Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our graves with
flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when the spring returns.
It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The air
blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there were no
corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the plague. A spectator
in the open court-square might have seen many signs of life returning
to the town. Students hurried along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for
the first time and spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly
and neatly dressed, came into the market-place, and sitting down on a
sidewalk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant gingerbread.
She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in her soft, motherly
black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A group of young ragamuffins
eyed her longingly from a distance. Court was to open for the first
time since the spring. The hour was early, and one by one the lawyers
passed slowly in. On the steps of the court-house three men were
standing: Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just
walked over from his music-store on Main Street; and little M. Giron,
the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his hat, and their
voices were low and grave.
"Gentlemen," the sheriff was saying, "it was on this very spot the day
befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a vagrant. An' I did
the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I hel' 'im up to public ridicule
foh his weaknesses an' made spoht of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is
povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I delivahed on 'im as complete an oration
of sarcastic detraction as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own
meanness an' with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if
I only had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the
midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public apology,
offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself unworthy to shake 'is
han'! But, gentlemen, that crowd will nevah reassemble. Neahly ev'ry
man of them is dead, an' ole King Sol'mon buried them."
"He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi," said François Giron, touching his
eyes with his handkerchief.
"There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever he comes for
it," said old Leuba, clearing his throat.
"But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon we ought
not to fohget who it is that has supported 'im. Yondah she sits on the
sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread."
The three men looked in the direction indicated.
"Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now," exclaimed the sheriff.
Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly along with
his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation. A minute more and
he had come over and passed into the court-house by a side door.
"Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day?"
"He is expected, I think."
"Then let's go in; there will be a crowd."
"I don't know; so many are dead."
They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as possible; for a
strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court-room. Until the bar
assembled, it had not been realized how many were gone. The silence was
that of a common overwhelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor,
no one observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat
on one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. He had
not sat there since the day of his indictment for vagrancy. The judge
took his seat and, making a great effort to control himself, passed his
eyes slowly over the court-room. All at once he caught sight of old
King Solomon sitting against the wall in an obscure corner; and before
any one could know what he was doing, he hurried down and walked up to
the vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not. Old
King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter--buried them one clouded
midnight, with no one present but himself.
Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed the example;
and then the other members, rising by a common impulse, filed slowly
back and one by one wrung that hard and powerful hand. After them came
the other persons in the court-room. The vagrant, the grave-digger,
had risen and stood against the wall, at first with a white face and
a dazed expression, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he
understood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell
thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his were not
the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid his tribute of
emotion as he stepped forward to honor that image of sadly eclipsed
but still effulgent humanity. It was not grief, it was not gratitude,
nor any sense of making reparation for the past. It was the softening
influence of an act of heroism, which makes every man feel himself a
brother hand in hand with every other--such power has a single act of
moral greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting up one, and
bringing all others to do him homage.
It was the coronation scene in the life of old King Solomon of
Kentucky.