Six months had come and gone and done it; the weather was as
inordinately hot as it had before been intolerably cold; and the
Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON stood waiting, in the gorgeous Office of the
Boreal Life Insurance Company, New York, for the appearance of Mr.
MELANCTHON SCHENCK.
Having been directed by a superb young clerk, who parted his hair in the
middle, to "just stand out of the passage-way and amuse yourself with
one of our Schedules for awhile," until the great life-Agent should come
in, the Gospeler read a few schedulistic pages, proving, that if a
person had his life Insured at the age of Thirty, and paid his premiums
regularly until he was Eighty-five, the cost to him and profit to the
Company would, probably, be much more than the amount he had insured
for. It must, then, be evident to him, that, upon his death, at Ninety,
the Company would have received, in all, sufficient funds from him to
pay the full amount of his Policy to the lady whom he had always
introduced as his wife, and still retain enough to declare a handsome
Dividend for itself. Such was the sound business-principle upon which
the Boreal was conducted; and the merest child must perceive, that only
the extremely unlikely coincidence of at least four insurers all dying
before Eighty-five could endanger the solvency of the beneficent
institution.--Having mastered this convincing argument, and become
greatly confused by its plausibility, Mr. SIMPSON next gave some
attention to what was going on around him in the Office, and allowed his
overwrought mind to relax cheerfully in contemplation thereof. One of
human nature's peculiarities was quite amusingly exemplified in the
different treatment accorded to callers who were "safe risks," and to
those who were not. Thus, the whisper of "Here comes old Tubercles,
again!" was prevalent amongst the clerks upon the entrance of a very
thin, narrow-chested old gentleman, whom they informed, with
considerable humor, that he was only wasting hours which should be spent
with a spiritual adviser, in his useless attempts to take out a Policy
in _that_ office. The Boreal couldn't insure men who ought to be upon
their dying beds instead of coughing around Insurance offices. Ha, ha,
ha! Another gentleman, florid of countenance and absolutely without
neck, was quickly checked in the act of giving his name at one of the
desks; one clerk desiring another clerk to look, under the head of "A.,"
in his book, for "_Apoplexy_," and let this man see that we can't take
such a risk as he is on any terms. A third caller, who really looked
quite healthy except around the eyes, was also assured that he need not
call again--"Because, you see," explained the clerkly wag, "it's no go
for you to try to play your BRIGHT'S Disease on _us!_" When, however,
the applicant was a robustious, long-necked, fresh individual, he was
almost lifted from his feet in the rush of obliging young Boreals to
show him into the room of the Medical Examiner; and when, now and then,
an agent, or an insurance-broker, came dragging in, by the collar, some
Safe Risk, just captured, there was an actual contest to see who should
be most polite to the panting but healthy stranger, and obtain his
private biography for the consideration of the Company.
The Reverend OCTAVIUS studied these sprightly little scenes with
unspeakable interest until the arrival of Mr. SCHENCK, and then followed
that popular benefactor into his private office with the air of a man
who had gained a heightened admiration for his species.
"So you have come to your senses at last!" said Mr. SCHENCK, hastily
drawing his visitor toward a window in the side-room to which they had
retired. "Let me look at your tongue, sir."
"What do you mean?" asked the Gospeler, endeavoring to draw back.
"I mean what I say. Let--me--see--your--tongue.--Or, stop!" said Mr.
SCHENCK, seized with a new thought, "I may as well examine your general
organization first." And, flying at the astounded Ritualistic clergyman,
he had sounded his lungs, caused a sharp pain in his liver, and felt his
pulse, before the latter could phrase an intelligent protest.
"You may die at any moment, and probably will," concluded Mr. SCHENCK,
thoughtfully; "but still, on the score of friendship, we'll give you a
Policy for a reasonable amount, and take the chance of being able to
compromise with your mother on a certain per centage after the funeral."
"I don't want any of your plagued policies!" exclaimed the irritated
Gospeler, pushing away the hand striving to feel his pulse again.
"As you have expressed a desire to resign the guardianship of your
wards, Mr. and Miss PENDRAGON, and I have agreed to accept it, my
purpose in calling here is to obtain such statement of your account with
those young people as you may be disposed to render."
"Ah!" returned the other, in sullen disappointment. "That is all, eh?
Allow me to inform you, then, that I have cancelled the Boreal policies
which have been granted to the Murderer and his sister; and allow me
also to remark, that a dying clergyman like yourself might employ his
last moments better than encouraging a Southern destroyer of human
life."
"I do not, cannot believe that MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON is guilty," said Mr.
SIMPSON, firmly. "Having his full confidence, and thoroughly knowing his
nature, I am sure of his innocence, let appearances be what they may.
Consequently, it is my determination to befriend him."
"And you will not have your life insured?"
"I will not, sir. Please stop bothering me."
"And you call yourself a clergyman!" cried Mr. SCHENCK, with intense
scorn. "You pretend to be a Ritualistic spiritual guide; you champion
people who slay the innocent and steal devout men's umbrellas; and yet
you do not scruple to leave your own high-church Mother entirely without
provision at your death.--In such a case," continued the speaker,
rising, while his manner grew ferocious with determination--"in such a
case, all other arguments having failed, my duty is plain. Yon shall not
leave this room, sir, until you have promised to take out a Boreal
Policy."
He started, as he spoke, for the door of the private-office, intending
to lock it and remove the key; but the unhappy Ritualist, fathoming his
design, was there before him, and tore open the door for his own speedy
egress.
"Mr. SCHENCK," observed the Gospeler, turning and pausing in the
doorway, "you allow your business-energy to violate all the most
delicate amenities of private life, and will yet drive some maddened
mortal to such resentful use of pistol, knife, or poker, as your
mourning family shall sincerely deplore. The articles on Free Trade and
Protection in the daily papers have hitherto been regarded as the climax
of all that utterly wearies the long-suffering human soul; but I tell
you, as a candid friend, that they are but little more depressing and
jading to the vital powers than your unceasing mention of
life-insurance."
"These are strong words, sir," answered Mr. SCHENCK, incredulously. "The
editorial articles to which you refer are considered the very drought of
journalism; those by Mr. GREELEY, especially, being so dry that they are
positively dangerous reading without a tumbler of water."
"Yon brought the comparison upon yourself, Mr. SCHENCK. Good day."
Thus speaking, the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON hurried nervously from the
Boreal temple; not fairly satisfied that he had escaped a Policy until
he found himself safely emerged on Broadway and turning a corner toward
Nassau Street. Beaching the latter bye-way, after a brief interval of
sharp walking, he entered a building nearly opposite that in which was
the office of Mr. DIBBLE; and, having ascended numerous flights of
twilight stairs to the lofty floor immediately over the saddened rooms
occupied by a great American Comic Paper, came into a spidery garret
where lurked MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,
"Hard at it?" he asked, approaching a ricketty table at which sat the
persecuted Southerner, reading a volume of HOYLE'S Games.
"My only friend!" ejaculated the lonely reader, hurriedly covering the
book with an arm. "I am, as you see, studying law here, all alone with
these silent friends."
He waved his thin hand toward a rude shelf on which were several
well-worn City Directories of remote dates, volumes of Patent Office
Reports for the years '57 and '59, a copy of Mr. GREELEY'S Essays on
Political Economy, an edition of the Corporation Manual, the Coast
Survey for 1850, and other inflaming statistical works, which had been
sent to him in his exile by thoughtful friends who had no place to keep
them.
"Cheer up, brother!" exhorted the good Gospeler, "I'll send you some
nice theological volumes to add to your library, which will then be
complete. Be not despondent. All will come right yet."
"I reckon it will, in time," returned the youth, moodily. "I suppose you
know that my sister is determined to come here and stay with me?"
"Yes, MONTGOMERY, I have heard of her noble resolution. May her
conversation prove sustaining to you."
"There will be enough of it, I reckon, to sustain half a dozen people,"
was the despondent answer. "This is a gloomy place for her, Mr. SIMPSON,
situated, as it is, immediately over the offices of a Comic Paper."
"And do you think she would care for cheerful accessories while you are
in sorrow?" asked the Gospeler, reproachfully.
"But it is so mournful--that floor below," persisted the brother,
doubtfully. "If there were only something the least bit more lively down
there--say an Undertaker's."
"A Sister's Love can lessen the most crushing gloom, MONTGOMERY."
A silent pressure of the hand rewarded this encouraging reminder of
sanguine friendship; and, after the depressed law-student had promised
the Reverend OCTAVIUS to walk with him as far as the ferry in a few
moments, the said Reverend departed for a hasty call upon the old lawyer
across the street.
Benignant Mr. DIBBLE sat near a front window of his office, and received
the visitor with legal serenity.
"And how does our young friend enjoy himself, Mr. SIMPSON, in the
retreat which I had the honor of commending to you for him?"
The visitor replied, that his young friend's retreat, by its very
loftiness, was calculated to inspire any occupant with a room-attic
affection.
"And how, and when, and where did you leave Mr. BUMSTEAD?" inquired Mr.
DIBBLE.
"As well as could be expected; this morning, at Bumsteadville," said the
Gospeler, with answer as terse and comprehensive as the question.
"--Because," added the lawyer, quickly, "there he is, now, coming out of
a refreshment saloon immediately under the building in which our young
friend takes refuge."
"So he is!" exclaimed the surprised Mr. SIMPSON, staring through the
window.
There, indeed, as indicated, was the Ritualistic organist; apparently
eating cloves from the palm of his right hand as he emerged from the
place of refreshment, and wearing a linen coat so long and a straw hat
of such vast brim that his sex was not obvious at first glance. While
the two beholders gazed, in unspeakable fascination, Mr. BUMSTEAD
suddenly made a wild dart at a passing elderly man with a dark
sun-umbrella, ecstatically tore the latter from his grasp, and
passionately tapped him on the head with it. Then, before the astounded
elderly man could recover from his amazement, or regain the gold
spectacles which had been knocked from his nose, the umbrella, after an
instant of keen examination, was restored to him with a humble, almost
abjectly apologetic, air, and Mr. BUMSTEAD hurried back, evidently
crushed, into the refreshment saloon.
"His brain must be turned by the loss of his relative," murmured the
Gospeler, pitifully.
"His umbrellative, you mean," said Mr. DIBBLE.
When these two gentlemen had parted, and the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON
had been escorted to the ferry, as promised, by MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON,
the latter, after a long, insane walk about the city, with the
thermometer at 98 degrees, returned to his attic in time to surprise a
stranger climbing in through one of the back windows.
"Who are you?" exclaimed the Southern youth, much struck by the funereal
aspect, sexton-like dress, and inordinately long countenance of the
pallid, light-haired intruder.
"Pardon! pardon!" answered he at the window, with much solemnity. "I am
a proprietor of the Comic Paper down below, and am eluding the man who
comes every day to tell me how such a paper _should_ be conducted. He is
now talking to the young man writing the mail-wrappers, who, being of
iron constitution and unmarried, can bear more than I. There was just
time for me to glide out of the window at sound of that fearful voice,
and I climbed the iron shutter and found myself at your casement.--Hark!
Do you hear the buzz down there? He's now telling the young man writing
the mail-wrappers what kind of Cartoons should be got-up for _this_
country.--Hark, again! and the young man writing the mail-wrappers have
clinched and are rolling about the floor.--Hark, once more! The young
man writing the mail-wrappers has put him out."
"Won't you come in?" asked MONTGOMERY, sincerely sorry for the agitated
being.
"Alas, no!" responded the fugitive, in the tone of a cathedral bell.
"I must go back to my lower deep once more. My name is JEREMY BENTHAM; I
am very unhappy in my mind; and, with your permission, will often escape
this way from him who is the bane of my existence."
Being assured of welcome on all occasions, he of the long countenance
went clanging down the iron shutter again; and the lonely law-student,
burying his face in his hands, prayed Providence to forgive him for
having esteemed his own lot so hopelessly gloomy when there were Comic
Paper men on the very next floor.
That night, before going home to Gowanus, the old lawyer across the way
glanced up toward MONTGOMERY'S retreat, and shook his head as though he
couldn't make something out. Whether he had a difficult idea in his
brain, or only a fly on his nose, was for the observer to discover for
himself.
(_To be Continued_.)
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