|
|
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH THE TOWN IS THROWN INTO A STATE OF ALARM, AND SUNDRY OTHER
THINGS WORTH MENTIONING.
THE nonresistant, resolving to make the street his castle, stood for
some minutes making grimaces, and hurling coarse invective at the
landlord, who, with sundry idlers, had gathered into the portico. He
then took his leave, swearing to have satisfaction of his
assailants, as Giles Sheridan, looking out at the window, said he
should long remember the fellow for the courtesy he had manifested
towards him.
Peace being restored, the landlord, his shirt ruffle in a sad
plight, returned to apologize for the disturbance to his guests;
while peeping in at the door, I saw Bessie, her black eyes almost
swimming in tears, and evidently alarmed for my safety. Again Giles
Sheridan spoke up and said: "It can be no good that brought the
fellow hither. He must have been begotten under an evil star, and
nursed by a virago. The fellow has but to take good care of his
invective; and if he adopt the ass instead of the madman, he may in
time become an excellent critic." Here he paused, turned his head
quickly, and frisked his fingers nervously through his straight,
silvery hair. The clerical looking groom, hearing the little
deformed man speak thus, led his young bride frightened to bed.
The lecturer now drew a much worn and almost illegible manuscript
from his pocket, and commenced reading to me a few passages from it,
in a clear, shrill voice, and with much earnestness of manner. His
love of approbation, I saw, was only equaled by his want of
self-confidence, which made him anxious to hear what I would say of
it. So I listened with more than ordinary attention while he read,
and then expressed a firm belief that the people of Barnstable could
not fail to appreciate his ascetics. This so encouraged him that his
heart seemed beating with joy, and he warmed into enthusiasm, and
read on, watching intently the changes of my countenance, as if he
wished to read in them my fleeting thoughts. I was about to inquire
whether it were good policy to measure public taste by one's own,
when he paused, and heaving a sigh, said in a modulated tone of
voice, that so many queer inquiries had been made of him respecting
Crabbe, that he began to doubt whether he could interest the people
in a discourse upon the character of one they had scarce heard of.
No longer ago than yesterday, he said, General Sam Wheeler, the
popular high school committeeman, looked in to say, that it was
getting all over Barnstable, and had very nearly got into the
columns of the Patriot, that he had been got down by the evil agency
of the anti-temperance men to lecture on a new process of making
brandy from crab apples. And the Baptist clergyman rather encouraged
this report, which was doing serious damage. I was told, too, that
the subject of my lecture had been warmly debated by the ladies of
the Orthodox Sewing Circle, where Mrs. Silas Heywood, who had
written several strong articles for the Patriot, which journal
adopted them as its own, was heard to declare emphatically that she
had never heard of this man Crabbe, though she had read no end of
books. Miss Bruce had been six quarters at the high-school, knew
something of Latin and algebra, and had taken music lessons of
Monsieur Pensin,; but she had never heard of Crabbe until she read
"Night and Morning," where, out of sheer affectation, as it seemed
to her, she found that the author had made sundry quotations from
him to adorn the heads of his chapters. As for Miss Leland, who had
been two years abroad with her father and mother, and was supposed
to know all about literature and the poets, she thought Mr. Crabbe
could not be much, since she had not even heard of him while in
England. Mr. Faulkner, the storekeeper, had not a book of Crabbe on
his shelves, though he dealt largely in hardware and literature, and
was a very respectable scholar. And Squire Brigham, the lawyer, who
mixed himself up with other people's business a great deal, busied
himself in saying: Crabbe must have been an obscure fellow, for
though there was a pyramid of old books in his library, he had not
one of this author's among them; and perhaps he ought to be thankful
for it, for indeed Mrs. Forbush had said to him in confidence, that
she understood of the little deformed man that Crabbe had written
some very bad things of lawyers. Mrs. Forbush went regularly to
Boston to get the fashions and attend the Lowell lectures; Mrs.
Forbush had written a religious novel for the "Olive Branch;" Mrs.
Forbush said, who would have thought of giving such a looking little
creature five dollars and his victuals for lecturing upon such a
subject
The cry of fire without, and the loud peals of an alarm bell,
suddenly threw the town and the tavern into a state of great
excitement. Giles Sheridan stopped short in his discourse, and the
inmates of the house rushed in great agitation into the street. The
alarm spread rapidly, and people began to run in every direction but
the right one. One declared it a false alarm. That it was set on
foot to afford recreation for the mischievous, another was quite
sure. A third was ready to swear he saw the incendiary run down "the
lane." People ran in opposite directions, crying fire. People,
wayward and confused, were endeavoring to persuade one another that
the scene of the fire was not in the direction they were going,
though neither smoke nor flame could be seen in any part of the
town. And while the people were thus confused, an harsh and grating
voice cried out that the fire was down the lane, a narrow pathway
that led from one part of the town to another. The confused figures
of men who had stood contemplating here and there about the square,
now rushed down the lane, and soon came in hearing of moans and
lamentations, which grew louder and louder, as of one in great
distress. "Oh! unworthy sinner that I am, let every man exert
himself to remedy this misfortune!" a stifled voice was heard to cry
out, as a crowd, having gathered round a pit, where some workmen had
been digging for a well, discovered no less a person at the bottom,
half buried in sand and water, than Major Roger Potter. "Peace, good
man, and thy misfortune shall be remedied soon," said the Orthodox
clergyman, who was among the alarmists, and, notwithstanding his
accustomed frigidity, could scarce suppress a smile at seeing the
major cut so sorry a figure. The clergyman now ordered the
bystanders, who were much more inclined to enjoy the joke, to bring
ropes, and assist in relieving the distressed man, who, if not a
friend of the church, was at least a Christian. "Aye, aye,"
responded the major, "and be not long about it, for the sand is
caving in, and I feel the devil fingering my toes." Seeing the
people come to his relief, the major regained his courage, (for when
discovered he was nearly frightened out of his wits,) and began
heaping curses upon the head of the miscreant who had laid so
diabolical a plot against his life. Indeed, he stubbornly refused to
be convinced that it was anything else than a trick of his enemies
to rob him of his military title. In fine, he declared to the
parson, who several times rebuked him for his free use of profane
adjectives, that nothing but his good will for mankind in general
prevented him from taking summary vengeance of his enemies with his
sword, which, fortunately for those who were making light of his
distress, he had left at home. It was not that he set so high a
value upon his life, for he had shown while in the Mexican War that
he was not wanting in valor, and was ready at any moment to
sacrifice it to his honor; but it sorely grieved him to think of
what a loss the nation and Barnstable would suffer in his death by
falling into a pit.
The rabble, as he called those who had come to his relief, now began
to jeer him, and to demand of him a speech, merely to occupy the
time while ropes necessary to his deliverance were being brought.
This so enraged the major, that in addition to swearing he would not
be drawn up by such a set of inhuman rascals, he commenced to curse
his hard fate. A few moments more and he became calm, and looking up
beseechingly in the clergyman's face, which was reflected by the
light of a lantern, he enjoined him to hasten to his wife, Polly
Potter, and tell her of the plight he was in. She had never forsaken
him in his misfortunes. But the clergyman was scrupulous of his
dignity, and not fancying the strong quality of the expletives he
was using, took his leave, saying he could not waste sympathy upon
one who so far forgot his afflictions as to take the name of the
Lord in vain.
Ropes were now at hand, and amidst much laughter and jeering, the
major was relieved from his perilous position, not, however, until
his face had received some bruises and his garments much injury. The
crowd now professed so much affection for him, that he began to
deplore the loss of his temper, and to offer apologies for what he
had said when in the pit, which were readily accepted, with regrets
for his misfortune. Indeed, he inwardly congratulated himself that
he had not lost a whit of his political or military popularity, and
that the mishap was one of those peculiar interpositions of
Providence which may occur in the life of any great man. As to the
oaths that had lost him the friendship of the clergyman, he
regretted them from the very bottom of his heart, and hoped his
friends, in the exercise of that generosity they had ever evinced
for him, would set them down to the bewildered and confused state of
his faculties. Hoping he would never again be in a condition to
merit their jokes, the major bowed in the politest manner, and
turned to take his departure, adding that he would have to perform
certain offices pleasing to his wife, Polly. He had, however, no
sooner turned his back, than the crowd gave out shouts of laughter,
seeing the condition his nether garments were in. Being unconscious
of the cause, the major mistook their shouts for a manifestation of
his popularity, and having paused to acknowledge it with a bow,
continued on his way as the crowd dispersed.
It seems that the mischievous urchins, on seeing the major enter the
tavern, mounted his team and drove several times round the town, the
pig and chickens keeping up a medley of noise that seriously annoyed
numerous peaceably-disposed citizens. And having satisfied their
mischievous propensities, they left old Battle to himself, knowing
that he would keep faith with his master. Finding his faithful
animal gone, when he issued from the tavern, the major, not doubting
the steady habits of his horse, very naturally believed that he had
taken his way home, and thus forestalled his arrival. The only thing
that caused him any fear was, that some accident might occur to his
live stock. He therefore took the shortest road home, and so
completely absorbed in the contemplation of his profits, and of the
prospect of another chance for political fame, was he, that he
hastened on regardless of the planks the workmen had placed round
the well they were digging, and of which he became conscious only
when he had tumbled some twenty feet to the bottom. Beginning to
sink deeper and deeper in the sand, from which all his efforts to
extricate himself failed, he set up a cry of fire, regarding it the
one which would soonest bring him relief. And this cry he bawled
until he sent the whole town into a state of excitement.
And now, since I have exhausted the limits of my chapter, I must
reserve what took place between the major and his wife Polly, and
how she almost fainted at seeing him enter the house in so shattered
a condition, for another chapter.
|
Babbitt by Sinclair Lewis
|