Did I never tell you the story? Is it possible? Draw up your chair.
Stick of wood, Harry. Smoke?
You've heard of my Uncle Popworth, though. Why, yes! You've seen
him--the eminently respectable elderly gentleman who came one day last
summer just as you were going; book under his arm, you remember; weed
on his hat; dry smile on bland countenance; tall, lank individual in
very seedy black. With him my tale begins; for if I had never indulged
in an Uncle Popworth I should never have sported an Iron-clad.
Quite right, sir; his arrival _was_ a surprise to me. To know how great
a surprise, you must understand why I left city, friends, business, and
settled down in this quiet village. It was chiefly, sir, to escape the
fascinations of that worthy old gentleman that I bought this place, and
took refuge here with my wife and little ones. Here we had respite,
nepenthe from our memories of Uncle Popworth; here we used to sit
down in the evening and talk of the past with grateful and tranquil
emotions, as people speak of awful things endured in days that are
no more. To us the height of human happiness was raising green corn
and strawberries in a retired neighborhood where uncles were unknown.
But, sir, when that Phantom, that Vampire, that Fate, loomed before my
vision that day, if you had said, "Trover, I'll give ye sixpence for
this neat little box of yours," I should have said, "Done!" with the
trifling proviso that you should take my uncle in the bargain.
The matter with him? What, indeed, could invest human flesh with such
terrors--what but this? he was--he is--let me shriek it in your ear--a
bore--a BORE! of the most malignant type; an intolerable, terrible,
unmitigated BORE!
That book under his arm was a volume of his own sermons--nine hundred
and ninety-nine octavo pages, O Heaven! It wasn't enough for him to
preach and repreach those appalling discourses, but then the ruthless
man must go and print 'em! When I consider what book-sellers--worthy
men, no doubt, many of them, deserving well of their kind--he must have
talked nearly into a state of syncope before ever he found one to give
way, in a moment of weakness, of utter exhaustion and despair, and
consent to publish him; and when I reflect what numbers of inoffensive
persons, in the quiet walks of life, have been made to suffer the
infliction of that Bore's Own Book, I pause, I stand aghast at the
inscrutability of Divine Providence.
Don't think me profane, and don't for a moment imagine I underrate
the function of the preacher. There's nothing better than a good
sermon--one that puts new life into you. But what of a sermon that
takes life out of you, instead of a spiritual fountain, a spiritual
sponge that absorbs your powers of body and soul, so that the longer
you listen the more you are impoverished? A merely poor sermon isn't so
bad; you will find, if you are the right kind of a hearer, that it will
suggest something better than itself; a good hen will lay to a bit of
earthen. But the discourse of your ministerial vampire, fastening by
some mystical process upon the hearer who has life of his own--though
not every one has that--sucks and sucks and sucks; and he is exhausted
while the preacher is refreshed. So it happens that your born bore is
never weary of his own boring; he thrives upon it; while he seems to be
giving, he is mysteriously taking in--he is drinking your blood.
But you say nobody is obliged to _read_ a sermon. O my unsophisticated
friend! if a man will put his thoughts--or his words, if thoughts are
lacking--between covers--spread his banquet, and respectfully invite
Public Taste to partake of it, Public Taste being free to decline, then
your observation is sound. If an author quietly buries himself in his
book--very good! _hic jacet_: peace to his ashes!
"The times have been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,"
as Macbeth observes, with some confusion of syntax, excusable in a
person of his circumstances. Now, suppose they--or he--the man whose
brains are out--goes about with his coffin under his arm, like my
worthy uncle? and suppose he blandly, politely, relentlessly insists
upon reading to you, out of that octavo sarcophagus, passages which in
his opinion prove that he is not only not dead, but immortal? If such a
man be a stranger, snub him; if a casual acquaintance, met in an evil
hour, there is still hope--doors have locks, and there are two sides
to a street, and nearsightedness is a blessing, and (as a last resort)
buttons may be sacrificed (you remember Lamb's story of Coleridge) and
left in the clutch of the fatal fingers. But one of your own kindred,
and very respectable, adding the claim of misfortune to his other
claims upon you--pachydermatous to slights, smilingly persuasive,
gently persistent--as imperturbable as a ship's wooden figurehead
through all the ups and downs of the voyage of life, and as insensible
to cold water--in short, an uncle like my uncle, whom there was no
getting rid of--what the deuce would you do?
Exactly; run away as I did. There was nothing else to be done, unless,
indeed, I had throttled the old gentleman; in which case I am confident
that one of our modern model juries would have brought in the popular
verdict of justifiable insanity. But, being a peaceable man, I was
averse to extreme measures. So I did the next best thing--consulted my
wife, and retired to this village.
Then consider the shock to my feelings when I looked up that day and
saw the enemy of our peace stalking into our little Paradise with his
book under his arm and his carpet-bag in his hand!--coming with his
sermons and his shirts, prepared to stay a week--that is to say a
year--that is to say forever, if we would suffer him--and how was he to
be hindered by any desperate measures short of burning the house down?
"My dear nephew!" says he, striding toward me with eager steps, as you
perhaps remember, smiling his eternally dry, leathery smile--"Nephew
Frederick!"--and he held out both hands to me, book in one and bag in
t'other--"I am rejoiced! One would almost think you had tried to hide
away from your old uncle, for I've been three days hunting you up. And
how is Dolly? She ought to be glad to see me, after all the trouble
I've had in finding you! And, Nephew Frederick--h'm!--can you lend me
three dollars for the hackman? For I don't happen to have----Thank you!
I should have been saved this if you had only known I was stopping last
night at a public house in the next village, for I know how delighted
you would have been to drive over and fetch me!"
If you were not already out of hearing, you may have noticed that I
made no reply to this affecting speech. The old gentleman has grown
quite deaf of late years--an infirmity which was once a source of
untold misery to his friends, to whom he was constantly appealing for
their opinions, which they were obliged to shout in his ear. But now,
happily, the world has about ceased responding to him, and he has
almost ceased to expect responses from the world. He just catches your
eye, and when he says, "Don't you think so, sir?" or "What is your
opinion, sir?" an approving nod does your business.
The hackman paid, my dear uncle accompanied me to the house, unfolding
the catalogue of his woes by the way. For he is one of those worthy,
unoffending persons whom an ungrateful world jostles and tramples
upon--whom unmerciful disaster follows fast and follows faster. In
his younger days he was settled over I don't know how many different
parishes; but secret enmity pursued him everywhere, poisoning the
parochial mind against him, and driving him relentlessly from place
to place. Then he relapsed into agencies, and went through a long
list of them, each terminating in flat failure, to his ever-recurring
surprise--the simple old soul never suspecting, to this day, who his
one great tireless, terrible enemy is!
I got him into the library, and went to talk over this unexpected
visit--or visitation--with Dolly. She bore up under it more cheerfully
than could have been expected--suppressed a sigh--and said she would
go down and meet him. She received him with a hospitable smile (I
verily believe that more of the world's hypocrisy proceeds from too
much good-nature than from too little) and listened patiently to his
explanations.
"You will observe that I have brought my bag," says he, "for I knew you
wouldn't let me off for a day or two--though I must positively leave
in a week--in two weeks, at the latest. I have brought my volume, too,
for I am contemplating a new edition" (he is always contemplating a new
edition, making that a pretext for lugging the book about with him),
"and I wish to enjoy the advantages of your and Frederick's criticism.
I anticipate some good, comfortable, old-time talks over the old book,
Frederick!"
We had invited some village friends to come in and eat strawberries
and cream with us that afternoon; and the question arose, what should
be done with the old gentleman? Harry, who is a lad of a rather lively
fancy, coming in while we were taking advantage of his great-uncle's
deafness to discuss the subject in his presence, proposed a pleasant
expedient. "Trot him out into the cornfield, introduce him to the
scarecrow, and let him talk to that," says he, grinning up into the
visitor's face, who grinned down at him, no doubt thinking what a
wonderfully charming boy he was! If he were as blind as he is deaf, he
might have been disposed of very comfortably in some such ingenious
way--the scarecrow, or any other lay figure, might have served to
engage him in one of his immortal monologues. As it was, the suggestion
bore fruit later, as you will see.
While we were consulting--keeping up our scattering fire of small-arms
under the old talker's heavy guns--our parish minister called,--old
Doctor Wortleby, for whom we have a great liking and respect. Of
course we had to introduce him to Uncle Popworth--for they met face to
face; and of course Uncle Popworth fastened at once upon the brother
clergyman. Being my guest, Wortleby could do no less than listen to
Popworth, who is my uncle. He listened with interest and sympathy for
the first half hour; and then continued listening for another half
hour, after his interest and sympathy were exhausted. Then, attempting
to go, he got his hat, and sat with it in his hand half an hour longer.
Then he stood half an hour on his poor old gouty feet, desperately
edging toward the door.
"Ah, certainly," says he, with a weary smile, repeatedly endeavoring
to break the spell that bound him. "I shall be most happy to hear the
conclusion of your remarks at some future time" (even ministers can lie
out of politeness); "but just now--"
"One word more, and I am done," cries my Uncle Popworth, for the
fiftieth time; and Wortleby, in despair, sat down again.
Then our friends arrived.
Dolly and I, who had all the while been benevolently wishing Wortleby
would go, and trying to help him off, now selfishly hoped he would
remain and share our entertainment--and our Uncle Popworth.
"I ought to have gone two hours ago," he said, with a plaintive smile,
in reply to our invitation; "but, really, I am feeling the need of a
cup of tea" (and no wonder!) "and I think I will stay."
We cruelly wished that he might continue to engage my uncle in
conversation; but that would have been too much to hope from the
sublime endurance of a martyr--if ever there was one more patient than
he. Seeing the Lintons and the Greggs arrive, he craftily awaited his
opportunity, and slipped off, to give them a turn on the gridiron.
First Linton was secured; and you should have seen him roll his mute,
appealing orbs, as he settled helplessly down under the infliction.
Suddenly he made a dash. "I am ignorant of these matters," said he;
"but Gregg understands them--Gregg will talk with you." But Gregg
took refuge behind the ladies. The ladies, receiving a hint from poor
distressed Dolly, scattered. But no artifice availed against the
dreadful man. Piazza, parlor, garden--he ranged everywhere, and was
sure to seize a victim.
At last tea was ready, and we all went in. The Lintons and Greggs
were people of the world, who would hardly have cared to wait for a
blessing on such lovely heaps of strawberries, in mugs of cream they
saw before them; but, there being two clergymen at the table, the
ceremony was evidently expected. We were placidly seated; there was
a hush, agreeably filled with the fragrance of the delicious fruit;
even my Uncle Popworth, from long habit, turned off his talk at that
suggestive moment; when I did what I thought a shrewd thing. I knew too
well my relative's long-windedness at his devotions, as at everything
else. (I wonder if Heaven itself isn't bored by such fellows!) I had
suffered, I had seen my guests suffer, too much from him already--to
think of deliberately yielding him a fearful advantage over us; so I
coolly passed him by, and gave an expressive nod to the old Doctor.
Wortleby began; and I was congratulating myself on my adroit management
of a delicate matter, when--conceive my consternation!--Popworth--not
to speak it profanely--followed suit! The reverend egotist couldn't
take in the possibility of anybody but himself being invited to say
grace at our table, he being present--he hadn't noticed my nod to the
Doctor, and the Doctor's low, earnest voice didn't reach him--and
there, with one blessing going on one side of the table, he, as I
said, pitched in on the other! His eyes shut, his hands spread over
his plate, his elbows on the board, his head bowed, he took care that
grace should abound with us for once! His mill started, I knew there
was no stopping it, and I hoped Wortleby would desist. But he didn't
know his man. He seemed to feel that he had the stroke-car, and he
pulled away manfully. As Popworth lifted up his loud, nasal voice, the
old Doctor raised his voice, in the vain hope, I suppose, of making
himself heard by his lusty competitor. If you have never had two
blessings running opposition at your table, in the presence of invited
guests, you can never imagine how astounding, how killingly ludicrous
it was! I felt that both Linton and Gregg were ready to tumble over,
each in an apoplexy of suppressed emotions; while I had recourse to
my handkerchief to hide my tears. At length, poor Wortleby yielded to
fate--withdrew from the unequal contest--hauled off--for repairs, and
the old seventy-two gun-ship thundered away in triumph.
At last (as there must be an end to everything under the sun) my uncle
came to a close; and a moment of awful silence ensued, during which no
man durst look at another. But in my weak and jelly-like condition I
ventured a glance at him, and noticed that he looked up and around with
an air of satisfaction at having performed a solemn duty in a becoming
manner, blissfully unconscious of having run a poor brother off the
track. Seeing us all with moist eyes and much affected--two or three
handkerchiefs still going--he no doubt flattered himself that the
pathetic touches in his prayer had told.
This will give you some idea of the kind of man we had on our hands;
and I won't risk making myself as great a bore as he is, by attempting
a history of his stay with us; for I remember I set out to tell you
about my little Iron-clad. I'm coming to that.
Suffice it to say, he stayed--he _stayed_--he STAYED!--five mortal
weeks; refusing to take hints when they almost became kicks;
driving our friends from us, and ourselves almost to distraction;
his misfortunes alone protecting him from a prompt and vigorous
elimination; when a happy chance helped me to a solution of this awful
problem of destiny.
More than once I had recalled Harry's vivacious suggestion of the
scarecrow--if one could only have been invented that would sit
composedly in a chair and nod when spoken to! I was wishing for some
such automaton, to bear the brunt of the boring with which we were
afflicted, when one day there came a little man into the garden, where
I had taken refuge.
He was a short, swarthy, foreign looking, diminutive, stiff, rather
comical fellow--little figure mostly head, little head mostly face,
little face mostly nose, which was by no means little--a sort of human
vegetable (to my horticultural eye) running marvelously to seed in that
organ. The first thing I saw, on looking up at the sound of footsteps,
was the said nose coming toward me, among the sweet-corn tassels.
Nose of a decidedly Hebraic cast--the bearer respectably dressed,
though his linen had an unwholesome sallowness, and his cloth a shiny,
much-brushed, second-hand appearance.
Without a word he walks up to me, bows solemnly, and pulls from his
pocket (I thought he was laying his hand on his heart) the familiar,
much-worn weapon of his class--the folded, torn yellow paper, ready
to fall to pieces as you open it--in short, the respectable beggar's
certificate of character. With another bow (which gave his nose the
aspect of the beak of a bird of prey making a pick at me) he handed me
the document. I found that it was dated in Milwaukee, and signed by the
mayor of that city, two physicians, three clergymen, and an editor,
who bore united testimony to the fact that Jacob Menzel--I think that
was his name--the bearer, anyway--was a deaf mute, and, considering
that fact, a prodigy of learning, being master of no less than five
different languages (a pathetic circumstance, considering that he was
unable to speak one); moreover, that he was a converted Jew; and,
furthermore, a native of Germany, who had come to this country in
company with two brothers, both of whom had died of cholera in St.
Louis in one day; in consequence of which affliction, and his recent
conversion, he was now anxious to return to the Fatherland, where he
proposed to devote his life to the conversion of his brethren--the
upshot of all which was that good Christians and charitable souls
everywhere were earnestly recommended to aid the said Jacob Menzel in
his pious undertaking.
I was fumbling in my pocket for a little change wherewith to dismiss
him--for that is usually the easiest way of getting off your premises
and your conscience the applicant for "aid," who is probably an
impostor, yet possibly not--when my eye caught the words (for I still
held the document), "would be glad of any employment which may help to
pay his way." The idea of finding employment for a man of such a large
nose and little body, such extensive knowledge and diminutive legs--who
had mastered five languages yet could not speak or understand a word of
any one of them, struck me as rather pleasant, to say the least; yet,
after a moment's reflection--wasn't he the very thing I wanted, the
manikin, the target for my uncle?
Meanwhile he was scribbling rapidly on a small slate he had taken
from his pocket. With another bow (as if he had written something
wrong and was going to wipe it out with his nose), he handed me the
slate, on which I found written in a neat hand half a dozen lines in
as many different languages--English, Latin, Hebrew, German, French,
Greek--each, as far as I could make out, conveying the cheerful
information that he could communicate with me in that particular
tongue. I tried him in English, French and Latin, and I must
acknowledge that he stood the test; he then tried me in Greek and
Hebrew, and I as freely confess that I didn't stand the test. He smiled
intelligently, nodded, and condescendingly returned to the English
tongue, writing quickly, "I am a poor exile from Fatherland, and I much
need friends."