 | A woman in armor |  |
THE MAN WHO “HADN'T TIME.”
BANGS was a pure American. And
when I say Bangs was a pure American,
I mean his parents and grandparents
were produced on this soil. Whether he has
more remote ancestors, Bangs never had time
to ascertain.
He entered this world on business, and meant
to makes the most of his term. Ready for college
in his twelfth year, he charged through
that institution like a mad bull, carrying the
honors on his horns. Bangs had made up his
mind what line of business he would pursue, in
that early period circumstances obliged him to
waste in his mother's lap. So he made a flying
trip through the States, gathering force as he
went, and landed plump in an editorial chair,
where he began to scribble before his coat-skirts
fell from the breeze. “Life is short,”
of any sort. Business is the word.”
It is a historical fact that Bangs married.
Whether he caught his bride “on the fly,” or
took her in a business way as part pay for his
paper, from some overloaded papa, ask me not.
He certainly never wasted any time in courtship.
I cannot imagine Bangs lingering under
a window touching the light guitar. I cannot
imagine love-letters written by lightning. I
cannot quite see him in my mind's eye with one
leg bent in supplication and the other rushing
off for a marriage license.
Let us merely state the case as it appeared.
Yesterday there was no Mrs. Bangs. To-day,
presto, Mrs. Bangs there is. She must have
been an amiable woman—though Bangs never
had time to ascertain whether she was or not—
for she offered no opposition to that incarnate
electric fluid, Bangs; and she made an excellent
mother of his little telegrams. The only drawback
to their felicity was, that Bangs saw so
little of his family, he had occasionally to seek
a fresh introduction.
It was a beautiful and instructive sight to see
Bangs in his office. Bristling with quills, he
suavely entertained a caller; scratched a leader
with his right hand, and squibs on his brother
editors with his left; “simultaneously and at
the same time” scanning his favorite politician's
speech and stamping applause of the same with
the other.
He went through his morning mail like a
buzz-saw. Z—z—z—sizzle! A cloud of letters
and envelopes—stamps settling on replies like
swallows on a barn—it was disposed of. He
would peruse with one eye Mrs. X. Y.'s effusion
on the “Matrimonial Martyr,” whose
broom was sweeping her to her tomb, Who
called all women in the land, Against that
tyrant, MAN, to stand, Until his buttonless
wristbands wave, In melancholy o'er her grave!
And with his other eye Bangs would devour the
Hon. M. C.'s letter relating to some important
public movement, while in the same breath he
would yell, “Confound that woman! I wish
her husband could kill her!” and chuckle,
“Fine, sir, very fine!”
Indeed, saving time became somewhat of a
hobby with Bangs. He never went to church
without wanting to poke the minister and whip
up the choir. When he went home to meals he
always regretted that he wasn't coming back at
the same time. At table he took his first course
at one mouthful, his second at the next, dessert
in one cheek and coffee in t'other, and then
bolted for the street door, like Phaeton, leaving
a milky way of napkins behind him.
No living bore, not even life insurance agents
(with what pleasure I write that, since one of
those wretches comes dunning me for my “premium”
ever laid possessing hands on a minute of Bangs's
time. No train kept him waiting; for if he
wasn't put through on time by rail, he got himself
sent by telegraph.
When Bangs had to attend a party, he made
compliments and pumped “locals” with the
same breath. He once saved time amazingly in
his own family by burying three children at once.
Now Bangs had so well invested his days that
public emoluments and plums generally were
coming to his hand; his future looked rich, and
his time more precious than ever; when Old
Time himself turned on his young rival. He
saw Bangs outstripping him. Old Time said to
himself, “Now here's a fellow—looks nearly as
old as I do. If he lives to be three-score, he'll
look like my grandfather, and he'll be wanting
more days and nights than I can furnish. This
will never do!” said Old Time. So he spied
out Bangs's weak places and dealt him some
sharp blows.
Bangs lay on his bed and dictated to the
Doctor while planning out his office-work for
subordinates.
“I want you to give me a powder, sir, which
will bring me to my feet instantly.”
“Gunpowder, perhaps,” suggested the Doctor.
“Not any shooting, if you please, Doctor.
No, not gunpowder. Let it be a pill if you
wasting my time.”
“Sir,” said the Doctor, “you must lie here
and rest, neither doing nor thinking; simply
being. You must rest or you will die. You
have used yourself up shamefully, sir. You
have destroyed without building up—you—”
“But I can't waste time that way,” groaned
Bangs, deciding on what subject to cram Quills
for that next editorial, laying out the heads of
his weekly essay for the Washington Trombone,
and coming to a mental decision about the
Credit Mobilier.
“Then, sir, all I have to say is, you must
waste time, or Time will waste you.”
Which Time did; for he grew so indignant
at Bangs's trying to improve the wakeful hours
of the night by planning a political campaign,
that he came back bringing Death with him,
and they gave Bangs a rap on the head which
finished him. It must have been a blessed
after-consideration to the time-saver that his
soul lost no time in separating from his body,
but went up straightway like a champagne
cork.
“Our beloved friend and honored fellow-citizen
whose remains lie before us,” said the
minister, “was cut off in the very prime of
his days. His life was a busy one. His peculiar
virtue was careful economy of time. He probably
accomplished more work in his short life
long probation of sixty. He never let a moment
run to waste,” said the minister, impressively.
O Bangs, were you sitting up behind that
man and shaking your spiritual head sadly?
Were you crying on your immaterial fingers
over the awful waste you had made? Waste
of hours which might have blessed and built
you up—by leading you a gallop through the
nursery, giving you kisses from those red lips
so early put under ground, by drawing you to
feed and cherish the heart of that woman who
rarely had a conscious look from your eyes.
Did you see, Bangs, where it wouldn't have
been waste of time to talk with this vagabond
or that wretch—to look at the sunsets, and rest
a moment in thanking your God?
You were like a fine-blooded racer on the
track, I'll admit, Bangs. But you lost your gait
and broke your heart with haste before the
heats were done.
I wonder where Bangs is now? Is he somewhere
astride of a comet, trying to whip up the
solar system and thus save time for the sun?
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