University of Virginia Library

THE AUCTION, OR THE WEDDING-COAT.
A TALE OF TRUTH.

“What's the hour, Mr. Collins?” said Harry Moore to
a rather elderly man, as they stood lounging together at the
counter of a country store. “Isn't it almost time for the
auction? They tell me that old Philip Merton's clothes are to
be sold among his other effects, and I want to see the exhibition,
for it must be something of a curiosity. It's strange, though,
that his relations would do such a thing.”

“Why, you see his brother-in-law has the ordering,”
answered Collins, “and he is a strange man, and so covetous
that he is afraid of losing a penny of what comes to his wife.
Phil shares the common fate of old bachelors—nobody cares
much for their memory after they are dead. They are put
under ground, and those who can get the most of what they
leave behind are considered the most fortunate, but as for
Philip's clothes, I don't think the skin-flints who sell them will
make much out of them. They may perhaps find his wedding-coat,
if it is not eaten up by the moths. I never saw him
wear it after that night when he was disappointed. Poor Phil!
he was one of the best-hearted fellows in the world; and not
an old man, either—only about my age. It's a pity he should
have sacrificed his life to a boyish fancy.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Harry; “you are
not credulous enough to believe that he died of a broken
heart?”

“No, not exactly. He died, at last, of a broken constitution,

the effect of intemperance in his youth. Ah! there were
no temperance lectures then, nor pledges given to abstain from
liquor. If there had been he might have married Fanny Ross,
and had something to live for. But he must needs get intoxicated
on his wedding-day; and so the match was broken off,
and that completed his ruin. He was never the same man
afterwards; but it was poor Fanny who died of the broken
heart.”

“Do tell me that story, Mr. Collins. I never heard the
whole of it, for you know we are new settlers at Mapleton,
and the affair had blown over before we came.”

“Well, no one can tell more about it than I can; for
Phil and I were school-cronies, and I knew it all, from beginning
to end. It wants an hour yet to the auction, and its just
an idle time; so let us cross over to the buttonwood-trees and
sit down in the shade.”

It was a broad street, with a great deal of grass in it,
which even sprung up and covered the ridges between the
ruts made by the teamsters' carts; for it was seldom, in those
days, that any other vehicle was driven through the little
village of Mapleton. Foot-paths were trodden down between
the houses, which stood at a considerable distance apart; and
opposite the single store, comprising in its wares drygoods.
groceries, and crockery, was a row of buttonwood-trees, where
a rude bench had been constructed by some old smokers, who
left an occasional sign, in a broken pipe, that they had occupied
it. This seat was now appropriated by the two above-mentioned,
when Collins, the elder, began his story of Philip
Merton

“When I was a young man,” said he, “Fanny Ross was
the beauty of our town; and, though I have been married now
for many a year, and have daughters grown up and married

also, I have never seen a handsomer girl. Her complexion was
a clear red and white, and her glossy brown hair was parted
over a forehead as smooth as marble. I could never tell
exactly the color of her eyes, for they were like the chameleon,
always changing: sometimes they appeared to be a dark gray,
then a hazel, and at other times I could almost have sworn
they were a deep violet blue. Her lips were like coral, her
teeth without a blemish, and her person might have been a
model for a sculptor, it was so perfect in its proportions. But
Fanny was a silent beauty. She never talked much; and
Phil was a lively, light-hearted fellow, and just suited her; for
you know we always like the opposite of ourselves. He had
just what she wanted—a word always ready upon occasion;
and she got in the habit of depending on him to speak for her
when she was at a loss. His wit was quick as a flash of
lightning; and, when I have seen them in company together,
I used to think of the old saying, that `some people's thoughts
go beforehand and some follow after.' They knew each other
from children, and learned to read and write and cipher
(which is all the learning we need in this place) at the same
school. After they grew up he began to wait on her to the
country balls and parties, and soon got the name of being her
beau. There were no distinctions between rich and poor at
Mapleton. All were on an equality, and one was as good as
another, as long as their conduct was proper. Philip was an
only son, and his father had some property; and Fanny's
father was a mechanic. But she was industrious and amiable,
and handsome enough for anybody; and his relations had no
objection to his falling in love with her. In fact the objection
all lay with her family; for Phil was rather wild and would
drink a little too much, occasionally, when out at a merry-making.
At such times, Fanny would shrink from his attentions,
and declare she would have nothing more to do with
him; but, somehow or other, he always contrived to get into
her good graces again, and persuade her to believe in his
promises of reformation. A woman will believe almost any
thing from the man she loves; and, though he break his
promise ninety-nine times, she will still believe that he will
keep it the hundredth. Drunkenness was unfortunately at
that time the vice of Mapleton; and Phil could not resist
temptation, yet he did not lose his station in society. His
undeviating good-humor and irrepressible flow of spirits made
him a general favorite; and everybody knew it was his
generosity which helped to ruin him. His lapses from temperance
were not very frequent then, and his companions could
not do without him, for his presence was always the herald of
fun and frolic. There was an ease about his manners, too,
and a sort of natural grace about his actions which took
mightily with the girls. His eyes seemed to be always laughing
to keep company with the smiles on his lips; and his tall
figure and curly hair gave him rather a stylish appearance.

As I told you at first, he and I were cronies, and I often
tried to keep him from drinking. I used to tell him he would
lose Fanny and break her heart, unless he would first break
his glass and resolve never to take another.

“Poh! Ned,” said he one day, in answer to my remonstrances,
“you would take all the high spirit out of me and
make me appear as niggardly as old Deacon Wharton, who,
you know very well, has got no soul at all. Come, take a
glass with me; that's a good fellow. It'll make you feel lively,
and your Mary will like you all the better, for she's as gay as
a lark. Fanny and she ought to change characters; or else
you and I ought to change girls.”

“What,” said I, “do you want to give up Fanny?”

“Give her up!” he exclaimed, “no, not for the value of
all the whales in the Pacific; and I'm pretty sure she wouldn't
give me up, either: but my wit is always thrown away on
you, Ned, for you haven't got enough yourself to understand
it.”

“Well, you are in a fair way now of bringing your own
to a level with mine,” said I, “for, when the wine is in, the
wit is out, Phil.”

He laughed out loud, as he replied, “The shaft didn't hit,
Ned. I'm as sober as a judge, and you know it. You are
only jealous.”

“No, I should be as loth to change girls as you would,”
said I, “though I own that Fanny is the handsomest; but I'm
satisfied with Mary, and I'll bet you a pair of wedding-gloves
that I'll be married first, unless you quit drinking brandy.”

“Done,” said Philip, “and you may go and buy them as
soon as you please, for I am going to ask you to my wedding
next Saturday.”

“Tell that to the marines, Phil,” said I,” for the sailors
won't believe it. No, no—you don't come over me in that
way; you are not going to get any of my property on false
pretences.”

“But I say it's a fact, Ned,” said he, laughing, “so you
see you are caught in your own trap. We have been engaged
these two years, and next Saturday evening we are to be
married. I have promised Fanny to be the steadiest husband
in Mapleton; and so I will, though I won't be so mean beforehand
as not to drink a glass to her health.”

“Beware, Philip,” said I, take the advice of a friend for
once, and let it alone.”

I didn't believe him, for no had already drank several
times, and the liquor was beginning to take effect; and, with

some trouble, I got his arm linked through mine and took him
home without his situation being noticed in the street. I
spent the whole afternoon with him and got him pretty well
sobered down by evening, for I was sorry for him, and still
more sorry for Fanny, if he had told me the truth. Well,
sure enough, the Saturday came and I found it was even so.
It was to be his wedding-day. I was invited, but before I
went to Mr. Ross's I concluded to look in just before night
upon Phil; for I couldn't help feeling a little uneasy. They
told me he was in his chamber, and I went up; and what do
you think I found him doing? Why, standing before a small
table, with a decanter of brandy in one hand and a tumbler in
the other, just ready to pour out a drink. I made one step
from the door and caught his arm.

“Philip Merton,” I exclaimed, “are you crazy? On this
day, of all others, to drink brandy!”

“Let go my arm, Ned,” said he, “this is my last glass,
and I won't be disappointed for any one.”

I saw that he was intoxicated then, and, with a little
adroitness, I got the decanter from his hand and pitched it out
of the window.

“You shall pay for that, Edward Collins,” said he, and
his face flushed to a bright scarlet. But he sat down; and,
after the excitement went off, he became stupefied with what
he had taken before my entrance. His wedding-coat hung
over the back of a chair, and his white vest and gloves were
laid on the bed. I think I never felt more distressed in my
life. It was almost dark, and he was no more fit to be married
than an idiot would have been. But I got some cold water and
soaked his head and bathed his face, till at last he began to
realize partly what he was going to do. He had forgotten all
about my breaking the decanter, and asked me to help him

dress, for he was really incapable of doing it alone. Poor
Fanny, thought I to myself, it will be a sad fate for her to be
a drunkard's wife. Two or three times I was on the point of
going and telling her of Philip's situation: but I knew the
messenger of ill-tidings seldom got either thanks or good will;
and so I determined not to meddle with the match. She
knew his habits beforehand, said I, and if she chooses to run
the risk it is none of my business. I left him just before the
hour; for, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to go to Mr. Ross's
in his company, and so went on by myself, for being well
acquainted with Fanny and her sisters, I did not mind being
early. Emily Brown, a sister of Mary, who is now my wife,
saw me coming and came out to meet me; for there was no
formality among the young people at that time.

“Where's Philip?” said she. “We thought you and he
would come together; and everybody is wondering that he
is so late.”

“Em,” said I (for I found it impossible to keep the secret
entirely to myself), “don't say any thing about it—but Phil is
waiting to get sober.”

“Good gracious, Edward!” exclaimed she; “you don't
say he's been drinking! Why, what's to be done? Fanny
ought to know it.”

“Well, wait a little,” said I; “perhaps he will be quite
himself by the time he gets here; and, for the future, we must
hope for the best.”

“Edward,” said Emily seriously, “can you tell me a
single man in Mapleton, who was known to love liquor in his
youth, who is not now a confirmed drunkard? I have no
faith that Philip will prove an exception. But here comes the
minister. Do you go in, while I run back to Fanny.”

A few of the village girls were assembled, in their white

dresses and blue or pink ribbons, according to the taste of the
wearer; and Mr. Waters, the clergyman, walked in and took
his seat among them. The father and mother of the bride
were unusually taciturn. They looked anxious and unhappy,
as if they felt a presentiment that something was going wrong.
Fanny was not present; and the suspense of waiting was becoming
painful. Mr. Ross rose and whispered to me:

“Edward, something must be the matter with Philip.
Hadn't you better go and see what it is?”

I could have told him without going to see: but I didn't
speak; and just at that moment the door opened, and poor
Phil staggered into the room. There was a silly smile on his
face, as he sat down on the nearest chair and asked, in a thick
voice, if Fanny was ready.

Not a word was spoken, for everybody seemed to be
struck dumb. Mrs. Ross rose. She was a stern woman;
and we were always a little afraid of her when we went to see
the girls. But she just gave Philip one look, as if she would
have crushed him through the floor, and then hurried out of
the room. Emily Brown and one of Fanny's sisters were with
her up stairs, and when her mother came in and told her in
plain words, that Philip had come drunk to be married, Em
said that every bit of color left Fanny's face. She was as
white as marble and seemed almost as stony: for she showed
no outward sign of emotion; she only said, “Don't let him
come here, mother—I won't see him. Tell him to go home,
for I'll never have him, now!”

“You never shall with my consent, Fanny,” said her
mother; “and you ought to be thankful that he has shown
himself out, beforehand.”

Mrs. Ross did not know how to soothe and comfort her.
Just think of telling her, at such a time, that she ought to be

thankful! How could she be thankful for any thing, with
such a blow upon her heart? What was the unknown misery
of the future, to what she was now enduring? But her
mother meant well. She did not understand the difference
between her own feelings and Fanny's.

Well, all this while the company were silently waiting for
Mrs. Ross's return. It was a strange scene for a wedding
and it seems as if I could see it all before me now. Everybody
had a sort of frightened, or horror-struck look, excepting
Philip, who appeared to be quite unconscious that any thing
was the matter, and sat still, with the same silly expression on
his face; for liquor always makes men fools.

At last Mrs. Ross came to the door, and said in a loud
harsh voice: “Mr. Waters, there will be no marriage here to-night;
and you, Philip Merton, the sooner you leave the house
the better. Your company is not wanted.”

“I—I came to be married,” said Phil; “and I won't go
till I have seen Fanny—I won't, I say.”

Mr. Waters then got up, and said with a very solemn
manner: “It is useless for you to remain, Mr. Merton, for I
cannot marry you to-night. I am sorry to say that you are
not in a fit state to perform your part in the ceremony; and
your disappointment and disgrace are the bitter fruits of intemperance,
which you are now so sadly reaping. Let it be
a warning to you for the future; and I trust that not only you,
but your young friends here present, will remember that
`Whatever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' ”

With these words he bowed to the company, and walked
straight out of the door. The girls all got up and went to put
on their bonnets, but Phil never moved. I thought he was
trying to realize what it all meant; and I pitied him from the
bottom of my heart. Old Mr. Ross leaned his head down between

his hands, and never spoke a single word. He was a
man of few words at all times. Fanny was like her father,
and had always been his favorite child; and he knew, better
than her mother, how to feel for her. He knew that she had
loved Philip with all the power of a still, silent love, which
strengthens more and more in the depths of the heart, because
it cannot vent itself from the lips. People may laugh at first
love, Harry, but you may depend on it, it is never entirely forgotten
nor overcome. Something of it is left, which neither
time, nor absence, nor even death can destroy in the heart of
the living. But I am going astray from my story. I went up
to Philip after the minister had gone, and said: “Come,
Philip, it's time for us to be getting home. You see they have
all left us.”

He was beginning to get sobered by the shock; and the
smile on his face was exchanged for a sort of helpless expression,
like that of a man led to the gallows. He yielded,
because there was no reprieve to the necessity; and I took
him home, and helped him to undress and go to bed; and the
coat which he took off that night I don't think he ever put on
afterwards.”

“And what happened to Fanny?” asked Harry Moore,
who was much interested in his companion's recital.

“Ah,” said Collins, “that is the most melancholy part of
the story. She went into a sort of melancholy derangement,
and was never seen to smile after that night; and, what is still
more wonderful, the color never came back to her face. Before
that time she had the most lovely complexion you ever
saw: but always afterwards she looked as white and cold as a
marble statue. She refused to see Philip, or to have any
thing more to do with him, and went nowhere excepting to
church, where she was sure to be found in all kinds of weather.

She would keep her eyes fixed on the minister until he had
done preaching, and then get up and go home, before the congregation
were dismissed. I met her once on Sunday, and
spoke to her. “How do you do, Fanny?” said I. She raised
her eyes, and they looked blue, then—I shall never forget it,
for I had a strange fancy that they were exactly the color of
Philip's wedding-coat. I don't know what put such a queer
comparison in my head, but I was so possessed with the notion,
that I kept staring at her till she said: “What do you
look at me so steady for, Edward? I know I don't look as I
used to; but it's because I always have a pain in my heart,
now.”

“You ought not to be walking alone then, Fanny,” said
I. “Let me go home with you.”

“No,” she replied, “I don't want you—I can take care of
myself—I'm not crazy, Edward, though I suppose you think I
am; but I've got all the reason I ever had, and that was too
little to do me any good when I stood most in need of it.
There, go away now, for I shan't say any more.”

She crossed over to the other side of the street, and
walked very fast till she got out of sight. Mr. Waters visited
her constantly and endeavored to direct her thoughts to religion;
and he said it was his belief that the light of the Gospel
broke in on her mind before she died, and gave her that
peace which the world can neither give nor take away. It
was just a year from the day that was to have been her wedding-day,
that we went to her funeral; and, if ever any one
died of a broken heart, it's my belief that Fanny Ross did.”

Collins was silent, and seemed to have finished his story;
when Harry said, “You've forgotten Philip. You have not
told me any thing further about him, since you took him home
that night.”

“True enough!” answered Collins; “I had forgotten him
in talking of poor Fanny. If you had ever seen her in her
bloom, you would have said her equal was not to be found for
beauty. But Phil never got over the disappointment and
mortification of that affair; and, to keep from thinking of it,
he went to the bottle. He knew that he had lost Fanny forever,
and so he gave up all female society. He never was
much of a ladies' man, and I don't believe he ever saw any
other girl that he would have been willing to marry. He
used to skulk about the streets, and keep out of everybody's
way as much as he could, only when he was about drunk.
At Fanny's funeral he cried like a child; and after that he
tried to do better for some time; but, as they say “the ruling
passion is strong in death,” so with him it was strong in life.
His habits became confirmed; and, though sometimes months
would pass away without his drinking to excess, he still drank
enough to scatter the seeds of disease through his system. I
often spoke to him about it, but he used to stop me with, “It's
too late now, Ned. I've nothing to live for; and if I did not
sometimes lose my senses in liquor, I should lose them altogether,
and be sent to a mad-house. You couldn't persuade
me when I had every thing at stake; and what's the use of
trying now?”

“But you won't live out half your days,” said I, “if you
go on in this way.”

“Well, and what of that?” he answered, “I shan't be
missed. An old bachelor is only in the way, and most people
are willing to let them have a short life and a merry one if it's
their own choice.”

And so he took his own course, until about six years ago
there came a temperance lecturer to Mapleton. It was a
novelty, and everybody went to hear him. At first they

were all carried away with his eloquence, and listened as
though all he said was fiction—like the plays at the theatre.
But after hearing him two or three times they began to realize
the truth of his words; and, one after another, our townsmen all
went forward and signed the pledge, which has been the saving
of many of them from ruin. Nobody thought that Phil Merton
would be persuaded to do it; but he was; and it made him a
changed man. He found he had broken down his constitution,
and tried hard enough afterwards to build it up; for, when a man
really thinks he is going to die he is apt to grow very anxious
to live, and is quite willing to make up his quarrels with the
world and take it as it is, provided he can renew his lease of
the mortal tenement. But, as Phil had so often said himself,
“it was too late.” He never got quite well, though he continued
to be a sober man, and his long course of intemperance
killed him in the end. He was only fifty-three years old when
he died. My story is finished, Harry, and the hour is up also.
So come, it's time for the auction.”

An auction was a rare occurrence in the quiet village of
Mapleton. The inhabitants seldom changed either houses or
furniture, which descended from generation to generation, with
but little alteration or improvement. But Philip Merton had
been an old bachelor, and left no successor to his worldly
goods, over which the auctioneer's hammer was then about to
be raised.

Collins and Moore arrived just in time to see the exhibition
of the wedding-coat, which had been set up on a bid of three
dollars.

“That's it,” said Collins to his companion; “a blue coat
with brass buttons. I remember the fashion of it thirty years
ago. Come, Harry, you're fond of antiquities, why don't
you bid?”

“Going,” cried the auctioneer, “going at three dollars:
not a quarter of its value. Who'H bid another dollar? Can't
throw it away—it's disgraceful!”

“Why don't you buy it yourself, for the sake of old
acquaintance?” said Harry in reply to Collins, while the crier
still kept on.

“Who says four dollars? There aint such another coat
nowhere. It'll fit any man on the ground.”

Collins had turned to Harry and exclaimed, “I, Harry
Moore? Why I wouldn't have Phil's wedding-coat for a
gift.”

“Four dollars bid,” cried the auctioneer—“going at four
dollars—four—four”—and the hammer went half-way down
and was raised again. “Blame it! the hammer won't strike
at that—look at the cloth—it's superfine—none of your home-spun—going
at only four—”

“You wouldn't have it! why not?” asked Harry of
Collins, looking at the same time at the auctioneer, and giving him a nod.

“Five dollars—I have it,” cried the seller. “Mr. Moore
bids five dollars. Will nobody bid over him? See these
buttons, as bright as gold, and they be gold, for aught I know—
going at five dollars—going—going—gone!”

I'm glad you bought it,” said Collins, “and now I'll tell
you why I wouldn't have it. It was too full of old memories;
and I never want to rake them up again, as I have done to day.
But it's different with you. You didn't see it all, as I did;
and it will do you no harm to remember it. So just keep the
coat for the sake of its history and the moral; and, if you ever
have a friend in danger of being wrecked on the shoals of
intemperance, show it to him, and tell him the story of Philip
Merton.”