University of Virginia Library

7. SHIVERTON SHAKES;
OR, THE UNEXPRESSED IDEA.

Shiverton Shakes had an idea—a cup of tea had
warmed the soil of his imagination, and it was flowering
to fruit—he had an idea in bud—a thought which struggled
to expand into expression, and to find a place in the
great basket of human knowledge.

Shiverton Shakes had an idea, and ideas, whether great
or small—whether good, bad or indifferent—must have
utterance, or the understanding wilts and withers. Even
the body sympathetically suffers. It is easy to mark the
man who smothers his intellectual offspring—the moral
infanticide, with his compressed lip, his cadaverous hue,
his sinister eye, and his cold, cautious deportment; whose
thinkings never go out of doors, and lack health for want
of air and exercise. That man is punished for his cruelty
to nature, by a dyspepsia affecting both his mental and
physical organization. There is no health in him.

But it must not be forgotten that Shiverton Shakes had
an idea—little Shiverton, in his earlier years, when the
world is fresh and new, and when the opening faculties
are wild in their amazement.

“Mamma,” said Shiverton, suspending the assault
upon his bread and butter, “mamma, what d'ye think?
—as I was going down—”

Mr. and Mrs. Shakes were too earnestly engaged in
the interchange of their own fancies, to heed the infantile
voice of Shiverton.

“What d'ye think, ma?” repeated the youthful aspirant
for the honour of a hearing; “as I was going down
Chestnut street, I saw—”

“A little more sugar, my dear,” said Mr. Shakes.

“And, as I was telling you,” added Mrs. Shakes,
“Mary Jones has got—”

“Sweetened to death! There—don't!” said Mr.
Shakes, withdrawing his cup rather petulantly.

“Down Chestnut street, I saw—”

“A new black hat, trimmed with—”

“Sugar enough to fill a barrel,” muttered Mr.
Shakes.

“I saw—”

“Hat with—”

“Tea spoilt altogether—give me another—”

“Very little black hat, trimmed with—”

“Two boys, and what d'ye think!” chimed in the persevering
Shiverton Shakes.

“Why, what is all this?” exclaimed Mr. Shakes, as
he raised his eyes in anger. “Hats and boys and sugar!
I never heard such a Babel!”

“That child!” ejaculated Mrs. Shakes; “did you ever
know—”

“Two boys, and they were a—” continued Shiverton,
pursuing his own peculiar train of reminiscence, undisturbed
by Mary Jones or any thing else, and happy in
feeling that there now appeared to be no impediment to
the flow of his narrative.

But yet, this moment, though he knew it not, was a
crisis in the fate of Shiverton Shakes—a circumflex in the
line of his being; slight perhaps in itself, but very material
in determining the result of the journey.

Mr. Shakes fixed his eye upon his son—Mr. Shakes
seemed to ponder for a moment.

“I cannot stand it any longer,” said he, “and what is
more, I won't—that boy is a nuisance—he talks so much
that I cannot tell what I'm reading, taste what I'm eating,
or hear what I'm saying. I'm not sure, in fact, when he

is present, that I know exactly whether it's me or not.
He wants to talk all the time.”

Luckless Shiverton had been running wild in the
country for a considerable period, and, while his elocutionary
capacities had been greatly developed, the power of
endurance in his parents had been weakened for want of
exercise. They were out of practice—he was in high
training. They were somewhat nervous,—he was, both
in mind and body, in the best possible condition, deriving
as much nourishment from the excitement of noise as
he did from food.

“Well, I declare, he does talk all the time and asks
such questions—so foolish I can't answer them,” exclaimed
the mother, with her usual volubility; “just as
if there was a reason for every thing—so tiresome. I do
declare, when he is in the room, I can scarcely slip in a
word edgeways, and his tongue keeps such a perpetual
clatter, that since he came back, I hardly think I've heard
my own voice more than—”

“You hear it now,” said Mr. Shakes; “but I'm determined
Shiverton shall be spoiled no longer. Do you
hear? From this time forth, you must never speak but
when you are spoken to. Little boys must be seen, and
not heard.”

“Well, I do declare, so they must—mus'n't be seen
and not be heard—that's the way to bring up children.”

“Shiverton,” added his father, impressively; “Shiverton,
when you are old enough to talk sensibly, then
you may talk. When you are mature enough—I say
mature—”

“What is mature?” inquired Shiverton, tremblingly.

“Mature is—never mind what it is—when you are
older you'll know. But, as I before remarked, when you
are mature enough to understand things, then you may
ask about them.”

The rule, thus emphatically laid down, was enforced
inexorably. It, therefore, not only happened that Shiverton's
idea was suppressed on the occasion referred to,
thus preventing the world from ever arriving at a knowledge
of what really was done by those two mysterious
boys, as he went down Chestnut street, but likewise cutting
him off from other communications relative to the
results of his experience and observation. Henceforth he
was to be seen, not heard—a precept and a rule of conduct
which he was compelled to write in his copybook,
as well as to hear, whenever the workings of his spirit
prompted him to “speak as to his thinkings.” The twig
was bent—the tree inclined.

What Shiverton Shakes might have been, had the
trunk of his genius been permitted to ascend according to
its original impulse, is now but matter for conjecture.
How far he would have reached in his umbrageous expansion,
had the shoots of his soul been judiciously
trimmed and trellised—sunned, shaded and watered—who
can tell? There may be a blank in glory's book which
his name should have filled—an empty niche in our century's
greatness, where Shiverton Shakes should have been
embalmed. At this instant, perhaps, the world suffers
because some momentous truth which it was for him to
have drawn to light, is still “hushed within the hollow
mine of earth.” Why, indeed, may we not suppose that
when he was rebuked for making chips, to the annoyance
of the tidy housekeeper, an invention perished in its very
inception which would have superseded the steam-engine?
What might Shiverton Shakes—Shiverton cherished—
Shakes undismayed—what might he not have been? A
warrior, probably, phlebotomizing men by the battalion
and by the brigade, and piling skulls to build his way to
fame. Why not a patriot and a statesman, heading parties
and carrying elections, with speeches from the stump

and huzzas from the multitude? Nor would it be considering
too curiously if it were to be imagined that, had
circumstances been propitious, Shiverton Shakes might,
at this very hour, have been in the enjoyment of the highest
of human honours and the most sublime of modern inventions,
that of being pilloried by the political press and
flung at by half the nation—the new pleasure, for which
an exhausted voluptuary of the classic age breathed sighs
in vain.

But such delights as these were denied to Shiverton
Shakes, who was too strictly taught to be seen and not
heard—who was not to speak until he was spoken to; in
consequence whereof, as the invitation was not very often
extended, he came near being deprived of the faculty of
speech altogether.

When Shiverton Shakes came home—“why, there's
company in the parlour,” and Shiverton Shakes went to
learn manners and deportment in the kitchen. Shiverton
Shakes breakfasted, dined and supped in the kitchen, and
when promoted by a call up stairs, Shiverton mumbled in
his words, fumbled in his pockets and rumpled among
his hair. An ungainly lout was Shiverton Shakes. He
had been, so to speak, paralyzed by his undeveloped
idea. His original confidence, instead of being modulated
and modified, had been extirpated, and the natural aplomb
of his character—that which keeps men on their feet,
maintaining the adjustment and balance of their faculties
—had been destroyed.

“The boy is a booby,” said Mr. Shakes; “why can't
you stand up straight and speak out?—you're old enough.”

“Well, I do declare,” subjoined Mrs. Shakes, “I'm
quite ashamed of him. I can't think how he came to be
such a goose. When Mary Jones spoke to him the other
day, I do declare if he didn't put his thumb right in his
eye, and almost twist himself out of his jacket; and when

she asked him what he learned at school, all he could
say was `he! he! I don't know.' He shan't show himself
again till he behaves better—a great long—”

“I don't like to be harsh—in fact, I'm rather too indulgent,”
philanthropically remarked Mr. Shakes; “but,
if I were to do my duty by this boy, I ought to chastise
him out of these awkward tricks. There—go—down
stairs with you. It's the only place you're fit for.”

“He must never be allowed to come up when any
body's here—not till he knows how to speak to people.”

Such was the earlier life of Shiverton Shakes. He
was not to plunge into the billows of the world before he
had learned to swim, and yet was denied the opportunity
to acquire the rudiments of this species of natation, in
those smaller rills and ripples where alone the necessary
confidence and dexterity are to be obtained. It was perhaps
believed that he could cast the boy off and assume
the man, without preliminary training, and that, having
been seen but not heard, for so many years, he would have
an instinctive force, at the proper moment, to cause himself
both to be seen and heard, thus suddenly stepping
from one extreme to the other. There may be such
forces in some people—in people who, in a phrenological
aspect, have a large propelling power, to drive them
over the snags, sawyers and shallows of this “shoal of
time.” They were not, however, to be found in Shiverton
Shakes. Nor was he a proof of the correctness of
that common parental theory, so often urged to palliate
and to excuse deficiencies in culture and supervision,
that he would “know better when he grew older,” thus
endeavouring to make future years responsible for duties
which should be performed by ourselves and at the existing
moment. This method of “knowing better” may suit
the procrastinating disposition, and there may be instances
in which it engenders a corrective influence; but it

is at best a doubtful experiment to permit defects to
“harden into petrifaction,” while awaiting the uncertain
period of removal. That we may “know better when
we are older” is like enough; but then, will we do better?
Who, of all the world, does better—much better—half
as much better as he ought—as he “knows better?”
There are differences, sad to experience, hard to overcome,
between knowing and doing. The right habitude
is the surest panoply. Shiverton Shakes had no habitude
but the wrong habitude—no panoply at all.

Shiverton went forth into the world—shrinkingly forth—
modestly forth, and so forth, which perhaps is very amiable
as an abstraction, though its value, in a peculiarly
brazen state of society, is not quite so great, in a practical
point of view, as the school-books would have us to believe—for
if, as we are told, this modesty is a candle to
one's merit, there must be some strange omission in regard
to lighting the wick, and, unless that process be complied
with, it is as clear as darkness can make it, that all
the candles in the universe will do but little toward an
illumination. It is at least certain that Shiverton's merit
gained no refulgence from his unobtrusiveness, and that
his retiring disposition, so far from promoting his interests
and extending his fame, according to the philosophic
notion on the subject, came near causing him to be pushed
out of sight and forgotten altogether. No one searched
him from his obscurity—fortune passed by his door without
knocking, and reputation swept onward without
offering him a seat in its vehicle. Yet Shiverton was as
modest as modest could be—as modest, according to the
popular comparison, as a sheep. He thought nothing of
himself at all—he invariably got out of the way when
other people wanted to advance, on the principle of “after
you is manners,” and when others spoke first, he was
particularly careful to speak last, or not to speak at all;

suppressing his own wishes, feelings, and opinions, to promote
the general harmony. A retiring man was Shiverton,
and he obtained an occupation wherein his main
intercourse was with his pen and with columns of figures,
so that he still could be seen and not heard, according to
the regulation which governed his childhood. He stooped
as he walked, that his superiority of height (for Shiverton
had stretched in longitude far beyond his unpretending
wishes) might be lost, as it were, in the smaller crowd;
and he went home, as far as it was possible to do so, by
the “alley way,” to escape the ostentation of parading the
thoroughfares, and to elude the embarrassing operation
of returning salutations to those with whom he was unavoidably
acquainted. What would Shiverton Shakes
not have given if he had known nobody—if there were
nobody here but himself, or if he could consume this
troublesome “how d'ye do” existence in a back room,
up three pair of stairs, where no one could by possibility
come? And his bashfulness grew by being indulged.
He suffered, not only by the painful sensations of his
own timidity, but more by the thought that others likewise
saw into his perturbations, and derived enjoyment
from his internal distress. He appropriated every laugh
to himself—he could not think that when he was within
range of observation, there could reasonably be any
other jest so likely to provoke a smile; and when people
talked together with mirthfulness on their countenance,
he was sure that the awkwardnesses and defects of Shiverton
Shakes were under discussion. He had never heard
of any thing else at home, and he always felt as if he
were a discreditable intruder, who ought, if any thing, to
apologize for having come into this breathing world at
all. Had there been such a thing as a back door to our
sublunary sphere, he would certainly have opened it, if
it could have been done without noise, and have crept
out, glad to escape into the immeasurable solitude of
ether.

But a retreat of this sort is not possible, according to
existing planetary arrangements, without a recourse to
means to which Shakes had a repugnance. The sensibility
of his nervous system rejected the thought of a cold
bath by midnight, with brickbats in his vest and paving
stones in his coat pockets—the pistol is a means of dismissal
altogether too noisy for the retiring disposition, and
the elevation of the cord shows an aspiring temper which
would not have been at all characteristic in Shiverton
Shakes. Besides, a jury in such cases generally looks
for the impulsive reason, and how ridiculous it would
seem to be returned in the newspapers, as one who had
voluntarily gone defunct through lack of brass! Such an
imagination could not be entertained even for an instant.
There would be more chuckling than ever. Shiverton
resolved to live—to be Shakes to the end of his terraqueous
term, no matter how unpleasant it might be.

Still, however, manœuvre as one may, we cannot
always avoid contact with the world in some of its phases.
Invitations will come, for instance, from which there is
no moral possibility of evasion. To be very unwell,
sometimes answers a good purpose, if indeed these dodging
purposes be ever good, when the motive is simply a dodge
from a failure in self-reliance. It will do to have prior
engagements occasionally when none such exist, and the
pressure of business at certain seasons may be extreme;
but, exert ourselves to that end as we may, there are few
individuals who can contrive to be ill all the time, or
always to have a prior engagement, or to be busy so continually
as not to have an evening to spare; and then a
point blank non inventus, without the shadow of a palliation,
is scarcely to be attempted under certain circumstances.
It requires the imperturbable solidity of a dead

wall to be guilty of it. It sits upon the soul like a night-mare,
and the guilty wakes next morning with a conscience
as heavy as a millstone. Shiverton Shakes was
cornered by such an invitation—to a dance of the most
extensive and brilliant description—in honour of the marriage
of the daughter of one concerning whom he had
post mortem expectations—expectations which he fondly
dreamed would productively survive the individual who
had given rise to them. It was, therefore, what we may
call, for want of an established phrase to describe it, the
invitation undeniable—the trident of an appeal, which
forks on either side and pins one through the body. It
was an invitation which, with all Shiverton's agile practice
in this respect, he could neither leap over nor
creep under. It was not to be got round, on the right
hand or upon the left. It enflanked and enfiladed—encircled
and hemmed in. Yet, if boldly faced, it was obvious
that Shiverton Shakes could not help being, to some
extent at least, a feature on the occasion—occasions, like
countenances, must have features, or they cease to be
occasions. But to be suddenly elevated into a feature—
projected from the level into a promontory, like some
diver duck of a volcanic island—when we are not used
to it—when we don't know how! Who, in such a crisis,
could avoid feeling like Shakes? To be a protuberance—
a card—a first or a second fiddle, with no acquaintance
with the bow and innocent of rosin—to dance with the
bride—to be fascinating to the maids—to make himself
generally agreeable, he, who had never before been on
such hard duty—to be easy, graceful, and witty—“preposterous
and pestiferous!” cried Shiverton Shakes;
“me making myself agreeable! I should like to catch
myself at it.”

Shiverton was haunted by Mrs. Marygold's note. In
his dreams, it was like the air drawn dagger of the tragedy.

It seemed to “marshal him the way he was to go,” and
beckoned him on, not to Duncan's surcease—Duncan
surceased in the dark—the fewer witnesses the better—
but to something much worse, in his fearful estimation—
to violins and laughter—to smiles and compliments—to
airs and graces—to silks and cologne—blooming bouquets,
pearly teeth and sparkling eyes—more terrible to
him than frowning ramparts and stern artillery.

Shiverton sat alone in his chamber. The lamp burned
dimly, and the fatal note, its perfume not yet departed,
lay before him.

“There's my ankle,” said he, after a gloomy pause,
“if I could only sprain it now, without hurting myself
much—sprain it gently—but no—that wont do—they'd
guess in a minute—and I couldn't very conveniently contrive
to break my neck for a day or two, by way of
something original; but I almost wish it was broke. It
would save a fellow a great deal of trouble. I should
like to raise a fever, if I only knew how; but I can't find
a headache with all the shaking I can give it. Perhaps
it wouldn't do to be found `no more' when they came to
call me to breakfast, on the morning of this horrible
dance; but I wish I was no more—I wish I never had
been more at all. But more or less, I must go, if an
earthquake does not intervene, or if there is not a blow
up of some sort. But these things never happen when
they're wanted. I never found the dentist out in my life
when I was to be hurt. There are matters which can't
postpone. Hanging day is hanging day, whether it rains
or shines, and then hanging day is never yesterday—I
don't mind things when they're past—hanging day is
always to-morrow or to-day—something to come—something
that's not done, but must be done. It appears to
me that I'm never done, but always doing—going to be
done.”

After this escapade, Shiverton was moodily silent—
expressionless outwardly, save in the uneasy transposition
of his pedal extremities, while his brows were knitting
like a weaver's loom.

“If they'd let me be, now—but they wont—they never
do,” continued he sharply; “let me be in a corner, or in
the refreshment room, eating things and drinking things—
cracking nuts, or forking pickled oysters, or spooning in
ice cream, and nobody looking on—it always chokes me
when anybody's looking on—things wont get on the spoon,
and my plate is sure to spill and run over—if they'd do so,
I'd be able to get along well enough; but then I must go
in among the ladies—there's nothing scares me more than
ladies—good-looking ladies particularly—I can't talk to
them—they frighten me like Old Scratch. Yet I've got
all the books about manners, in that closet—`American
Chesterfield,' `Etiquette,' and all that—why don't somebody
publish how to flourish away in other people's
houses, so we can learn it in three lessons, like French,
Italian and Spanish? That's the kind of cheap literature
I want.”

At last he sprung impatiently from his chair, and the
clock struck one.

“Since I must go to Mrs. Marygold's whether I will
or not, I had better begin to practise as soon as possible—
practise tea party”—and Shiverton brushed up his hair
and pulled down his wristbands; “that's the way, I suppose.—Now
I come in, so,” and he threw his head aside
in a languishing manner—“Hope you're very well, Mrs.
Marygold—that chair's the old lady—how dee doo, Mrs.
Marygold—how's Bob?—no, not Bob—how is Mr.
Robert?—then that bedpost's the old man—compliments
to the old man—that wash-stand is the young ladies, all
of a bunch—your most obedient, says I, in a sort of off-hand
way—most obedient to the wash-stand, and a sort

of a slide all round. Pooh! it's easy enough, if you go
right at it—who's afraid? Ha! ha!” and Shiverton became
excited, bowing about the room. “Dance! why
yes, to be sure I will. Pleasure of dancing with Miss
Slammerkin?—ho! ho! tolderol! tolderol! chassez across
—swing corners—slambang! pigeon-wing!”

Shiverton's operations in this matter were rather of the
old school; more, it is to be presumed, from the dash of
desperation that tinged his spirit at the time, than from
any other cause; and so, forgetting, if he ever knew it,
the easy, unambitious and nonchalant manner of the modern
ball-room, he set arms and legs agoing with the
whirligig vigour and expansive reach of a windmill. The
floor creaked and trembled—the windows rattled and
shook; but still he danced away with the concentrated
energy of one who “had business would employ an
age, and but a moment's time to do it in.” He was, in
fact, and without being conscious of it, realizing a great
moral and physiological truth. His mental uneasiness
found relief in physical action, on the principle which
renders the body restless when the mind is disturbed,
that the superabundance of the nervous force may be diverted
from our thoughts to our muscles. Care and bashfulness
seemed to be driven away together. The rust
flew off, and a momentary hardness and transient polish
appeared.

He upset the chair. “Mrs. Marygold's done for,”
said he, in breathless exultation. Crash went the table.
“Supper's over—let's waltz! Taglioni and Queen Victoria—who's
afraid! I knew I only wanted to begin, to
go ahead of D'Orsay!” and he flew round like a top, to
the complete discomfiture of the “Dukedom of Hereford
and those movables.”

“Murder!—or fire!—or thieves!—or something!”
screamed Mrs. Fitzgig, the landlady, as she awoke in

trepidation from her slumbers, the more appalled because
it was impossible to imagine what was the matter. Terror
is never so terrific as when we do not know what
terrifies us. “Boh!” cried in the dark, will unsettle the
firmest nerves, because it has never yet been decided
exactly what “Boh!” means. People will tremble and
run at “Boh!” who do not shrink from surgery or from
an unpaid bill.

The uproar continued, and at last Mrs. Fitzgig, with
her boarders, men, women and children, leaped from their
beds and rushed, blanketed and sheeted, to the scene of
action.

“Shiverton Shakes is crazy—run for Doctor Slop!”

“Shave his head!” said one.

“Knock him down!” exclaimed another.

“Law suz!” pathetically cried Mrs. Fitzgig, looking
at the devastation—“What's all this?”

“It's tea-party—it's hop—it's ball!” shouted Shiverton,
for once grown bold, and seizing upon his landlady
—“Why don't you jump along?—swing around—practice
makes perfect!”

The laughter, loud and long, which followed these
explanatory exclamations, brought Shiverton Shakes to
his senses, and awakened him from his dream of ball-room
triumph, as if he had suddenly been subjected to
the tranquillizing influence of a shower-bath.

“Exercise—nothing but exercise—bad health—too
much confined,” muttered he—“a man must have exercise.”

“But two o'clock in the morning's not the time, is it?
and breaking things is not the way, I guess,” said Mrs.
Fitzgig, sulkily. Shiverton Shakes paid the damages,
but the balance of ridicule was not so easily settled. It
is a strange thing, too, that the rehearsal should be a subject
of derision, when the deed itself is rather commendable

than otherwise. If a man is found making speeches
to himself, people will regard it as a joke, and should he
be discovered taking off his hat to his own reflection in
the mirror, that he may bow with grace in the street, and
perform his devoir to fair damsels with becoming elegance,
why he would never hear the last of it. Always turn the
key, and speak softly when practising gentlemanly deportment
to supposititious society. If you experience a
lack of preparatory drill in the art of making yourself
peculiarly agreeable, go through your discipline in the
vacant garret, and should there be no bolt to the entrance,
keep your face to the door, that you may confront the
sudden intruder, with a vacant countenance and the fragment
of a tune, as if nothing in the world were the matter.
Demosthenes himself must have felt what is now
termed “flat,” when detected shoveling flints into his
mouth, to turnpike his vocalities, and to Macadamise the
way for his oratorical genius. To do such things is
praiseworthy. To be surprised in the act, is the offence.
The spirit of Lycurgus survives in the nineteenth century,
and the Spartans were not alone in thinking that it is not
the deed, but the discovery, which is to be reproved.
Shakes found it so, when jeered for his social training.
And, in referring to this popular contradiction, which
asks for the thing, and in some sort derides one of the
means of obtaining it, we cannot refrain from introducing,
as an illustration, a colloquy in which our hero bore a part.

It was in the evening, at Mrs. Fitzgig's—Shakes was
forlornly looking into the fire—but few of the family remained,
and Mr. Dashoff Uptosnuff, a gentleman probably
of northern descent, but professing to know a thing
or two in the west, twisted his moustache, adjusted his
flowing locks, and ceased for a moment to admire his legs.

“Shakes,” said Dashoff Uptosnuff, “this sheepishness
of yours will never do, at your time of life.”

“I know it,” replied Shakes, with a sigh; “it never
did do, and I don't think it's going to do. But what am
I to do?”

“Do! where's the difficulty?—do like other people—
do like me—do, and don't be done. I tell you what it
is, Shakes, there's a double set of principles in this world,
one of which is to talk about, and the other to act upon—
one is preached, and the other is practised. You've got
hold, somehow, of the wrong set—the set invented by
the knowing ones, to check competition and to secure all
the good things for themselves. That's the reason people
are always praising modest merit, while they are pushing
along without either the one or the other. You always
let go, when anybody's going to take your place at table—
you always hold back, when another person's wanting the
last of the nice things on the dish. That's not the way—
bow and nod and show your teeth with a fascination, but
take what you want for all that. This is manners—
knowing the world. To be polite, is to have your own
way gracefully—other people are delighted at your style
—you have the profit.”

“But I'm ashamed—what would people think?”

“Why, Shiverton Shakes, if you only learn to understand
the hocus pocus of it, they'll think of you just what
you wish them to think. Don't be afraid of other people
—other people is a goose. Hav'n't you found that out
yet? Who is ever afraid of people when he knows them
well—lives in the same house with them? You're not
afraid of Mrs. Fitzgig; you're not afraid of me—you're
not afraid of the washerwoman—not much afraid, even
when you owe her for the last quarter. Confidence is
only carrying out the principle—look upon everybody
as me, or Mrs. Fitzgig, or the washerwoman. That's
the way to do. As for your not knowing people, it
amounts to nothing—it's often an advantage—for then

you may fairly conclude they don't know you. How are
battles gained? Because the party who run away, don't
know that their enemies were just about to do the same
thing—they don't know that their opponents were as
much scared as themselves. Look bluff, and the day's
your own. Nobody sees beyond appearances.”

“Yes, but I can't do as you advise—I think I can
sometimes, when no person's by; but when I come to
try it, I can't—I feel so—my heart bumps so—my tongue's
so dry, and I always tumble over things and tread on
somebody's toe. I'm sure to tread on somebody's toe.”

“Shiverton, you're a melancholy victim to the errors
of education and the wrong set of principles, or you
wouldn't tread on other people's toes—not so they'd
know it, even if you had to step over their heads. If
you only understand how, you can do what you please.
The style is all. Ah,” continued Dashoff Uptosnuff, falling
into a philosophic reverie, “what a world of blunders
is this! They've got free schools and high schools, and
universities and colleges,—they learn to cipher—to read
languages—to understand mathematics and all sorts of
things—comparatively useless things—but who is taught
confidence—that neat kind of confidence which don't look
like confidence—who is taught to converse, when in that
lies all the civil engineering of life, which shaves the
mountain from our path, tunnels the rocks and lifts us to
the top of the social Alleghanies? Who learns at school
how to make a bow, or to get a wife with a hundred
thousand dollars or upwards? Where, in short, is that
professorship which shows us the road to success, and indicates
how we are to live without work, the great secret
at which we are all struggling to arrive? As things are
managed now, we are soldiers sent to the battle before
we have learned to tell one end of our muskets from the
other; and before we have discovered where to insert the

load and where to place the priming, the war is over and
we are among the killed, wounded and missing. Is'nt
it doleful?”

“Very,” said Shiverton, mournfully.

“Well, now, for my part, I don't see the trouble,” said
Mrs. Fitzgig; “why can't a man buck up?”

“Nor I,” added Miss Jemima Fitzgig, who wanted to
be Mrs. something. “It is the easiest thing in the world
to get along, especially among ladies,” and she glanced
tenderly at Mr. Dashoff Uptosnuff.

“You must make an effort, Shiverton—one plunge and
all will be over—go to Marygold's determined on boldness.
Sooner or later, you must begin. It is impossible
to dodge in this way for ever.”

What a happy thing it would be if the determination
were the achievement—if “I will” were the consummation—if,
by one potent screw upon the organ of firmness,
the little troop of faculties which make up our identity,
could be wheeled into the unshrinking and impenetrable
Macedonian phalanx, and if there could be no uneasy intervention
of doubtful thoughts between the firm resolve
and its execution.

“I will,” said Shiverton, and he did.

He did—but how? Let us not anticipate. Let us
sooner pause before ringing up for the catastrophe of this
painful drama, and rather seek metaphysically to know
why it was a painful history and why it had a catastrophe
—why any of us have catastrophes—for catastrophe is
not necessary to our nature. If the faculties were in
equipoise, we should never fall—Shiverton Shakes would
not have fallen. We are, to a certain extent, rope-dancers
here below—Seiltanzers—Herr Clines; and there
is truth in the Mahommedan supposition that we cross the
gulf upon a bridge finer than a hair. Any internal force,

therefore, in excess or in deficiency, swerves us from the
right line, and we run the risk of being impinged upon
an adverse catastrophical circumstance, having the melancholy
preferment of serving to point a moral and adorn
a tale. Our vices are our virtues running to riot and
pushing into the extreme, and all human impulses are
good, in subordination and in their place. It is their
morbid, unwholesome condition which makes our trouble.
There is no sinfulness in thirst, if the proper means are
used to quench it; nor is ambition unholy, if it only seeks
honourable and useful distinction among men. Acquisitiveness
is derided; but a subdued acquisitiveness is
requisite, if we would not be a burden to our friends and
subject old age to the degradation of being a charge upon
the public purse. Even anger—the combativeness and
destructiveness of modern definition—is essential to our
well-being, as a defensive means, and that the oppressor
may fear to set his heavy foot upon us. We are, in
short, good people enough in the constituents of our individuality—all
the materials are respectable in themselves;
it is the quantity of each which causes the disturbance.
Too much courage makes the bully—too little
shrinks into the coward. A modicum of self-esteem induces
us to scorn meanness—with too large a share, our
pride becomes an insult and an outrage. The love of
approval gives amiability to our deportment; but it may
run into perking vanity and ambling affectation. Happy
they “whose blood and judgment are so well commingled,”
that they can march with a steady step and
have no reason for pausing analysis to learn why they
stumble.

Now the psychological ship of Shakes—the vessel
which carried this Cæsar and his fortunes—was defective
in its trim—the ballast was badly stowed—too much by
the head or too much something else, which prevented

it from working “shipshape and Bristol fashion.” His
deference to “other people” had been nourished to an
extent which cast a destructive shadow over his other
faculties, and his firmness and self-reliance had probably
left hollows in his pericranium. But it was not altogether
that he placed no sufficient estimate upon himself—there
were times—times apart—times of retiracy, when he felt
“as good as you”—perhaps better, and it may be that it
was an overweening desire to fill out his fancy sketch of
himself—to be a sublime Shakes—the embodiment of
his own conception—which gave such paralyzing force
to the eye of the observer—that “Mrs. Grundy” whose
criticism we all fear, more or less, and made him either
shrink from the effort, or fail miserably when he did venture
on the attempt. Was it at all thus with Shakes?
There are such apparent contradictions in humanity.
But who is “clairvoyant” enough to penetrate into the
mental council-chamber, and discover what we scarce
know ourselves?

It was cold and dark, but yet a man in a cloak walked
uneasily up and down the street. Lights beamed from
the windows and carriages drove up to the door of a mansion,
upon which his earnest regards seemed to be fixed.

“Now, I will,” said he, pausing under the trees; “no,
not yet—I can wait a little while longer.

“I wish it was to-morrow, or some time next week,”
muttered he. “I wish I was a chimney-sweep, for they
are all a-bed—I wish I was that limping fellow with a
bad cold, crying oysters—he don't wear white kids—I
almost wish I had an attack of apoplexy, and somebody
was rolling me along on a wheelbarrow.

“Now for it!” and he dashed desperately up the steps
and seized the bell-handle with unflinching fingers—but

he did not pull—like the renowned “King of France,”
he walked gently down again.

“I think I should like a little hot whisky punch,”
sighed he; “very strong whisky, and remarkable hot
punch.”

It is an anti-temperance weakness, no doubt; but still
there are passages in most men's lives when they feel the
very want expressed by Shiverton Shakes—when they
would “like a punch”—a strong punch—to make them
go. But such punches are apt to become bad punches—
to punch out one's brains. If you cannot get along without
punch, you had better not go at all.

“But no—who's afraid?—Uptosnuff will laugh if I
don't—here goes!” and the bell rang loudly.

Shiverton Shakes had committed an error—nothing
daunts a man of his infirmity more than unaccustomed
garments. One who is at ease in a familiar coat, feels
embarrassed in a new dress. Shakes had caused his hair
to be curled—it pulled in every direction. His white
gloves were rather of the tightest—his satin stock had
not yet the hang of his neck—his pumps uncomfortably
usurped the place of his expanded boots—his coat had
only come home that afternoon. He had practised to
dance, but it was not a full dress rehearsal. His white
waistcoat and his snowy gloves were ever in his eye;
he saw himself continually, and there is nothing worse
than to see one's self, under circumstances of restraint—
to be reminded all the time that yourself is there. Shiverton
had that species of consciousness which poetic souls
have attributed to the poker. He felt like a catapult,
without hinge or joint. He was cold at the extremities.

“If nobody knew me, I wouldn't care so much,”
quoth he.

But Uptosnuff was unexpectedly there—there before
him.

“Now, Shiverton—your respects to the hostess—graceful
and rather affectionate.”

“I wish he hadn't said that,” growled Shiverton, as
he made his way, as if travelling on eggs, through the
gayly dressed throng to Mrs. Marygold, who stood in all
the splendors of matronly embellishment.

“Mrs. Marygold—I'm very—how d'ye—hope you're
—good evening—how's—yes, ma'am,” ejaculated Shiverton,
spasmodically.

“Ah, ha! Shiverton! rejoiced to see you,” said Mr.
Marygold, a jocular gentleman, with a mulberry nose;
“got over your bashfulness, I suppose.”

“Ye—e—s,” responded Shiverton, with a mechanical
effort at a smile, in which the mouth went into attitude,
curving toward the ears, while the rest of the face kept
its rigid, stony appearance.

“Glad of it—plenty of pretty girls here—come, let me
make you acquainted.”

“No, thank you—I'd rather—”

“Now's your time, Shiverton,” whispered Uptosnuff,
“keep it up—don't flinch.”

“Mr. Shakes, bashful Mr. Shakes, Miss Simpkins—
very desirous of dancing with you. Didn't you say so?”
observed the jocular Mr. Marygold.

“No—yes—I—oh!—very—it's getting warm,” and
Shiverton Shakes sat forcibly down upon the elderly Mrs.
Peachblossom, who shrieked aloud, while Shakes sprang
up with amazement: “just as I expected—right on somebody's
toe!”

“Never mind—persevere,” whispered Uptosnuff.
“Nobody's hurt. Now be bold—it's much easier than
being timid.”

“I will,” said Shiverton, drawing down his waist-coat;

“I will—keep near me, but don't look at me—”
and Shiverton led his partner to the dance, resolved at
all hazards to try the advice of his friend. But when the
dance began, he suddenly felt as if ten thousand eyes were
upon him—his little knowledge of the subject, picked up
“long time ago,” deserted from his memory. It was all
confusion, and every attempt to guide his erratic steps
made the confusion worse confounded. “Now, Mr.
Shakes”—“there, Mr. Shakes,” and “here, Mr. Shakes,”
only served to mystify his perceptions still more deeply,
as, driven to desperate courses, he danced frantically
about, in the vain hope that lucky chance might put him
upon that undiscovered and apparently undiscoverable
clue to the labyrinth, to which, it was plain, direction
could not lead him.

“Whew!—Uptosnuff,” panted Shiverton, during a
prelude to a new complication of dance and suffering,—
when the tamborine rang out, and when the yellow man
in ear-rings was evidently inhaling volumes of the atmosphere,
to aid him in calling figures in that as yet unknown
tongue and untranslated language which dancers alone
comprehend. “Uptosnuff, I can't stand this—what
shall I do?”

“I cannot tell—did you ever try to faint?” replied
Uptosnuff.

“Yah-yay—doo yandleming foo-yay!” shouted the
yellow man in ear-rings.

“Jang-jingle—r-a-a-n-g foodle,” said the tamborine.

“Shaw-shay!”

If Shiverton could have reached the yellow man, there
would have been an end to the ear-rings; but as this
was out of the question, he shut his eyes and set his arms
and legs in action with an unlimited power of attorney,
and, though he went many ways, it happened, with a
perversity peculiar to Terpsichorean tyros, that he never

hit upon the right way, at the right time; for, in these
matters, the right soon becomes wrong.

The company began to gather round, to witness this
extraordinary and extemporaneous performance.

“'Pon my soul, if I don't think it's animal magnetism,”
remarked a scientific looking individual, with a bald head
and green spectacles. He's mesmerized—he's under
the influence of the fluid.”

“I wish I was,” thought Shiverton, as he bounded
like a kangaroo, catching his rearward foot in the flowing
robes of Miss Simpkins, and oversetting the “one lady
forward,” as he himself came lumbering to the floor.

All was chaos.

“Intoxicated!”

“Insane!”

“Insufferable!”

“Infamous!”

“Satisfaction!” said whiskers.

Shiverton scrambled to his feet, and stared wildly
around.

“Shiverton Shakes, I never could have believed that
you would have come to my house, in such a condition,”
said Mrs. Marygold, in awful tones.

“Shiverton Shakes, I've done with you for ever,” said
the old gentleman.

“My friend will wait on you in the morning,” remarked
whiskers.

“Beat a retreat, Shiverton—you're Waterloo'd,” hinted
Uptosnuff. “Sauve qui peut. It's too late to faint
now—why didn't you lie still, to be picked up?”

Shiverton charged like a conscript of the French republic,
without much science, but with inflexible will, at
what he thought to be an open door—it was a costly
mirror; but, though a deceptive appearance, it did not
“take him in”—he rebounded, amid the crash of glass.

Shrieks of dismay arose on every side; but Shiverton,
having now a clearly defined object in view, “bent up
each corporal agent to this terrible feat,” and overthrew
all impediment, including stout Mrs. Marygold and sundry
other obstacles which were in the way of his recoil, to
say nothing of John with the refreshments, who was thus
deluged in lemonade, and the cabman at the door, who
was summarily taught how to execute a backward summerset
down a flight of steps.

Shiverton reached home, breathless, hatless, cloakless,
and in despair—a melancholy example of the perilous
consequences of endeavouring to “assume a virtue, if you
have it not.”

“A man must be brought up to it,” soliloquized Shiverton,
when he had recovered coolness enough to think,
and had kicked his kid gloves indignantly into a corner;
“at least, I'm sure that this spontaneous combustion sort
of way of going at it, will never answer for me. If I
could now, little by little, just dip in a foot—wet my
head—slide in gradually—become accustomed and acquainted
by degrees, and not be spoken to or bothered at
first—begin where I wasn't known, or where people don't
laugh at every thing so confoundedly. But no—I'm
done for—this blow up at Marygold's—I can never show
my head again,” and he buried himself in the blankets,
as if he never more wished to be looked upon by the
surrounding world.

This was the first and last attempt of Shiverton Shakes
to gain a footing in society. He held no more intercourse
with Dashoff Uptosnuff; for, although he admitted the
correctness of that individual's theory, still he had an
overwhelming consciousness of inability to carry it into
effect. He bought him a turning lathe, and made knick-knacks
in the long winter evenings, smoked cigars, and
tried to read “Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman

Empire.” He would have liked to have a wife, but the
process of getting one was too much for his nervous sensibilities;
so he dined at an ordinary and made his own
tea and toast, being literally and truly an “unexpressed
idea”—an undeveloped capability.