William Ferguson called the next week and asked Mr. McSpadden to use his
influence to get him a higher employment, he feeling capable of
better things than driving a grocer's wagon. Mr. McSpadden got him an
under-clerkship at a good salary.
Presently William Ferguson's mother fell sick, and William--Well, to
cut the story short, Mr. McSpadden consented to take her into his house.
Before long she yearned for the society of her younger children; so Mary
and Julia were admitted also, and little Jimmy, their brother. Jimmy had
a pocket knife, and he wandered into the drawing-room with it one
day, alone, and reduced ten thousand dollars' worth of furniture to an
indeterminable value in rather less than three-quarters of an hour. A
day or two later he fell down-stairs and broke his neck, and seventeen
of his family's relatives came to the house to attend the funeral. This
made them acquainted, and they kept the kitchen occupied after that, and
likewise kept the McSpaddens busy hunting up situations of various sorts
for them, and hunting up more when they wore these out. The old woman
drank a good deal and swore a good deal; but the grateful McSpaddens
knew it was their duty to reform her, considering what her son had done
for them, so they clave nobly to their generous task. William came
often and got decreasing sums of money, and asked for higher and
more lucrative employments--which the grateful McSpadden more or less
promptly procured for him. McSpadden consented also, after some demur,
to fit William for college; but when the first vacation came and the
hero requested to be sent to Europe for his health, the persecuted
McSpadden rose against the tyrant and revolted. He plainly and squarely
refused. William Ferguson's mother was so astounded that she let her
gin-bottle drop, and her profane lips refused to do their office. When
she recovered she said in a half-gasp, “Is this your gratitude? Where
would your wife and boy be now, but for my son?”
William said, “Is this your gratitude? Did I save your wife's life or
not? Tell me that!”
Seven relations swarmed in from the kitchen and each said, “And this is
his gratitude!”
William's sisters stared, bewildered, and said, “And this is his
grat--” but were interrupted by their mother, who burst into tears and
exclaimed,
“To think that my sainted little Jimmy threw away his life in the
service of such a reptile!”
Then the pluck of the revolutionary McSpadden rose to the occasion, and
he replied with fervor, “Out of my house, the whole beggarly tribe
of you! I was beguiled by the books, but shall never be beguiled
again--once is sufficient for me.” And turning to William he shouted,
“Yes, you did save my wife's life, and the next man that does it shall
die in his tracks!”
Not being a clergyman, I place my text at the end of my sermon instead
of at the beginning. Here it is, from Mr. Noah Brooks's Recollections of
President Lincoln in “Scribners Monthly”:
J. H. Hackett, in his part of Falstaff, was an actor who gave Mr.
Lincoln great delight. With his usual desire to signify to others
his sense of obligation, Mr. Lincoln wrote a genial little note to
the actor expressing his pleasure at witnessing his performance.
Mr. Hackett, in reply, sent a book of some sort; perhaps it was one
of his own authorship. He also wrote several notes to the
President. One night, quite late, when the episode had passed out
of my mind, I went to the White House in answer to a message.
Passing into the President's office, I noticed, to my surprise,
Hackett sitting in the anteroom as if waiting for an audience. The
President asked me if any one was outside. On being told, he said,
half sadly, “Oh, I can't see him, I can't see him; I was in hopes he
had gone away.” Then he added, “Now this just illustrates the
difficulty of having pleasant friends and acquaintances in this
place. You know how I liked Hackett as an actor, and how I wrote to
tell him so. He sent me that book, and there I thought the matter
would end. He is a master of his place in the profession, I
suppose, and well fixed in it; but just because we had a little
friendly correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants
something. What do you suppose he wants?” I could not guess, and
Mr. Lincoln added, “well, he wants to be consul to London. Oh,
dear!”
I will observe, in conclusion, that the William Ferguson incident
occurred, and within my personal knowledge--though I have changed the
nature of the details, to keep William from recognizing himself in it.
All the readers of this article have in some sweet and gushing hour of
their lives played the role of Magnanimous-Incident hero. I wish I knew
how many there are among them who are willing to talk about that episode
and like to be reminded of the consequences that flowed from it.