University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Martial.

Mynheer Gotlieb Speckuncrout was the proprietor
of the Half-way House, a place of “entertainment
for man and beast,” situated on the road
leading from Philadelphia to Lancaster. The host
was a very diminutive specimen of humanity, with
a very round head and a remarkably red nose.
Of a warm summer afternoon, he would take his
pipe and station himself beneath the old elm-tree
that shaded the front of the inn, and for hours
contemplate with intense interest the counterfeit
presentment of the “Half-way House,” on the
swinging sign-board. It was with great complacency
and secret admiration that he gazed upon
something in the shape of a man, very uniquely
enveloped in a long waistcoat and red night-cap,
represented as helping a stranger from the stage-coach.
With considerable curiosity, too, he compared
each particular button of his own vest with
those of the one on the sign; and with quiet determination,
each day resolved that his cap should
undergo a course of soap and water to restore its
primitive brightness, in order that the one on the
board might not outvie the original. Nor could
Mynheer Speckuncrout refrain at all times from

speaking aloud his admiration of that wonderful
specimen of art. Every new guest must undergo
the infliction of hearing all the merits of the picture
explained and expatiated upon, and Mynheer never
finished an eulogy upon John Dobbs, the painter,
without repeating the exclamation of the frau
Speckuncrout, when she first beheld the portrait of
the Half-way House. He would take his pipe from
his mouth, and exclaim, “Der frau, when she saw
der pictur, put up her specs, den put 'em down,
den looked close at der pictur, den stood away, an'
she said, `Vell now, John Dobbs, vell I declare, if
I did n't know dat vasn't Gotlieb Speckuncrout, I
should say that it vas, for its just as much like
Gotlieb Speckuncront as I never see!' Ha, ha,
dat vas vot der frau said, yes.” Thereupon Mynheer
would replace his pipe, rub his hands briskly
together, and send them on an exploring expedition
into the depths of his pockets.

One warm afternoon in September, the host, as
usual, was sitting beneath the old elm tree, gazing
at his counterpart swinging gently to and fro, at
the same time very meditatively rubbing his hand
over the features of his face; but his proboscis was
the especial point of attraction. He had just exclaimed
to himself, as was his practice, when no
other audience happened to be at hand, “And der
frau said, vell now, John Dobbs —” Just at
that moment he was startled by the sound of the
stageman's horn. Mynheer left the exclamation of

the frau Speckuncrout unfinished, for that was no
time to contemplate the fine arts. The driver
cracked his whip, and the horses dashed furiously
up to the door of the inn. A very tall gentleman
in a military suit, boasting remarkably red hair,
tremendous mustaches and imperial of the same
agreeable sunset hue, gave Mynheer Gotlieb his
hand; the little host very good-naturedly assisted
that savage-looking, warlike gentleman from the
coach, and the warlike gentleman, in a very commanding
voice, ordered the good-natured host to
bring in his baggage, give him the best room in the
house, and the best dinner that the place would
afford, in the shortest possible notice. To all of
which Gotlieb Speckuncrout answered, “Yaw,
Mynheer,” and proceeded to the business forthwith.
However, in a few moments he was summoned
very loudly by the warlike gentleman, and when
the host made his appearance, the aforesaid gentleman
looked Waterloo at him, and exclaimed, “I
say, fellow, where is the landlord?”

Mynheer was thunderstruck. He opened his
eyes to their fullest extent, partly with astonishment,
and partly to view more perfectly the first
person who had ever mistaken him for any one
else than the veritable host. But the warlike gentleman
repeated the inquiry with somewhat more
of fierceness, and Mynheer, in as mild a manner as
possible, replied,

“Vell, if so be as you never did see Gotlieb

Speckuncrout, (here he turned his eyes to the ceiling,
to pray all the saints in his calendar to forgive
the warlike gentleman for the oversight,) “I say, if
so be as you never did see Gotlieb Speckuncrout,
vy just step this vay.” He walked towards the
door, and the gentleman followed rather hesitatingly,
looking all the time as though he would like
a brace of just such bipeds, with or without trimmings,
for dinner. Although Mynheer's feelings
were outraged, he, good-naturedly as possible,
directed the warlike gentleman to observe the sign-board.
The son of Mars drew an eye-glass from
his pocket, and gazed through it toward the abovenamed
object. He dropped his eyes several times
from the picture to the original, thereby acknowledging
the likeness. Mynheer's triumph was complete,
and he exclaimed, “Vell, you see that 's me,
— me! —Gotlieb Speckuncrout — yaw! And mine
frau, ven she first saw der pictur, she said —”

“Sir!” growled the warlike gentleman in a
voice of thunder, — “Sir! is this the only public
house in this place?” That last interrogation was
the very acmé of insults. Mynheer looked first
with amazement all around, then at himself up and
down, and then at the door very compassionately,
for he knew that it must feel bad. At last, shading
his eyes with his hand, he looked far down the
village, and with great determination he replied,

“There is another house down der village, —
but — Gotlieb Speckuncrout vas never the man to

say any thing against his neighbors, no! But den
I have been told by dem as have slept there, that
they always vas troubled with some kind o' an'mals
ven they vent to bed; — but I never says any thing
against my neighbors, no! P'raps dem an'mal
vas the night-mare, and p'raps they vasn't — I
doesn't pretend to say — I never says nothing
against my neighbors, no!” Thereupon the warlike
gentleman walked into the Half-way House,
registered his name, and retired to await the coming
of his dinner.

On the tenth of September there was a stranger's
name registered at the Half-way House; — for, be
it known, that at a country inn every man and boy
in the town scrawls his autograph in the dirty book
that always occupies one end of the little counter at
the bar. There you may find the ostler's name,
looking for all the world like a very long animal,
with a great many straggling legs, running off of
the page, at an angle of forty-five degrees. There,
too, you may find a page where the writing-master
has displayed his immense skill in drawing eagles,
and very top-heavy goose quills, ready made into
pens, writing all of their own accord. Yes, on
the tenth of September, the warlike gentleman
turned to a new, clean place, and wrote in large
fierce letters, “Captain Courtly Cutlass, of the
king's service.” That autograph was a bright
ornament to the register, and, in the eyes of Mynheer,
the leaf that held that name was forever
afterward sacred.

When the stage-coach arrives at a village, there
are always a number of persons ready to run and
see who gets out or who gets in; but there are
others, again, who will not mingle with what they
deem the vulgar people, (for the pettiest town has
its aristocracy,) but who, after common curiosity
is gratified, walk leisurely past the inn, call as they
return, as though it were the merest accident in
the world. Such a person was the Hon. Timothy
Littleworth, the only justice of the peace in the
village, and, for one term, a senator to the State
legislature from that place. This gentleman must
have been some fifty years of age; his person was
not over-comely to look upon; he affected a sort of
negligé in his dress, a very common custom with
men of genius. Was it because Mr. Littleworth's
gigantic intellect towered above all considerations
of dress, that he thus neglected his outward appearance?
To be sure it was! Think you that a
politician ever thought of wearing shabby clothes,
merely to gain votes with the poorer classes, at the
same time to insinuate himself into the favor of the
rich by appearing independent? The very thought
is slander! But the Hon. Timothy Littleworth,
member of the Harrisburg senate, and justice of the
peace, was often complimented by being told that
he was the very counterpart of Napoleon, and Mr.
Littleworth's conscience forbade him to commit the
unpardonable sin of denying truth, even when
modesty prompted him to the act. Who that ever

saw Mr. Timothy Littleworth, standing by the fishpond
in his garden, with his arms folded over his
breast, his right foot protruded somewhat in advance
of his left, and his eyes fixed on the tiny
ocean, perhaps contemplating a frog, who, I say,
that ever beheld Mr. Littleworth in such a position,
but was strongly reminded of Napoleon Bonaparte
on the island of St. Helena? Such was the gentleman,
who, at four o'clock, P. M., stepped into the
bar-room of the Half-way House.

Mynheer Speckencrout was not a partizan of Mr.
Littleworth, and as he set a decanter, containing a
deeply-colored fluid, on the bar before that honorable
gentleman, he observed,

“Meister Leetlevort, my friend, I vill drink your
good health; yaw, I vill vish you may be guf'ner,
because you decided de case of de brindle cow in
my favor.” Mr. Littleworth's countenance lit up
amazingly. “But,” continued Mynheer, “I have
something just here, (Mr. Speckencrout placed his
hand as he spoke, about on the tenth button from
the top of his waistcoat,) I have something just
here as tells me I can 't fote for you, yaw!” Mr.
Littleworth looked at the host for a moment reproachfully;
but glancing at the glass in his hand,
his countenance relaxed into a smile of forgiveness,
he raised the liquor to his lips, and contemplated
Mynheer for several moments through the bottom
of the tumbler. “No!” ejaculated the host, as he
set his glass down on the counter with considerable

emphasis; “No, Johannes Clitersnider is the man,
yaw!”

Mr. Littleworth no sooner heard the name of his
opponent than he poured the remains of the liquor
precipitously down his throat, and putting aside his
glass, thrust his hands with alarming determination
into the skirt pockets of his coat, and gave vent to
a groan that seemed to come from the very depths
of his shoes, accompanied with the exclamation of,

“A tailor!”

“Yaw!” reiterated Gotlieb, as he turned to fill
his pipe, “and vhat if Johannes Clitersnider is a
tailor? Der man as fits me mit a coat, can fit me
mit law — yaw, dats vat I tink.”

Mr. Littleworth's feelings as a man, as a citizen,
as a statesman, and as a patriot, were too much
outraged to permit him to make any reply. He
took a pinch of snuff from the box on the counter,
drew it up his proboscis in a most desperate manner,
coughed vehemently, and sneezed an indefinite
number of times. His eye caught the glaring name
of Captain Courtly Cutlass on the register; and,
putting on his glasses to satisfy himself in regard
to that remarkable autograph, he became convinced
that it was no ostentatious flourish of Samuel Spatter,
the writing-master. He left his card for the
warlike gentleman, and assuming an air as though
he had done one of the most condescending things
in the world, took his leave of Mynheer Gotlieb
Speckencrout, and the Half-way House, very much

as though he considered it a painful but imperative
duty to carry away that vast amount of greatness
that had for the last half hour shed a lustre on the
most inanimate fixtures of the bar-room.