University of Virginia Library

11. THE FLESHY ONE.

There is a little man in a sister city—there are little
men in most cities—but the one now on the tapis is a peculiar
little man—a fat little man. He is one who may be
described as a person about five feet—five feet high and
very nearly five feet thick, bearing much resemblance to
a large New England pumpkin stuck upon a pair of beets.
When he lies down to sleep, were it not for his nose at
one extremity and his toes at the other, the spectator
would naturally suppose that he was standing upright
under the cover. When he descends the stairs, he might
as well roll on his side as fatigue himself with walking;
and, as for tumbling down as other people tumble down,
that is out of the question with Berry Huckel, or Huckel
Berry, as he is sometimes called, because of his roundness.
Should he, however, chance to trip,—which he is
apt to do, not being able to reconnoitre the ground in the
vicinity of his feet,—before he achieves a fair start from
the perpendicular, his “corporosity” touches the ground
which his hands in vain attempt to reach, and he remains,
until helped up, in the position of a schoolboy stretching
himself over a cotton bale. Had he been the Lucius
Junius of antiquity, the Pythia would never have been
so silly as to advise him to kiss his mother earth; for

unless his legs are tilted up by some one like the handles
of a wheelbarrow, Berry Huckel can never bite the dust.
He cannot fall on his nose—that glorious privilege has
been denied to men of his periphery; but when enjoying
moderate serenity of mind, he is always able to sleep
o' nights, therein having no trifling advantage over your
Seurats, your Edsons, your walking anatomies, whose
aspect is a reproach to those who have the feeding of
them.

But biographical accuracy, and a desire that future
generations may not be misled as to those important facts
which make up the aggregate of history, render it necessary
to avow that these fleshy attributes worry Mr. Berry
Huckel. He cannot look upon the slender longitude of
a bean-pole, he cannot observe the attenuated extent of a
hop-stick, or regard the military dandyism of a grey-hound's
waist, without experiencing emotions of envy,
and wishing that he had himself been born to the same
lankiness of figure, the same emaciation of contour. He
rejoices not in his dimensions, and, contrary to all rules
in physical science, believes that what he gains in weight,
he loses in importance. It must, however, be confessed
that he has some reason for discontent. He cannot wear
shoes, for he must have assistance to tie them, and other
fingers than his own to pull them up at heel. Boots are
not without their vexations, although he has a pair of
long hooks constructed expressly for his own use; and
should a mosquito bite his knee—which mosquitoes are
apt to do—it costs him a penny to hire a boy to scratch
it. Berry is addicted to literature, and once upon a time
could write tolerable verses, when he was thin enough to
sit so near a table as to be able to write upon it. But this
is not the case at present. His body is too large, and his
arms too short, for such an achievement.

It is happily so arranged that the mind of man in
general accommodates itself to circumstances. We
become reconciled to that which is beyond remedy,
and at length scarcely bestow a thought upon subjects
which, when new, were sources of much disquietude and
annoyance. In fact, owing to the compensating principle
so often acted on by nature, it is by no means rare to
find vanity flourishing most luxuriantly in those who
have least cause to entertain the feeling. The more
numerous our defects, the greater is our self-satisfaction,
and thus the bitterness and discontent that might be
engendered by a knowledge that in mental or in physical
gifts we are far inferior to the majority of mankind,
are harmlessly and pleasantly prevented. Who so happy
as the simpleton, who is unconscious of any difference
between himself and the superior spirits with whom he
is thrown in contact, and who would smilingly babble
his niaiseries in the presence of the assembled wisdom
of the world? Who look more frequently or with
greater delight into the mirror, than they who have in
truth but little reason to be gratified with the object it
reflects?—and who indulge more in personal adornment
than they in whom it would be the best policy to avoid
display, and to attract the least possible attention to their
outward proportions? The ugly man is apt to imagine
that the fair are in danger of being smitten with him at first
sight, and perhaps—but we do not pretend to much
knowledge on this branch of the subject, though suspecting,
contrary to the received opinion, that the masculine
gender are much more liable to the delusions of conceit
than the softer sex, and that the guilty, having a more
perfect command of the public ear, have in this instance,
as in many others, charged their own sins upon the
guiltless—perhaps plain women are to a certain extent

subject to the same imputation. But who, even if he had
the power, would be so unfeeling as to dissolve the charm
and dissipate the “glamour” which is so potent in making
up the estimate, when we sit in judgment on ourselves?
Who, indeed, could do it safely?—for every one is
indebted to the witchery of self-deception for no small
portion of the comfortable sensations that strew flowers
on his path through life; and it would be the
height of cruelty if the “giftie” desired by Burns were
accorded, enabling us to “see oursels as ithers see us.”
It was—had it been carried out to its full extent—an
unkind offer, that of Cassius to play the moral looking-glass
to his brother conspirator, and “show that to
himself which he yet knew not of.” If true and unrelenting
in its office, such a looking-glass would be in
danger of a fracture, and it would have the alternatives
of being either considered as a malicious exaggerator, or
as a mere falsifier that delights to wound.

But digression is a runaway steed,—all this bears but
slantingly on Berry Huckel, and they who love not
generalizing, may substitute for it the individual specification
that, owing to the comforting operation of custom,
even Berry might not have troubled himself on the score
of the circumstantial and substantial fat by which he is
enveloped, had it not been that in addition to an affection
for himself, he had a desire that he should be equally
esteemed by another. In short, Berry discovered, like
many other people, that his sensibilities were expansive
as well as his figure—that it was not all sufficient to
happiness to love one's self, and that his heart was more
than a sulky, being sufficient to carry two. Although so
well fenced in, his soul was to be reached, and when
reached, it was peculiarly susceptible of soft impressions.
“The blind bow-boy's butt-shaft” never had a better mark.

In love, however, like does not consort with like
either in complexion, in figure, or in temper, or each
race would preserve its distinct lineage with the regularity
of the stripes upon the tartan. The fiery little
man—little men are almost always fiery, a fact which
can only be accounted for on the theory, that whether the
individual be big or little, he contains the same quantity
of the electro-magnetism of vitality, or in other words, of
the spirit of life,—this spirit in a large body, having a
greater amount of matter to animate, cannot afford to
flash and blaze except on extraordinary occasions—
while, being superabundant in the smaller figure, it has
a surplus on hand, which stimulates to restlessness and
activity, engenders warmth and irritability of temper,
and is always ready for explosion—thus, the fiery little
man is apt to become attached to beauty upon a large
scale. He loves by the ton, and will have no idol but
one that he must look up to. By such means the petulance
of diminutiveness is checked and qualified by the
phlegmatic calmness and repose of magnitude. The
walking tower, on the contrary, who shakes the earth
with his ponderous tread, dreams of no other lady-love
except those miniature specimens of nature's handiwork,
who move with the lightness of the gossamer, and seem
more like the creation of a delightful vision than tangible
reality. In this, sombre greatness asks alleviation from
the butterfly gayety which belongs to the figure of fairy
mould. The swarthy bend the knee to those of clear
and bright complexion, and your Saxon blood seeks the
“dark-eyed one” to pay its devotions. The impulse of
nature leads to those alliances calculated to correct faults
on both sides, and to prevent their perpetuity. The
grave would associate with the gay, the short pine for
the tall, the fat for the lean, the sulky for the sunny—

the big covet the little; and, if our philosophy be not
always borne out by the result, it is because circumstance
or accident counteracts instinct, or that the cases cited
form exceptions to the rule without impairing its force.
A true theorist always leaves the wicket of escape open
behind him.

At all events, Berry Huckel was in the strictest conformity
to the rule. His affections were set upon lathiness,
and if he could not fall in love, he certainly contrived
to roll himself into it.

He was indulging himself in a walk on a pleasant day,
and, as usual, was endeavouring to dance along and to
skip over the impediments in the path, for the purpose
of persuading himself that he was a light and active
figure, and that if any change were going on in his corporal
properties, it was a favourable one, when an event
occurred which formed an era in his life. He twirled
his little stick,—a big one would have looked as if he
needed support,—and, pushing a boy with a basket aside,
attempted to hop over a puddle which had formed on the
crossing at the corner of the street. The evolution,
however, was not so skilfully achieved as it would have
been by any one of competent muscle who carried less
weight. Berry's foot came down “on the margin of
fair Zurich's waters,” and caused a terrible splash,
sending the liquid mud about in every direction.

“Phew!” puffed Berry, as he recovered himself, and
looked with a doleful glance at the melancholy condition
in which his vivacity had left his feet.

“Splut!” ejaculated the boy with the basket, as he
wiped the mud out of his eyes. “Jist let me ketch you
up our alley, that's all, puddy-fat!”

“Ah!” shrieked Miss Celestina Scraggs, a very tall
lady, and particularly bony, as she regarded the terrible

spots and stains with which Berry had disfigured her
dress: “what a pickle!”

Berry turned round at the voice of a female in distress,
and the sight of her went to his heart like an arrow.
Miss Celestina Scraggs was precisely his beau ideal of
what a woman should be—not perhaps in countenance,
but her figure was the very antipodes of his own, and he
felt that his time was come. As for face and a few more
years than are desirable, Berry cared not, if the lady were
tall enough and thin enough, and in the individual before
him he saw both those qualities combined.

“My dear madam,” said Berry, ducking his head
after the semblance of a bow, and raising his hat with a
graceful curve—“my dear madam, I beg ten thousand
pardons. Allow me, if you please,” continued he, observing
that she paid no attention to his speech, and was
attempting to shake off the looser particles of mud, an
operation in which Berry ventured to assist.

“Let me alone, sir—I wonder at your impudence,”
was the indignant reply, and Miss Celestina Scraggs
floated onward, frowning indignantly, and muttering as
she went—“First splash a body, and then insult a body!
Pretty pickle,—nice situation! fat bear!”

Berry remained in attitude, his hat in one hand and
his handkerchief with which he would have wiped the
injured dress in the other. The scorn of the lady had
no other effect on him than that of riveting his chains.

“Hip-helloo, you sir!” shouted an omnibus driver
from his box, as he cracked his whip impatiently;
“don't stand in the middle of the street all day a blockin'
up the gangvay, or I'll drive right over you—blamenation
if I don't!”

“Shin it, good man!” ejaculated a good-natured
urchin; “shin it as well as you know how!”

The qualification was a good one, Berry not being
well calculated for a “shinner” of the first class. So
starting from his revery, he hastened to escape “as well
as he knew how,” and, placing his hat once more upon
his head, he resolved to follow the injured lady to ascertain
her residence, and to devise ways and means of
seeking her favour under better auspices. He hurried
up the street with breathless haste, forming a striking
resemblance to the figure which a turtle would present
if walking a match against time on its hinder flippers.

Passing over intermediate circumstances, it will
suffice to say that Mr. Berry Huckel discovered the
residence of Miss Scraggs, and that, by perseverance, he
obtained an introduction according to etiquette. The
more he saw of her the more thoroughly did he become
fascinated; but Miss Scraggs showed no disposition to
receive his suit with any symptoms of favour. She
scornfully rejected his addresses, chiefly because, although
having no objection to a moderate degree of plumpness,
his figure was much too round to square with her ideas
of manly beauty and gentility of person. In vain did he
plead the consuming passion, which, like the purest
anthracite with the blower on, flamed in his bosom and
consumed his vitals. Miss Scraggs saw no signs of
spontaneous combustion in his jolly form; and Miss
Scraggs, who is “as tall and as straight as a poplar tree,”
declared that she could not marry a man who would
hang upon her arm like a bucket to a pump. That he
was not a grenadier in height might have been forgiven;
but to be short and “roly-poly” at the same time! Miss
Seraphina Scraggs could not think of it—she would
faint at the idea.

Berry became almost desperate. He took lessons on

the flute, and trolled forth melancholy lays beneath the
lady's casement, to try the effect of dulcet sounds upon a
hard heart; but having been informed from a neighbouring
window that fifer-boys were not wanted in that
street, and that no nuisances would be tolerated, he
abandoned music in despair; and having consulted a
physician as to the best method of reducing corpulency,
he went to the Gymnasium, and endeavoured to climb
poles and swing upon bars for hours at a time. But the
unhappy Berry made but little progress, and in his
unskilful efforts having damaged his nose and caused
temporary injury to the beauty of his frontispiece, he
gave up the design of making himself an athlete by that
species of exercise. For sparring, he found that he had
no genius at all, his wind being soon exhausted, and his
body being such pleasant practice that his opponents
never knew when to be done hitting at one whose frame
gave no jarring to the knuckles. It was, however, picturesque
to see Berry with the gloves on, accoutred for
the fray, and squaring himself to strike and parry at his
own figure in the glass. Deliberation and the line of
beauty were in all his movements. Not obtaining his
end in this way, he tried dieting and a quarter at
dancing school; but short-commons proved too disagreeable,
and his gentle agitations to the sound of the fiddle,
as he chassez'd, coupez'd, jetez'd, and balancez'd only
increased his appetite and added to his sorrows. Besides,
his landlady threatened to discharge him for
damaging the house, and alarming the sleepers by his
midnight repetitions of the lessons of the day. As he
lay in bed wakeful with thought, he would suddenly, as
he happened to remember that every moment was of
importance for the reduction of his dimensions, slide out
upon the floor, and make tremendous efforts at a performance
of the “pigeon-wing,” each thump resounding
like the report of a cannon, and causing all the glasses
in the row to rattle as if under the influence of an earthquake.
On one occasion indeed—it was about two
o'clock in the morning—the whole house was roused by
a direful, and, until then, unusual uproar in the chamber
of Berry Huckel—a compound of unearthly singing and
of appalling knocks on the floor. The boldest, having
approached the door to listen, applied their ears to the
keyhole, and heard as follows: “Turn out your toes—
forward two—tol-de-rol-tiddle (thump)—tiddle (bump)—
twiddle (bang!)—cross over—tiddle (whack)—twiddle
(smack)—tiddle (crack)—twiddle (bang!)”

(Rap! rap! rap!) “Good gracious, Mr. Huckel, what's
the meaning of all this?—are you crazy?”

“No, I'm dancing—balancez!—tiddle (bump)—tiddle
(thump)—tiddle (bang!)”

Crash! splash! went the basin-stand, and the boarders
rushing in, found Berry Huckel in “the garb of old
Gaul,” stumbling amid the fragments he had caused by
his devotions to the graces. He was in disgrace for a
week, and always laboured under the imputation of
having been a little non-com on that occasion; but with
love to urge him on, what is there that man will not
strive to accomplish?

Berry's dancing propensity led him to various balls
and hops; and on one of these occasions, he met Miss
Scraggs in all her glory, but as disdainful as ever.
After bowing to her with that respectful air, which
intimated that the heart he carried, though lacerated by
her conduct, was still warm with affection, he took a
little weak lemonade, which, as he expressed it, was the
appropriate tipple for gentlemen in his situation, and then

placed himself immediately under the fiddlers, leaning
against the wall in a despairing attitude, arms carelessly
crossed, a handkerchief dangling negligently from his
little finger, his mouth half open, and his eyes now fixed
with resignation upon the ceiling, and anon dropping
misanthropically to the ground. The tout ensemble
was touching in the extreme, but Miss Scraggs only
smiled derisively when her eyes fell upon her dejected
lover

Berry, however, finding that this would not do, cheered
himself with wine, and danced furiously at every opportunity.
Gracefully glided the dancers, merrily twinkled
their feet, and joyously squeaked the fiddles, as Berry,
late in the evening, panting with his previous Terpsichorean
exertions, resolved to have a chat with the obdurate
Seraphina, and solicited the honour of her fair hand
for the next set.

“Mons'us warm, miss,” said Berry, by way of opening
the conversation in a novel and peculiarly elegant
way, “mons'us warm, and dancing makes it mons'usser.”

“Very mons'us,” replied Miss Scraggs, glancing at
him from head to foot with rather a satirical look, for
Miss Scraggs is disposed to set up for a wit; “very
mons'us, indeed. But you look warm, Mr. Huckel—
hadn't you better try a little punch? It will agree with
your figure.”

“Punch!” exclaimed Berry, in dismay, as he started
back three steps—“Oh, Judy!”

He rushed to the refreshment room to cool his fever—
he snatched his hat from its dusky guardian, forgetting
to give him a “levy,” and hurriedly departed.

It was not many hours afterwards that Berry—his love
undiminished, and his knowledge refreshed that gymnastics
are a remedy against exuberance of flesh—was seen

with his hat upon a stepping stone in front of a house in
Chestnut street, labouring with diligence at jumping over
both the stone and the chapeau. But the heaviness of
his heart seemed to rob his muscles of their elasticity.
He failed at each effort, and kicked his hat into the
middle of the street.

“Phew!” said he, “my hat will be ruinationed to
all intents and purposes. Oh! if I wasn't so fat, I might
be snoozing it off at the rate of nine knots instead of
tiring myself to death. Fat ain't of no use, but on the
contrary. Fat horses, fat cows, and fat sheep are respected
accordin', but fat men are respected disaccordin'. Folks
laugh—the gals turn up their noses, and Miss Scraggs
punches my feelings with a personal insinuation. Punch!
oh my!—It's tiresome, to be sure, to jump over this 'ere,
but it's a good deal tiresomer to be so jolly you can't jump
at all, and can't even jump into a lady's affeckshins. So
here's at it agin. Warn'ee wunst! warn'ee twy'st!
warn'ee three times—all the way home!'

Berry stooped low, swinging his arms with a pendulum
motion at each exclamation, and was about assuming
the salient attitude of the pound of butter which Dawkins,
for want of a heavier missile, threw at his wife, when
he was suddenly checked by the arrival of a fellow
boarder, who exclaimed, “Why, Berry, what are you at?”

“Don't baulk, good man—I say, don't baulk—but now
you have done it, can you jump over that 'ere hat, fair
standing jump, with a brick in each hand—none of your
long runs and hop over?—kin you do it?—answer me
that!” queried Berry, as he blew in his hands, and then
commenced flapping his arms à la wood-sawyer.

“Perhaps I might—but it won't do for us to be cutting
rusties here at this time o' night. You had better sing
mighty small, I tell you.”

“Pooh! pooh! don't be redickalis. The doctor says
if I don't exercise, I'll be smothered; and Miss Scraggs
called me punch, and won't have me—I'm jumping for
my life, and for my wife too.”

“You'd better go prentice to Jeames Crow,” said
his friend Brom, dryly, “and learn the real scientifics.”

“It would make me laugh,” replied Berry, gravely;
“such as you can afford to laugh and get fat, but I
can't. I've jumped six fireplugs a' ready, and I'll jump
over that 'ere hat before I go home—I'm be blowed out
bigger if I don't. Now squat, Brom—squat down, and
see if I go fair. Warn'ee wunst—”

“You're crazy!” answered Brom, losing all patience,
“you're a downright noncompusser. I haven't seen a
queerer fellow since the times of `Zacchy in the mealbag;'
and if you go on as you have lately, it's my
opinion that your relations shouldn't let you run at
large.”

“That's what I complain of—I can't run any other
way than at large; but if you'll let me alone, I'll try to
jump myself smaller. So clear out, skinny, and let me
practyse. Warn'ee wunst!—”

“You'd better come home, and make no bones about
it.”

“Bones! I ain't got any. I'm a boned turkey. If
you do make me go home, you can't say you boned me.
I've seen the article, but I never had any bones myself.”

This was, to all appearance, true enough, but his
persecutor did not take the joke. Berry is, in a certain
sense, good stock. He would yield a fat dividend; but,
though so well incorporated, no “bone-us” for the privilege
is forthcoming.

“Yes, you're fat enough, and I'm sorry to say, you're
queer enough too; queer is hardly a name for you. You
must be taken care of, and go home at once, or I'll call
assistance.”

`Well, if I must, I must—that's all. But if I get the
popperplexy, and don't get Miss Scraggs, it's all your
fault. You won't let me dance in my chamber—you
won't let me jump over my hat—you won't let me do
nothing. I can't get behind the counter to tend the customers,
without most backing the side of the house out;
but what do you care?—and now you want me to get
fatter by going to sleep. By drat! I wouldn't wonder
if I was to be ten pounds heavier in the morning. If I
am, in the first place, I'll charge you for widening me and
spoiling my clothes; and then—for if I get fatter, Miss
Scraggs won't have me a good deal more than she won't
now, and my hopes and affeckshins will be blighteder than
they are at this present sitting—why, then, I'll sue you
for breach of promise of marriage.”

“Come along. There's too many strange people
running about already. It's time you were thinned off.”

“That's jist exactly what I want; I wish you could thin
me off,” sobbed Berry, as he obeyed the order; but he
was no happier in the morning. Miss Seraphina Scraggs
continues obdurate, for her worst fears are realized. He
still grows fatter, though practising “warn'ee wunst”
at all convenient opportunities.