CHAPTER IV
"He holds him by his glittering eye."
Guy was in the north of Ireland, cock-shooting. So Ralph Mortmain toldme, and also that the match between Mary Brandagee and Guy had beenbroken off by Flora Billingsgate. "I don't like those Billingsgates,"said Ralph, "they're a bad stock. Her father, Smithfield deBillingsgate, had an unpleasant way of turning up the knave from thebottom of the pack. But nous varrons; let us go and see Guy."
The next morning we started for Fin-ma-Coul's Crossing. When I reachedthe shooting-box, where Guy was entertaining a select company offriends, Flora Billingsgate greeted me with a saucy smile. Guy was evensquarer and sterner than ever. His gusts of passion were more frequent,and it was with difficulty that he could keep an able-bodied servant inhis family. His present retainers were more or less maimed from exposureto the fury of their master. There was a strange cynicism, a cuttingsarcasm in his address, piercing through his polished manner. I thoughtof Timon, etc., etc.
One evening, we were sitting over our Chambertin, after a hard day'swork, and Guy was listlessly turning over some letters, when suddenly heuttered a cry. Did you ever hear the trumpeting of a wounded elephant?It was like that.
I looked at him with consternation. He was glancing at a letter which heheld at arm's length, and snorting, as it were, at it as he gazed. Thelower part of his face was stern, but not as rigid as usual. He wasslowly grinding between his teeth the fragments of the glass he had justbeen drinking from.
Suddenly he seized one of his servants, and forcing the wretch upon hisknees, exclaimed, with the roar of a tiger,--
"Dog! why was this kept from me?"
"Why, please sir, Miss Flora said as how it was a reconciliation fromMiss Brandagee, and it was to be kept from you where you would not belikely to see it,--and--and"--
"Speak, dog! and you"--
"I put it among your bills, sir!"
With a groan, like distant thunder, Guy fell swooning to the floor.
He soon recovered, for the next moment a servant came rushing into theroom with the information that a number of the ingenuous peasantry ofthe neighborhood were about to indulge that evening in the nationalpastime of burning a farmhouse and shooting a landlord. Guy smileda fearful smile, without, however, altering his stern and pitilessexpression.
"Let them come," he said calmly; "I feel like entertaining company."
We barricaded the doors and windows, and then chose our arms from thearmory. Guy's choice was a singular one: it was a landing-net with along handle, and a sharp cavalry sabre.
We were not destined to remain long in ignorance of its use. A howl washeard from without, and a party of fifty or sixty armed men precipitatedthemselves against the door.
Suddenly the window opened. With the rapidity of lightning, GuyHeavystone cast the net over the head of the ringleader, ejaculated"Habet!" and with a backstroke of his cavalry sabre severed the memberfrom its trunk, and drawing the net back again, cast the gory head uponthe floor, saying quietly,--
"One."
Again the net was cast, the steel flashed, the net was withdrawn, and anominous "Two!" accompanied the head as it rolled on the floor.
"Do you remember what Pliny says of the gladiator?" said Guy, calmlywiping his sabre. "How graphic is that passage commencing 'Inter nos,'etc." The sport continued until the heads of twenty desperadoes hadbeen gathered in. The rest seemed inclined to disperse. Guy incautiouslyshowed himself at the door; a ringing shot was heard, and he staggeredback, pierced through the heart. Grasping the doorpost in the lastunconscious throes of his mighty frame, the whole side of the houseyielded to that earthquake tremor, and we had barely time to escapebefore the whole building fell in ruins. I thought of Samson, the giantjudge, etc., etc.; but all was over.
Guy Heavystone had died as he had lived,--_hard._
JOHN JENKINS
OR
THE SMOKER REFORMED
BY T. S. A-TH-R
CHAPTER I
"One cigar a day!" said Judge Boompointer.
"One cigar a day!" repeated John Jenkins, as with trepidation he droppedhis half-consumed cigar under his work-bench.
"One cigar a day is three cents a day," remarked Judge Boompointergravely; "and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents aday, amounts to in the course of four years?"
John Jenkins, in his boyhood, had attended the village school, andpossessed considerable arithmetical ability. Taking up a shingle whichlay upon his work-bench, and producing a piece of chalk, with a feelingof conscious pride he made an exhaustive calculation.
"Exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents," he replied, wiping theperspiration from his heated brow, while his face flushed with honestenthusiasm.
"Well, sir, if you saved three cents a day, instead of wasting it, youwould now be the possessor of a new suit of clothes, an illustratedFamily Bible, a pew in the church, a complete set of Patent OfficeReports, a hymnbook, and a paid subscription to 'Arthur's HomeMagazine,' which could be purchased for exactly forty-three dollars andeighty cents; and," added the Judge, with increasing sternness, "if youcalculate leap-year, which you seem to have strangely omitted, you havethree cents more, sir--_three cents more!_ What would that buy you,sir?"
"A cigar," suggested John Jenkins; but, coloring again deeply, he hidhis face.
"No, sir," said the Judge, with a sweet smile of benevolence stealingover his stern features; "properly invested, it would buy you that whichpasseth all price. Dropped into the missionary-box, who can tell whatheathen, now idly and joyously wantoning in nakedness and sin, might bebrought to a sense of his miserable condition, and made, through thatthree cents, to feel the torments of the wicked?"
With these words the Judge retired, leaving John Jenkins buried inprofound thought. "Three cents a day," he muttered. "In forty years Imight be worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten cents,--andthen I might marry Mary. Ah, Mary!" The young carpenter sighed, anddrawing a twenty-five cent daguerreotype from his vest-pocket, gazedlong and fervidly upon the features of a young girl in book muslin anda coral necklace. Then, with a resolute expression, he carefully lockedthe door of his work-shop, and departed.
Alas! his good resolutions were too late. We trifle with the tide offortune, which too often nips us in the bud and casts the dark shadowof misfortune over the bright lexicon of youth! That night thehalf-consumed fragment of John Jenkins's cigar set fire to his work-shopand burned it up, together with all his tools and materials. There wasno insurance.
CHAPTER II
THE DOWNWARD PATH
"Then you still persist in marrying John Jenkins?" queried JudgeBoompointer, as he playfully, with paternal familiarity, lifted thegolden curls of the village belle, Mary Jones.
"I do," replied the fair young girl, in a low voice that resembled rockcandy in its saccharine firmness,--"I do. He has promised to reform.Since he lost all his property by fire"--
"The result of his pernicious habit, though he illogically persists incharging it to me," interrupted the Judge.
"Since then," continued the young girl, "he has endeavored to breakhimself of the habit. He tells me that he has substituted the stalksof the Indian rattan, the outer part of a leguminous plant called thesmoking-bean, and the fragmentary and unconsumed remainder of cigars,which occur at rare and uncertain intervals along the road, which, as heinforms me, though deficient in quality and strength, are comparativelyinexpensive." And blushing at her own eloquence, the young girl hid hercurls on the Judge's arm.
"Poor thing!" muttered Judge Boompointer. "Dare I tell her all? Yet Imust."
"I shall cling to him," continued the young girl, rising with her theme,"as the young vine clings to some hoary ruin. Nay, nay, chide me not,Judge Boompointer. I will marry John Jenkins!"
The Judge was evidently affected. Seating himself at the table, he wrotea few lines hurriedly upon a piece of paper, which he folded and placedin the fingers of the destined bride of John Jenkins.
"Mary Jones
," said the Judge, with impressive earnestness, "takethis trifle as a wedding gift from one who respects your fidelity andtruthfulness. At the altar let it be a reminder of me." And covering hisface hastily with a handkerchief, the stern and iron-willed man left theroom. As the door closed, Mary unfolded the paper. It was an order onthe corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a paper of needles, fourpounds of soap, one pound of starch, and two boxes of matches!
"Noble and thoughtful man!" was all Mary Jones could exclaim, as she hidher face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears.
The bells of Cloverdale are ringing merrily. It is a wedding. "Howbeautiful they look!" is the exclamation that passes from lip to lip,as Mary Jones, leaning timidly on the arm of John Jenkins, enters thechurch. But the bride is agitated, and the bridegroom betrays a feverishnervousness. As they stand in the vestibule, John Jenkins fumblesearnestly in his vest-pocket. Can it be the ring he is anxious about?No. He draws a small brown substance from his pocket, and biting off apiece, hastily replaces the fragment and gazes furtively around. Surelyno one saw him? Alas! the eyes of two of that wedding party saw thefatal act. Judge Boompointer shook his head sternly. Mary Jones sighedand breathed a silent prayer. Her husband chewed!
CHAPTER III AND LAST
"What! more bread?" said John Jenkins gruffly. "You're always askingfor money for bread. D--nation! Do you want to ruin me by yourextravagance?" and as he uttered these words he drew from his pocket abottle of whiskey, a pipe, and a paper of tobacco. Emptying the firstat a draught, he threw the empty bottle at the head of his eldest boy,a youth of twelve summers. The missile struck the child full in thetemple, and stretched him a lifeless corpse. Mrs. Jenkins, whom thereader will hardly recognize as the once gay and beautiful Mary Jones,raised the dead body of her son in her arms, and carefully placingthe unfortunate youth beside the pump in the back yard, returned withsaddened step to the house. At another time, and in brighter days, shemight have wept at the occurrence. She was past tears now.
"Father, your conduct is reprehensible!" said little Harrison Jenkins,the youngest boy. "Where do you expect to go when you die?"
"Ah!" said John Jenkins fiercely; "this comes of giving children aliberal education; this is the result of Sabbath-schools. Down, viper!"
A tumbler thrown from the same parental fist laid out the youthfulHarrison cold. The four other children had, in the mean time, gatheredaround the table with anxious expectancy. With a chuckle, the nowchanged and brutal John Jenkins produced four pipes, and filling themwith tobacco, handed one to each of his offspring and bade them smoke."It's better than bread!" laughed the wretch hoarsely.
Mary Jenkins, though of a patient nature, felt it her duty now to speak."I have borne much, John Jenkins," she said. "But I prefer that thechildren should not smoke. It is an unclean habit, and soils theirclothes. I ask this as a special favor!"
John Jenkins hesitated,--the pangs of remorse began to seize him.
"Promise me this, John!" urged Mary upon her knees.
"I promise!" reluctantly answered John.
"And you will put the money in a savings-bank?"
"I will," repeated her husband; "and I'll give up smoking, too."
"'Tis well, John Jenkins!" said Judge Boompointer, appearing suddenlyfrom behind the door, where he had been concealed during this interview."Nobly said! my man. Cheer up! I will see that the children are decentlyburied." The husband and wife fell into each other's arms. And JudgeBoompointer, gazing upon the affecting spectacle, burst into tears.
From that day John Jenkins was an altered man.
FANTINE
AFTER THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO
PROLOGUE
As long as there shall exist three paradoxes, a moral Frenchman, a religious atheist, and a believing skeptic; so long, in fact, as booksellers shall wait--say twenty-live years--for a new gospel; so long as paper shall remain cheap and ink three sous a bottle, I have no hesitation in saying that such books as these are not utterly profitless. VICTOR HUGO.
To be good is to be queer. What is a good man? Bishop Myriel.
My friend, you will possibly object to this. You will say you know whata good man is. Perhaps you will say your clergyman is a good man,for instance. Bah! you are mistaken; you are an Englishman, and anEnglishman is a beast.
Englishmen think they are moral when they are only serious. TheseEnglishmen also wear ill-shaped hats, and dress horribly!
Bah! they are canaille.
Still, Bishop Myriel was a good man,--quite as good as you. Better thanyou, in fact.
One day M. Myriel was in Paris. This angel used to walk about thestreets like any other man. He was not proud, though fine-looking. Well,three gamins de Paris called him bad names. Says one,--
"Ah, mon Dieu! there goes a priest; look out for your eggs andchickens!" What did this good man do? He called to them kindly.
"My children," said he, "this is clearly not your fault. I recognizein this insult and irreverence only the fault of your immediateprogenitors. Let us pray for your immediate progenitors."
They knelt down and prayed for their immediate progenitors.
The effect was touching.
The Bishop looked calmly around.
"On reflection," said he gravely, "I was mistaken; this is clearly thefault of Society. Let us pray for Society."
They knelt down and prayed for Society.
The effect was sublimer yet. What do you think of that? You, I mean.
Everybody remembers the story of the Bishop and Mother Nez Retrousse.Old Mother Nez Retrousse sold asparagus. She was poor; there's a greatdeal of meaning in that word, my friend. Some people say "poor buthonest." I say, Bah!
Bishop Myriel bought six bunches of asparagus. This good man had onecharming failing: he was fond of asparagus. He gave her a franc, andreceived three sous change.
The sous were bad,--counterfeit. What did this good Bishop do? He said:"I should not have taken change from a poor woman."
Then afterwards, to his housekeeper: "Never take change from a poorwoman."
Then he added to himself: "For the sous will probably be bad."
II
When a man commits a crime, Society claps him in prison. A prison is oneof the worst hotels imaginable.
The people there are low and vulgar. The butter is bad, the coffee isgreen. Ah, it is horrible!
In prison, as in a bad hotel, a man soon loses, not only his morals, butwhat is much worse to a Frenchman, his sense of refinement and delicacy.
Jean Valjean came from prison with confused notions of Society. Heforgot the modern peculiarities of hospitality. So he walked off withthe Bishop's candlesticks.
Let us consider. Candlesticks were stolen; that was evident. Society putJean Valjean in prison; that was evident, too. In prison, Society tookaway his refinement; that is evident, likewise.
Who is Society?
You and I are Society.
My friend, you and I stole those candlesticks!
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT
A STORY FOR LITTLE SOLDIERS
It was the Christmas season in California,--a season of falling rain andspringing grasses. There were intervals when, through driving clouds andflying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and deathand resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of decay ajoyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms that sweptdown the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places.There were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening fields thefarmer's ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains.Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens whichdecorated the drawing-room took upon themselves a foreign aspect, andoffered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows,as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes.
"Now," said the doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, andlooking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him,"I want it distinctly understood befo
re I begin my story, that I am notto be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one I shallstop. At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a doseof castor-oil all round. The boy that moves his legs or arms will beunderstood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with me,and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business. Do you promise?"
"Yes, sir," said six small voices simultaneously. The volley was,however, followed by half a dozen dropping questions.
"Silence! Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling that sword. Florashall sit by my side, like a little lady, and be an example to the rest.Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little;there, that will do--just enough to make the fire look brighter, and toshow off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody! The boy who cracksan almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of theroom."
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly aside andnursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting thepockets of her little apron, put her arm upon the doctor's shoulder, andpermitted herself to be drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little heathenpage, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to share the Christmasrevels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was atonce sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a French clock on themantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and greatsymmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-likepeace of the apartment,--a peace which held the odors of evergreens, newtoys, cedar boxes, glue, and varnish in a harmonious combination thatpassed all understanding.