No More Learning

His chin fell upon his breast, while his
eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon
those who hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I
was surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of
the square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I
astonished to see him repeat the same walk several times--once nearly
detecting me as he came round with a sudden movement.

In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;
the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With
a gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a bye-street
comparatively deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he
rushed with an activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so
aged, and which put me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought
us to a large and busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger
appeared well acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became
apparent, as he forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host
of buyers and sellers.

During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this
place, it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach
without attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc
over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did
he see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing,
spoke no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare.
I was now utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we
should not part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting
him.

A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting
the bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old
man, and at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He
hurried into the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and
then ran with incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less
lanes, until we emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we
had started--the street of the D---- Hotel. It no longer wore, however,
the same aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell
fiercely, and there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale.
He walked moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a
heavy sigh, turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging through
a great variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of
the principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were
thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while
he threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of
his countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon
his breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that
he now took the course in which had gone the greater number of the
audience--but, upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the
waywardness of his actions.

As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness
and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a
party of some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one
dropped off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy
lane little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed
lost in thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly
a route which brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very
different from those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome
quarter of London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most
deplorable poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light
of an accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were
seen tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that
scarce the semblance of a passage was discernible between them.
The paving-stones lay at random, displaced from their beds by the
rankly-growing grass. Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters.
The whole atmosphere teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the
sounds of human life revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands
of the most abandoned of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro.
The spirits of the old man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near
its death hour. Once more he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly
a corner was turned, a blaze of light burst upon our sight, and we stood
before one of the huge suburban temples of Intemperance--one of the
palaces of the fiend, Gin.

It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still
pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of
joy the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original
bearing, and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object,
among the throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before
a rush to the doors gave token that the host was closing them for the
night. It was something even more intense than despair that I then
observed upon the countenance of the singular being whom I had watched
so pertinaciously. Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with
a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty
London. Long and swiftly he fled, while I followed him in the wildest
amazement, resolute not to abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an
interest all-absorbing. The sun arose while we proceeded, and, when we
had once again reached that most thronged mart of the populous town, the
street of the D----- Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle
and activity scarcely inferior to what I had seen on the evening before.
And here, long, amid the momently increasing confusion, did I persist
in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and
during the day did not pass from out the turmoil of that street. And,
as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death,
and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly
in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I,
ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. "This old man," I
said at length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to
be alone. [page 228:] He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to
follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst
heart of the world is a grosser book than the 'Hortulus Animae,' {*1} and
perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that 'er lasst sich
nicht lesen. '"

{*1} The "_Hortulus Animae cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis_" of
Grunninger




NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD

A Tale With a Moral.

"_CON tal que las costumbres de un autor_," says Don Thomas de las
Torres, in the preface to his "Amatory Poems" _"sean puras y castas,
importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras"_--meaning,
in plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are pure
personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We
presume that Don Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It would
be a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him
there until his "Amatory Poems" get out of print, or are laid definitely
upon the shelf through lack of readers. Every fiction should have a
moral; and, what is more to the purpose, the critics have discovered
that every fiction has. Philip Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote a
commentary upon the "Batrachomyomachia," and proved that the poet's
object was to excite a distaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, going
a step farther, shows that the intention was to recommend to young
men temperance in eating and drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo has
satisfied himself that, by Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate John Calvin;
by Antinous, Martin Luther; by the Lotophagi, Protestants in general;
and, by the Harpies, the Dutch. Our more modern Scholiasts are
equally acute. These fellows demonstrate a hidden meaning in "The
Antediluvians," a parable in Powhatan, "new views in Cock Robin," and
transcendentalism in "Hop O' My Thumb. " In short, it has been shown that
no man can sit down to write without a very profound design. Thus to
authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for example,
need have no care of his moral. It is there--that is to say, it is
somewhere--and the moral and the critics can take care of themselves.
When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended, and all
that he did not intend, will be brought to light, in the "Dial," or the
"Down-Easter," together with all that he ought to have intended, and
the rest that he clearly meant to intend:--so that it will all come very
straight in the end.

There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by
certain ignoramuses--that I have never written a moral tale, or, in more
precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics predestined
to bring me out, and develop my morals:--that is the secret. By and by
the "North American Quarterly Humdrum" will make them ashamed of their
stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution--by way
of mitigating the accusations against me--I offer the sad history
appended,--a history about whose obvious moral there can be no question
whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals which form
the title of the tale. I should have credit for this arrangement--a
far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the
impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at
the fag end of their fables.

Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables, and De
mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction--even if the dead in
question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design, therefore,
to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad dog, it is
true, and a dog's death it was that he died; but he himself was not to
blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his mother.
She did her best in the way of flogging him while an infant--for duties
to her well--regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies, like
tough steaks, or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the better
for beating--but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be left-handed,
and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left unflogged. The
world revolves from right to left. It will not do to whip a baby from
left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an evil
propensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks
its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at Toby's chastisements,
and, even by the way in which he kicked, I could perceive that he was
getting worse and worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in
my eyes, that there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when
he had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might
have mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced
beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand
it no longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my
voice, made prophecy of his ruin.

The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months of age
he used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At
six months, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months he
was in the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies.
At eight months he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the
Temperance pledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after
month, until, at the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon
wearing moustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and
swearing, and for backing his assertions by bets.

Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had
predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had "grown
with his growth and strengthened with his strength," so that, when
he came to be a man, he could scarcely utter a sentence without
interlarding it with a proposition to gamble. Not that he actually laid
wagers--no. I will do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon
have laid eggs. With him the thing was a mere formula--nothing more. His
expressions on this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They
were simple if not altogether innocent expletives--imaginative phrases
wherewith to round off a sentence. When he said "I'll bet you so and
so," nobody ever thought of taking him up; but still I could not help
thinking it my duty to put him down. The habit was an immoral one, and
so I told him. It was a vulgar one--this I begged him to believe. It was
discountenanced by society--here I said nothing but the truth. It was
forbidden by act of Congress--here I had not the slightest intention
of telling a lie. I remonstrated--but to no purpose. I demonstrated--in
vain. I entreated--he smiled. I implored--he laughed. I preached--he
sneered. I threatened--he swore. I kicked him--he called for the police.
I pulled his nose--he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil his head
that I would not venture to try that experiment again.

Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of
Dammit's mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor, and
this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about
betting, seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that
I ever heard him make use of such a figure of speech as "I'll bet you a
dollar. " It was usually "I'll bet you what you please," or "I'll bet you
what you dare," or "I'll bet you a trifle," or else, more significantly
still, "I'll bet the Devil my head. "

This latter form seemed to please him best;--perhaps because it involved
the least risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious. Had any
one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have been
small too. But these are my own reflections and I am by no means sure
that I am right in attributing them to him. At all events the phrase in
question grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of
a man betting his brains like bank-notes:--but this was a point which my
friend's perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend.
In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave himself up
to "I'll bet the Devil my head," with a pertinacity and exclusiveness
of devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always
displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries
force a man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was
something in the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to
his offensive expression--something in his manner of enunciation--which
at first interested, and afterwards made me very uneasy--something
which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted
to call queer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical,
Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson
hyperquizzitistical. I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammits soul was
in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to
save it. I vowed to serve him as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is
said to have served the toad,--that is to say, "awaken him to a sense
of his situation. " I addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I
betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final
attempt at expostulation.

When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in
some very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent,
merely looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his
head to one side, and elevated his eyebrows to a great extent. Then he
spread out the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he
winked with the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left.
Then he shut them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so
very wide that I became seriously alarmed for the consequences.
Then, applying his thumb to his nose, he thought proper to make an
indescribable movement with the rest of his fingers. Finally, setting
his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to reply.

I can call to mind only the beads of his discourse. He would be obliged
to me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He
despised all my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself.
Did I still think him baby Dammit? Did I mean to say any thing against
his character? Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool? Was my maternal
parent aware, in a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence?
He would put this latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and
he would bind himself to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand
explicitly if my mother knew that I was out. My confusion, he said,
betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet the Devil his head that she
did not.

Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he
left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him
that he did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been
aroused. For once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I
would have won for the Arch-Enemy Mr. Dammit's little head--for the fact
is, my mamma was very well aware of my merely temporary absence from
home.

But Khoda shefa midehed--Heaven gives relief--as the Mussulmans say when
you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I had
been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me,
however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case
of this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer
with my counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But
although I forebore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself
to give up his society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some
of his less reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I
found myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with
tears in my eyes:--so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk.

One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our route led
us in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to
cross it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and
the archway, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark.
As we entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare and
the interior gloom struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those
of the unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was
hipped. He seemed to be in an unusual good humor. He was excessively
lively--so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy
suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the
transcendentals. I am not well enough versed, however, in the diagnosis
of this disease to speak with decision upon the point; and unhappily
there were none of my friends of the "Dial" present. I suggest the idea,
nevertheless, because of a certain species of austere Merry-Andrewism
which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him to make quite a
Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping
about under and over every thing that came in his way; now shouting
out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet
preserving the gravest face in the world all the time. I really could
not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, having
passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termination of the
footway, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile of some height.
Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as usual. But this
turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping
the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the air. Now
this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best
pigeon-winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as
I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done
by Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a
braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be
sorry afterward;--for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his head
that he could.

I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some
remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a
slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation "ahem! " I
started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into
a nook of the frame--work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little
lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend
than his whole appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of black,
but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly down
over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl's.
His hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two
eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.

Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk
apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very
odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a
circumstance, he interrupted me with a second "ahem! "

To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact
is, remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known
a Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word "Fudge! " I am not ashamed to
say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.

"Dammit," said I, "what are you about? don't you hear? --the gentleman
says 'ahem! '" I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him;
for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is
particularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he
is pretty sure to look like a fool.

"Dammit," observed I--although this sounded very much like an oath, than
which nothing was further from my thoughts--"Dammit," I suggested--"the
gentleman says 'ahem! '"

I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did
not think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our
speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own
eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb,
or knocked him in the head with the "Poets and Poetry of America," he
could hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with
those simple words: "Dammit, what are you about? --don't you hear? --the
gentleman says 'ahem! '"

"You don't say so? " gasped he at length, after turning more colors than
a pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. "Are
you quite sure he said that? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and
may as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then--ahem! "

At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased--God only knows why.
He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a
gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially,
looking all the while straight up in his face with an air of the most
unadulterated benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to
imagine.

"I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit," said he, with the frankest of
all smiles, "but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake
of mere form. "

"Ahem! " replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying
a pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable
alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes and bringing down
the corners of his mouth--"ahem! " And "ahem! " said he again, after a
pause; and not another word more than "ahem! " did I ever know him to say
after that. "Aha! " thought I, without expressing myself aloud--"this is
quite a remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt
a consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme
induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable
questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave
him my last lecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals. "

"Ahem! " here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts,
and looking like a very old sheep in a revery.

The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the
shade of the bridge--a few paces back from the turnstile. "My good
fellow," said he, "I make it a point of conscience to allow you this
much run. Wait here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may
see whether you go over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don't
omit any flourishes of the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will
say 'one, two, three, and away. ' Mind you, start at the word 'away'"
Here he took his position by the stile, paused a moment as if in
profound reflection, then looked up and, I thought, smiled very
slightly, then tightened the strings of his apron, then took a long look
at Dammit, and finally gave the word as agreed upon-

_One--two--three--and--away! _

Punctually at the word "away," my poor friend set off in a strong
gallop. The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord's--nor yet very low,
like that of Mr. Lord's reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure
that he would clear it. And then what if he did not? --ah, that was
the question--what if he did not? "What right," said I, "had the
old gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old
dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he asks me to jump, I won't do it,
that's flat, and I don't care who the devil he is. " The bridge, as I
say, was arched and covered in, in a very ridiculous manner, and there
was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all times--an echo which I
never before so particularly observed as when I uttered the four last
words of my remark.

But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an
instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had
taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor
of the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he
went up. I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration
just over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually
singular thing that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap
was the affair of a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any
profound reflections, down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back,
on the same side of the stile from which he had started. At the same
instant I saw the old gentleman limping off at the top of his speed,
having caught and wrapt up in his apron something that fell heavily into
it from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all this
I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for Dammit lay
particularly still, and I concluded that his feelings had been hurt, and
that he stood in need of my assistance. I hurried up to him and found
that he had received what might be termed a serious injury. The truth
is, he had been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could
not find anywhere; so I determined to take him home and send for the
homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open
an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at
once. About five feet just above the top of the turnstile, and crossing
the arch of the foot-path so as to constitute a brace, there extended a
flat iron bar, lying with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of
a series that served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent.
With the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my
unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.

He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not
give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he
hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a
lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked
a bar sinister on his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses
of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists.
The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once,
and sold him for dog's meat.




THOU ART THE MAN

I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound
to you--as I alone can--the secret of the enginery that effected the
Rattleborough miracle--the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed,
the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among
the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all
the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.

This event--which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable
levity--occurred in the summer of 18--. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy--one
of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough--had
been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to
suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough
very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention
of proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles distant, and of
returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure,
however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags
which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded,
too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to
much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found,
on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole
borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.

The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom
friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy--a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was
universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow. "
Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the
name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never
yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there
never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly,
honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear
voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always
straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience
myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean
action. " And thus all the hearty, careless, "walking gentlemen" of the
stage are very certain to be called Charles.

Now, "Old Charley Goodfellow," although he had been in Rattleborough
not longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew
any thing about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had
experienced no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all
the respectable people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have
taken his bare word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women,
there is no saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all
this came of his having been christened Charles, and of his possessing,
in consequence, that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very "best
letter of recommendation. "

I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most
respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in
Rattleborough, while "Old Charley Goodfellow" was upon as intimate terms
with him as if he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen were
next-door neighbours, and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever,
visited "Old Charley," and never was known to take a meal in his house,
still this did not prevent the two friends from being exceedingly
intimate, as I have just observed; for "Old Charley" never let a day
pass without stepping in three or four times to see how his neighbour
came on, and very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and almost
always to dinner, and then the amount of wine that was made way with by
the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing to
ascertain. "Old Charleys" favorite beverage was Chateau-Margaux, and
it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy's heart good to see the old fellow
swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one day, when the
wine was in and the wit as a natural consequence, somewhat out, he said
to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back--"I tell you what it is,
'Old Charley,' you are, by all odds, the heartiest old fellow I ever
came across in all my born days; and, since you love to guzzle the wine
at that fashion, I'll be darned if I don't have to make thee a present
of a big box of the Chateau-Margaux. Od rot me,"--(Mr. Shuttleworthy had
a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond "Od rot me," or
"By gosh," or "By the jolly golly,")--"Od rot me," says he, "if I don't
send an order to town this very afternoon for a double box of the best
that can be got, and I'll make ye a present of it, I will! --ye needn't
say a word now--I will, I tell ye, and there's an end of it; so look out
for it--it will come to hand some of these fine days, precisely when ye
are looking for it the least! " I mention this little bit of liberality
on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing you how very
intimate an understanding existed between the two friends.

Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly
understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw
any one so profoundly affected as "Old Charley Goodfellow. " When he
first heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without
his master's saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had
gone clean through and through the poor animal's chest without quite
killing him; when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing
man had been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all
over as if he had had a fit of the ague.

At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do any
thing at all, or to concert upon any plan of action; so that for a long
time he endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy's other friends from
making a stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile--say for
a week or two, or a month, or two--to see if something wouldn't turn up,
or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn't come in the natural way, and explain
his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often
observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people
who are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind
seem to be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of any thing like
action, and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed
and "nurse their grief," as the old ladies express it--that is to say,
ruminate over the trouble.

The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the
wisdom and discretion of "Old Charley," that the greater part of them
felt disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business
"until something should turn up," as the honest old gentleman worded
it; and I believe that, after all this would have been the general
determination, but for the very suspicious interference of Mr.
Shuttleworthy's nephew, a young man of very dissipated habits,
and otherwise of rather bad character. This nephew, whose name was
Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like reason in the matter of
"lying quiet," but insisted upon making immediate search for the "corpse
of the murdered man. "--This was the expression he employed; and Mr.
Goodfellow acutely remarked at the time, that it was "a singular
expression, to say no more. " This remark of 'Old Charley's,' too, had
great effect upon the crowd; and one of the party was heard to ask,
very impressively, "how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so
intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected with his wealthy
uncle's disappearance, as to feel authorized to assert, distinctly
and unequivocally, that his uncle was 'a murdered man. '" Hereupon some
little squibbing and bickering occurred among various members of
the crowd, and especially between "Old Charley" and Mr.
Pennifeather--although this latter occurrence was, indeed, by no means a
novelty, for no good will had subsisted between the parties for the
last three or four months; and matters had even gone so far that Mr.
Pennifeather had actually knocked down his uncles friend for some
alleged excess of liberty that the latter had taken in the uncle's
house, of which the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion "Old
Charley" is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian
charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his clothes, and made no
attempt at retaliation at all--merely muttering a few words about
"taking summary vengeance at the first convenient opportunity,"--a
natural and very justifiable ebullition of anger, which meant nothing,
however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent to than forgotten.

However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point
now at issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough,
principally through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length
to the determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search
of the missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination
in the first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search
should be made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the
seekers should disperse--that is to say, distribute themselves in
parties--for the more thorough examination of the region round about. I
forget, however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that
"Old Charley" finally convinced the assembly that this was the most
injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he
did--all except Mr. Pennifeather, and, in the end, it was arranged that
a search should be instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the
burghers en masse, "Old Charley" himself leading the way.

As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer
than "Old Charley," whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx;
but, although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and
corners, by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the
neighbourhood, and although the search was incessantly kept up day and
night for nearly a week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be
discovered. When I say no trace, however, I must not be understood to
speak literally, for trace, to some extent, there certainly was.
The poor gentleman had been tracked, by his horses shoes (which were
peculiar), to a spot about three miles to the east of the borough,
on the main road leading to the city. Here the track made off into a
by-path through a piece of woodland--the path coming out again into the
main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular distance.
Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party came at length to a
pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles, to the right of the
lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track was lost sight
of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature had here taken
place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much larger and
heavier than a man, had been drawn from the by-path to the pool. This
latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was found; and the party
was upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any result,
when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of draining
the water off altogether. This project was received with cheers,
and many high compliments to "Old Charley" upon his sagacity and
consideration. As many of the burghers had brought spades with them,
supposing that they might possibly be called upon to disinter a corpse,
the drain was easily and speedily effected; and no sooner was the
bottom visible, than right in the middle of the mud that remained was
discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every one
present immediately recognized as the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This
waistcoat was much torn and stained with blood, and there were several
persons among the party who had a distinct remembrance of its having
been worn by its owner on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy's
departure for the city; while there were others, again, ready to testify
upon oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question
at any period during the remainder of that memorable day, nor could
any one be found to say that he had seen it upon Mr. P. 's person at any
period at all subsequent to Mr. Shuttleworthy's disappearance.

Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was
observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were
excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked
what he had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word.
Hereupon, the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him,
deserted him at once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his
ancient and avowed enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the
other hand, the magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the
more brilliant lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely
eloquent defence of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once
to his own sincere forgiveness of that wild young gentleman--"the heir
of the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy,"--for the insult which he (the young
gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put
upon him (Mr. Goodfellow). "He forgave him for it," he said, "from the
very bottom of his heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from
pushing the suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry
to say, really had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow)
would make every exertion in his power, would employ all the little
eloquence in his possession to--to--to--soften down, as much as he could
conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly
perplexing piece of business. "

Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain,
very much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your
warm-hearted people are seldom apposite in their observations--they run
into all sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal apropos-isms, in the
hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend--thus, often with the
kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his
cause than to advance it.

So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of
"Old Charley"; for, although he laboured earnestly in behalf of the
suspected, yet it so happened, somehow or other, that every syllable he
uttered of which the direct but unwitting tendency was not to exalt the
speaker in the good opinion of his audience, had the effect to deepen
the suspicion already attached to the individual whose cause he pleaded,
and to arouse against him the fury of the mob.

One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his
allusion to the suspected as "the heir of the worthy old gentleman Mr.
Shuttleworthy. " The people had really never thought of this before. They
had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered a year
or two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the
nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance
as a matter that was settled--so single-minded a race of beings were the
Rattleburghers; but the remark of "Old Charley" brought them at once to
a consideration of this point, and thus gave them to see the possibility
of the threats having been nothing more than a threat. And straightway
hereupon, arose the natural question of cui bono? --a question that
tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the terrible crime upon
the young man. And here, lest I may be misunderstood, permit me to
digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceedingly brief and
simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated
and misconceived. "Cui bono? " in all the crack novels and elsewhere,--in
those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of "Cecil,") a lady who
quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to Chickasaw, and is helped to her
learning, "as needed," upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford,--in all
the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of
Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little
Latin words cui bono are rendered "to what purpose? " or, (as if quo
bono,) "to what good. " Their true meaning, nevertheless, is "for whose
advantage. " Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely
legal phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have now
under consideration, where the probability of the doer of a deed hinges
upon the probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to
that from the deed's accomplishment. Now in the present instance, the
question cui bono? very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His
uncle had threatened him, after making a will in his favour, with
disinheritance. But the threat had not been actually kept; the original
will, it appeared, had not been altered. Had it been altered, the only
supposable motive for murder on the part of the suspected would
have been the ordinary one of revenge; and even this would have been
counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good graces of the
uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat to alter remained
suspended over the nephew's head, there appears at once the very
strongest possible inducement for the atrocity, and so concluded, very
sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle.

Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the
crowd, after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in
custody. On the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to
confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led him
to be always a little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run
forward a few paces, stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small
object from the grass. Having quickly examined it he was observed, too,
to make a sort of half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but
this action was noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the
object picked up was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons
at once recognized as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover, his
initials were engraved upon the handle. The blade of this knife was open
and bloody.

No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately upon
reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for examination.

Here matters again took a most unfavourable turn. The prisoner, being
questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy's
disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on
that very morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the
immediate neighbourhood of the pool where the blood-stained waistcoat
had been discovered through the sagacity of Mr.