Cobwebs from an Empty Skull Part 28

THE SETTING SACHEM.

'Twas an Injin chieftain, in feathers all fine, Who stood on the ocean's rim; There were numberless leagues of excellent brine-- But there wasn't enough for him.

So he knuckled a thumb in his painted eye, And added a tear to the scant supply.

The surges were breaking with thund'rous voice, The winds were a-shrieking shrill; This warrior thought that a trifle of noise Was needed to fill the bill.

So he lifted the top of his head off and scowled-- Exalted his voice, did this chieftain, and howled!

The sun was aflame in a field of gold That hung o'er the Western Sea; Bright banners of light were broadly unrolled, As banners of light should be.

But no one was "speaking a piece" to that sun, And therefore this Medicine Man begun:

"O much heap of bright! O big ball of warm!

I've tracked you from sea to sea!

For the Paleface has been at some pains to inform Me, _you_ are the emblem of _me_.

He says to me, cheerfully: 'Westward Ho!'

And westward I've hoed a most difficult row.

"Since you are the emblem of me, I presume That I am the emblem of you, And thus, as we're equals, 't is safe to a.s.sume, That one great law governs us two.

So now if I set in the ocean with thee, With thee I shall rise again out of the sea."

His eloquence first, and his logic the last!

Such orators die!--and he died: The trump was against him--his luck bad--he "pa.s.sed"-- And so he "pa.s.sed out"--with the tide.

This Injin is rid of the world with a whim-- The world it is rid of his speeches and him.

FEODORA.

Madame Yonsmit was a decayed gentlewoman who carried on her decomposition in a modest wayside cottage in Thuringia. She was an excellent sample of the Thuringian widow, a species not yet extinct, but trying very hard to become so. The same may be said of the whole genus. Madame Yonsmit was quite young, very comely, cultivated, gracious, and pleasing. Her home was a nest of domestic virtues, but she had a daughter who reflected but little credit upon the nest.

Feodora was indeed a "bad egg"--a very wicked and ungrateful egg. You could see she was by her face. The girl had the most vicious countenance--it was repulsive! It was a face in which boldness struggled for the supremacy with cunning, and both were thrashed into subjection by avarice. It was this latter virtue in Feodora which kept her mother from having a taxable income.

Feodora's business was to beg on the highway. It wrung the heart of the honest amiable gentlewoman to have her daughter do this; but the h.a.g. having been reared in luxury, considered labour degrading--which it is--and there was not much to steal in that part of Thuringia. Feodora's mendicity would have provided an ample fund for their support, but unhappily that ingrate would hardly ever fetch home more than two or three shillings at a time. Goodness knows what she did with the rest.

Vainly the good woman pointed out the sin of coveteousness; vainly she would stand at the cottage door awaiting the child's return, and begin arguing the point with her the moment she came in sight: the receipts diminished daily until the average was less than tenpence--a sum upon which no born gentlewoman would deign to exist. So it became a matter of some importance to know where Feodora kept her banking account.

Madame Yonsmit thought at first she would follow her and see; but although the good lady was as vigorous and sprightly as ever, carrying a crutch more for ornament than use, she abandoned this plan because it did not seem suitable to the dignity of a decayed gentlewoman. She employed a detective.

The foregoing particulars I have from Madame Yonsmit herself; for those immediately subjoining I am indebted to the detective, a skilful officer named Bowstr.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

No sooner had the scraggy old hag communicated her suspicions than the officer knew exactly what to do. He first distributed hand-bills all over the country, stating that a certain person suspected of concealing money had better look sharp. He then went to the Home Secretary, and by not seeking to understate the real difficulties of the case, induced that functionary to offer a reward of a thousand pounds for the arrest of the malefactor. Next he proceeded to a distant town, and took into custody a clergyman who resembled Feodora in respect of wearing shoes. After these formal preliminaries he took up the case with some zeal. He was not at all actuated by a desire to obtain the reward, but by pure love of justice. The thought of securing the girl's private h.o.a.rd for himself never for a moment entered his head.

He began to make frequent calls at the widow's cottage when Feodora was at home, when, by apparently careless conversation, he would endeavour to draw her out; but he was commonly frustrated by her old beast of a mother, who, when the girl's answers did not suit, would beat her unmercifully. So he took to meeting Feodora on the highway, and giving her coppers carefully marked. For months he kept this up with wonderful self-sacrifice--the girl being a mere uninteresting angel. He met her daily in the roads and forest. His patience never wearied, his vigilance never flagged. Her most careless glances were conscientiously noted, her lightest words treasured up in his memory.

Meanwhile (the clergyman having been unjustly acquitted) he arrested everybody he could get his hands on. Matters went on in this way until it was time for the grand _coup_.

The succeeding-particulars I have from the lips of Feodora herself.

When that horrid Bowstr first came to the house Feodora thought he was rather impudent, but said, little about it to her mother--not desiring to have her back broken. She merely avoided him as much as she dared, he was so frightfully ugly. But she managed to endure him until he took to waylaying her on the highway, hanging about her all day, interfering with the customers, and walking home with her at night.

Then her dislike deepened into disgust; and but for apprehensions not wholly unconnected with a certain crutch, she would have sent him about his business in short order. More than a thousand million times she told him to be off and leave her alone, but men are such fools--particularly this one.

What made Bowstr exceptionally disagreeable was his shameless habit of making fun of Feodora's mother, whom he declared crazy as a loon. But the maiden bore everything as well as she could, until one day the nasty thing put his arm about her waist and kissed her before her very face; _then_ she felt--well, it is not clear how she felt, but of one thing she was quite sure: after having such a shame put upon her by this insolent brute, she would never go back under her dear mother's roof--never. She was too proud for _that_, at any rate. So she ran away with Mr. Bowstr, and married him.

The conclusion of this history I learned for myself.

Upon hearing of her daughter's desertion Madame Yonsmit went clean daft. She vowed she could bear betrayal, could endure decay, could stand being a widow, would not repine at being left alone in her old age (whenever she should become old), and could patiently submit to the sharper than a serpent's thanks of having a toothless child generally. But to be a mother-in-law! No, no; that was a plane of degradation to which she positively would _not_ descend. So she employed me to cut her throat. It was the toughest throat I ever cut in all my life.

THE LEGEND OF IMMORTAL TRUTH.

A bear, having spread him a notable feast, Invited a famishing fox to the place.

"I've killed me," quoth he, "an edible beast As ever distended the girdle of priest With 'spread of religion,' or 'inward grace.'

To my den I conveyed her, I bled her and flayed her, I hung up her skin to dry; Then laid her naked, to keep her cool, On a slab of ice from the frozen pool; And there we will eat her--you and I."

The fox accepts, and away they walk, Beguiling the time with courteous talk.

You'd ne'er have suspected, to see them smile, The bear was thinking, the blessed while, How, when his guest should be off his guard, With feasting hard, He'd give him a "wipe" that would spoil his style.

You'd never have thought, to see them bow, The fox was reflecting deeply how He would best proceed, to circ.u.mvent His host, and prig The entire pig-- Or other bird to the same intent.

When Strength and Cunning in love combine, Be sure 't is to more than merely dine.

The while these biters ply the lip, A mile ahead the muse shall skip: The poet's purpose she best may serve Inside the den--if she have the nerve.

Behold! laid out in dark recess, A ghastly goat in stark undress, Pallid and still on her gelid bed, And indisputably very dead.

Her skin depends from a couple of pins-- And here the most singular statement begins; For all at once the butchered beast, With easy grace for one deceased, Upreared her head, Looked round, and said, Very distinctly for one so dead: "The nights are sharp, and the sheets are thin: I find it uncommonly cold herein!"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

I answer not how this was wrought: All miracles surpa.s.s my thought.

They're vexing, say you? and dementing?

Peace, peace! they're none of my inventing.

But lest too much of mystery Embarra.s.s this true history, I'll not relate how that this goat Stood up and stamped her feet, to inform'em With--what's the word?--I mean, to warm'em; Nor how she plucked her rough _capote_ From off the pegs where Bruin threw it, And o'er her quaking body drew it; Nor how each act could so befall: I'll only swear she did them all; Then lingered pensive in the grot, As if she something had forgot, Till a humble voice and a voice of pride Were heard, in murmurs of love, outside.

Then, like a rocket set aflight, She sprang, and streaked it for the light!

Ten million million years and a day Have rolled, since these events, away; But still the peasant at fall of night, Belated therenear, is oft affright By sounds of a phantom bear in flight; A breaking of branches under the hill; The noise of a going when all is still!

And hens asleep on the perch, they say, Cackle sometimes in a startled way, As if they were dreaming a dream that mocks The lope and whiz of a fleeting fox!

Half we're taught, and teach to youth, And praise by rote, Is not, but merely stands for, truth.

So of my goat: She's merely designed to represent The truth--"immortal" to this extent: Dead she may be, and skinned--_frappe_-- Hid in a dreadful den away; Prey to the Churches--(any will do, Except the Church of me and you.) The simplest miracle, even then, Will get her up and about again.