth together, into a wider world of new life. 
 
 In the story called " Up the Coolly " has been drawn a 
 pitiless picture of a risen man, who for ten years has been 
 practically indifferent to the conditions surrounding his 
 mother and brother out upon a Western farm ; and the suc 
 cessful man on his return to his old home is a good deal 
 irritated and chagrined by the attitude of his brother, who 
 in the meantime has been struggling in a grinding poverty 
 and a hopeless condition of debt. The welcome given by 
 the Western brother is grudging and surly he has had to 
 bear the long heat and heavy burden of the day, until he is 
 past the best possibilities of his life, which has settled into a 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 1 87 
 
 sullen despair. " The Return of the Private " presents that 
 truly pathetic side of the Civil War so often unconsidered 
 amid the reverberations of successful battles in which the 
 poor and unknown soldier returns to wring a hard sub 
 sistence from the furrows he abandoned for his country s 
 good ; while " Under the Lion s Paw " is the depressing 
 story of a farm mortgage and the crushing injustice of com 
 pelling a poor renter to pay for his own improvements. 
 
 What the poor man, unknown and broken in health, re 
 turned to at the close of the Civil War, is grimly and 
 pathetically portrayed in the " Return of a Private," whose 
 opening picture is that of a group of veterans expectantly 
 nearing their home county of La Crosse, in Wisconsin. On 
 the train from New Orleans they had relieved the tedium of 
 the long journey by jests and raillery and elaborate discus 
 sion of their future plans, now that peace was come ; and at 
 their entrance on Wisconsin territory, and again at Madison, 
 their enthusiasm took the form of a cheer. But as they 
 neared La Crosse, the four or five remaining soldiers grew 
 thoughtful and silent. They were gaunt and brown, and one 
 was pale with the effects of fever and ague still upon him. 
 One carried a scar, another was lame, and all had the pre 
 ternatural brightness of eye that goes with emaciation. 
 
 In suggestive contrast to their setting out, their home 
 coming was lacking in bands of music and the waving of 
 ladies handkerchiefs the enthusiasm of a spectacle was 
 gone ; and not even the loafers at the depots where the 
 freight train with its caboose stopped gave any heed to this 
 grimy, dusty contingent in blue, now become so familiar. 
 Being a freight train, it naturally was behind time, and it was 
 two o clock in the morning before the travel-worn soldiers 
 heard the engine whistle " down brakes " for La Crosse. 
 
1 88 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 Here they were, in the dead of night, on the station plat 
 form poor farmers whose homes were several miles out in 
 the districts adjoining the town. The man who showed 
 signs of fever and ague, Private Smith, remarked economi 
 cally : " We ve got to stay somewhere till mornin . Now, I 
 ain t got no two dollars to waste on a hotel. I ve got a wife 
 and children, so I m goin to roost on a bench and take the 
 cost of a bed out of my hide." " Same here," said another 
 of the group. " Hide 11 grow on again, dollars come hard. 
 It s goin to be mighty hot skirmishin to find a dollar these 
 days." A third sarcastically inquired, " Don t think they ll 
 be a deputation of citizens waitin to scort us to a hotel, 
 eh?" One of the younger men was so desperately ex 
 travagant as to think it necessary to go to a hotel. " I m 
 goin to a hotel, ef I don t never lay up a cent." On 
 Private Smith s observation that that would hardly do for one 
 who had a wife and three " young uns " dependent on him, 
 the younger man cheerfully exclaimed, "Which I ain t, 
 thank the Lord ! and don t intend havin while the court 
 knows itself." 
 
 The chilly and deserted waiting-room at the station, 
 lighted by flaring oil lamps, made a forlorn and uncomfort 
 able resting-place for the old soldiers ; but in the midst of 
 their hard economy a characteristic thoughtfulness shone 
 out. By robbing themselves, the other soldiers somewhat 
 softened with their blankets the bench on which Private 
 Smith, the sick man, attempted to sleep. The two men, 
 sitting with bowed heads in the chilly night air, grew stiff 
 with cold and weariness, and now and then rose and walked 
 about to relieve their uncomfortable situation. Private 
 Smith, lying stretched on his hard and narrow bench, found 
 it difficult to sleep, and his mind went wandering out to his 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 1 89 
 
 half-cleared farm, with its insatiable mortgage ready to swal 
 low half his earnings. And here he was, after three years 
 of his life had been given to his country on a mere pittance 
 of pay, broken in body and despondent in heart, com 
 pelled to look the grim situation in the face. Toward dawn 
 he fell asleep, his head resting on his knapsack, his thin face 
 turned toward the ceiling, his hands clasped over his breast ; 
 and the unconscious figure was touched with an indefinable 
 effect of mute and pathetic weakness. 
 
 In strange contrast to the ugliness of the station and the 
 unkempt appearance of the weary-looking men was the 
 beauty and the sweetness of the dawn. " Morning dawned 
 at last, slowly, with a pale yellow dome of light rising silently 
 above the bluffs, which stand like some huge storm-devas 
 tated castle, just east of the city. Out to the left the great 
 river swept on its massive yet silent way to the south. Blue- 
 jays called across the water from hillside to hillside through 
 the clear, beautiful air, and hawks began to skim the tops 
 of the hills." The older men had gone out, taking great 
 care not to waken their sick comrade ; and when he was 
 finally roused by the switching of an engine, he folded up 
 his blankets and went out to find his companions. 
 
 They stood silently gazing at the familiar river and the 
 hills. " Looks natcher l, don t it? " they said to him, as he 
 came out. "That s what it does. An it looks good. 
 D yeh see that peak? " He pointed to a beautiful, symmet 
 rical peak that seemed to overtop the rest. " It was 
 touched by the morning sun and it glowed like a beacon, 
 and a light scarf of gray morning fog was rolling up its 
 shadowed side." Private Smith added that just beyond the 
 peak lay his own farm, and that if he could only " ketch a 
 ride " he would be home by dinner time. But one of his 
 
 
190 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 companions suggested that it was breakfast, rather than 
 dinner, time he was thinking of; whereupon Private Smith 
 resignedly remarked, " I guess it s one more meal o hard 
 tack fr me." At a restaurant they got some coffee to 
 " wash down " their army ration, and Smith, holding up a 
 piece of hardtack by the corner, commented prophetically, 
 "Time ll come, when this ll be a curiosity." 
 
 " I hope to God it will ! I bet I ve chawed hardtack 
 enough to shingle every house in the coolly. . . . I ve took 
 it dry, soaked, and mashed. I ve had it wormy, musty, 
 sour, and blue-moldy. I ve had it in little bits and big 
 bits ; fore coffee an after coffee. I m ready f r a change. 
 I d like t git holt jest about now o some of the hot biscuits 
 my wife c n make when she lays herself out f r company." 
 It was remarked somewhat sarcastically that if the speaker 
 " set there gabblin " any longer, he would never see his 
 wife. With characteristic American humor under difficulties, 
 Private Smith invited them to drink, but it wasn t whisky. 
 " Wait a moment, boys ; less take suthin . It s on me." 
 He led the way to a rusty tin dipper hanging by the side of 
 a wooden water-pail, and with a humorous grin they all 
 drank. Then shouldering their blankets and muskets they 
 started out on their last march, the march to the home 
 farms. 
 
 Along the turnpike and up the winding river road they 
 kept together. "The river was very lovely, curving down 
 along its sandy beds, pausing now and then under broad 
 basswood trees, or running in dark, swift, silent currents 
 under tangles of wild grapevines, and drooping alders, and 
 haw trees." At one of these beautiful spots along the river 
 bank the three veterans sat down to rest, largely " on Smith s 
 account." "I tell yeh, boys, this knocks the swamps of 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 191 
 
 Loueesiana into kingdom come." And the reply came : 
 " You bet. All they c n raise down there is snakes, niggers, 
 and p rticler hell." " An fightin men," suggested the older 
 man. " An fightin men. If I had a good hook an line I d 
 sneak a pick rel out o that pond. Say, remember that time 
 I shot that alligator ." "I guess we d better be crawlin 
 along," interrupted Smith, rising and shouldering his knap 
 sack with an effort that he tried to conceal. With a prac 
 tical sympathy born of long comradeship, one of his 
 companions suggested, " Say, Smith, lemme give you a 
 lift on that." "I guess I c n manage," said Smith, un 
 willing to seem a burden. " Course. But, yo see, I may 
 not have a chance right off to pay yeh back for the times 
 you ve carried my gun and hull caboodle. Say, now, gimme 
 that gun, anyway." And Smith, rather reluctantly, yielded 
 it up to his insistent companion. 
 
 As they plodded doggedly along through the increasing 
 heat of the sun, it seemed strange to Smith that no teams 
 were passing ; and when a comrade recalled that it was 
 Sunday morning, Smith exultingly thought of how he would 
 be home in time for Sunday dinner. " Well," said old Jim 
 Cranby, with a relish in his voice, "Well, I ll git home jest 
 about six o clock, jest about when the boys are milkin the 
 cows. I ll step into the barn an then I ll say: Heah/ 
 why ain t this milkin done before this time o day? An 
 then won t they yell ! " 
 
 And then Private Smith pictured his home-coming. " I ll 
 jest go up the path. Old Rover ll come down the road to 
 meet me. He won t bark ; he ll know me, an he ll come 
 down waggin his tail an showin his teeth. That s his way 
 of laughin . An so I ll walk up to the kitchen door, an 
 I ll say, Dinner f r a hungry man ! An then she ll jump 
 
192 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 up, an ." But his voice choked. And Saunders, the 
 third man, hardly spoke as he walked silently behind the 
 others ; for the first year of his service he had lost his wife, 
 who died of pneumonia due to exposure in the autumn 
 rains, when she worked in the fields in place of her husband. 
 
 At last they came to the parting of the ways, and as they 
 grounded their muskets Smith remarked : " Well, boys, 
 here s where we shake hands. We ve marched together a 
 good many miles, an now I s pose we re done. I hope 
 I ll see yeh once in a while, boys, to talk over old times." 
 " Of course," said Saunders, with a quaver in his voice, " it 
 ain t exactly like dyin ." And they all found it hard to look 
 at one another. Cranby and Saunders expressed their anxi 
 ety about Smith s further journey alone, and offered to go 
 with him ; but he characteristically made light of it, rather 
 cheerfully exclaiming : " Oh, I m all right ! Don t worry 
 about me. Every step takes me nearer home, yeh see. 
 Well, good-by, boys." They shook hands, with " good- 
 by " and " good luck " ; and just before his two comrades 
 passed out of sight he waved his cap to them, and they to 
 him, and all shouted. 
 
 On his lonely and toilsome journey his mind was filled 
 with sad memories of his dead " chum," Billy Tripp, whom 
 a wailing " minie " ball had struck through the heart. He 
 fell face forward in the dirt of the plowed field they were 
 marching across ; and now Private Smith must break the 
 news to Billy s mother and sweetheart. Yet anticipations 
 of home gradually conquered the shadows of retrospect; 
 the fields and houses grew familiar ; now and then he was 
 greeted by people who recognized him from their doorways, 
 and once he accepted a drink of milk at a neighbor s well- 
 side. He labored on through the burning sun, up the slope, 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 193 
 
 occasionally stopping to rest. " He crawled along like some 
 minute, wingless variety of fly." When he reached the 
 summit of the ridge he tried some of the same old hard 
 tack, this time relieved by the juice of wild berries ; and as 
 he sat there resting he could at last look down into his own 
 home coolly. 
 
 Here was the typical figure of the war-worn man, who 
 represented in his experience how many thousands, return 
 ing from blood and suffering only to be plunged into the 
 almost harder fate of a strenuous battle against poverty and 
 loss. To use Mr. Garland s words in describing this lonely 
 figure : " His wide, round gray eyes gazed down into the 
 beautiful valley, seeing and not seeing the splendid cloud- 
 shadows sweeping over the western hills and across the 
 green and yellow wheat far below. His head drooped for 
 ward on his palm, his shoulders took on a tired stoop, his 
 cheek-bones showed painfully. An observer might have 
 said, He is looking down on his own grave. " 
 
 At the Smith farm on that Sunday morning Mrs. Smith 
 was alone with her three children. Her farm, rented to a 
 neighbor, lay at the head of a coolly, or narrow gully, on 
 either side of which rose the great hills left standing by the 
 plowshare of the floods. Wakened from dreams of her 
 absent husband by the noises of the chickens, she went out 
 into the yard, the fowls clustering about her as she went ; 
 " a cow called in a deep, musical bass, and a calf answered 
 from a little pen near by, and a pig scurried guiltily out of 
 the cabbages." Seeing the effects of neglect all about her, 
 the straying pig, the tangled grass in the garden, the broken 
 fence which she had mended again and again, the little 
 woman sat down and cried. 
 
 It was only a few years before that they had bought the 
 
194 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 farm, paying for it in part and mortgaging the rest ; and her 
 husband had worked " nights and Sundays " to clear the 
 farm of its brush and its insatiable mortgage. Suddenly 
 came the call of the country for help, and Edward Smith 
 " threw down his scythe and grub ax, turned his cattle 
 loose, and became a blue-coated cog in a vast machine for 
 killing men and not thistles." And the little wife left be 
 hind had had her special burden and sorrow through the 
 three years of her husband s service. Two brothers had 
 been killed ; the renter in whose hands her husband had left 
 the farm had proved a villain ; one year the farm had had 
 no crops, and now the overripe grain was waiting till the 
 new renter had cared for his own crop. 
 
 Six weeks before a letter had come, telling of her hus 
 band s discharge in the near future ; the papers had brought 
 news that the army was disbanding ; and from day to day 
 blue-coated survivors were returning to the county, but 
 her hero was not among them. Each week she had told the 
 children he was coming, and she had watched the road so 
 long for his approach that now her eyes unconsciously wan 
 dered down the coolly road from wherever she stood. This 
 morning Mrs. Smith s disappointment and loneliness became 
 intolerable; so that, as some measure of relief, she dressed 
 the little folks in their best calico dresses and home-made 
 jackets, and set off down the coolly for the home of her 
 neighbor, "Widder" Gray, who was the " visible incarnation 
 of hospitality and optimistic poverty." 
 
 The open-hearted, smiling widow came down the path to 
 meet Mrs. Smith and her children, exclaiming as she came, 
 " Oh, you little dears ! come right to your granny. Gimme 
 a kiss ! Come right in, Mis Smith. How are yeh, anyway ? 
 Nice mornin , ain t it? Come in an set down. Everything s 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 195 
 
 in a clutter, but that won t scare you any." And she led the 
 way into the " best room," a sunny, square one, its floor 
 covered with a faded and patched rag carpet and its walls 
 with a white-and-green-striped paper ; while here and there 
 " faded effigies of dead members of the family hung in vari 
 ously sized oval walnut frames." 
 
 It was a noisy, breezy, hospitable home that Mrs. Smith 
 and her children had come to visit, and its enlivening influ 
 ence was irresistible. There was laughter and singing, and 
 Mrs. Smith, in the midst of it, forgot her anxiety and laughed 
 and smiled herself. Toward noon the widow s eldest son 
 arrived, with all his family, from Sand Lake Coolly, and the 
 widow began giving orders. " Well, go put out your team, 
 an go n bring me in some taters; an , Sim, you go see if 
 you c n find some corn. Sadie, you put on the water to bile. 
 Come, now, hustle yer boots, all o yeh. If I feed this yer 
 crowd, we ve got to have some raw materials. If y think 
 I m goin to feed yeh on pie, you re jest mightily mistaken." 
 
 The children went off into the fields, the girls made some 
 of the preparations for dinner in the kitchen, and then re 
 tired to change their dresses and " fix up," innocently re 
 marking as they went that "somebody might come." In 
 pretended dismay the breezy and knowing mother exclaimed : 
 " Land sakes, I hope not ! I don t know where in time I d 
 set em, less they d eat at the second table." Out on the 
 grass before the house the widow s two older boys, who had 
 served their time in the army, were whittling and talking 
 about the war, the crops, and the buying of a threshing 
 machine ; while the older girls and Mrs. Smith helped in 
 enlarging the dinner table, putting on the dishes, and swell 
 ing the sum total of good-natured but rather incoherent 
 conversation. 
 
196 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 Finally, the widow had them all for audience in her dis 
 sertation on girls in love, and their uselessness. " Girls in 
 love ain t no use in the whole blessed week," she said. 
 "Sundays they re a-lookin down the road, expectin he ll 
 come. Sunday afternoons they can t think o nothin else 
 cause he s here. Monday mornin s they re sleepy and kind 
 o dreamy and slimpsy, and good fr nothin on Tuesday 
 and Wednesday. Thursday they git absent-minded, an 
 begin to look off toward Sunday agin, an mope aroun an 
 let the dish water git cold, right under their noses. Friday 
 they break dishes, an go off in the best room an snivel 
 an look out o the winder. Saturdays they have queer 
 spurts o workin like all p ssessed, an spurts o frizzin their 
 hair. An Sunday they begin it all over agin." Whereat 
 the girls giggled and blushed, and Mrs. Smith remarked 
 that she ought not to stay to dinner in view of prospective 
 guests. " Now you set right down ! " said Mrs. Gray, in 
 sistently. " If any of them girls beaus comes, they ll have 
 to take what s left, that s all. They ain t s posed to have 
 much appetite, nohow. No, you re goin to stay if they 
 starve, an they ain t no danger o that." 
 
 At one o clock one of the girls took down a conch-shell 
 from a nail and blew a long, free blast that brought the 
 children from " the forest of corn," from the creek, the 
 barn-loft, and the garden. " They come to their feed f r 
 all the world jest like the pigs when y holler poo-ee ! 
 See em scoot ! " said Mrs. Gray, aglow with the sight. 
 The men " soused " their faces in the cold, hard water of 
 the horse-trough ; and in a few moments the groaning 
 table, piled with boiled potatoes, boiled corn on the cob, 
 squash and pumpkin pies, and hot biscuit and honey, was 
 surrounded with a merry crowd of ardent eaters, a row of 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads" 197 
 
 hungry- eyed youngsters in the kitchen looking on and wait 
 ing their impatient turn. 
 
 The widow informed the strenuous circle of diners that 
 she couldn t afford to give the "young uns " tea, as she was 
 reserving it for the "women-folks, and specially f r Mis 
 Smith an Bill s wife. We re a-goin to tell fortunes by it." 
 One by one the men became satisfied and withdrew, and 
 one by one the eager-eyed children took their places, and 
 by two o clock the women were left to themselves around 
 the " debris-covered " table, and free to sip their tea and 
 settle their fortunes. As they got well down to the grounds 
 in the cup, they shook them with a circular motion in the 
 hand, and then turned them bottom-side up quickly in the 
 saucer ; then twirled them three or four times one way, and 
 three or four times the other, during a breathless pause. 
 Then Mrs. Gray lifted the cup, and gazing into it with pro 
 found gravity, pronounced the impending fate. 
 
 At last came Mrs. Smith s turn, and she trembled with 
 excitement as Mrs. Gray composed her naturally jovial face 
 into an appropriate solemnity of expression. " Somebody s 
 comin to you" said the prophetess, after a long pause. 
 "He s got a musket on his back. He s a soldier. He s 
 almost here. See?" She pointed to two little tea steins 
 that formed a faint resemblance to a man with a musket on 
 his back, and he had climbed nearly to the edge of the cup. 
 Mrs. Smith was pale with suppressed excitement, and the 
 cup shook in her hand as she gazed into it. Suddenly Mrs. 
 Gray cried out : " It s Ed. He s on the way home. Heavens 
 an earth ! There he is now ! " She waved her hand in 
 the direction of the road, and there, in very truth, was a 
 man in blue with a musket on his back, toiling slowly up 
 the hill, his bent head half hidden by his knapsack. So 
 
198 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 toilsome was his step that walking seemed indeed " a pro 
 cess of falling " ; yet so eager was he to get home that he 
 would not stop, nor look aside, but " plodded on amid the 
 cries of the locusts, the welcome of the crickets, and the 
 rustle of the yellow wheat. Getting back to God s country, 
 and his wife and babies ! " 
 
 The little wife, laughing, crying, and calling to him and 
 the children at the same time, snatched her hat and ran out 
 into the yard ; but by the time the children had been found 
 the soldier had disappeared over the hilltop, beyond the 
 reach of her voice. Yet there was the doubt that it might 
 not be her husband, after all, for the man refused to turn 
 his head at their shouts ; and if it had been Edward Smith 
 he would hardly have passed his old neighbor s without stop 
 ping to rest. Wavering between hope and doubt, the little 
 woman hurried up the coolly as fast as she could push the 
 baby-wagon, the blue-coated figure moving steadily on 
 ahead. 
 
 When the panting little group came in sight of the gate, 
 they saw the figure in army blue leaning upon the rail fence, 
 his chin resting on his palms and his eyes gazing at the 
 empty house, while at his feet in the grass lay his knapsack, 
 canteen, and blankets. He stood lost in a dream, and his 
 hungry eyes seemed fairly to devour the scene, the rough 
 lawn, the little unpainted house, the field of yellow wheat 
 behind it, and over it all the level light of the westering sun. 
 Here was a haunt of old-time peace that the eyes of his 
 imagination had often seen in the last three struggling years. 
 " O God ! how far removed from all camps, hospitals, battle 
 lines ! A little cabin in a Wisconsin coolly, but it was majes 
 tic in its peace." 
 
 Trembling and weak with emotion, her eyes fixed on the 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 199 
 
 silent figure, Mrs. Smith hurried noiselessly through the dust 
 and grass, her oldest boy a little in advance. " Who are 
 you, sir ? " the little woman started to ask ; but suddenly the 
 pale face of the private turned full upon her and the cry of 
 " Emma ! " broke from his lips. " Edward ! " was all she 
 could answer, as she sobbingly kissed this strange and bearded 
 man, the daughter Mary sobbing in sympathy with her 
 mother. Illness had left the soldier partly deaf, and this 
 increased the strangeness of his manner. Even after the 
 girl had kissed her father, the youngest child refused to 
 come to him, and backing away under the fence stood peer 
 ing at him critically. The father called " my little man " in 
 vain. Alas ! between him and his baby war had come, and 
 left him only a strange man with big eyes, a soldier with 
 mother hanging to his arm and talking to him in an excited 
 voice. "And this is Tom," said the father, drawing the 
 older boy to him. " He // come and see me ! He knows 
 his poor old pap when he comes home from the war ! " 
 
 Recognizing the pain and remonstrance in her husband s 
 voice, the mother hastened to explain : " You ve changed 
 so, Ed. He can t know yeh. This is papa, Teddy ; come 
 and kiss him Tom and Mary do. Come, won t you?" 
 But Teddy still peered through the fence with investigating 
 eyes, well out of reach. " He resembled a half-wild kitten 
 that hesitates, studying the tones of one s voice." " I ll fix 
 him," said the soldier, suddenly recalling some of his re 
 sources in the knapsack. Sitting down, he undid his knap 
 sack and drew out three great red apples. Giving one to 
 each of the older children, he cried : " Now I guess he ll 
 come. Eh, my little man? Now come see your pap!" 
 Teddy crept slowly under the fence, assisted by his zealous 
 older brother, and soon was kicking in his father s arms. 
 
2OO Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 Then together they entered the house, going into the " sit 
 ting room," poor and bare, with its rag carpet, its two or 
 three chromos, and its pictures from Harper s Weekly pinned 
 about upon the walls. 
 
 Once in his own home again, the exhausted soldier flung 
 himself down upon the carpet as he used to do, while his 
 wife brought a pillow to put under his head, and the children 
 stood about munching their apples. And then the soldier 
 talked, question after question pouring forth with regard to 
 crops and cattle, the renter and the neighbors. He slipped 
 off the great government brogans from his tired and blistered 
 feet, and stretched himself in utter and blessed relaxation, 
 feeling no longer the stress of a soldier under command. 
 At supper he stopped and listened and smiled it was old 
 Spot, the cow, that he heard. And then came the inquiry 
 for the old dog Rover. Learning that he had died the winter 
 before, probably by poison, the soldier, after a pause of sad 
 dened memory, spoke with trembling feeling in his voice : 
 " Poor old feller ! He d a known me half a mile away. I 
 expected him to come down the hill to meet me. It ud a 
 been more like comin home if I could a seen him comin 
 down the road, an waggin his tail, an laughin that way he 
 has. I tell yeh, it kind o took hold o me to see the blinds 
 down an the house shut up." 
 
 Such was the pathos of his home-coming ; but now even 
 the sound of the chickens out in the yard was sweet to him, 
 and of the turkeys and the crickets. " Do you know they 
 don t have just the same kind o crickets down South?" 
 And then he thought of the grain ready to cut, and of his 
 own inability to do anything, on account of the fever and 
 ague that now had him in its grip. " I don t know when 
 I ll get rid of it. I ll bet I ve took twenty-five pounds of 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 201 
 
 quinine if I ve taken a bit. Gimme another biscuit. I 
 tell yeh, they taste good, Emma. I hain t had anything 
 like it Say, if you d a hear d me braggin to th boys 
 about your butter n biscuits, I ll bet your ears ud a 
 burnt." The gratification of the private s wife was seen in 
 her deepening color, as she modestly said : " Oh, you re 
 always a-braggin about your things. Everybody makes 
 good butter." " Yes ; old lady Snyder, for instance." " Oh, 
 well, she ain t to be mentioned. She s Dutch." "Or old 
 Mis Snively. One more cup o* tea, Mary. That s my girl ! 
 I m feeling better already. I just b lieve the matter with me 
 is, I m starved" 
 
 That was one of the sweet hours in the lives of the 
 private and his wife they were lovers again ; but their 
 tenderness was in tones rather than in words. His praise 
 of her biscuit, she knew, was praise of herself. He showed 
 her how near the bullets had brought him to death, and she 
 shuddered to think how near she came to being a soldier s 
 widow. Finally, they rose and went out together into the 
 garden, and down to the barn, and he stood beside her as 
 she milked old Spot. And there they planned for fields 
 and crops another year. His farm was weedy, a renter had 
 run off with his machinery, his children needed clothing, he 
 was sick and thin and weak ; but the heroic soul that fought 
 on Southern battlefields, because it thought that there lay the 
 safety of the nation, took up its daily fight against nature 
 and debt and injustice with the same unflinching resolution. 
 
 " Oh, that mystic hour ! the pale man with big eyes 
 standing there by the well, with his young wife by his side. 
 The vast moon swinging above the eastern peaks, the cattle 
 winding down the pasture slopes with jangling bells, the 
 crickets singing, the stars blooming out sweet and far and 
 
202 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 serene ; the katydids rhythmically calling, the little turkeys 
 crying querulously as they settled to roost in the poplar 
 tree near the open gate. The voices at the well drop lower, 
 the little ones nestle in their father s arms at last, and Teddy 
 falls asleep there." Surely, here is a real picture, this 
 first night of the private s return ; and here are real pro 
 vincial types, the poor young farmer, filled with sturdy 
 patriotism, and returning to a life burdened with disease 
 and debt ; the quick-hearted, driving, breezy, and motherly 
 Widow Gray; and the long-suffering, brave, and patiently 
 waiting little farmer s wife, whose heroism was in some 
 regards more difficult than that of her sick and war-worn 
 husband. 
 
 One of the most characteristic and pathetic sketches in 
 the book is that of " Mrs. Ripley s Trip," in which is set 
 forth with delicate and intimate sympathy the resolute en 
 deavor of old Mrs. Ripley to pay a visit " back to her folks 
 in York State." She and her husband, Uncle Ethan Ripley, 
 were sitting, one windy November night, in their poor little 
 shanty, " set like a chicken-trap on the vast Iowa prairie." 
 She was knitting a stocking for her little grandson, after 
 having " finished the supper dishes," and Uncle Ethan was 
 mending his old violin. The only light was a tallow candle, 
 they could afford "none o them new-fangled lamps." 
 The room was small, the chairs hard, the walls bare, pov 
 erty was plainly an ever-present guest. Mrs. Ripley, look 
 ing pathetically small and hopeless in her faded, ill-fitting 
 garments, knitted tirelessly with her knotted, stiffened fin 
 gers, but in her little black eyes sparkled a peculiar light, 
 and " in the straight line of her withered and shapeless lips " 
 there was written an unusual resoluteness. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped, and, looking at her husband, said 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 203 
 
 decisively : " Ethan Ripley, you ll half to do your own cook 
 ing from now on to New Year s. I m goin back to Yaark 
 State." Uncle Ethan was naturally amazed, and the ques 
 tion of the cost at once leaped to the first place in the old 
 man s mind. The financial consideration seemed to him to 
 put the whole idea out of the question. Her intimation 
 that she would get the money herself, and that if she waited 
 for him to pay her way the visit would never take place, 
 aroused the old man to self-defense, in which he insisted he 
 had done his part. " I don t know what y call doin my 
 part, Ethan Ripley ; but if cookin for a drove of harvest 
 hands and thrashin hands, takin care o the eggs and 
 butter, n diggin taters an milkin ain t my part, I don t 
 never expect to do my part, n you might as well know it 
 fust s last." 
 
 She declared she was now sixty years old, and had never 
 had a day to herself, " not even Fourth o July." " I ain t 
 been away t stay over night for thirteen years in this house, 
 n it was just so in Davis County for ten more. For twenty- 
 three years, Ethan Ripley, I ve stuck right to the stove an 
 churn without a day or a night off." And during every one 
 of those years she had "just about promised " herself to go 
 back and see her " folks." 
 
 After Tukey, the little grandson, had been sent upstairs 
 to bed, the old man, with a sense of having been put in an 
 ungenerous attitude toward his wife s going, said apologeti 
 cally : "Wai, I m just as willin you should go as I am for 
 myself, but if I ain t got no money I don t see how I m 
 goin to send " But his wife broke in upon him : " I 
 don t want ye to send ; nobody ast ye to, Ethan Ripley. 
 I guess if I had what I ve earnt since we came on this farm, 
 I d have enough to go to Jericho with." He insisted, how- 
 
204 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 ever, though gently, that she had got as much out of it as 
 he had. " Ain t I been wantin to go back myself ? And 
 ain t I kep still cause I see it wa n t no use? I guess I ve 
 worked jest as long and as hard as you, an in storms an in 
 mud an heat, ef it comes t that." To which his wife, 
 though recognizing the justice of his remarks, replied rather 
 pungently, "Wai, if you d a managed as well as I have, 
 you d have some money to go with." 
 
 The next day, in the midst of cold blustering weather, 
 the old man was husking alone in the field, his gaunt figure 
 covered with two or three ragged coats, his hands partly 
 protected with gloves that lacked most of the fingers, his 
 thumbs done up in " stalls," and his feet thrust into great 
 coarse boots. His hands were wet with handling the ears 
 of corn, and chapped and sore. Meditating on the subject 
 of his wife s visit, he came to the generous conclusion that 
 she really needed a "play-spell." "I ain t likely to be no 
 richer next year than I am this one ; if I wait till I m able 
 to send her she won t never go. I calc late I c n git enough 
 out o them shoats to send her. I d kind a lotted on eat n 
 them pigs done up in sassengers, but if the ol woman goes 
 East, Tukey an me ll kind a haff to pull through without 
 em. . . . Then there is my buffalo overcoat. I d kind a 
 calc lated on havin a buffalo but that s gone up the 
 spout along with them sassengers." 
 
 Coming in that evening with a big armful of wood, which 
 he let fall with a crash into the wood-box, he slapped his 
 mittens together to knock off the ice and snow, and said : 
 " I was tellin Tukey t -day that it was a dum shame our 
 crops hadn t turned out better. An when I saw ol Hat- 
 field go by I hailed him, an asked him what he d gimme 
 for two o m shoats. Wai, the upshot is, I sent t town for 
 
" Main-Traveled Roads " 205 
 
 some things I calc late you d need. An here s a ticket to 
 Georgetown, and ten dollars." Whereupon Mrs. Ripley, 
 touched by the unexpected tenderness and sacrifice of her 
 husband, broke down and sobbed. "She felt like kissing 
 him, but she didn t." 
 
 The unaccustomed tears of his wife made the old man 
 walk over and timidly touch her hair, explaining as he did 
 so that he was going to sell the pigs anyway. Suddenly 
 Mrs. Ripley sprang up, ran into the bedroom, and quickly 
 returned with a yarn mitten, tied round the wrist, which she 
 laid on the table with emphasis. " I don t want yer money. 
 There s money enough to take me where I want to go." 
 She emptied the contents of the mitten, and there on the 
 table lay the savings of many years, mostly in silver dimes 
 and quarters. " They s jest seventy-five dollars and thirty 
 cents," she said proudly; "jest about enough to go back 
 on. Ticket is fifty-five dollars, goin and comin . That 
 leaves twenty dollars for other expenses, not countin what 
 I ve already spent, which is six-fifty. It s plenty." She de 
 clared against such unnecessary expenses on the trip as 
 sleepers and hotel bills. " I ain t agoin to pay them pirates 
 as much for a day s board as we d charge for a week s, and 
 have nawthin to eat but dishes. I m goin to take a chicken 
 an some hard-boiled eggs, an I m goin right through to 
 Georgetown." 
 
 Her husband finally persuaded her to accept the ticket 
 he had bought for her, when she learned that the railroad 
 company would refuse to take it back ; and the next day 
 they drove together to the little town where she was to take 
 the train. The day was cold and raw, there was some snow 
 on the ground, and the old people sat on a board laid 
 across the wagon box, an old quilt or two drawn up over 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
206 Provincial Types in the Mississippi Valley 
 
 their laps. Mrs. Ripley wore a shawl over her head, and 
 carried her queer little bonnet in her hand. Her last 
 words to old Uncle Ethan were : " You ll find a jar o sweet 
 pickles an some crab-apple sauce down suller, n you d 
 better melt up brown sugar for lasses, n for goodness 
 sake don t eat all them mince-pies up the fust week, n 
 see that Tukey ain t froze goin to school. An now you d 
 better get out for home. Good-by ! an remember them 
 pies." 
 
 One cold winter s day a queer little figure was seen strug 
 gling along the country road, blocked here and there with 
 drifts. It was Mrs. Ripley getting back from "Yaark 
 State." She was laden with bundles, and every now and 
 then the wind would twist her full-skirted black dress about 
 her and sail her off into the deep snow outside the track. 
 But she held bravely on till she reached a neighbor s gate. 
 To an insistent invitation to stay, she energetically replied : 
 " I must be gittin back to Ripley. I expec that man has 
 jes let ev ry thing go six ways fr Sunday. ... I s pose 
 they have had a gay time of it " (she meant the opposite 
 of gay). "Wai, as I told Lizy Jane, I ve had my spree, an 
 now I ve got to git back to work. There ain t no rest for 
 such as we are. . . . I ve saw a pile o this world, Mrs. 
 Stacey a pile of it ! I didn t think they was so many big 
 houses in the world as I saw b tween here an Chicago. . . . 
 Good-by ! I must be gittin home to Ripley. He ll want 
 his supper on time." 
 
 Uncle Ripley was at the barn when she arrived, and when 
 he came in she had her " regimentals " on, the stove was 
 brushed, the room swept, and she was deep in the dish-pan. 
 " Hullo, mother ! got back, hev yeh? " " I sh d say it was 
 about time" she answered curtly, without stopping her work. 
 
ic Main-Traveled Roads " 207 
 
 "Has ol Grumpy dried up yit?" And Mrs. Ripley s 
 long-considered trip was done. 
 
 Such laborious, patient, saving, and unselfish types as 
 Uncle Ethan Ripley and his resolute little wife lend a pathos 
 and heroic quality to the history of farm life in the great 
 Northwest. 
 
PROVINCIAL TYPES IN THE FAR 
 WEST 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FIELD 
 
 IN such stories as the " Led-Horse Claim," "Coeur 
 d Alene," and "John Bodewin s Testimony," Mary Hallock 
 Foote has presented various phases of Western mining 
 life with sympathetic feeling and literary art ; and in short 
 stories like "The King of the Broncos," "The Bite of 
 the Pichucuate," and " Bonifacio s Horse-Thief," Charles F. 
 Lummis gives us vivid sketches of characteristic life on the 
 plains of New Mexico and Arizona, a remote region that 
 he has made peculiarly his own by patient sympathy, long 
 residence, and intimate study both of its past and its pres 
 ent. Together with Mr. Lummis, Frederic Remington, by 
 his " Sundown Leflare," his " Crooked Trails," and his " Men 
 with the Bark On," and most of all by his remarkably life 
 like and vigorous illustrations, has saved for us the rapidly 
 changing types in the Southwestern states and territories. 
 Such literary work as these two men have done deserves 
 wide and long recognition for its uniqueness and virility, 
 and for the fact that what it has sought to portray is almost 
 aboriginal and rapidly passing away. 
 
 Although nothing else in the flood of very recent fiction 
 208 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 209 
 
 is included in the scope of the present volume, it was found 
 impossible to pass by " The Virginian " by Owen Wister, 
 because, in looking for a broad and convincing character 
 ization of the "cow-puncher" of the Western plains, the 
 mind irresistibly reverts to Miss Molly Wood s cowboy that 
 rode and shot and won on the high plains of Wyoming. By 
 his stories in " Red Men and White " and his more sus 
 tained effort in " Lin McLean," Mr. Wister, a Philadelphia!! 
 and Harvard man, had served a long and careful appren 
 ticeship in literary art as a preparation for this really great 
 book on Western life and character. And his years of close 
 familiarity with the wide, wild country that reaches from the 
 plains of Wyoming to the " painted desert " of Arizona and 
 the ranches of Texas have given him a peculiar right and 
 privilege to portray it permanently in literature. 
 
 From one point of view " The Virginian," as Mr. Wister 
 himself suggests in the preface, may be looked upon as an 
 "historical novel," for "Wyoming, between 1874 and 1890 
 [the period covered by the novel], was a colony as wild 
 as was Virginia one hundred years earlier. As wild, with a 
 scantier population, and the same primitive joys and dan 
 gers." But, like the buffalo and antelope and roving multi 
 tudes of cattle, the horseman will never come again, at 
 least on the plains of Wyoming. " He rides in his historic 
 yesterday." 
 
 And so, as the portrayal of a unique and vanishing type of 
 American provincial life, " The Virginian " is doubly worth 
 studying, from the historical and from the literary point of 
 view. Surely the literary art that has gone into the book is 
 something fine and refreshing, one gets that sense of free 
 dom and largeness, of nobility and wholesomeness, of being 
 close to mother earth and also to the star-sown sky of true 
 p 
 
2io Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 romance, which, after all, is the highest effect of great 
 art. 
 
 The gambling Virginian, his hand holding the unaimed 
 pistol on the card table and his soft, drawling voice saying 
 significantly to Trampas, "When you call me that, j7#//<? " ; 
 the humorous Virginian, sharing his bed with the patronizing 
 drummer ; the sympathetic Virginian, tenderly helping little 
 " Em ly," the spinster hen, in her ludicrous attempts at 
 motherhood, after puppies and potatoes had failed ; the 
 strong and chivalric Virginian, lifting the pale little school 
 teacher out of the half-submerged stage and carrying her off 
 through the flood ; and the same somewhat jealous Virgin 
 ian, joining with Lin McLean in exchanging babies, the 
 versatility and humor of this portraiture are indeed original 
 and engaging. 
 
 The Virginian as an indomitable lover, with his " You re 
 goin to love me before we get through" ; his sublimely 
 humorous frog story, with its significant close, " Frawgs 
 are dead, Trampas, and so are you " ; his spiritual, long- 
 continued vigils with the orthodox and full-fed preacher, 
 Dr. MacBride ; the wounded, almost dying man, with his 
 head resting against Molly Wood as she washed away the 
 blood, near the spring ; his pitiful attempts to ride the five 
 miles to safety and her heroic efforts to help him on the 
 way ; her brave and admirable nursing ; his characteristic 
 comment on the close of Browning s poem that she read to 
 him ; his pathetic confession to her that he was not fitted to 
 make her happy, "This is no country for a lady" ; and the 
 two, with the brilliant folds of the Navajo blanket about them, 
 and Grandmother Stark s picture looking down upon them in 
 a faint sort of approval, such phases of the story have in 
 them a human and dramatic touch that marks real literature. 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 211 
 
 But nowhere in the book does the weirdly dramatic reach 
 such an intensity as in the night preceding the hanging of 
 the horse-thieves to the cottonwoods ; and nowhere does 
 the almost hopelessly tragic reach such a precipice of 
 breathless interest as when, at sunset, the Virginian overrules 
 the appealing terror of his sweetheart, and walks cautiously 
 out to shoot and be shot at. The dead Trampas, with all his 
 malevolence and murderous cunning while alive, clears the 
 horizon for that wonderful honeymoon on the island and up 
 among the mountain pines, and for that rather humorous 
 visit back in Bennington among the conventional relatives. 
 
 At times it seems as if Molly Wood were hardly worth 
 the Virginian s while, but in the final test she is seen to be 
 the true descendant of old Grandmother Stark, a woman 
 of heart and soul, of nerve and will, that came into a full 
 appreciation of the Virginian s unusual and genuinely noble 
 and lovable qualities, which proved to be in such combina 
 tion as to win and hold her love. 
 
 In Hamlin Garland, also, the Far West has found a fortu 
 nate interpreter ; and in the " Eagle s Heart," " Her Moun 
 tain Lover," and most of all in the " Captain of the Gray 
 Horse Troop," there is felt a full familiarity with its life, a 
 strong power of characterization, and, in the last-mentioned 
 volume, a remarkable sympathy with the Indian mind in its 
 highest and truest outworkings. The same fine sympathy 
 with the Indian character is seen in Helen Hunt Jackson s 
 " Ramona," that beautiful romance of Southern Califor 
 nia life, even if the author has attempted to read into her 
 Indian types many of the emotions and aspirations of her 
 own poetic and philanthropic nature. 
 
 In such unique short stories as the " Pearls of Loreto," 
 the "Bells of San Gabriel," and "When the Devil was 
 
212 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Well," found in the collection entitled " Before the Gringo 
 Came," Mrs. Gertrude Atherton has made striking studies 
 in fiction of the earlier mixed Spanish and American life in 
 California ; and being herself a native of San Francisco, with 
 a commingling of blood from Louisiana and New England, 
 and having deliberately lived some of her later life in old 
 towns and hamlets where some of the older Spanish customs 
 and types survive, she seems peculiarly fitted by experience 
 and natural endowment to picture with sympathy and an ap 
 proach to truthfulness the traits and types that differentiate 
 dwellers on the Southern Pacific slope from Americans of 
 other sections of the country. There is much of the spirit of 
 romance in her work, as is illustrated in " The Californians " ; 
 but it grows easily out of the social conditions and the nat 
 ural environment which Mrs. Atherton so fully comprehends 
 and feels. Mr. Ambrose Bierce has also touched phases of 
 California character and scenery in his book of weird short 
 stories called " Can Such Things Be ? " 
 
 But for a certain side of earlier and more picturesque 
 California life, the crude, primitive, daring life of the 
 miner and the gambler, the fallen woman and the philan- : 
 thropic schoolmistress, and all the free, resolute types of a 
 transplanted and heterogeneous civilization that characterize 
 the frontier, the American, and especially the English, reader 
 will instinctively turn to Bret Harte, whose best work was 
 done while he was still a resident of California himself. For 
 removal to the East, under the stress of great popularity, 
 and later to England for the rest of his life, seems not to 
 have given him much new literary material, but rather to 
 have sent his imagination and affection back to the once 
 virgin fields of the great Pacific slope, where lived (and still 
 live, thanks to their creator) the improvised midwife 
 
A Brief Survey of the Field 213 
 
 Stumpy, the heroic Kentuck that dying took " The Luck " 
 with him, and the wilful but loyal M liss ; the imperturbable, 
 smooth-handed Oakhurst, "who struck a streak of bad 
 luck " and " handed in his checks " on a certain December 
 day of 1850 ; the tactful Miggles and her collapsing charge ; 
 Yuba Bill, the reminiscent and facetious stage-driver; and 
 "Tennessee s Partner," who vainly argued for Tennessee 
 with a full bag of gold. And where shall we find a more 
 dramatic ride than that of Dick Bullen and the swift-footed 
 Jovita, dashing through the night over Rattlesnake Hill in 
 quest of Christmas toys for poor little Johnny, who had 
 "a fevier, and childblains and roomatiz" ? Such a theme, 
 with all its movement and human quality, might fitly have 
 been celebrated by the author of " How They Brought the 
 Good News from Ghent to Aix." The broken-armed Dick, 
 arriving at Simpson s Bar at dawn and fainting on the thresh 
 old, with the remark that " Sandy Glaus has come," is a 
 picture of pioneer sentiment and pathos that only Bret 
 Harte knows how to paint with poetic touch. 
 
 It was as far back as 1868, when Mr. Harte became, 
 with Noah Brooks, the editor of the Overland Monthly in 
 San Francisco, that " The Luck of Roaring Camp " made 
 its appearance in the second number of the magazine ; and 
 the first issue of the monthly in 1869 contained another 
 short story that suddenly showed the literary world a genius 
 of a new order, it was the thrilling short drama of " The 
 Outcasts of Poker Flat." "M liss," "Miggles," "Tennes 
 see s Partner," and " How Santa Claus Came to Simpson s 
 Bar," with the two short stories just mentioned, make up a 
 collection as unique and dramatic as anything in American 
 literature. And with all that seems melodramatic in their 
 make-up and with all their peculiar insistence on certain 
 
214 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 traits that might not be celebrated in the most " respect 
 able " literature, these short stories have a vital quality, a 
 subtlety of humorous sense, and a power of swift character 
 ization that make them a fresh delight to each new circle 
 of readers. They have, too, a sensitive poetical feeling for 
 the grandeur and beauty of the California mountains, for 
 the brilliant depths of the California sky, and the impress- 
 iveness of the great woods that constitute a unique setting 
 for the strange, picturesque types Mr. Harte has drawn with 
 so light and yet so strong a hand. Some of these provincial 
 characters are as truly rescued from oblivion by the art of 
 Bret Harte as the Creole types have been by Mr. Cable, the 
 Tennessee mountain types by Miss Murfree, or the Hoosier 
 types by Edward Eggleston. Although in his longer-sustained 
 effort of " Gabriel Conroy," Mr. Harte seems not to be at 
 his best, in his other short stories, like " Found at Blazing 
 Star " and " A Ship of 49," included in the collection 
 entitled " Frontier Stories," and " The Rose of Tuolomne " 
 and " An Heiress of Red Dog," included in " Tales of the 
 Argonauts," one feels the same sense of easy power in 
 dialogue and characterization, the same spontaneous and 
 satirical humor, and the same sympathy with the crude, 
 picturesque life of early California, that was felt in his first 
 famous book of stories. 
 
 So brief a survey of the field of fiction that portrays the 
 varied phases of provincial life in America can in the 
 nature of things be only suggestive, no pretense is made 
 that it is comprehensive or exhaustive ; but enough has been 
 glanced at in the groupings of this volume to show how at 
 tractive is the field, and how much richness of enjoyment 
 lies in the reading and study of American literature from 
 this point of view. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "THE VIRGINIAN" BY OWEN WISTER 
 
 A CLOSE scrutiny of heroes in fiction is likely to reveal the 
 fact that very few of them are actually men, and the highest 
 praise bestowed on " Tom Jones " is said to be that of a 
 great critical authority who remarked of the novel, " This 
 is not a book, but a man." It would not, perhaps, be far 
 from a fair critical estimate to say of " The Virginian " that 
 this is a man ; a Virginian, to be sure, with his soft, drawl 
 ing tones and his chivalrous attitude toward the weak, 
 but a man also, in the larger sense, who gathers up into 
 his hard and dramatic life the virile elements of the great 
 West. This is a real man, who would have been different 
 in his physical and mental and moral make-up if he had 
 lived under a less rugged and exacting environment than the 
 high plains of Wyoming in the period between 1874 and 
 1890. As a cow-puncher, a horseman with his "pastur 
 ing thousands," he is a vanishing type, broadly and lastingly 
 portrayed. And it is a matter of good fortune that one so 
 conversant with the type and its environment should have 
 had the privilege of giving them a permanent place in 
 American literature ; for, as Mr. Wister himself says of his 
 plainsman in his suggestive introduction "To the Reader," 
 "You will no more see him gallop out of the unchanging 
 silence than you will see Columbus on the unchanging sea 
 come sailing from Palos with his caravels." 
 
 215 
 
2i6 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 The first view that the narrator of " The Virginian " got 
 of his prospective hero was through a Pullman car window 
 at Medicine Bow, where the roping of some cow ponies in a 
 corral near the water-tank of the railroad was going on 
 rather unsuccessfully. One pony in particular defied and 
 evaded the most skillful of the cowboys, whose humorous 
 curses could be heard even through the glass of the car 
 windows. No stratagem or skill in hurling the rope seemed 
 able to catch the agile and swift-eyed pony. Suddenly a 
 man sitting on the high gate of the corral, looking on, 
 climbed down " with the undulations of a tiger, smooth 
 and easy, as if his muscles flowed beneath his skin." The 
 others had visibly hurled the rope, some even shoulder 
 high ; but this man s arm seemed neither to lift nor move. 
 He apparently held the rope low down, by his leg ; then 
 "like a sudden snake," the noose shot out its full length 
 and fell true ; and the thing was done. " As the captured 
 pony walked in with a sweet, church-door expression, our 
 train moved slowly on to the station, and a passenger 
 approvingly remarked, That man knows his business. " 
 
 A lost trunk had so disconcerted Judge Henry s guest, 
 who tells the story, that he was oblivious of the shin 
 ing antelope among the sage-brush and the great sunset 
 light of Wyoming, when his attention was diverted by a 
 dialogue between a man with a gentle, drawling Southern 
 voice, and another who was addressed as "Uncle Hughey." 
 The narrator stepped to the door of the baggage-room and 
 noted the man with the Southern drawl. It was "The 
 Virginian." "Lounging there at ease against the wall was 
 a slim young giant, more beautiful than pictures." His 
 soft, broad hat, pushed back, a loose-knotted, dull-scarlet 
 handkerchief sagging from his throat, one thumb hooked 
 
" The Virginian " 217 
 
 into his slanting cartridge-belt, and boots and overalls 
 white with dust that indicated long travel through the 
 country, these were evident at a glance. " The weather- 
 beaten bloom of his face shone through it [the dust] duskily, 
 as the ripe peaches look upon their trees in a dry season. 
 But no dinginess of travel or shabbiness of attire could 
 tarnish the splendor that radiated from his youth and 
 strength." 
 
 Judge Henry s guest suggested to the Virginian that his 
 valise would be sufficient for a day or two, when the lost 
 trunk might be sent for, and that they might start for the 
 Judge s home at once if it didn t bring them there too late. 
 It was then sunset. Whereat the Virginian coolly remarked : 
 " It s two hundred and sixty-three miles." So that a night 
 in Medicine Bow on the top of a counter was the only alter 
 native for the Judge s guest. And such a night the " tender 
 foot " had never seen ! For it was on that night in a saloon 
 that the tenderfoot learned what manner of man the soft- 
 spoken Virginian was. 
 
 Five or six players sat in a corner at a round table where 
 counters were piled, among them the Virginian and Trampas, 
 the dealer of the cards. Such expressions as " Why didn t 
 you stay in Arizona?" and "Well, Arizona s no place for 
 amatures," stirred something of a sensation in the room, 
 for they were evidently directed at the Virginian, who the 
 year before had paid a visit to Arizona. The ugliness in the 
 voice of Trampas, the dealer, was due to the fact that he 
 was losing to the Virginian, who was a stranger to him. 
 When it came the Virginian s turn to bet, or leave the 
 game, he deliberated a moment or two, long enough for 
 
 the insulting Trampas to say, " Your bet, you son-of-a ." 
 
 Suddenly the Virginian s pistol came out, and holding it in 
 
21 8 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 his hand, unaimed, on the table, and speaking in his charac 
 teristically soft drawl, though a little longer drawn than 
 usual he gave his orders to Trampas, " When you call me 
 that, smile" " Yes, the voice was gentle. But in my ears it 
 seemed as if somewhere the bell of death was ringing ; and 
 silence, like a stroke, fell on the large room." Some were 
 crouching, and some shifting their positions, while the nar 
 rator, in his ignorance of what it all meant, stood stock-still. 
 It meant to Trampas either " the choice to back down or 
 draw his steel." And he didn t draw his steel. There were 
 no more contemptuous remarks on the part of Trampas 
 about " amatures," for in the person of the black-haired, 
 soft-voiced Virginian was a proved expert in the art of 
 self-preservation. 
 
 The admiration of one of the card-dealers for the Virgin 
 ian s superb quickness and coolness was thus expressed to a 
 player who had evidently been very nervous over the situa 
 tion : " You got ready to dodge. You had no call to be 
 concerned. . . . It s not a brave man that s dangerous. 
 It s the cowards that scare me." Having illustrated his 
 last remark by a recent shooting incident in the saloon, the 
 dealer continued : " And that s why I never like to be 
 around where there s a coward. You can t tell. He ll 
 always go to shooting before it s necessary, and there s no 
 security who he ll hit. But a man like that black-headed 
 guy is" (the dealer indicated the Virginian) "need never 
 worry you. And there s another point why there s no need 
 to worry about him : if II be too late! " 
 
 That night Judge Henry s guest learned more of the Vir 
 ginian s resourcefulness and humor ; and on their long and 
 adventurous ride together across the country the Virginian s 
 personal dignity and strong self-respect, his droll wit and 
 
" The Virginian " 219 
 
 shrewd penetration, his courage and splendid " nerve," and 
 his love and mastery of horses, were all abundantly illus 
 trated. Near the end of their journey together they were 
 met by a friend of the Virginian s Mr. Taylor by name 
 who gave the news that Bear Creek was to have a school- 
 house and a " schoolmarm." Mr. Taylor handed the 
 Judge s guest a letter from a possible candidate in the East, 
 Miss Mary Stark Wood of Bennington, Vermont, and 
 wanted to know how it " sized up " with the letters " they 
 write back East." The signature was of especial signifi 
 cance to the Virginian, it read, " Your very sincere spin 
 ster " ; whereat Mr. Taylor guessed she was forty, but the 
 Virginian, twenty. " Her handwriting ain t like any I ve 
 saw," commented Mr. Taylor. " But Bear Creek would 
 not object to that, provided she knows rithmetic and 
 George Washington and them kind of things." The Vir 
 ginian s comment, as he sat looking at the letter, was some 
 what penetrating : " I expect she is not an awful sincere 
 spinster. . . . Your real spinster don t speak of her lot 
 that easy." 
 
 Mr. Wister s talent for humorous narrative of an unusual 
 sort is seen at its best in the chapter called " Em ly," which 
 describes the forlorn and ridiculous attempts of an " old- 
 maid " hen to be a mother, her attempts including re 
 peated " settings " on potatoes, onions, soap, green peaches, 
 and oval stones, and her adoptions embracing bantams, 
 young turkeys, and setter puppies ! The Virginian s joyous 
 sense of humor, his tender sympathy, and his quick power 
 of drawing human analogies are made an inseparable part 
 of this unique chapter, in which the Virginian and the 
 Judge s guest are drawn so intimately together. 
 
 Four days of train and thirty hours of stage had brought 
 
220 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Miss Mary Stark Wood to the crossing of a river on the 
 Western plains. She had refused to marry, back in Ben- 
 nington, Vermont, the young man of "prospects" whom 
 she liked but did not love. This refusal was against her 
 mother s wishes, but was supported by the stout spirit of 
 her great-aunt over at Dunbarton, who believed in marry 
 ing for love. And thus Molly Wood, with something of 
 the spirit of her great colonial ancestress, Molly Stark, was 
 trying to be independent and self-supporting, and had 
 pledged herself to become the first teacher in the new 
 Bear Creek schoolhouse in far-off Wyoming. 
 
 It was at sunrise, that, eternally lurching along across 
 the alkali, the stage reached the edge of a river. The 
 driver had had on the box with him, as a companion, only a 
 bottle, which had proved too strong for him. As the stage 
 descended into the river for fording, it lurched over to one 
 side, two wheels sank down over an edge, and the seat on 
 which Miss Molly Wood sat careened so threateningly that the 
 young woman put her head out of the stage door and tremu 
 lously asked if anything was wrong. But the driver was too 
 much absorbed with profanity and the lash to notice her. 
 However, a tall rider came close against the buried axles, 
 and took the young woman out of the stage upon his horse 
 so suddenly that she screamed. There were splashes, she 
 saw a rolling flood, and then she was lifted down upon the 
 bank. The rider gave a word of encouragement, insisted 
 on the stage-driver s throwing away his bottle, and, swinging 
 into his saddle, was off before the rescued woman could 
 frame her belated thanks. Her rescuer was the Virginian ; 
 and later in the season he came alone to the same crossing 
 of the river, which now was a bed of dry sand, with here 
 and there a pool. Regarding the extremely safe channel, 
 
" The Virginian " 221 
 
 where the rushing river formerly had been, he meditatively 
 said : " She cert nly wouldn t need to grip me so close this 
 mawnin . I reckon it will mightily astonish her when I tell 
 her how harmless the torrent is lookin ." Passing a slice of 
 bread covered with sardines to his pony he continued : 
 "You re a plumb pie-biter, you Monte." Monte rubbed 
 his nose on his master s shoulder. " I wouldn t trust you 
 with berries and cream. No, seh ; not though yu did 
 rescue a drownin lady." 
 
 The dance at the barbecue, given by the Swinton Brothers 
 at their Goose Egg ranch on Bear Creek, was particularly 
 notable for the way in which Miss Molly Wood refused to 
 waltz with the Virginian without an introduction, although 
 she knew him perfectly well as the man who had rescued her 
 from her plight in the stage. But the Virginian, not to be 
 so easily defeated, begged her pardon, and, bringing up a 
 common friend, asked to be presented in due form. It was 
 while she was dancing with some of the married men that 
 the Virginian, with his characteristic love of a practical 
 joke, exchanged the offspring of these same men, and did 
 it so skillfully that the fathers and mothers reached home 
 without recognizing the exchange and the joke. His 
 finesse in diverting responsibility and his later confession 
 at the most opportune time are very happily portrayed by 
 Mr. Wister. 
 
 Before the beginning of festivities that evening, while 
 some of the cowboys, including Chalkeye, Nebrasky, 
 Trampas, and Honey Wiggin, were stretched on the ground 
 about the steer that was being roasted whole, some rather 
 uncomplimentary allusions were made to the new school 
 teacher, Miss Molly Wood, by Trampas. Suddenly he found 
 the Virginian standing over him in a threatening attitude ; 
 
222 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 and when ordered by the former to stand up and confess 
 himself a liar, Trampas sullenly obeyed, under the domi 
 nating power of the Virginian s eyes. " The eye of a man 
 is the prince of deadly weapons." Then the Virginian 
 spoke : " Keep a-standin still. I ain going to trouble yu 
 long. In admittin yourself to be a liar you have spoke God s 
 truth for onced. Honey Wiggin, you and me and the boys 
 have hit town too frequent for any of us to play Sunday on 
 the balance of the gang." The Virginian paused to observe 
 the effect of his action and words on " Public Opinion, 
 seated around in carefully inexpressive attention," and then 
 modestly continued : " We ain t a Christian outfit a little 
 bit, and maybe we have most forgotten what decency feels 
 like. But I reckon we haven t plumb forgot what it means." 
 
 An illustration of the Virginian s mental independence, 
 which prevented the young school-teacher from playing 
 constantly the part of patron and superior, was seen in 
 his characteristic discussion of the idea of equality : " I ll 
 tell you what, equality is a great big bluff. It s easy called. 
 ... I look around and I see folks movin up or movin 
 down, winners or losers everywhere. All luck, of course. 
 But since folks can be born that different in their luck, 
 where s your equality? No, seh ! call your failure luck, or 
 call it laziness, wander around the words, prospect all yu 
 mind to, and yu ll come out the same old trail of inequality." 
 Pausing a moment, and looking at the woman he intended 
 to win by his love, he added : " Some holds four aces, and 
 some holds nothin , and some poor fello gets the aces and 
 no show to play em; but a man has got to prove himself 
 my equal before I ll believe him." 
 
 The Judge s guest the narrator of the story had ex 
 pected, on his return visit from the East, to be riding soon 
 
" The Virginian " 223 
 
 with the Virginian among " the clean hills of Sunk Creek." 
 What was his surprise and gratification, as he walked into 
 Colonel Cyrus Jones s eating palace in Omaha, to see sitting 
 at a table, alone, the Virginian himself. The palace itself 
 was a curious phase in the development of Western archi 
 tecture. " It was a shell of wood, painted with golden em 
 blems, the steamboat, the eagle, the Yosemite, and a 
 live bear ate gratuities at its entrance. Weather permitting, 
 it opened upon the world as a stage upon the audience. 
 You sat in Omaha s whole sight and dined, while Omaha s 
 dust came and settled upon the refreshments. It is gone 
 the way of the Indian and the buffalo, for the West is grow 
 ing old. You should have seen the palace and sat there. 
 In front of you passed rainbows of men, Chinese, Indian 
 chiefs, Africans, General Miles, younger sons, Austrian nobil 
 ity, wide females in pink. Our continent drained prismati- 
 cally through Omaha once." 
 
 As the narrator was passing, there came floating out from 
 " the palace " the language of Colonel Cyrus Jones. He 
 stood at the rear of his palace in gray flowery mustaches 
 and a Confederate uniform, and announced the wishes of the 
 guests to the cook through a hole. After the Virginian s 
 characteristically undemonstrative welcome of the Judge s 
 guest, who had entered the restaurant to be " fanned " by 
 the breezy vocabulary of the Colonel, the cow-puncher 
 observed, as he looked about on the other guests with critical 
 attention, that "Them that comes hyeh don t eat. They 
 feed. ... D yu reckon they find joyful di-gestion in this 
 swallo -an -get-out trough ? " To his friend s inquiry as to what 
 he was in such a place for, he philosophically remarked : " Oh, 
 pshaw ! When yu can t have what you choose, yu just 
 choose what you have." And he took the bill of fare. 
 
224 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 The Virginian noticed on the elaborately French menu a 
 special item, Frogs* legs a la Delmonico ; and he asked his 
 friend rather incredulously if they were " true anywheres." 
 And on its being explained that Delmonico in New York 
 and Augustin in Philadelphia actually made a specialty of 
 frogs legs, the Virginian said, with an engaging smile, 
 " There s not a little bit o use in lyin to me this mawnin . 
 I ain t goin to awdeh anything s laigs." The Judge s guest, 
 however, was in an experimental mood ; and, curious to see 
 how Colonel Cyrus Jones would handle the unwonted order, 
 he asked for frogs legs. " Wants frogs legs, does he? 
 shouted Colonel Cyrus Jones. He fixed his eye upon me, 
 and it narrowed to a slit. Too many brain workers break 
 fasting before yu came in, professor, said he. Missionary 
 ate the last leg off me just now. Brown the wheat ! he 
 commanded, through the hole to the cook, for some one 
 had ordered hot cakes. 
 
 " I ll have fried aiggs, said the Virginian. Cooked 
 both sides. 
 
 " White wings ! sang the Colonel through the hole. 
 Let em fly up and down. 
 
 " Coffee an no milk, said the Virginian. 
 
 " Draw one in the dark ! the Colonel roared. 
 
 " And beefsteak, rare. 
 
 " One slaughter in the pan, and let the blood drip ! 
 
 " I should like a glass of water, please, said I. The 
 Colonel threw me a look of pity. One Missouri and ice for 
 the professor ! he said." The process of ordering was 
 ended, and the Virginian s only comment was, as he looked 
 at the Colonel, "That fellow s a right live man." The 
 "Colonel" proved to be Scipio le Moyne, who later served 
 the Virginian in a crisis as the expert broiler of frogs. Dur- 
 
" The Virginian " 225 
 
 ing breakfast the Virginian s curiosity concerning Delmonico 
 and frogs legs returned, and his companion was able to give 
 him a good deal of information about the career of Lorenzo 
 Delmonico, which the Virginian later put to such brilliant use 
 in his competing frog story. "Mighty inter-estin ," he said 
 " mighty. He could just take little old o rn ry frawgs, and 
 dandy em up to suit the bloods. Mighty inter-estin . I 
 expaict, though, his cookin would give an outraiged stomach 
 to a plain-raised man." 
 
 Despite the modesty of the Virginian, it developed that he 
 had been promoted by Judge Henry, his employer, to be 
 deputy foreman, and was on his way to Chicago with twenty 
 carloads of steers and half a dozen cowboys. And one of 
 his chief responsibilities lay in the necessity of getting these 
 cowboys safely back to the Judge s ranch in Wyoming, past 
 all the temptations of cities, and in spite of the malevolent 
 maneuvers of Trampas, his irreconcilable enemy. The cow 
 boys beside the railway track in Omaha were indulging in a 
 game of poker, while the Virginian, sitting with his friend on 
 the top of a car, was contemplating the sandy shallows of 
 the Platte. When asked by his friend why he didn t take a 
 hand in the game, the Virginian contemptuously replied, 
 "Poker? With them kittens?" He suddenly took out of 
 his pocket a copy of " Kenilworth " that Miss Molly Wood 
 had let him have, and turning the volume over slowly in his 
 hand without opening it, he remarked reflectively, " Queen 
 Elizabeth would have played a mighty pow ful game." 
 " Poker ? " said his friend. " Yes, seh. Do you expaict Europe 
 has got any queen equal to her at present? " When doubt 
 was expressed, the Virginian gave one of his historical judg 
 ments in characteristic form. " Victoria d get pretty nigh 
 slain sliding chips out agaynst Elizabeth. Only, mos prob ly 
 Q 
 
226 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Victoria she d insist on a half-cent limit. You have read 
 this hyeh Kenilworth ? Well, deal Elizabeth ace high, an 
 she could scare Robert Dudley, with a full house, plumb out 
 o the bettin ." On the unquestioning assent of his com 
 panion, the Virginian continued, " And if Essex s play got 
 next her too near, I reckon she d have stacked the cyards. 
 Say, d yu remember Shakespeare s fat man?" 
 
 An answer in the affirmative led the Virginian to give his 
 candid judgment on Shakespeare and his literary work, and 
 to express his regret that the great dramatist was ignorant 
 of the possibilities of poker. "Ain t that grand? Why, he 
 makes men talk the way they do in life. I reckon he couldn t 
 get printed to-day. It s a right down shame Shakespeare 
 couldn t know about poker. He d have had Falstaff playing 
 all day at that Tearsheet outfit. And the Prince would have 
 beat him." The Virginian felt sure, too, that Falstaff would 
 have had enough brains to play whist. "You can play 
 whist with your brains brains and cyards. Now, cyards 
 are only one o the manifestations of poker in this hyeh 
 world. One o the shapes yu fool with it in when the day s 
 work is oveh. If a man is built like that Prince boy was 
 built (and it s away down deep beyond brains), he ll play 
 winnin poker with whatever hand he s holdin when the 
 trouble begins. Maybe it will be a mean, triflin army, or an 
 empty six-shooter, or a lame hawss, or maybe just nothin 
 but his natural countenance. Most any old thing will do for 
 a fello like that Prince boy to play poker with." 
 
 Leaving the Virginian with his uncertain cowboys and his 
 two trains of steers bound for Chicago, Judge Henry s pro 
 spective guest, on his autumn holiday, was making his way 
 through the Black Hills in a saddle ; but on account of the 
 steady downpour he was only too glad to change to a seat 
 
" The Virginian " 227 
 
 in the stage. As he climbed in over the wheel somebody 
 on the inside considerately inquired, " Six legs inside this 
 jerky to-night?" The asker of the question was none other 
 than " Colonel " Cyrus Jones, formerly of the eating palace in 
 Omaha, whose conversational power was wholly undimin- 
 ished. He gave an early introduction of himself : " Scipio 
 le Moyne, from Gallipolice, Ohio. The eldest of us always 
 gets called Scipio. It s French. But us folks have been 
 white for a hundred years." Scipio was limber and light- 
 muscled, and skillfully avoided bruises as the "jerky " swayed 
 or plunged. " He had a strange, long, jocular nose, very 
 wary-looking, and a bleached blue eye." " Shorty," the 
 third occupant of the stage, was what his name implied, and 
 the joltings of the jerky seemed to hurt him almost every 
 time. " He was light-haired and mild. Think of a yellow 
 dog that is lost, and fancies each newcomer in sight is going 
 to turn out his master, and you will have Shorty." 
 
 The intimacy of the three travelers was suddenly deep 
 ened by their unavailing efforts to catch the Northern Pacific 
 train at Medora. It had changed its schedule time. Scipio 
 and Shorty shot from the jerky in advance of the Judge s 
 guest, who was encumbered by a valise. They dashed 
 through sand and " knee-high grease wood " in their race 
 for the train, a piece of stray wire springing up and clutch 
 ing the carrier of the valise, and tin cans spinning from 
 under his feet. The loss of the train meant to them a loss 
 of twenty-four hours ; but despite their desperate racing 
 and shouting and waving of hats they were all left behind. 
 Scipio, as he saw the train insultingly move off, dropped 
 philosophically into a walk ; but the other two, overtaking 
 him, ran madly forward to the empty track. 
 
 The carrier of the valise kicked it and then sat on it, 
 
228 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 speechless with wrath ; Shorty gave way to uncontrollable 
 lament, detailing all his woes to the unsympathetic air ; but 
 Scipio, the superior, narrowed his bleached blue eyes to 
 slits, as he watched the rear car fading to westward, and ad 
 dressed the vanishing train : " Think you ve got me left, 
 do yu ? Just because yu ride through this country on a 
 rail, do yu claim yu can find your way around? I could 
 take yu out ten yards in the brush and lose yu in ten sec 
 onds, you spangle-roofed hobo ! Leave me behind ! you 
 recent blanket-mortgage yearlin ! You plush-lined, nickel- 
 plated, whistlin wash room, d yu figure I can t go East 
 just as soon as West? Or I ll stay right here if it suits me, 
 yu dude-inhabited hot-box ! " Scipio s epithets increased 
 in volume and emphasis till they became unprintable, and 
 then he gradually descended from his climax to express 
 sympathy with the train for not having a mother. 
 
 To the immense surprise and pleasure of Judge Henry s 
 guest a slow, drawling Southern voice, the voice of the Vir 
 ginian, suddenly expressed his sorrow over his friend s loss 
 of breath in pursuit of the train, and inquired if the valise 
 was suffering any. There sat the Virginian, with a news 
 paper, on the rear platform of a caboose attached to a 
 freight train westward bound. His cowboys were inside, 
 and he himself carried the air of a man for whom things 
 were "going smooth." He had evidently delivered his 
 steers in Chicago and was returning to Sunk Creek ranch. 
 He turned to Scipio with the remark that "these hyeh 
 steam cyars make a man s language mighty nigh as speedy 
 as his travel." " So yu heard me speakin to the express," 
 said Scipio. " Well, I guess, sometimes I See here," he 
 exclaimed, under the grave scrutiny of the Virginian, " I 
 may have talked some, but I walked a whole lot. You didn t 
 
" The Virginian " 229 
 
 catch me squandering no speed." The Virginian remarked 
 that he had noticed that in Scipio s case thinking came 
 quicker than running ; whereupon Scipio observed : " Oh, 
 I could tell yu d been enjoyin us ! Observin somebody 
 else s scrape always kind o rests me too. Maybe you re a 
 philosopher, but maybe there s a pair of us drawd in this deal." 
 
 From Scipio s legs the Virginian judged that the former 
 was used to the saddle, but from his hands he inferred that 
 he had not been roping steers very recently. And he sud 
 denly asked, " Been cookin or something? " To which the 
 spirited Scipio retorted : " Say, tell my future some now. 
 Draw a conclusion from my mouth." " I m right dis 
 tressed," returned the Southerner, "we ve not a drop in 
 the outfit." " Oh, drink with me uptown ! " cried the hos 
 pitable Scipio, " I m pleased to death with yu ." Glanc 
 ing where the saloons stood behind the station, the Virginian 
 shook his head ; and Scipio plaintively insisted : " Why, it 
 ain t a bit far to whisky from here ! Step down, now. 
 Scipio le Moyne s my name. Yes, you re lookin for my 
 brass ear-rings. But there ain t no ear-rings on me. I ve 
 been white for a hundred years. Step down. I ve a forty- 
 dollar thirst." The Virginian s only response was the be 
 ginning of a remark about Scipio s " being white," when 
 from the inside of the caboose came the howled-out chorus 
 of a cowboy song, and the train began to move off. Sud 
 denly the Virginian stood up and offered to this new-found 
 acquaintance a forty-dollar job if he would save " that thirst." 
 " Why, you re talkin business ! " cried Scipio, and leaped 
 aboard. 
 
 As the Virginian and Scipio le Moyne continued in dia 
 logue, one of the group on the inside came out on the 
 platform of the caboose, slamming the door behind him. 
 
230 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 " H 1 ! " cried the man, at sight of the distant town. " I 
 
 told you," addressing the Virginian threateningly, "I told 
 you I was going to get a bottle here." " Have your bottle, 
 then," said the deputy foreman, and kicked him off into 
 Dakota. The Virginian s pistol followed the direction of 
 his boot ; so that the man sat quietly in Dakota, watching 
 the train moving on into Montana, and making no objection. 
 At a safe distance, he rose and made his way toward the 
 region of the saloons. It was the cook that had thus sud 
 denly parted company with the Virginian s "outfit," and the 
 Virginian could not forego expressing his disgust as he hol- 
 stered his pistol. " This is the only -step I have had to take 
 this whole trip ; " and then he added regretfully, " So nyeh 
 back home ! " 
 
 Scipio s interest in his new-found employer was so much 
 intensified by this incident that he asked Judge Henry s 
 guest if he had known the Virginian long. Being answered 
 " Fairly," Scipio looked with admiration at the Virginian s 
 back, and spoke judicially, "Well, start awful early when 
 yu go to fool with him, or he ll make you feel onpunctual." 
 The Southerner, tilting his head toward the noise in the 
 caboose, again expressed his regret that, after having the 
 cow-punchers under his control for almost three thousand 
 miles, he should now have been compelled to part with one 
 of them. " I had the boys plumb contented. Away along 
 as far as Saynt Paul I had them reconciled to my authority. 
 Then this news about gold had to strike us." " And they re 
 a-dreamin nuggets and Parisian bowleyvards," sympatheti 
 cally suggested Scipio. The Virginian smiled his gratitude, 
 and, regaining his usual relish of things, continued in the line 
 of Scipio s suggestion, " Fortune is shinin bright and blindin 
 to their delicate young eyes." 
 
"The Virginian" 131 
 
 The Virginian asserted his belief that all his cowboys 
 would return with him to Sunk Creek, " accordin to the 
 Judge s awdehs." " Never a calf of them will desert to 
 Rawhide, for all their dangerousness. . . . Only one is left 
 now that don t sing." Turning to Scipio le Moyne, he re 
 marked that the man he had parted with was the cook, 
 " and I will ask yu to replace him, Colonel." At the word 
 "colonel" Scipio opened his mouth in astonishment. 
 " Colonel ! Say ! " He stared at the Virginian and asked 
 him if he had met him at " the palace " in Omaha. " Not 
 exackly met," replied the Southerner. " I was praisent one 
 mawnin las month when this gentleman awdehed frawgs 
 laigs." 
 
 Hereupon the surprised but versatile Scipio, alias the 
 "Colonel," explained at length his difficult position in 
 Omaha. " Sakes and saints, but that was a mean position ! 
 ... I had to tell all comers anything all day. Stand up 
 and jump language hot off my brain at em. And the pay 
 don t near compensate for the drain on the system. I don t 
 care how good a man is, you let him keep a-tappin his 
 presence of mind right along, without taking a lay-off, and 
 you ll have him sick. Yes, sir. You ll hit his nerves. So I 
 told them they could hire some fresh man, for I was goin 
 back to punch cattle or fight Indians, or take a rest some 
 how, for I didn t propose to get jaded, and me only twenty- 
 five years old." 
 
 Scipio confessed that the regular Colonel Cyrus Jones 
 had long ago departed this life, but because of " the palace s " 
 large business the management continued a live bear on the 
 outside and a pretended "Colonel" within. "And it s a 
 turruble mean position. Course I ll cook for yu . Yu ve 
 a dandy memory for faces." " I wasn t quite convinced till 
 
232 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 I kicked him off, and you gave that shut to your eyes again," 
 explained the Virginian. 
 
 The appearance at the door of the caboose of Trampas, 
 the Virginian s scheming enemy, and his inquiry for Schoff- 
 ner, the cook, whom the deputy foreman had kicked from 
 the platform, called out the reply of the Southerner, " I 
 expaict he ll have got his bottle by now, Trampas." Tram- 
 pas, looking from one to another on the platform, asked 
 curiously, "Didn t he say he was coming back?" "He 
 reminded me," said the Virginian, " he was going for a 
 bottle, and afteh that he didn t wait to say a thing." When 
 Trampas insisted that Schoffner had told him he was coming 
 back, the Southerner, with his quiet and characteristic 
 humor, replied : " I don t reckon he has come, not without 
 he dumb up ahaid somewhere. An I mus say, when he 
 got off he didn t look like a man does when he has the 
 intention o returnin ." And after another unsatisfactory 
 question Trampas abruptly returned to the inside of the 
 caboose. 
 
 "Is he the member who don t sing?" asked the pene 
 trating Scipio. " That s the specimen," answered the South 
 erner. " He don t seem musical in the face," said Scipio. 
 "Pshaw ! " returned the Virginian. "Why, you surely ain t 
 the man to mind ugly mugs when they re hollow ! " After 
 the Virginian himself had retreated into the caboose, Scipio 
 inquired of Judge Henry s guest his opinion as to whether 
 the Virginian would succeed in getting his cowboys back to 
 Sunk Creek. To the answer that the Southerner had said 
 he would, and that he was a man with the " courage of his 
 convictions," Scipio skeptically exclaimed : " That ain t near 
 courage enough to have ! There s times in life when a man 
 has got to have courage without convictions without them 
 
" The Virginian " 233 
 
 or he is no good. Now your friend is that deep consti- 
 tooted that you don t know and I don t know what he s 
 thinkin about all this." Scipio le Moyne, as a type of the 
 breezy, slangy, widely experienced Westerner, who is shrewdly 
 observant, swift in his judgments of human nature and human 
 motive, and humorously versatile in emergencies, is one of 
 the best-drawn and most interesting figures in the book ; and 
 we are not surprised that the Virginian relishes the originality 
 and imaginative sympathy of the man. 
 
 The Virginian s quiet mastery of men as illustrated in his 
 getting his cowboys back from Chicago despite the temp 
 tations of cities, the appeal made to their greediness by the 
 rumors of gold at Rawhide, and the malevolent influence of 
 Trampas, the Virginian s implacable enemy, recalls the 
 elaborate and sublimely humorous " frawg " story, which the 
 Virginian found it necessary to tell to beat Trampas and his 
 partisans at their own malicious game of ridicule. That story 
 meant all the difference between success and failure for the 
 Virginian in his important trip to the East as deputy fore 
 man for Judge Henry, and it was effective enough to ac 
 complish its purpose of keeping the men together till they 
 reached Sunk Creek. 
 
 In discussing theology and parsons with Judge Henry s 
 guest, the Virginian had certain original and unhackneyed 
 points of view that showed the earnest and rational side of 
 the man. He had inquired as to the number of religions 
 in the world, and being told there were at least fifteen that 
 were supposed to have the same God as an object of worship, 
 the Virginian rather skeptically exclaimed : " One God and 
 fifteen religions. That s a right smart of religions for just 
 one God." The laugh on the narrator s part at this com 
 ment led the Virginian to remark in addition : " Do you 
 
234 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 think they ought to be fifteen varieties of good people? 
 . . . There ain t fifteen. There ain t two. There s one 
 kind. And when I meet it I respect it. It is not praying 
 nor preaching that has ever caught me and made me 
 ashamed of myself, but one or two people I have knowed 
 that never said a superior word to me. They thought more 
 o me than I deserved, and that made me behave better 
 than I naturally wanted to. ... And if ever I was to have 
 a son or somebody I set store by, I would wish their lot to 
 be to know one or two good folks mighty well men or 
 women women preferred." "As for parsons," he con 
 tinued with a somewhat deprecating gesture, " I reckon 
 some parsons have a right to tell yu to be good. The 
 bishop of this hyeh Territory has a right. But I ll tell yu 
 this : a middlin doctor is a pore thing, and a middlin 
 lawyer is a pore thing ; but keep me from a middlin man 
 of God." Such a " middlin man of God " the Virginian 
 found in Dr. MacBride, the missionary to the cowboys, 
 whom he wickedly persuaded to spend most of the night in 
 prayer and spiritual counsel for the Virginian s sin-stricken 
 soul. 
 
 His promotion to be foreman of Judge Henry s ranch 
 for a long time prevented the Virginian from riding over to 
 Bear Creek to see Miss Molly Wood, the school-teacher ; and 
 finally, at the end of the winter, he was driven to write her 
 a letter which illustrated, beside his devotion to her, his 
 improvement in spelling and penmanship, to which he had 
 given himself in his leisure time during the winter. After 
 speaking of the early spring, he mentions the fact that 
 "where the sun gets a chance to hit the earth strong all 
 day it is green and has flowers too, a good many. You can 
 see them bob and mix together in the wind." He also tells 
 
" By his side the girl walking and cheering him forward. 
 
 Page 332. 
 COPYRIGHT BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
" The Virginian " 235 
 
 his sweetheart what he has been reading, and his literary 
 judgments are sincere and original if not conventional : " I 
 have read that play Othello. No man should write down 
 such a thing. Do you know if it is true ? I have seen one 
 worse affair down in Arizona. He killed his little child as 
 well as his wife but such things should not be put down in 
 fine language for the public. I have read Romeo and 
 Juliet. That is beautiful language but Romeo is no man. 
 I like his friend Mercutio that gets killed. He is a man. 
 If he had got Juliet there would have been no foolishness 
 and trouble." 
 
 One part of the letter in particular brought the color into 
 the teacher s face and made her indignantly exclaim, " The 
 outrageous wretch ! " It was the part about Emily, the 
 hen : " Did I ever tell you about a hen Emily we had here ? 
 She was venturesome to an extent I have not seen in other 
 hens only she had poor judgment and would make no family 
 ties. She would keep trying to get interest in the ties 
 of others taking charge of little chicks and bantams and 
 turkeys and puppies one time, and she thought most any 
 thing was an egg. I will tell you about her sometime. She 
 died without family ties one day while I was building a 
 house for her to teach school in." It was an allegory, con 
 scious or unconscious, which the little school-teacher was 
 swift to interpret. 
 
 The wounded Virginian, lying beside the spring, and the 
 heroic little descendant of Molly Stark, washing away the 
 blood, tearing bandages, and loading his revolver, make two 
 figures of surpassingly dramatic interest. And even of greater 
 interest are they as he leans helplessly on his horse while 
 she supports and encourages him till they reach her own 
 home and she can help the delirious man to lie down on 
 
236 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 her own bed. And then such persistent nursing, such tactful 
 attention, such diversions in the way of quiet games at crib- 
 bage and of reading aloud to the convalescent ! Among the 
 delightful things in the book is the unique comment of the 
 Virginian on Shakespeare and Browning. He had apologized 
 for going to sleep over one of Jane Austen s novels which she 
 had read to him ; he said by way of excuse that he thought 
 he could keep awake if she read him " something that was 
 about something," like " Henry the Fourth " for instance. 
 " The British king is fighting, and there is his son the prince. 
 He cert nly must have been a jim-dandy boy if that is all true. 
 Only he would go around town with a mighty triflin gang. 
 They sported and they held up citizens. And his father 
 hated his traveling with trash like them. It was right 
 natural the boy and the old man ! But the boy showed 
 himself a man too. He killed a big fighter on the other 
 side who was another jim-dandy and he was sorry for 
 having it to do." The Virginian grew enthusiastic in his 
 recital of Prince Hal s adventures, and continued : " I under 
 stand most all of that. There was a fat man kept every 
 body laughing. He was awful natural too ; except yu don t 
 commonly meet em so fat. But the prince that play 
 is bed-rock, ma am!" Browning s "How They Carried 
 the Good News from Ghent to Aix " he pronounced good 
 and short; while an " Incident of the French Camp" he 
 thought was even better, only " the last part drops." The 
 closing stanza, which relates how the wounded boy, having 
 given his message of victory, tells Napoleon that he is not 
 only wounded but wounded unto death, fails to meet the 
 approval of the Virginian. " Nay, I m killed, sire, " 
 drawled the Virginian critically. "Now a man who was 
 man enough to act like he did, yu see, would fall dead 
 without mentioning it." 
 

 " The Virginian " 237 
 
 From the dream and joy of an accepted lover to the 
 catching and hanging of cattle-thieves (among them his 
 once intimate friend, Steve) was a swift and painful transi 
 tion for the Virginian ; and one of the intensest and most 
 dramatically written chapters in the book is that entitled 
 "The Cottonwoods," in which his old friend Steve and 
 another cattle-thief are portrayed in the terrible moments 
 preceding death. In contrasting the manner of death of 
 the two men, the Virginian had only admiration for his old 
 friend Steve. " Well, he took dying as naturally as he took 
 living. Like a man should. Like I hope to. ... No 
 play-acting nor last words. He just told good-by to the 
 boys as we led his horse under the limb." In the Vir 
 ginian s view failure to die bravely was a sort of " treason to 
 the brotherhood," and forfeited pity. " It was Steve s per 
 fect bearing that had caught his heart so that he forgot even 
 his scorn of the other man." 
 
 In expressing his sympathy for the weak-willed, shallow, 
 amiable, and easily manipulated Shorty, who fell under the 
 malign and finally fatal influence of Trampas, the Virginian 
 differentiated the conditions of the West and the East in a 
 striking and discriminating way : " Now back East you can 
 be middling and get along. But if you go to try a thing on 
 in this Western country, you ve got to do it well. You ve 
 got to deal cyards well; you ve got to steal well; and if you 
 claim to be quick with your gun you must be quick, for 
 you re a public temptation, and some man will not resist 
 trying to prove he is the quicker. You must break all the 
 Commandments well in this Western country, and Shorty 
 should have stayed in Brooklyn, for he will be a novice his 
 livelong days." And the Virginian s judgment and prophecy 
 were, alas ! too true ; for a little later, on " Superstition 
 
238 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Trail," they found the dead " novice " stretched by his 
 extinct camp-fire, " with his wistful, lost-dog face upward, 
 and his thick yellow hair unparted as it had always been." 
 He had been murdered from behind, and the treacherous, 
 merciless hand of Trampas had done it. Shorty had blun 
 dered once too often. As the Virginian said, regretfully 
 looking down on the dead body, "There was no natural 
 harm in him, but you must do a thing well in this country." 
 From the edge of a tableland the Virginian and his pro 
 spective bride could see the little town where on the fol 
 lowing day the bishop of Wyoming was to make them man 
 and wife. " There lay the town in the splendor of Wyoming 
 space. Around it spread the watered fields . . . making 
 squares of green and yellow crops ; and the town was but 
 a poor rag in the midst of this quilted harvest. After the 
 fields to the east, the tawny plain began ; and with one faint 
 furrow of river lining its undulations, it stretched beyond 
 sight. But west of the town rose the Bow Leg Mountains, 
 cool with still unmelted snows, and their dull blue gulfs of 
 pine. From three canons flowed three clear forks which 
 began the river. Their confluence was above the town a 
 good two miles ; it looked but a few paces from up here, 
 while each side the river straggled the margin cottonwoods, 
 like thin borders along a garden walk. Over all this map 
 hung silence like a harmony, tremendous yet serene." No 
 wonder the girl from the little Vermont hills whispered to 
 her mountain lover, " How beautiful ! how I love it ! But, 
 oh, how big it is ! " She leaned against him an instant, as if 
 seeking a sort of shelter in his splendid strength ; and with 
 closed eyes she saw a little village street in Vermont, and 
 an ivy on an old front door, and her mother picking some 
 yellow roses from a bush ! 
 
" The Virginian " 239 
 
 A sudden sound made her open her eyes quickly, only to 
 see her lover turned in his saddle and reaching for his pistol. 
 A rider, who was a stranger to her, merely nodded to the 
 Virginian as he passed by ; but out of his eyes looked " five 
 years of gathered hate." It was Trampas, Trampas who, 
 courageous with whisky and baffled hate, was to give the 
 Virginian till sundown to get out of town. To meet this 
 murderous Trampas and run the imminent risk of death at 
 his hands seemed to the Virginian the only course, and 
 this on the eve of his wedding day, the consummation of his 
 patient and expectant love. The bishop opposed it, and 
 his New England sweetheart drew back in horror from it, 
 exclaiming, " If you do this, there can be no to-morrow for 
 you and me." But despite it all, with a courage and self- 
 sacrifice that were sublime, he met Trampas as the sun 
 dropped behind the mountains, those mountains to which 
 on the morrow he had hoped to take his bride. He was 
 standing where no one could approach him except from the 
 front, for he remembered the fate of Shorty, who had been 
 shot from behind. " A wind seemed to blow his sleeve off 
 his arm, and he replied to it, and saw Trampas pitch for 
 ward. He saw Trampas raise his arm from the ground and 
 fall again, and lie there, this time still. A little smoke was 
 rising from the pistol on the ground, and he looked at his 
 own, and saw the smoke flowing upward out of it. I expect 
 that s all, he said aloud ; " although, as he drew near the 
 treacherous Trampas, he kept him covered with his weapon. 
 The hand on the ground moved, two fingers twitched, and 
 then ceased ; it was, in truth, all over. As he stood looking 
 down at his inveterate enemy, the Virginian remarked aloud, 
 " I told her it would not be me." 
 
 The New England conscience of Molly Wood battled 
 
240 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 with love and capitulated ; and the next day the Virginian 
 and his strenuously won bride camped together beneath the 
 fragrant pines of " the island," where the mountains had 
 long before stirred the real poetry of the Virginian s virile 
 but imaginative nature, an ideal honeymoon for this heroic 
 horseman of the plains who, so typical of the rough condi 
 tions about him, had yet an untainted heart of true romance. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 "THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP AND OTHER STORIES" 
 BY BRET HARTE 
 
 THE year that "The Luck of Roaring Camp" appeared, 
 the year 1871, there was published in Blackwood s 
 Magazine in Edinburgh, a criticism of the short stories 
 contained in the volume ; and as from the beginning Bret 
 Harte has had a large and admiring circle of readers in 
 Great Britain, who have regarded him as typically and 
 uniquely American in his literary work, it is of interest to 
 give a part of this earliest critical opinion. " This sketch 
 [ The Luck of Roaring Camp ], slight and brief as it is, 
 answers the highest and noblest purpose of fiction. There 
 is more in it than in scores of three-volume novels. . . . 
 Nothing can be more rude or less lovely than the life here 
 portrayed nothing can be more simply true than the 
 narrative. Here nothing is hidden, nothing excluded, no 
 false gloss put on ; and yet the heart is touched, the mind 
 elevated by the strange tale. There is neither condemna 
 tion nor horror of vice in it vice being a matter of course 
 in the community ; yet its tendency is more than virtuous, 
 it is lofty and pure. The reader laughs, but it is with a tear 
 in his eye, which is one of the highest luxuries of feeling." 
 And from that day to this "The Luck of Roaring Camp " 
 and its companion stories have been generally regarded as 
 unique and convincing dramatic sketches of strange, virile 
 R 241 
 
242 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Western types which could have existed only under the 
 peculiar conditions of Californian life in the early fifties. 
 
 Deaths were common enough in " Roaring Camp," but 
 births were not only a sensation, they were absolutely un 
 known. So that the expected birth of a child to "Cherokee 
 Sal," the only woman in the camp, despite the fact that she 
 was of the abandoned sort, was stirring excitement in all 
 and even sympathy in a few. "You go in there, Stumpy," 
 said a prominent member of the camp, familiarly known 
 as " Kentuck." " Go in there, and see what you can do. 
 You ve had experience in them things." Stumpy, who had 
 in other parts been the alleged head of two families at one 
 time, was approved as a choice by the crowd of loungers 
 outside the rude cabin where the prospective mother lay, 
 and, bowing to the will of the majority, he disappeared 
 behind the cabin door to act as extempore surgeon and 
 midwife. 
 
 Outside, the assembled camp sat and waited and smoked. 
 Among this lounging group of a hundred men there were 
 some who were actual fugitives from justice, " some were 
 criminal and all were reckless." Physically, there was no 
 indication of their past lives written in their faces. " The 
 greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of 
 blonde hair ; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air 
 and intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and 
 most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, 
 with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner." Closer 
 scrutiny might have brought out certain physical deficiencies 
 in the matter of fingers, toes, and ears, the strongest man 
 had only three fingers on his right hand and the best shot 
 had only one eye. 
 
 About the fire of withered pine boughs bets were freely 
 
"The Luck of Roaring Camp" 243 
 
 offered as to the result within the cabin, three to five that 
 " Sal would get through with it " and that the child would 
 survive. There were side bets also on the sex and complex 
 ion of the expected stranger. Suddenly, above the swaying 
 and moaning of the pines, the rush of the river, and the 
 crackling of the fire, rose a sharp, querulous cry, a cry 
 unheard before in that far-away camp of rough miners. 
 They rose to their feet as one man ; and although a barrel 
 of gunpowder was proposed as a proper means of celebrat 
 ing, only a few revolvers went off, for report came that 
 Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. 
 
 Within an hour she died, and after the settling of some 
 details the anxious crowd of men entered the cabin in single 
 file. On a pine table, swathed in red flannel and deposited 
 in a candle-box, lay the "last arrival" at Roaring Camp. 
 And beside the candle-box rested a hat. " Gentlemen," 
 said the extempore midwife Stumpy, in a tone of some 
 what complacent authority, " Gentlemen will please pass in 
 at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. 
 Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan 
 will find a hat handy." As the men passed by there were 
 overheard comments like these : " Is that him? " " Mighty 
 small specimen ; " " Hasn t mor n got the color ; " " Ain t 
 bigger nor a derringer." Among the contributions to the 
 hat were a silver tobacco-box, a navy revolver, a gold speci 
 men, a beautifully embroidered handkerchief (from Oak- 
 hurst, the gambler) , a diamond breastpin, a slung shot, a Bible 
 (" contributor not detected ") , a silver teaspoon, a pair of sur 
 geon s shears, a Bank of England note for five pounds, and 
 two hundred dollars in loose gold and silver coin. Only one 
 little incident broke the monotony of this strange procession. 
 As Kentuck bent over the candle-box the child turned and 
 
244 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 in a spasm of pain caught at his finger and held it fast for a 
 moment. When he got outside the cabin Kentuck, holding 
 up his finger, remarked in a rather pleased tone to a com 
 panion, " He rastled with my finger, the d d little cuss ! " 
 
 That night neither Stumpy nor Kentuck went to bed. 
 When every one else had retired, Kentuck walked down to 
 the river, whistling reflectively, then up the gulch past the 
 cabin, then part way down to the river again, until finally 
 he returned and knocked at the cabin door, which was 
 opened by Stumpy. " How goes it? " said Kentuck, look 
 ing at the candle-box. "All serene," returned Stumpy. 
 " Anything up ? " " Nothing." There was an embarrassing 
 pause, and then the foolishly anxious Kentuck, holding up 
 
 his finger, exclaimed : " Rastled with it, the d d little 
 
 cuss," and withdrew. 
 
 In the ways and means suggested for rearing the new 
 born infant the suggestion that a female nurse be sent for 
 met with no favor. No decent woman would be willing to 
 make Roaring Camp her home, and " they didn t want any 
 more of the other kind." It was at last decided to have 
 Stumpy in cooperation with "Jinny," the ass con 
 tinue to act as wet-nurse, there was something original and 
 heroic about the idea that pleased the camp. Certain 
 necessary articles for the baby were sent for to Sacramento. 
 " Mind," said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold- 
 dust into the expressman s hand, " the best that can be got, 
 
 lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills, d n the 
 
 cost ! " For some strange reason the child thrived and 
 grew under the influence of Stumpy and the ass s milk, 
 "Me and that ass," Stumpy would say, "has been father 
 and mother to him ! Don t you," addressing the helpless 
 bundle in the candle-box, " never go back on us." 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 245 
 
 When the baby was a month old there came the necessity 
 for a name, he had generally been known as " The Kid," 
 "Stumpy s Boy," and "The Coyote" ("an allusion to his 
 vocal powers "). These, however, were felt to be vague and 
 somewhat unsatisfactory; and on the theory of Oakhurst, 
 the gambler, that the child had brought " luck " to Roaring 
 Camp, it was thenceforward to be called "Luck," with 
 " Tommy " for a convenient prefix. No reference was made 
 to the mother, and the father was unknown. " It s better," 
 said the gambler, " to take a fresh deal all round. Call him 
 Luck and start him fair." At the baby s christening, which 
 was intended to be a screaming burlesque for which a muti 
 lated church service, a godfather, and an altar had been 
 prepared, little Stumpy suddenly stepped before the ex 
 pectant crowd, and, looking them all stoutly in the faces, 
 said : " It ain t my style to spoil fun, boys, but it strikes me 
 that this thing ain t exactly on the squar . It s playing it 
 pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him that 
 he ain t goin to understand. And ef there s goin to be any 
 godfathers round, I d like to see who s got any better rights 
 than me." The first to break the silence that followed was 
 the satirist himself, who acknowledged the propriety of 
 Stumpy s position. Whereupon Stumpy proclaimed the 
 baby, " Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United 
 States and the State of California, so help me God." 
 
 The unconscious influence of child life on a miners 
 camp was soon illustrated and in a remarkable way. The 
 cabin itself was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed ; the 
 rosewood cradle "packed" eighty miles by mule had, 
 as Stumpy observed, " sorter killed the rest of the furniture," 
 and so made necessary the rehabilitation of the whole cabin. 
 The cabin s new interior so affected " Tuttle s grocery " that 
 
246 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 it imported a carpet and mirrors. And even the personal 
 appearance and cleanliness of the men was improved, for 
 one of Stumpy s conditions was that " to hold The Luck " you 
 had to be clean. One denial of such privilege had made 
 Kentuck put on a clean shirt every afternoon, and he always 
 came to see the baby " with his face still shining from his 
 ablutions." For "Tommy s " repose, also, it seemed best to 
 stop the shouting and yelling that had given the unfortunate 
 name to the camp, but vocal music was regarded as a sooth 
 ing element to be desired. So that " Man-o -War Jack " 
 was allowed to hold The Luck and sing his sailor song of 
 "The Arethusa, Seventy-Four " ; and it was a fine sight to see 
 the rough old English sailor rocking from side to side and 
 crooning to the child, while the men lay at full length under 
 the trees at twilight, smoking, and listening to the ninety 
 stanzas of the rather melancholy song. " An indistinct idea 
 that this was pastoral happiness pervaded the camp." In 
 the words of " Cockney " Simmons, " This ere kind o think 
 is evingly." 
 
 During the long summer days, on a blanket spread over 
 pine boughs, The Luck would lie in the gulch, while the 
 men were working below in the ditches ; and they got to 
 decorating this improvised bed with flowers and sweet-smell 
 ing shrubs, and bringing him clusters of wild honeysuckle 
 and azaleas. Unconsciously the child was interpreting for 
 these rough, hard men the beauty of nature all about them ; 
 and many were the wonderful treasures rescued from the 
 woods and hillsides that " would do for Tommy." Natu 
 rally some remarkable stories as to The Luck s infantile sa 
 gacity were told, sometimes with a tinge of superstition in 
 them. One day Kentuck, in a state of excitement, related 
 an experience of his own : " I crep up the bank just now, 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 247 
 
 and dern my skin if he wasn t a-talking to a jay bird as 
 was a sittin on his lap. There they was, just as free and 
 sociable as anything you please, a-jawin at each other just 
 like two cherrybums." 
 
 It was a golden summer for Roaring Camp, the times 
 were " flush," and the claims yielded enormously. No im 
 migration was encouraged, all the available land about the 
 camp was preempted, and a reputation for good shooting 
 tended to keep the seclusion of the camp inviolate. But 
 the expressman used sometimes to gratify outside curiosity 
 by his wonderful stories of the camp : " They ve a street up 
 there in Roaring that would lay over any street in Red 
 Dog. They ve got vines and flowers round their houses, and 
 they wash themselves twice a day. But they re mighty 
 rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby." 
 
 With all this prosperity came the desire to do more for 
 Tommy, and it was even proposed to build a hotel and 
 invite one or two decent families so that The Luck could 
 have the advantages of feminine society. But alas for 
 their high resolves and purposes ! The w.inter of 1851 was 
 remarkable for its heavy snows, and as the spring drew on 
 every gulch became a roaring watercourse. The North 
 Fork suddenly leaped its banks, dashed up the triangular 
 valley of Roaring Camp, and in the night, amid the confu 
 sion of rushing water and crashing trees, Stumpy s cabin 
 was carried away. Stumpy s body was found high up the 
 gulch, but The Luck had disappeared. A relief boat, how 
 ever, brought news that it had picked up a man and an 
 infant, almost exhausted. The searchers knew at a glance 
 that here was Kentuck, crushed and bruised, but still hold 
 ing The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. The child 
 was dead, and as they bent over Kentuck he opened his 
 
248 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 eyes. "Dead ?" said Kentuck. "Yes, my man, and you 
 are dying too." With a smile on his face the expiring man 
 repeated, " Dying ! he s a-taking me with him. Tell the 
 boys I ve got The Luck with me now." And, together, 
 Kentuck and the child floated out on the shadowy river that 
 loses itself in an unknown sea. 
 
 As strange, rough types in the picturesque and rugged 
 mining camp of fifty years ago, Stumpy and Kentuck 
 will long survive ; and through the art of the author 
 unsuspected qualities of mind and heart are developed in 
 them by the mute appeal of an abandoned woman s new 
 born child. 
 
 A unique and striking figure among the "Outcasts of 
 Poker Flat " is Mr. John Oakhurst, type of the imperturbable, 
 smooth, daring, and irresistible Western gambler, who, under 
 unexpected conditions, develops unexpected qualities, 
 the qualities of practical sympathy and heroic self-sacrifice. 
 He had been included among those who were destined to 
 leave Poker Flat, for the community had recently lost sev 
 eral thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent 
 citizen. Two of those destined for exile were already hang 
 ing to the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch ; a secret com 
 mittee had even considered the hanging of Mr. Oakhurst, 
 one of the minority contending that " it s agin justice to let 
 this yer young man from Roaring Camp an entire stran 
 ger carry away our money." The minority of the com 
 mittee, however, was overruled, and Mr. Oakhurst was 
 included in the "deported wickedness" that was escorted 
 to the outskirts of Poker Flat by a body of armed men. In 
 this expatriated company were a young woman familiarly 
 known as the " Duchess," another called " Mother Shipton," 
 and a third person, " Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robber 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 249 
 
 and confirmed drunkard. At the outermost edge of Poker 
 Flat this company was set adrift, with the implicit injunction 
 not to return, at the peril of their lives. 
 
 The " outcasts " decided on Sandy Bar for their destina 
 tion, a camp that lay over a steep mountain range, a hard 
 day s travel distant. At noon the Duchess refused to go 
 farther, and the party halted, although scarcely half the 
 journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished and provisions for 
 delay were lacking. Mr. Oakhurst, the gambler, called it 
 " throwing up their hand before the game was played out." 
 But they were provided with whisky, if not with any ade 
 quate supply of provisions, and they were all soon in a help 
 less state of stupor all except the gambler, who never 
 drank, it interfered, he said, with his profession and he 
 " couldn t afford it." His thought seemed never to be that 
 of deserting his feebler and more pitiable companions, as they 
 lay in a drunken stupor amid the encircling pines, pre 
 cipitous cliffs of naked granite rising above them on three 
 sides, and the crest of a precipice in front overlooking the 
 valley. They were suddenly reenforced by an eloping couple 
 going to Poker Flat to be married, and as the prospective 
 bridegroom had once lost money to Mr. Oakhurst and had it 
 considerately returned, he greeted the gambler as a genuine 
 friend and was insistent on camping with his party, assuring 
 Mr. Oakhurst that he had an extra mule loaded with provi 
 sions, and that there was a rude attempt at a log house near 
 the trail. That night the women spent in the log house and 
 the men lay before the door. Waking benumbed with cold, 
 the gambler stirred the dying fire and felt on his cheek the 
 touch of snow ! Turning to where the thieving Uncle Billy 
 slept he found him gone, and the tethered mules with him. 
 At dawn the gambler recognized that they were " snowed 
 
250 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 in," with all that implied in the loss of the trail and the cut 
 ting off of provisions and rescue. 
 
 In his unsuspected kindliness of heart Mr. Oakhurst, the 
 gambler, was unwilling that Tom Simson and Piney, the 
 eloping couple, should know the real rascality of Uncle Billy, 
 and implied that the latter had wandered off from the camp 
 and stampeded the animals by accident. And through the 
 gambler s request the Duchess and Mother Shipton also 
 gave out the same impression as to Uncle Billy s where 
 abouts. But Tom seemed rather to look forward to a 
 week s camping with his sweetheart, and his gayety and Mr. 
 Oakhurst s professional calm " infected " the others. From 
 some unaccountable motive Mr. Oakhurst cached the whisky, 
 and concealed his cards. And Tom somewhat osten 
 tatiously produced an accordion from his pack, from which 
 his sweetheart, Piney, succeeded in plucking a few reluctant 
 tunes to the accompaniment of Tom s bone castanets. The 
 lovers sang, too, a rude camp-meeting hymn, joining hands 
 as they did so, and the defiant covenanters swing of the 
 chorus finally led the others to join in the somewhat pro 
 phetic refrain : 
 
 " I m proud to live in the service of the Lord, 
 And I m bound to die in His army." 
 
 And above these doomed singers the pines rocked and the 
 storm eddied. 
 
 In dividing the watch that night with Tom Simson, Mr. 
 Oakhurst somehow managed to take upon himself the 
 greater share of the duty, explaining that he had "often 
 been a week without sleep " when luck at poker ran high. 
 "When a man gets a streak of luck, nigger-luck, he 
 don t get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck," continue . 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 251 
 
 the gambler meditatively, " is a mighty queer thing. All you 
 know is that it s bound to change. And it s finding out when 
 it s going to change that makes you." 
 
 The nights were filled with the reedy notes of the accor 
 dion, but music failed to fill the aching void of insufficient 
 food, and story-telling was suggested by Piney. However, 
 Mr. Oakhurst and his female companions were hardly will 
 ing to relate their personal experiences in the presence of 
 the Innocent, as they called Tom, or of " the child," as the 
 Duchess and Mother Shipton called Piney ; and this plan 
 of diversion would have fallen through had the Innocent not 
 been able to recall some of Mr. Pope s translation of the 
 "Iliad," which he had chanced upon a few months before. 
 He told the exciting incidents of the epic in the current 
 vernacular of Sandy Bar. And he got an enthusiastic hear 
 ing, while the great pines in the canon seemed to bow to 
 the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst was espe 
 cially interested in the fate of "Ash-heels," as the Innocent 
 insisted on calling the " swift-footed Achilles." 
 
 A week passed over the heads of the outcasts, the sun 
 again abandoned them, and the leaden skies sifted swiftly 
 down upon them great banks of snow, till they stood more 
 than twenty feet above the cabin. It became increasingly 
 difficult to replenish the fires, and yet no one complained. 
 The lovers looked into each other s eyes and were happy, 
 but Mother Shipton seemed to sicken and fade. At mid 
 night of the tenth day she called the gambler to her side, 
 and said, in a querulous weakness of voice : " I m going, but 
 don t say anything about it. Don t waken the kids. Take 
 the bundle from under my head and open it." It contained 
 Mie rations she hao^ saved for a week. " Give em to the 
 child," she said, pointing to Piney. Starvation through 
 
252 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 self-sacrifice was the unexpected ending of this abandoned 
 woman s life. 
 
 With another unselfish motive coming to the surface, 
 Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside and showed him a 
 pair of snow-shoes he had fashioned from the old pack- 
 saddles. The gambler announced that if by the aid of 
 these Tom could reach Poker Flat in two days, his sweet 
 heart could be saved. Oakhurst pretended to accompany 
 Tom as far as the canon, unexpectedly kissing the Duchess 
 good-by before he went. It stirred her with emotion and 
 amazement; but the gambler never came back. The 
 Duchess, feeding the fire during the fierce storm of wind 
 and snow on the following night, found that some one had 
 quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days 
 longer ; and it was not difficult to surmise that it was due 
 to the thoughtfulness of Oakhurst The second night the 
 two women were frozen to death in each other s arms 
 the soiled Duchess and the virgin Piney. " And when pity 
 ing fingers brushed the snow away from their wan faces, 
 you could scarcely have told, from the equal peace that 
 dwelt upon them, which was she that had sinned." 
 
 At the head of the gulch the searchers found on one of 
 the largest pine trees the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark 
 with a bowie knife ; and on it was written in pencil, with a 
 firm hand, " Beneath this tree lies the body of John Oak 
 hurst, who struck a streak of bad luck on the 23d Novem 
 ber, 1850, and handed in his checks on the 7th of December, 
 1850." And underneath the snow, with a bullet through 
 his heart and a derringer by his side, lay the calm-faced 
 gambler, whose hard life was softened and ennobled at its 
 close by thoughtful sympathy and sublime self-sacrifice. 
 
 One of the more unusual and successful of Mr. Harte s 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 253 
 
 short stories in this volume is the very human and dra 
 matic narrative of " How Santa Claus Came to Simp 
 son s Bar." By reason of the heavy rains the North Fork 
 of the Sacramento had overrun its banks and Rattlesnake 
 Creek had become impassable. The bowlders that marked 
 the ford at Simpson s Crossing were lost in the vast sheet 
 of water reaching to the foot-hills ; and even the stage and 
 the mail had to be abandoned. The mud lay so deep on the 
 mountain road that neither force nor profanity could lift the 
 wagons from the miry ruts, and the way to Simpson s Bar 
 was marked by broken-down teams and stranded vehicles. 
 The weather, too, on that Christmas eve in 1862, could 
 hardly have been worse ; and Simpson s Bar, as it " clung 
 like a swallow s nest to the rocky entablature and splintered 
 capitals of Table Mountain," was smitten with high winds 
 as well as threatened with high water. 
 
 That particular Christmas eve most of the population of 
 Simpson s Bar were snugly gathered at Thompson s grocery, 
 where a red-hot stove seemed to be the center of social 
 interest, in lieu of more exciting diversions. For on account 
 of the high water and consequent suspension of regular em 
 ployment on gulch and river, there was naturally lack of 
 money and whisky, which usually added so much zest to the 
 somewhat questionable recreations of the inhabitants of the 
 Bar. Even the professional gambler, Mr. Hamlin, was glad 
 to get away with fifty dollars in his pocket, all he could 
 realize from the large sums he had actually won in the prac 
 tice of his profession. His impression of Simpson s Bar was 
 in the main complimentary, but not entirely favorable to it 
 as a permanent place for a needy and ambitious gambler. 
 " Ef I was asked," he once remarked, " ef I was asked to 
 pint out a purty little village where a retired sport as didn t 
 
254 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 care for money could exercise hisself, frequent and lively, 
 I d say Simpson s Bar ; but for a young man with a large 
 family depending on his exertions, it don t pay." 
 
 The group around the glowing stove in Thompson s store 
 were sitting in a dull apathy, which not even the sudden 
 splashing of hoofs outside was effective enough to arouse. 
 Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader at Simpson s Bar, only 
 paused in the act of scraping out his pipe, and lifted his 
 head ; but no one else in the silent circle made any sign of 
 interest, or even an effort at recognition, when a man entered. 
 It was the familiar figure of the " Old Man," who was ap 
 parently some fifty years of age, with scant and grizzled 
 hair, a youthful complexion, and a face of ready sympathy 
 that changed, chameleon-like, with " the shade and color of 
 contiguous moods and feelings." Coming, evidently, from 
 association with hilarious companions, he mistook the tem 
 per of the present company, and clapping the nearest man 
 on the shoulder began to make what he considered an appe 
 tizing allusion to " the richest yarn " he had just heard from 
 Jim Smiley, " the funniest man in the Bar." When, how 
 ever, the solemn judgment of the company was expressed to 
 the effect that Smiley was a fool and a skunk, the Old Man s 
 face discreetly changed to one of pessimistic assent, and he 
 appropriately remarked on the dismalness of the weather. 
 " Mighty rough papers on the boys, and no show for money 
 this season. And to-morrow s Christmas." . . . "Yes," 
 continued the Old Man in the lugubrious tone he had 
 unconsciously adopted, "Yes, Christmas, and to-night s 
 Christmas Eve. Ye see, boys, I kinder thought that is, I 
 sorter had an idee, jest passin like, you know that maybe 
 ye d like to come over to my house to-night and have a 
 sort of tear round." 
 
"The Luck of Roaring Camp" 255 
 
 The only reply to his anxious invitation came from Tom 
 Flynn, who wanted to know what the Old Man s wife thought 
 about it. There was hesitation on the part of the Old Man, 
 for this was his second wife, who had formerly been his cook, 
 and she was large and aggressive. " Before he could reply, 
 Joe Dimmick suggested, with great directness, that it was 
 the Old Man s house, and that, invoking the Divine Power, 
 if the case were his own he would invite whom he pleased, 
 even if in so doing he imperiled his salvation." Spurred 
 to unaccustomed boldness by the subtle audacity of this sug 
 gestion, the Old Man sympathetically frowned, and replied : 
 "Thar s no trouble about thet. It s my own house, built 
 every stick on it myself. Don t you be afeard o her, boys. 
 She may cut up a trifle rough ez wimmin do but she ll 
 come round." He was secretly relying on " the exaltation of 
 liquor and the power of courageous example to sustain him 
 in such an emergency." 
 
 And now spoke Dick Bullen, the oracle. Taking his pipe 
 from his mouth, he inquired sympathetically : " Old Man, how s 
 that yer Johnny gettin on ? Seems to me he didn t look so 
 peart last time I seed him on the bluff heavin rocks at 
 Chinamen. Didn t seem to take much interest in it. Thar 
 was a gang of em by yar yesterday, drownded out up the 
 river, and I kinder thought o Johnny, and how he d miss 
 em ! Maybe now, we d be in the way ef he wus sick ? " 
 The father hastened to assure the oracle that Johnny was 
 better and that " a little fun might liven him up." Where 
 upon Dick Bullen, catching up a blazing brand from the 
 hearth, made a leap into the night, with a characteristic howl, 
 and his companions followed his example, leaving the aston 
 ished proprietor of Thompson s grocery alone in his deserted 
 rooms. The gusty night wind put out the torches, but the 
 
256 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 red brands went dancing and flitting up Pine Creek Canon, 
 Mike drunken will-o -the-wisps," till they reached a low, 
 bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the side of the mountain. 
 It stood at the entrance to the tunnel in which the Old Man 
 worked when he worked at all. 
 
 Pausing out of deference to their host, who was the last to 
 arrive, they waited under the eaves of the cabin while the 
 Old Man went in to see that " things is all right." For a few 
 moments there was no sound but the dripping of water from 
 the eaves and the " rustle of wrestling boughs " above them. 
 Then the men began to show anxiety, and their whispered 
 suspicions passed back and forth : " Reckoned she s caved 
 in his head the first lick ! " " Decoyed him inter the tunnel 
 and barred him up, likely." " Got him down and sittin on 
 him." " Prob bly biling suthin to heave on us ; stand clear 
 the door, boys ! " Suddenly the latch clicked, the door 
 slowly opened, and the weak treble of a small boy s voice 
 said hospitably, " Come in out o the wet." It was a boy s 
 face that looked up at them, a face that might have been 
 pretty, and even refined, " but that it was darkened by evil 
 knowledge from within, and dirt and hard experience from 
 without." He had a blanket about his shoulders and had evi 
 dently just risen from his bed. " Come in, and don t make 
 no noise. The Old Man s in there talking to mar." As 
 Dick Bullen caught the small boy up, blanket and all, and 
 pretended to toss him into the fire, the little fellow queru 
 lously swore at him, crying out, " Let me be ; ... let go 
 o me ... d ye hear? " 
 
 Ranging themselves quietly round a long table of rough 
 boards, the men watched Johnny as he gravely brought 
 from a cupboard several articles which he laid upon the 
 table. "Thar s whisky. And crackers. And red herons. 
 
"The Luck of Roaring Camp" 257 
 
 And cheese." He took a bite of the latter, and also scooped 
 up with his small and very dirty hand a mouthful of the 
 sugar he was carrying. Finally he added, in the lavishness 
 of his hospitality : " And terbacker. Thar s dried appils, 
 too, on the shelf, but I don t admire em. Appils is swellin . 
 Thar," he concluded, " now wade in, and don t be afeard. 
 / don t mind the old woman. She don t b long to me. 
 S long." With that Johnny stepped to the threshold of his 
 little room just off from the main apartment, and stood there 
 a moment, looking at the company and disclosing his bare 
 feet through the folds of the blanket. When asked by Dick 
 Bullen why he was going to " turn in," Johnny replied that 
 he was sick. " I ve got a fevier. And childblains. And 
 roomatiz." With the last word Johnny suddenly vanished ; 
 and then, after a moment s pause, there came from the 
 darkness within, and apparently from under the bedclothes, 
 " And biles ! " 
 
 There followed an embarrassing silence, which threatened 
 to be as prolonged and as deep as that which surrounded 
 the group at Thompson s grocery, when deprecatingly sounded 
 from the kitchen the voice of the Old Man, lying to his irate 
 second wife : " Certainly ! Thet s so. In course they is. 
 A gang o lazy, drunken loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen s 
 the ornariest of all. Didn t hev no more sale than to come 
 round yar, with sickness in the house and no provision. 
 Thet s what I said : Bullen, sez I, it s crazy drunk you 
 are, or a fool, sez I, to think o such a thing. Staples, 
 I sez, be you a man, Staples, and spect to raise h 11 un 
 der my roof, and invalids lyin round ? But they would 
 come, they would. Thet s wot you must spect o such 
 trash as lays round the Bar." Whereupon a burst of laugh 
 ter rose from the listening men ; and whether it was overheard 
 
258 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 in the kitchen or whether the wrathful wife, having exhausted 
 all her other modes of contempt, was giving her last exhibition 
 of temper, the back door was suddenly slammed with great 
 violence. In a moment the Old Man himself reappeared, 
 happily unaware of the cause of the recent hilarious out 
 break, and smiling blandly, remarked, "The old woman 
 thought she d jest run over to Mrs. McFadden s for a 
 sociable call." 
 
 Till nearly midnight the festivities of Christmas eve were 
 continued, when from Johnny s little room came the queru 
 lous cry, " Oh, dad." Dick Bullen, holding up his hand, 
 said, " Hush," and the Old Man hurriedly disappeared in the 
 bedroom. "His rheumatiz is coming on bad," said the 
 father, on his reappearance, "and he wants rubbin ." But, 
 alas ! the demijohn on the table was empty. The men set 
 down their tin cups, in their generous anxiety, and the Old 
 Man hopefully remarked that he reckoned the whisky in 
 them would be enough. He enjoined them to wait till he 
 got back, and disappeared with the whisky and an old 
 flannel shirt. 
 
 Through the partly closed door was distinctly audible this 
 peculiar dialogue: " Hevin a good time out yar, dad?" 
 " Yes, sonny." " To-morrer s Chrismiss, ain t it ? " " Yes, 
 sonny. How does she feel now?" "Better. Rub a little 
 furder down. Wot s Chrismiss, any way? Wot s it all 
 about ?" "Oh, it s a day." There was a silent interval of 
 rubbing, and then Johnny s voice was again heard : " Mar 
 sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to 
 everybody Chrismiss, and then she jest waded inter you. 
 She sez thar s a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, 
 you know, but a kind o Chinemin comes down the 
 chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things to chillern, 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 259 
 
 boys like me. Puts em in their butes ! Thet s what she 
 tried to play upon me. Easy, now, pop, whar are you rub- 
 bin to, thet s a mile from the place. She jest made that 
 up, didn t she, jest to aggrevate me and you? Don t rub 
 thar. . . . Why, dad ! " 
 
 In the great quiet that followed could be heard the sigh 
 ing of the neighboring pines and the dripping of the leaves. 
 Johnny s voice grew lower as he went on : " Don t you take 
 on now, for I m gettin all right fast. Wot s the boys doin 
 out thar?" Through the partly opened door the Old Man 
 could see his guests sitting there sociably enough, with a few 
 coins and a lean buckskin purse lying on the table. " Bettin 
 on suthin ? , some little game or nother. They re all right," 
 he replied to Johnny, and renewed his rubbing. Johnny 
 expressed a wish that he could take a hand and win some 
 money, and the Old Man glibly repeated his old formula of 
 consolation that when he struck it rich in the tunnel Johnny 
 would have lots of money. " Yes," said Johnny, " but you 
 don t. And whether you strike it or win it, it s about the 
 same. It s all luck. But it s mighty cur o s about Chrismiss, 
 
 ain t it ? Why do they call it Chrismiss ? " But whether 
 from deference to the ears of his guests, or from " some 
 vague sense of incongruity," the Old Man s reply was so low 
 as not to reach the outer room. " Yes," said Johnny, with 
 slighter interest in his voice, " I ve heerd o him before. 
 Thar, that ll do, dad. I don t ache near so bad as I did." 
 Asking his father to wrap the blanket tightly about him, and 
 to sit down by him till he went to sleep, Johnny disengaged 
 one hand from the blanket, and, taking hold of his father s 
 sleeve to assure himself that he was there, he finally fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The unusual stillness in the house prompted the Old Man 
 
160 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 to open the door with his disengaged hand, and look into 
 the main room. What was his surprise to find it dark and 
 apparently deserted. But at that moment a sudden flame 
 from the smoldering log leaped up and lighted the face of 
 Dick Bullen, sitting alone before the dying embers. Dick 
 explained that the rest had gone up the canon and that he 
 was waiting for them. The Old Man stared at Dick as if he 
 were drunk, and, in fact, his face was flushed and his eyes 
 moist but not from liquor. Dick defended himself from 
 the implied charge by remarking : " Liquor ain t so plenty 
 as that, Old Man. Now don t you git up," he continued, 
 as the father made a movement to release his sleeve from 
 Johnny s hand. " Don t you mind manners. Sit jest whar 
 you be ; I m goin in a jiffy. Thar, that s them now." And 
 saying good-night to his host, he disappeared in the night. 
 The Old Man, drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested 
 his head upon it, and under the influence of his earlier 
 potations soon fell asleep. 
 
 Meanwhile, outside, Dick Bullen was preparing for a fifty- 
 mile ride, through the night and the surging waters, in search 
 of toys for Johnny s Christmas morning; but before he 
 started he reentered the cabin, tiptoed into the little room 
 where the sick Johnny and his father lay asleep, and bent 
 down over the little boy as if to kiss his forehead. Sud 
 denly, however, an inconsiderate blast swept down the chim 
 ney and rekindled the hearth, and Dick fled in foolish terror. 
 
 Once more with his companions at the crossing, he stood 
 ready to mount the mare Jovita for his perilous night ride. 
 Two of them were struggling with her in the darkness. " She 
 was not a pretty picture. From her Roman nose to her 
 rising haunches, from her arched spine, hidden by the stiff 
 machillas of a Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony 
 
" The Luck of Roaring Camp " 261 
 
 Jegs, there was not a line of equine grace. In her half-blind 
 but wholly vicious white eyes, in her protruding under lip, 
 in her monstrous color, there was nothing but ugliness and 
 vice." " Now, then," said Staples, " stand cl ar of her heels, 
 boy, and up with you." A leap, a struggle, a play and jingle 
 of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of Dick Bullen 
 sounded out from the darkness, " All right ! " 
 
 At one o clock he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill, owing 
 to Jovita s rearing and plunging and mad shooting off on a 
 tangent with the bit in her teeth. Down the long hill that 
 led to Rattlesnake Creek Dick pretended to hold her in by 
 swearing at her and by well-feigned cries of alarm ; where 
 upon Jovita ran away, as Dick intended she should, and 
 made the long descent to the creek in a record-breaking 
 time that became a tradition of Simpson s Bar. At Rattle 
 snake Creek, under her acquired momentum, they made a 
 mighty leap into the rushing current, and after much kick 
 ing and wading and swimming she brought Dick safely 
 through to the opposite bank. At two o clock he had 
 passed Red Mountain, and a few minutes later the driver 
 of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken. At half-past two 
 Dick rose in his stirrups and gave a great shout, for there 
 beneath the stars that glittered through the cloud rifts 
 towered two spires and a flagstaff, and in a few minutes 
 Jovita and her rider drew up before "The Hotel of All 
 Nations " in Tuttleville. 
 
 Giving Jovita over to the care of a sleepy hostler, " whom 
 she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness," Dick 
 Bullen made a sally with the barkeeper through the sleeping 
 town. Avoiding the few saloons and gambling houses that 
 were still open, they knocked at several closed shops, whose 
 proprietors sometimes cursed but oftener showed interest in 
 
262 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Dick s unusual errand of buying some Christmas toys for a 
 sick little boy in Simpson s Bar. At three o clock Dick had 
 his toys for Johnny snugly safe in a small waterproof bag 
 strapped on his shoulders, and springing to his saddle he 
 dashed down the deserted street and out into the lonelier 
 plain, from which the lights of the town, the spires, and the 
 flagstaff sank gradually into the earth behind him. 
 
 Toward dawn, as Dick was singing and allowing the reins 
 to rest lightly on Jovita s neck, she suddenly shied. A high 
 wayman grasped her bridle, and another commanded Dick 
 to throw up his hands. Jovita rose straight in the air, 
 threw off the figure with a vicious shake of her head, and 
 " charged with deadly malevolence on the impediment 
 before her." There was an oath, a pistol shot, and then 
 Jovita was a hundred yards away, with the arm of her rider, 
 shattered by a bullet, hanging helplessly at his side. His 
 only fear now was that he would be too late. The morning 
 stars had begun to pale, and the distant peaks stood out 
 blackly against a lighter sky. He felt a roaring in his ears, 
 due perhaps to exhaustion from loss of blood ; but he at 
 last had reached Rattlesnake Creek, which now had doubled 
 its volume and rolled a resistless river. For the first time 
 the heart of Richard Bullen sank within him ; but casting 
 off his coat, his pistol, his boots and saddle, and binding 
 his precious bag of toys tightly to his shoulders, he gripped 
 the bare flanks of Jovita with his naked knees, and with a 
 shout dashed into the rushing water. A cry arose from the 
 opposite bank at sight of the struggling man and horse, and 
 then horse and rider were swept down the mad current 
 in the midst of uprooted trees and whirling driftwood. 
 
 A little later, at the log cabin in Simpson s Bar, the Old 
 Man woke at dawn to hear a sudden rapping on the door ; 
 
ec The Luck of Roaring Camp " 263 
 
 and as he opened it he fell back with a cry before the drip 
 ping, half-naked figure that staggered against the doorpost. 
 It was Dick Bullen, and his first question was, " Is he awake 
 yet?" Assured that the sick little Johnny was still asleep, 
 he asked for some whisky. But alas ! for the exhausted 
 rider, when the Old Man returned it was only with an empty 
 bottle. Dick caught at the handle of the door and said 
 eagerly : " Thar s suthin in my pack yer for Johnny. Take 
 it off. I can t." And when the Old Man unstrapped the 
 pack and laid it before Dick, there were only a few cheap 
 toys covered with tinsel and paint one broken, one ruined 
 by the water, and one stained with a cruel spot of blood. 
 " It don t look like much, that s a fact," said Dick regret 
 fully. . . . "But it s the best we could do. ... Take 
 em, Old Man, and put em in his stocking, and tell him 
 tell him, you know," the Old Man hastened to support 
 Dick s sinking figure, "tell him," said Dick with a foolish 
 little laugh, " tell him Sandy Glaus has come." And Richard 
 Bullen, who came in so unexpected a guise as Santa Glaus, 
 fell fainting on the threshold, as the Christmas dawn came 
 slowly up, " touching the remoter peaks with the rosy warmth 
 of ineffable love. And it looked so tenderly on Simpson s 
 Bar that the whole mountain, as if caught in a generous 
 action, blushed to the skies." 
 
 Of such generous impulses, easy daring, and unconsidered 
 self-sacrifice as Dick Bullen s were some of these pioneer 
 types compounded, even if with these qualities went others 
 that were sadly incongruous. And the same strange mix 
 ture of traits is seen in the dirty and profane little Johnny, 
 who was yet as hospitable in heart and as tender in his 
 affection as the Old Man who sat patiently by his bed that 
 Christmas night and showed the real love of a father. 
 
264 Provincial Types in the Far West 
 
 Whether one becomes absorbed in the story of " Mliss," 
 the willful but devoted little schoolgirl of Smith s Pocket ; 
 or in the pathetic sketch of " Higgles " and her helpless 
 " baby " Jim, who had once been her extravagant admirer, 
 but had been smitten into imbecility by a " stroke " ; or in 
 the unavailing generosity of "Tennessee s Partner"; or in 
 that dramatic ride of Dick Bullen and Jovita, across the 
 torrent of Rattlesnake Creek, that "Sandy" Glaus might 
 come in time to Simpson s Bar, it would be difficult to 
 say in which of these stories may be found the deftest 
 touches in the characterization of those strange pioneer 
 types that live again through the picturesque genius of 
 Bret Harte. 
 
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