come from Kimballton or that neighbourhood maybe you can tell me the
real facts about the affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow
actually murdered two or three nights ago by an Irishman and a nigger?”
Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe at first that the
stranger himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden
question the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow hue
becoming a ghastly white, while shaking and stammering he thus replied—
“No! no! There was no coloured man! It was an Irishman that hanged him
last night at eight o’clock. I came away at seven! His folks can’t have
looked for him in the orchard yet.”
Scarcely had the yellow man spoken when he interrupted himself, and
though he seemed weary enough before, continued his journey at a pace
which would have kept the pedler’s mare on a sharp trot. Dominicus
stared after him in great perplexity. If the murder had not been
committed till Tuesday night, who was the prophet that had foretold it,
in all its circumstances, on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham’s
corpse were not yet discovered by his own family, how came the mulatto,
at above thirty miles distance, to know that he was hanging in the
orchard, especially as he had left Kimballton before the unfortunate man
was hanged at all? These ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger’s
surprise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising a hue and cry after
him, as an accomplice in the murder, since a murder, it seemed, had
really been perpetrated.
“But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedler. “I don’t want his black
blood on my head; and hanging the nigger won’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham.
Unhang the old gentleman! It’s a sin, I know; but I should hate to have
him come to life a second time, and give me the lie!”
With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove into the street of Parker’s
Falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a village as three
cotton factories and a slitting-mill can make it. The machinery was not
in motion, and but a few of the shop doors unbarred, when he alighted in
the stable-yard of the tavern, and made it his first business to order
the mare four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was to impart
Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the ostler. He deemed it advisable,
however, not to be too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and
also to be uncertain whether it was perpetrated by an Irishman and a
mulatto, or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he profess to relate
it on his own authority, or that of any other person; but mentioned it
as a report generally diffused.
The story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and became
so much the universal talk that nobody could tell whence it originated.
Mr. Higginbotham was as well known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of
the place, being part-owner of the slitting-mill, and a considerable
stockholder in the cotton factories. The inhabitants felt their own
prosperity interested in his fate. Such was the excitement that the
_Parker’s Falls Gazette_ anticipated its regular day of publication, and
came out with half a form of blank paper and a column of double pica
emphasised with capitals, and headed HORRID MURDER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM!
Among other dreadful details, the printed account described the mark of
the cord round the dead man’s neck, and stated the number of thousand
dollars of which he had been robbed. There was much pathos also about
the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one fainting fit to
another, ever since her uncle was found hanging on the St. Michael’s
pear-tree with his pockets inside out. The village poet likewise
commemorated the young lady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of a ballad.
The select-men held a meeting, and in consideration of Mr.
Higginbotham’s claims on the town, determined to issue handbills
offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his
murderers and the recovery of the stolen property.
Meanwhile the whole population of Parker’s Falls, consisting of
shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factory girls, mill-men and
school-boys, rushed into the street, and kept up such a terrible
loquacity as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton
machines, which refrained from their usual din out of respect to the
deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his
untimely ghost would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Dominicus,
in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions, and, mounting
on the town pump, announced himself as the bearer of the authentic
intelligence which had caused so wonderful a sensation. He immediately
became the great man of the moment, and had just began a new edition of
the narrative with a voice like a field-preacher when the mail stage
drove into the village street. It had travelled all night, and must have
shifted horses at Kimballton at three in the morning.
“Now we shall hear all the particulars,” shouted the crowd.
The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, followed by a thousand
people; for if any man had been minding his own business till then, he
now left it at sixes and sevens to hear the news. The pedler, foremost
in the race, discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startled
from a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every
man assailed them with separate questions all propounded at once. The
couple were struck speechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a
young lady.
“Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us the particulars about old
Mr. Higginbotham!” bawled the mob. “What is the coroner’s verdict? Are
the murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s niece come out of her
fainting fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!”
The coachman said not a word, except to swear awfully at the ostler for
not bringing him a fresh team of horses. The lawyer inside had generally
his wits about him even when asleep; the first thing he did, after
learning the cause of the excitement, was to produce a large red
pocket-book. Meanwhile, Dominicus Pike, being an extremely polite young
man, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story as
glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the lady out of the coach. She was a
fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a button, and had such a
sweet, pretty mouth, that Dominicus would almost as lieves have heard a
love-tale from it as a tale of murder.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the
mill-men, and the factory girls, “I can assure you that some
unaccountable mistake, or more probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously
contrived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit, has excited this singular
uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three o’clock this morning, and
most certainly should have been informed of the murder, had any been
perpetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham’s own
oral testimony in the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit of his
in the Connecticut courts, which was delivered me from that gentleman
himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock last evening.”
So saying the lawyer exhibited the date and signature of the note, which
irrefragably proved, either that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was
alive when he wrote it, or—as some deemed the more probable case of two
doubtful ones—that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue
to transact it even after his death. But unexpected evidence was
forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the pedler’s
explanations, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her
curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making a modest
signal to be heard.
“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’s niece.”
[Illustration: “I AM MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S NIECE.”]
A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy and
bright, the same unhappy niece whom they had supposed, on the authority
of the _Parker’s Falls Gazette_, to be lying at death’s door in a
fainting fit. But some shrewd fellow had doubted all along whether a
young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old
uncle.
“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, “that this strange
story is quite unfounded, as to myself; and I believe I may affirm it to
be equally so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He has the
kindness to give me a home in his house, though I contribute to my
support by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morning to spend
the vacation of commencement week with a friend, about five miles from
Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs,
called me to his bedside, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay
my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. He then laid
his pocket-book under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to
take some biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel
confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative alive, and trust
that I shall find him so on my return.”
The young lady curtsied at the close of her speech, which was so
sensible, and well-worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety,
that everybody thought her fit to be Preceptress of the best Academy in
the State. But a stranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was
an object of abhorrence at Parker’s Falls, and that a thanksgiving had
been proclaimed for his murder, so excessive was the wrath of the
inhabitants on learning their mistake. The mill-men resolved to bestow
public honours on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether to tar and
feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at the
town pump, on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of the
news. The select-men, by the advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting
him for a misdemeanour in circulating unfounded reports, to the great
disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus
either from mob law or a court of justice but an eloquent appeal made by
the young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt
gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green cart and drove out
of town under a discharge of artillery from the school-boys, who found
plenty of ammunition in the neighbouring clay-pits and mud-holes. As he
turned his head, to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham’s
niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty-pudding, hit him slap in the
mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so
bespattered with the like filthy missiles that he had almost a mind to
ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town pump,
for, though not meant in kindness, it would have been a deed of charity.
However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the mud, an emblem
of all stains of undeserved opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry.
Being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain
from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story excited. The handbills
of the select-men would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in the
State. The paragraph in the _Parker’s Falls Gazette_ would be reprinted
from Maine to Florida, and perhaps form an item in the London
newspapers; and many a miser would tremble for his money-bag and life,
on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler meditated
with much fervour on the charms of the young school-mistress, and swore
that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel as Miss
Higginbotham, while defending him from the wrathful populace at Parker’s
Falls.
Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having all along
determined to visit that place, though business had drawn him out of the
most direct road from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the
supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind,
and was astonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. Had
nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller it
might have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was evidently
acquainted either with the report or the fact; and there was a mystery
in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. When to
this singular combination of incidents it was added that the rumour
tallied with Mr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of life; and that
he had an orchard, and a St. Michael’s pear-tree, near which he always
passed at nightfalls, the circumstantial evidence appeared so strong
that Dominicus doubted whether the autograph produced by the lawyer, or
even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. Making
cautious inquiry along the road, the pedler further learned that Mr.
Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of doubtful character, whom
he had hired without a recommendation, on the score of economy.
“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pike aloud, on reaching
the top of a lonely hill, “if I believe old Higginbotham is unhanged,
till I see him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own mouth! And as
he’s a real shaver, I’ll have the minister or some other responsible man
for an endorser.”
It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton
turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. His
little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback, who
trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the
toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. Dominicus was acquainted
with the toll-man, and while making change, the usual remarks on the
weather passed between them.
“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whip-lash to bring it
down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have not seen anything of
old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?”
“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gate just before you
drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk.
He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale there.
The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me; but
to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ and jogged on, for
wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o’clock.”
“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.
“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does,”
continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myself to-night, he’s more like
a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.”
The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just
discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. He seemed to
recognise the rear of Mr. Higginbotham; and through the evening shadows,
and amid the dust from the horse’s feet, the figure appeared dim and
unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly
moulded of darkness and grey light. Dominicus shivered.
“Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world, by way of
Kimballton turnpike,” thought he.
He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in
the rear of the grey old shadow, till the latter was concealed by a bend
of the road. On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man on
horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far
from a number of stores and two taverns, clustered around the
meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the
boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard; further still, a
mowing-field, and, last of all, a house. These were the premises of Mr.
Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been
left in the background by the Kimballton turnpike, and Dominicus knew
the place; and the little mare stopped short by instinct, for he was not
conscious of tightening the reins.
“For the soul of me I cannot get by this gate,” said he, trembling. “I
never shall be my own man again till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is
hanging on the St. Michael pear-tree!”
He leaped from the cart, gave the reins a turn round the gate-post, and
ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing
behind. Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep
stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before,
till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated
pear-tree. One great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk
across the path and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. But
something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!
[Illustration: “HE RUSHED FORWARD, PROSTRATED A STURDY IRISHMAN WITH THE
BUTT END OF HIS WHIP.”]
The pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of
peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valour on this awful
emergency. Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a
sturdy Irishman with the butt end of his whip, and found—not indeed
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a
halter round his neck—the old, identical Mr. Higginbotham.
“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus tremulously, “you’re an honest man,
and I’ll take your word for it. Have you been hanged or not?”
If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the
simple machinery by which this coming event was made to cast its shadow
before. Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.
Higginbotham; two of them successively lost courage and fled, each
delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in
the act of perpetration when a champion, blindly obeying the call of
fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of
Dominicus Pike.
It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedler into high
favour, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty school-mistress, and
settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the
interest. In due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favours
by dying a Christian death, in bed, since which melancholy event
Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton and established a large
tobacco factory in my native village.
_Nathaniel Hawthorne._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_GOING TO CALIFORNIA._
“DEAR me!” exclaimed Mrs. Partington sorrowfully, “how much a man will
bear, and how far he will go, to get the soddered dross, as Parson
Martin called it when he refused the beggar a sixpence, for fear it
might lead him into extravagance! Everybody is going to California and
Chagrin arter gold. Cousin Jones and the three Smiths have gone; and Mr.
Chip, the carpenter, has left his wife and seven children, and a blessed
old mother-in-law, to seek his fortin, too. This is the strangest yet,
and I don’t see how he could have done it; it looks so ongrateful to
treat Heaven’s blessings so lightly. But there we are told that the love
of money is the root of all evil, and how true it is! for they are now
rooting arter it, like pigs arter ground-nuts. Why, it is a perfect
money mania among everybody!”
[Illustration: “AS SHE PENSIVELY WATCHED A SMALL MUG OF CIDER.”]
And she shook her head doubtingly, as she pensively watched a small mug
of cider, with an apple in it, simmering by the winter fire. She was
somewhat fond of drink made in this way.
_Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber_
(“_Mrs. Partington_”).
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“_ROUGHING IT._”
ANOTHER night of alternate tranquillity and turmoil. But morning came
by-and-by. It was another glad awakening to fresh breezes, vast expanses
of level greensward, bright sunlight, an impressive solitude utterly
without visible human beings or human habitations, and an atmosphere of
such amazing magnifying properties that trees that seemed close at hand
were more than three miles away. We resumed undress uniform, climbed
a-top of the flying coach, dangled our legs over the side, shouted
occasionally at our frantic mules, merely to see them lay their ears
back and scamper faster, tied our hats on to keep our hair from blowing
away, and levelled an outlook over the world-wide carpet about us for
things new and strange to gaze at. Even at this day it thrills me
through and through to think of the life, the gladness and the wild
sense of freedom, that used to make the blood dance in my veins on those
fine overland mornings!