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The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson

by Mark Twain


There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it
can be destroyed by ridicule, howsoever poor and witless.
Observe the ass, for instance: his character is about perfect,
he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler animals,
yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead of feeling
complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

A person who is ignorant of legal matters is always liable to
make mistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene with his pen;
and so I was not willing to let the law chapters in this book
go to press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting
revision and correction by a trained barrister--if that is what
they are called. These chapters are right, now, in every detail,
for they were rewritten under the immediate eye of William Hicks,
who studied law part of a while in southwest Missouri thirty-five
years ago and then came over here to Florence for his health and
is still helping for exercise and board in Macaroni Vermicelli's
horse-feed shed, which is up the back alley as you turn around the
corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just beyond the house where that
stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred years ago is let into
the wall when he let on to be watching them build Giotto's campanile
and yet always got tired looking as Beatrice passed along on her way
to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend herself with in case of a
Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at the same old stand
where they sell the same old cake to this day and it is just as light
and good as it was then, too, and this is not flattery, far from it.
He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for this book,
and those two or three legal chapters are right and straight, now.
He told me so himself.

Given under my hand this second day of January, 1893, at the Villa Viviani,
village of Settignano, three miles back of Florence, on the hills--
the same certainly affording the most charming view to be found
on this planet, and with it the most dreamlike and enchanting sunsets
to be found in any planet or even in any solar system--and given, too,
in the swell room of the house, with the busts of Cerretani senators
and other grandees of this line looking approvingly down upon me,
as they used to look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to adopt them
into my family, which I do with pleasure, for my remotest ancestors
are but spring chickens compared with these robed and stately antiques,
and it will be a great and satisfying lift for me, that six hundred years will.

Mark Twain.



Pudd'nhead Wins His Name

Tell the truth or trump--but get the trick.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

The scene of this chronicle is the town of Dawson's Landing,
on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, half a day's journey,
per steamboat, below St. Louis.

In 1830 it was a snug collection of modest one- and two- story
frame dwellings, whose whitewashed exteriors were almost concealed
from sight by climbing tangles of rose vines, honeysuckles,
and morning glories. Each of these pretty homes had a garden in front
fenced with white palings and opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds,
touch-me-nots, prince's-feathers, and other old-fashioned flowers;
while on the windowsills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing
moss rose plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium
whose spread of intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint
of the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame. When there was room
on the ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was there--
in sunny weather--stretched at full length, asleep and blissful,
with her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose.
Then that house was complete, and its contentment and peace were made
manifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is infallible.
A home without a cat--and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat--
may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?

All along the streets, on both sides, at the outer edge
of the brick sidewalks, stood locust trees with trunks protected by
wooden boxing, and these furnished shade for summer and a sweet fragrancer
in spring, when the clusters of buds came forth. The main street,
one block back from the river, and running parallel with it, was the
sole business street. It was six blocks long, and in each block two
or three brick stores, three stories high, towered above interjected
bunches of little frame shops. Swinging signs creaked in the wind the
street's whole length. The candy-striped pole, which indicates nobility
proud and ancient along the palace-bordered canals of Venice, indicated
merely the humble barbershop along the main street of Dawson's Landing.
On a chief corner stood a lofty unpainted pole wreathed from top to
bottom with tin pots and pans and cups, the chief tinmonger's noisy
notice to the world (when the wind blew) that his shop was on hand
for business at that corner.

The hamlet's front was washed by the clear waters of the great river;
its body stretched itself rearward up a gentle incline;
its most rearward border fringed itself out and scattered its houses
about its base line of the hills; the hills rose high, enclosing the
town in a half-moon curve, clothed with forests from foot to summit.

Steamboats passed up and down every hour or so. Those belonging to
the little Cairo line and the little Memphis line always stopped;
the big Orleans liners stopped for hails only, or to land passengers
or freight; and this was the case also with the great flotilla of
"transients." These latter came out of a dozen rivers--
the Illinois, the Missouri, the Upper Mississippi, the Ohio,
the Monongahela, the Tennessee, the Red River, the White River,
and so on--and were bound every whither and stocked with every imaginable
comfort or necessity, which the Mississippi's communities could want,
from the frosty Falls of St. Anthony down through nine climates
to torrid New Orleans.

Dawson's Landing was a slaveholding town, with a rich, slave-worked
grain and pork country back of it. The town was sleepy and comfortable
and contented. It was fifty years old, and was growing slowly--
very slowly, in fact, but still it was growing.

The chief citizen was York Leicester Driscoll, about forty years old,
judge of the county court. He was very proud of his old Virginian ancestry,
and in his hospitalities and his rather formal and stately manners,
he kept up its traditions. He was fine and just and generous.
To be a gentleman--a gentleman without stain or blemish--was his
only religion, and to it he was always faithful. He was respected,
esteemed, and beloved by all of the community. He was well off,
and was gradually adding to his store. He and his wife were very
nearly happy, but not quite, for they had no children. The longing for
the treasure of a child had grown stronger and stronger as the years
slipped away, but the blessing never came--and was never to come.

With this pair lived the judge's widowed sister, Mrs. Rachel Pratt,
and she also was childless--childless, and sorrowful for that reason,
and not to be comforted. The women were good and commonplace people,
and did their duty, and had their reward in clear consciences and the
community's approbation. They were Presbyterians, the judge was a freethinker.

Pembroke Howard, lawyer and bachelor, aged almost forty, was another
old Virginian grandee with proved descent from the First Families.
He was a fine, majestic creature, a gentleman according to the nicest
requirements of the Virginia rule, a devoted Presbyterian, an authority
on the "code", and a man always courteously ready to stand up before you in
the field if any act or word of his had seemed doubtful or suspicious to you,
and explain it with any weapon you might prefer from bradawls to artillery.
He was very popular with the people, and was the judge's dearest friend.

Then there was Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex, another F.F.V.
of formidable caliber--however, with him we have no concern.

Percy Northumberland Driscoll, brother to the judge, and younger than
he by five years, was a married man, and had had children around
his hearthstone; but they were attacked in detail by measles, croup,
and scarlet fever, and this had given the doctor a chance with his
effective antediluvian methods; so the cradles were empty. He was a
prosperous man, with a good head for speculations, and his fortune
was growing. On the first of February, 1830, two boy babes were born
in his house; one to him, one to one of his slave girls, Roxana by name.
Roxana was twenty years old. She was up and around the same day,
with her hands full, for she was tending both babes.

Mrs. Percy Driscoll died within the week. Roxy remained in charge of
the children. She had her own way, for Mr. Driscoll soon absorbed himself
in his speculations and left her to her own devices.

In that same month of February, Dawson's Landing gained a new citizen.
This was Mr. David Wilson, a young fellow of Scotch parentage.
He had wandered to this remote region from his birthplace in the interior
of the State of New York, to seek his fortune. He was twenty-five years old,
college bred, and had finished a post-college course in an Eastern
law school a couple of years before.

He was a homely, freckled, sandy-haired young fellow, with an intelligent
blue eye that had frankness and comradeship in it and a covert twinkle
of a pleasant sort. But for an unfortunate remark of his, he would no
doubt have entered at once upon a successful career at Dawson's Landing.
But he made his fatal remark the first day he spent in the village,
and it "gaged" him. He had just made the acquaintance of a group of
citizens when an invisible dog began to yelp and snarl and howl and make
himself very comprehensively disagreeable, whereupon young Wilson said,
much as one who is thinking aloud:

"I wish I owned half of that dog."

"Why?" somebody asked.

"Because I would kill my half."

The group searched his face with curiosity, with anxiety even,
but found no light there, no expression that they could read.
They fell away from him as from something uncanny, and went into privacy
to discuss him. One said:

"'Pears to be a fool."

"'Pears?" said another. "_Is,_ I reckon you better say."

"Said he wished he owned _half_ of the dog, the idiot," said a third.
"What did he reckon would become of the other half if he killed his half?
Do you reckon he thought it would live?"

"Why, he must have thought it, unless he IS the downrightest fool
in the world; because if he hadn't thought it, he would have wanted to own
the whole dog, knowing that if he killed his half and the other half died,
he would be responsible for that half just the same as if he had killed
that half instead of his own. Don't it look that way to you, gents?"

"Yes, it does. If he owned one half of the general dog, it would be so;
if he owned one end of the dog and another person owned the other end,
it would be so, just the same; particularly in the first case,
because if you kill one half of a general dog, there ain't any man
that can tell whose half it was; but if he owned one end of the dog,
maybe he could kill his end of it and--"

"No, he couldn't either; he couldn't and not be responsible if the other
end died, which it would. In my opinion that man ain't in his right mind."

"In my opinion he hain't _got_ any mind."

No. 3 said: "Well, he's a lummox, anyway."

That's what he is;" said No. 4. "He's a labrick--just a Simon-pure labrick,
if there was one."

"Yes, sir, he's a dam fool. That's the way I put him up," said No. 5.
"Anybody can think different that wants to, but those are my sentiments."

"I'm with you, gentlemen," said No. 6. "Perfect jackass--yes,
and it ain't going too far to say he is a pudd'nhead.
If he ain't a pudd'nhead, I ain't no judge, that's all."

Mr. Wilson stood elected. The incident was told all over the town,
and gravely discussed by everybody. Within a week he had lost his
first name; Pudd'nhead took its place. In time he came to be liked,
and well liked too; but by that time the nickname had got well stuck on,
and it stayed. That first day's verdict made him a fool, and he was not
able to get it set aside, or even modified. The nickname soon ceased to
carry any harsh or unfriendly feeling with it, but it held its place,
and was to continue to hold its place for twenty long years.


Driscoll Spares His Slaves

Adam was but human--this explains it all. He did not want the apple
for the apple's sake, he wanted it only because it was forbidden.
The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have
eaten the serpent.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Pudd'nhead Wilson had a trifle of money when he arrived,
and he bought a small house on the extreme western verge of the town.
Between it and Judge Driscoll's house there was only a grassy yard,
with a paling fence dividing the properties in the middle.
He hired a small office down in the town and hung out a tin sign
with these words on it:




But his deadly remark had ruined his chance--at least in the law.
No clients came. He took down his sign, after a while, and put it
up on his own house with the law features knocked out of it.
It offered his services now in the humble capacities of land surveyor
and expert accountant. Now and then he got a job of surveying to do,
and now and then a merchant got him to straighten out his books.
With Scotch patience and pluck he resolved to live down his reputation
and work his way into the legal field yet. Poor fellow, he could
foresee that it was going to take him such a weary long time to do it.

He had a rich abundance of idle time, but it never hung heavy on his hands,
for he interested himself in every new thing that was born into the
universe of ideas, and studied it, and experimented upon it at his house.
One of his pet fads was palmistry. To another one he gave no name,
neither would he explain to anybody what its purpose was, but merely
said it was an amusement. In fact, he had found that his fads added to his
reputation as a pudd'nhead; there, he was growing chary of being too
communicative about them. The fad without a name was one which dealt
with people's finger marks. He carried in his coat pocket a shallow box
with grooves in it, and in the grooves strips of glass five inches long
and three inches wide. Along the lower edge of each strip was pasted a
slip of white paper. He asked people to pass their hands through their
hair (thus collecting upon them a thin coating of the natural oil) and then
making a thumb-mark on a glass strip, following it with the mark of the ball
of each finger in succession. Under this row of faint grease prints he
would write a record on the strip of white paper--thus:

JOHN SMITH, right hand--

and add the day of the month and the year, then take Smith's left hand
on another glass strip, and add name and date and the words "left hand."
The strips were now returned to the grooved box, and took their place
among what Wilson called his "records."

He often studied his records, examining and poring over them with
absorbing interest until far into the night; but what he found there--
if he found anything--he revealed to no one. Sometimes he copied on
paper the involved and delicate pattern left by the ball of the finger,
and then vastly enlarged it with a pantograph so that he could examine
its web of curving lines with ease and convenience.

One sweltering afternoon--it was the first day of July, 1830--
he was at work over a set of tangled account books in his workroom,
which looked westward over a stretch of vacant lots, when a conversation
outside disturbed him. It was carried on it yells, which showed that
the people engaged in it were not close together.

"Say, Roxy, how does yo' baby come on?" This from the distant voice.

"Fust-rate. How does _you_ come on, Jasper?" This yell was from close by.

"Oh, I's middlin'; hain't got noth'n' to complain of, I's gwine to come
a-court'n you bimeby, Roxy."

"_You_ is, you black mud cat! Yah--yah--yah! I got somep'n' better to do
den 'sociat'n' wid niggers as black as you is. Is ole Miss Cooper's Nancy
done give you de mitten?" Roxy followed this sally with another discharge
of carefree laughter.

"You's jealous, Roxy, dat's what's de matter wid you, you
hussy--yah--yah--yah! Dat's de time I got you!"

"Oh, yes, _you_ got me, hain't you. 'Clah to goodness if dat conceit
o' yo'n strikes in, Jasper, it gwine to kill you sho'. If you b'longed
to me, I'd sell you down de river 'fo' you git too fur gone.
Fust time I runs acrost yo' marster, I's gwine to tell him so."

This idle and aimless jabber went on and on, both parties enjoying the
friendly duel and each well satisfied with his own share of
the wit exchanged--for wit they considered it.

Wilson stepped to the window to observe the combatants; he could not
work while their chatter continued. Over in the vacant lots was Jasper,
young, coal black, and of magnificent build, sitting on a wheelbarrow
in the pelting sun--at work, supposably, whereas he was in fact only
preparing for it by taking an hour's rest before beginning. In front of
Wilson's porch stood Roxy, with a local handmade baby wagon,
in which sat her two charges--one at each end and facing each other.
From Roxy's manner of speech, a stranger would have expected her to
be black, but she was not. Only one sixteenth of her was black,
and that sixteenth did not show. She was of majestic form and stature,
her attitudes were imposing and statuesque, and her gestures and movements
distinguished by a noble and stately grace. Her complexion was very fair,
with the rosy glow of vigorous health in her cheeks, her face was full
of character and expression, her eyes were brown and liquid, and she
had a heavy suit of fine soft hair which was also brown, but the fact
was not apparent because her head was bound about with a checkered
handkerchief and the hair was concealed under it. Her face was shapely,
intelligent, and comely--even beautiful. She had an easy, independent
carriage--when she was among her own caste--and a high and "sassy" way,
withal; but of course she was meek and humble enough where white people were.

To all intents and purposes Roxy was as white as anybody, but the one
sixteenth of her which was black outvoted the other fifteen parts and
made her a Negro. She was a slave, and salable as such. Her child was
thirty-one parts white, and he, too, was a slave, and by a fiction of
law and custom a Negro. He had blue eyes and flaxen curls like his
white comrade, but even the father of the white child was able to tell
the children apart--little as he had commerce with them--by their clothes;
for the white babe wore ruffled soft muslin and a coral necklace,
while the other wore merely a coarse tow-linen shirt which barely reached
to its knees, and no jewelry.

The white child's name was Thomas a Becket Driscoll, the other's name
was Valet de Chambre: no surname--slaves hadn't the privilege.
Roxana had heard that phrase somewhere, the fine sound of it had pleased her
ear, and as she had supposed it was a name, she loaded it on to her darling.
It soon got shorted to "Chambers," of course.

Wilson knew Roxy by sight, and when the duel of wits begun to play out,
he stepped outside to gather in a record or two. Jasper went to work
energetically, at once, perceiving that his leisure was observed.
Wilson inspected the children and asked:

"How old are they, Roxy?"

"Bofe de same age, sir--five months. Bawn de fust o' Feb'uary."

"They're handsome little chaps. One's just as handsome as the other, too."

A delighted smile exposed the girl's white teeth, and she said:

"Bless yo' soul, Misto Wilson, it's pow'ful nice o' you to say dat,
'ca'se one of 'em ain't on'y a nigger. Mighty prime little nigger,
_I_ al'ays says, but dat's 'ca'se it's mine, o' course."

"How do you tell them apart, Roxy, when they haven't any clothes on?"

Roxy laughed a laugh proportioned to her size, and said:

"Oh, _I_ kin tell 'em 'part, Misto Wilson, but I bet Marse Percy
couldn't, not to save his life."

Wilson chatted along for awhile, and presently got Roxy's fingerprints
for his collection--right hand and left--on a couple of his glass strips;
then labeled and dated them, and took the "records" of both children,
and labeled and dated them also.

Two months later, on the third of September, he took this trio of finger
marks again. He liked to have a "series," two or three "takings"
at intervals during the period of childhood, these to be followed at
intervals of several years.

The next day--that is to say, on the fourth of September--something
occurred which profoundly impressed Roxana. Mr. Driscoll missed another
small sum of money--which is a way of saying that this was not a new thing,
but had happened before. In truth, it had happened three times before.
Driscoll's patience was exhausted. He was a fairly humane man toward
slaves and other animals; he was an exceedingly humane man toward the
erring of his own race. Theft he could not abide, and plainly there was
a thief in his house. Necessarily the thief must be one of his Negros.
Sharp measures must be taken. He called his servants before him.
There were three of these, besides Roxy: a man, a woman, and a boy
twelve years old. They were not related. Mr. Driscoll said:

"You have all been warned before. It has done no good. This time I
will teach you a lesson. I will sell the thief. Which of you is
the guilty one?"

They all shuddered at the threat, for here they had a good home,
and a new one was likely to be a change for the worse. The denial
was general. None had stolen anything--not money, anyway--a little sugar,
or cake, or honey, or something like that, that "Marse Percy wouldn't
mind or miss" but not money--never a cent of money. They were eloquent
in their protestations, but Mr. Driscoll was not moved by them.
He answered each in turn with a stern "Name the thief!"

The truth was, all were guilty but Roxana; she suspected that the others
were guilty, but she did not know them to be so. She was horrified
to think how near she had come to being guilty herself; she had been
saved in the nick of time by a revival in the colored Methodist Church,
a fortnight before, at which time and place she "got religion."
The very next day after that gracious experience, while her change of
style was fresh upon her and she was vain of her purified condition,
her master left a couple dollars unprotected on his desk, and she happened
upon that temptation when she was polishing around with a dustrag.
She looked at the money awhile with a steady rising resentment,
then she burst out with:

"Dad blame dat revival, I wisht it had 'a' be'n put off till tomorrow!"

Then she covered the tempter with a book, and another member of the
kitchen cabinet got it. She made this sacrifice as a matter of
religious etiquette; as a thing necessary just now, but by no means to
be wrested into a precedent; no, a week or two would limber up her piety,
then she would be rational again, and the next two dollars that got left
out in the cold would find a comforter--and she could name the comforter.

Was she bad? Was she worse than the general run of her race? No.
They had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin
to take military advantage of the enemy--in a small way; in a small way,
but not in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry
whenever they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax,
or an emery bag, or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill,
or small articles of clothing, or any other property of light value;
and so far were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they
would go to church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their
plunder in their pockets. A farm smokehouse had to be kept heavily
padlocked, or even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham
when Providence showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing
hung lonesome, and longed for someone to love. But with a hundred hanging
before him, the deacon would not take two--that is, on the same night.
On frosty nights the humane Negro prowler would warm the end of the plank
and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree;
a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking
her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later
into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man
who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure--his liberty--he was
not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the
Last Great Day.

"Name the thief!"

For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same
hard tone. And now he added these words of awful import:

"I give you one minute." He took out his watch. "If at the end of
that time, you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four
of you, BUT--I will sell you DOWN THE RIVER!"

It was equivalent to condemning them to hell! No Missouri Negro
doubted this. Roxy reeled in her tracks, and the color vanished out
of her face; the others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot;
tears gushed from their eyes, their supplicating hands went up,
and three answers came in the one instant.

"I done it!"

"I done it!"

"I done it!--have mercy, marster--Lord have mercy on us po' niggers!"

"Very good," said the master, putting up his watch, "I will
sell you _here_ though you don't deserve it. You ought to be sold
down the river."

The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude,
and kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his
goodness and never cease to pray for him as long as they lived.
They were sincere, for like a god he had stretched forth his mighty
hand and closed the gates of hell against them. He knew, himself,
that he had done a noble and gracious thing, and was privately well
pleased with his magnanimity; and that night he set the incident down
in his diary, so that his son might read it in after years, and be
thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity himself.


Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick

Whoever has lived long enough to find out what life is,
knows how deep a debt of gratitude we owe to Adam,
the first great benefactor of our race. He brought death into the world.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Percy Driscoll slept well the night he saved his house minions from
going down the river, but no wink of sleep visited Roxy's eyes.
A profound terror had taken possession of her. Her child could grow up
and be sold down the river! The thought crazed her with horror.
If she dozed and lost herself for a moment, the next moment she was
on her feet flying to her child's cradle to see if it was still there.
Then she would gather it to her heart and pour out her love upon it in
a frenzy of kisses, moaning, crying, and saying, "Dey sha'n't, oh,
dey _sha'nt'!'_--yo' po' mammy will kill you fust!"

Once, when she was tucking him back in its cradle again, the other child
nestled in its sleep and attracted her attention. She went and stood over
it a long time communing with herself.

"What has my po' baby done, dat he couldn't have yo' luck?
He hain't done nuth'n. God was good to you; why warn't he good to him?
Dey can't sell _you_ down de river. I hates yo' pappy; he hain't got
no heart--for niggers, he hain't, anyways. I hates him, en I could
kill him!" She paused awhile, thinking; then she burst into wild
sobbings again, and turned away, saying, "Oh, I got to kill my chile,
dey ain't no yuther way--killin' _him_ wouldn't save de chile fum goin'
down de river. Oh, I got to do it, yo' po' mammy's got to kill you to
save you, honey." She gathered her baby to her bosom now, and began to
smother it with caresses. "Mammy's got to kill you--how _kin_ I do it!
But yo' mammy ain't gwine to desert you--no, no, _dah_, don't cry--
she gwine _wid_ you, she gwine to kill herself too. Come along, honey,
come along wid mammy; we gwine to jump in de river, den troubles o' dis
worl' is all over--dey don't sell po' niggers down the river over _yonder_."

She stared toward the door, crooning to the child and hushing it;
midway she stopped, suddenly. She had caught sight of her new Sunday gown--
a cheap curtain-calico thing, a conflagration of gaudy colors and
fantastic figures. She surveyed it wistfully, longingly.

"Hain't ever wore it yet," she said, "en it's just lovely."
Then she nodded her head in response to a pleasant idea, and added,
"No, I ain't gwine to be fished out, wid everybody lookin' at me,
in dis mis'able ole linsey-woolsey."

She put down the child and made the change. She looked in the glass and
was astonished at her beauty. She resolved to make her death toilet perfect.
She took off her handkerchief turban and dressed her glossy wealth of
hair "like white folks"; she added some odds and ends of rather lurid
ribbon and a spray of atrocious artificial flowers; finally she threw
over her shoulders a fluffy thing called a "cloud" in that day,
which was of a blazing red complexion. Then she was ready for the tomb.

She gathered up her baby once more; but when her eye fell upon its
miserably short little gray tow-linen shirt and noted the contrast
between its pauper shabbiness and her own volcanic eruption of infernal
splendors, her mother-heart was touched, and she was ashamed.

"No, dolling mammy ain't gwine to treat you so. De angels is gwine
to 'mire you jist as much as dey does 'yo mammy. Ain't gwine to have
'em putt'n dey han's up 'fo' dey eyes en sayin' to David and Goliah
en dem yuther prophets, 'Dat chile is dress' to indelicate fo' dis place.'"

By this time she had stripped off the shirt. Now she clothed the naked
little creature in one of Thomas `a Becket's snowy, long baby gowns,
with its bright blue bows and dainty flummery of ruffles.

"Dah--now you's fixed." She propped the child in a chair and stood
off to inspect it. Straightway her eyes begun to widen with astonishment
and admiration, and she clapped her hands and cried out,
"Why, it do beat all! I _never_ knowed you was so lovely.
Marse Tommy ain't a bit puttier--not a single bit."

She stepped over and glanced at the other infant;' she flung a glance
back at her own; then one more at the heir of the house. Now a strange
light dawned in her eyes, and in a moment she was lost in thought.
She seemed in a trance; when she came out of it, she muttered,
"When I 'uz a-washin' 'em in de tub, yistiddy, he own pappy asked me
which of 'em was his'n."

She began to move around like one in a dream. She undressed
Thomas `a Becket, stripping him of everything, and put the tow-linen
shirt on him. She put his coral necklace on her own child's neck.
Then she placed the children side by side, and after earnest
inspection she muttered:

"Now who would b'lieve clo'es could do de like o' dat? Dog my cats
if it ain't all _I_ kin do to tell t' other fum which, let alone his pappy."

She put her cub in Tommy's elegant cradle and said:

"You's young Marse _Tom_ fum dis out, en I got to practice and git used
to 'memberin' to call you dat, honey, or I's gwine to make a mistake
sometime en git us bofe into trouble. Dah--now you lay still en
don't fret no mo', Marse Tom. Oh, thank de lord in heaven, you's saved,
you's saved! Dey ain't no man kin ever sell mammy's po' little
honey down de river now!"

She put the heir of the house in her own child's unpainted pine cradle,
and said, contemplating its slumbering form uneasily:

"I's sorry for you, honey; I's sorry, God knows I is--but what _kin_ I do,
what _could_ I do? Yo' pappy would sell him to somebody, sometime,
en den he'd go down de river, sho', en I couldn't, couldn't,
_couldn't_ stan' it."

She flung herself on her bed and began to think and toss, toss and think.
By and by she sat suddenly upright, for a comforting thought had flown
through her worried mind--

"'T ain't no sin--_white_ folks has done it! It ain't no sin,
glory to goodness it ain't no sin! _Dey's_ done it--yes, en dey was
de biggest quality in de whole bilin', too--_kings!"_

She began to muse; she was trying to gather out of her memory the
dim particulars of some tale she had heard some time or other.
At last she said--

"Now I's got it; now I 'member. It was dat ole nigger preacher dat
tole it, de time he come over here fum Illinois en preached in
de nigger church. He said dey ain't nobody kin save his own self--
can't do it by faith, can't do it by works, can't do it no way at all.
Free grace is de _on'y_ way, en dat don't come fum nobody but jis' de Lord;
en _he_ kin give it to anybody He please, saint or sinner--_he_ don't kyer.
He do jis' as He's a mineter. He s'lect out anybody dat suit Him,
en put another one in his place, and make de fust one happy forever
en leave t' other one to burn wid Satan. De preacher said it was jist
like dey done in Englan' one time, long time ago. De queen she lef'
her baby layin' aroun' one day, en went out callin'; an one 'o de
niggers roun'bout de place dat was 'mos' white, she come in en see de
chile layin' aroun', en tuck en put her own chile's clo's on
de queen's chile, en put de queen's chile's clo'es on her own chile,
en den lef' her own chile layin' aroun', en tuck en toted de queen's
chile home to de nigger quarter, en nobody ever foun' it out,
en her chile was de king bimeby, en sole de queen's chile down de
river one time when dey had to settle up de estate. Dah, now--de preacher
said it his own self, en it ain't no sin, 'ca'se white folks done it.
DEY done it--yes, DEY done it; en not on'y jis' common white folks nuther,
but de biggest quality dey is in de whole bilin'. _Oh_, I's _so_ glad I
'member 'bout dat!"

She got lighthearted and happy, and went to the cradles, and spent what
was left of the night "practicing." She would give her own child a
light pat and say humbly, "Lay still, Marse Tom," then give the real
Tom a pat and say with severity, "Lay _still_, Chambers! Does you want
me to take somep'n _to_ you?"

As she progressed with her practice, she was surprised to see how steadily
and surely the awe which had kept her tongue reverent and her manner
humble toward her young master was transferring itself to her speech
and manner toward the usurper, and how similarly handy she was becoming
in transferring her motherly curtness of speech and peremptoriness of
manner to the unlucky heir of the ancient house of Driscoll.

She took occasional rests from practicing, and absorbed herself in
calculating her chances.

"Dey'll sell dese niggers today fo' stealin' de money, den dey'll
buy some mo' dat don't now de chillen--so _dat's_ all right. When I takes
de chillen out to git de air, de minute I's roun' de corner I's gwine
to gaum dey mouths all roun' wid jam, den dey can't _nobody_ notice
dey's changed. Yes, I gwine ter do dat till I's safe, if it's a year.

"Dey ain't but one man dat I's afeard of, en dat's dat Pudd'nhead Wilson.
Dey calls him a pudd'nhead, en says he's a fool. My lan, dat man
ain't no mo' fool den I is! He's de smartes' man in dis town,
lessn' it's Jedge Driscoll or maybe Pem Howard. Blame dat man,
he worries me wid dem ornery glasses o' his'n; _I_ b'lieve he's a witch.
But nemmine, I's gwine to happen aroun' dah one o' dese days en let
on dat I reckon he wants to print a chillen's fingers ag'in; en if HE
don't notice dey's changed, I bound dey ain't nobody gwine to notice it,
en den I's safe, sho'. But I reckon I'll tote along a hoss-shoe to
keep off de witch work."

The new Negros gave Roxy no trouble, of course. The master gave her none,
for one of his speculations was in jeopardy, and his mind was so
occupied that he hardly saw the children when he looked at them,
and all Roxy had to do was to get them both into a gale of laughter
when he came about; then their faces were mainly cavities exposing gums,
and he was gone again before the spasm passed and the little creatures
resumed a human aspect.

Within a few days the fate of the speculation became so dubious that
Mr. Percy went away with his brother, the judge, to see what could be
done with it. It was a land speculation as usual, and it had gotten
complicated with a lawsuit. The men were gone seven weeks. Before they
got back, Roxy had paid her visit to Wilson, and was satisfied.
Wilson took the fingerprints, labeled them with the names and with the date--
October the first--put them carefully away, and continued his chat
with Roxy, who seemed very anxious that he should admire the great
advance in flesh and beauty which the babes had made since he took
their fingerprints a month before. He complimented their improvement
to her contentment; and as they were without any disguise of jam
or other stain, she trembled all the while and was miserably frightened
lest at any moment he--

But he didn't. He discovered nothing; and she went home jubilant,
and dropped all concern about the matter permanently out of her mind.


The Ways of the Changelings

Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was,
that they escaped teething.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

There is this trouble about special providences--namely, there is
so often a doubt as to which party was intended to be the beneficiary.
In the case of the children, the bears, and the prophet,
the bears got more real satisfaction out of the episode than
the prophet did, because they got the children.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

This history must henceforth accommodate itself to the change which
Roxana has consummated, and call the real heir "Chambers" and the
usurping little slave, "Thomas `a Becket"--shortening this latter
name to "Tom," for daily use, as the people about him did.

"Tom" was a bad baby, from the very beginning of his usurpation.
He would cry for nothing; he would burst into storms of devilish
temper without notice, and let go scream after scream and squall
after squall, then climax the thing with "holding his breath"--
that frightful specialty of the teething nursling, in the throes of
which the creature exhausts its lungs, then is convulsed with noiseless
squirmings and twistings and kickings in the effort to get its breath,
while the lips turn blue and the mouth stands wide and rigid,
offering for inspection one wee tooth set in the lower rim of a hoop
of red gums; and when the appalling stillness has endured until one
is sure the lost breath will never return, a nurse comes flying,
and dashes water in the child's face, and--presto! the lungs fill,
and instantly discharge a shriek, or a yell, or a howl which bursts the
listening ear and surprises the owner of it into saying words which
would not go well with a halo if he had one. The baby Tom would claw
anybody who came within reach of his nails, and pound anybody he could
reach with his rattle. He would scream for water until he got it,
and then throw cup and all on the floor and scream for more.
He was indulged in all his caprices, howsoever troublesome and
exasperating they might be; he was allowed to eat anything he wanted,
particularly things that would give him the stomach-ache.

When he got to be old enough to begin to toddle about and say broken
words and get an idea of what his hands were for, he was a more
consummate pest than ever. Roxy got no rest while he was awake.
He would call for anything and everything he saw, simply saying,
"Awnt it!" (want it), which was a command. When it was brought,
he said in a frenzy, and motioning it away with his hands,
"Don't awnt it! don't awnt it!" and the moment it was gone he set up
frantic yells of "Awnt it! awnt it!" and Roxy had to give wings to
her heels to get that thing back to him again before he could get time
to carry out his intention of going into convulsions about it.

What he preferred above all other things was the tongs.
This was because his "father" had forbidden him to have them lest
he break windows and furniture with them. The moment Roxy's back
was turned he would toddle to the presence of the tongs and say,
"Like it!" and cock his eye to one side or see if Roxy was observed;
then, "Awnt it!" and cock his eye again; then, "Hab it!" with another
furtive glace; and finally, "Take it!"--and the prize was his.
The next moment the heavy implement was raised aloft; the next,
there was a crash and a squall, and the cat was off on three legs to
meet an engagement; Roxy would arrive just as the lamp or a window
went to irremediable smash.

Tom got all the petting, Chambers got none. Tom got all the delicacies,
Chambers got mush and milk, and clabber without sugar. In consequence Tom
was a sickly child and Chambers wasn't. Tom was "fractious," as Roxy
called it, and overbearing; Chambers was meek and docile.

With all her splendid common sense and practical everyday ability,
Roxy was a doting fool of a mother. She was this toward her child--
and she was also more than this: by the fiction created by herself,
he was become her master; the necessity of recognizing this relation
outwardly and of perfecting herself in the forms required to express
the recognition, had moved her to such diligence and faithfulness in
practicing these forms that this exercise soon concreted itself into habit;
it became automatic and unconscious; then a natural result followed:
deceptions intended solely for others gradually grew practically
into self-deceptions as well; the mock reverence became real reverence,
the mock homage real homage; the little counterfeit rift of separation
between imitation-slave and imitation-master widened and widened,
and became an abyss, and a very real one-- and on one side of it
stood Roxy, the dupe of her own deceptions, and on the other stood
her child, no longer a usurper to her, but her accepted and
recognized master. He was her darling, her master, and her deity
all in one, and in her worship of him she forgot who she was and
what he had been.

In babyhood Tom cuffed and banged and scratched Chambers unrebuked,
and Chambers early learned that between meekly bearing it and
resenting it, the advantage all lay with the former policy.
The few times that his persecutions had moved him beyond control
and made him fight back had cost him very dear at headquarters;
not at the hands of Roxy, for if she ever went beyond scolding
him sharply for "forgett'n' who his young marster was," she at
least never extended her punishment beyond a box on the ear.
No, Percy Driscoll was the person. He told Chambers that under no
provocation whatever was he privileged to lift his hand against his
little master. Chambers overstepped the line three times, and got
three such convincing canings from the man who was his father and
didn't know it, that he took Tom's cruelties in all humility after that,
and made no more experiments.

Outside the house the two boys were together all through
their boyhood. Chambers was strong beyond his years, and a good fighter;
strong because he was coarsely fed and hard worked about the house,
and a good fighter because Tom furnished him plenty of practice--
on white boys whom he hated and was afraid of. Chambers was his
constant bodyguard, to and from school; he was present on the
playground at recess to protect his charge. He fought himself into
such a formidable reputation, by and by, that Tom could have changed
clothes with him, and "ridden in peace," like Sir Kay in Launcelot's armor.

He was good at games of skill, too. Tom staked him with marbles to
play "keeps" with, and then took all the winnings away from him.
In the winter season Chambers was on hand, in Tom's worn-out clothes,
with "holy" red mittens, and "holy" shoes, and pants "holy" at the
knees and seat, to drag a sled up the hill for Tom, warmly clad,
to ride down on; but he never got a ride himself. He built snowmen
and snow fortifications under Tom's directions. He was Tom's patient
target when Tom wanted to do some snowballing, but the target couldn't
fire back. Chambers carried Tom's skates to the river and strapped
them on him, the trotted around after him on the ice, so as to be on
hand when he wanted; but he wasn't ever asked to try the skates himself.

In summer the pet pastime of the boys of Dawson's Landing was to
steal apples, peaches, and melons from the farmer's fruit wagons--
mainly on account of the risk they ran of getting their heads laid
open with the butt of the farmer's whip. Tom was a distinguished adept
at these thefts--by proxy. Chambers did his stealing, and got the
peach stones, apple cores, and melon rinds for his share.

Tom always made Chambers go in swimming with him, and stay by him as
a protection. When Tom had had enough, he would slip out and tie knots
in Chamber's shirt, dip the knots in the water and make them hard to undo,
then dress himself and sit by and laugh while the naked shiverer tugged
at the stubborn knots with his teeth.

Tom did his humble comrade these various ill turns partly out of
native viciousness, and partly because he hated him for his
superiorities of physique and pluck, and for his manifold cleverness.
Tom couldn't dive, for it gave him splitting headaches.
Chambers could dive without inconvenience, and was fond of doing it.
He excited so much admiration, one day, among a crowd of white boys,
by throwing back somersaults from the stern of a canoe, that it wearies
Tom's spirit, and at last he shoved the canoe underneath Chambers while
he was in the air--so he came down on his head in the canoe bottom;
and while he lay unconscious, several of Tom's ancient adversaries saw
that their long-desired opportunity was come, and they gave the false heir
such a drubbing that with Chamber's best help he was hardly able to drag
himself home afterward.

When the boys was fifteen and upward, Tom was "showing off" in the river
one day, when he was taken with a cramp, and shouted for help.
It was a common trick with the boys--particularly if a stranger
was present--to pretend a cramp and howl for help; then when the
stranger came tearing hand over hand to the rescue, the howler would
go on struggling and howling till he was close at hand, then replace
the howl with a sarcastic smile and swim blandly away, while the
town boys assailed the dupe with a volley of jeers and laughter.
Tom had never tried this joke as yet, but was supposed to be trying
it now, so the boys held warily back; but Chambers believed his master
was in earnest; therefore, he swam out, and arrived in time,
unfortunately, and saved his life.

This was the last feather. Tom had managed to endure everything else,
but to have to remain publicly and permanently under such an obligation
as this to a nigger, and to this nigger of all niggers--this was too much.
He heaped insults upon Chambers for "pretending" to think he was in
earnest in calling for help, and said that anybody but a blockheaded
nigger would have known he was funning and left him alone.

Tom's enemies were in strong force here, so they came out with their
opinions quite freely. The laughed at him, and called him coward,
liar, sneak, and other sorts of pet names, and told him they meant
to call Chambers by a new name after this, and make it common
in the town--"Tom Driscoll's nigger pappy,"--to signify that he
had had a second birth into this life, and that Chambers was the author
of his new being. Tom grew frantic under these taunts, and shouted:

"Knock their heads off, Chambers! Knock their heads off!
What do you stand there with your hands in your pockets for?"

Chambers expostulated, and said, "But, Marse Tom, dey's too
many of 'em--dey's--"

"Do you hear me?"

"Please, Marse Tom, don't make me! Dey's so many of 'em dat--"

Tom sprang at him and drove his pocketknife into him two or three
times before the boys could snatch him away and give the wounded lad
a chance to escape. He was considerably hurt, but not seriously.
If the blade had been a little longer, his career would have ended there.

Tom had long ago taught Roxy "her place." It had been many a day now
since she had ventured a caress or a fondling epithet in his quarter.
Such things, from a "nigger," were repulsive to him, and she had been
warned to keep her distance and remember who she was. She saw her
darling gradually cease from being her son, she saw THAT detail
perish utterly; all that was left was master--master, pure and simple,
and it was not a gentle mastership, either. She saw herself sink from the
sublime height of motherhood to the somber depths of unmodified slavery,
the abyss of separation between her and her boy was complete.
She was merely his chattel now, his convenience, his dog, his cringing
and helpless slave, the humble and unresisting victim of his capricious
temper and vicious nature.

Sometimes she could not go to sleep, even when worn out with fatigue,
because her rage boiled so high over the day's experiences with her boy.
She would mumble and mutter to herself:

"He struck me en I warn't no way to blame--struck me in de face,
right before folks. En he's al'ays callin' me nigger wench, en hussy,
en all dem mean names, when I's doin' de very bes' I kin.
Oh, Lord, I done so much for him--I lif' him away up to what he is--
en dis is what I git for it."

Sometimes when some outrage of peculiar offensiveness stung her to
the heart, she would plan schemes of vengeance and revel in the fancied
spectacle of his exposure to the world as an imposter and a slave;
but in the midst of these joys fear would strike her; she had made him
too strong; she could prove nothing, and--heavens, she might get sold
down the river for her pains! So her schemes always went for nothing,
and she laid them aside in impotent rage against the fates,
and against herself for playing the fool on that fatal September day
in not providing herself with a witness for use in the day when such a
thing might be needed for the appeasing of her vengeance-hungry heart.

And yet the moment Tom happened to be good to her, and kind--
and this occurred every now and then--all her sore places were healed,
and she was happy; happy and proud, for this was her son, her nigger son,
lording it among the whites and securely avenging their crimes
against her race.

There were two grand funerals in Dawson's Landing that fall--the fall
of 1845. One was that of Colonel Cecil Burleigh Essex,
the other that of Percy Driscoll.

On his deathbed Driscoll set Roxy free and delivered his idolized
ostensible son solemnly into the keeping of his brother, the judge,
and his wife. Those childless people were glad to get him.
Childless people are not difficult to please.

Judge Driscoll had gone privately to his brother, a month before,
and bought Chambers. He had heard that Tom had been trying to get
his father to sell the boy down the river, and he wanted to prevent
the scandal--for public sentiment did not approve of that way of treating
family servants for light cause or for no cause.

Percy Driscoll had worn himself out in trying to save his great
speculative landed estate, and had died without succeeding.
He was hardly in his grave before the boom collapsed and left his
envied young devil of an heir a pauper. But that was nothing; his uncle
told him he should be his heir and have all his fortune when he died;
so Tom was comforted.

Roxy had no home now; so she resolved to go around and say good-by to
her friends and then clear out and see the world--that is to say,
she would go chambermaiding on a steamboat, the darling ambition of her
race and sex.

Her last call was on the black giant, Jasper. She found him chopping
Pudd'nhead Wilson's winter provision of wood.

Wilson was chatting with him when Roxy arrived. He asked her how she
could bear to go off chambermaiding and leave her boys; and chaffingly
offered to copy off a series of their fingerprints, reaching up to their
twelfth year, for her to remember them by; but she sobered in a moment,
wondering if he suspected anything; then she said she believed she
didn't want them. Wilson said to himself, "The drop of black blood in
her is superstitious; she thinks there's some devilry, some witch business
about my glass mystery somewhere; she used to come here with an old
horseshoe in her hand; it could have been an accident, but I doubt it."


The Twins Thrill Dawson's Landing

Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond;
cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Remark of Dr. Baldwin's, concerning upstarts: We don't care
to eat toadstools that think they are truffles.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Mrs. York Driscoll enjoyed two years of bliss with that prize,
Tom--bliss that was troubled a little at times, it is true,
but bliss nevertheless; then she died, and her husband and his
childless sister, Mrs. Pratt, continued this bliss-business at the
old stand. Tom was petted and indulged and spoiled to his entire
content--or nearly that. This went on till he was nineteen,
then he was sent to Yale. He went handsomely equipped with "conditions,"
but otherwise he was not an object of distinction there.
He remained at Yale two years, and then threw up the struggle.
He came home with his manners a good deal improved; he had lost his
surliness and brusqueness, and was rather pleasantly soft and smooth, now;
he was furtively, and sometimes openly, ironical of speech, and given
to gently touching people on the raw, but he did it with a good-natured
semiconscious air that carried it off safely, and kept him from getting
into trouble. He was as indolent as ever and showed no very strenuous
desire to hunt up an occupation. People argued from this that he
preferred to be supported by his uncle until his uncle's shoes should
become vacant. He brought back one or two new habits with him,
one of which he rather openly practiced--tippling--but concealed another,
which was gambling. It would not do to gamble where his uncle could
hear of it; he knew that quite well.

Tom's Eastern polish was not popular among the young people.
They could have endured it, perhaps, if Tom had stopped there;
but he wore gloves, and that they couldn't stand, and wouldn't;
so he was mainly without society. He brought home with him a
suit of clothes of such exquisite style and cut in fashion--
Eastern fashion, city fashion--that it filled everybody with anguish
and was regarded as a peculiarly wanton affront. He enjoyed the
feeling which he was exciting, and paraded the town serene and
happy all day; but the young fellows set a tailor to work that night,
and when Tom started out on his parade next morning, he found the old
deformed Negro bell ringer straddling along in his wake tricked out
in a flamboyant curtain-calico exaggeration of his finery,
and imitating his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.

Tom surrendered, and after that clothed himself in the local fashion.
But the dull country town was tiresome to him, since his
acquaintanceship with livelier regions, and it grew daily more
and more so. He began to make little trips to St. Louis for refreshment.
There he found companionship to suit him, and pleasures to his taste,
along with more freedom, in some particulars, than he could have at home.
So, during the next two years, his visits to the city grew in frequency
and his tarryings there grew steadily longer in duration.

He was getting into deep waters. He was taking chances, privately,
which might get him into trouble some day--in fact, _did_.

Judge Driscoll had retired from the bench and from all business
activities in 1850, and had now been comfortably idle three years.
He was president of the Freethinkers' Society, and Pudd'nhead Wilson
was the other member. The society's weekly discussions were now the
old lawyer's main interest in life. Pudd'nhead was still toiling in
obscurity at the bottom of the ladder, under the blight of that unlucky
remark which he had let fall twenty-three years before about the dog.

Judge Driscoll was his friend, and claimed that he had a mind above
the average, but that was regarded as one of the judge's whims,
and it failed to modify the public opinion. Or rather, that was one
of the reason why it failed, but there was another and better one.
If the judge had stopped with bare assertion, it would have had a good
deal of effect; but he made the mistake of trying to prove his position.
For some years Wilson had been privately at work on a whimsical almanac,
for his amusement--a calendar, with a little dab of ostensible philosophy,
usually in ironical form, appended to each date; and the judge thought
that these quips and fancies of Wilson's were neatly turned and cute;
so he carried a handful of them around one day, and read them to some
of the chief citizens. But irony was not for those people;
their mental vision was not focused for it. They read those playful
trifles in the solidest terms, and decided without hesitancy that if
there had ever been any doubt that Dave Wilson was a pudd'nhead--
which there hadn't--this revelation removed that doubt for good and all.
That is just the way in this world; an enemy can partly ruin a man,
but it takes a good-natured injudicious friend to complete the thing and
make it perfect. After this the judge felt tenderer than ever toward
Wilson, and surer than ever that his calendar had merit.

Judge Driscoll could be a freethinker and still hold his place in
society because he was the person of most consequence to the community,
and therefore could venture to go his own way and follow out his
own notions. The other member of his pet organization was allowed the
like liberty because he was a cipher in the estimation of the public,
and nobody attached any importance to what he thought or did.
He was liked, he was welcome enough all around, but he simply
didn't count for anything.

The Widow Cooper--affectionately called "Aunt Patsy" by everybody--
lived in a snug and comely cottage with her daughter Rowena,
who was nineteen, romantic, amiable, and very pretty, but otherwise
of no consequence. Rowena had a couple of young brothers--
also of no consequence.

The widow had a large spare room, which she let to a lodger, with board,
when she could find one, but this room had been empty for a year now,
to her sorrow. Her income was only sufficient for the family support,
and she needed the lodging money for trifling luxuries. But now, at last,
on a flaming June day, she found herself happy; her tedious wait was ended;
her year-worn advertisement had been answered; and not by a village
applicant, no, no!--this letter was from away off yonder in the dim great
world to the North; it was from St. Louis. She sat on her porch gazing
out with unseeing eyes upon the shining reaches of the mighty Mississippi,
her thoughts steeped in her good fortune. Indeed it was specially
good fortune, for she was to have two lodgers instead of one.

She had read the letter to the family, and Rowena had danced away to see
to the cleaning and airing of the room by the slave woman, Nancy,
and the boys had rushed abroad in the town to spread the great news,
for it was a matter of public interest, and the public would wonder
and not be pleased if not informed. Presently Rowena returned,
all ablush with joyous excitement, and begged for a rereading of the letter.
It was framed thus:

HONORED MADAM: My brother and I have seen your advertisement, by chance,
and beg leave to take the room you offer. We are twenty-four years
of age and twins. We are Italians by birth, but have lived long in
the various countries of Europe, and several years in the United States.
Our names are Luigi and Angelo Capello. You desire but one guest;
but, dear madam, if you will allow us to pay for two, we will not
incommode you. We shall be down Thursday.

"Italians! How romantic! Just think, Ma--there's never been one
in this town, and everybody will be dying to see them, and they're
all OURS! Think of that!"

"Yes, I reckon they'll make a grand stir."

"Oh, indeed they will. The whole town will be on its head!
Think--they've been in Europe and everywhere! There's never been a
traveler in this town before, Ma, I shouldn't wonder if they've seen kings!"

"Well, a body can't tell, but they'll make stir enough, without that."

"Yes, that's of course. Luigi--Angelo. They're lovely names;
and so grand and foreign--not like Jones and Robinson and such.
Thursday they are coming, and this is only Tuesday; it's a cruel
long time to wait. Here comes Judge Driscoll in at the gate.
He's heard about it. I'll go and open the door."

The judge was full of congratulations and curiosity. The letter was
read and discussed. Soon Justice Robinson arrived with more
congratulations, and there was a new reading and a new discussion.
This was the beginning. Neighbor after neighbor, of both sexes,
followed, and the procession drifted in and out all day and evening
and all Wednesday and Thursday. The letter was read and reread until
it was nearly worn out; everybody admired its courtly and gracious tone,
and smooth and practiced style, everybody was sympathetic and excited,
and the Coopers were steeped in happiness all the while.

The boats were very uncertain in low water in these primitive times.
This time the Thursday boat had not arrived at ten at night--
so the people had waited at the landing all day for nothing;
they were driven to their homes by a heavy storm without having had
a view of the illustrious foreigners.

Eleven o'clock came; and the Cooper house was the only one in the town
that still had lights burning. The rain and thunder were booming yet,
and the anxious family were still waiting, still hoping.
At last there was a knock at the door, and the family jumped to open it.
Two Negro men entered, each carrying a trunk, and proceeded upstairs
toward the guest room. Then entered the twins--the handsomest,
the best dressed, the most distinguished-looking pair of young fellows
the West had ever seen. One was a little fairer than the other,
but otherwise they were exact duplicates.


Swimming in Glory

Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the
undertaker will be sorry.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man,
but coaxed downstairs at step at a time.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

At breakfast in the morning, the twins' charm of manner and easy and
polished bearing made speedy conquest of the family's good graces.
All constraint and formality quickly disappeared, and the friendliest
feeling succeeded. Aunt Patsy called them by their Christian names
almost from the beginning. She was full of the keenest curiosity
about them, and showed it; they responded by talking about themselves,
which pleased her greatly. It presently appeared that in their early
youth they had known poverty and hardship. As the talk wandered along,
the old lady watched for the right place to drop in a question or two
concerning that matter, and when she found it, she said to the blond twin,
who was now doing the biographies in his turn while the brunette one rested:

"If it ain't asking what I ought not to ask, Mr. Angelo, how did you
come to be so friendless and in such trouble when you were little?
Do you mind telling? But don't, if you do."

"Oh, we don't mind it at all, madam; in our case it was merely misfortune,
and nobody's fault. Our parents were well to do, there in Italy,
and we were their only child. We were of the old Florentine nobility"--
Rowena's heart gave a great bound, her nostrils expanded,
and a fine light played in her eyes--"and when the war broke out,
my father was on the losing side and had to fly for his life.
His estates were confiscated, his personal property seized, and there
we were, in Germany, strangers, friendless, and in fact paupers.
My brother and I were ten years old, and well educated for that age,
very studious, very fond of our books, and well grounded in the German,
French, Spanish, and English languages. Also, we were marvelous musical
prodigies--if you will allow me to say it, it being only the truth.

"Our father survived his misfortunes only a month, our mother soon
followed him, and we were alone in the world. Our parents could have
made themselves comfortable by exhibiting us as a show, and they had
many and large offers; but the thought revolted their pride,
and they said they would starve and die first. But what they
wouldn't consent to do, we had to do without the formality of consent.
We were seized for the debts occasioned by their illness and their funerals,
and placed among the attractions of a cheap museum in Berlin to earn the
liquidation money. It took us two years to get out of that slavery.
We traveled all about Germany, receiving no wages, and not even our keep.
We had to be exhibited for nothing, and beg our bread.

"Well, madam, the rest is not of much consequence. When we escaped from
that slavery at twelve years of age, we were in some respects men.
Experience had taught us some valuable things; among others,
how to take care of ourselves, how to avoid and defeat sharks
and sharpers, and how to conduct our own business for our own profit and
without other people's help. We traveled everywhere--years and years--
picking up smatterings of strange tongues, familiarizing ourselves
with strange sights and strange customs, accumulating an education
of a wide and varied and curious sort. It was a pleasant life.
We went to Venice--to London, Paris, Russia, India, China, Japan--"

At this point Nancy, the slave woman, thrust her head in at
the door and exclaimed:

"Ole Missus, de house of plum' jam full o' people, en dey's
jes a-spi'lin' to see de gen'lemen!" She indicated the twins
with a nod of her head, and tucked it back out of sight again.

It was a proud occasion for the widow, and she promised
herself high satisfaction in showing off her fine foreign birds
before her neighbors and friends--simple folk who had hardly ever
seen a foreigner of any kind, and never one of any distinction or style.
Yet her feeling was moderate indeed when contrasted with Rowena's.
Rowena was in the clouds, she walked on air; this was to be the
greatest day, the most romantic episode in the colorless history of
that dull country town. She was to be familiarly near the source of
its glory and feel the full flood of it pour over her and about her;
the other girls could only gaze and envy, not partake.

The widow was ready, Rowena was ready, so also were the foreigners.

The party moved along the hall, the twins in advance, and entered
the open parlor door, whence issued a low hum of conversation.
The twins took a position near the door, the widow stood at Luigi's side,
Rowena stood beside Angelo, and the march-past and the introductions began.
The widow was all smiles and contentment. She received the procession
and passed it on to Rowena.

"Good mornin', Sister Cooper"--handshake.

"Good morning, Brother Higgins--Count Luigi Capello, Mr. Higgins"--
handshake, followed by a devouring stare and "I'm glad to see ye,"
on the part of Higgins, and a courteous inclination of the head
and a pleasant "Most happy!" on the part of Count Luigi.

"Good mornin', Roweny"--handshake.

"Good morning, Mr. Higgins--present you to Count Angelo Capello."
Handshake, admiring stare, "Glad to see ye"--courteous nod,
smily "Most happy!" and Higgins passes on.

None of these visitors was at ease, but, being honest people,
they didn't pretend to be. None of them had ever seen a person
bearing a title of nobility before, and none had been expecting to
see one now, consequently the title came upon them as a kind of
pile-driving surprise and caught them unprepared. A few tried to rise
to the emergency, and got out an awkward "My lord," or "Your lordship,"
or something of that sort, but the great majority were overwhelmed by
the unaccustomed word and its dim and awful associations with gilded
courts and stately ceremony and anointed kingship, so they only
fumbled through the handshake and passed on, speechless. Now and then,
as happens at all receptions everywhere, a more than ordinary friendly soul
blocked the procession and kept it waiting while he inquired how the
brothers liked the village, and how long they were going to stay,
and if their family was well, and dragged in the weather, and hoped
it would get cooler soon, and all that sort of thing, so as to be
able to say, when he got home, "I had quite a long talk with them";
but nobody did or said anything of a regrettable kind, and so the great
affair went through to the end in a creditable and satisfactory fashion.

General conversation followed, and the twins drifted about
from group to group, talking easily and fluently and winning
approval, compelling admiration and achieving favor from all.
The widow followed their conquering march with a proud eye,
and every now and then Rowena said to herself with deep satisfaction,
"And to think they are ours--all ours!"

There were no idle moments for mother or daughter. Eager inquiries
concerning the twins were pouring into their enchanted ears all
the time; each was the constant center of a group of breathless listeners;
each recognized that she knew now for the first time the real meaning
of that great word Glory, and perceived the stupendous value of it,
and understand why men in all ages had been willing to throw away
meaner happiness, treasure, life itself, to get a taste of its sublime
and supreme joy. Napoleon and all his kind stood accounted for--
and justified.

When Rowena had at last done all her duty by the people in the parlor,
she went upstairs to satisfy the longings of an overflow meeting there,
for the parlor was not big enough to hold all the comers.
Again she was besieged by eager questioners, and again she swam in
sunset seas of glory. When the forenoon was nearly gone, she recognized
with a pang that this most splendid episode of her life was almost over,
that nothing could prolong it, that nothing quite its equal could ever
fall to her fortune again. But never mind, it was sufficient unto itself,
the grand occasion had moved on an ascending scale from the start,
and was a noble and memorable success. If the twins could but do some
crowning act now to climax it, something usual, something startling,
something to concentrate upon themselves the company's loftiest admiration,
something in the nature of an electric surprise--

Here a prodigious slam-banging broke out below, and everybody rushed
down to see. It was the twins, knocking out a classic four-handed
piece on the piano in great style. Rowena was satisfied--satisfied
down to the bottom of her heart.

The young strangers were kept long at the piano. The villagers were
astonished and enchanted with the magnificence of their performance,
and could not bear to have them stop. All the music that they had ever
heard before seemed spiritless prentice-work and barren of grace and
charm when compared with these intoxicating floods of melodious sound.
They realized that for once in their lives they were hearing masters.


The Unknown Nymph

One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie
is that a cat has only nine lives.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

The company broke up reluctantly, and drifted toward their several homes,
chatting with vivacity and all agreeing that it would be many a long
day before Dawson's Landing would see the equal of this one again.
The twins had accepted several invitations while the reception
was in progress, and had also volunteered to play some duets at
an amateur entertainment for the benefit of a local charity.
Society was eager to receive them to its bosom. Judge Driscoll had
the good fortune to secure them for an immediate drive, and to be
the first to display them in public. They entered his buggy with him
and were paraded down the main street, everybody flocking to the windows
and sidewalks to see.

The judge showed the strangers the new graveyard, and the jail,
and where the richest man lived, and the Freemasons' hall,
and the Methodist church, and the Presbyterian church, and where the
Baptist church was going to be when they got some money to build it with,
and showed them the town hall and the slaughterhouse, and got out
of the independent fire company in uniform and had them put out
an imaginary fire; then he let them inspect the muskets of the
militia company, and poured out an exhaustless stream of enthusiasm
over all these splendors, and seemed very well satisfied with the
responses he got, for the twins admired his admiration, and paid him
back the best they could, though they could have done better if
some fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand previous experiences of this
sort in various countries had not already rubbed off a considerable part
of the novelty in it.

The judge laid himself out hospitality to make them have a good time,
and if there was a defect anywhere, it was not his fault.
He told them a good many humorous anecdotes, and always forgot the nub,
but they were always able to furnish it, for these yarns were of a
pretty early vintage, and they had had many a rejuvenating pull
at them before. And he told them all about his several dignities,
and how he had held this and that and the other place of honor or profit,
and had once been to the legislature, and was now president of the
Society of Freethinkers. He said the society had been in existence
four years, and already had two members, and was firmly established.
He would call for the brothers in the evening, if they would like
to attend a meeting of it.

Accordingly he called for them, and on the way he told them all about
Pudd'nhead Wilson, in order that they might get a favorable impression
of him in advance and be prepared to like him. This scheme succeeded--
the favorable impression was achieved. Later it was confirmed and
solidified when Wilson proposed that out of courtesy to the strangers
the usual topics be put aside and the hour be devoted to conversation upon
ordinary subjects and the cultivation of friendly relations and
good-fellowship--a proposition which was put to vote and carried.

The hour passed quickly away in lively talk, and when it was ended,
the lonesome and neglected Wilson was richer by two friends than he
had been when it began. He invited the twins to look in at his
lodgings presently, after disposing of an intervening engagement,
and they accepted with pleasure.

Toward the middle of the evening, they found themselves on the road
to his house. Pudd'nhead was at home waiting for them and putting
in his time puzzling over a thing which had come under his notice
that morning. The matter was this: He happened to be up very early--
at dawn, in fact; and he crossed the hall, which divided his cottage
through the center, and entered a room to get something there.
The window of the room had no curtains, for that side of the house
had long been unoccupied, and through this window he caught sight of
something which surprised and interested him. It was a young woman--
a young woman where properly no young woman belonged; for she was in
Judge Driscoll's house, and in the bedroom over the judge's private
study or sitting room. This was young Tom Driscoll's bedroom.
He and the judge, the judge's widowed sister Mrs. Pratt, and three Negro
servants were the only people who belonged in the house. Who, then,
might this young lady be? The two houses were separated by an
ordinary yard, with a low fence running back through its middle
from the street in front to the lane in the rear. The distance was
not great, and Wilson was able to see the girl very well,
the window shades of the room she was in being up, and the window also.
The girl had on a neat and trim summer dress, patterned in broad stripes
of pink and white, and her bonnet was equipped with a pink veil.
She was practicing steps, gaits and attitudes, apparently; she was
doing the thing gracefully, and was very much absorbed in her work.
Who could she be, and how came she to be in young Tom Driscoll's room?

Wilson had quickly chosen a position from which he could watch the girl
without running much risk of being seen by her, and he remained there
hoping she would raise her veil and betray her face. But she
disappointed him. After a matter of twenty minutes she disappeared
and although he stayed at his post half an hour longer, she came no more.

Toward noon he dropped in at the judge's and talked with Mrs. Pratt
about the great event of the day, the levee of the distinguished
foreigners at Aunt Patsy Cooper's. He asked after her nephew Tom,
and she said he was on his way home and that she was expecting him
to arrive a little before night, and added that she and the judge
were gratified to gather from his letters that he was conducting himself
very nicely and creditably--at which Wilson winked to himself privately.
Wilson did not ask if there was a newcomer in the house, but he asked
questions that would have brought light-throwing answers as to that
matter if Mrs. Pratt had had any light to throw; so he went away
satisfied that he knew of things that were going on in her house
of which she herself was not aware.

He was now awaiting for the twins, and still puzzling over the problem
of who that girl might be, and how she happened to be in that
young fellow's room at daybreak in the morning.


Marse Tom Tramples His Chance

The holy passion of Friendship is of so sweet and steady and loyal
and enduring a nature that it will last through a whole lifetime,
if not asked to lend money.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Consider well the proportions of things. It is better to be
a young June bug than an old bird of paradise.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

It is necessary now to hunt up Roxy.

At the time she was set free and went away chambermaiding,
she was thirty-five. She got a berth as second chambermaid on a
Cincinnati boat in the New Orleans trade, the _Grand Mogul_.
A couple of trips made her wonted and easygoing at the work,
and infatuated her with the stir and adventure and independence of
steamboat life. Then she was promoted and become head chambermaid.
She was a favorite with the officers, and exceedingly proud of their
joking and friendly way with her.

During eight years she served three parts of the year on that boat,
and the winters on a Vicksburg packet. But now for two months,
she had had rheumatism in her arms, and was obliged to let
the washtub alone. So she resigned. But she was well fixed--
rich, as she would have described it; for she had lived a steady life,
and had banked four dollars every month in New Orleans as a provision
for her old age. She said in the start that she had "put shoes on
one bar'footed nigger to tromple on her with," and that one mistake
like that was enough; she would be independent of the human race
thenceforth forevermore if hard work and economy could accomplish it.
When the boat touched the levee at New Orleans she bade good-by to her
comrades on the _Grand Mogul_ and moved her kit ashore.

But she was back in a hour. The bank had gone to smash and carried
her four hundred dollars with it. She was a pauper and homeless.
Also disabled bodily, at least for the present. The officers were
full of sympathy for her in her trouble, and made up a little purse
for her. She resolved to go to her birthplace; she had friends there
among the Negros, and the unfortunate always help the unfortunate,
she was well aware of that; those lowly comrades of her youth would
not let her starve.

She took the little local packet at Cairo, and now she was on
the homestretch. Time had worn away her bitterness against her son,
and she was able to think of him with serenity. She put the vile side
of him out of her mind, and dwelt only on recollections of his occasional
acts of kindness to her. She gilded and otherwise decorated these,
and made them very pleasant to contemplate. She began to long to see him.
She would go and fawn upon him slavelike--for this would have to be her
attitude, of course--and maybe she would find that time had modified him,
and that he would be glad to see his long-forgotten old nurse and treat
her gently. That would be lovely; that would make her forget her woes
and her poverty.

Her poverty! That thought inspired her to add another castle to her dream:
maybe he would give her a trifle now and then--maybe a dollar,
once a month, say; any little thing like that would help, oh,
ever so much.

By the time she reached Dawson's Landing, she was her old self again;
her blues were gone, she was in high feather. She would get along,
surely; there were many kitchens where the servants would share their
meals with her, and also steal sugar and apples and other dainties
for her to carry home--or give her a chance to pilfer them herself,
which would answer just as well. And there was the church.
She was a more rabid and devoted Methodist than ever, and her piety
was no sham, but was strong and sincere. Yes, with plenty of creature
comforts and her old place in the amen corner in her possession again,
she would be perfectly happy and at peace thenceforward to the end.

She went to Judge Driscoll's kitchen first of all. She was received
there in great form and with vast enthusiasm. Her wonderful travels,
and the strange countries she had seen, and the adventures she had had,
made her a marvel and a heroine of romance. The Negros hung enchanted
upon a great story of her experiences, interrupting her all along with
eager questions, with laughter, exclamations of delight, and expressions
of applause; and she was obliged to confess to herself that if there
was anything better in this world than steamboating, it was the
glory to be got by telling about it. The audience loaded her stomach
with their dinners, and then stole the pantry bare to load up her basket.

Tom was in St. Louis. The servants said he had spent the best part
of his time there during the previous two years. Roxy came every day,
and had many talks about the family and its affairs. Once she asked
why Tom was away so much. The ostensible "Chambers" said:

"De fac' is, ole marster kin git along better when young marster's
away den he kin when he's in de town; yes, en he love him better, too;
so he gives him fifty dollahs a month--"

"No, is dat so? Chambers, you's a-jokin', ain't you?"

"'Clah to goodness I ain't, Mammy; Marse Tom tole me so his own self.
But nemmine, 'tain't enough."

"My lan', what de reason 'tain't enough?"

"Well, I's gwine to tell you, if you gimme a chanst, Mammy.
De reason it ain't enough is 'ca'se Marse Tom gambles."

Roxy threw up her hands in astonishment, and Chambers went on:

"Ole marster found it out, 'ca'se he had to pay two hundred
dollahs for Marse Tom's gamblin' debts, en dat's true, Mammy,
jes as dead certain as you's bawn."

"Two--hund'd dollahs! Why, what is you talkin' 'bout?
Two --hund'd--dollahs. Sakes alive, it's 'mos' enough to buy a
tol'able good secondhand nigger wid. En you ain't lyin', honey?
You wouldn't lie to you' old Mammy?"

"It's God's own truth, jes as I tell you--two hund'd dollahs--
I wisht I may never stir outen my tracks if it ain't so.
En, oh, my lan', ole Marse was jes a-hoppin'! He was b'ilin' mad,
I tell you! He tuck 'n' dissenhurrit him."

"Disen_whiched_ him?"

"Dissenhurrit him."

"What's dat? What do you mean?"

"Means he bu'sted de will."

"Bu's--ted de will! He wouldn't _ever_ treat him so! Take it back,
you mis'able imitation nigger dat I bore in sorrow en tribbilation."

Roxy's pet castle--an occasional dollar from Tom's pocket--
was tumbling to ruin before her eyes. She could not abide such a
disaster as that; she couldn't endure the thought of it.
Her remark amused Chambers.

"Yah-yah-yah! Jes listen to dat! If I's imitation, what is you?
Bofe of us is imitation _white_--dat's what we is--en pow'ful
good imitation, too. Yah-yah-yah! We don't 'mount to noth'n as
imitation _niggers_; en as for--"

"Shet up yo' foolin', 'fo' I knock you side de head, en tell me 'bout
de will. Tell me 'tain't bu'sted--do, honey, en I'll never forgit you."

"Well, _'tain't_--'ca'se dey's a new one made, en Marse Tom's
all right ag'in. But what is you in sich a sweat 'bout it for,
Mammy? 'Tain't none o' your business I don't reckon."

"'Tain't none o' my business? Whose business is it den, I'd like
to know? Wuz I his mother tell he was fifteen years old, or wusn't I?--
you answer me dat. En you speck I could see him turned out po' and
ornery on de worl' en never care noth'n' 'bout it? I reckon if you'd
ever be'n a mother yo'self, Valet de Chambers, you wouldn't talk
sich foolishness as dat."

"Well, den, ole Marse forgive him en fixed up de will ag'in --do dat
satisfy you?"

Yes, she was satisfied now, and quite happy and sentimental over it.
She kept coming daily, and at last she was told that Tom had come home.
She began to tremble with emotion, and straightway sent to beg him
to let his "po' ole nigger Mammy have jes one sight of him en die for joy."

Tom was stretched at his lazy ease on a sofa when Chambers brought
the petition. Time had not modified his ancient detestation of the
humble drudge and protector of his boyhood; it was still bitter
and uncompromising. He sat up and bent a severe gaze upon the face
of the young fellow whose name he was unconsciously using and whose
family rights he was enjoying. He maintained the gaze until the victim
of it had become satisfactorily pallid with terror, then he said:

"What does the old rip want with me?"

The petition was meekly repeated.

"Who gave you permission to come and disturb me with the social
attentions of niggers?"

Tom had risen. The other young man was trembling now, visibly.
He saw what was coming, and bent his head sideways, and put up his
left arm to shield it. Tom rained cuffs upon the head and its shield,
saying no word: the victim received each blow with a beseeching,
"Please, Marse Tom!--oh, please, Marse Tom!" Seven blows--then Tom said,
"Face the door--march!" He followed behind with one, two,
three solid kicks. The last one helped the pure-white slave over
the door-sill, and he limped away mopping his eyes with his old,
ragged sleeve. Tom shouted after him, "Send her in!"

Then he flung himself panting on the sofa again, and rasped out
the remark, "He arrived just at the right moment; I was full to the
brim with bitter thinkings, and nobody to take it out of. How refreshing it
was! I feel better."

Tom's mother entered now, closing the door behind her, and approached
her son with all the wheedling and supplication servilities that fear
and interest can impart to the words and attitudes of the born slave.
She stopped a yard from her boy and made two or three admiring
exclamations over his manly stature and general handsomeness,
and Tom put an arm under his head and hoisted a leg over the
sofa back in order to look properly indifferent.

"My lan', how you is growed, honey! 'Clah to goodness, I wouldn't
a-knowed you, Marse Tom! 'Deed I wouldn't! Look at me good;
does you 'member old Roxy? Does you know yo' old nigger mammy, honey?
Well now, I kin lay down en die in peace, 'ca'se I'se seed--"

"Cut it short, Goddamn it, cut it short! What is it you want?"

"You heah dat? Jes the same old Marse Tom, al'ays so gay and funnin'
wid de ole mammy. I'uz jes as shore--"

"Cut it short, I tell you, and get along! What do you want?"

This was a bitter disappointment. Roxy had for so many days nourished
and fondled and petted her notion that Tom would be glad to see his
old nurse, and would make her proud and happy to the marrow with a
cordial word or two, that it took two rebuffs to convince her that
he was not funning, and that her beautiful dream was a fond and
foolish variety, a shabby and pitiful mistake. She was hurt to the heart,
and so ashamed that for a moment she did not quite know what to do or
how to act. Then her breast began to heave, the tears came,
and in her forlornness she was moved to try that other dream of hers--
an appeal to her boy's charity; and so, upon the impulse,
and without reflection, she offered her supplication:

"Oh, Marse Tom, de po' ole mammy is in sich hard luck dese days;
en she's kinder crippled in de arms and can't work, en if you could
gimme a dollah--on'y jes one little dol--"

Tom was on his feet so suddenly that the supplicant was startled
into a jump herself.

"A dollar!--give you a dollar! I've a notion to strangle you!
Is _that_ your errand here? Clear out! And be quick about it!"

Roxy backed slowly toward the door. When she was halfway she stopped,
and said mournfully:

"Marse Tom, I nussed you when you was a little baby, en I raised you
all by myself tell you was 'most a young man; en now you is young
en rich, en I is po' en gitt'n ole, en I come heah b'leavin' dat you
would he'p de ole mammy 'long down de little road dat's lef' 'twix'
her en de grave, en--"

Tom relished this tune less than any that he preceded it,
for it began to wake up a sort of echo in his conscience;
so he interrupted and said with decision, though without asperity,
that he was not in a situation to help her, and wasn't going to do it.

"Ain't you ever gwine to he'p me, Marse Tom?"

"No! Now go away and don't bother me any more."

Roxy's head was down, in an attitude of humility. But now the fires
of her old wrongs flamed up in her breast and began to burn fiercely.
She raised her head slowly, till it was well up, and at the same time
her great frame unconsciously assumed an erect and masterful attitude,
with all the majesty and grace of her vanished youth in it.
She raised her finger and punctuated with it.

"You has said de word. You has had yo' chance, en you has trompled
it under yo' foot. When you git another one, you'll git down on yo'
knees en _beg_ for it!"

A cold chill went to Tom's heart, he didn't know why; for he did not
reflect that such words, from such an incongruous source,
and so solemnly delivered, could not easily fail of that effect.
However, he did the natural thing: he replied with bluster and mockery.

"_You'll_ give me a chance--_you_! Perhaps I'd better get down
on my knees now! But in case I don't--just for argument's sake--
what's going to happen, pray?"

"Dis is what is gwine to happen, I's gwine as straight to yo'
uncle as I kin walk, en tell him every las' thing I knows 'bout you."

Tom's cheek blenched, and she saw it. Disturbing thoughts
began to chase each other through his head. "How can she know?
And yet she must have found out--she looks it. I've had the will
back only three months, and am already deep in debt again, and moving
heaven and earth to save myself from exposure and destruction,
with a reasonably fair show of getting the thing covered up if I'm
let alone, and now this fiend has gone and found me out somehow or other.
I wonder how much she knows? Oh, oh, oh, it's enough to break
a body's heart! But I've got to humor her--there's no other way."

Then he worked up a rather sickly sample of a gay laugh and a hollow
chipperness of manner, and said:

"Well, well, Roxy dear, old friends like you and me mustn't quarrel.
Here's your dollar--now tell me what you know."

He held out the wildcat bill; she stood as she was, and made
no movement. It was her turn to scorn persuasive foolery now,
and she did not waste it. She said, with a grim implacability in
voice and manner which made Tom almost realize that even a former
slave can remember for ten minutes insults and injuries returned
for compliments and flatteries received, and can also enjoy
taking revenge for them when the opportunity offers:

"What does I know? I'll tell you what I knows, I knows enough to
bu'st dat will to flinders--en more, mind you, _more!_"

Tom was aghast.

"More?" he said, "What do you call more? Where's there any room for more?"

Roxy laughed a mocking laugh, and said scoffingly, with a toss
of her head, and her hands on her hips:

"Yes!--oh, I reckon! _co'se_ you'd like to know--wid yo' po' little
ole rag dollah. What you reckon I's gwine to tell _you_ for?--
you ain't got no money. I's gwine to tell yo' uncle--en I'll do it
dis minute, too--he'll gimme FIVE dollahs for de news, en mighty glad, too."

She swung herself around disdainfully, and started away.
Tom was in a panic. He seized her skirts, and implored her to wait.
She turned and said, loftily:

"Look-a-heah, what 'uz it I tole you?"

"You--you--I don't remember anything. What was it you told me?"

"I tole you dat de next time I give you a chance you'd git
down on yo' knees en beg for it."

Tom was stupefied for a moment. He was panting with excitement.
Then he said:

"Oh, Roxy, you wouldn't require your young master to do such a
horrible thing. You can't mean it."

"I'll let you know mighty quick whether I means it or not!
You call me names, en as good as spit on me when I comes here,
po' en ornery en 'umble, to praise you for bein' growed up so
fine and handsome, en tell you how I used to nuss you en tend you en
watch you when you 'uz sick en hadn't no mother but me in de whole worl',
en beg you to give de po' ole nigger a dollah for to get her som'n'
to eat, en you call me names--_names_, dad blame you! Yassir,
I gives you jes one chance mo', and dat's _now_, en it las' on'y
half a second--you hear?"

Tom slumped to his knees and began to beg, saying:

"You see I'm begging, and it's honest begging, too! Now tell me,
Roxy, tell me."

The heir of two centuries of unatoned insult and outrage looked down
on him and seemed to drink in deep draughts of satisfaction.
Then she said:

"Fine nice young white gen'l'man kneelin' down to a nigger wench!
I's wanted to see dat jes once befo' I's called. Now, Gabr'el,
blow de hawn, I's ready . . . Git up!"

Tom did it. He said, humbly:

"Now, Roxy, don't punish me any more. I deserved what I've got,
but be good and let me off with that. Don't go to uncle. Tell me--
I'll give you the five dollars."

"Yes, I bet you will; en you won't stop dah, nuther. But I ain't
gwine to tell you heah--"

"Good gracious, no!"

"Is you 'feared o' de ha'nted house?"


"Well, den, you come to de ha'nted house 'bout ten or 'leven tonight,
en climb up de ladder, 'ca'se de sta'rsteps is broke down,
en you'll find me. I's a-roostin' in de ha'nted house 'ca'se I can't
'ford to roos' nowher's else." She started toward the door,
but stopped and said, "Gimme de dollah bill!" He gave it to her.
She examined it and said, "H'm--like enough de bank's bu'sted."
She started again, but halted again. "Has you got any whisky?"

"Yes, a little."

"Fetch it!"

He ran to his room overhead and brought down a bottle which
was two-thirds full. She tilted it up and took a drink.
Her eyes sparkled with satisfaction, and she tucked the bottle under
her shawl, saying, "It's prime. I'll take it along."

Tom humbly held the door for her, and she marched out as grim and
erect as a grenadier.


Tom Practices Sycophancy

Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral?
It is because we are not the person involved.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition. There was once
a man who, not being able to find any other fault with his coal,
complained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it.

--Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar

Tom flung himself on the sofa, and put his throbbing head in his hands,
and rested his elbows on his knees. He rocked himself back and
forth and moaned.

"I've knelt to a nigger wench!" he muttered. "I thought I had
struck the deepest depths of degradation before, but oh, dear,
it was nothing to this. . . . Well, there is one consolation,
such as it is--I've struck bottom this time; there's nothing lower."

But that was a hasty conclusion.

At ten that night he climbed the ladder in the haunted house, pale,
weak, and wretched. Roxy was standing in the door of one of the rooms,
waiting, for she had heard him.

This was a two-story log house which had acquired the reputation a few
years ago of being haunted, and that was the end of its usefulness.
Nobody would live in it afterward, or go near it by night,
and most people even gave it a wide berth in the daytime.
As it had no competition, it was called _the_ haunted house.
It was getting crazy and ruinous now, from long neglect.
It stood three hundred yards beyond Pudd'nhead Wilson's house,
with nothing between but vacancy. It was the last house in the
town at that end.

Tom followed Roxy into the room. She had a pile of clean straw in
the corner for a bed, some cheap but well-kept clothing was hanging
on the wall, there was a tin lantern freckling the floor with little
spots of light, and there were various soap and candle boxes
scattered about, which served for chairs. The two sat down. Roxy said:

"Now den, I'll tell you straight off, en I'll begin to k'leck de
money later on; I ain't in no hurry. What does you reckon
I's gwine to tell you?"

"Well, you--you--oh, Roxy, don't make it too hard for me!
Come right out and tell me you've found out somehow what a shape
I'm in on account of dissipation and foolishness."

"Disposition en foolishness! NO sir, dat ain't it. Dat jist ain't
nothin' at all, 'longside o' what _I_ knows."

Tom stared at her, and said:

"Why, Roxy, what do you mean?"

She rose, and gloomed above him like a Fate.

"I means dis--en it's de Lord's truth. You ain't no more kin to
ole Marse Driscoll den I is! _dat's_ what I means!" and her eyes
flamed with triumph.


"Yassir, en _dat_ ain't all! You's a _nigger!_--_bawn_ a nigger and
a _slave!_--en you's a nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens my
mouf ole Marse Driscoll'll sell you down de river befo' you is two days
older den what you is now!"

"It's a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!"

"It ain't no lie, nuther. It's just de truth, en nothin' _but_ de truth,
so he'p me. Yassir--you's my _son_--"

"You devil!"

"En dat po' boy dat you's be'n a-kickin' en a-cuffin' today
is Percy Driscoll's son en yo' _marster_--"

"You beast!"

"En _his_ name is Tom Driscoll, en _yo's_ name's Valet de Chambers,
en you ain't GOT no fambly name, beca'se niggers don't _have_ em!"

Tom sprang up and seized a billet of wood and raised it, but his mother
only laughed at him, and said:

"Set down, you pup! Does you think you kin skyer me? It ain't in you,
nor de likes of you. I reckon you'd shoot me in de back, maybe,
if you got a chance, for dat's jist yo' style--_I_ knows you,
throo en throo--but I don't mind gitt'n killed, beca'se all dis is
down in writin' and it's in safe hands, too, en de man dat's got it
knows whah to look for de right man when I gits killed.
Oh, bless yo' soul, if you puts yo' mother up for as big a fool as
_you_ is, you's pow'ful mistaken, I kin tell you!
Now den, you set still en behave yo'self; en don't you git up
ag'in till I tell you!"

Tom fretted and chafed awhile in a whirlwind of disorganizing
sensations and emotions, and finally said, with something like

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