probably not be delayed. The chances were in his favour. Had it
been any other day in the week Sam’l might have run. So some of the
congregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him
bend low and then take to his heels. He had caught sight of Sander’s
head bobbing over the hedge that separated the road from the common,
and feared that Sanders might see him. The congregation who could crane
their necks sufficiently saw a black object, which they guessed to be
the carter’s hat, crawling along the hedge-top. For a moment it was
motionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivals had seen each other.
It was now a hot race. Sam’l, dissembling no longer, clattered up the
common, becoming smaller and smaller to the onlookers as he neared the
top. More than one person in the gallery almost rose to their feet
in their excitement. Sam’l had it. No, Sanders was in front. Then
the two figures disappeared from view. They seemed to run into each
other at the top of the brae, and no one could say who was first. The
congregation looked at one another. Some of them perspired. But the
minister held on his course.
146. Sam’l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It was the
weaver’s saving that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the
corner; for Sam’l was sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and
gave in at once. The last hundred yards of the distance he covered at
his leisure, and when he arrived at his destination he did not go in.
It was a fine afternoon for the time of the year, and he went round to
have a look at the pig, about which T’Nowhead was a little sinfully
puffed up.
147. “Ay,” said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the
grunting animal; “quite so.”
148. “Grumph,” said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet.
149. “Ou ay; yes,” said Sanders, thoughtfully.
150. Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long and
silently at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were of
T’Nowhead’s Bell, whom he had lost for ever, or of the food the farmer
fed his pig on, is not known.
151. “Lord preserve’s! Are ye no at the kirk?” cried Bell, nearly
dropping the baby as Sam’l broke into the room.
152. “Bell!” cried Sam’l.
153. Then T’Nowhead’s Bell knew that her hour had come.
154. “Sam’l,” she faltered.
155. “Will ye hae’s, Bell?” demanded Sam’l, glaring at her sheepishly.
156. “Ay,” answered Bell.
157. Sam’l fell into a chair.
158. “Bring’s drink o’ water, Bell,” he said. But Bell thought the
occasion required milk, and there was none in the kitchen. She went out
to the byre, still with the baby in her arms, and saw Sanders Elshioner
sitting gloomily on the pigsty.
159. “Weel, Bell,” said Sanders.
160. “I thocht ye’d been at the kirk, Sanders,” said Bell.
161. Then there was a silence between them.
162. “Has Sam’l spiered ye, Bell?” asked Sanders, stolidly.
163. “Ay,” said Bell again, and this time there was a tear in her eye.
Sanders was little better than an “orra man,” and Sam’l was a weaver,
and yet--But it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke
with a stick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in the
kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam’l only got
water after all.
164. In after days, when the story of Bell’s wooing was told, there
were some who held that the circumstances would have almost justified
the lassie in giving Sam’l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that
her other lover was in the same predicament as the accepted one--that
of the two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off to
T’Nowhead on the Sabbath of his own accord, while Sam’l only ran after
him. And then there is no one to say for certain whether Bell heard
of her suitors’ delinquencies until Lisbeth’s return from the kirk.
Sam’l could never remember whether he told her, and Bell was not sure
whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly in demand for
weeks after to tell what he knew of the affair, but though he was twice
asked to tea to the manse among the trees, and subjected thereafter to
ministerial cross-examinations, this is all he told. He remained at the
pigsty until Sam’l left the farm, when he joined him at the top of the
brae, and they went home together.
165. “It’s yersel, Sanders,” said Sam’l.
166. “It is so, Sam’l,” said Sanders.
167. “Very cauld,” said Sam’l.
168. “Blawy,” assented Sanders.
169. After a pause--
170. “Sam’l,” said Sanders.
171. “Ay.”
172. “I’m hearin’ yer to be mairit.”
173. “Ay.”
174. “Weel, Sam’l she’s a snod bit lassie.”
175. “Thank ye,” said Sam’l.
176. “I had ance a kin’ o’ notion o’ Bell mysel,” continued Sanders.
177. “Ye had?”
178. “Yes, Sam’l; but I thocht better o’t.”
179. “Hoo d’ye mean?” asked Sam’l, a little anxiously.
180. “Weel, Sam’l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity.”
181. “It is so,” said Sam’l, wincing.
182. “An’ no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation.”
183. “But it’s a blessed and honourable state, Sanders; ye’ve heard the
minister on’t.”
184. “They say,” continued the relentless Sanders, “'at the minister
doesna get on sair wi’ the wife himsel.”
185. “So they do,” cried Sam’l, with a sinking at the heart.
186. “I’ve been telt,” Sanders went on, “'at gin ye can get the upper
han’ o’ the wife for a while at first, there’s the mair chance o’ a
harmonious exeestence.”
187. “Bell’s no the lassie,” said Sam’l, appealingly, “to thwart her
man.”
188. Sanders smiled.
189. “D’ye ye think she is, Sanders?”
190. “Weel, Sam’l, I d’na want to fluster ye, but she’s been ower lang
wi’ Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An a’body kins what a
life T’Nowhead has wi’ her.”
191. “Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o’ this afore?”
192. “I thocht ye kent o’t, Sam’l.”
193. They had now reached the square, and the U. P. kirk was coming
out. The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet.
194. “But, Sanders,” said Sam’l, brightening up, “ye was on yer wy to
spier her yersel.”
195. “I was, Sam’l,” said Sanders, “and I canna but be thankfu’ ye was
ower quick for’s.”
196. “Gin’t hadna been you,” said Sam’l, “I wid never hae thocht o’t.”
197. “I’m sayin’ naething agin Bell,” pursued the other, “but, man
Sam’l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o’ the kind.”
198. “It was michty hurried,” said Sam’l, woefully.
199. “It’s a serious thing to spier a lassie,” said Sanders.
200. “It’s an awfu’ thing,” said Sam’l.
201. “But we’ll hope for the best,” added Sanders, in a hopeless voice.
202. They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam’l looked as if he
were on his way to be hanged.
203. “Sam’l?”
204. “Ay, Sanders.”
205. “Did ye--did ye kiss her, Sam’l?”
206. “Na.”
207. “Hoo?”
208. “There was varra little time, Sanders.”
209. “Half an 'oor,” said Sanders.
210. “Was there? Man Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thoct o’t.”
211. Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with contempt for
Sam’l Dickie.
212. The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the minister
would interfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from the
pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for, and
then praying for Sam’l and Sanders at great length, with a word thrown
in for Bell, he let things take their course. Some said it was because
he was always frightened lest his young men should intermarry with
other denominations, but Sanders explained it differently to Sam’l.
213. “I hav’na a word to say agin the minister,” he said, “they’re
gran’ prayers, but, Sam’l, he’s a mairit man himsel.”
214. “He’s a’ the better for that, Sanders, isna he?”
215. “Do ye no see,” asked Sanders, compassionately, “'at he’s tryin’
to mak the best o’t?”
216. “Oh, Sanders, man!” said Sam’l.
217. “Cheer up, Sam’l,” said Sanders, “it’ll sune be ower.”
218. Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with their
friendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto been mere
acquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drew near.
It was noticed that they had much to say to each other, and that when
they could not get a room to themselves they wandered about together in
the churchyard. When Sam’l had anything to tell Bell he sent Sanders to
tell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothing that he would
not have done for Sam’l.
219. The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder Sam’l grew. He
never laughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silent half
the day. Sam’l felt that Sanders’s was the kindness of a friend for a
dying man.
220. It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it was
delicacy that made Sam’l superintend the fitting-up of the barn by
deputy. Once he came to see it in person, but he looked so ill that
Sanders had to see him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, and
the wedding was fixed for Friday.
221. “Sanders, Sanders,” said Sam’l, in a voice strangely unlike his
own, “it’ll a’ be ower by this time the morn.”
222. “It will,” said Sanders.
223. “If I had only kent her langer,” continued Sam’l.
224. “It wid hae been safer,” said Sanders.
[Sidenote: Flower.]
225. “Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell’s bonnet?” asked the accepted
swain.
226. “Ay,” said Sanders, reluctantly.
227. “I’m dootin’--I’m sair dootin’ she’s but a flichty, licht-hearted
crittur after a’.”
228. “I had ay my suspeecions o’t,” said Sanders.
229. “Ye hae kent her langer than me,” said Sam’l.
230. “Yes,” said Sanders, “but there’s nae gettin’ at the heart o’
women. Man Sam’l they’re desperate cunnin’.”
231. “I’m dootin’t; I’m sair dootin’t.”
232. “It’ll be a warnin’ to ye, Sam’l, no to be in sic a hurry i’ the
futur,” said Sanders.
233. Sam’l groaned.
234. “Ye’ll be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi’ the minister the
morn’s mornin’,” continued Sanders, in a subdued voice.
235. Sam’l looked wistfully at his friend.
236. “I canna do’t, Sanders,” he said, “I canna do’t.”
237. “Ye maun,” said Sanders.
238. “It’s aisy to speak,” retorted Sam’l, bitterly.
239. “We have a’ oor troubles, Sam’l,” said Sanders, soothingly, “an’
every man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie’s wife’s dead, an’
he’s no repinin’.”
240. “Ay,” said Sam’l, “but a death’s no a mairitch. We hae haen deaths
in our family too.”
241. “It may a’ be for the best,” added Sanders, “an’ there wid be a
michty talk i’ the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the minister
like a man.”
242. “I maun hae langer to think o’t,” said Sam’l.
243. “Bell’s mairitch is the morn,” said Sanders, decisively.
244. Sam’l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes.
245. “Sanders,” he cried.
246. “Sam’l?”
247. “Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair
affliction.”
248. “Nothing ava,” said Sanders; “dount mention’d.”
249. “But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o’ the kirk
that awfu’ day was at the bottom o’d a’.”
250. “It was so,” said Sanders, bravely.
251. “An’ ye used to be fond o’ Bell, Sanders.”
252. “I dinna deny’t.”
253. “Sanders laddie,” said Sam’l, bending forward and speaking in a
wheedling voice, “I aye thocht it was you she likeit.”
254. “I had some sic idea mysel,” said Sanders.
255. “Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane
anither as you an’ Bell.”
256. “Canna ye, Sam’l?”
257. “She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and
she’s a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there’s no the like o’
her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, There’s a lass ony man
micht be prood to tak. A’body says the same, Sanders. There’s nae risk
ava, man: nane to speak o’. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders; it’s a
grand chance, Sanders. She’s yours for the spierin. I’ll gie her up,
Sanders.”
258. “Will ye, though?” said Sanders.
259. “What d’ye think?” said Sam’l.
260. “If ye wid rayther,” said Sanders, politely.
261. “There’s my han’ on’t,” said Sam’l. “Bless ye, Sanders; ye’ve been
a true frien’ to me.”
262. Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soon
afterwards Sanders struck up the brae to T’Nowhead.
263. Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the night
before, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled up to the manse.
264. “But--but where is Sam’l?” asked the minister; “I must see
himself.”
265. “It’s a new arrangement,” said Sanders.
266. “What do you mean, Sanders?”
267. “Bell’s to marry me,” explained Sanders.
268. “But--but what does Sam’l say?”
269. “He’s willin’,” said Sanders.
270. “And Bell?”
271. “She’s willin’, too. She prefers’t.”
272. “It is unusual,” said the minister.
273. “It’s a’ richt,” said Sanders.
274. “Well, you know best,” said the minister.
275. “You see the hoose was taen, at ony rate,” continued Sanders. “An
I’ll juist ging in til’t instead o’ Sam’l.”
276. “Quite so.”
277. “An’ I cudna think to disappoint the lassie.”
278. “Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders,” said the minister; “but
I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without
full consideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business,
marriage.”
279. “It’s a’ that,” said Sanders, “but I’m willin’ to stan’ the risk.”
280. So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wife
T’Nowhead’s Bell, and I remember seeing Sam’l Dickie trying to dance at
the penny wedding.
281. Years afterwards it was said in Thrums that Sam’l had treated Bell
badly, but he was never sure about it himself.
282. “It was a near thing--a michty near thing,” he admitted in the
square.
283. “They say,” some other weaver would remark, “'at it was you Bell
liked best.”
284. “I d’na kin,” Sam’l would reply, “but there’s nae doot the lassie
was fell fond o’ me. Ou, a mere passin’ fancy’s ye micht say.”
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR STUDY
1. In a few sentences, state whether the humor of this story centers
in the central situation, the several incidents, the dialogue, the
character, or in the climax.
2. If in more than one element, name them in the order of their
interest, or humor, to you.
3. Does the humor go to the limit of silliness at any point?
4. Point out any passages which are serio-comic.
5. Define (a) Farce, (b) Burlesque, (c) Comedy, (d) Wit, (e) Satire.
6. Point out passages in this or any other stories which illustrate the
foregoing types.
7. Name other humorous stories by O. Henry and J. M. Barrie.
8. Name the best humorous story you know.
TEN REPRESENTATIVE HUMOROUS STORIES
“The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” Mark Twain, in
_Short Stories and Sketches_, Vol. I.
“Mike Grady’s Safety,” Will Lewis, _Everybody’s Magazine_, Aug.,
1905.
“Their First Formal Call,” Grace MacGowan Cooke, in volume of same
title.
“The Day of the Dog,” George Barr McCutcheon, in volume of same
title.
“Edgar, the Choir-Boy Uncelestial,” _McClure’s Magazine_, Jan.,
1902.
“The Pope’s Mule,” Alphonse Daudet, translated in _Short-Story
Masterpieces_.
“Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff,” Bret Harte, _Harper’s
Magazine_, Mar., 1901.
“The Phonograph and the Graft,” O. Henry, in _Cabbages and Kings_.
“The King of Boyville,” William Allen White, in _Tales from
McClure’s_.
“The Bob-tailed Car,” Brander Matthews, in _The Family Tree_.
FOOTNOTES:
[23] Copyright, 1910, by Doubleday, Page and Co., and used by
permission.
V
STORIES OF SETTING
_The Outcasts of Poker Flat._--BRET HARTE
_Moonlight._--GUY DE MAUPASSANT
It is the habit of my imagination to strive after as full a vision
of the medium in which a character moves as of the character
itself. The psychological causes which prompted me to give such
details of Florentine life and history as I have given [in
_Romola_] are precisely the same as those which determined me in
giving the details of English village life in _Silas Marner_ or the
“Dodson” life, out of which were developed the destinies of poor
Tom and Maggie.--GEORGE ELIOT, quoted in her _Life_ by J. W. CROSS.
STORIES OF SETTING
“Setting consists of the circumstances, material and immaterial, in
which the characters are seen to move in the story. Its elements
are time, place, occupations, and (I lack a more expressive word)
conditions.”[24]
To be classified properly as a story of setting, a narrative must be
more than merely rich in local-color--as the characteristic environment
of a certain district, as set forth in fiction, is often called. The
true story of setting is one in which the setting has a vital bearing
on the natures or the destinies of the characters. To be sure, the
setting of a story, like the staging of a play, has an important part
in the realistic presentation of the scene, but setting assumes a
predominating part when it actually moves the characters to certain
deciding actions, as do the snow-storm in “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,”
and the soft light of the moon in “Moonlight.”
The local-color story is one which could not have been set elsewhere
without vitally changing, that is to say destroying, the story. For
example, Balzac’s “The Unknown Masterpiece” is set almost entirely
in an artist’s studio. The story would be slain by dragging it away
from that atmosphere. But it is also a story of setting, because,
whatever internal influences also affected the characters, the setting
influences their destinies--the men and the women live lives as
determined by their surroundings. “Mateo Falcone,” too, is a story of
setting, but not primarily so; for while it could have happened only
in Corsica, and the local-color is singularly vivid, it is primarily a
story of human motive and action.
Because of the powerful effect of environment upon character--in
fiction just as in real life--the reader often judges of coming events
by the feeling of the setting. The stage manager knows this, too, and
accompanies, or even forecasts, a moral crisis by having lights, music,
sounds, and other stage accessories harmonize with the mood of the
actors. Or, contrariwise, the tone of the piece may best be brought out
by a setting in contrast.
Observe how in the two stories illustrating this type the authors never
draw pictures of costumes and scenery just for the sake of description,
as beginners might do. The setting, to Harte and Maupassant, is vitally
a part of the story, and any unnecessary detail would mar the harmony
of the whole. Too much were worse than too little.
“When the characters live, move, and have their being in the setting,
the result is ‘atmosphere.’ Atmosphere is thus an effect. It is felt,
not seen. _Through_ its medium the reader must see all the action, yes,
all the details of the story. Atmosphere gives value to the tones of
fiction as in real life it does to landscape. The hills are actually
the same in cloud and in sunshine, but the eye sees them as different
through the mediate atmosphere. And so setting and characters,
perfectly adjusted, make the reader, that is to say the beholder, see
the story in the very tones the literary artist desires. A story of the
sea has an atmosphere of its own, but the atmosphere does not consist
merely of the accurately colored picture of sea and strand and sailor
and ship and sky. The whole story is informed with the _spirit_ of the
sea--its tang clings to the garments, its winds breathe through every
passage, its wonderful lights and glooms tone the whole story. Without
it the story would be a poor thing, bloodless and inert.”[25]
HARTE AND HIS WRITINGS
Francis Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, August 25, 1839, of
gentle parents. Abandoning his common-school education at the age
of fifteen, he followed the lure of the gold craze to California,
but neither teaching nor mining enriched him, so in 1857 he became
a compositor on the _Golden Era_, San Francisco. He then edited the
_Californian_, and in 1864 was appointed secretary of the branch Mint,
remaining until 1870. Two years before, however, he had become editor
of the new _Overland Monthly_, where some of his best work appeared.
This position did not prove permanent, and even less so was that of the
professorship of “recent literature” in the University of California,
for in 1871 he removed to New York. In 1878 he became United States
Consul at Crefeld, Germany, and in 1880 was transferred to Glasgow,
Scotland, holding this post until 1885. His later life was spent
chiefly in London, where his brilliant talents brought him the full
recognition of _littérateurs_. He died in London, May 6, 1902.
Bret Harte was a poet, critic, novelist, and short-story writer. His
novels give him no such claim to fame as do his other writings. His
best-known dialect verses are “The Society Upon the Stanislaus,” “Jim,”
“Dickens in Camp,” “Dow’s Flat,” and “Plain Language From Truthful
James” (often called “The Heathen Chinee”). His best sketches and
short-stories include “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” “An Heiress of Red
Dog,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “M’liss,” “The Idyl of Red
Gulch,” “Brown of Calaveras,” and “The Outcasts of Poker Flat”--which
was first published in _The Overland Monthly_, January, 1869.
* * * * *
If artistic repression, dramatic feeling, mingled humor and pathos,
deft character drawing, a sure sense of a “good story,” and the ability
to win the reader in spite of himself--if the certain possession of all
these are marks of fictional genius, surely Bret Harte deserves the
name. For themes, he chose--and doubtless over-colored at times--the
people and the happenings of '49 during the gold craze, and not a few
have charged him with a fondness for heroes and heroines of undoubted
reputations--for evil. Social outcasts, they say, he treated too
tenderly. But Bret Harte himself effectively answered this criticism
when he said:
“When it shall be proven to him that communities are degraded and
brought to guilt and crime, suffering or destitution, from a
predominance of this quality [too much mercy]; when he shall see
pardoned ticket-of-leave men elbowing men of austere lives out of
situation and position, and the repentant Magdalen supplanting the
blameless virgin in society, then he will lay aside his pen and extend
his hand to the new Draconian discipline in fiction. But until then he
will, without claiming to be a religious man or a moralist, but simply
as an artist, reverently and humbly conform to the rules laid down by a
Great Poet, who created the parable of the ‘Prodigal Son’ and the ‘Good
Samaritan,’ whose works have lasted eighteen hundred years, and will
remain when the present writer and his generation are forgotten.”
The secret of the American short story is the treatment of
characteristic American life, with absolute knowledge of its
peculiarities and sympathy with its methods; with no fastidious
ignoring of its habitual expression, or the inchoate poetry that
may be found even hidden in its slang; with no moral determination
except that which may be the legitimate outcome of the story
itself; with no more elimination than may be necessary for the
artistic conception, and never from the fear of the fetich of
conventionalism. Of such is the American short story of to-day--the
germ of American literature to come.--BRET HARTE, _The Rise of the
Short Story, Cornhill Magazine_, July, 1899.
He expounds an important half-truth which has been too much
neglected: that as being is greater than seeming, appearances
are often deceitful; under the most repellent exterior a soul of
goodness may exist. But if we study him over much, we may become
victims of the delusion that any person whose dress and manners are
respectable, is, to say the least, a suspicious character, while
drunken and profane ruffians are the saints of the earth.--WALTER
LEWIN, _The Abuse of Fiction_.
Mr. Kipling is a great man at sentiment (though we hear more of
his anti-sentimental side), but has he written a child-story we
can remember as long as “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” or anything
we shall remember as long as “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” or
“Tennessee’s Partner”? These things are not so exact in their
“business” (to borrow a term from still another art), but, perhaps
on that very account, they remain symbols of the human heart.
They have the simplicity of classics, a simplicity in which all
unnecessary subtleties are dissolved.--RICHARD LE GALLIENNE,
_Rudyard Kipling: A Criticism_.
His own style, as finally formed, leaves little to be desired;
it is clear, flexible, virile, laconic and withal graceful. Its
full meaning is given to every word, and occasionally, like all
original masters of prose, he imparts into a familiar word a
racier significance than it had possessed before. His genius is
nowhere more unmistakable than in the handling of his stories,
which is terse to the point of severity, yet wholly adequate;
everything necessary to the matter in hand is told, but with an
economy of word and phrase that betokens a powerful and radical
conception.--JULIAN HAWTHORNE and LEONARD LEMMON, _American
Literature_.