Over the Teacups Part 16

"'Faith, we'll make it our business,' said Mike f.a.gan. 'We're Knoights of Labor, we'd have yez to know, and ye can't make yer bargains jist as ye loikes. We manes to know how mony hours ye worrks, and how much ye gets for it.'

"'Knights of Labor!' said I. 'Why, that is a kind of t.i.tle of n.o.bility, is n't it? I thought the laws of our country did n't allow t.i.tles of that kind. But if you have a right to be called knights, I suppose I ought to address you as such. Sir Michael, I congratulate you on the dignity you have attained. I hope Lady f.a.gan is getting on well with my shirts. Sir Hans, I pay my respects to your t.i.tle. I trust that Lady Schleixner has got through that little difficulty between her ladyship and yourself in which the police court thought it necessary to intervene.'

"The two men looked at me. I weigh about a hundred and eighty pounds, and am well put together. Hiram was noted in his village as a 'rahstler.' But my face is rather pallid and peaked, and Hiram had something of the greenhorn look. The two men, who had been drinking, hardly knew what ground to take. They rather liked the sound of Sir Michael and, Sir Hans. They did not know very well what to make of their wives as 'ladies.' They looked doubtful whether to take what had been said as a casus belli or not, but they wanted a pretext of some kind or other. Presently one of them saw a label on the scoop, or longhandled, spoon-like shovel, with which Hiram had been working.

"'Arrah, be jabers!' exclaimed Mike f.a.gan, 'but has n't he been a-tradin' wid Brown, the hardware fellah, that we boycotted! Grab it, Hans, and we'll carry it off and show it to the brotherhood.'

"The men made a move toward the implement.

"'You let that are scoop-shovel alone,' said Hiram.

"I stepped to his side. The Knights were combative, as their n.o.ble predecessors with the same t.i.tle always were, and it was necessary to come to a voie de fait. My straight blow from the shoulder did for Sir Michael. Hiram treated Sir Hans to what is technically known as a cross-b.u.t.tock.

"'Naow, Dutchman,' said Hiram, 'if you don't want to be planted in that are post-hole, y'd better take y'rself out o' this here piece of private property. "Dangerous pa.s.sin," as the sign-posts say, abaout these times.'

"Sir Michael went down half stunned by my expressive gesture; Sir Hans did not know whether his hip was out of joint or he had got a bad sprain; but they were both out of condition for further hostilities.

Perhaps it was hardly fair to take advantage of their misfortunes to inflict a discourse upon them, but they had brought it on themselves, and we each of us gave them a piece of our mind.

"'I tell you what it is,' said Hiram, 'I'm a free and independent American citizen, and I an't a-gon' to hev no man tyrannize over me, if he doos call himself by one o' them n.o.blemen's t.i.tles. Ef I can't work jes' as I choose, fur folks that wants me to work fur 'em and that I want to work fur, I might jes' as well go to Sibery and done with it. My gran'f'ther fit in Bunker Hill battle. I guess if our folks in them days did n't care no great abaout Lord Percy and Sir William Haowe, we an't a-gon' to be scart by Sir Michael f.a.gan and Sir Hans What 's-his-name, nor no other fellahs that undertakes to be n.o.blemen, and tells us common folks what we shall dew an' what we sha'n't. No, sir!'

"I took the opportunity to explain to Sir Michael and Sir Hans what it was our fathers fought for, and what is the meaning of liberty. If these n.o.blemen did not like the country, they could go elsewhere. If they did n't like the laws, they had the ballot-box, and could choose new legislators. But as long as the laws existed they must obey them. I could not admit that, because they called themselves by the t.i.tles the Old World n.o.bility thought so much of, they had a right to interfere in the agreements I entered into with my neighbor. I told Sir Michael that if he would go home and help Lady f.a.gan to saw and split the wood for her fire, he would be better employed than in meddling with my domestic arrangements. I advised Sir Hans to ask Lady Schleimer for her bottle of spirits to use as an embrocation for his lame hip. And so my two visitors with the aristocratic t.i.tles staggered off, and left us plain, unt.i.tled citizens, Hiram and myself, to set our posts, and consider the question whether we lived in a free country or under the authority of a self-const.i.tuted order of quasi-n.o.bility."

It is a very curious fact that, with all our boasted "free and equal"

superiority over the communities of the Old World, our people have the most enormous appet.i.te for Old World t.i.tles of distinction. Sir Michael and Sir Hans belong to one of the most extended of the aristocratic orders. But we have also "Knights and Ladies of Honor," and, what is still grander, "Royal Conclave of Knights and Ladies," "Royal Arcanum,"

and "Royal Society of Good Fellows," "Supreme Council," "Imperial Court," "Grand Protector," and "Grand Dictator," and so on. Nothing less than "Grand" and "Supreme" is good enough for the dignitaries of our a.s.sociations of citizens. Where does all this ambition for names without realities come from? Because a Knight of the Garter wears a golden star, why does the worthy cordwainer, who mends the shoes of his fellow-citizens, want to wear a tin star, and take a name that had a meaning as used by the representatives of ancient families, or the men who had made themselves ill.u.s.trious by their achievements?

It appears to be a peculiarly American weakness. The French republicans of the earlier period thought the term citizen was good enough for anybody. At a later period, "Roi Citoyen"--the citizen king was a common t.i.tle given to Louis Philippe. But nothing is too grand for the American, in the way of t.i.tles. The proudest of them all signify absolutely nothing. They do not stand for ability, for public service, for social importance, for large possessions; but, on the contrary, are oftenest found in connection with personalities to which they are supremely inapplicable. We can hardly afford to quarrel with a national habit which, if lightly handled, may involve us in serious domestic difficulties. The "Right Worshipful" functionary whose equipage stops at my back gate, and whose services are indispensable to the health and comfort of my household, is a dignitary whom I must not offend. I must speak with proper deference to the lady who is scrubbing my floors, when I remember that her husband, who saws my wood, carries a string of high-sounding t.i.tles which would satisfy a Spanish n.o.bleman.

After all, every people must have its own forms of ostentation, pretence, and vulgarity. The ancient Romans had theirs, the English and the French have theirs as well,--why should not we Americans have ours?

Educated and refined persons must recognize frequent internal conflicts between the "h.o.m.o sum" of Terence and the "Odi profanum vulgus" of Horace. The n.o.bler sentiment should be that of every true American, and it is in that direction that our best civilization is constantly tending.

We were waited on by a new girl, the other evening. Our pretty maiden had left us for a visit to some relative,--so the Mistress said. I do sincerely hope she will soon come back, for we all like to see her flitting round the table.

I don't know what to make of it. I had it all laid out in my mind. With such a company there must be a love-story. Perhaps there will be, but there may be new combinations of the elements which are to make it up, and here is a bud among the full-blown flowers to which I must devote a little s.p.a.ce.

Delilah.

I must call her by the name we gave her after she had trimmed the Samson locks of our Professor. Delilah is a puzzle to most of us. A pretty creature, dangerously pretty to be in a station not guarded by all the protective arrangements which surround the maidens of a higher social order. It takes a strong cage to keep in a tiger or a grizzly bear, but what iron bars, what barbed wires, can keep out the smooth and subtle enemy that finds out the cage where beauty is imprisoned? Our young Doctor is evidently attracted by the charming maiden who serves him and us so modestly and so gracefully. Fortunately, the Mistress never loses sight of her. If she were her own daughter, she could not be more watchful of all her movements. And yet I do not believe that Delilah needs all this overlooking. If I am not mistaken, she knows how to take care of herself, and could be trusted anywhere, in any company, without a duenna. She has a history,--I feel sure of it. She has been trained and taught as young persons of higher position in life are brought up, and does not belong in the humble station in which we find her. But inasmuch as the Mistress says nothing about her antecedents, we do not like to be too inquisitive. The two Annexes are, it is plain, very curious about her. I cannot wonder. They are both good-looking girls, but Delilah is prettier than either of them. My sight is not so good as it was, but I can see the way in which the eyes of the young people follow each other about plainly enough to set me thinking as to what is going on in the thinking marrow behind them. The young Doctor's follow Delilah as she glides round the table,--they look into hers whenever they get a chance; but the girl's never betray any consciousness of it, so far as I can see. There is no mistaking the interest with which the two, Annexes watch all this. Why shouldn't they, I should like to know?

The Doctor is a bright young fellow, and wants nothing but a bald spot and a wife to find himself in a comfortable family practice. One of the Annexes, as I have said, has had thoughts of becoming a doctress.

I don't think the Doctor would want his wife to practise medicine, for reasons which I will not stop to mention. Such a partnership sometimes works wonderfully well, as in one well-known instance where husband and wife are both eminent in the profession; but our young Doctor has said to me that he had rather see his wife,--if he ever should have one,--at the piano than at the dissecting-table. Of course the Annexes know nothing about this, and they may think, as he professed himself willing to lecture on medicine to women, he might like to take one of his pupils as a helpmeet.

If it were not for our Delilah's humble position, I don't see why she would not be a good match for any young man. But then it is so hard to take a young woman from so very lowly a condition as that of a "waitress" that it would require a deal of courage to venture on such a step. If we could only find out that she is a princess in disguise, so to speak,--that is, a young person of presentable connections as well as pleasing looks and manners; that she has had an education of some kind, as we suspected when she blushed on hearing herself spoken of as a "gentille pet.i.te," why, then everything would be all right, the young Doctor would have plain sailing,--that is, if he is in love with her, and if she fancies him,--and I should find my love-story,--the one I expected, but not between the parties I had thought would be mating with each other.

Dear little Delilah! Lily of the valley, growing in the shade now,--perhaps better there until her petals drop; and yet if she is all I often fancy she is, how her youthful presence would illuminate and sweeten a household! There is not one of us who does not feel interested in her,--not one of us who would not be delighted at some Cinderella transformation which would show her in the setting Nature meant for her favorite.

The fancy of Number Seven about the witches' broomsticks suggested to one of us the following poem:

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES.

Lookout! Look out, boys! Clear the track!

The witches are here! They've all come back!

They hanged them high,--No use! No use!

What cares a witch for a hangman's noose?

They buried them deep, but they would n't lie, still, For cats and witches are hard to kill; They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die, Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

--A couple of hundred years, or so, They had knocked about in the world below, When an Ess.e.x Deacon dropped in to call, And a homesick feeling seized them all; For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell.

They long to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Ess.e.x county there's many a roof Well known to him of the cloven hoof; The small square windows are full in view Which the midnight hags went sailing through, On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives, The sights we see in our daily drives Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, Brown's bare hill with its lonely tree, (It wasn't then as we see it now, With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) Dusky nooks in the Ess.e.x woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake Glide through his forests of fern and brake; Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, And many a scene where history tells Some shadow of bygone terror dwells, Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread, Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, (The fearful story that turns men pale Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can, Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann, Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?

Home where the white magnolias bloom, Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, Hugged by the woods and kissed by the seal Where is the Eden like to thee?

For that "couple of hundred years, or so,"

There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air!

We've had enough of your sulphur springs, And the evil odor that round them clings; We long for a drink that is cool and nice, Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; We've served you well up-stairs, you know; You're a good old-fellow--come, let us go!"

I don't feel sure of his being good, But he happened to be in a pleasant mood, As fiends with their skins full sometimes are, (He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.) So what does he do but up and shout To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!"

To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew.

"Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried.

"Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied.

"They've been in--the place you know--so long They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone, Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown."

--And where is my cat? "a vixen squalled.

Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled, And began to call them all by name: As fast as they called the cats, they came There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,

And many another that came at call, It would take too long to count them all.

All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, But every cat knew his own old witch; And she knew hers as hers knew her, Ah, did n't they curl their tails and purr!

No sooner the withered hags were free Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; I could n't tell all they did in rhymes, But the Ess.e.x people had dreadful times.

The Swampscott fishermen still relate How a strange sea-monster stole thair bait; How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.

Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.

A blight played havoc with Beverly beans, It was all the work of those hateful queans!

A dreadful panic began at "Pride's,"

Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

Now when the Boss of the Beldams found That without his leave they were ramping round, He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; The deafest old granny knew his tone Without the trick of the telephone.

"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he, --"At your games of old, without asking me I'll give you a little job to do That will keep you stirring, you G.o.dless crew!"

They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; He led the hags to a railway train The horses were trying to drag in vain.

"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun, And here are the cars you've got to run.

"The driver may just unhitch his team, We don't want horses, we don't want steam; You may keep your old black cats to hug, But the loaded train you've got to lug."

Since then on many a car you'll see A broomstick plain as plain can be; On every stick there's a witch astride, The string you see to her leg is tied.

She will do a mischief if she can, But the string is held by a careful man, And whenever the evil-minded witch Would cut come caper, he gives a twitch.