Part 11

The speaker was old Mrs. Simmons, boarding-house keeper, and resident of a certain town on the Ohio River. The prime cause of her remark was Captain Sam Toppie, of the steamboat Queen Ann.

Captain Sam had stopped with Mrs. Simmons every time the Queen Ann laid up for repairs, and he was so genial, frank and manly, that he had found a warm spot in the good old lady’s heart.

But one thing marred the otherwise perfect happiness of Mrs. Simmons when in Captain Sam’s society, and that was what she styled his “lost condition.” For Mrs. Simmons was a consistent, conscientious Methodist, while Captain Sam was—well, he was a Western steamboat captain.

This useful class of gentlemen are in high repute among shippers and barkeepers, and receive many handsome compliments from the daily papers along the line of the Western rivers; but, somehow, the religious Press is entirely silent about them, nor have we ever seen of any special mission having been sent to them.

Captain Sam was a good specimen of the fraternity—good-looking, good-natured, quick-witted, prompt, and faithful, as well as quick-tempered, profane, and perpetually thirsty. To carry a full load, put his boat through in time, and always drink up to his peg, were his cardinal principles, and he faithfully lived up to them.

Of the fair sex he was a most devoted admirer, and if he had not possessed a great deal of modesty, for a steamboat captain, he could have named two or three score of young women who thought almost as much of him as the worthy boarding-house keeper did.

Good Mrs. Simmons had, to use her own language, “kerried him before the Lord, and wrastled for him;” but it was very evident, from Sam’s walk and conversation, that his case had not yet been adjudicated according to Mrs. Simmons’s liking.

He still had occasional difficulties with the hat-stand and stairway after coming home late at night; his breath, though generally odorous, seemed to grieve Mrs. Simmons’s olfactories, and his conversation, as heard through his open door in Summer, was thickly seasoned with expressions far more Scriptural than reverential.

One Christmas, the old lady presented to the captain a handsome Bible, with his name stamped in large gilt letters on the cover. He was so delighted and so proud of his present, that he straightway wrapped it in many folds of paper to prevent its being soiled, and then stowed it neatly away in the Queen Ann’s safe, for secure keeping.

When he told Mrs. Simmons what he had done, she sighed deeply; but fully alive to the importance of the case, promised him a common one, not too good to read daily.

“Daily! Bless you, Mrs. Simmons! Why, I hardly have time to look in the paper, and see who’s gone up, and who’s gone down, and who’s been beat.”

“But your better part, cap’en?” pleaded the old lady.

“I—I don’t know, my good woman—hard to find it, I guess—the hull lot averages purty low.”

“But, cap’en,” she continued, “don’t you feel your need of a change?”

“Not from the Queen Ann, ma’am—she only needs bigger engines——”

“Change of heart, I mean, cap’en,” interrupted Mrs. Simmons. “Don’t you feel your need of religion?”

“Ha! ha!” roared Captain Sam; “the idea of a steamboat captain with religion! Why, bless your dear, innocent, old soul, the fust time he wanted to wood up in a hurry, his religion would git, quicker’n lightnin’. The only steamboatman I ever knowed in the meetin’-house line went up for seven year for settin’ fire to his own boat to git the insurance.”

Mrs. Simmons could not recall at the moment the remembrance of any pious captain, so she ceased laboring with Captain Sam. But when he went out, she placed on his table a tract, entitled “The Furnace Seven Times Heated,” which tract the captain considerately handed to his engineer, supposing it to be a circular on intensified caloric.

Year after year the captain laid up for repairs, and put up with Mrs. Simmons. Year after year he was jolly, genial, chivalrous, generous, but—not what good Mrs. Simmons earnestly wanted him to be.

He would buy tickets to all the church fairs, give free passages to all preachers recommended by Mrs. Simmons, and on Sunday morning he would respectfully escort the old lady as far as the church-door.

On one occasion, when Mrs. Simmons’s church building was struck by lightning, a deacon dropped in with a subscription-paper, while the captain was in. The generous steamboatman immediately put himself down for fifty dollars; and although he improved the occasion to condemn severely the meanness of certain holy people, and though his language seemed to create an atmosphere which must certainly melt the money—for those were specie days—Mrs. Simmons declared to herself that “he couldn’t be fur from the kingdom when his heart was so little set on Mammon as that.”

“He’s too good for Satan—the Lord _must_ hev him,” thought the good old lady.

Once again the Queen Ann needed repairing, and again the captain found himself at his old boarding-place.

Good Mrs. Simmons surveyed him tenderly through her glasses, and instantly saw there had something unusual happened. Could it be—oh! if it only _could_ be—that he had put off the old man, which is sin! She longed to ask him, yet, with a woman’s natural delicacy, she determined to find out without direct questioning.

“Good season, cap’en?” she inquired.

“A No. 1, ma’am—positively first-class,” replied the captain.

“Hed good health—no ager?” she continued.

“Never was better, my dear woman—healthy right to the top notch,” he answered.

“It must be,” said good Mrs. Simmons, to herself—“it can’t be nothin’ else. Bless the Lord!”

This pious sentiment she followed up by a hymn, whose irregularities of time and tune were fully atoned for by the spirit with which she sung. A knock at the door interrupted her.

“Come in!” she cried.

Captain Sam entered, and laid a good-sized, flat flask on the table, saying:

“I’ve just been unpackin’, an’ I found this; p’r’aps you ken use it fur cookin’. It’s no use to me; I’ve sworn off drinkin’.”

And before the astonished lady could say a word, he was gone.

But the good soul could endure the suspense no longer. She hurried to the door, and cried:

“Cap’en!”

“That’s me,” answered Captain Sam, returning.

“Cap’en,” said Mrs. Simmons, in a voice in which solemnity and excitement struggled for the mastery, “hez the Lord sent His angel unto you?”

“He hez,” replied the captain, in a very decided tone, and abruptly turned, and hurried to his own room.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul!” almost shouted Mrs. Simmons, in her ecstasy. “We musn’t worry them that’s weak in the faith, but I shan’t be satisfied till I hear him tell his experience. Oh, _what_ a blessed thing to relate at prayer-meetin’ to-night!”

There was, indeed, a rattling of dry bones at the prayer-meeting that night, for it was the first time in the history of the church that the conversion of a steamboat captain had been reported.

On returning home from the meeting, additional proof awaited the happy old saint. The captain was in his room—in his room at nine o’clock in the evening! She had known the captain for years, but he had never before got in so early. There could be no doubt about it, though—there he was, softly whistling.

“I’d rather hear him whistlin’ Windham or Boylston,” thought Mrs. Simmons; “that tune don’t fit any hymn _I_ know. P’r’aps, though, they sing it in some of them churches up to Cincinnaty,” she charitably continued.

“Cap’en,” said she, at breakfast, next morning, when the other guests had departed, “is your mind at peace?”

“Peace?” echoed the captain—“peaceful as the Ohio at low water.”

The captain’s simile was not so Scriptural as the old lady could have desired, but she remembered that he was but a young convert, and that holy conversation was a matter of gradual attainment. So, simply and piously making the best of it, she fervently exclaimed:

“That it may ever be thus is my earnest prayer, cap’en.”

“Amen to that,” said Captain Sam, very heartily, upsetting the chair in his haste to get out of the room.

For several days Mrs. Simmons lived in a state of bliss unknown to boarding-house keepers, whose joys come only from a sense of provisions purchased cheaply and paying boarders secured.

From the kitchen, the dining-room, or wherever she was, issued sounds of praise and devotion, intoned to some familiar church melody. Scrubbing the kitchen-floor dampened not her ardor, and even the fateful washing-day produced no visible effects on her spirits. From over the bread-pan she sent exultant strains to echo through the house, and her fists vigorously marked time in the yielding dough. From the third-story window, as she hung out the bed-linen to air, her holy notes fell on the ears of passing teamsters, and caused them to cast wondering glances upward. What was the heat of the kitchen-stove to her, now that Captain Sam was insured against flames eternal? What, now, was even money, since Captain Sam had laid up his treasures above?

And the captain’s presence, which had always comforted her, was now a perpetual blessing. Always pleasant, kind, and courteous, as of old, but oh, so different!

All the coal-scuttles and water-pails in the house might occupy the stairway at night, but the captain could safely thread his way among them.

No longer did she hurry past his door, with her fingers ready, at the slightest alarm, to act as compressers to her ears; no, the captain’s language, though not exactly religious, was eminently proper.

He was at home so much evenings, that his lamp consumed more oil in a week than it used to in months; but the old lady cheerfully refilled it, and complained not that the captain’s goodness was costly.

The captain brought home a book or two daily, and left them in his room, seeing which, his self-denying hostess carried up the two flights of stairs her own copies of “Clarke’s Commentaries,” “The Saints’ Rest,” “Joy’s Exercises,” and “Morning and Night Watches,” and arranged them neatly on his table.

Finally, after a few days, Captain Sam seemed to have something to say—something which his usual power of speech was scarcely equal to. Mrs. Simmons gave him every opportunity.

At last, when he ejaculated, “Mrs. Simmons,” just as she was carrying her beloved glass preserve-dish to its place in the parlor-closet, she was so excited that she dropped the brittle treasure, and uttered not a moan over the fragments.

“Mrs. Simmons, I’ve made up my mind to lead an entirely new life,” said the captain, gravely.

“It’s what I’ve been hopin’ fur years an’ years, cap’en,” responded the happy old lady.

“Hev you, though? God bless your motherly old soul,” said the captain, warmly. “Well, I’ve turned over a new leaf, and it don’t git turned back again.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Simmons, with a happy tear under each spectacle-glass. “Fight the good fight, cap’en.”

“Just my little game,” continued the captain. “’Tain’t ev’ry day that a man ken find an angel willin’ to look out fur him, Mrs. Simmons.”

“An angel! Oh, cap’en, how richly blessed you hev been!” sobbed Mrs. Simmons. “Many’s the one that hez prayed all their lives long for the comin’ of a good sperrit to guide ’em.”

“Well, _I’ve_ got one, sure pop,” continued Captain Sam; “and happy ain’t any kind of a name fur what I be all the time now.”

“Bless you!” said the good woman, wringing the captain’s hand fervidly. “But you’ll hev times of trouble an’ doubt, off an’ on.”

“Is that so?” asked the captain, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Simmons; “but don’t be afeard; ev’ry thing’ll come right in the end. I know—I’ve been through it all.”

“That’s so,” said the captain, “you hev that. Well, now, would you mind interdoosin’ me to your minister?”

“Mind!” said the good old lady. “I’ve been a-dyin’ to do it ever since you come. I’ve told him about it, and he’s ez glad fur you ez I am.”

“Oh!” said the captain, looking a little confused, “you suspected it, did you?”

“From the very minute you fust kem,” replied Mrs. Simmons; “I know the signs.”

“Well,” said the captain, “might ez well see him fust as last then, I reckon.”

“I’ll get ready right away,” said Mrs. Simmons. And away she hurried, leaving the captain greatly puzzled.

The old lady put on her newest bombazine dress—all this happened ten years ago, ladies—and a hat to match.

Never before had these articles of dress been seen by the irreligious light of a weekday; the day seemed fully as holy as an ordinary Sabbath.

They attracted considerable attention, in their good clothes and solemn faces, and finally, as they stood on the parson’s doorstep, two of the captain’s own deckhands saw him, and straightway drank themselves into a state of beastly intoxication in trying to decide what the captain could want of a preacher.

The minister entered, cordially greeted Mrs. Simmons, and expressed his pleasure at forming the captain’s acquaintance.

“Parson,” said the captain, in trembling accents—“don’t go away, Mrs. Simmons—parson, my good friend here tells me you know all about my case; now the question is, how soon can you do the business?”

The reverend gentleman shivered a little at hearing the word “business” applied to holy things, but replied, in excellent temper:

“The next opportunity will occur on the first Sabbath of the coming month, and I shall be truly delighted to gather into our fold one whose many worthy qualities have been made known to us by our dearly beloved sister Simmons. And let me further remind you that there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, and that therefore——”

“Just so, parson,” interrupted the captain, wincing a little, and looking exceedingly puzzled—“just so; but ain’t thar no day but Sunday for a man to be married——”

“Married!” ejaculated the minister, looking inquiringly at Mrs. Simmons.

“Married!” screamed the old lady, staring wildly at the captain—“married! Oh, what shall I do? I thought you’d experienced a change! And I’ve told everybody about it!”

The captain burst into a laugh, which made the minister’s chandeliers rattle, and the holy man himself, seeing through the mistake, heartily joined the captain.

But poor Mrs. Simmons burst into an agony of tears.

“My dear, good old friend,” said the captain, tenderly putting his arm about her, “I’m very sorry you have been disappointed; but one thing at a time, you know. When you see my angel, you’ll think I’m in a fair way to be an angel myself some day, I guess. Annie’s her name—Annie May—an’ I’ve named the boat after her. Don’t take on so, an’ I’ll show you the old boat, new painted, an’ the name Annie May stuck on wherever there’s a chance.”

But the good old woman only wrung her hands, and exclaimed:

“Thar’s a lovely experience completely spiled—completely spiled!”

At length she was quieted and escorted home, and a few days afterward appeared, in smiles and the new bombazine, at the captain’s wedding.

The bride, a motherless girl, speedily adopted Mrs. Simmons as mother, and made many happy hours for the old lady; but that venerable and pious person is frequently heard to say to herself, in periods of thoughtfulness:

“A lovely experience completely spiled!”

MISS FEWNE’S LAST CONQUEST.

HOW many conquests Mabel Fewne had made since she had entered society no one was able to tell. Perhaps the conqueror herself kept some record of the havoc she had worked, but if she did, no one but herself ever saw it. Even such of her rivals as were envious admitted that Miss Fewne’s victims could be counted by dozens, while the men who came under the influence of that charming young lady were wont to compute their fellow-sufferers by the hundred. It mattered not where Miss Fewne spent her time: whether she enjoyed the season in New York or Washington, Baltimore or Boston, she found that climatic surroundings did not in the least change the conduct of men toward her. In what her attractions especially consisted, her critics and admirers were not all agreed. Palette, the artist, who was among her earliest victims, said she was the embodiment of all ideal harmonies; while old Coupon, who at sixty offered her himself and his property, declared in confidence to another unfortunate that what took him was her solid sense. At least one young man, who thought himself a poet, fell in love with her for what he called the golden foam of her hair; a theological student went into pious ecstasy (and subsequent dejection) over the spiritual light of her eyes. The habitual pose of her pretty fingers accounted for the awkward attentions of at least a score of young men, and the piquancy of her manner attracted, to their certain detriment, all the professional beaus who met her. And yet, a clear-headed literary Bostonian declared that she was better read than some of his distinguished _confreres_; while a member of Congress excused himself for monopolizing her for an entire half-hour, at an evening party, by saying that Miss Fewne talked politics so sensibly, that for the first time in his life he had learned how much he himself knew. As for the ladies, some said any one could get as much admiration as Mabel Fewne if they could dress as expensively; others said she was so skillful a flirt that no man could see through her wily ways; two or three inclined to the theory of personal magnetism; while a few brave women said that Mabel was so pretty and tasteful, and modest and sensible and sweet, that men would be idiots if they didn’t fall in love with her at sight.

But one season came in which those who envied and feared Mabel were left in peace, for that young lady determined to spend the Winter with her sister, who was the wife of a military officer stationed at Smithton, in the Far West. Smithton was a small town, but a pleasant one; it had a railroad and mines; a government land office was established there, as was the State Government also; trading was incessant, money was plenty, so men of wit and culture came there to pay their respects to the almighty dollar; and as there were nearly two-score of refined ladies in the town, society was delightful to the fullest extent of its existence. And Mabel Fewne enjoyed it intensely; the change of air and of scene gave stimulus to her spirits and new grace to her form and features, so that she soon had at her feet all the unmarried men in Smithton, while many sober Benedicts admired as much as they could safely do without transferring their allegiance.

Smithton was not inhabited exclusively by people of energy and culture. New settlements, like all other things new, powerfully attract incapables, and Smithton was no excuse to the rule. In one portion of it, yclept “the End,” were gathered many characters more odd than interesting. Their local habitations seemed to be the liquor-shops which fairly filled that portion of the town. About the doors of these shops the “Enders” were most frequently seen. If one of them chanced to stray into the business street of the town, he seemed as greatly confused and troubled as a lost boy. In his own quarter, however, and among his own kind, the Ender displayed a composure which was simply superb. No one could pass through the End by daylight without seeing many of the inhabitants thereof leaning against fences, trees, buildings, and such other objects as could sustain without assistance the weight of the human frame. From these points of support the Enders would contemplate whatever was transpiring about them, with that immobility of countenance which characterizes the finished tourist and the North American Indian. There were occasions when these self-possessed beings assumed erect positions and manifested ordinary human interest. One of these was the breaking out of a fight between either men or animals; another was the passing of a lady of either handsome face or showy dress. So it happened that, when pretty, well-dressed Mabel Fewne was enjoying a drive with one of her admirers, there was quite a stir among such Enders as chanced to see her. The venders of the beverages for which the Enders spent most of their money noticed that, upon that particular afternoon, an unusual proportion of their customers stood at the bar with no assistance from the bar itself, that some spirit was manifest in their walk and conversation, and yet they were less than usual inclined to be quarrelsome. So great was the excitement caused by Miss Fewne’s appearance, that one Ender was heard to ask another who she was—an exhibition of curiosity very unusual in that part of the town. Even more: One member of that apparently hopeless gang was known to wash his face and hands, purchase a suit of cheap—but new and clean—clothing, and take an eastern-bound train, presumably to appear among respectable people he had known during some earlier period of his existence.

On the evening of the next day a delightful little party was enjoyed by the well-to-do inhabitants of Smithton. New as was the town, the parlors of Mrs. General Wader (her husband was something for the railway company) were handsomely furnished, the ladies were elaborately dressed, the gentlemen lacked not one of the funereal garments which men elsewhere wear to evening parties, and stupid people were noticeably rarer than, in similar social gatherings, in older communities. Mabel Fewne was there, and as human nature is the same at Smithton as in the East, she was the belle of the evening. She entered the room on the arm of her brother-in-law, and that warrior’s height, breadth, bronzed countenance and severe uniform, made all the more striking the figure which, clad apparently in a pale blue cloud, edged with silver and crowned with gold, floated beside him. Men crowded about her at once, and the other ladies present had almost undisturbed opportunity in which to converse with each other.

At the End there was likewise a social gathering. The place was Drake’s saloon, and the guests were self-invited. Their toilets, though unusual, scarcely require description, and a list of their diversions would not interest people of taste. Refreshments were as plentiful as at Mrs. Wader’s, and, after the manner of refreshments everywhere, they caused a general unbending of spirits. Not all the effects were pleasing to contemplate. One of them was a pistol-shot, which, missing the man for whom it was intended, struck a person called Baggs, and remarkable only for general worthlessness. Baggs had a physical system of the conventional type, however, and the bullet caused some disarrangement so radical in its nature, that Baggs was soon stretched upon the floor of the saloon, with a face much whiter than he usually wore. The barkeeper poured out a glass of brandy, and passed it over the bar, but the wounded man declined it; he also rejected a box of pills which was proffered. An Ender, who claimed to have been a physician, stooped over the victim, felt his pulse, and remarked:

“Baggs, you’re a goner.”

“I know it,” said Baggs; “and I want to be prayed for.”

The barkeeper looked puzzled. He was a public-spirited man, whose heart and pocket were open to people in real trouble, but for prayers he had never been asked before, and, was entirely destitute of them. He felt relieved when one of his customers—a leaden-visaged man, with bulbous nose and a bad temper—advanced toward the wounded man, raised one hand, threw his head back a trifle, and exclaimed:

“Once in grace, always in grace. I’ve _been_ there, I know. Let us pray.”

The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed:

“_You_ won’t do; somebody that’s better acquainted with God than _you_ are must do it.”

“But, Baggs,” reasoned the barkeeper, “perhaps he’s been a preacher—you’d better not throw away a chance.”