John Doe—and by Doe I do not mean the Doe ex dem. Gorges vs. Webb, nor
Doe, lessee of Gibbon vs. Pott. My John Doe was not a Doe of fiction,
but a gentleman of flesh and blood. He was not a great man, it is true,
except in the matter of temperance and cleanliness. As he has not gone
into history because of either of those virtues, and has no doubt been,
in the course of nature, long since gathered to his fathers, leaving no
issue, I may write of him without fear of giving offense.
The unblemished linen and highly polished shoes of Mr. Doe always
challenged my boyish admiration. The enviable condition of his shoes I
could account for. He cleaned them with his own hands, I knew, because I
had, on more than one occasion, discovered him in the act. Whatever Mr.
Doe did, he endeavored, at least, to do well. There were no dull spots
on his shoes, but an exquisite evenness of polish pervaded their whole
surface from heel to toe and from top to shank. In connection with the
linen they indicated to me the possession by their owner of an always
desirable credit. I had been taught to believe that no gentleman ever
permitted himself to be seen in foxy shoes or soiled linen. It did not
follow, of course, that all men in clean shoes and linen were gentlemen,
nor did I so understand it, but that the fortunate possessor of these
well conditioned articles of apparel presented, as it were, a _prima
facie_ case for my consideration. They were component parts, so to
speak, in the absence of which, the accomplishment of the structure
suggested would be an impossibility. The garments of Mr. Doe were rarely
new, as a whole; a new coat, for instance, was not always seen in his
company with a new pair of trousers. Whether he labored under the
impression that the display of an entire new suit upon his person would
mark him as a man of too much magnificence, or whether the condition of
his finances deterred him, I am not prepared to say. But whether new, or
napless and white at the seams, they were always innocent of dust. His
linen, however, was a mystery to me; certainly he did not himself do it
up, he kept no servant and it was not sent out. It may be surmised that
I had rather an intimate acquaintance with the domestic establishment of
Mr. Doe. I did, and it was not savory—I mean when considered from the
broom and soap and water stand-point.
The house of Mr. Doe was the home of odors, wherein the fragrance of
boiled cabbage and onions seemed to wage perpetual warfare for
supremacy. The pattern of the carpet in the best room has escaped my
memory, but a spot in it will always linger with me as fixed as in the
carpet. This spot was about the size of an ordinary chair seat, and was
always associated in my mind with a ham, a twenty pound ham; as if the
hind-quarter of a magnificent porker had suddenly melted its shape into
the brown and orange tints of the best carpet and refused, with porcine
obstinacy, to come out. The furniture, as long as I saw it, was in a
chronic state of immature cleanliness, and impressed me with the idea
that some one had been round with a wet cloth, and, having been suddenly
called to the front door, had neglected to come back.
Mrs. Doe I remember as a tall, thin lady, in a black calico gown with
little round gray and brown spots; and I have a recollection of debating
in my mind as to the original color of those spots, and of concluding
that they had at one time been uniformly white, and that that time must
have been long before I had enjoyed the acquaintance of Mrs. Doe. The
complexion of Mrs. Doe was dark, her eyes brown, and her hair, which was
abundant and black, always looked dusty and as if about to tumble down.
I remember seeing the lady once seated in a Windsor chair with her heels
resting on the front edge—at least I supposed her heels were there—her
chin resting on her knees and her hands clasped round her ankles. She
said to me upon that occasion that she was not well, and when I
sympathized with her I wondered whether it was cabbage or onions, or
both. But as I have to do principally with Mr. Doe, I trust I may not be
charged with lack of gallantry, if, without apology, I take leave of his
estimable lady.
Mr. Doe worked in blue cotton overalls six days in the week, as a maker
of watches, and walked on the seventh, the weather permitting; or he
walked on the first and worked on the other six days, as you please. He
always walked with a cane; why, was also for some time a mystery, he
being an active man with no apparent use for support of that character.
As a boy, I had an interest in both his occupation and amusement; an
ambition to possess a result of the one and to join him in the other.
Too young, and withal beset by the poverty usually attendant upon youth,
to have the first, and deterred by maternal influences from indulging in
the latter, were among my tribulations of that period. I contemplated
the bliss of walking with Mr. Doe with an eagerness hard to overcome;
and I have sometimes felt that the fear of mere reproof, unaided by the
respect in which I held the tender branches of the beautiful shellbark
in our back yard, would not have prevented my running away. One other
obstacle conspired with those already suggested, more potent perhaps
than either: permission was a condition precedent to the acquiescence of
Mr. Doe.
But there came a day when my best friend was away from home, and I felt
emboldened to interrupt my other best friend in the act of putting the
fork into the breast of a beautifully browned canvas-back, with the
suggestion, that on the morrow, with his permission, I would be pleased
to take a walk with Mr. Doe.
“Take a walk with Mr. Doe!” The wings and legs of the duck were severed
upon reaching the exclamation point, and the blade of the carver was
finding its way delicately through the plump breast and becoming dim
with the roseate tint, that denoted the skill of the cook, when he
continued:
“To-morrow is Sunday, and you should go to Sunday school and to church.”
My bosom became as bare of hope as the carcass before me was of meat.
“What would your mother say?”
“I dunno.”
“Ah, you are not certain, then?”
Thinking, perhaps, that he was pressing me too closely in the wrong
direction for his purpose, he gave me some relief by inquiring the
direction of Mr. Doe’s proposed tour.
“Out in the country.”
“Mr. Doe is going hunting, I suppose?”
“Oh, no! he wouldn’t hunt Sunday; I don’t think he’s fond of hunting;
and, besides, isn’t it wicked to hunt on Sundays, and shoot off your gun
and make a noise?”
“Perhaps it is, but—” upon reflection, at this distance of time, I
think my interrogator was about putting a leading question, suggesting
an analogy beyond my capacity to distinguish, except in the matter of
the noise. At all events he hesitated,—“but, as I am informed, Mr. Doe
generally remains away all day when he takes his walks on Sunday—you
will lose your dinner.”
“I shall not want any dinner.”
“No, of course—not till noon; but take a lunch, and be a good boy.”
I do not remember at this late day whether or not, upon the foregoing
announcement, I apprehended that Mr. Doe might, through some possible
contingency, vary his custom, and go walking Saturday afternoon. I did,
however, deem it expedient to leave my dinner unfinished, with a view of
communicating with him without delay. Receiving his assurance that he
would take me to walk with him on the morrow, I went back to my pastry.
The sun came up as usual the next day; there had been no convulsion of
nature, in our vicinity at least; the morning was cloudless, without any
prospect of untoward circumstance to interfere with our anticipated
pleasure.
Mr. Doe announced himself at our front gate immediately after breakfast;
he would no doubt have come to the door had I not obviated the necessity
for his so doing by neglecting my coffee, and nervously anticipating him
on the porch. He had his cane with him, and his shoes and linen
presented their ordinary, unobjectionable appearance, as if defiant of
criticism.
Our course was through the city, westerly some three miles, and out to a
road beyond what in those days was called “The Heights.” The
neighborhood was new to me, and Mr. Doe took pleasure, seemingly, in
pointing out various objects of interest, not forgetting walnut and
hickory trees, and even persimmons, that gave promise of good things
after frost. Among other things, I remember he called my attention to a
blue and misty looking object a great distance off, which looked in
shape like the Pyramids of Egypt, as shown in my geography. This, he
told me, was the Sugar Loaf; and when I asked him why it was so named,
he thought because it did not resemble a sugar loaf. But it was my first
mountain, and I have always carried with me a pleasant remembrance of
it. Our road lay by an old frame house, with a porch and well, at which
we stopped to drink. The house, he told me, was known as the “Bull’s
Head;” why it was so named he was unable to inform me. Finally we
reached the vicinity of it covered bridge, spanning a fine stream. He
said it was the “Chain Bridge,” but not seeing any chains, I felt
compelled to inquire why everything away from home seemed to bear titles
that were evidently not appropriate. Not being able to impart to me any
satisfactory information upon that head, he called my attention to the
Little Falls; I learned these were called Little, because there were Big
Falls farther up stream.
Mr. Doe informed me that this was a good place to fish. Unskilled in the
gentle art, but curious, I suggested that it would afford me infinite
delight to see him fish. He then wanted to know if I would not like to
try my hand; being informed of my inability to do so through lack of
knowledge and tackle, he forthwith cut a small pole, and from the hidden
recess of his coat produced a line with a float and hook. Having rigged
me out, he proceeded to unscrew the ferrule of his cane, and lo! the
inseparable walking stick was transformed into a rod; his own
manufacture, he said, as he held it out with the air of a critic and
pardonable self-complacency. The recesses of his coat were again
resorted to, resulting in a tin mustard box well filled with angle
worms. Baiting my hook, he stationed me on a large rock and directed me
to drop the lure into the gentle eddy beneath. That float, I remember,
was painted red on the top, and looked to me like a highly colored
bird’s egg drifting out of its element. Being informed that to watch it
was my business, I did so with assiduity. Presently it bobbed up and
down, then fell over on its side, then again bobbed up and down as
though it were sentient and in sound of a fiddle exuding a hornpipe. I
inquired of Mr. Doe the meaning of this, and was admonished by him to
“look out,” that I had a nibble. Of all things desirable to me at that
crisis, next to a bite, was a nibble. There was contained in it a fund
of encouragement absolutely infinite, that left hope in the distance and
resolved itself at once into faith.
“Now, jerk!” exclaimed Mr. Doe, as the float started off rapidly and
suddenly disappeared. I jerked. And behold! a bit of burnished silver
but little longer than my hand, its dorsal as suddenly expanded as if
moved by electricity, standing stiff and defiant upon the sudden change
of elements, only a shade duller than the sun’s rays, as it flashed into
the light,—any first white perch, and my initial piscatorial triumph.
Proud! The result of the accomplished details of section two of article
two of our glorious bulwark announced to the fortunate choice of the
majority of the unsoaped out of the seventeen millions and odd of the
free and enlightened, placed him upon no loftier ground; I would have
patronized His Excellency at that sublime moment.
“It was born in you,” said Mr. Doe, as he relieved the captive and
placed him in my outstretched hands. My perception of Mr. Doe’s meaning
was intuitive, and I suggested that I would like conviction impressed
upon the mind of my other best friend by a personal examination of this
peerless perch. Nothing could be more easily accomplished; it was
slipped on a stout string and consigned to an isolated pool. During the
ensuing hour my attention was divided between the jail of my captive,
the red-top cork and the actions of Mr. Doe; that gentleman had
stationed himself a few yards below me, and had secured quite a
respectable string of perch, while I had added several, beside two
tobacco-boxes, to my own.
At lunch it dawned upon me to inquire of Mr. Doe if he did not think it
wicked to fish on the Sabbath. My recollection is that he felt loth to
set himself up as a judge in the matter. But the leaping stream, the
picturesque rocks, the trees and sweet air had attractions for him, and
he could enjoy them but one day in seven; for those who had nothing else
to do the case might be different; he thought that perhaps education had
much to do with the matter—“One man esteemeth one day above another;
another esteemeth every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in
his own mind;” said Mr. Doe.
Somehow it crept into my youthful imagination, as I listened to him,
that the beautiful river, the rocks and the trees, had been created for
him, but that he claimed no monopoly. Yet no rich man could purchase
them nor deprive him of his property; that for this he was thankful, and
entertained for the philanthropic Creator of these the same sort of
reverence, but in a new and quiet way, that I had been accustomed to
hear must, to be acceptable, be expressed within doors. And I wondered,
if he should be so unfortunate as to die then and there, whether he
would go to heaven. My doubts as to myself, and the propriety of my
participation in his peculiar worship were grave in the extreme.
The doubts, however, did not prevent my renewing the fascinating
occupation of the forenoon, and thereby adding a few more victims to my
already questionable spoils.
The shadows began to lengthen and grow quite grotesque is their
attenuation, before I inquired of Mr. Doe as to his intentions about
returning. He gave as his reason for not going sooner that he deferred
to the prejudices of others to the extent of avoiding any aggressive
expression of his own opinions, by trailing his fish through town in
daylight. That while he saw no impropriety in passing the Sabbath
out-doors in the fresh air and sunlight, there were those who would be
shocked at what they deemed a desecration. He felt responsible to a
higher authority for his acts, and would render his accounts at the
proper forum in due course of time. Meanwhile he proposed to follow the
admonition of the great apostle: “_If it be possible_, as much as lieth
in you, live peaceably with all men.” Upon this he transformed his rod
again into a walking stick, carefully stowed away the lines, and threw
the remaining bait into the stream; we gathered up what had been
vouchsafed us and started for home.
Tho condition of Mr. Doe’s mind was unquestionably tranquil, while mine
was incumbered with doubts, yet devoid of apprehension, in the matter of
serious consequences, at least. Our walk home was accomplished
satisfactorily, the latter part of it being in the dark through the
neighborhoods where we were best known, the twilight being short in that
latitude and gas then only a possibility. He who had given me permission
to go walking expressed severe astonishment at the evidences of the
day’s doings presented to him. Mr. Doe was not a large man, but his
shoulders were broad; he improved upon our original ancestor by assuming
the responsibility. My enthusiastic portrayal of the delights
experienced were listened to, I thought, with interest; I did not go
supperless to bed, and I had some of the fish for breakfast. The diet
was no novelty, but the flavor upon that occasion far surpassed that of
any former experience, and no fish since has tasted so sweet as that
first perch. The burnished silver tint had given way to an exquisite
brown, delicate as the hue of an amber cloud painted by the evening rays
of an autumn sun. Crisp, and with a fragrance to subdue the censorious
palate of an epicure, he invited me to remove his dorsal, and lay bare
in equal halves the firm, white meat; next, without a hair’s-breadth
torn, the backbone cleaved as smoothly as a type from its matrix, and
appetite and palate joined in adulation. I would cherish the memory
tenderly, but, above all, the text and sermon of Mr. Doe.