ECCENTRICITIES OF HENRY GLAZIER.
Henry Glazier.--A singular character.--"Kaw-shaw-gan-ce" and
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah."--Tom Lolar and Henry Glazier.--Attractive
show-bills.--Billy Muldoon and his trombone.--Behind the
scenes.--"Sound your G!"--The mysterious musician.--What happened
to Billy.--"May the divil fly away wid ye!"
At this time there resided in the paternal homestead a younger brother
of Ward Glazier named Henry, who was Willard's senior by about eleven
years, and, physically speaking, was a splendid specimen of masculine
development. Like his brothers Ward and George, he stood six feet in his
stockings, and literally looked down on his fellows.
He had conceived a great liking for his nephew Willard, and on many a
hunting excursion in the Great North Woods, the boy was his only
companion. This affection, however, was not unmingled with some contempt
for the lad's diminutive stature.
Upon one occasion, during a visit to West Boylston, he made it his
business to search out the relatives of Willard's mother, in order to
ascertain what sort of stock she came from. On returning home, this son
of Anak exclaimed, with a dejected air:
"Mother, I'll be hanged if I ain't discouraged! Our Willard will always
be a little runt. His mother's folks ain't bigger'n a pinch of snuff!"
How far the prediction has been verified any one who has seen the
compact, sinewy form of the young soldier will understand.
Henry Glazier reveled in everything sensational. His ideal of heaven was
a succession of tableaux in which he was to play the principal part.
At one time he joined another eccentric character named Tom Lolar, an
Indian of the Seneca tribe, whose lands in the long ago of Indian
history bordered the blue waters of Lake Seneca in central New York.
This peculiar pair proceeded to electrify certain rural communities in
their immediate neighborhood with huge posters, announcing that on a
given night:
KAW-SHAW-GAN-CE,
OR
THE RED WILD CAT,
THE
_Great Chief of the Walaitipu Indians,_
Now traveling for the benefit of his tribe, proposes to exhibit
to an enlightened public the
Trophies won by his Braves,
In their battles with other Ferocious Tribes beyond the Rocky
Mountains, and the Great Chief will likewise give an
exhibition of the
WAR DANCES OF HIS NATION.
Accordingly upon the night in question Tom Lolar as "_Kaw-shaw-gan-ce_,"
and Henry Glazier as ticket agent, reaped such an excellent harvest that
the latter concluded to start a "live Indian" upon his own account.
This he accordingly did, dubbing the prodigy of his creation
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah," or the "Red Wild Cat."
Whether this venture was successful or not we have failed to learn, but
there is one story connected with it which is too good to be lost,
though it lacks satisfactory evidence of authenticity.
The legend runs that our enterprising manager went three miles away and
hunted up a genuine old native of Erin who had deserted from the British
army, where he held some position in one of the military bands attached
to a regiment stationed in Canada. With true Irish instinct this exile
of Erin had brought his trombone across the border, and "the
enterprising manager"--to use the language of the bills--"secured in him
the services of an eminent musician, late of Her Majesty's Royal Band,"
to discourse sweet music during the entire performance. This and other
attractive announcements drew a goodly crowd of lads and lasses from far
and near to the place appointed, and when the doors--otherwise
tent-flaps--were open, the assemblage marched in to the entrancing
strains of the trombone, as played by "Professor Muldoonati" _alias_
Billy Muldoon.
Everything passed off well. "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" presented to the _elite_
of the locality a type of the aboriginal American, which at least
possessed the merit of originality. If the audience expected to be
astonished they were not disappointed; for such an Indian as they then
beheld no living eye had ever looked upon before.
Mr. Catlin would have admitted that this noble red man was alien to any
of his tribes, and even Cooper's Leather-Stocking would have conceded
that his was a new revelation of savage humanity. It is barely possible
that Buffalo Bill may have dreamed of something like him, and it is not
impossible that the late Edwin Forrest may have actually been on
speaking terms with his brother, but outside of these two gentlemen, we
do not believe that human imagination ever conceived a child of the
forest in any respect resembling "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" on his opening night.
It did seem a little singular to combine the convivial music of "St.
Patrick's day in the morning" with such diabolical grimaces and gestures
as those which the Great Chief used in the pantomimic expression of his
sentiments. But the people were prepared for originality, and they had
it. At any rate the performance received their loud applause. At last,
however, it was over: the successive scenes of the programme had come
and gone--the war dances were finished, the curtain had fallen on the
last act, and Billy Muldoon's trombone had subsided into silence. But if
the performance within was wild, it was nothing to the wild night
without. It was the seventeenth of March, and the snow had been steadily
falling since morning, shrouding the hills and all the surrounding
country with a mantle as white and cold as a winding sheet.
The wind had increased since nightfall, and by the time
"Quaw-taw-pee-ah" had washed his face of its red lead, and Mr. Muldoon
had been paid his share of the proceeds, it was blowing "great guns," as
the sailors say. Out into such a night as this the audience dispersed:
but the lights of home shone through the blinding storm near at hand,
and buffeting with the fierce gusts of whirling snow and wind was only
brave sport for them. Not so, however, with Mr. Billy Muldoon. _His_
home was three miles away, and though the prospect without was anything
but pleasant, he prepared to face it like a man. His only precaution was
to see that an old army canteen was filled afresh with the best whiskey
the neighborhood afforded. Then he started on his homeward journey.
At first it was pretty hard work. The snow had drifted into heaps in
some places, and rose almost to the little man's waist. Still he
struggled bravely on, only stopping now and then to celebrate the
anniversary of Ireland's Patron Saint by taking a long pull and a strong
pull at the canteen.
For a half-hour or more he made but slow progress through the pitiless,
pelting storm, and he heartily cursed his folly in attempting the task
of coming home at all, on such a night as this. But a change came o'er
the spirit of his dream. As the contents of the canteen had diminished,
Billy's spirits had risen in exact proportion, his heart had grown
strong and he began to despise the difficulties in his way. In fact he
was as happy as a prince, and rather liked the idea of facing the snow
drifts and fighting the wind. So on he went. What seemed strange to
Billy was the fact that there seemed to be so much sameness in the
surrounding features of the landscape--or so much of it as he could
discover, during the momentary lulls of the storm. He therefore stopped
short, steadied himself for a moment, and took another drink; which
proceeding seemed to clear up his mind on the puzzled subject, for
muttering that it was "all roight," he once more started forward.
Another half-hour passed and still another, and yet Billy found the road
open before him, with no sign of his own humble little home. He began to
grow very tired and considerably muddled, and paused at length to
consider the situation.
In front of him he perceived something so like the lane that led to his
own shanty that he joyfully proceeded, and at length reached what he
believed to be a back door that he had directed his wife to leave "on
the latch" for his return.
What surprised him was that he could see no light within. He was,
however, sufficiently aware of the fact that he had taken more of "the
crayther" than his good woman would approve of, so not caring to wake
her up, he stole to the door and tried to lift the latch. It was
fastened. Everything within was dark as Erebus, and not a sound could be
heard except the low breathing of what he supposed to be his sleeping
children. This rather excited Billy's wrath. He had been particular in
his injunction to leave the door unbolted, and it was hard to be kept
out in the storm on such a night as this. He called out--at first in a
whisper, then louder and louder--to Kathleen to let him in. There was no
response. Yet he certainly heard the movement of feet within. What could
it mean? The little man finally swore a big oath and fiercely demanded
admittance; but still there came no reply. He then essayed to force the
door, and to his utter amazement the upper part of it gave way, opening
out like a window-shutter, while the lower part remained firm. The
musician therefore climbed up, and seating himself on the edge of the
door, peered in. He could see nothing but a black void. To use his own
figure of speech, "yez might as well hunt for Gineral Washington's will
down a black dog's throat, as attimpt to see the nose on yer face in
there!"
He was nearly paralyzed with astonishment. Suddenly a bright thought
struck him. He raised his trombone to his lips, and in spite of the
mingled emotions that agitated his breast, blew upon it a blast loud
enough to have waked the dead.
Imagine therefore how his previous astonishment was deepened into almost
idiotic wonder when he heard a reply from what appeared to be a trombone
of more gigantic power than his own. "Bur-r-r!" went Mr. Muldoon's
instrument.
"Boo-o-o!" replied the invisible respondent.
Billy was amazed. Billy was awe-stricken. But the instinct of the
musician rose above all other emotions.
"Sound your G!" said Billy.
"Boo-o-o!" was the answer in a deeper base than before.
"Yer out o' tune, ye domned old fool!" says Billy.
"Boo-o-o!" came the response once more.
"Sound yer G, and take that, ye murtherin spalpeen!" said the now
thoroughly exasperated musician, dashing his own instrument in the
direction of his invisible rival.
Just then poor Billy saw a ferocious-looking pair of eyes glaring at
him, and before he had time to add another word, some huge object rushed
towards him, struck him a determined blow, and lifting him off his perch
sent him into the middle of the road.
The fact is, Billy had wandered very much out of his way, and had
mistaken Ward Glazier's barn for his own dwelling. The supposed rival
musician was our old acquaintance, "Black-face," the Bull.
Billy picked himself up from the snow, and, regardless of his bruised
body and aching bones, steadied himself for a last shot at the enemy.
The little man looked in the direction where he thought his adversary
ought to be, and though he could see nothing through the darkness and
storm, he shouted out, in accents of blended dignity and contempt:
"May the divil fly away wid ye! Ye may be the sthronger of the two, but,
be jabers, yer no museecian!"
How he eventually got home and what were his sentiments regarding the
adventure with which he had met, are facts that do not concern this
history; but it is quite probable that he wondered as we have often
done, that St. Patrick, while engaged in the laudable task of expelling
snakes from the soil of the Emerald Isle, did not also provide that such
reptiles should keep out of the boots of her sons.