University of Virginia Library

6. THE BEST-NATURED MAN IN THE
WORLD.

A yielding temper, when not carefully watched and
curbed, is one of the most dangerous of faults. Like unregulated
generosity, it is apt to carry its owner into a
thousand difficulties, and, too frequently, to hurry him
into vices, if not into crimes. But as it is of advantage
to others while inflicting injury upon its possessor, it
has, by the common consent of mankind, received a fine
name, which covers its follies and promotes its growth.
This easiness of disposition, which is a compound of indolence,
vanity, and irresolution, is known and applauded
as “good-nature;” and, to have reached the superlative
degree, so as to be called the “best-natured fellow in the
world—almost too good-natured for his own good,” is
regarded as a lofty merit. When applied to the proper
person, though the recipient says nothing, it may be
seen that it thrills him with delight; the colour heightens
on his cheek; and the humid brilliance of his eye
speaks him ready to weep with joy over his own fancied
perfections, and to outdo all his former outdoings. He
is warmed through by the phrase, as if he had been feasting
upon preserved ginger, and he luxuriates upon the
sensation, without counting the cost, and without calculating
the future sacrifices which it requires. He seldom
sees why he is thus praised. He is content that it is so,

without inquiring into the process by which it was
brought about. It is enough for him that he is the best-natured
fellow in the world, and the conclusion generally
shows that, in phrase pugilistic, it is “enough.” There
are few kinds of extravagance more ruinous than that of
indulging a desire for being excessively good-natured, as
the good-natured pussy learnt when the monkey used her
paw to draw chestnuts from the fire. A man of circumscribed
means may, with comparative safety, keep horses
and dogs, drink Champagne and Burgundy, but upon
races and upon cock-fights; he may even gratify a taste
for being very genteel—for these things may subside into
moderation; but being very good-natured, in the popular
acception of the phrase, is like the juvenile amusement
of sliding down Market street hill on a sled. The further
one goes, the greater is the velocity; and, if the momentum
be not skilfully checked, we are likely to land in the
water.

The “best-natured fellow in the world” is merely
a convenience; very useful to others, but worse than
useless to himself. He is the bridge across the brook,
and men walk over him. He is the wandering pony of
the Pampas, seeking his own provender, yet ridden by
those who contribute not to his support. He giveth up
all the sunshine, and hath nothing but chilling shade for
himself. He waiteth at the table of the world, serveth
the guests, who clear the board, and, for food and pay,
give him fine words, which culinary research hath long
since ascertained cannot be used with profit, even in the
buttering of parsnips. He is, in fact, an appendage, not
an individuality; and when worn out, as he soon must
be, is thrown aside to make room for another, if another
can be had. Such is the result of excessive compliance
and obsequious good-nature. It plundereth a man of his

spine, and converteth him into a flexile willow, to be
bent and twisted as his companions choose, and, should
it please them, to be wreathed into a fish-basket.

Are there any who doubt of this? Let them inquire
for one Leniter Salix, and ask his opinion. Leniter
may be ragged, but his philosophy has not so many
holes in it as might be inferred from the state of his
wardrobe. Nay, it is the more perfect on that account;
a knowledge of the world penetrates the more easily
when, from defective apparel, we approach the nearer
to our original selves. Leniter's hat is crownless, and
the clear light of knowledge streams without impediment
upon his brain. He is not bound up in the strait jacket
of prejudice, for he long since pawned his solitary vest,
and his coat, made for a Goliath, hangs about him as
loosely as a politician's principles, or as the purser's shirt
in the poetical comparison. Salix has so long bumped
his head against a stone wall, that he has knocked a hole
in it, and like Cooke, the tragedian, sees through his
error. He has speculated as extensively in experience
as if it were town lots. The quantity of that article he
has purchased, could it be made tangible, would freight
a seventy-four;—were it convertible into cash, Crœsus,
King of Lydia, son of Halyattes, would be a Chelsea
pensioner to Salix. But unluckily for him, there are
stages in life when experience itself is more ornamental
than useful. When, to use a forcible expression—when
a man is “done,”—it matters not whether he has as much
experience as Samson had hair, or as Bergami had whisker—he
can do no more. Salix has been in his time so
much pestered with duns, “hateful to gods and men,”
that he is done himself.

“The sun was rushing down the west,” as Banim
has it, attending to its own business, and, by that means,

shedding benefit upon the world, when Leniter Salix
was seen in front of a little grocery, the locale of which
shall be nameless, sitting dejectedly upon a keg of mackerel,
number 2. He had been “the best-natured fellow
in the world,” but, as the geologists say, he was in a
state of transition, and was rapidly becoming up to trap.
At all events, he had his nose to the grindstone, an operation
which should make men keen. He was houseless,
homeless, penniless, and the grocery man had asked
him to keep an eye upon the dog, for fear of the midsummer
catastrophe which awaits such animals when their
snouts are not in a bird cage. This service was to be
recompensed with a cracker, and a glass of what the
shopman was pleased to call racky mirackilis, a fluid
sometimes termed “railroad,” from the rapidity with
which it hurries men to the end of their journey. Like
many of the best-natured fellows in the world, Salix, by
way of being a capital companion, and of not being different
from others, had acquired rather a partiality for riding
on this “railroad,” and he agreed to keep his trigger eye
on the dog.

“That's right, Salix. I always knowed you were the
best-natured fellow in the world.”

“H-u-m-p-s-e!” sighed Salix, in a prolonged, plaintive,
uncertain manner, as if he admitted the fact, but
doubted the honour; “h-u-m-p-s-e! but, if it wasn't for
the railroad, which is good for my complaint, because I
take it internally to drive out the perspiration, I've a sort
of a notion Carlo might take care of himself. There's
the dog playing about without his muzzle, just because
I'm good-natured; there's Timpkins at work making
money inside, instead of watching his own whelp, just
because I'm good-natured; and I'm to sit here doing
nothing instead of going to get a little job a man promised

me down town, just because I'm good-natured. I can't
see exactly what's the use of it to me. It's pretty much
like having a bed of your own, and letting other people
sleep in it, soft, while you sleep on the bare floor, hard.
It wouldn't be so bad if you could have half, or quarter
of the bed; but no—these good friends of mine, as I
may say, turn in, take it all, roll themselves up in the
kivering, and won't let us have a bit of sheet to mollify
the white pine sacking bottom, the which is pleasant to
whittle with a sharp knife—quite soft enough for that
purpose—but the which is not the pink of feather beds.
I don't like it—I'm getting tired.”

The brow of Salix began to blacken—therein having
decidedly the advantage of his boots, which could neither
blacken themselves, nor prevail on their master to do
it—when Mrs. Timpkins, the shopman's wife, popped
out with a child in her arms, and three more trapesing
after her.

“Law, Salix, how-dee-doo? I'm so glad—I know
you're the best-natured creature in the world. Jist hold
little Biddy a while, and keep an eye on t'other young
'uns—you're such a nurse—he! he! he!—so busy—
ain't got no girl—so busy washing—most tea time—
he! he! he! Salix.”

Mrs. Timpkins disappeared, Biddy remained in the
arms of Salix, and “t'other young 'uns” raced about
with the dog. The trigger eye was compelled to invoke
the aid of its coadjutor.

“Whew!” whistled Salix; “the quantity of pork
they give in this part of the town for a shilling is amazin'—I'm
so good-natured! That railroad will be well
earnt, anyhow. I'm beginning to think it's queer there
ain't more good-natured people about besides me—I'm
a sort of mayor and corporation all myself in this business.

It's a monopoly where the profit's all loss. Now,
for instance, these Timpkinses won't ask me to tea, because
I'm ragged; but they ar'n't a bit too proud to ask
me to play child's nurse and dog's uncle—they won't
lend me any money, because I can't pay, and they're persimmony
and sour about cash concerns—and they won't
let me have time to earn any money, and get good
clothes—that's because I'm so good-natured. I've a good
mind to strike, and be sassy.”

“Hallo! Salix, my good fellow!” said a man, on a
horse, as he rode up; “you're the very chap I'm looking
for. As I says to my old woman, says I, Leniter Salix
is the wholesoul'dest chap I ever did see. There's nothing
he won't do for a friend, and I'll never forget him, if I
was to live as old as Methuselah.”

Salix smiled—Hannibal softened rocks with vinegar,
but the stranger melted the ice of our hero's resolution
with praise. Salix walked towards him, holding the child
with one hand as he extended the other for a friendly
shake.

“You're the best-natured fellow in the world, Salix,”
ejaculated the stranger, as he leaped from the saddle,
and hung the reins upon Salix's extended fingers, instead
of shaking hands with him; “you're the best-natured
fellow in the world. Just hold my horse a minute.
I'll be back in a jiffey, Salix; in less than half an
hour,” said the dismounted rider, as he shot round the
corner.

“If that ain't cutting it fat, I'll be darned!” growled
Salix, as soon as he had recovered from his breathless
amazement, and had gazed from dog to babe—from horse
to children.

“Mr. Salix,” screamed Miss Tabitha Gadabout from
the next house, “I'm just running over to Timpson's

place. Keep an eye on my street door—back in a
minute.”

She flew across the street, and as she went, the
words “best natured-soul alive” were heard upon the
breeze.

“That's considerable fatter—it's as fat as show beef,”
said Salix. “How many eyes has a good-natured fellow
got, anyhow? Three of mine's in use a'ready. The
good-natureder you are, the more eyes you have, I s'pose.
That job up town's jobbed without me, and where I'm
to sleep, or to eat my supper, it's not the easiest thing
in the world to tell. Ain't paid my board this six months,
I'm so good-natured; and the old woman's so good-natured,
she said I needn't come back. These Timpkinses
and all of 'em are ready enough at asking me
to do things, but when I ask them—There, that dog's
off, and the ketchers are coming—Carlo! Carlo!”

The baby began squalling, and the horse grew restive;
the dog scampered into the very teeth of danger; and the
three little Timpkinses, who could locomote, went
scrabbling, in different directions, into all sorts of mischief,
until finally one of them pitched head foremost into a
cellar.

Salix grew furious. “Whoa, pony!—hush, you infernal
brat!—here, Carlo!—Thunder and crockery!—there's
a young Timpkins smashed and spoilt!—knocked into a
cocked hat!”

“Mr. Salix!” shouted a boy, from the other side of
the way, “when you're done that 'ere, mammy says
if you won't go a little narrand for her, you're so good-nater'd.”

There are moments when calamity nerves us; when
wild frenzy congeals into calm resolve; as one may see
by penning a cat in a corner. It is then that the coward

fights; that the oppressed strikes at the life of the oppressor.
That moment had come to Salix. He stood bolt
upright, as cold and as straight as an icicle. His good-nature
might be seen to drop from him in two pieces,
like Cinderella's kitchen garments in the opera. He
laid Biddy Timpkins on the top of the barrel, released
the horse, giving him a vigorous kick, which sent him
flying down the street, and strode indignantly away,
leaving Carlo, Miss Gadabout's house, and all other
matters in his charge, to the guardianship of chance.

The last time Salix was seen in the busy haunts of
men, he looked the very incarnation of gloom and despair.
His very coat had gone to relieve his necessities,
and he wandered slowly and dejectedly about, relieving
the workings of his perturbed spirit by kicking whatever
fell in his way.

“I'm done,” soliloquized he; “pardenership between
me and good-nature is this day dissolved, and all persons
indebted will please to settle with the undersigned, who
alone is authorized. Yes, there's a good many indebted,
and its high time to dissolve, when your pardener has sold
all the goods and spent all the money. Once I had a
little shop—ah! wasn't it nice?—plenty of goods and
plenty of business. But then comes one troop of fellows,
and they wanted tick—I'm so good-natured; then comes
another set of chaps, who didn't let bashfulness stand in
their way a minute; they sailed a good deal nearer the
wind, and wanted to borry money—I'm so good-natured;
and more asked me to go security. These fellows were
always very particular friends of mine, and got what
they asked for; but I was a very particular friend of
theirs, and couldn't get it back. It was one of the
good rules that won't work both ways; and I, somehow

or other, was at the wrong end of it, for it wouldn't
work my way at all. There's few rules that will, barring
substraction, and division, and alligation, when our
folks allegated against me that I wouldn't come to no
good. All the cypherin' I could ever do made more
come to little, and little come to less; and yet, as I said
afore, I had a good many assistants too.

“Business kept pretty fair; but I wasn't cured.
Because I was good-natured, I had to go with 'em frolicking,
tea partying, excursioning, and busting; and for
the same reason, I was always appinted treasurer to
make the distribution when there wasn't a cent of surplus
revenue in the treasury, but my own. It was my
job to pay all the bills. Yes, it was always `Salix, you
know me'—`Salix, pony up at the bar, and lend us a
levy'—`Salix always shells out like a gentleman.'—Oh!
to be sure, and why not?—now I'm shelled out myself—
first out of my shop by old venditioni exponas, at the
State House—old fiery fash 'us to me directed. But
they didn't direct him soon enough, for he only got the
fixtures. The goods had gone out on a bust long before
I busted. Next, I was shelled out of my boarding
house; and now,” (with a lugubrious glance at his shirt
and pantaloons,) “I'm nearly shelled out of my clothes.
It's a good thing they can't easy shell me out of my
skin, or they would, and let me catch my death of cold.
I'm a mere shell-fish—an oyster with the kivers off.

“But, it was always so—when I was a little boy,
they coaxed all my pennies out of me; coaxed me to
take all the jawings, and all the hidings, and to go first
into all sorts of scrapes, and precious scrapings they
used to be. I wonder if there isn't two kinds of people—
one kind that's made to chaw up t'other kind, and t'other
kind that's made to be chawed up by one kind?—catkind

of people and mouse-kind of people? I guess there
is—I'm very much mouse myself.

“What I want to know is what's to become of me.
I've spent all I had in getting my eddication. Learnin',
they say, is better than houses and lands. I wonder if
anybody would swap some house and land with me for
mine? I'd go it even, and ask no boot. They should
have it at prime cost; but they won't; and I begin to be
afraid I'll have to get married, or list in the marines.
That's what most people do when they've nothing to
do.”

What became of Leniter Salix immediately, is immaterial;
what will become of him eventually, is clear
enough. His story is one acting every day, and, though
grotesquely sketched, is an evidence of the danger of an
accommodating disposition when not regulated by prudence.
The softness of “the best-natured fellow in the
world” requires a large admixture of hardening alloy to
give it the proper temper.