University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

“You're not a fighter, Bill Hinkley, and that's about
the worst fault that I can find against you.”

Such was the beginning of a dialogue between the
cousins some three days after the affair which was narrated
in our last chapter. The two young men were at the
house of the speaker, or rather at his mother's house;
where, a favourite and only son, he had almost supreme
dominion. He was putting his violin in tune, and the
sentences were spoken at intervals with the discordant
scrapes of sound which were necessarily elicited by this
unavoidable musical operation. These sounds might be
said to form a running accompaniment for the dialogue,
and, considering the sombre mood of the person addressed,
they were perhaps far more congenial than any more
euphonious strains would have been.

“Not a fighter!” said the other; “why, what do you
mean?”

“Why, just what I say,—you are not a fighter. You
love reading, and fiddling, and fishing sometimes, and sometimes
dancing, and hunting, and swimming; but I'm pretty
certain you don't love fighting. You needn't contradict,
Bill,—I've been thinking the matter over; and I'm sure of
it. I recollect every battle or scrape you ever were in,
from the time we went to old Chandler's, and I tell you,
you're not a fighter—you don't love fighting!”

This was concluded with a tremendous scrape over the
strings, which seemed to say as well as scrape could speak,
—“There can be no mistake on the subject,—I've said it.”

“If I knew exactly what you were driving at,” said the
other, “perhaps I might answer you. I never pretended
to be a fighter; and as for loving it, as I love eating, drinking,
books, fiddling and dancing, why that needs no
answer. Of course I do not, and I don't know who
does.”

“There it is. I told you. I knew it. You'd sooner
do almost any thing than fight.”

“If you mean that I would submit to insult,” said the

more peaceable cousin, with some displeasure in his tones
and countenance, “sooner than resent it, you are very
much mistaken. It wouldn't be advisable even for you to
try the experiment.”

“Poh, poh, Bill, you know for that matter that it
wouldn't take much trying. I'd lick you as easily now as
I did when we were boys together.”

“We are boys no longer,” said the other gravely.

“I'm as much a boy as ever, so far as the licking
capacity calls for boyhood. I've pretty much the same
spirit now that I had then, and ten times the same strength
and activity. But don't look so blue. I'm not going to
try my strength and spirit and activity on you. And don't
suppose, Bill Hinkley, that I mean to say you're any thing
of a coward, or that you'd submit to any open insult; but
still I do say you're not only not fond of fighting, but
you're just not as much inclined that way as you should
be.”

“Indeed! what more would you have? Do you not say
that I would not submit to insult?—that I show the proper
degree of courage in such cases?”

“Not the proper degree. That's the very question.
You're not quick enough. You wait for the first blow.
You don't step out to meet the enemy. You look for him
to come to you.”

“Surely! I look upon fighting as brutal—to be waited
for, not sought—to be resorted to only in compliance with
necessity—to be avoided to the last!”

“No such thing—all a mistake. Fighting and the
desire to get on the shoulders of our neighbours is a natural
passion. We see that every day. The biggest boy licks
the one just below him, he whips the next, and so down,
and there's not one that don't lick somebody and don't
stand licked himself,—for the master licks the biggest.
The desire to fight and flog is natural, and this being the
case, it stands to reason that we must lick our neighbour
or he'll be sure to lick us.”

“Pshaw! you speak like a boy yet. This is school-house
philosophy.”

“And very good philosophy too. I'm thinking the
schoolhouse and the play-ground is pretty much a sort of
world to itself. It's no bad show of what the world without

is; and one of its first lessons and that which I think
the truest, is the necessity of having a trial of strength
with every new-comer; until we learn where he's to stand
in the ranks, number one or number nothing. You see
there just the same passions, though perhaps on a small
scale, that we afterwards find to act upon the big world of
manhood. There, we fight for gingerbread, for marbles,
top and ball; not unfrequently because we venture to look
at our neighbour's sweetheart; and sometimes, quite as
often, for the love of the thing and to know where the
spirit and the sinew are. Well, isn't that just what the big
world does after us? As men, we fight for bigger play-things,
for pounds, where before we fought for pence,—
for gold where before we fought for coppers—for command
of a country instead of a schoolyard; for our wives
instead of sweethearts, and through their deviltry and the
love of the thing, when there's nothing else to fight about,
just the same as we did in boyhood.”

“But even were you to prove, and I to admit, that it is
so, just as you say, that would not prove the practice to
be a jot more proper or a jot less brutal.”

“Begging your pardon, Bill, it proves it to be right
and proper, and accordingly, if brutal, a becoming brutality.
If this is the natural disposition of boys and men,
don't you see that this schoolboy licking and fighting is
a necessary part of one's moral education? It learns one
to use his strength, his limbs and sinews, as he may be
compelled to use them, in self-defence, in every future day
of his life. You know very well what follows a boy at
school who doesn't show himself ready to bung up his
neighbour's eye the moment he sees it at a cross-twinkle.
He gets his own bunged up. Well, it's just the same
thing when he gets to be a man. If you have a dispute
with your enemy, I don't say that you shouldn't reason
with him, but I do say that your reasoning will have very
little effect upon him unless he sees that you are able and
willing to write it in black and blue upon his sheepskin.
And what better way could you find to show him that
unless by giving him word and blow, the blow first, as
being the most impressive argument?”

“You must have been dreaming of these subjects last
night,” said the grave cousin—“you seem to have them
unusually well cut and dried.”

“I haven't been dreaming about it, Bill, but I confess
I've been thinking about it very seriously all night, and
considering all the arguments that I thought you would
make use of against it. I haven't quite done with my discussion,
which I took up entirely for your benefit.”

“Indeed! you are quite philanthropic before breakfast;
but let us hear you?”

“You talk of the brutality of fighting—now in what
does that brutality consist? Is it not in breaking noses,
kicking shins, bunging up eyes, and making one's neighbour
feel uncomfortable in thigh, and back, and arms, and
face, and skin, and indeed, every where, where a big fist
or a cowhide shoe may plant a buffet or a bruise?”

“Quite a definition, Ned.”

“I'm glad you think so: for if it's brutal in the boy to
do so to his schoolmate, is it less so for the schoolmaster
to do the same thing to the boy that's under his charge?
He bruises my skin, makes my thighs, and arms, and
back, and legs, and face, and hands ache, and if my definition
be a correct one, he is quite as brutal as the boys who
do the same thing to one another.”

“He does it because the boys deserve it, and in order
to make them obedient and active.”

“And when did a boy not deserve a flogging when he
gets licked by his companion?” demanded the other triumphantly—“and
don't the licking make him obedient,
and don't the kicking make him active? By gemini, I've
seen more activity from one chap's legs under the quick
application of another's feet, than I think any thing else
could produce, unless it were feet made expressly for such
a purpose and worked by a steam-engine. That might
make them move something faster, but I reckon there
would be no need in such a case of any such improvement.”

“What are you driving at, Ned Hinkley? This is by
far the longest argument, I think, that you've ever undertaken.
You must be moved by some very serious considerations.”

“I am, and you'll see what I'm driving at after a little
while. I'm not fond of arguing, you know, but I look
upon the fighting principle as a matter to be known and
believed in, and I wish to make clear to you my reasons
for believing in it myself. You don't suppose I'd put

down the fiddle for a talk at any time if the subject was
not a serious one?”

“Give way—you have the line.”

“About the brutality of fighting then, there's another
thing to be said. Fighting produces good feeling—that is
to say supposing one party fairly to have licked another.”

“Indeed,—that's new.”

“And true too, Bill Hinkley. It cures the sulks. It
lets off steam. It's like a thunderstorm that comes once
in a while, and drives away the clouds, and clears the
skies until all's blue again.”

“Black and blue!”

“No! what was black becomes blue. Chaps that have
been growling at each other for weeks and months lose
their bad blood—”

“From the nostrils!”

“Yes, from the nostrils. It's a sort of natural channel,
and runs freely from that quarter. The one crows and the
other runs and there's an end of the scrape and the sulks.
The weaker chap, feeling his weakness, ceases to be impudent;
the stronger, having his power acknowledged,
becomes the protector of the weak. Each party falls into
his place, and so far from the licking producing bad feeling
it produces good feeling and good humour; and I conclude
that one half of the trouble in the world, the squabbles
between man and man, woman and woman, boy and boy—
nay, between rival nations—is simply because your false
and foolish notions of brutality and philanthropy keep
them from coming to the scratch as soon as they should.
They hang off, growling and grumbling, and blackguarding,
and blaspheming, when, if they would only take hold,
and come to an earnest grapple, the odds would soon
show themselves,—broken heads and noses would follow
—the bad blood would run, and as soon as each party
found his level, the one being finally on his back, peace
would ensue, and there would be good humour for ever
after, or at least until the blood thickened again. I think
there's reason in my notion. I was thinking it over half
the night. I've thought of it oftentimes before. I've
never yet seen the argument that's strong enough to
tumble it.”

“Your views are certainly novel, Ned, if not sound.

You will excuse me if I do not undertake to dispute them
this morning. I give in therefore, and you may congratulate
yourself upon having gained a triumph if not a
convert?”

“Stop, stop, William Hinkley: you don't suppose I've
done all this talking only to make a convert or to gain a
triumph?”

“Why, that's your object in fighting, why not in
arguing?”

“Well, that's the object of most persons when they
dispute, I know; but it is not mine. I wish to make a
practical application of my doctrine.”

“Indeed! who do you mean to fight now?”

“It's not for me to fight, it's for you.”

“Me!”

“Yes; you have the preference by rights, though if you
don't—and I'm rather sorry to think, as I told you at the
start, that the only fault I had to find with you is that
you're not a fighter—I must take your place and settle the
difference.”

William Hinkley turned upon the speaker. The latter
had laid down the violin, having, in the course of the
argument, broken all its strings; and he stood now, unjacketted,
and still in the chamber, where the two young
men had been sleeping, almost in the attitude of one about
to grapple with an antagonist. The serious face of him
whose voice had been for war; his startling position,—
the unwonted eagerness of his eye, and the ludicrous
importance which he attached to the strange principle
which he had been asserting, conquered for a moment the
graver mood of his love-sick companion, and he laughed
outright at his pugnacious cousin. The latter seemed a
little offended.

“It's well you can laugh at such things, Bill Hinkley,
but I can't. There was a time when every mother's son
in Kentucky was a man, and could stand up to his rack
with the best. If he couldn't keep the top place, he went a
peg lower; but he made out to keep the place for which
he was intended. Then, if a man disliked his neighbour
he crossed over to him and said so, and they went at it
like men, and as soon as the pout was over they shook
hands, and stood side by side, and shoulder to shoulder,

like true friends, in every danger, and never did fellows
fight better against Indians and British than the same two
men, that had lapped muscles, and rolled in the grain
together 'till you couldn't say whose was whose, and
which was which, till the best man jumped up, and shook
himself, and give the word to crow. After that it was all
peace and good humour, and they drank and danced
together, and it didn't lessen a man in his sweetheart's
eyes, though he was licked, if he could say he had stood
up like a man, and was downed after a good hug, because
he couldn't help it. Now, there's precious little of that. The
chap that dislikes his fellow, hasn't the soul to say it out,
but he goes aside and sneers and snickers, and he whispers
things that breed slanders, and scandals, and bad blood,
until there's no trusting any body; and every thing is full
of hate and enmity,—but then it's so peaceful! Peaceful,
indeed! as if there was any peace where there is no confidence,
and no love, and no good feeling either for one
thing or another.”

“Really, Ned, it seems to me you're indignant without
any occasion. I am tempted to laugh at you again.”

“No, don't. You'd better not.”

“Ha! ha! ha! I cannot help it, Ned; so don't buffet
me. You forced me into many a fight when I was a
boy, for which I had no stomach; I trust you will not
pummel me yourself because the world has grown so
hatefully pacific. Tell me, in plain terms, who I am to
fight now?”

“Who! who but Stevens?—this fellow Stevens. He's
your enemy, you say—comes between you and your sweetheart—between
you and your own mother—seems to look
down upon you—speaks to you as if he was wiser, and
better, and superior in every way—makes you sad and
sulky to your best friends—you growl and grumble at him
—you hate him—you fear him—”

“Fear him!”

“Yes, yes, I say fear him, for it's a sort of fear to skulk
off from your mother's house to avoid seeing him—”

“What, Ned, do you tell me that—do you begrudge me
a place with you here, my bed, my breakfast?”

“Begrudge! dang it, William Hinkley, don't tell me
that, unless you want me to lay heavy hand on your

shoulder!”—and the tears gushed into the rough fellow's
eyes as he spoke these words, and he turned off to conceal
them.

“I don't mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that I
skulk,—that I fear this man?”

“Begrudge!” muttered the other.

“Nay, forgive me; I didn't mean it. I was hasty when
I said so; but you also said things to provoke me. Do
you suppose that I fear this man Stevens?”

“Why don't you lick him then, or let him lick you,
and bring the matter to an ending? Find out who's the
best man, and put an end to the growling and the groaning.
As it now stands you're not the same person—you're not
fit company for any man. You scarcely talk, you listen to
nobody. You won't fish, you won't hunt: you're sulky
yourself and you make other people so!”

“I'm afraid, Ned, it wouldn't much help the matter
even if I were to chastise the stranger.”

“It would cure him of his impudence. It would make
him know how to treat you; and if the rest of your
grievance comes from Margaret Cooper, there's a way to
end that too.”

“How! you wouldn't have me fight her?” said William
Hinkley, with an effort to smile.

“Why, we may call it fighting,” said the advocate for
such wholesale pugnacity, “since it calls for quite as much
courage sometimes to face one woman as it does to face
three men. But what I mean that you should do with her
is to up and at her. Put the downright question like a
man, `will you?' or `won't you?' and no more beating
about the bush. If she says `no!' there's no more to be
said, and if I was you after that, I'd let Stevens have her
or the d—l himself, since I'm of the notion that no
woman is fit for me if she thinks me not fit for her. Such
a woman can't be worth having, and after that I wouldn't
take her as a gracious gift were she to be made twice as
beautiful. The track's before you, William Hinkley.
Bring the stranger to the hug, and Margaret Cooper too, if
she'll let you. But, at all events, get over the grunting and
the growling, the sulky looks, and the sour moods. They
don't become a man who's got a man's heart, and the
sinews of a man.”

William Hinkley leaned against the fireplace with his
head resting upon his hand. The other approached him.

“I don't mean to say any thing Bill, or even to
look any thing, that'll do you hurt. I'm for bringing
your trouble to a short cut. I've told you what I
think right and reasonable, and for no other man in
Kentucky would I have taken the pains to think out this
matter as I have done. But you or I must lick Stevens.”

“You forget, Ned. Your eagerness carries you astray.
Would you beat a man who offers no resistance?”

“Surely not.”

“Stevens is a non-combatant. If you were to slap
John Cross on one cheek he'd turn you the other. He'd
never strike you back.”

“John Cross and Stevens are two persons. I tell you
the stranger will fight. I'm sure of it. I've seen it in his
looks and actions.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do, I'm sure of it. But you must recollect besides,
that John Cross is a preacher, already sworn in as I may
say. Stevens is only a beginner. Besides, John Cross
is an old man, Stevens a young one. John Cross don't
care a straw about all the pretty girls in the country. He
works in the business of souls, not beauties, and it's very
clear that Stevens not only loves a pretty girl, but that he's
over head and heels in love with your Margaret—”

“Say no more. If he will fight, Ned Hinkley, he shall
fight!”

“Bravo, Bill—that's all that I was arguing for—that's
all that I want. But you must make at Margaret Cooper
also.”

“Ah! Ned, there I confess my fears.”

“Why, what are you afraid of?”

“Rejection!”

“Is that worse than this suspense—this anxiety—this
looking out from morning till night for the sunshine, and
this constant apprehension of the cloud—this knowing not
what to be about—this sulking—this sadding—this growling—this
grunting—this muling—this moping—this eternal
vinegar face and ditchwater spirit?”

“I don't know, Ned, but I confess my weakness—my
want of courage in this respect!”

“Psho! the bark's worse always than the bite. The
fear worse than the danger! Did you ever hear of the
Scotch parson's charity? He prayed that God might suspend
Napoleon over the very jaws of hell,—but `Oh!
Lord!' said he, `dinna let him fa' in!' To my mind,
mortal lips never uttered a more malignant prayer!”