Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer among the Indians

by Twain, Mark

  Negro melodies the same trend: Old Kentucky Home; (de day goes by like a shadow on de wall, wid sorrow where all was delight;) Massa’s in de Cold Ground; Swanee River.

  The gushing Crusaders admired; the serenade was a survival or a result of this literature.

  Any young person would have been proud of a “strain” of Indian blood. Bright Alfarata of the blue Juniata got her strain from “a far distant fount.”

  All that sentimentality and romance among young folk seem puerile, now, but when one examines it and compares it with the ideals of to-day, it was the preferable thing. It was soft, sappy, melancholy; but money had no place in it. To get rich was no one’s ambition—it was not in any young person’s thoughts. The heroes of these young people—even the pirates—were moved by lofty impulses: they waded in blood, in the distant fields of war and adventure and upon the pirate deck, to rescue the helpless, not to make money; they spent their blood and made their self-sacrifices for “honor’s” sake, not to capture a giant fortune; they married for love, not for money and position. It was an intensely sentimental age, but it took no sordid form. The Californian rush for wealth in ’49 introduced the change and begot the lust for money which is the rule of life to-day, and the hardness and cynicism which is the spirit of to-day.

  The three “rich” men were not worshiped, and not envied. They were not arrogant, nor assertive, nor tyrannical, nor exigeant. It was California that changed the spirit of the people and lowered their ideals to the plane of to-day.

  Unbeliever. There was but one—Blennerhasset, the young Kentucky lawyer, a fascinating cuss—and they shuddered to hear him talk. They expected a judgment to fall upon him at any moment. They believed the devil would come for him in person some stormy night.

  He was very profane, and blasphemous. He was vain of being prayed for in the revivals; vain of being singled out for this honor always by every new revivalist; vain of the competition between these people for his capture; vain that it was the ambition of each in his turn to hang this notable scalp at his belt. The young ladies were ambitious to convert him.

  Chastity. There was the utmost liberty among young people—but no young girl was ever insulted, or seduced, or even scandalously gossiped about. Such things were not even dreamed of in that society, much less spoken of and referred to as possibilities.

  Two or three times, in the lapse of years, married women were whispered about, but never an unmarried one.

  Ouseley. Prosperous merchant. Smoked fragrant cigars—regalias—5 apiece. Killed old Smar. Acquitted. His party brought him huzzaing in from Palmyra at midnight. But there was a cloud upon him—a social chill—and he presently moved away.

  The Hanged Nigger. He raped and murdered a girl of 13 in the woods. He confessed to forcing 3 young women in Va, and was brought away in a feather bed to save his life—which was a valuable property.

  The Stabbed Cal Emigrant. Saw him.

  Judge Carpenter knocked MacDonald down with a mallet and saved Charley Schneider. Mac in return came near shooting Col. Elgin in the back of the head.

  Clint Levering drowned. His less fortunate brother lived to have a family and be rich and respected.

  Garth. Presbyterians. Tobacco. Eventually rich. David, teacher in S. school. Later, Supt.

  John. Mrs. Horr and the others. He removed to New York and became a broker, and prosperous. Returned, and brought Helen Kercheval to Brooklyn in ’68. Presently went back to St P. and remained. Banker, rich. Raised 2 beautiful daughters and a son.

  Old Kercheval the tailor. Helen did not like his trade to be referred to.

  His apprentice saved Simon Carpenter’s life—aged 9—from drowning, and was cursed for it by Simon for 50 years.

  Daily Packet Service to Keokuk. The merchants—envied by all the untraveled town—made trips to the great city (of 30,000 souls). St. L papers had pictures of Planters House, and sometimes an engraved letter-head had a picture of the city front, with the boats sardined at the wharf and the modest spire of the little Cath Cathedral showing prominently; and at last when a minor citizen realized the dream of his life and traveled to St. Louis, he was thrilled to the marrow when he recognized the rank of boats and the spire and the Planters, and was amazed at the accuracy of the pictures and at the fact that the things were realities and not inventions of the imagination. He talked St Louis, and nothing but S L and its wonders for months and months afterward. “Call that a fire-uniform! you ought to see a turn-out in St L.—blocks and blocks and blocks of red shirts and helmets, and more engines and hosecarts and hook and ladder Co’s—my!”

  4th July. Banners. Declaration and Spreadeagle speech in public square. Procession—Sunday schools, Masons, Odd Fellows, Temperance Society, Cadets of Temperance, the Co of St P Greys, the Fantastics (oh, so funny!) and of course the Fire Co and Sam R. Maybe in the woods. Collation in the cool shade of a tent. Gingerbread in slabs; lemonade; ice cream. Opened with prayer—closed with a blessing.

  Circus.

  Mesmerizer.

  Nigger Show, (the swell pet tenor) Prendergast

  Bell-Ringers (Swiss)

  Debating Society.

  National Intelligencer. Dr. Peake.

  St. L. Republican.

  Old Pitts, the saddler. Always rushed wildly down street putting on coat as he went—rushed aboard—nothing for him, of course.

  John Hannicks, with the laugh. See black smoke rising beyond point—“Steeammmboat a coming!” Laugh. Rattle his dray.

  Bill Pitts, saddler, succeeded his father.

  Ben Coontz—sent a son to W. Point.

  Glover (protégé of old T. K. Collins) really did become a famous lawyer in St L., but St P always said he was a fool and nothing to him.

  The Mock Duel.

  Lavinia Honeyman captured “celebrated” circus-rider—envied for the unexampled brilliancy of the match—but he got into the penitentiary at Jefferson City and the romance was spoiled.

  Ratcliffes. One son lived in a bark hut up at the stillhouse branch and at intervals came home at night and emptied the larder. Back door left open purposely; if notice was taken of him he would not come.

  Another son had to be locked into a small house in corner of the yard—and chained. Fed through a hole. Would not wear clothes, winter or summer. Could not have fire. Religious mania. Believed his left hand had committed a mortal sin and must be sacrificed. Got hold of a hatchet, nobody knows how, and chopped it off. Escaped and chased his stepmother all over the house with carving knife. The father arrived and rescued her. He seemed to be afraid of his father, and could be cowed by him, but by no one else. He died in that small house.

  One son became a fine physician and in California ventured to marry; but went mad and finished his days in the asylum. The old Dr., dying, said, “Don’t cry; rejoice—shout. This is the only valuable day I have known in my 65 years.” His grandfather’s generation had been madmen—then the disease skipped to his. He said Nature laid a trap for him: slyly allowed all his children to be born before exposing the taint.

  Blennerhasset enlarged upon it and said Nature was always treacherous—did not single him out, but spared nobody.

  B. went to K. to get married. All present at the wedding but himself. Shame and grief of the bride; indignation of the rest. A year later he would be found—bridally clad—shut into the family vault in the graveyard—spring lock and the key on the outside. His mother had but one pet and he was the one—because he was an infidel and the target of bitter public opinion. He always visited her tomb when at home, but the others didn’t. So the judgment hit him at last. He was found when they came to bury a sister. There had been a theft of money in the town, and people managed to suspect him; but it was not found on him.

  Judge Carpenter. Married in Lexington in ’23; he 24, his wife 20. She married him to spite young Dr. Ray, to whom she was engaged, and who wouldn’t go to a neighboring town, 9 miles, in the short hours of the night, to bring her home from a ball.

  He was a sma
ll storekeeper. Removed to Jamestown and kept a store. Entered 75,000 acres of land (oil land, later). Three children born there. The stray calf.

  Removed to village of Florida. M. born there—died at 10. Small storekeeper. Then to St P middle of 1838. Rest of the family born there—Han and B. died there. The mother made the children feel the cheek of the dead boy, and tried to make them understand the calamity that had befallen. The case of memorable treachery.

  Still a small storekeeper—but progressing. Then Ira Stout, who got him to go security for a large sum, “took the benefit of the bankrupt law” and ruined him—in fact made a pauper of him.

  Became justice of the peace and lived on its meagre pickings.

  Stern, unsmiling, never demonstrated affection for wife or child. Had found out he had been married to spite another man. Silent, austere, of perfect probity and high principle; ungentle of manner toward his children, but always a gentleman in his phrasing—and never punished them—a look was enough, and more than enough.

  Had but one slave—she wanted to be sold to Beebe, and was. He sold her down the river. Was seen, years later, ch. on steamboat. Cried and lamented. Judge whipped her once, for impudence to his wife—whipped her with a bridle.

  It was remembered that he went to church—once; never again. His family were abandoned Presbyterians. What his notions about religion were, no one ever knew. He never mentioned the matter; offered no remarks when others discussed it. Whoever tried to drag a remark out of him failed; got a courteous answer or a look which discouraged further effort, and that person understood, and never approached the matter again.

  If he had intimates at all, it was Peake and Draper. Peake was very old in the 40s, and wore high stock, pigtail and up to ’40, still wore kneebreeches and buckle-shoes. A courtly gentleman of the old school—a Virginian, like Judge C.

  Judge C. was elected County Judge by a great majority in ’49, and at last saw great prosperity before him. But of course caught his death the first day he opened court. He went home with pneumonia, 12 miles, horseback, winter—and in a fortnight was dead. First instance of affection: discovering that he was dying, chose his daughter from among the weepers, who were kneeling about the room and crying—and motioned her to come to him. Drew her down to him, with his arms about her neck, kissed her (for the first time, no doubt,) and said “Let me die”—and sunk back and the death rattle came. Ten minutes before, the Pres. preacher had said, “Do you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and that through his blood only you can be saved?” “I do.” Then the preacher prayed over him and recommended him. He did not say good-bye to his wife, or to any but his daughter.

  The autopsy.

  Jimmy Reagan, from St Louis.

  Carey Briggs, from Galena and also from Bayou Lafourche.

  Priscella. Old maid at 25, married W. Moffett, mouldy old bachelor of 35—a St L commission merchant and well off. He died 1865, rich ($20,000) leaving little boy and girl.

  Oscar. Born Jamestown, 1825. About 1842, aged 17, went to St. L to learn to be a printer, in Ustick’s job office.

  At 18, wrote home to his mother, that he was studying the life of Franklin and closely imitating him; that in his boarding house he was confining himself to bread and water, and was trying to persuade the other young boarders and Ustick’s other cubs, to eschew beer. They called him Parson Snivel and gave him frank and admirable cursings, and urged him to mind his own business. All of which pleased him, and made him a hero to himself: for he was turning his other cheek, as commanded, he was being reviled and persecuted for righteousness’ sake, and all that. Privately his little Presbyterian mother was not pleased with this too-literal loyalty to the theoretical Bible-teachings which he had acquired through her agency, for, slender and delicately moulded as she was, she had a dauntless courage and a high spirit, and was not of the cheek-turning sort. She believed fervently in her religion and strenuously believed it was a person’s duty to turn the cheek, but she was quite open and aboveboard in saying that she wouldn’t turn her own cheek nor respect anybody that did. “Why, how do you reconcile that with—” “I don’t reconcile it with anything. I am the way I am made. Religion is a jugfull; I hold a dipperfull; you can’t crowd a jugful of ANYthing into a dipper—there’s no way. I’m holding what I can, and I’m not going to cry because I can’t crowd the rest in. I know that a person that can turn his cheek is higher and holier than I am, and better every way. And of course I reverence him; but I despise him, too, and I wouldn’t have him for a doormat.”

  We know what she meant. Her attitude is easily understandable, but we get our comprehension of it not through her explanation of it but in spite of it. Her language won’t scan, but its meaning is clear, all the same.

  She did not show Oscar’s letter to his father; the Judge would have taken no great interest in it. There were few points of contact between him and his son; there were few or no openings for sympathy between the two. The father was as steady as a church-tower, the son as capricious as the weather-vane on its top. Steady people do not admire the weather-vane sort.

  But the mother answered the letter; and she poured out her affection upon her boy, and her praises, too; praises of his resolution to be a Franklin and become great and good and renowned; for she always said that he was distrustful of himself and a prey to despondences, and that no opportunity to praise him and encourage him must be lost, or he would lose heart and be defeated in his struggles to gain the front in the race of life. She had to do all the encouraging herself; the rest of the family were indifferent, and this wounded her, and brought gentle reproaches out of her that were strangely eloquent and moving, considering how simple and unaffected her language was, and how effortless and unconscious. But there was a subtle something in her voice and her manner that was irresistably pathetic, and perhaps that was where a great part of the power lay; in that and in her moist eyes and trembling lip. I know now that she was the most eloquent person whom I have met in all my days, but I did not know it then, and I suppose that no one in all the village suspected that she was a marvel, or indeed that she was in any degree above the common. I had been abroad in the world for twenty years and known and listened to many of its best talkers before it at last dawned upon me that in the matter of moving and pathetic eloquence none of them was the equal of that untrained and artless talker out there in the western village, that obscure little woman with the beautiful spirit and the great heart and the enchanted tongue.

  Oscar’s mother praised in her letter what she was able to praise; and she praised forcefully and generously and heartily, too. There was no uncertain ring about her words. But her gorge rose at the cheek-turning heroisms, and since she could not commend them and be honest, she skipped them wholly, and made no reference to them.

  Oscar’s next week’s letter showed further progress. He was now getting up at four in the morning, because that was Franklin’s way; he had divided his day on the Franklin plan—eight hours for labor, eight for sleep, eight for study, meditation and exercise; he had pinned Franklin’s rules up in a handy place, and divided the hours into minutes, and distributed the minutes among the rules, each minute sacred to its appointed duty: so many minutes for the morning prayer; so many for the Bible chapter; so many for the dumb-bells; so many for the bath; so many for What did I do yesterday that was morally and mentally profitable? What did I do which should have been left undone? What opportunity did I neglect of doing good? Whom did I injure, whom did I help, whose burden did I lighten? How shall I order this day to the approval of God, my own spiritual elevation, and the betterment of my fellow beings? And so on, and so on, all the way through: sixteen waking hours cut up into minutes, and each minute labeled with its own particular duty-tag.

  He wrote it all home to his mother; and added that he found that life was a noble and beautiful thing when reduced to order and system; that he was astonished to see what briskness, mentally and physically, early rising gave him, and what a difference he could already notice between h
imself and the late-rising boarders—the greatest difference in the world, and all in four days.

  But he said he had taken to his lamp again, for he had found that he could not read his fine-print books by the Franklin tallow candle. Also, he had been to a lecture, and was now a vegetarian, and an enthusiastic one. He had discarded bread, and also water; vegetables, pure and simple, made the most effective and inspiring diet in the world, and the most thoroughly satisfying; he wondered how his intellect had ever survived the gross food with which he had formerly burdened it; but he sometimes almost feared that it had suffered impairment. He had mentioned this fear to the foreman of the office, but the foreman had said, almost with enthusiasm, considering what a lifeless and indifferent man he usually was, “Don’t worry—nothing can impair your intellect.”

  The mother’s face flushed when she read that, and the foreman was better off where he was than he would have been, here, in reach of her tongue.

  Hellfire Hotchkiss

  Chapter 1

  “But James, he is our son, and we must bear with him. If we cannot bear with him, how can we expect others to do it?”

  “I have not said I expected it, Sarah. I am very far from expecting it. He is the most trying ass that was ever born.”

  “James! You forget that he is our son.”

  “That does not save him from being an ass. It does not even take the sting out of it.”

  “I do not see how you can be so hard toward your own flesh and blood. Mr. Rucker does not think of him as you do.”

  “And why should he? Mr. Rucker is an ass himself.”

  “James—do think what you are saying. Do you think it becoming to speak so of a minister—a person called of God?”

  “Who said he was?”

  “Who said he was? Now you are becoming blasphemous. His office is proof that he was called.”

  “Very well, then, perhaps he was. But it was an error of judgment.”