PHILOSOPHY OP FIGHTING.
“You're not a fighter, Bill Hinkley, and that's about the worst fault
that I can find against you.”
Such was the beginning of a dialogue between the cousins some three days
after the affair which was narrated in our last chapter. The two young
men were at the house of the speaker, or rather at his mother's house;
where, a favorite and only son, he had almost supreme dominion. He was
putting his violin in tune, and the sentences were spoken at intervals
with the discordant scraps of sound which were necessarily elicited by
this unavoidable musical operation. These sounds might be said to form a
running accompaniment for the dialogue, and, considering the sombre mood
of the person addressed, they were, perhaps, far more congenial than any
more euphonious strains would have been.
“Not a fighter!” said the other; “why, what do you mean?”
“Why, just what I say--you are not a fighter. You love reading, and
fiddling, and fishing sometimes, and sometimes dancing, and hunting, and
swimming; but I'm pretty certain you don't love fighting. You needn't
contradict, Bill--I've been thinking the matter over; and I'm sure of
it. I recollect every battle or scrape you ever were in, from the time
we went to old Chandler's, and I tell you, you're not a fighter--you
don't love fighting!”
This was concluded with a tremendous scrape over the strings, which
seemed to say as well as scrape could speak--“There can be no mistake on
the subject--I've said it.”
“If I knew exactly what you were driving at,” said the other, “perhaps
I might answer you. I never pretended to be a fighter; and as for loving
it, as I love eating, drinking, books, fiddling, and dancing, why that
needs no answer. Of course I do not, and I don't know who does.”
“There it is. I told you. I knew it. You'd sooner do almost anything
than fight.”
“If you mean that I would submit to insult,” said the more peaceable
cousin, with some displeasure in his tones and countenance, “sooner than
resent it, you are very much mistaken. It wouldn't be advisable even for
you to try the experiment.”
“Poh, poh, Bill, you know for that matter that it wouldn't take much
trying. I'd lick you as easily now as I did when we were boys together.”
“We are boys no longer,” said the other gravely.
“I'm as much a boy as ever, so far as the licking capacity calls for
boyhood. I've pretty much the same spirit now that I had then, and ten
times the same strength and activity. But don't look so blue. I'm not
going to try my strength and spirit and activity on you. And don't
suppose, Bill Hinkley, that I mean to say you're anything of a coward,
or that you'd submit to any open insult; but still I do say, you're not
only not fond of fighting, but you're just not as much inclined that way
as you should be.”
“Indeed! what more would you have? Do you not say that I would not
submit to insult?--that I show the proper degree of courage in such
cases?”
“Not the PROPER degree. That's the very question. You're not quick
enough. You wait for the first blow. You don't step out to meet the
enemy. You look for him to come to you.”
“Surely! I look upon fighting as brutal--to be waited for, not
sought--to be resorted to only in compliance with necessity--to be
avoided to the last!”
“No such thing--all a mistake. Fighting and the desire to get on the
shoulders of our neighbors is a natural passion. We see that every day.
The biggest boy licks the one just below him, he whips the next, and
so down, and there's not one that don't lick somebody and don't stand
licked himself--for the master licks the biggest. The desire to fight
and flog is natural, and this being the case, it stands to reason that
we must lick our neighbor or he'll be sure to lick us.”
“Pshaw! you speak like a boy yet. This is schoolhouse philosophy.”
“And very good philosophy too. I'm thinking the schoolhouse and the
play-ground is pretty much a sort of world to itself. It's no bad show
of what the world without is; and one of its first lessons and that
which I think the truest, is the necessity of having a trial of strength
with every new-comer; until we learn where he's to stand in the ranks,
number one or number nothing. You see there just the same passions,
though, perhaps, on a small scale, that we afterward find to act upon
the big world of manhood. There, we fight for gingerbread, for marbles,
top and ball; not unfrequently because we venture to look at our
neighbor's sweetheart; and sometimes, quite as often, for the love of
the thing and to know where the spirit and the sinew are. Well, isn't
that just what the big world does after us? As men, we fight for bigger
playthings, for pounds, where before we fought for pence--for gold where
before we fought for coppers--for command of a country instead of a
schoolyard; for our wives instead of sweethearts, and through sheer
deviltry and the love of the thing, when there's nothing else to fight
about, just the same as we did in boyhood.”
“But even were you to prove, and I to admit, that it is so, just as you
say, that would not prove the practice to be a jot more proper, or a jot
less brutal.”
“Begging your pardon, Bill, it proves it to be right and proper, and
accordingly, if brutal, a becoming brutality. If this is the natural
disposition of boys and men, don't you see that this schoolboy licking
and fighting is a necessary part of one's moral education? It learns one
to use his strength, his limbs and sinews, as he may be compelled to use
them, in self-defence, in every future day of his life. You know very
well what follows a boy at school who doesn't show himself ready to bung
up his neighbor's eye the moment he sees it at a cross-twinkle. He gets
his own bunged up. Well, it's just the same thing when he gets to be
a man. If you have a dispute with your enemy, I don't say that you
shouldn't reason with him, but I do say that your reasoning will have
very little effect upon him unless he sees that you are able and willing
to write it in black and blue upon his sheepskin. And what better way
could you find to show him THAT, unless by giving him word and blow, the
blow first, as being the most impressive argument?”
“You must have been dreaming of these subjects last night.” said the
grave cousin--“you seem to have them unusually well cut and dried.”
“I haven't been dreaming about it, Bill, but I confess I've been
thinking about it very seriously all night, and considering all the
arguments that I thought you would make use of against it. I haven't
quite done with my discussion, which I took up entirely for your
benefit.”
“Indeed! you are quite philanthropic before breakfast; but let us hear
you?”
“You talk of the brutality of fighting--now in what does that brutality
consist? Is it not in breaking noses, kicking shins, bunging up eyes,
and making one's neighbor feel uncomfortable in thigh, and back, and
arms, and face, and skin, and indeed, everywhere, where a big fist or a
cowhide shoe may plant a buffet or a bruise?”
“Quite a definition, Ned.”
“I'm glad you think so: for if it's brutal in the boy to do so to his
schoolmate, is it less so for the schoolmaster to do the same thing to
the boy that's under his charge? He bruises my skin, makes my thighs,
and arms, and back, and legs, and face, and hands, ache, and if my
definition be a correct one, he is quite as brutal as the boys who do
the same thing to one another.”
“He does it because the boys deserve it, and in order to make them
obedient and active.”
“And when did a boy not deserve a flogging when he gets licked by his
companion?” demanded the other triumphantly--“and don't the licking make
him obedient, and don't the kicking make him active? By gemini, I've
seen more activity from one chap's legs under the quick application of
another's feet, than I think anything else could produce, unless it were
feet made expressly for such a purpose and worked by a steam-engine.
That might make them move something faster, but I reckon there would be
no need in such a case of any such improvement.”
“What are you driving at, Ned Hinkley? This is by far the longest
argument, I think, that you've ever undertaken. You must be moved by
some very serious considerations.”
“I am, and you'll see what I'm driving at after a little while. I'm not
fond of arguing, you know, but I look upon the fighting principle as a
matter to be known and believed in, and I wish to make clear to you my
reasons for believing in it myself. You don't suppose I'd put down the
fiddle for a talk at any time if the subject was not a serious one?”
“Give way--you have the line.”
“About the brutality of fighting then, there's another thing to be
said. Fighting produces good feeling--that is to say supposing one party
fairly to have licked another.”
“Indeed--that's new.”
“And true too, Bill Hinkley. It cures the sulks. It lets off steam.
It's like a thunderstorm that comes once in a while, and drives away the
clouds, and clears the skies until all's blue again.”
“Black and blue.”
“No! what was black becomes blue. Chaps that have been growling at each
other for weeks and months lose their bad blood--”
“From the nostrils!”
“Yes, from the nostrils. It's a sort of natural channel, and runs freely
from that quarter. The one crows and the other runs and there's an end
of the scrape and the sulks. The weaker chap, feeling his weakness,
ceases to be impudent; the stronger, having his power acknowledged,
becomes the protector of the weak. Each party falls into his place, and
so far from the licking producing bad feeling it produces good feeling
and good humor; and I conclude that one half of the trouble in the
world, the squabbles between man and man, woman and woman, boy and
boy--nay, between rival nations--is simply because your false and
foolish notions of brutality and philanthropy keep them from coming
to the scratch as soon as they should. They hang off, growling and
grumbling, and blackguarding, and blaspheming, when, if they would only
take hold, and come to an earnest grapple, the odds would soon show
themselves--broken heads and noses would follow--the bad blood would
run, and as soon as each party found his level, the one being finally
on his back, peace would ensue, and there would be good humor for ever
after, or at least until the blood thickened again. I think there's
reason in my notion. I was thinking it over half the night. I've thought
of it oftentimes before. I've never yet seen the argument that's strong
enough to tumble it.”
“Your views are certainly novel, Ned, if not sound. You will excuse
me if I do not undertake to dispute them this morning. I give in,
therefore, and you may congratulate yourself upon having gained a
triumph if not a convert?”
“Stop, stop, William Hinkley: you don't suppose I've done all this
talking only to make a convert or to gain a triumph?”
“Why, that's your object in fighting, why not in arguing?”
“Well, that's the object of most persons when they dispute, I know; but
it is not mine. I wish to make a practical application of my doctrine.”
“Indeed! who do you mean to fight now?”
“It's not for me to fight, it's for you.”
“Me!”
“Yes; you have the preference by rights, though if you don't--and I'm
rather sorry to think, as I told you at the start, that the only fault
I had to find with you is that you're not a fighter--I must take your
place and settle the difference.”
William Hinkley turned upon the speaker. The latter had laid down the
violin, having, in the course of the argument, broken all its strings;
and he stood now, unjacketed, and still in the chamber, where the two
young men had been sleeping, almost in the attitude of one about to
grapple with an antagonist. The serious face of him whose voice had been
for war--his startling position--the unwonted eagerness of his eye,
and the ludicrous importance which he attached to the strange principle
which he had been asserting--conquered for a moment the graver mood
of his love-sick companion, and he laughed outright at his pugnacious
cousin. The latter seemed a little offended.
“It's well you can laugh at such things, Bill Hinkley, but I can't.
There was a time when every mother's son in Kentucky was a man, and
could stand up to his rack with the best. If he couldn't keep the top
place, he went a peg lower; but he made out to keep the place for which
he was intended. Then, if a man disliked his neighbor he crossed over to
him and said so, and they went at it like men, and as soon as the pout
was over they shook hands, and stood side by side, and shoulder to
shoulder, like true friends, in every danger, and never did fellows
fight better against Indians and British than the same two men, that had
lapped muscles, and rolled in the grain together till you couldn't say
whose was whose, and which was which, till the best man jumped up, and
shook himself, and gave the word to crow. After that it was all peace
and good humor, and they drank and danced together, and it didn't lessen
a man in his sweetheart's eyes, though he was licked, if he could say
he had stood up like a man, and was downed after a good hug, because he
couldn't help it. Now, there's precious little of that. The chap that
dislikes his fellow, hasn't the soul to say it out, but he goes aside
and sneers and snickers, and he whispers things that breed slanders,
and scandals, and bad blood, until there's no trusting anybody; and
everything is full of hate and enmity--but then it's so peaceful!
Peaceful, indeed! as if there was any peace where there is no
confidence, and no love, and no good feeling either for one thing or
another.”
“Really, Ned, it seems to me you're indignant without any occasion. I am
tempted to laugh at you again.”
“No, don't. You'd better not.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I can not help it, Ned; so don't buffet me. You forced me
into many a fight when I was a boy, for which I had no stomach; I trust
you will not pummel me yourself because the world has grown so hatefully
pacific. Tell me, in plain terms, who I am to fight now.”
“Who! who but Stevens?--this fellow Stevens. He's your enemy, you
say--comes between you and your sweetheart--between you and your own
mother--seems to look down upon you--speaks to you as if he was wiser,
and better, and superior in every way--makes you sad and sulky to your
best friends--you growl and grumble at him--you hate him--you fear
him--”
“Fear him!”
“Yes, yes, I say fear him, for it's a sort of fear to skulk off from
your mother's house to avoid seeing him--”
“What, Ned, do you tell me that--do you begrudge me a place with you
here, my bed, my breakfast?”
“Begrudge! dang it, William Hinkley, don't tell me that, unless you want
me to lay heavy hand on your shoulder!”--and the tears gushed into
the rough fellow's eyes as he spoke these words, and he turned off to
conceal them.
“I don't mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that I skulk--that I fear
this man?”
“Begrudge!” muttered the other.
“Nay, forgive me; I didn't mean it. I was hasty when I said so; but
you also said things to provoke me. Do you suppose that I fear this man
Stevens?”
“Why don't you lick him then, or let him lick you, and bring the
matter to an ending? Find out who's the best man, and put an end to
the growling and the groaning. As it now stands you're not the same
person--you're not fit company for any man. You scarcely talk, you
listen to nobody. You won't fish, you won't hunt: you're sulky yourself
and you make other people so!”
“I'm afraid, Ned, it wouldn't much help the matter even if I were to
chastise the stranger.”
“It would cure him of his impudence. It would make him know how to
treat you; and if the rest of your grievance comes from Margaret Cooper,
there's a way to end that too.”
“How! you wouldn't have me fight her?” said William Hinkley, with an
effort to smile.
“Why, we may call it fighting,” said the advocate for such wholesale
pugnacity, “since it calls for quite as much courage sometimes to face
one woman as it does to face three men. But what I mean that you should
do with her is to up and at her. Put the downright question like a man
'will you?' or 'won't you?' and no more beating about the bush. If she
says 'no!' there's no more to be said, and if I was you after that, I'd
let Stevens have her or the d--l himself, since I'm of the notion that
no woman is fit for me if she thinks me not fit for her. Such a woman
can't be worth having, and after that I wouldn't take her as a gracious
gift were she to be made twice as beautiful. The track's before you,
William Hinkley. Bring the stranger to the hug, and Margaret Cooper too,
if she'll let you. But, at all events, get over the grunting and the
growling, the sulky looks, and the sour moods. They don't become a man
who's got a man's heart, and the sinews of a man.”
William Hinkley leaned against the fireplace with his head resting upon
his hand. The other approached him.
“I don't mean to say anything, Bill, or even to look anything, that'll
do you hurt. I'm for bringing your trouble to a short cut. I've told
you what I think right and reasonable, and for no other man in Kentucky
would I have taken the pains to think out this matter as I have done.
But you or I must lick Stevens.”
“You forget, Ned. Your eagerness carries you astray. Would you beat a
man who offers no resistance?”
“Surely not.”
“Stevens is a non-combatant. If you were to slap John Cross on one cheek
he'd turn you the other. He'd never strike you back.”
“John Cross and Stevens are two persons. I tell you the stranger WILL
fight. I'm sure of it. I've seen it in his looks and actions.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do; I'm sure of it. But you must recollect besides, that John
Cross is a preacher, already sworn in, as I may say. Stevens is only a
beginner. Besides, John Cross is an old man; Stevens, a young one. John
Cross don't care a straw about all the pretty girls in the country. He
works in the business of souls, not beauties, and it's very clear that
Stevens not only loves a pretty girl, but that he's over head and heels
in love with your Margaret--”
“Say no more. If he will fight, Ned Hinkley, he shall fight!”
“Bravo, Bill--that's all that I was arguing for--that's all that I want.
But you must make at Margaret Cooper also.”
“Ah! Ned, there I confess my fears.”
“Why, what are you afraid of?”
“Rejection!”
“Is that worse than this suspense--this anxiety--this looking out from
morning till night for the sunshine, and this constant apprehension
of the clouds--this knowing not what to be about--this sulking--this
sadding--this growling--this grunting--this muling--this moping--this
eternal vinegar-face and ditchwater-spirit?”
“I don't know, Ned, but I confess my weakness--my want of courage in
this respect!”
“Psho! the bark's worse always than the bite. The fear worse than the
danger! Suspense is the very d--l! Did you ever hear of the Scotch
parson's charity? He prayed that God might suspend Napoleon over the
very jaws of hell--but 'Oh, Lord!' said he, 'dinna let him fa' in!' To
my mind, mortal lips never uttered a more malignant prayer!”