_ CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH THE TOWN IS THROWN INTO A STATE OF ALARM, AND SUNDRY OTHER THINGS WORTH MENTIONING
THE nonresistant, resolving to make the street his castle, stood for some minutes making grimaces, and hurling coarse invective at the landlord, who, with sundry idlers, had gathered into the portico. He then took his leave, swearing to have satisfaction of his assailants, as Giles Sheridan, looking out at the window, said he should long remember the fellow for the courtesy he had manifested towards him.
Peace being restored, the landlord, his shirt ruffle in a sad plight, returned to apologize for the disturbance to his guests; while peeping in at the door, I saw Bessie, her black eyes almost swimming in tears, and evidently alarmed for my safety. Again Giles Sheridan spoke up and said: "It can be no good that brought the fellow hither. He must have been begotten under an evil star, and nursed by a virago. The fellow has but to take good care of his invective; and if he adopt the ass instead of the madman, he may in time become an excellent critic." Here he paused, turned his head quickly, and frisked his fingers nervously through his straight, silvery hair. The clerical looking groom, hearing the little deformed man speak thus, led his young bride frightened to bed.
The lecturer now drew a much worn and almost illegible manuscript from his pocket, and commenced reading to me a few passages from it, in a clear, shrill voice, and with much earnestness of manner. His love of approbation, I saw, was only equaled by his want of self-confidence, which made him anxious to hear what I would say of it. So I listened with more than ordinary attention while he read, and then expressed a firm belief that the people of Barnstable could not fail to appreciate his ascetics. This so encouraged him that his heart seemed beating with joy, and he warmed into enthusiasm, and read on, watching intently the changes of my countenance, as if he wished to read in them my fleeting thoughts. I was about to inquire whether it were good policy to measure public taste by one's own, when he paused, and heaving a sigh, said in a modulated tone of voice, that so many queer inquiries had been made of him respecting Crabbe, that he began to doubt whether he could interest the people in a discourse upon the character of one they had scarce heard of. No longer ago than yesterday, he said, General Sam Wheeler, the popular high school committeeman, looked in to say, that it was getting all over Barnstable, and had very nearly got into the columns of the Patriot, that he had been got down by the evil agency of the anti-temperance men to lecture on a new process of making brandy from crab apples. And the Baptist clergyman rather encouraged this report, which was doing serious damage. I was told, too, that the subject of my lecture had been warmly debated by the ladies of the Orthodox Sewing Circle, where Mrs. Silas Heywood, who had written several strong articles for the Patriot, which journal adopted them as its own, was heard to declare emphatically that she had never heard of this man Crabbe, though she had read no end of books. Miss Bruce had been six quarters at the high-school, knew something of Latin and algebra, and had taken music lessons of Monsieur Pensiné; but she had never heard of Crabbe until she read "Night and Morning," where, out of sheer affectation, as it seemed to her, she found that the author had made sundry quotations from him to adorn the heads of his chapters. As for Miss Leland, who had been two years abroad with her father and mother, and was supposed to know all about literature and the poets, she thought Mr. Crabbe could not be much, since she had not even heard of him while in England. Mr. Faulkner, the storekeeper, had not a book of Crabbe on his shelves, though he dealt largely in hardware and literature, and was a very respectable scholar. And Squire Brigham, the lawyer, who mixed himself up with other people's business a great deal, busied himself in saying: Crabbe must have been an obscure fellow, for though there was a pyramid of old books in his library, he had not one of this author's among them; and perhaps he ought to be thankful for it, for indeed Mrs. Forbush had said to him in confidence, that she understood of the little deformed man that Crabbe had written some very bad things of lawyers. Mrs. Forbush went regularly to Boston to get the fashions and attend the Lowell lectures; Mrs. Forbush had written a religious novel for the "Olive Branch;" Mrs. Forbush said, who would have thought of giving such a looking little creature five dollars and his victuals for lecturing upon such a subject
The cry of fire without, and the loud peals of an alarm bell, suddenly threw the town and the tavern into a state of great excitement. Giles Sheridan stopped short in his discourse, and the inmates of the house rushed in great agitation into the street. The alarm spread rapidly, and people began to run in every direction but the right one. One declared it a false alarm. That it was set on foot to afford recreation for the mischievous, another was quite sure. A third was ready to swear he saw the incendiary run down "the lane." People ran in opposite directions, crying fire. People, wayward and confused, were endeavoring to persuade one another that the scene of the fire was not in the direction they were going, though neither smoke nor flame could be seen in any part of the town. And while the people were thus confused, an harsh and grating voice cried out that the fire was down the lane, a narrow pathway that led from one part of the town to another. The confused figures of men who had stood contemplating here and there about the square, now rushed down the lane, and soon came in hearing of moans and lamentations, which grew louder and louder, as of one in great distress. "Oh! unworthy sinner that I am, let every man exert himself to remedy this misfortune!" a stifled voice was heard to cry out, as a crowd, having gathered round a pit, where some workmen had been digging for a well, discovered no less a person at the bottom, half buried in sand and water, than Major Roger Potter. "Peace, good man, and thy misfortune shall be remedied soon," said the Orthodox clergyman, who was among the alarmists, and, notwithstanding his accustomed frigidity, could scarce suppress a smile at seeing the major cut so sorry a figure. The clergyman now ordered the bystanders, who were much more inclined to enjoy the joke, to bring ropes, and assist in relieving the distressed man, who, if not a friend of the church, was at least a Christian. "Aye, aye," responded the major, "and be not long about it, for the sand is caving in, and I feel the devil fingering my toes." Seeing the people come to his relief, the major regained his courage, (for when discovered he was nearly frightened out of his wits,) and began heaping curses upon the head of the miscreant who had laid so diabolical a plot against his life. Indeed, he stubbornly refused to be convinced that it was anything else than a trick of his enemies to rob him of his military title. In fine, he declared to the parson, who several times rebuked him for his free use of profane adjectives, that nothing but his good will for mankind in general prevented him from taking summary vengeance of his enemies with his sword, which, fortunately for those who were making light of his distress, he had left at home. It was not that he set so high a value upon his life, for he had shown while in the Mexican War that he was not wanting in valor, and was ready at any moment to sacrifice it to his honor; but it sorely grieved him to think of what a loss the nation and Barnstable would suffer in his death by falling into a pit.
The rabble, as he called those who had come to his relief, now began to jeer him, and to demand of him a speech, merely to occupy the time while ropes necessary to his deliverance were being brought. This so enraged the major, that in addition to swearing he would not be drawn up by such a set of inhuman rascals, he commenced to curse his hard fate. A few moments more and he became calm, and looking up beseechingly in the clergyman's face, which was reflected by the light of a lantern, he enjoined him to hasten to his wife, Polly Potter, and tell her of the plight he was in. She had never forsaken him in his misfortunes. But the clergyman was scrupulous of his dignity, and not fancying the strong quality of the expletives he was using, took his leave, saying he could not waste sympathy upon one who so far forgot his afflictions as to take the name of the Lord in vain.
Ropes were now at hand, and amidst much laughter and jeering, the major was relieved from his perilous position, not, however, until his face had received some bruises and his garments much injury. The crowd now professed so much affection for him, that he began to deplore the loss of his temper, and to offer apologies for what he had said when in the pit, which were readily accepted, with regrets for his misfortune. Indeed, he inwardly congratulated himself that he had not lost a whit of his political or military popularity, and that the mishap was one of those peculiar interpositions of Providence which may occur in the life of any great man. As to the oaths that had lost him the friendship of the clergyman, he regretted them from the very bottom of his heart, and hoped his friends, in the exercise of that generosity they had ever evinced for him, would set them down to the bewildered and confused state of his faculties. Hoping he would never again be in a condition to merit their jokes, the major bowed in the politest manner, and turned to take his departure, adding that he would have to perform certain offices pleasing to his wife, Polly. He had, however, no sooner turned his back, than the crowd gave out shouts of laughter, seeing the condition his nether garments were in. Being unconscious of the cause, the major mistook their shouts for a manifestation of his popularity, and having paused to acknowledge it with a bow, continued on his way as the crowd dispersed.
It seems that the mischievous urchins, on seeing the major enter the tavern, mounted his team and drove several times round the town, the pig and chickens keeping up a medley of noise that seriously annoyed numerous peaceably-disposed citizens. And having satisfied their mischievous propensities, they left old Battle to himself, knowing that he would keep faith with his master. Finding his faithful animal gone, when he issued from the tavern, the major, not doubting the steady habits of his horse, very naturally believed that he had taken his way home, and thus forestalled his arrival. The only thing that caused him any fear was, that some accident might occur to his live stock. He therefore took the shortest road home, and so completely absorbed in the contemplation of his profits, and of the prospect of another chance for political fame, was he, that he hastened on regardless of the planks the workmen had placed round the well they were digging, and of which he became conscious only when he had tumbled some twenty feet to the bottom. Beginning to sink deeper and deeper in the sand, from which all his efforts to extricate himself failed, he set up a cry of fire, regarding it the one which would soonest bring him relief. And this cry he bawled until he sent the whole town into a state of excitement.
And now, since I have exhausted the limits of my chapter, I must reserve what took place between the major and his wife Polly, and how she almost fainted at seeing him enter the house in so shattered a condition, for another chapter. _