Eugene Field, a Study in Heredity and Contradictions Volume II Part 3

"Ha, ha, ho, ho!" laughed the gory and bearded pirate.

"Save me!" cried Mary Matilda. "My beechnuts are all gone!"

"Throw them the baby!" answered the bearded pirate, "and save yourself! Ha, ha, ho, ho!"

Should she do it? Should she throw little Bessie to the devouring musquashes? No, she could not stoop to that ungenerous deed.

"No, base pirate!" she cried. "I would not so demean myself!"

But the scuttled brigantine had disappeared. Mary Matilda saw it was a mirage. Meanwhile the musquashes gained on her. The beechnuts had whetted their appet.i.te. It seemed as if they were sure of their prey. But all at once they stopped, and Mary Matilda stopped, too. They were confronted by a haggard but manly form. It was the mysterious young stranger, and he had a saw which Eddie Martin had lent him. His aspect was so terrible that the musquashes turned to flee, but they were too late. The mysterious stranger laid about him so vigorously with his saw that the musquashes soon were in bits. Here was a tail, there a leg; here an ear, there a nose-oh, it was a rare potpourri, I can tell you! Finally the musquashes all were dead.

"To whom am I indebted for my salvation?" inquired Mary Matilda, blushing deeply.

"Alas, I do not know," replied the wan stranger. "I am called Juan, but my lineage is enveloped in gloom."

At once Mary Matilda suspected he was her brother's missing friend, and this suspicion was confirmed by the lavender trousers he wore. She questioned him closely, and he told her all. Bessie heard all he said, and she could tell you more particularly than I can about it. I only know that Juan confessed that, having tasted of Mary Matilda's cake, he fell deeply in love with her and had come all this distance to ask her to be his, indissolubly.

"Still," said he, sadly, "'tis too much to ask you to link your destiny with one whose lineage is not known."

By this time they had reached the back-yard gate. Eddie Martin was sitting on the wood-pile talking with a weird old woman. The weird old woman scrutinized Mary Matilda closely.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

"No," said Mary Matilda.

"I have been serving ten years for a mild indiscretion," said the old woman, sadly. "I am the gypsy who told your fortune many years ago."

Then the old gypsy's keen eyes fell on Juan, the stranger. She gave a fierce cry.

"I have seen that face before!" she cried, trembling with emotion. "When I knew it, it was a baby face; but the spectacles are still the same!"

Juan also quivered with emotion.

"Have you a thistle mark on your left arm?" demanded the old gypsy, fiercely.

"Yes," he answered, hoa.r.s.ely; and pulling up the sleeve of his linen ulster he exposed the beautiful emblem on his emaciated arm.

"It is as I suspected!" cried the old gypsy. "You are the Prince of Lochdougal, heir presumptive to the estates and t.i.tles of the Stuarts." And with these words the old gypsy swooned in Eddie Martin's arms.

When she came to, she explained that she had been a stewardess in the Lochdougal castle at Inverness when Juan's parents had been exiled for alleged conspiracy against the queen. Juan was then a prattling babe; but even then he gave promise of a princely future. Since his arrival at maturity his parents had feared to impart to him the secret of his lineage, lest he might return to Scotland and attempt to recover his estates, thereby incurring the resentment of the existing dynasty.

Of course when she heard of his n.o.ble lineage, Mary Matilda could do naught but accept the addresses of the brave prince. He speedily regained his health and flesh under the grateful influences of her cuisine. The wedding day has been set, and little Bessie is to be one of her bridesmaids. The brother Slosson is to be present, and he is to bring with him his other friend, whose name he will not mention, since his lineage is still in doubt.

CHAPTER III

SOME LETTERS

"There's no art," said the doomed Duncan, "to find the mind's construction in the face," nor after a somewhat extensive acquaintance with men and their letters am I inclined to think there is very much to be found of the true individuality of men in their letters. All men, and especially literary men, seem to consider themselves on dress parade in their correspondence, and pose accordingly. Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred are more self-conscious in writing than they are in talking. Even the least conscious seem to imagine that what they put down in black and white is to pa.s.s under some censorious eye. The professional writer, whether his reputation be international, like that of a Lowell or a Stevenson, or confined to the circle of his village a.s.sociates, never appears to pen a line without some affectation. The literary artist does this with an ease and grace that provokes comment upon its charming naturalness, the journeyman only occasions some remark upon his effort to "show off." If language was given us to conceal thoughts, letter writing goes a step further and puts the black-and-white mask of deliberation on language.

Eugene Field was no exception to the rule that literary men scarcely ever write letters for the mere perusal or information of the recipient. He almost always wrote for an ulterior effect or for an ulterior audience. But he seldom wrote letters deliberately for reproduction in his "Memoirs." If he had done so they would have been written so skilfully that he would have made himself out to be pretty much the particular kind of a character he pleased. For obvious reasons most of the communications that pa.s.sed between Field and myself were verbal, across a part.i.tion in the office, or by notes that were destroyed as soon as they had served their purpose. That Field had other correspondents the following request for a postage stamp will testify:

THE GOOD KNIGHT'S DIPLOMACY.[1]

One evening in his normal plight The good but impecunious knight Addressing Thompson said: "Methinks a great increasing fame Shall add new glory to thy name, And cl.u.s.ter round thy head.

"There is no knight but he will yield Before thy valor in the Field Or in exploits of arms; And all admit the pleasing force Of thy most eloquent discourse- Such are thy social charms.

"Alike to lord and va.s.sal dear Thou dost incline a pitying ear To fellow-men in pain; And be he wounded, sick, or broke, No brother knight doth e'er invoke Thy knightly aid in vain.

"Such-such a gentle knight thou art, And it is solace to my heart To have so fair a friend.

No better, sweeter boon I pray Than thy affection-by the way, Hast thou a stamp to lend?"

"Aye, marry, 'tis my sweet delight To succor such an honest knight!"

Sir Thompson straight replied.

Field caught the proffered treasure up, Then tossing off a stirrup-cup From out the castle hied.

July 2d, 1885.

Was ever request for so small a "boon" couched in such lordly pomp of phrase and in such insinuating rhyme?

It was shortly after Field secured this boon that he had his first opportunity to waste postage stamps on me. With a party of friends I went up to Mackinac Island to spend a few days. By the first mail that reached the island after I had registered at the old Island House, I received a letter bearing in no less than five different colored inks the following unique superscription:

For that Most Ill.u.s.trious and Puissant Knight Errant, Sir Slosson Thompson, Erstwhile of Chicago, but now illumining Mackinac Island, Michigan,

Where, under civic guise, he is accomplishing prodigious slaughter among the fish that do infest that coast.

It may be taken for granted that the clerks and the hotel guests were consumed with curiosity as to the contents of an envelope over which they had a chance to speculate before it reached me. These were:

CHICAGO, July 19th, 1885.

SWEET KNIGHT:

Heedful of the promise I made to thee prior to thy setting out for the far-distant province of Mackinac, I am minded to temporarily lay aside the accoutrements of war and the chase, and pen thee this missive wherein I do discourse of all that has happened since thy departure. Upon Sat.u.r.day I did lunch with that ill-tempered knight, Sir P--, and in the evening did I discuss a goodly feast with Sir Cowan, than whom a more hospitable knight doth not exist-saving only and always thyself, which art the paragon of courtesy. This day did I lunch at my own expense, but in very sooth I had it charged, whereat did the d.a.m.ned Dutchman sorely lament. Would to G.o.d I were now a.s.sured at whose expense I shall lunch upon the morrow and the many days that must elapse ere thy coming hence.

By this courier I send thee divers rhymes which may divert thee. Soothly they are most honest chronicles, albeit in all modesty I may say they do not o'erpraise me.

The good Knight Melville crieth it from the battlements that he will go into a far country next week. Meanwhile the valorous Sir Ballantyne saweth wood but sayeth naught. That winsome handmaiden Birdie quitteth our service a week hence; marry, I shall miss the wench.

The fair lady Julia doth commend thy prudence in getting out of the way ere she reproaches thee for seducing the good Knight into that Milwaukee journey, of the responsibility of which naughtiness I have in very sooth washed my hands as clean as a sheep's liver.

By what good fortune, too, hast thou escaped the heat and toil of this irksome weather. By my halidom the valor trickleth down my knightly chin as I pen these few lines, and my shirt cleaveth to my back like a porous plaster. The good knight of the Talking Cat speaketh to me of taking his vacation in the middle of August, whereat I much grieve, having a mind to hie me away at that sweet season myself.

One sumptuous feast have we already had at thy expense at Boyle's, as by the check thou shalt descry on thy return. Sir Harper did send me a large fish from Lake Okeboji to-day, which the same did I and my heirdom devour triumphantly this very evening. I have not beheld the Knight of the Lawn since thy departure. Make fair obeisance to the sweet ladies who are with thee, and remember me in all courtesy to Sir Barbour, the good Knight of the Four Winds.

Kissing thy hand a thousand times, I sign myself Thy loyal and sweet servant,

FIELD, The Good and Honest Knight.

Under another cover addressed ostentatiously:

"For the Good and Generous Knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, now summering amid rejoicings and with triumphant cheer at Mackinac Island, Michigan,"