Chapter 48

ECCENTRICITIES OF HENRY GLAZIER.

Henry Glazier.--A singular character.--"Kaw-shaw-gan-ce" and "Quaw-taw-pee-ah."--Tom Lolar and Henry Glazier.--Attractive show-bills.--Billy Muldoon and his trombone.--Behind the scenes.--"Sound your G!"--The mysterious musician.--What happened to Billy.--"May the divil fly away wid ye!"

At this time there resided in the paternal homestead a younger brother of Ward Glazier named Henry, who was Willard's senior by about eleven years, and, physically speaking, was a splendid specimen of masculine development. Like his brothers Ward and George, he stood six feet in his stockings, and literally looked down on his fellows.

He had conceived a great liking for his nephew Willard, and on many a hunting excursion in the Great North Woods, the boy was his only companion. This affection, however, was not unmingled with some contempt for the lad's diminutive stature.

Upon one occasion, during a visit to West Boylston, he made it his business to search out the relatives of Willard's mother, in order to ascertain what sort of stock she came from. On returning home, this son of Anak exclaimed, with a dejected air:

"Mother, I'll be hanged if I ain't discouraged! Our Willard will always be a little runt. His mother's folks ain't bigger'n a pinch of snuff!"

How far the prediction has been verified any one who has seen the compact, sinewy form of the young soldier will understand.

Henry Glazier reveled in everything sensational. His ideal of heaven was a succession of tableaux in which he was to play the principal part.

At one time he joined another eccentric character named Tom Lolar, an Indian of the Seneca tribe, whose lands in the long ago of Indian history bordered the blue waters of Lake Seneca in central New York. This peculiar pair proceeded to electrify certain rural communities in their immediate neighborhood with huge posters, announcing that on a given night:

KAW-SHAW-GAN-CE,

OR

THE RED WILD CAT,

THE

_Great Chief of the Walaitipu Indians,_

Now traveling for the benefit of his tribe, proposes to exhibit to an enlightened public the

Trophies won by his Braves,

In their battles with other Ferocious Tribes beyond the Rocky Mountains, and the Great Chief will likewise give an exhibition of the

WAR DANCES OF HIS NATION.

Accordingly upon the night in question Tom Lolar as "_Kaw-shaw-gan-ce_," and Henry Glazier as ticket agent, reaped such an excellent harvest that the latter concluded to start a "live Indian" upon his own account.

This he accordingly did, dubbing the prodigy of his creation "Quaw-taw-pee-ah," or the "Red Wild Cat."

Whether this venture was successful or not we have failed to learn, but there is one story connected with it which is too good to be lost, though it lacks satisfactory evidence of authenticity.

The legend runs that our enterprising manager went three miles away and hunted up a genuine old native of Erin who had deserted from the British army, where he held some position in one of the military bands attached to a regiment stationed in Canada. With true Irish instinct this exile of Erin had brought his trombone across the border, and "the enterprising manager"--to use the language of the bills--"secured in him the services of an eminent musician, late of Her Majesty's Royal Band," to discourse sweet music during the entire performance. This and other attractive announcements drew a goodly crowd of lads and lasses from far and near to the place appointed, and when the doors--otherwise tent-flaps--were open, the assemblage marched in to the entrancing strains of the trombone, as played by "Professor Muldoonati" _alias_ Billy Muldoon.

Everything passed off well. "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" presented to the _elite_ of the locality a type of the aboriginal American, which at least possessed the merit of originality. If the audience expected to be astonished they were not disappointed; for such an Indian as they then beheld no living eye had ever looked upon before.

Mr. Catlin would have admitted that this noble red man was alien to any of his tribes, and even Cooper's Leather-Stocking would have conceded that his was a new revelation of savage humanity. It is barely possible that Buffalo Bill may have dreamed of something like him, and it is not impossible that the late Edwin Forrest may have actually been on speaking terms with his brother, but outside of these two gentlemen, we do not believe that human imagination ever conceived a child of the forest in any respect resembling "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" on his opening night.

It did seem a little singular to combine the convivial music of "St. Patrick's day in the morning" with such diabolical grimaces and gestures as those which the Great Chief used in the pantomimic expression of his sentiments. But the people were prepared for originality, and they had it. At any rate the performance received their loud applause. At last, however, it was over: the successive scenes of the programme had come and gone--the war dances were finished, the curtain had fallen on the last act, and Billy Muldoon's trombone had subsided into silence. But if the performance within was wild, it was nothing to the wild night without. It was the seventeenth of March, and the snow had been steadily falling since morning, shrouding the hills and all the surrounding country with a mantle as white and cold as a winding sheet.

The wind had increased since nightfall, and by the time "Quaw-taw-pee-ah" had washed his face of its red lead, and Mr. Muldoon had been paid his share of the proceeds, it was blowing "great guns," as the sailors say. Out into such a night as this the audience dispersed: but the lights of home shone through the blinding storm near at hand, and buffeting with the fierce gusts of whirling snow and wind was only brave sport for them. Not so, however, with Mr. Billy Muldoon. _His_ home was three miles away, and though the prospect without was anything but pleasant, he prepared to face it like a man. His only precaution was to see that an old army canteen was filled afresh with the best whiskey the neighborhood afforded. Then he started on his homeward journey.

At first it was pretty hard work. The snow had drifted into heaps in some places, and rose almost to the little man's waist. Still he struggled bravely on, only stopping now and then to celebrate the anniversary of Ireland's Patron Saint by taking a long pull and a strong pull at the canteen.

For a half-hour or more he made but slow progress through the pitiless, pelting storm, and he heartily cursed his folly in attempting the task of coming home at all, on such a night as this. But a change came o'er the spirit of his dream. As the contents of the canteen had diminished, Billy's spirits had risen in exact proportion, his heart had grown strong and he began to despise the difficulties in his way. In fact he was as happy as a prince, and rather liked the idea of facing the snow drifts and fighting the wind. So on he went. What seemed strange to Billy was the fact that there seemed to be so much sameness in the surrounding features of the landscape--or so much of it as he could discover, during the momentary lulls of the storm. He therefore stopped short, steadied himself for a moment, and took another drink; which proceeding seemed to clear up his mind on the puzzled subject, for muttering that it was "all roight," he once more started forward.

Another half-hour passed and still another, and yet Billy found the road open before him, with no sign of his own humble little home. He began to grow very tired and considerably muddled, and paused at length to consider the situation.

In front of him he perceived something so like the lane that led to his own shanty that he joyfully proceeded, and at length reached what he believed to be a back door that he had directed his wife to leave "on the latch" for his return.

What surprised him was that he could see no light within. He was, however, sufficiently aware of the fact that he had taken more of "the crayther" than his good woman would approve of, so not caring to wake her up, he stole to the door and tried to lift the latch. It was fastened. Everything within was dark as Erebus, and not a sound could be heard except the low breathing of what he supposed to be his sleeping children. This rather excited Billy's wrath. He had been particular in his injunction to leave the door unbolted, and it was hard to be kept out in the storm on such a night as this. He called out--at first in a whisper, then louder and louder--to Kathleen to let him in. There was no response. Yet he certainly heard the movement of feet within. What could it mean? The little man finally swore a big oath and fiercely demanded admittance; but still there came no reply. He then essayed to force the door, and to his utter amazement the upper part of it gave way, opening out like a window-shutter, while the lower part remained firm. The musician therefore climbed up, and seating himself on the edge of the door, peered in. He could see nothing but a black void. To use his own figure of speech, "yez might as well hunt for Gineral Washington's will down a black dog's throat, as attimpt to see the nose on yer face in there!"

He was nearly paralyzed with astonishment. Suddenly a bright thought struck him. He raised his trombone to his lips, and in spite of the mingled emotions that agitated his breast, blew upon it a blast loud enough to have waked the dead.

Imagine therefore how his previous astonishment was deepened into almost idiotic wonder when he heard a reply from what appeared to be a trombone of more gigantic power than his own. "Bur-r-r!" went Mr. Muldoon's instrument.

"Boo-o-o!" replied the invisible respondent.

Billy was amazed. Billy was awe-stricken. But the instinct of the musician rose above all other emotions.

"Sound your G!" said Billy.

"Boo-o-o!" was the answer in a deeper base than before.

"Yer out o' tune, ye domned old fool!" says Billy.

"Boo-o-o!" came the response once more.

"Sound yer G, and take that, ye murtherin spalpeen!" said the now thoroughly exasperated musician, dashing his own instrument in the direction of his invisible rival.

Just then poor Billy saw a ferocious-looking pair of eyes glaring at him, and before he had time to add another word, some huge object rushed towards him, struck him a determined blow, and lifting him off his perch sent him into the middle of the road.

The fact is, Billy had wandered very much out of his way, and had mistaken Ward Glazier's barn for his own dwelling. The supposed rival musician was our old acquaintance, "Black-face," the Bull.

Billy picked himself up from the snow, and, regardless of his bruised body and aching bones, steadied himself for a last shot at the enemy. The little man looked in the direction where he thought his adversary ought to be, and though he could see nothing through the darkness and storm, he shouted out, in accents of blended dignity and contempt:

"May the divil fly away wid ye! Ye may be the sthronger of the two, but, be jabers, yer no museecian!"

How he eventually got home and what were his sentiments regarding the adventure with which he had met, are facts that do not concern this history; but it is quite probable that he wondered as we have often done, that St. Patrick, while engaged in the laudable task of expelling snakes from the soil of the Emerald Isle, did not also provide that such reptiles should keep out of the boots of her sons.