University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.
THE COSMOPOLITAN INCREASES IN SERIOUSNESS.

In the middle of the gentlemen's cabin burned a solar
lamp, swung from the ceiling, and whose shade of
ground glass was all round fancifully variegated, in
transparency, with the image of a horned altar, from
which flames rose, alternate with the figure of a robed
man, his head encircled by a halo. The light of this
lamp, after dazzlingly striking on marble, snow-white
and round—the slab of a centre-table beneath—on all
sides went rippling off with ever-diminishing distinctness,
till, like circles from a stone dropped in water, the
rays died dimly away in the furthest nook of the
place.

Here and there, true to their place, but not to their
function, swung other lamps, barren planets, which
had either gone out from exhaustion, or been extinguished
by such occupants of berths as the light annoyed,
or who wanted to sleep, not see.

By a perverse man, in a berth not remote, the remaining
lamp would have been extinguished as well, had
not a steward forbade, saying that the commands of the
captain required it to be kept burning till the natural

light of day should come to relieve it. This steward, who,
like many in his vocation, was apt to be a little free-spoken
at times, had been provoked by the man's pertinacity
to remind him, not only of the sad consequences
which might, upon occasion, ensue from the cabin being
left in darkness, but, also, of the circumstance that,
in a place full of strangers, to show one's self anxious to
produce darkness there, such an anxiety was, to say the
least, not becoming. So the lamp—last survivor of
many—burned on, inwardly blessed by those in some
berths, and inwardly execrated by those in others.

Keeping his lone vigils beneath his lone lamp, which
lighted his book on the table, sat a clean, comely, old
man, his head snowy as the marble, and a countenance
like that which imagination ascribes to good Simeon,
when, having at last beheld the Master of Faith, he blessed
him and departed in peace. From his hale look of
greenness in winter, and his hands ingrained with the
tan, less, apparently, of the present summer, than of
accumulated ones past, the old man seemed a well-to-do
farmer, happily dismissed, after a thrifty life of activity,
from the fields to the fireside—one of those who,
at three-score-and-ten, are fresh-hearted as at fifteen;
to whom seclusion gives a boon more blessed than
knowledge, and at last sends them to heaven untainted
by the world, because ignorant of it; just as a countryman
putting up at a London inn, and never stirring out
of it as a sight-seer, will leave London at last without
once being lost in its fog, or soiled by its mud.

Redolent from the barber's shop, as any bridegroom

tripping to the bridal chamber might come, and by his
look of cheeriness seeming to dispense a sort of morning
through the night, in came the cosmopolitan; but marking
the old man, and how he was occupied, he toned
himself down, and trod softly, and took a seat on the
other side of the table, and said nothing. Still, there
was a kind of waiting expression about him.

“Sir,” said the old man, after looking up puzzled at
him a moment, “sir,” said he, “one would think this
was a coffee-house, and it was war-time, and I had
a newspaper here with great news, and the only copy
to be had, you sit there looking at me so eager.”

“And so you have good news there, sir—the very
best of good news.”

“Too good to be true,” here came from one of the
curtained berths.

“Hark!” said the cosmopolitan. “Some one talks
in his sleep.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “and you—you seem to be
talking in a dream. Why speak you, sir, of news, and
all that, when you must see this is a book I have here—
the Bible, not a newspaper?”

“I know that; and when you are through with it—
but not a moment sooner—I will thank you for it. It
belongs to the boat, I believe—a present from a society.”

“Oh, take it, take it!”

“Nay, sir, I did not mean to touch you at all. I
simply stated the fact in explanation of my waiting here
—nothing more. Read on, sir, or you will distress me.”

This courtesy was not without effect. Removing his
spectacles, and saying he had about finished his chapter,
the old man kindly presented the volume, which was
received with thanks equally kind. After reading for
some minutes, until his expression merged from attentiveness
into seriousness, and from that into a kind of
pain, the cosmopolitan slowly laid down the book, and
turning to the old man, who thus far had been watching
him with benign curiosity, said: “Can you, my aged
friend, resolve me a doubt—a disturbing doubt?”

“There are doubts, sir,” replied the old man, with a
changed countenance, “there are doubts, sir, which,
if man have them, it is not man that can solve
them.”

“True; but look, now, what my doubt is. I am one
who thinks well of man. I love man. I have confidence
in man. But what was told me not a half-hour
since? I was told that I would find it written—`Believe
not his many words—an enemy speaketh sweetly
with his lips'—and also I was told that I would find a
good deal more to the same effect, and all in this book.
I could not think it; and, coming here to look for myself,
what do I read? Not only just what was quoted,
but also, as was engaged, more to the same purpose,
such as this: `With much communication he will
tempt thee; he will smile upon thee, and speak thee fair,
and say What wantest thou? If thou be for his profit
he will use thee; he will make thee bear, and will not
be sorry for it. Observe and take good heed. When
thou hearest these things, awake in thy sleep.'”

“Who's that describing the confidence-man?” here
came from the berth again.

“Awake in his sleep, sure enough, ain't he?” said the
cosmopolitan, again looking off in surprise. “Same
voice as before, ain't it? Strange sort of dreamy man,
that. Which is his berth, pray?”

“Never mind him, sir,” said the old man anxiously,
“but tell me truly, did you, indeed, read from the book
just now?”

“I did,” with changed air, “and gall and wormwood
it is to me, a truster in man; to me, a philanthropist.”

“Why,” moved, “you don't mean to say, that what
you repeated is really down there? Man and boy, I
have read the good book this seventy years, and don't
remember seeing anything like that. Let me see it,”
rising earnestly, and going round to him.

“There it is; and there—and there”—turning over
the leaves, and pointing to the sentences one by one;
“there—all down in the `Wisdom of Jesus, the Son of
Sirach.'”

“Ah!” cried the old man, brightening up, “now I
know. Look,” turning the leaves forward and back, till
all the Old Testament lay flat on one side, and all the
New Testament flat on the other, while in his fingers he
supported vertically the portion between, “look, sir, all
this to the right is certain truth, and all this to the left
is certain truth, but all I hold in my hand here is
apocrypha.”

“Apocrypha?”

“Yes; and there's the word in black and white,'

pointing to it. “And what says the word? It says as
much as `not warranted;' for what do college men say
of anything of that sort? They say it is apocryphal.
The word itself, I've heard from the pulpit, implies
something of uncertain credit. So if your disturbance
be raised from aught in this apocrypha,” again taking
up the pages, “in that case, think no more of it, for it's
apocrypha.”

“What's that about the Apocalypse?” here, a third
time, came from the berth.

“He's seeing visions now, ain't he?” said the cosmopolitan,
once more looking in the direction of the interruption.
“But, sir,” resuming, “I cannot tell you how
thankful I am for your reminding me about the apocrypha
here. For the moment, its being such escaped me.
Fact is, when all is bound up together, it's sometimes
confusing. The uncanonical part should be bound distinct.
And, now that I think of it, how well did those
learned doctors who rejected for us this whole book of
Sirach. I never read anything so calculated to destroy
man's confidence in man. This son of Sirach even says—
I saw it but just now: `Take heed of thy friends;' not,
observe, thy seeming friends, thy hypocritical friends,
thy false friends, but thy friends, thy real friends—that
is to say, not the truest friend in the world is to be implicitly
trusted. Can Rochefoucault equal that? I
should not wonder if his view of human nature, like
Machiavelli's, was taken from this Son of Sirach. And
to call it wisdom—the Wisdom of the Son of Sirach!
Wisdom, indeed! What an ugly thing wisdom must

be! Give me the folly that dimples the cheek, say I,
rather than the wisdom that curdles the blood. But
no, no; it ain't wisdom; it's apocrypha, as you say, sir.
For how can that be trustworthy that teaches distrust?”

“I tell you what it is,” here cried the same voice as
before, only more in less of mockery, “if you two don't
know enough to sleep, don't be keeping wiser men
awake. And if you want to know what wisdom is, go
find it under your blankets.”

“Wisdom?” cried another voice with a borgue;
“arrah, and is't wisdom the two geese are gabbling
about all this while? To bed with ye, ye divils, and
don't be after burning your fingers with the likes of
wisdom.

“We must talk lower,” said the old man; “I fear we
have annoyed these good people.”

“I should be sorry if wisdom annoyed any one,” said
the other; “but we will lower our voices, as you say.
To resume: taking the thing as I did, can you be surprised
at my uneasiness in reading passages so charged
with the spirit of distrust?”

“No, sir, I am not surprised,” said the old man; then
added: “from what you say, I see you are something
of my way of thinking—you think that to distrust the
creature, is a kind of distrusting of the Creator. Well,
my young friend, what is it? This is rather late for you
to be about. What do you want of me?”

These questions were put to a boy in the fragment of
an old linen coat, bedraggled and yellow, who, coming

in from the deck barefooted on the soft carpet, had been
unheard. All pointed and fluttering, the rags of the
little fellow's red-flannel shirt, mixed with those of his
yellow coat, flamed about him like the painted flames in
the robes of a victim in auto-da-fe. His face, too, wore
such a polish of seasoned grime, that his sloe-eyes
sparkled from out it like lustrous sparks in fresh coal.
He was a juvenile peddler, or marchand, as the polite
French might have called him, of travelers' conveniences;
and, having no allotted sleeping-place, had, in
his wanderings about the boat, spied, through glass
doors, the two in the cabin; and, late though it was,
thought it might never be too much so for turning a
penny.

Among other things, he carried a curious affair—a
miniature mahogany door, hinged to its frame, and suitably
furnished in all respects but one, which will shortly
appear. This little door he now meaningly held before
the old man, who, after staring at it a while, said: “Go
thy ways with thy toys, child.”

“Now, may I never get so old and wise as that comes
to,” laughed the boy through his grime; and, by so
doing, disclosing leopard-like teeth, like those of Murillo's
wild beggar-boy's.

“The divils are laughing now, are they?” here came
the brogue from the berth. “What do the divils find to
laugh about in wisdom, begorrah? To bed with ye, ye
divils, and no more of ye.”

“You see, child, you have disturbed that person,”
said the old man; “you mustn't laugh any more.”

“Ah, now,” said the cosmopolitan, “don't, pray, say
that; don't let him think that poor Laughter is persecuted
for a fool in this world.”

“Well,” said the old man to the boy, “you must, at
any rate, speak very low.”

“Yes, that wouldn't be amiss, perhaps,” said the
cosmopolitan; “but, my fine fellow, you were about
saying something to my aged friend here; what was
it?”

“Oh,” with a lowered voice, coolly opening and shutting
his little door, “only this: when I kept a toy-stand
at the fair in Cincinnati last month, I sold more
than one old man a child's rattle.”

“No doubt of it,” said the old man. “I myself often
buy such things for my little grandchildren.”

“But these old men I talk of were old bachelors.”

The old man stared at him a moment; then, whispering
to the cosmopolitan: “Strange boy, this; sort of
simple, ain't he? Don't know much, hey?”

“Not much,” said the boy, “or I wouldn't be so
ragged.”

“Why, child, what sharp ears you have!” exclaimed
the old man.

“If they were duller, I would hear less ill of myself,”
said the boy.

“You seem pretty wise, my lad,” said the cosmopolitan;
“why don't you sell your wisdom, and buy a
coat?”

“Faith,” said the boy, “that's what I did to-day, and
this is the coat that the prince of my wisdom bought.

But won't you trade? See, now, it is not the door I
want to sell; I only carry the door round for a specimen,
like. Look now, sir,” standing the thing up on the
table, “supposing this little door is your state-room
door; well,” opening it, “you go in for the night;
you close your door behind you—thus. Now, is all
safe?”

“I suppose so, child,” said the old man.

“Of course it is, my fine fellow,” said the cosmopolitan.

“All safe. Well. Now, about two o'clock in the
morning, say, a soft-handed gentleman comes softly and
tries the knob here—thus; in creeps my soft-handed
gentleman; and hey, presto! how comes on the soft
cash?”

“I see, I see, child,” said the old man; “your fine
gentleman is a fine thief, and there's no lock to your
little door to keep him out;” with which words he
peered at it more closely than before.

“Well, now,” again showing his white teeth, “well,
now, some of you old folks are knowing 'uns, sure
enough; but now comes the great invention,” producing
a small steel contrivance, very simple but ingenious,
and which, being clapped on the inside of the little
door, secured it as with a bolt. “There now,” admiringly
holding it off at arm's-length, “there now, let
that soft-handed gentleman come now a' softly trying
this little knob here, and let him keep a' trying till he
finds his head as soft as his hand. Buy the traveler's
patent lock, sir, only twenty-five cents.”

“Dear me,” cried the old man, “this beats printing.
Yes, child, I will have one, and use it this very
night.”

With the phlegm of an old banker pouching the
change, the boy now turned to the other: “Sell you
one, sir?”

“Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use such
blacksmiths' things.”

“Those who give the blacksmith most work seldom
do,” said the boy, tipping him a wink expressive of a
degree of indefinite knowingness, not uninteresting to
consider in one of his years. But the wink was not
marked by the old man, nor, to all appearances, by him
for whom it was intended.

“Now then,” said the boy, again addressing the old
man. “With your traveler's lock on your door to-night,
you will think yourself all safe, won't you?”

“I think I will, child.”

“But how about the window?”

“Dear me, the window, child. I never thought of
that. I must see to that.”

“Never you mind about the window,” said the boy,
nor, to be honor bright, about the traveler's lock either,
(though I ain't sorry for selling one), do you just buy
one of these little jokers,” producing a number of suspender-like
objects, which he dangled before the old
man; “money-belts, sir; only fifty cents.”

“Money-belt? never heard of such a thing.”

“A sort of pocket-book,” said the boy, “only a safer
sort. Very good for travelers.”

“Oh, a pocket-book. Queer looking pocket-books
though, seems to me. Ain't they rather long and narrow
for pocket-books?”

“They go round the waist, sir, inside,” said the boy
“door open or locked, wide awake on your feet or fast
asleep in your chair, impossible to be robbed with a
money-belt.”

“I see, I see. It would be hard to rob one's money-belt.
And I was told to-day the Mississippi is a bad
river for pick-pockets. How much are they?”

“Only fifty cents, sir.”

“I'll take one. There!”

“Thank-ee. And now there's a present for ye,” with
which, drawing from his breast a batch of little papers,
he threw one before the old man, who, looking at it, read
“Counterfeit Detector.”

“Very good thing,” said the boy, “I give it to all my
customers who trade seventy-five cents' worth; best
present can be made them. Sell you a money-belt,
sir?” turning to the cosmopolitan.

“Excuse me, my fine fellow, but I never use that
sort of thing; my money I carry loose.”

“Loose bait ain't bad,” said the boy, “look a lie and
find the truth; don't care about a Counterfeit Detector,
do ye? or is the wind East, d'ye think?”

“Child,” said the old man in some concern, “you
mustn't sit up any longer, it affects your mind; there, go
away, go to bed.”

“If I had some people's brains to lie on, I would,”
said the boy, “but planks is hard, you know.”

“Go, child—go, go!”

“Yes, child,—yes, yes,” said the boy, with which
roguish parody, by way of congé, he scraped back his
hard foot on the woven flowers of the carpet, much as a
mischievous steer in May scrapes back his horny hoof
in the pasture; and then with a flourish of his hat—
which, like the rest of his tatters, was, thanks to hard
times, a belonging beyond his years, though not beyond
his experience, being a grown man's cast-off beaver—
turned, and with the air of a young Caffre, quitted the
place.

“That's a strange boy,” said the old man, looking
after him. “I wonder who's his mother; and whether
she knows what late hours he keeps?”

“The probability is,” observed the other, “that his
mother does not know. But if you remember, sir, you
were saying something, when the boy interrupted you
with his door.”

“So I was.—Let me see,” unmindful of his purchases
for the moment, “what, now, was it? What was that
I was saying? Do you remember?”

“Not perfectly, sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it was
something like this: you hoped you did not distrust the
creature; for that would imply distrust of the Creator.”

“Yes, that was something like it,” mechanically and
unintelligently letting his eye fall now on his purchases.

“Pray, will you put your money in your belt to-night?”

“It's best, ain't it?” with a slight start. “Never

too late to be cautious. `Beware of pick-pockets' is
all over the boat.”

“Yes, and it must have been the Son of Sirach, or
some other morbid cynic, who put them there. But
that's not to the purpose. Since you are minded to it,
pray, sir, let me help you about the belt. I think that,
between us, we can make a secure thing of it.”

“Oh no, no, no!” said the old man, not unperturbed,
“no, no, I wouldn't trouble you for the world,” then,
nervously folding up the belt, “and I won't be so impolite
as to do it for myself, before you, either. But,
now that I think of it,” after a pause, carefully taking
a little wad from a remote corner of his vest pocket,
“here are two bills they gave me at St. Louis, yesterday.
No doubt they are all right; but just to pass
time, I'll compare them with the Detector here. Blessed
boy to make me such a present. Public benefactor,
that little boy!”

Laying the Detector square before him on the table,
he then, with something of the air of an officer bringing
by the collar a brace of culprits to the bar, placed the
two bills opposite the Detector, upon which, the examination
began, lasting some time, prosecuted with
no small research and vigilance, the forefinger of the
right hand proving of lawyer-like efficacy in tracing out
and pointing the evidence, whichever way it might go.

After watching him a while, the cosmopolitan said in
a formal voice, “Well, what say you, Mr. Foreman;
guilty, or not guilty?—Not guilty, ain't it?”

“I don't know, I don't know,” returned the old man,

perplexed, “there's so many marks of all sorts to go by,
it makes it a kind of uncertain. Here, now, is this bill,”
touching one, “it looks to be a three dollar bill on
the Vicksburgh Trust and Insurance Banking Company.
Well, the Detector says—”

“But why, in this case, care what it says? Trust and
Insurance! What more would you have?”

“No; but the Detector says, among fifty other things,
that, if a good bill, it must have, thickened here and
there into the substance of the paper, little wavy spots
of red; and it says they must have a kind of silky feel,
being made by the lint of a red silk handkerchief stirred
up in the paper-maker's vat—the paper being made to
order for the company.”

“Well, and is—”

“Stay. But then it adds, that sign is not always to
be relied on; for some good bills get so worn, the red
marks get rubbed out. And that's the case with my
bill here—see how old it is—or else it's a counterfeit, or
else—I don't see right—or else—dear, dear me—I don't
know what else to think.”

“What a peck of trouble that Detector makes for you
now; believe me, the bill is good; don't be so distrustful.
Proves what I've always thought, that much of
the want of confidence, in these days, is owing to these
Counterfeit Detectors you see on every desk and counter.
Puts people up to suspecting good bills. Throw it
away, I beg, if only because of the trouble it breeds
you.”

“No; it's troublesome, but I think I'll keep it.—Stay,

now, here's another sign. It says that, if the bill is good, it
must have in one corner, mixed in with the vignette, the
figure of a goose, very small, indeed, all but microscopic;
and, for added precaution, like the figure of Napoleon
outlined by the tree, not observable, even if magnified,
unless the attention is directed to it. Now, pore over it
as I will, I can't see this goose.”

“Can't see the goose? why, I can; and a famous
goose it is. There” (reaching over and pointing to
a spot in the vignette).

“I don't see it—dear me—I don't see the goose. Is
it a real goose?”

“A perfect goose; beautiful goose.”

“Dear, dear, I don't see it.”

“Then throw that Detector away, I say again; it
only makes you purblind; don't you see what a wild-goose
chase it has led you? The bill is good. Throw
the Detector away.”

“No; it ain't so satisfactory as I thought for, but
I must examine this other bill.”

“As you please, but I can't in conscience assist you
any more; pray, then, excuse me.”

So, while the old man with much painstakings resumed
his work, the cosmopolitan, to allow him every
facility, resumed his reading. At length, seeing that he
had given up his undertaking as hopeless, and was at
leisure again, the cosmopolitan addressed some gravely
interesting remarks to him about the book before him,
and, presently, becoming more and more grave, said, as
he turned the large volume slowly over on the table,

and with much difficulty traced the faded remains of the
gilt inscription giving the name of the society who had
presented it to the boat, “Ah, sir, though every one
must be pleased at the thought of the presence in public
places of such a book, yet there is something that
abates the satisfaction. Look at this volume; on the
outside, battered as any old valise in the baggage-room;
and inside, white and virgin as the hearts of lilies in
bud.”

“So it is, so it is,” said the old man sadly, his attention
for the first directed to the circumstance.

“Nor is this the only time,” continued the other,
“that I have observed these public Bibles in boats and
hotels. All much like this—old without, and new
within. True, this aptly typifies that internal freshness,
the best mark of truth, however ancient; but then,
it speaks not so well as could be wished for the good
book's esteem in the minds of the traveling public. I
may err, but it seems to me that if more confidence
was put in it by the traveling public, it would hardly
be so.”

With an expression very unlike that with which he
had bent over the Detector, the old man sat meditating
upon his companion's remarks a while; and, at last, with
a rapt look, said: “And yet, of all people, the traveling
public most need to put trust in that guardianship which
is made known in this book.”

“True, true,” thoughtfully assented the other.

“And one would think they would want to, and
be glad to,” continued the old man kindling; “for, in

all our wanderings through this vale, how pleasant, not
less than obligatory, to feel that we need start at no
wild alarms, provide for no wild perils; trusting in that
Power which is alike able and willing to protect us
when we cannot ourselves.”

His manner produced something answering to it in
the cosmopolitan, who, leaning over towards him, said
sadly: “Though this is a theme on which travelers
seldom talk to each other, yet, to you, sir, I will say,
that I share something of your sense of security. I have
moved much about the world, and still keep at it; nevertheless,
though in this land, and especially in these
parts of it, some stories are told about steamboats and
railroads fitted to make one a little apprehensive, yet, I
may say that, neither by land nor by water, am I ever
seriously disquieted, however, at times, transiently uneasy;
since, with you, sir, I believe in a Committee
of Safety, holding silent sessions over all, in an invisible
patrol, most alert when we soundest sleep, and whose
beat lies as much through forests as towns, along rivers
as streets. In short, I never forget that passage of
Scripture which says, `Jehovah shall be thy confidence.'
The traveler who has not this trust, what miserable
misgivings must be his; or, what vain, short-sighted
care must he take of himself.”

“Even so,” said the old man, lowly.

“There is a chapter,” continued the other, again
taking the book, “which, as not amiss, I must read you.
But this lamp, solar-lamp as it is, begins to burn dimly.”

“So it does, so it does,” said the old man with

changed air, “dear me, it must be very late. I must to
bed, to bed! Let me see,” rising and looking wistfully all
round, first on the stools and settees, and then on the
carpet, “let me see, let me see;—is there anything I
have forgot,—forgot? Something I a sort of dimly remember.
Something, my son—careful man—told me at
starting this morning, this very morning. Something
about seeing to—something before I got into my berth.
What could it be? Something for safety. Oh, my poor
old memory!”

“Let me give a little guess, sir. Life-preserver?”

“So it was. He told me not to omit seeing I had a
life-preserver in my state-room; said the boat supplied
them, too. But where are they? I don't see any.
What are they like?”

“They are something like this, sir, I believe,” lifting
a brown stool with a curved tin compartment underneath;
“yes, this, I think, is a life-preserver, sir; and
a very good one, I should say, though I don't pretend to
know much about such things, never using them myself.”

“Why, indeed, now! Who would have thought it?
that a life-preserver? That's the very stool I was sitting
on, ain't it?”

“It is. And that shows that one's life is looked out
for, when he ain't looking out for it himself. In fact,
any of these stools here will float you, sir, should the
boat hit a snag, and go down in the dark. But, since
you want one in your room, pray take this one,” handing
it to him. “I think I can recommend this one; the

tin part,” rapping it with his knuckles, “seems so perfect—sounds
so very hollow.”

“Sure it's quite perfect, though?” Then, anxiously
putting on his spectacles, he scrutinized it pretty
closely—“well soldered? quite tight?”

“I should say so, sir; though, indeed, as I said, I
never use this sort of thing, myself. Still, I think that
in case of a wreck, barring sharp-pointed timbers, you
could have confidence in that stool for a special providence.”

“Then, good-night, good-night; and Providence have
both of us in its good keeping.”

“Be sure it will,” eying the old man with sympathy,
as for the moment he stood, money-belt in hand, and
life-preserver under arm, “be sure it will, sir, since
in Providence, as in man, you and I equally put trust.
But, bless me, we are being left in the dark here. Pah!
what a smell, too.”

“Ah, my way now,” cried the old man, peering before
him, “where lies my way to my state-room?”

“I have indifferent eyes, and will show you; but, first,
for the good of all lungs, let me extinguish this lamp.”

The next moment, the waning light expired, and with
it the waning flames of the horned altar, and the waning
halo round the robed man's brow; while in the darkness
which ensued, the cosmopolitan kindly led the old man
away. Something further may follow of this Masquerade.