A man story

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Contents

cnAVTsm rAOB

I. How THB Stort cams TO BU Wkittsh ... 7

II. Ths Bbkds 14

Chapter I. How The 810ey Cams To Bb Written

At the tiine when all the incidents were fiesh in the minds of those concerned, it was generally said that they would make a story. This impression was particularly marked after the events immediately following the closing chapters, and there was seldom a day that the matter of a story was not mentioned; it was even said that I should attempt it, as I had regained a certain amount of respect among them by reason of the incidents narrated, and although they soon ceased talking about it entirely, I continued to think of the suggestion of a story, which had at first impressed me favorably, and finaUy set to work, though with many misgivings.

It seems easy to write a story. After read ing a book, particularly a good one, the writing of it seems to have been an easy matter. I think I was induced to attempt to tell this story of a man from reading certain books which were written so easily that little work was apparently connected with them, but I now feel, after an actual experience with the task, that no one will be encouraged to write a book by what I have written; I am so certain that the style is stiff, and the characters awkwardly introduced, though I might have done better had I not felt it my duty to narrate the facts almost as they happened, for there is a wide license in fiction which I have not been permitted to employ.

But when I think of it, the writing of fiction is no doubt difficult. There are a thousand expressions that may be put in the mouth of every character; the effort to select th« best ones from the mass of material offering, is no doubt a tiresome work. There is not a line in any book — except a book like this, where

HOW IT CAMS TO BS WRITTSH. 9

the facts are ready at band — that might not be written in almost numberiess ways, and the worry of the authors, in trying to do as well as possible, will distress me in future whenever I see a printed page; I have worried so much over my own work, althou^ I had only my memory to look to. A character that might strike the popular fancy may be curtailed, in the author's anxiety, and a bad one enlarged upon. Every description in a book might be written in a thousand ways; the oonyersation of the characters might be lengthened or shortened to their improvement. I imagine that there is scarcely a sentence, in short, that does not walk through the sleeping and waking hours of the poor authors, asking for aid, and their distress has affected me so much that I shall not attempt it again; there are rewards in business not to be had in bookwriting, and they do not cost so much. I have a dread and guilty feeling when looking at the desk at which this story was written that I never experienced on looking at the

10 A MAX STORY.

counter behind which I nsoally spend my time, and I think this most hare been a warning. I shall so accept it, at all events. There was a time when I bad the greatest hope for myself, but when I was convinced of my error, — the particulars will be found in the eleventh chapter, I think, — the shock of truth was so great that I doubt that I shall ever recover from it.

Even in writing this poor book, I have dreamed at night only of poring over its pages, trying to enlarge here and cut out there, to the end that the cruel things usually said of books might be avoided; indeed, while about the writing I became so frowsy and wretched looking, that many of my fiiends imagined that I was dissipating at night, and spending in high revel the hours I really devoted to attempts to soften the hard places. I have also heard it intimated that I am of a melancholy turn, and that I spend my idle time in moping about; I have really been employed iu trying to fairly represent the man no W IT CAMS TO BS WRITTBH. 1 1

whose story I have written, but I feel eertoin that I shall hear soon that my time would have been better employed in my old listless way.

The amateur who attempts a part in a play — and who has not attempted a part in the great representation of life, and failed? — usually has the satisfaction of knowing that the house was not crowded, and that the exact particulars of his disgrace will in time be for^ gotten in the failure of others, since his actions and his words must be matters of memory with his critics; but the amateur who attempts a book does not get off so well. He never lights his lamp at night that he does not think of some one looking over his book and readmg passages aloud to laugh at them. If his is a sensitive soul, — and it is said such long to put themselves in books, — it must often occur to him that the evidences of his folly can never be lost. A play-bill may be destroyed, and with it the name of the bad actor, but no one destroys a book; even the worst books are kept, and I have of late noticed a tendency among the people to enjoy very bad stories, because of their absurdities, in preference to reading authors who are neither very good nor very bad, but who are only tiresome. The last book that created a sensation in our community had no other recommendation than its absurdity, and I heard a bright man say not long ago that the age was so noted for bad books that he had a mind to write one in mockery, and make it so absurd that the sales would be enormous. The author of the worst book ever written believed in it; no one believed in the great men when they were boys, and the boys of whom a great deal was expected proved a disappointment. Who can teU?

My greatest fear is that it will be said that the man whose story it is was allowed too much space, and that his talking for pages at a time without interruption, was a rude violation of the proprieties. In order to prepare the reader for this — for with my lack of

HOW IT CAMS TO BS WRITTSH. 18

art I could not yerj well avoid it — I have given the book a title which will indicate that a man has a good deal to do with it* Had I been free to select, as fiction-writers are, I think I should have made A Woman Story, for it seems to me now that there is little that is interesting in the life of a man; but the time has come when I can no longer delay; I must either bum the manuscript or print it, and smce we hope in spite of our fear, with trembling and misgiving I submit the story.

C. B.

Chapter II. The Bends

What is the first thing you can remember? I imagine that every one has asked himself, or herself, the question, and that they have decided upon an incident with which their recollection began.

The first thing I can remember is of my mother crying, late one afternoon, because of a fear she had just expressed that my head was so unusually large that I would certainly die of brain fever, and that she would consequently never have the honor of rearing the smartest baby ever born ; but as many other mothers have had the same foolish fear of sons who grew up into dull manhood, my recollection need go no farther back than is necessary for the purpose of this story, — to a certain date when I was twelve years old, and when

THE BENDS. 15

I began to realize that our familj wag afflicted with the Bends.

My father, who was a boomer, with town4ot8 and bonds for sale, kept a store at Fog Lake, and we lived in rooms over his place of business, in connection with my two grandfathers and my Aunt Florence. The boomer was away from home on the afternoon of the day when I became twelve years old, having gone to a .neighboring town to secure a bucket factory, which he had heard was contemplated, and when my mother came into the room where I sat, and cried out in a despairing tone, "The Bends I" I thought she referred to a band of robbers who were sacking the town, or something of that kind; so I went down into the store to see what it all meant.

I found the young man who acted as the Boomer's clerk in a good deal of excitement, because of the boisterous conduct of my paternal grandfather, who had locked himself in his room in the top story of the house, and was carrying on in such a manner that a crowd of people had collected in front of the building. He had taken liquor up there, and gone on a bender; and when my mother came into the store wringing her hands, and saying that her family was disgraced with "the Bends," and that her boy could never take the place in the world his smartness warranted, because of this calamity, I imagined there had been so many benders within her recollection that she referred to them in a general way as "The Bends," which I afterwards found to be the case.

My mother's father, as handsome an old gentleman as one could wish to see, also lived at our house, but he did not like my other grandfather, and was therefore not disturbed because of his actions. These two hated each other, and I heard the clerk say to a man who came in to offer his assistance in the family's distress that there would have been no benders had there been no quarrel between the old gentlemen. When I was a very little boy, I had somehow formed the habit of call-

THE BSND8. 17

ing them Number One and Number Two, which had been followed by all the others, and it appeared that when Number Two could no longer stand the silent impudence of Number One, he went on a bender to relieve himself.

Number Two was as rich as Nomber One, for both of them were as poor as they could be, but he did not look so well or dress so well. When he had a new suit of clothes out of the store, he soon had it looking wretchedly, and I suppose this was one reason why he usually attended to the stable, and did such other work, while Number One did not do anything to speak of, except to sit in the best room and read books.

I had heard it said that he could cure cancers, and that he knew more than many doctors ; but there were no cancers in that country, 80 we had no other authority for his greatness than the word of his daughter, my mother, who admired him immensely, and never tired of relating what a distinguished man he had been in his prime; but Number Two doubted all this, in which I think he was aided and abetted by his son, the Boomer.

I did not like Number One yeiy well myself, he was so chilly and respectable; and the first shock of my life was when I remembered that the one who regarded me with the greatest admiration, my mother, was so badly mistaken about her father. He was also responsible for the story, which I heard so often that I disliked it, that I cried so much as a baby that he had made up his mind to ask me, in case I ever grew up, what I was crying about.

Number One also had his bed in the best room, which he folded out of the way during the day, and he was known to look displeased when there was company which interfered with his genteel solitude to an extent that he did not like.

It was understood that my father could manage the Bends, but as he was away, certain men in the town who were supposed to have

THE BEND 3. 19

influence witih him were sent to Number Two*8 door; but he paid no attention to them, and went on with his carouse. I had perhaps been familiar with his habits of dissipation before, but it seems to me now that they had escaped me up to this time, fot the bender seemed so curious to me that when none of them could do anything with Number Two, and had giyen him up in despair, I finally went up the little stairway leading to his door, and listened*

I could make out in a confused sort of way that Number Two was having a reunion, and although he was certainly alone, he pretended to be surrounded by his old army comrades, with whom he drank frequently, for I could hear the glasses rattling, and Number Two insisting that they fill them up again in memory of old times.

Between his drinks he would relate anecdotes, usually commencing by saying, "Your story, comrade, reminds me of an incident in my own experience;" and when I looked through the keyhole, I saw that he had his old uniform on, which included a little cap, with a brass letter and number in front. I could also see that he was seated at his washstand, in the centre of which stood a bottle surrounded by several tumblers and mugs, and against which leaned a musket. Number Two had been a private, and was honest enough to admit it; but there was a certain Captain Waterbury who attended the reunions, and I have heard him refer to the captain quite familiarly, usually in connection with urging him to take one more.

He frequently referred to a certain Devil who had not been in the war at all, and whom it was desirable to exterminate, and I felt certain that the Devil he referred to was Number One, his enemy. I could hear him telling his comrades, who were represented by the mugs and glasses, that while it was certain that the Devil had not carried arms on the right side, it wps not certain that he had not consorted in a cowardly way with the enemy;

THB BBNDS. SI

bdeed. Number Two went so far as to propose a set of resolutions for adoption, denouncing all Rebels and Copperheads, and calling for their blood; but before the final vote I became so frightened that I went downstairs with a view of warning Number One of his danger, though I thought less of him than I did of Number Two. But when I went into the room where he was. Number One seemed so conscious of bis own safety that I said nothing at all, and felt rather ashamed that I should have imag> ined that so distinguished a man was in danger. Although my mother was very much agitated over the events of the evening, and was saying between her sobs that our family could never amount to anything so long as it was cursed ^th "The Bends," and that while she had the smartest son in the world, he could not do well when the people in the street could see tbat he came from a family afiBicted as ours was, her father was as dignified as ever, and whatever his thoughts might have been, he said nothing.

Though I did not like him, I could not help admitting that he was distinguished-looking, for his heavy hair and whiskers, which were of a respectable iron-gray, made him look like the great men I had seen pictures of, and there was a general dignity about him which I often regretted that Number Two did not possess. Number Two was very bald, and somewhat slouchy in his gait and manner, and there was something sneaking in his style, which came, I think, from his chewing great quantities of plug tobacco, in spite of the fact that my mother and her father, eminently respectable people, did not approve of the habit. Number Two pretended that it was neither disgraceful nor criminal to chew plug tobacco, but, in spite of it, I noticed that he did his chewing down at the stable, and that when he came into the house he carefully wiped his mouth.

When I went upstairs again, which I did on being convinced that Number One was in no danger, I found that the excitement was increasing. There was loud talk of all those

TBB BENDS. 28

present loading their mnaketa, and making one more charge on the Rebels, and Copperheads, and Devils, but just at the moment when matters seemed serions, and Number Two was declaring that he would lead the way, and point out the Rebel, the Copperhead, and the Deyil, there was a strong step on the stair, tmd I turned and saw my Uncle Tom ascending; Uncle Tom, the husband of my Aunt Florence, who travelled from the City, a long way off, and only came home at long intervals ; but he had arrived unexpectedly, it seemed, ^d was conoing up to join in the reunion, having been a soldier himself. My uncle had great influence with Number Two, and, after nbdding pleasantly to me, he rapped loudly on the door.

*^ Comrade,'' he said, addressing my grand- &ther upon the inside, '^I am a little late, bnt I hope you will be glad to see me."

There was some talk upon the inside, as though the veterans were impatient because of l^ing disturbed, even by a favorite, and finally Diy grandfather hoarsely inquired: —

"Who goes there?"

"Tom Saukbury, of the Sixty-fourth Regiment; a friend."

I do not think Number Two wanted to be interrupted, and would have preferred not to have admitted any one, but there was a hearty goodness about my uncle that no one could resist, and the door was opened after some hesitation, Number Two appearing behind it, looking somewhat sheepish and red-eyed from the effects of his dissipation.

As Uncle Tom stepped into the room, at the same time heartily greeting Number Two as his comrade in war and his friend in peace, he took me with him, and I believe he did this not so much to accommodate me as to increase his influence over my grandfather, who, my uncle seemed to argue, would be more tractable in the presence of a boy than when only grown persons were present; so I was allowed to remain, although the door was locked behind us.

The room into which we went was a half-

THB BENDS. 25

story one next to the roof at the front of the bailding, and was bare of furniture save a rough bed covered with gray blankets, a washstand, and two or three knapsacks. Instead of keeping his things in a trunk. Number Two kept them in knapsacks, which he carefully unpacked and repacked whenever he wanted anything, and as he brought up his water in canteens, he could have marched at a moment's notice had Number One made a retreat necessary. I was not often in the room, and while I looked around curiously at the swords and belts and army pictures on the wall, I remarked that Uncle Tom had entered heartily into the reunion, and soon had Number Two in the best of humor. He drank from all of the glasses, I remember, as though he wanted to exhaust the supply of liquor, and talked soldier talk with great ease and enjoyment, frequently saying that he was sorry he had arrived so near the close of the reunion, as he would have enjoyed all of the exercises. As a mrfbter of fact, the reunion had only com-

THE BENDS. 87

At three o'clock the next morDing we heard town omnibus rattle up to our door, a train haying arrived about that time, and after & great noise on the part of the driver in backing the vehicle up to the steps. Number Two got out, and softly ascended to his room, as though he had been away and had just returned. This was his custom on recovering from the Bends, and we knew that the reiMiion was over.

menced late that afternoon, and as a rule they lasted two or three days, but I believed Uncle Tom was saying this as a preliminary to breaking it up presently. Number Two was disposed to be noisy and drink heavily, but Uncle Tom reminded him with great delicacy that none of the old boys could "stay" as they used to, and that nothing was thought of it if the old soldiers were not as tough as they were during the war, for time was stiffening their frames, and they must take care of themselves. It thus came about naturally enough that after remaining in the room an hour or so. Uncle Tom commenced to talk about breaking up, and to sing songs that both of them remembered in connection with their regiments separating after the war; and I was not surprised when my uncle finally said goodnight to Number Two, blew out the light, and retired, taking me with him. It seemed a rather bold proceeding even for a bold man like my uncle, but I did not believe the lamp would be lighted again that night.

THE BBNDS. 87

At tbiee o'clock the next morDing we heard the town omnibus rattle up to our door, a train haying arrived about that time, and after a great noise on the part of the driver in backing the vehicle up to the steps. Number Two got out, and softly ascended to his room, as though he had been away and had just returned. This was his custom on recovering from the Bends, and we knew that the reunion was over.

Chapter III

MBS. TOM.

When we went downstairs my uncle was greeted at his own door by Mrs. Tom, who had been waiting for him, and he said that he had drank so much of the liquor to keep it from Number Two, that he felt a little like makmg a night of it; but he did not, further than to remain up rather late.

Uncle Tom was very fond of his wife, but he was always saying that he would finally tire of her, and be ashamed of himself for it, although no one ever believed that he meant it. No one could tire of Mrs. Tom ; certainly no one ever had tired of her, and she had been at our house most of her life.

"When I am on the road," he said, after announcing to his wife that her big foolish lover had returned, and that she should make

MRS. TOM. 29

the most of the silly fellow, **I long for you as much as a boy longs for recess, for I am not a wise man, and cannot console my loneliness by thinking of the blessed times when I see you. I don't get any better, either. I suppose the only way out of it is to quit the road, and come home and tire of you."

Mrs. Tom was so busy rejoicing because of her merry husband's arrival that she i)aid little attention to this statement, which seemed rather alarming to me, but perhaps she had heard it before, and knew that he was not serious.

"But now that I am with you," he continued, "I haven't a care in the world. I was thinking last week that there was no use living, and keeping up the struggle, but I have nothing to wish for, now that I am at home, I believe you are better-looking than when I saw you last. I don't imagine that you are known in this country as a beauty, but I'm in love, and I think you are the prettiest woman I ever saw."

I had never thought Mrs. Tom particularly good-looking, but now that the subject was brought to my mind, I thought she certainly looked better than when I had last looked at her critically; she had a way of growing in your favor the longer you knew her, and as I had known her a long time, I esteemed her very highly.

"When I drove up just now I thought this old house the handsomest I ever saw, because you were imder its roof. I am becoming more ridiculously in love with Lady Pleaseme every day, and sometimes I laugh at my own folly. But you won't think of all this nonsense, and remind me of it after I have tired of you, will you ? That's the way old Barnaby's wife does."

Uncle Tom travelled for Bamaby & Co., from the City, and the head of the house did not get along pleasantly with his wife ; we had heard so much of old Barnaby and his meanness with his wife that we felt quite well acquainted with him.

Mrs. Tom did not reply to his question or intimate how she would act after he had tired

MRS. TOM. 81 of her, but after returning from an adjoining room with his slippers, she patted his strong frame with girlish glee, and said: —

"You won't, will you?"

Uncle Tom gravely shook his head, and I believed this to be a declaration that he would never forget her.

"I »ay I won't," he said, as he leisurely made preparations to put on the slippers, ^'and I mean it, now; but you know how the men are. Old Bamaby thought he wouldn't, but he did."

Mrs. Tom had found his dressing-gown by this time, and gave it to him, saying at the same time, "You will, won't you?"

This time Uncle Tom nodded his head and laughed, and I knew he was declaring that ke would always love her. These were favorite questions with Mrs. Tom, and when they were together Uncle Tom had his head going a good deal, either shaking it to declare that he would never forget his wife, or nodding it as a means of indicating that he would always love her. Occasionally he shook his head when he intended to nod it, he kept his head nodding so much in answer to Mrs. Tom's questions, and at these times there was apparently great excitement, but they thoroughly understood each other, and never had any real trouble.

"There never was a man as certain of anything as I am that I will always love you," he said, opening his travelling-bag to look for something, which turned out to be a present for Mrs. Tom; "but you know old Bamaby thought he would always love his wife, and he hates her now. I wonder if he is not awfully ashamed when he thinks how he has changed; I know I'll be. What a silly woman you are to have confidence in me*, you don't know what a fickle, bad lot the men are. It may be the making of your husband, though, this faith you have in him. I know a man on the road who says his wife believes in him, and he has a foolish ambition to deserve her confidence. He goes to church on Sunday when away from home,

MRS. TOM. 8& because he thinks it will pleaae his although he can quote from all the in* fidel books. He does whatever his wife be* lieyes he will do, and says it is a pleasure to feel that he is worthy of her great trust in him/'

I thought it possible that Uncle Tom re* ferred to himself; I knew that he had a good deal of faith in religion, because his wife wanted him to. Once when he was at home, the pastor in charge of the Fog Lake church had dinner at our house, and when it occurred to Uncle Tom that perhaps his wife would be humiliated to have th^ good man see that her husband was not religious, he startled Ihem all by asking a very good blessing. I believe that had Mrs. Tom been a Spiritualist, her husband would have secretly made raps, and listened very gravely; anything his wife believed in was good enough for him.

Mrs. Tom had examined the present by this time, and while it pleased her she said she feared he could not afford such extravagance.

for his coming home was all the present she wanted; besides, he was saving his money to go into business for himself, and needed it all. Uncle Tom was always bringing home money, his savings from his salary, which he gave his wife to "keep," as he feared he would waste it; he had a lot this tim6, which he produced to be put away with the other.

"I am glad to inform you," he said, "that during this trip I have recovered from one of my follies; it was a great struggle, but I conquered it. I suppose I am about the stoutest man in Fog Lake, but there was a time when your worrymg over my health pleased me. Had I a headache, you asked; I investigated, and so reluctantly answered No that you thought I was really suffering greatly, and in my goodness was keeping it from you. I am so much in love with you that I was pleased because of your worry; no one else worries about me, and I gave myself up to it — I am ashamed of it, but I did. Well, during this last trip it occurred to me, and