No More Learning

He never swore. He was never heard to take the name
of his Maker in vain. He was a sincere Christian, though
after a form of his own; for he was never attached to any par-
ticular religious society, and never, it is believed, communed with
any church. A friend who visited him not long before his death,
found him engaged in reading the Bible. Here,” said he, hold-
ing it up, “is a book worth more than all the other books that
were ever printed; yet it is my misfortune never to have found
time to read it, with the proper attention and feeling, till lately.
I trust in the mercy of Heaven that it is not yet too late. ”
He was much pleased with Soame Jenyns's view of the internal
evidences of the Christian religion; so much so, that about the
year 1790 he had an impression of it struck at his own expense,
and distributed among the people. His other favorite works
on the subject were Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion
in the Soul, and Butler's Analogy of Religion, Natural and
Revealed. This latter work he used at one period of his life to
style, by way of pre-eminence, his “Bible. ” The selection proves
not only the piety of his temper, but the correctness of his taste,
and his relish for profound and vigorous disquisition.
His morals were strict. As a husband, a father, a master, he
had no superior. He was kind and hospitable to the stranger,


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16092
WILLIAM WIRT
as
and most friendly and accommodating to his neighbors. In his
dealings with the world he was faithful to his promise, and
punctual in his contracts, to the utmost of his power.
Yet we do not claim for him a total exemption from the fail-
ures of humanity. Moral perfection is not the property of man.
The love of money is said to have been one of Mr. Henry's
strongest passions. In his desire for accumulation, he was
charged with wringing from the hands of his clients, and more
particularly those of the criminals whom he defended, fees rather
too exorbitant. He was censured too for an attempt to locate
the shores of the Chesapeake, which had heretofore been used
public common; although there was at that time no law
of the State which protected them from location. In one of his
earlier purchases of land, he was blamed also for having availed
himself of the existing laws of the State, in paying for it in the
depreciated paper currency of the country; nor was he free from
censure on account of some participation which he is said to have
had in the profits of the Yazoo trade. He was accused too of
having been rather more vain of his wealth, toward the close of
his life, than became
so great in other respects.
Let
these things be admitted, and let the man who is without fault
cast the first stone. ” In mitigation of these charges, if they be
true, it ought to be considered that Mr. Henry had been, during
the greater part of his life, intolerably oppressed by poverty and
all its distressing train of consequences; that the family for which
he had to provide was very large; and that the bar, although it
has been called the road to honor, was not in those days the
road to wealth. With these considerations in view, charity may
easily pardon him for having considered only the legality of the
means which he used to acquire an independence; and she can
easily excuse him, too, for having felt the success of his endeav-
ors a little more sensibly than might have been becoming. He
was certainly neither proud, nor hard-hearted, nor penurious: if
he was either, there can be no reliance on human testimony;
which represents him as being, in his general intercourse with
the world, not only rigidly honest, but one of the kindest, gen-
tlest, and most indulgent of human beings.
While we are on this ungrateful subject of moral imperfec-
tion, the fidelity of history requires us to notice another charge
against Mr. Henry. His passion for fame is said to have been
a man


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WILLIAM WIRT
16093
too strong: he was accused of a wish to monopolize the public
favor; and under the influence of this desire, to have felt no
gratification in the rising fame of certain conspicuous characters;
to have indulged himself in invidious and unmerited remarks
upon them, and to have been at the bottom of a cabal against
one of the most eminent. If these things were so — alas, poor
human nature! It is certain that these charges are very incon-
sistent with his general character. So far from being naturally
envious, and disposed to keep back modest merit, one of the
finest traits in his character was the parental tenderness with
which he took by the hand every young man of merit, covered
him with his ægis in the Legislature, and led him forward at the
bar. In relation to his first great rival in eloquence, Richard
Henry Lee, he not only did ample justice to him on every occas-
ion in public, but defended his fame in private with all the zeal
of a brother; as is demonstrated by an original correspondence
between those two eminent men, now in the hands of the
author. Of Colonel Innis, his next great rival, he entertained
and uniformly expressed the most exalted opinion; and in the
convention of 1788, as will be remembered, paid a compliment
to his eloquence, at once so splendid, so happy, and so just, that
it will live forever. The debates of that convention abound with
the most unequivocal and ardent declarations of his respect for
the talents and virtues of the other eminent gentlemen who were
arrayed against him, - Mr. Madison, Mr. Pendleton, Mr. Ran-
dolph. Even the justly great and overshadowing fame of Mr.
Jefferson never extorted from him, in public at least, one invidi-
ous remark; on the contrary, the name of that gentleman, who
was then in France, having been introduced into the debates of
the convention for the purpose of borrowing the weight of his
opinion, Mr. Henry spoke of him in the strongest and warmest
terms, not only of admiration but of affection, - styling him "our
illustrious fellow-citizen," "our enlightened and worthy country-
our common friend. ”
The inordinate love of money and of fame are certainly base
and degrading passions. They have sometimes tarnished char-
acters otherwise the most bright; but they will find no advocate
or apologist in any virtuous bosom. In relation to Mr. Henry,
however, we may be permitted to doubt whether the facts on
which these censures (so inconsistent with his general character)
man, » «


## p. 16094 (#440) ##########################################

16094
WILLIAM WIRT
1
are grounded, have not been misconceived; and whether so much
of them as is really true may not be fairly charged to the com-
mon account of human imperfection.
Mr. Henry's great intellectual defect was his indolence. To
this it was owing that he never possessed that admirable alert-
ness and vigorous versatility of mind which turns promptly to
everything, attends to everything, arranges everything, and by
systematizing its operations, dispatches each in its proper time
and place and manner. To the same cause it is to be ascribed
that he never possessed that patient drudgery, and that ready,
neat, copious, and masterly command of details, which forms so
essential a part of the duties both of the statesman and the law-
yer. Hence too he did not avail himself of the progress of science
and literature in his age. He had not, as he might have done,
amassed those ample stores of various, useful, and curious knowl-
edge which are so naturally expected to be found in a great
man. His library (of which an inventory has been furnished to
the author) was extremely small; composed not only of a very
few books, but those, too, commonly odd volumes. Of science
and literature he knew little or nothing more than was occasion-
ally gleaned from conversation. It is not easy to conceive what
a mind like his might have achieved in either or both of these
walks, had it been properly trained at first, or industriously occu-
pied in those long intervals of leisure which he threw away.
One thing however may be safely pronounced: that had that
mind of Herculean strength been either so trained or so occupied,
he would have left behind him some written monument, compared
with which even statues and pillars would have been but the
ephemeræ of a day. But he seems to have been of Hobbes's
opinion, who is reported to have said of himself, that if he had
read as much as other men, he should have been as ignorant as
they were. ” Mr. Henry's book was the great volume of human
nature. In this he was more deeply read than any of his coun-
trymen. He knew men thoroughly; and hence arose his great
power of persuasion. His preference of this study is manifested
by the following incident: He met once, in a bookstore, with the
late Mr. Ralph Wormley, who, although a great bookworm, was
infinitely more remarkable for his ignorance of men than Mr.
Henry was for that of books. — “What! Mr. Wormley,” said he,
"still buying books ? » “Yes,” said Mr. Wormley, “I have just
I
1


## p. 16095 (#441) ##########################################

WILLIAM WIRT
16095
>>
heard of a new work, which I am extremely anxious to peruse.
« Take my word for it,” said he, “Mr. Wormley, we are too old
to read books: read men,- they are the only volume that we can
peruse to advantage. ” But Mr. Henry might have perused both,
with infinite advantage not only to himself but to his country
and to the world; and that he did not do it, may, it is believed,
be fairly ascribed rather to the indolence of his temper than the
deliberate decision of his judgment.
PATRICK HENRY'S FIRST CASE
From (Sketches of the Life and Character of Patrick Henry)
Soo
over-
Oon after the opening of the court, the cause was called. It
stood on
a writ of inquiry of damages, no plea having
been entered by the defendants since the judgment on the
demurrer. The array before Mr. Henry's eyes was now most
fearful. On the bench sat more than twenty clergymen, the
most learned men in the colony, and the most capable as well as
the severest critics before whom it was possible for him to have
made his début. The court-house was crowded with an
whelming multitude, and surrounded with an immense and anx-
ious throng; who, not finding room to enter, were endeavoring
to listen without, in the deepest attention. But there was some-
thing still more awfully disconcerting than all this; for in the
chair of the presiding magistrate sat no other person than his
own father. Mr. Lyons opened the cause very briefly: in the
way of argument he did nothing more than explain to the jury
that the decision upon the demurrer had put the act of 1758
entirely out of the way, and left the law of 1748 as the only
standard of their damages; he then concluded with a highly
wrought eulogium on the benevolence of the clergy.
And now
came on the first trial of Patrick Henry's strength. No one had
ever heard him speak, and curiosity was on tiptoe. He rose very
awkwardly, and faltered much in his exordium. The people hung
their heads at so unpromising a commencement; the clergy were
observed to exchange sly looks with each other; and his father
is described as having almost sunk with confusion from his seat.
But these feelings were of short duration, and soon gave place


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16096
WILLIAM WIRT
to others of a very different character.
For now
were those
wonderful faculties which he possessed, for the first time devel-
oped; and now was first witnessed that mysterious and almost
supernatural transformation of appearance, which the fire of his
own eloquence never failed to work in him. For as his mind
rolled along, and began to glow from its own action, all the exu-
viæ of the clown seemed to shed themselves spontaneously. His
attitude, by degrees, became erect and lofty. The spirit of his
genius awakened all his features. His countenance shone with
a nobleness and grandeur which it had never before exhibited.
There was lightning in his eyes which seemed to rive the spec-
tator. His action became graceful, bold, and commanding; and
in the tones of his voice, but more especially in his emphasis,
there was a peculiar charm, a magic, of which any one who ever
heard him will speak as soon as he is named, but of which no
one can give any adequate description. They can only say that
it struck upon the ear and upon the heart in a manner which
language cannot tell. Add to all these, his wonder-working fancy,
and the peculiar phraseology in which he clothed its images; for
he painted to the heart with a force that almost petrified it. In
the language of those who heard him on this occasion, "he made
their blood run cold, and their hair to rise on end. ”
It will not be difficult for any one who ever heard this most
extraordinary man, to believe the whole account of this trans-
action, which is given by his surviving hearers; and from their
account, the court-house of Hanover County must have exhibited,
on this occasion, a scene as picturesque as has been ever wit-
nessed in real life. They say that the people, whose countenance
had fallen as he arose, had heard but a very few sentences before
they began to look up; then to look at each other with surprise,
as if doubting the evidence of their own senses; then, attracted
by some strong gesture, struck by some majestic attitude, fasci-
nated by the spell of his eye, the charm of his emphasis, and the
varied and commanding expression of his countenance, they could
look away no more. In less than twenty minutes, they might be
seen in every part of the house, on every bench, in every win-
dow, stooping forward from their stands, in deathlike silence;
their features fixed in amazement and awe; all their senses lis-
tening and riveted upon the speaker, as if to catch the last strain
of some heavenly visitant. The mockery of the clergy was soon


## p. 16097 (#443) ##########################################

WILLIAM WIRT
16097
turned into alarm; their triumph into confusion and despair: and
at one burst of his rapid and overwhelming invective, they fled
from the bench in precipitation and terror. As for the father,
such was his surprise, such his amazement, such his rapture, that
forgetting where he was, and the character which he was filling,
tears of ecstasy streamed down his cheeks, without the power or
inclination to repress them.
The jury seem to have been so completely bewildered that
they lost sight not only of the act of 1748, but that of 1758
also; for, thoughtless even of the admitted right of the plaintiff,
they had scarcely left the bar when they returned with a verdict
of one penny damages. A motion was made for a new trial; but
the court too had now lost the equipoise of their judgment, and
overruled the motion by a unanimous vote. The verdict and
judgment overruling the motion were followed by redoubled
acclamations, from within and without the house. The people,
who had with difficulty kept their hands off their champion, from
the moment of closing his harangue, no sooner saw the fate of
the cause finally sealed than they seized him at the bar, and in
spite of his own exertions, and the continued cry of order” from
the sheriffs and the court, they bore him out of the court-house,
and raising him on their shoulders, carried him about the yard
in a kind of electioneering triumph.
Oh, what a scene was this for a father's heart! so sudden; so
unlooked-for; so delightfully overwhelming! At the time he was
not able to give utterance to any sentiment; but a few days
after, when speaking of it to Mr. Winston, he said with the most
engaging modesty, and with a tremor of voice which showed
how much more he felt than he expressed, «Patrick spoke in
this cause near an hour, and in a manner that surprised me!
and showed himself well informed on a subject of which I did not
think he had any knowledge! ”
I have tried much to procure a sketch of this celebrated
speech. But those of Mr. Henry's hearers who survive seem
to have been bereft of their senses. They can only tell you,
in general, that they were taken captive, and so delighted with
their captivity that they followed implicitly whithersoever he led
them; that at his bidding their tears flowed from pity, and their
cheeks flushed with indignation; that when it was over they felt
as if they had just awakened from some ecstatic dream, of which
XXVII-1007


## p. 16098 (#444) ##########################################

16098
WILLIAM WIRT
they were unable to recall or connect the particulars. It wa
such a speech as they believe had never before fallen from the
lips of man; and to this day the old people of that country can-
not conceive that a higher compliment can be paid to a speaker
than to say of him, in their own homely phrase, “He is almost
equal to Patrick when he plead against the parsons. "
(
BURR AND BLENNERHASSETT
ARGUMENT IN THE TRIAL OF AARON BURR
W".
ho is Blennerhassett? A native of Ireland, a man of let-
ters, who fled from the storms of his own country to
find quiet in ours. His history shows that war is not
the natural element of his mind. If it had been, he never would
have exchanged Ireland for America. So far is an army from
furnishing the society natural and proper to Mr. Blennerhassett's
character, that on his arrival in America he retired even from
the population of the Atlantic States, and sought quiet and soli-
tude in the bosom of our western forests. But he carried with
him taste and science and wealth; and lo, the desert smiled!
Possessing himself of a beautiful island in the Ohio, he rears
upon it a palace, and decorates it with every romantic embellish-
ment of fancy. A shrubbery that Shenstone might have envied
blooms around him. Music that might have charmed Calypso
and her nymphs is his. An extensive library spreads its treas-
ures before him. A philosophical apparatus offers to him all
the secrets and mysteries of nature. Peace, tranquillity, and inno-
cence, shed their mingled delights around him. And to crown
the enchantment of the scene, a wife, who is said to be lovely
even beyond her sex, and graced with every accomplishment that
can render it irresistible, had blessed him with her love, and made
him the father of several children. The evidence would con-
vince you that this is but a faint picture of the real life.
In the midst of all this peace, this innocent simplicity, and
this tranquillity, this feast of the mind, this pure banquet of the
heart, the destroyer comes: he comes to change this paradise
into a hell. Yet the flowers do not wither at his approach.
No monitory shuddering through the bosom of their unfortunate


## p. 16099 (#445) ##########################################

WILLIAM WIRT
16099
possessor warns him of the ruin that is coming upon him. A
stranger presents himself. Introduced to their civilities by the
high rank which he had lately held in his country, he soon
finds his way to their hearts by the dignity and elegance of
his demeanor, the light and beauty of his conversation, and the
seductive and fascinating power of his address. The conquest
was not difficult. Innocence is ever simple and credulous. Con-
scious of no design itself, it suspects none in others. It wears no
guard before its breast. Every door, and portal, and avenue of
the heart is thrown open, and all who choose it enter. Such was
the state of Eden when the serpent entered its bowers. The pris-
oner, in a more engaging form, winding himself into the open
and unpracticed heart of the unfortunate Blennerhassett, found
but little difficulty in changing the native character of that heart
and the objects of its affection. He breathes into it the fire of
his own courage; a daring and desperate thirst for glory; an
ardor panting for great enterprises, for all the storm and bustle
and hurricane of life. In a short time the whole man is changed,
and every object of his former delight is relinquished. No more
he enjoys the tranquil scene: it has become flat and insipid to
his taste. His books are abandoned. His retort and crucible are
thrown aside. His shrubbery blooms and breathes its fragrance
upon the air in vain; he likes it not. His ear no longer drinks
the rich melody of music: it longs for the trumpet's clangor and
the cannon's roar. Even the prattle of his babes, once so sweet,
no longer affects him; and the angel smile of his wife, which
hitherto touched his bosom with ecstasy so unspeakable, is now
unseen and unfelt. Greater objects have taken possession of his
soul. His imagination has been dazzled by visions of diadems,
of stars, and garters, and titles of nobility. He has been taught
to burn with restless emulation at the names of great heroes
and conquerors. His enchanted island is destined soon to relapse
into a wilderness; and in a few months we find the beautiful
and tender partner of his bosom, - whom he lately permitted
not the winds of » summer "to visit too roughly," -- we find
her shivering at midnight, on the wintry banks of the Ohio, and
mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they fell.
Yet this unfortunate man, thus deluded from his interest and his
happiness, thus seduced from the paths of innocence and peace,
thus confounded in the toils that were deliberately spread for
(
»


## p. 16100 (#446) ##########################################

16100
WILLIAM WIRT
him, and overwhelmed by the mastering spirit and genius of
another - this man, thus ruined and undone, and made to play a
subordinate part in this grand drama of guilt and treason — this
man is to be called the principal offender, while he by whom he
was thus plunged in misery is comparatively innocent -a mere
accessary! Is this reason ? Is it law? Is it humanity ? Sir,
neither the human heart nor the human understanding will bear
a perversion so monstrous and absurd! so shocking to the soul!
so revolting to reason! Let Aaron Burr, then, not shrink from
the high destination which he has courted; and having already
ruined Blennerhassett in fortune, character, and happiness, forever,
let him not attempt to finish the tragedy by thrusting that ill-
fated man between himself and punishment.


## p. 16101 (#447) ##########################################

16101
OWEN WISTER
(1860-)
-
He short stories of Owen Wister are an addition to the Amer-
ican fiction which is helping the world to realize the infinitely
Po varied and interesting characters and scenes in widely sepa-
rated sections of the United States. These stories are illustrations
from the author's own text: “Many sorts of Americans live in Amer-
ica. ” A part of the drama of primitive humanity is displayed in Mr.
Wister's pages: the part which is enacted on the great sandy plains
of the Southwest, with mountains for stage setting, and Indians, sol-
diers, and cowboys as persons of the play.
Mr. Wister, although he knows the West
so well, and writes of it with such sympa-
thetic insight, is an Eastern man,- a Phila-
delphian of good family,- and was born in
that city in 1860. When he was ten years
of age he was taken to Europe, where he
remained three years.
Returning to his
native land, he prepared for college at St.
Paul's School in Concord, New Hampshire,
and was graduated from Harvard in 1882.
At the University he developed a taste for
literature and music. He wrote the libretto
for a Hasty Pudding Club opera bouffe; and OWEN WISTER
at that time music seemed to be his first
choice: indeed, after graduation he went abroad to devote himself to
that art; on the advice of Liszt going to Paris for the study of com-
position. But family affairs brought him home the next year, and
poor health sent him hunting big game in Wyoming and Arizona.
This first Western trip was a turning-point in Mr. Wister's career.
The country and its inhabitants - so new, strange, and spectacular,
compared with his former experiences — took strong hold of him, and
stimulated his dormant literary instincts.
On his return East, he decided for the legal profession, and was
graduated from the Harvard Law School in 1887, settling down in
Philadelphia to practice. But the West continued to lure him: again
and again he tasted the excitement of wild life, and drank in impres-
sions which were to bear fruit in fiction. Within ten years he made



## p. 16102 (#448) ##########################################

16102
OWEN WISTER
no less than fifteen of these Western tours. He began to make use of
the material thus gathered in 1891, and gradually came to give all
his energies to literature.
His sketches and tales were gathered into book form in Red Men
and White,' which appeared in 1896,-eight stories which previously
had been widely read in the magazines and recognized as individual,
vital work.
The real Indian is drawn by this writer: not the idealized, fancy-
sketch representation sometimes offered. Soldiers and settlers too, as
he limns them, are felt to be authentic. The dialogue is eminently
natural; the descriptions of nature those of the keen-eyed observer
who is also a poet.
The spirit of comradeship and humorous exag-
geration typical of the West is admirably caught, while the underly-
ing tone is that of tragedy,- naturally enough, for Mr. Wister deals
truthfully with the stern, albeit picturesque, conditions of a new
civilization where the elemental passions are at work with little con-
cealment.
The main impression of such masterpieces as (Specimen
Jones,' with its lighter incidents leading up to an intense dénouement,
or La Tinaja Bonita,' fairly Dantesque in its shadows, is that of
strenuous drama. But humor is never lacking to supply the lights for
the chiaroscuro.
Mr. Wister's tentative book, “The Dragon of Wantley' (1892), writ-
ten before he had found his true métier, proved, with its delicate,
playful satire on the days of chivalry, that the author had a fund
of quiet fun. Further Western sketches of compelling interest may
be expected from one who in 'Red Men and White) has made a dis-
tinct contribution to the fiction of locality in the United States.
E
SPECIMEN JONES
From Red Men and White. Copyright 1895, by Harper & Brothers
PHRAIM, the proprietor of Twenty Mile, had wasted his day
in burying a man. He did not know the man. He had
found him, or what the Apaches had left of him, sprawled
among some charred sticks just outside the Cañon del Oro. It
was a useful discovery in its way; for otherwise Ephraim might
have gone on hunting his strayed horses near the cañon, and
ended among charred sticks himself. Very likely the Indians
were far away by this time; but he returned to Twenty Mile
with the man tied to his saddle, and his pony nervously snorting.
And now the day was done, and the man lay in the earth, and
they had even built a fence round him; for the hole was pretty


## p. 16103 (#449) ##########################################

OWEN WISTER
16103
shallow, and coyotes have a way of smelling this sort of thing a
long way off when they are hungry, and the man was not in a
coffin. They were always short of coffins in Arizona.
Day was done at Twenty Mile, and the customary activity
prevailed inside that flat-roofed cube of mud. Sounds of sing-
ing, shooting, dancing, and Mexican tunes on the concertina came
out of the windows hand in hand, to widen and die among the
hills. A limber, pretty boy, who might be nineteen, was dancing
energetically; while a grave old gentleman, with tobacco running
down his beard, pointed a pistol at the boy's heels, and shot a
hole in the earth now and then to show that the weapon was
really loaded. Everybody was quite used to all of this-except-
ing the boy. He was an Eastern new-comer, passing his first
evening at a place of entertainment.
Night in and night out every guest at Twenty Mile was
either happy and full of whisky, or else his friends were mak-
ing arrangements for his funeral. There was water at Twenty
Mile — the only water for twoscore of miles. Consequently it
was an important station on the road between the southern coun-
try and Old Camp Grant, and the new mines north of the Mes.
cal Range. The stunt, liquor-perfumed adobe cabin lay on the
gray floor of the desert like an isolated slab of chocolate. A
corral, two desolate stable sheds, and the slowly turning windmill,
were all else. Here Ephraim and one or two helpers abode,
armed against Indians and selling whisky. Variety in their
vocation of drinking and killing was brought them by the trav-
elers. These passed and passed through the glaring vacant
months: some days only one ragged fortune-hunter, riding a
pony; again by twos and threes, with high-loaded burros; and
sometimes they came in companies, walking beside their clank-
ing freight wagons. Some were young, and some were old; and
all drank whisky, and wore knives and guns to keep each other
civil. Most of them were bound for the mines, and some of
them sometimes returned. No man trusted the next man; and
their names, when they had any, would be O'Rafferty, Angus,
Schwartzmeyer, José Maria, and Smith. All stopped for one
night; some longer - remaining drunk and profitable to Ephraim;
now and then one stayed permanently, and had a fence built
round him. Whoever came, and whatever befell them, Twenty
Mile was chronically hilarious after sundown,-a dot of riot in
the dumb Arizona night.


## p. 16104 (#450) ##########################################

16104
OWEN WISTER
an
»
On this particular evening they had a tenderfoot.
The boy,
being new in Arizona, still trusted his neighbor. Such people
turned up occasionally. This one had paid for everybody's drink
several times, because he felt friendly, and never noticed that no-
body ever paid for his. They had played cards with him, stolen
his spurs, and now they were making him dance.
It was
ancient pastime; yet two or three were glad to stand round and
watch it, because it was some time since they had been to the
opera. Now the tenderfoot had misunderstood these friends at
the beginning, supposing himself to be among good fellows; and
they naturally set him down as a fool. But even while dancing
you may learn much, and suddenly. The boy, besides being lim-
ber, had good tough black hair; and it was not in fear, but
with a cold blue eye, that he looked at the old gentleman. The
trouble had been that his own revolver had somehow hitched, so
he could not pull it from the holster at the necessary moment.
“Tried to draw on me, did yer ? ” said the old gentleman.
“ Step higher! Step now, or I'll crack open yer kneepans, ye
robin's-egg. "
« Thinks he's having a bad time,” remarked Ephraim. "Won-
(
der how he'd like to have been that man the Injuns had sport
with ? ”
“Weren't his ear funny ? ? said one who had helped bury the
man.
“Ear? ” said Ephraim. "You boys ought to have been along
when I found him, and seen the way they'd fixed up his mouth. ”
Ephraim explained the details simply, and the listeners shivered.
But Ephraim was a humorist. « Wonder how it feels,” he con-
tinued, “to have - »
Here the boy sickened at his comments and the loud laugh-
ter. Yet a few hours earlier these same half-drunken jesters had
laid the man to rest with decent humanity. The boy was taking
his first dose of Arizona. By no means was everybody looking
at his jig. They had seen tenderfeet so often. There was
Mexican game of cards; there was the concertina; and over in
the corner sat Specimen Jones, with his back to the company,
singing to himself. Nothing had been said or done that enter-
tained him in the least. He had seen everything quite often.
"Higher! skip higher, you elegant calf,” remarked the old
gentleman to the tenderfoot. "High-yer! ”
“High-yer! And he placidly fired
a fourth shot that scraped the boy's boot at the ankle and threw
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16105
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(
earth over the clock, so that you could not tell the minute from
the hour hand.
« « Drink to me only with thine eyes,” sang Specimen Jones
softly. They did not care much for his songs in Arizona. These
lyrics were all, or nearly all, that he retained of the days when
he was twenty,- although he was but twenty-six now.
The boy was cutting pigeon-wings, the concertina played
Matamoras,' Jones continued his lyric, when two Mexicans
leaped at each other, and the concertina stopped with a quack.
"Quit it! ” said Ephraim from behind the bar, covering the
two
with his weapon.
«I don't want any greasers scrapping
round here to-night. We've just got cleaned up. ”
It had been cards; but the Mexicans made peace, to the regret
of Specimen Jones. He had looked round with some hopes of a
crisis, and now for the first time he noticed the boy.
“Blamed if he ain't neat,” he said. But interest faded from
his eye, and he turned again to the wall.
. «Lieb Vaterland
magst ruhig sein,” he melodiously observed. His repertory was
wide and refined. When he sang he was always grammatical.
"Ye kin stop, kid,” said the old gentleman, not unkindly; and
he shoved his pistol into his belt.
The boy ceased. He had been thinking matters over. Being
lithe and strong, he was not tired nor much out of breath; but
he was trembling with the plan and the prospect he had laid out
for himself. “Set 'em up,” he said to Ephraim.
« Set 'em up
again all round. ”
His voice caused Specimen Jones to turn and look once more;
while the old gentleman, still benevolent, said, “Yer langwidge
means pleasanter than it sounds, kid. ” He glanced at the boy's
holster, and knew he need not keep a very sharp watch as to
that. Its owner had bungled over it once already. All the old
gentleman did was to place himself next the boy on the off side
from the holster; any move the tenderfoot's hand might make
for it would be green and unskillful, and easily anticipated. The
company lined up along the bar, and the bottle slid from glass
to glass. The boy and his tormentor stood together in the mid-
dle of the line; and the tormentor, always with half a thought
for the holster, handled his drink on the wet counter, waiting till
all should be filled and ready to swallow simultaneously, as befits
good manners.
(
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"Well, my regards,” he said, seeing the boy raise his glass;
and as the old gentleman's arm lifted in unison, exposing his
waist, the boy reached down a lightning hand, caught the old
gentleman's own pistol, and jammed it in his face.
“Now you'll dance,” said he.
“Whoop! ” exclaimed Specimen Jones, delighted. «Blamed if
he ain't neat! ” And Jones's handsome face lighted keenly.
"Hold on! ” the boy sang out, for the amazed old gentleman
was mechanically drinking his whisky out of sheer fright. The
rest had forgotten their drinks. “Not one swallow," the boy
”
continued. No, you'll not put it down either. You'll keep hold
of it, and you'll dance all round this place. Around and around. .
And don't you spill any. And I'll be thinking what you'll do
after that. ”
Specimen Jones eyed the boy with growing esteem. “Why,
he ain't bigger than a pint of cider,” said he.
"Prance away! ” commanded the tenderfoot, and fired a shot
between the old gentleman's not widely straddled legs.
«You hev the floor, Mr. Adams,” Jones observed respectfully,
at the old gentleman's agile leap. I'll let no man here inter-
rupt you. ” So the capering began, and the company stood back
to make room. "I've saw juicy things in this Territory,” con-
tinued Specimen Jones, aloud to himself, but this combination
fills my bill. ”
He shook his head sagely, following the black-haired boy with
That youth was steering Mr. Adams round the room
with the pistol, proud as a ring-master. Yet not altogether. He
was only nineteen; and though his heart beat stoutly, it was
beating alone in a strange country. He had come straight to
this from hunting squirrels along the Susquehanna, with his
mother keeping supper warm for him in the stone farm-house
among the trees. He had read books in which hardy heroes
saw life, and always triumphed with precision on the last page;
but he remembered no receipt for this particular situation. Being
good game American blood, he did not think now about the Sus-
quehanna; but he did long with all his might to know what he
ought to do next to prove himself a His buoyant rage,
being glutted with the old gentleman's fervent skipping, had
cooled; and a stress of reaction was falling hard on his brave
young nerves. He imagined everybody against him. He had no
his eye.
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16107
notion that there was another American wanderer there, whose
reserved and whimsical nature he had touched to the heart.
The fickle audience was with him, of course, for the moment,
— since he was upper dog and it was a good show; but one in
that room was distinctly against him. The old gentleman was
dancing with an ugly eye; he had glanced down to see just
where his knife hung at his side, and he had made some calcu-
lations. He had fired four shots; the boy had fired one. « Four
and one hez always made five,” the old gentleman told himself
with much secret pleasure, and pretended that he was going to
stop his double-shuffle. It was an excellent trap, and the boy
fell straight into it. He squandered his last precious bullet on
the spittoon near which Mr. Adams happened to be at the mo-
ment, and the next moment Mr. Adams had him by the throat.
They swayed and gulped for breath, rutting the earth with sharp
heels; they rolled to the floor and floundered with legs tight
tangled, the boy blindly striking at Mr. Adams with the pistol-
butt, and the audience drawing closer to lose nothing, when the
bright knife flashed suddenly. It poised — and flew across the
room, harmless; for a foot had driven into Mr. Adams's arm, and
he felt a cold ring grooving his temple. It was the smooth,
chilly muzzle of Specimen Jones's six-shooter.
“That's enough,” said Jones. “More than enough. ”
Mr. Adams, being mature in judgment, rose instantly, like a
good old sheep, and put his knife back obedient to orders. But
in the brain of the overstrained, bewildered boy, universal de.
struction was whirling. With a face stricken lean with ferocity,
he staggered to his feet, plucking at his obstinate holster, and
glaring for a foe. His eye fell first on his deliverer, leaning
easily against the bar watching him, while the more and more
curious audience scattered, and held themselves ready to murder
the boy if he should point his pistol their way. He was drag-
ging at it clumsily, and at last it came. Specimen. Jones sprang
like a cat, and held the barrel vertical, and gripped the boy's
wrist.
"Go easy, son,” said he. "I know how you're feelin? ”
The boy had been wrenching to get a shot at Jones; and now
the quietness of the man's voice reached his brain, and he looked
at Specimen Jones. He felt a potent brotherhood in the eyes that
were considering him, and he began to fear he had been a fool.
There was his dwarf Eastern revolver, slack in his inefficient
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fist, and the singular person still holding its barrel and tapping
one derisive finger over the end, careless of the risk to his first
joint.
"Why, you little
,” said Specimen Jones, caressingly,
to the hypnotized youth, if you was to pop that squirt off at
me, I'd turn you up and spank you. Set 'em up, Ephraim. ”
But the commercial Ephraim hesitated, and Jones remembered.
His last cent was gone. It was his third day at Ephraim's. He
had stopped, having a little money, on his way to Tucson, where
a friend had a job for him, and was waiting. He was far too
experienced a character ever to sell his horse or his saddle on
these occasions, and go on drinking. He looked as if he might,
but he never did; and this was what disappointed business men
like Ephraim in Specimen Jones.
But now, here was this tenderfoot he had undertaken to see
through, and Ephraim reminding him that he had no more of the
wherewithal. "Why, so I haven't,” he said with a short laugh,
”
and his face flushed. "I guess,” he continued hastily, this is
worth a dollar or two. " He drew a chain up from below his
flannel shirt-collar and over his head. He drew it a little slowly.
It had not been taken off for a number of years,— not, indeed,
since it had been placed there originally. “It ain't brass,” he
added lightly, and strewed it along the counter without looking
at it. Ephraim did look at it; and being satisfied, began to uncork
a new bottle while the punctual audience came up for its drink.
"Won't you please let me treat? ” said the boy unsteadily.
"I ain't likely to meet you again, sir. ” Reaction was giving him
trouble inside.
“Where are you bound, kid ? ”
"Oh, just a ways up the country," answered the boy, keeping
a grip on his voice.
"Well, you may get there. Where did you pick up that
that thing? Your pistol, I mean. ”
"It's a present from a friend,” replied the tenderfoot with
dignity.
“Farewell gift, wasn't it, kid ? Yes; I thought so. Now I'd
hate to get an affair like that from a friend. It would start me
wondering if he liked me as well as I'd always thought he did.
Put up that money, kid. You're drinking with me. Say, what's
yer name?