TOPPLETON MAKES A FAIR START.
A FEW weeks later Toppleton was able to report progress to his invisible
client. He had the sonnet to Barncastle of Burningford and was much
pleased with it, because, in spite of the fact that it was two lines too
long, he was confident that it would prove very fetching to the man to
whom it was addressed.
"You ought to take out those two extra lines, though," said the exile.
"Barncastle is a great stickler for form, and he will be antagonized at
once by your violation of the rules."
"Not a bit of it," returned Toppleton. "Those lines stay right there,
and I'll tell you why. In the first place Barncastle, as an Englishman,
will see in the imperfect sonnet something that will strike him as a bit
of American audacity, which will be very pleasing to him, and will give
him something to talk about. As a Briton you are probably aware that
your countrymen are very fond of discovering outrages of that sort in
the work of those over the sea, because it is a sort of convincing proof
that the American as a writer is still an inferior, and that England's
controlling interest in the Temple of Immortality is in no danger of
passing into alien hands. In the second place, he will be so pleased
with the extra amount of flattery that is crammed into those two lines
that he will not have the heart to criticize them; and thirdly, as one
who knows it all, he will be prompted to send for me to come to him, in
order that he may point out to me in a friendly spirit one or two little
imperfections in what he will call my otherwise exquisite verse. I tell
you what it is, Edward," said Toppleton, pausing a moment, "I never
devoted myself with any particular assiduity to Latin, Greek, or
mathematics, but when it comes to human nature, I am, as we New Yorkers
say, a daisy, which means that I am the flower upon which you may safely
bet as against the field."
"You certainly have an ingenious mind, Hopkins," returned the exile,
"and I hope it will all go as you say, but I fear, Hopkins, I fear."
"Wait and see," was Hopkins' confident reply, and being unable to do
otherwise the exile obeyed.
In three days the sonnet was printed, and so fixed that it appeared to
be a clipping from the _Rocky Mountain Quarterly Review, a Monthly
Magazine_.
"That'll strike him as another interesting Americanism," said Hopkins,
with a chuckle. "There is no people on earth but my own who would dare
publish a quarterly twelve times a year."
To the sonnet was appended the name "Hopkins Parkerberry Toppleton;"
Parkerberry being a novelty introduced into the signature by the young
lawyer, not because he was at all entitled to it, but for the proper
reason, as he said, that no American poet was worth a nickel who hadn't
three sections to his name. A note with a distinctly western flavour to
it was penned, and with the "decoy" sonnet went that night to
Burningford Castle addressed to "His Excellency, Lord Barncastle," and
then Toppleton and the exile sat down to await the result.
They had not many days to wait, for within a week of the dispatch of the
poem and the note Hopkins, on reaching the office one morning, found the
exile in a great state of excitement over a square envelope lying on the
floor immediately under the letter slot Hopkins had had made in the
door.
"It's come, Hopkins, it's come!" cried the exile.
"What's come?" queried Hopkins, calmly.
"The letter from Barncastle. I recognize my handwriting. It came last
night about five minutes after you left the office, and I have been in a
fever of excitement to learn its contents ever since. Do open it at
once. What does he say?"
"Be patient, Edward, don't get so excited. Suppose you were to have an
apoplectic stroke!"
"I can't be patient, and I can't have apoplexy, so do hurry. What do I
say?"
"Seems to me," returned Hopkins, picking up the letter and slowly
opening it, "it seems to me you are getting confused. But let's see;
what _does_ Barncastle say? H'm!" he said, reading the note.
"'Barncastle Hall, Fenwick Morton, Mascottonton-on-the-Barbundle,
December 19th, 189--. Hopkins Parkerberry Toppleton, Esquire, 17,
Temple, London. Dear Sir,--I have to thank you for your favour and
enclosure of the 13th inst. Your sonnet is but one of a thousand
gratifying evidences I am daily receiving that I have managed to win to
no inconsiderable degree the good will of your countrymen. It is also
evidence to me that you are a young man of much talent in the line of
original versification, since, apart from the sentiment you express,
your sonnet is one of the most original I have ever seen, not only for
its length, but also for the wonderful mixture of your metaphor. It is
truly characteristic of your great and growing country, and I cannot
resist your naive appeal to be permitted to meet the unworthy object of
its praise. I should be gratified to have you to dinner at Barncastle
Hall, at eight o'clock on the evening of December 23rd, 189--. Kindly
inform me by return post if your engagements will permit us to have the
pleasure of having you with us on that evening. Believe me to be, with
sentiments of regard, ever, my dear sir, faithfully yours, BARNCASTLE.'"
"By heavens!" ejaculated the exile, in delighted accents, "you've got
there, Hopkins, you've got there. You'll go, of course?"
"Well, rather," returned Toppleton; "and to carry out the illusion, as
well as to pique his interest in America, I'll wear a blue dress coat.
But first let me reply."
"Dear Barncastle," he wrote. "I'll be there. Yours for
keeps,--TOPPLETON."
"How's that?" he asked, reading it aloud to the exile.
"You're not going to send that, are you?" said the exile in disgust.
"I'm not, eh? Well just you watch me and see," said Toppleton. "Why,
Edward, that will be the biggest _coup_ of the lot. He will get that
letter, and he will be amused by it, and the more he thinks of it the
more he'll like it, and then he'll say to himself, 'why, this man is a
character;' and then do you know what will happen, Chatford?"
"I'll be hanged if I do," growled the exile.
"Well, I'll tell you. He will invite all the high panjandrums he knows
to that dinner to meet me, and he will tell them that I am an original,
and they'll all come, Chatford, just as they would flock to see a
seven-humped camel or a dwarf eight feet high, and then I will have Lord
Barncastle of Burningford just where I want him. I could browbeat him
for weeks alone and never frighten him, but once I let him know that I
know his secret, in the presence of his wife and a brilliant company,
_he_ will be apprehensive, and, if I mistake not, will be more or less
within my reach."
"Lady Barncastle is no longer living," said the exile. "His household is
presided over by his daughter."
"Very well," said Hopkins. "We'll dazzle the daughter too."
"Is this the way American lawyers do business generally?" sneered the
exile.
"No," returned Toppleton; "there is probably not another American lawyer
who would take a case like yours. That's the one respect in which they
resemble your English lawyers, but I'll tell you one thing. When they
start in to do a thing they do it, unless their clients get too fresh,
and then they stop _in medias res_."
"I hope there is nothing personal in your remarks, Hopkins," said the
exile, uneasily.
"That all depends on you," retorted Hopkins. "Despite your croakings and
fears, the first step we have taken has proven justifiable. We have
accomplished what we set out to accomplish. I am invited to meet the
fiend. Score one point for us. Now, when I advance a proposition for the
scoring of a second point, you sneer. Well, sneer. I'll win the case for
you, just to spite you. This despised note posted to Barncastle, I shall
order a blue dress coat with brass buttons on it. I shall purchase, if
it is to be found in London, one of those beaver hats on which the fur
is knee deep, a red necktie, and a diamond stud. My trousers I shall
have cut to fit the contour of my calves like a glove. I shall sport the
largest silver watch to be found on the Strand, with a gold chain heavy
enough to sustain a weight of five hundred pounds; in short, Chatford,
you won't be able to distinguish me from one of Teniel's caricatures of
Uncle Sam."
"You won't be able to deceive Barncastle that way. He's seen New Yorkers
before."
"Barncastle doesn't know I'm a New Yorker, and he won't find it out. He
thinks I'm from the Rocky Mountains, and he knows enough about geography
to be aware that the Rocky Mountains aren't within two hours' walk of
Manhattan Island. He knows that there is a vast difference between a
London gentleman and a son of the soil of Yorkshire, and he doesn't know
but what there are a million citizens of our great republic who go about
dressed up in fantastic garments similar to those I shall wear to his
dinner. If he is surprised, his surprise will add to his interest, and
materially contribute to the pleasure of those whom he invites to see
the animal the untamed poet of the Rockies. See?"
"Yes, I see," said the exile. "But clothes won't make the illusion
complete. You look too much like a gentleman; your manners are too
polished. A man like Barncastle will see through you in a minute."
"Again, Chatford, I am sorry that your possessions are nil, for I would
like to wager you that your noble other self will do nothing of the
sort. I have not been an amateur actor for nothing, and as for manners I
can be as bad mannered as any nabob in creation if I try. Don't you
worry on that score."
The acceptance of Lord Barncastle's invitation was therefore sent as
Hopkins wrote it, and the ensuing days were passed by the young lawyer
in preparing the extraordinary dinner suit he had described to his
anxious client, who could hardly be persuaded that in taking this step
Toppleton was not committing a bit of egregious folly. He could not
comprehend how Barncastle upon receipt of Hopkins' note could be
anything but displeased at the familiarity of its tone. The idea of a
common untitled mortal like Toppleton even assuming to be upon familiar
terms with a member of the aristocracy, and especially one so high as
Barncastle of Burningford, oppressed him. He would as soon expect an
ordinary tradesman to slap the Prince of Wales on the back, and call him
by one of his first names, without giving offence, as that Barncastle
should tolerate Toppleton's behaviour, and he in consequence was fearful
of the outcome.
Toppleton, on the other hand, went ahead with his extraordinary
sartorial preparations, serenely confident that the events of the next
few days would justify his course. The exile was relieved to find that
the plan was of necessity modified, owing to Toppleton's inability to
find a typical Uncle Sam beaver in London; but his relief was
short-lived, for Hopkins immediately proceeded to remedy this defect by
purchasing a green cotton umbrella, which, he said, was perhaps better
than the hat as an evidence of eccentricity.
"If I cling to that umbrella all through dinner, Chatford," said
Toppleton, with a twinkle in his eye, "preferring rather to part with
life, honour, or virtue than lose sight of it, I will simply make an
impression upon the minds of that assembled multitude that they'll not
forget in a hurry."
"They'll think as I do," sighed the exile. "They'll think you are a
craz--"
"What?" asked Toppleton, sharply.
"They'll think you are a genius," returned the exile humbly and quickly
too, fearing lest Toppleton should take offence. "Have you--er--have you
considered what Barncastle's servants will think of this strange
performance? They won't let you into the house, in the first place," he
added, to cover his retreat.
"I shall be admitted to the house by Barncastle himself; for I prophesy
that his curiosity to meet this Rocky Mountain poet will be so great
that he will be at the railway station to greet me in person. Besides,"
continued Toppleton, "why should I care what his servants think? I never
had nor ever knew any one who had a servant whose thoughts were worth
thinking. A servant who can think becomes in my country a servant of the
people, not the lackey of the individual. Furthermore, I am after high
game, and servants form no part of my plan. They are not in it. When I
go out on a lion hunt I don't bother my head about or waste my
ammunition upon beasts of burden. I am loaded to the muzzle for the
purpose of bringing down Barncastle. If he can't be brought down without
the humbling of his butler, why, then, his butler must bite the dust. If
I become an object of suspicion to the flunkies, I shall not concern
myself about it unless they become unpleasant, and if they become
unpleasant I shall corrupt them. I'll buy every flunkey in the house, if
it costs a five-pound note."
"Well, go your own gait," said the exile, not much impressed by
Toppleton's discourse. "If you are not clapped into a lunatic asylum, I
shall begin to believe that the age of miracles is still extant; not
that _I_ think you crazy, Hopkins, but these others do not know you as
well as I do. For my part, I think that by going to Barncastle's as your
own handsome, frank, open-hearted self, you will accomplish more than
you will in this masquerade."
"Your flattery saves your cause," said Hopkins. "I cannot be indignant,
as I ought, with a man who calls me handsome, frank, and open-hearted,
but you must remember this: in spite of your long absence from your
body, you retain all the commonplace weakness of your quondam
individuality. You would have me do the commonplace thing you yourself
would have done thirty years ago. If there is a common, ordinary,
uninteresting individual in the world, it is the handsome, frank, and
open-hearted man. You find him everywhere--in hut and in palace, in
village, town, and city. He is the man who goes through life unobserved,
who gets his name in the paper three times in his lifetime, and always
at somebody else's expense. Once when he is born, once when he marries,
and once when he dies, and it is a paid advertisement, not an earned
one, each time. The first is paid for by his parents, the second by his
father-in-law, the third by his executors. People like him well enough,
but no one ever cares enough about him to hate him. His conversation
ranges from babies--if he has any himself--through the weather to
politics. Beyond these subjects he has nothing to say, and he rarely
dines out, save with the parson, the candidate, or the man who wants to
get the best of him in a business transaction. He is an idol at home, a
zero abroad. Nobody is interested in him, and he would as likely be
found dining with the Khedive of Egypt as with Lord Barncastle, and I'll
wager that, even if he should in some mysterious manner receive an
invitation to lend his gracious presence to the Barncastle board, he
would be as little in evidence as an object of interest as the
scullery-maid. Were I to accept your advice, Chatford, Barncastle's
guests would be bored, Barncastle himself would be disappointed, and
your chance of ever becoming the animating spirit of your own body would
correspondingly diminish. Only by a bold stroke is success to be
obtained. The means I am about adopting are revolting to me as a man of
taste, but for the sake of our cause I am willing to stifle my natural
desire to appear as a gentleman, to sink my true individuality, and to
go as a freak."
"But why do you think you will succeed, Hopkins? Even granting that you
make a first-class freak, has it really ever happened that idiocy--I say
idiocy here not to imply that I think you are an idiot, understand
me--has it ever happened that a freak succeeds with us where that
better, truer standard which is represented by you as you really are has
failed?"
"Not exactly that way," replied Hopkins. "But this has happened. Your
Englishmen have flocked by the tens of thousands to see, and have been
interested by an American Wild West show, where tens of hundreds have
straggled in to witness the thoughtful Shakespearian productions of our
most intellectual tragedians. Barncastle can have a refined, quiet,
gentlemanly appearing person at his table three hundred and sixty-five
times a year. He can get what I am going to give him but once in a
lifetime, so say no more about it. I am set in my determination to stand
or fall in the manner I have indicated."
"All right," said the exile. "I've nothing more to say; but there's one
thing mighty certain. I'm going with you. I want to witness your
triumph."
"Very well," said Toppleton. "Come along. But if you do, leave that
infernal whistle of yours home, or there'll be trouble."
"I'm hardly anything else but a whistle. I can't help whistling, you
know."
"Then there are only two things to be done. You must either get yourself
set to the tune of Yankee Doodle, or stay right here. I'm not going to
have my plans upset by any such buoy like tootle-toot as you are when
you get excited."
"Perhaps, on the whole, I'd better stay home."
"I think you had," said Toppleton. "You would be sure to whistle before
we were out of the woods."
Hopkins and his invisible client had hardly finished this interview when
the tailor's boy arrived, bringing with him the fantastic garments
Hopkins had ordered, and almost simultaneously there came a second
letter from Barncastle of Burningford, which set many of the exile's
fears at rest, and gave Toppleton good reason to believe that for the
first part of his plan all was plain sailing. Barncastle's note was very
short, but it was a welcome one, for it acknowledged the receipt of
Toppleton's "characteristically American acceptance to dine," and closed
with an expression of Barncastle's hope that Hopkins would become one of
his guests for the Christmas holidays at the Hall.
"See, there!" said Hopkins, triumphantly. "That is the way my plans
work."
"You are a Napoleon!" ejaculated the exile.
"Not quite," returned Hopkins, drily. "I won't have any Waterloo in
mine; but say, Edward, let's try on our Uncle Sam's."
"Let's!" echoed the exile. "I am anxious to see how we look."
"There!" said Toppleton, ten minutes later, as he grasped the green
cotton umbrella, and arrayed in the blue dress coat and red tie and
other peculiar features of the costume he had adopted, stood awaiting
the verdict of the exile.
"You look it, Toppleton; but I think there is one thing missing. Where
is your chin whisker?"
"By Jove!" ejaculated Hopkins, with a gesture of impatience. "How could
I forget that? And it's too late now, for if there is one thing a Yankee
can't do, Chatford, it is to force a goatee inside of forty-eight hours.
I'll have to cook up some explanation for that--lost it in an Indian
fight in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, or some equally plausible theory,
eh?"
"I think that might work," said the exile, in an acquiescent mood since
the receipt of Barncastle's second note.
"I thought you would," returned Hopkins. "The little detail that there
aren't any Indians in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, doesn't affect the
result, of course. But tell me, Chatford, how do I look?"
"Like the very devil!" answered the exile with enthusiasm.
"Good," said Toppleton. "If I look like him I've got Barncastle down,
for if the devil is not his twin brother, he is his master. In either
event I shall be a _persona grata_ at the court of Barncastle of
Burningford."