University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

NOW, the worthy priest of Bay-Harbor, having
Mr. Bangs in his hands to be converted, felt, or
began to feel, the difficulties of that relation. To
keep up dignity and authority, to convince the mind and
engage the heart of this representative of the great Republic,
were so many different objects in one. The case
was, in a measure, like that of the “Angli quasi Angeli,”
standing for sale in the market of Rome, whose
beauty led Pope Gregory the Great to undertake the
Christianizing of their nation. This individual American
was no beauty, certainly, but he was from a foreign heretical
nation, and by his own account, scarce any of his
countrymen knew any thing of the true faith. Mr. Bangs's
account was, “Th' have made a convert 'r two. S'pose
ye've seen a poor f'saken-lookin' chickin, pokin' after a lot
o' pi—' animals, and hangin' on to 'em, fo' company?
Ye want somethin a little mite stronger.” Father O'Toole
was convinced that, as Father Nicholas also had said,)
the opportunity was a golden one, and must not be let go.

On the other hand, the ecclesiastical combatant, finding
himself in possession of such a prisoner, who had been
taken “nec gladio, nec arcu,” (sou,)—by no weapon of
his own—and was as multitudinous, in his activity, as the

company of men whom Father O'Toole's countryman
once took by surrounding them, felt the difficulty of maintaining
the authority and dignity, and, at the same time,
convincing the head and persuading the heart, as was to
be done, according to the programme of his operations.

Under the circumstances, he addressed himself to his
labor, in the bravest manner possible.

Mr. Bangs, whose habits and principles led him to use
time as it went, was anxious not to be unoccupied after
entering upon the work of religious conversion, and the
quiet old man was therefore likely to be stirred up and instigated
in a way very unusual to him, and which must
worry him somewhat, and flurry him a good deal, and
give him many solicitudes most unaccustomed. The proposed
convert, finding the priest's way of proceeding not
so methodical and business-like as it might be, and, at the
same time, being assured of his simple and kindly nature,
whose only relief was in its weaknesses, took upon himself
to propose that he should take a regular lesson, at certain
times each day, or at such times and as often as was convenient
to his instructor, of whom, meantime, he managed
to borrow a Douay Bible.

On the first occasion of the expected convert's appearance
at the converter's house, the next morning after
making the arrangement, the latter found, at the very
threshold, a reminder of the solemn work begun, and of
the new relations existing.

The knocking at the door was answered, after some delay,
by a slow-moving man—probably fisherman—acting
as porter, who, opening the door but quarter-way, stopp d
with his body the gap through which Mr. Bangs was
about passing along with the first rays of light, and having,
by formal question, ascertained from the visitor that

he wished to see the very Reverend Father O'Toole,
first showed him into “The Library,” with some awkwardness
and much gravity, and left him to wait until
the doorkeeper had found out whether the Father was at
home, and whether he was disengaged.

“Tell him,” said Mr. Bangs—the manner and matter
confusing the mind of the occasional domestic—“not to
put himself out one mite on my account. 'F he hasn't
prepared 'mself, I suppose 't 'll keep.” The speaker,
while saying this, combed up his hair from each side to
the top of his head, with a small implement taken from
his waistcoat-pocket, and seated himself with legs crossed
and foot swinging, opposite the door.

On receiving the announcement that Father O'Toole
expected him in the opposite room, Mr. Bangs rather led
than followed the man to the Reverend Father's presence.
The occupant of the room was alone, sitting with a book
in his hand, himself dressed with the utmost care that he
ever bestowed on the adornment of his person. Thus he
sat gravely awaiting, and very grave and dignified was
his salutation to his visitor.

“'Haven't come b'fore ye're ready, I hope, Father
O'Toole?” said the candidate for conversion, unabashed,
or, at any rate, not remaining abashed by the formality.
Then, seating himself opposite to the Priest, with his hat
beside his chair, he gave that gentleman the inspiriting
intimation:—

“Now, sir, I'm ready f'r a beginning, and you can
please ye'self 'bout goin' at it.” So he cast his eyes to
the ground, and sat as demure as possible, though not
without a restlessness of the body, which was the normal
state of that machine.

The ecclesiastic fidgeted in his dignity, and from his

not beginning at once with the “lesson” agreed upon, it
might be thought that his plans were somewhat disconcerted.

“It's a solemn and difficult work, entirely,” began our
priest, when he did begin; “a very solemn and very difficult
work, that we're entering upon the extremity of, or
the borders of.” At this point he stopped and recovered
himself hastily with the question: “Did ever ye meet
with a book called `The way to become a Catholic?'”

“'Tain't the same as `Way to be Happy, by one o'
Three Fools,' I guess, is it? 'Never read it; but 't used
to have a picture, 'n th' beginnin', 'f a woman whippin'
her offspring. I alw's said 'twa'n't in good pr'portions;
woman's arm 's too long for her figger. Dono 's ye ever
saw it.”

This little ramble of his disciple, disconcerted the
teacher again, it should seem, for the stream of instruction
stopped, and he began, rather nervously, to turn the
leaves of the book upon his lap. Of course he will make
a new assault. This he does as follows—adapting his
method, as he thought, to the character of the other's
mind—“Y' are aware that men are mortal; every one
knows that.”

“Oh, yes,” said the American, heartily; “`All men are
mortal. Enumeration. And,' 's the copy-book used t'
say 'n I's a shaver.”

“Sure, then, it's easy saying that some sins are mortal,
too. Therefore—”

“Adam fell in—

To mortal sin,” said Mr. Bangs, by way of illustration.
“'S prepared to grant that proposition b'fore ye
proved it.”

“Very good,” answered the reverend reasoner, warming

with success, “since y'are prepared to grant what
cannot be denied, ye'll be prepared, doubtless, by the
same rule, to deny what cannot be granted?”

If the triumphant progress of his argument, in its former
steps, was due, as it probably was, to a happy accident,
this last must have been one of the deliberate pieces
of his plot, as he had thought out the plan of it beforehand.

“Wall, dono 's 'ave any constitootional objection!
“Grant 't all men are mortal, 'course I deny 't the greatest
man 'n the world, whether 't's Tie-berius Cæsar Thompson—that's
the Hon'able Tieberius, member o' Congress
'n District I hail from, or Zabd'el B. Williams, Chairman
o' S'lectmen o' Needham, or the Pope, or what not,
ain't mortal.”

The solid floating bulk of Father O'Toole's argument
was not broken up by this little obstructive illustration;
nor was it turned aside.

“The Church being wan,” he continued, “sure, y'ave
a right to believe that it's never been corrupted.”

“Wall, Yankees are noways slow 't assertin' their
rights, ye know. Fact is, they're ruther inclined—wall,
they're dreadful t'nacious, 's ye may say.”

“Well, then, don't ye see, if the Church has never
been corrupted, then the Pope's the Vicar of Christ? I
think ye'll easy see that,” urged the Priest, drawing his
argument close. Not being familiar with the tone and
dialect of Americans of Mr. Bangs's class, he very likely
did not readily or entirely understand him; but the latter
seemed to accept the arguments urged upon him cordially.
This was Mr. Bangs's answer:—

“Wall, fact, it is 'bout 's easy reasonin' 's ever I heard.
'R'member a fullah named Tim—.”

“That's a very good Irish name, then,” said the Priest,
who was in excellent spirits.

“Timbuctoo Meldrum, 's name was. Wall, 's I w's
saying, we used to argue 't a debatin' s'ciety we had, out
't Needham, and he proved ye couldn't 'xpect 'nlight'nment
'n' civ'lization from colored folks, p'ty much like
this: `Don't all hist'ry show that heathens and savigis
wuship idols 'n' images, and b'lieve 'n charms 'n' am'lets,
'n' beads, 'n' all kinds o' blessed things? Then I say it's
as clear 's the sun 'n the canopy, 't ye can't educate a
nigger.'”

“Does the sun be in a canopy, then, in Amerikya?”
inquired the Priest, with a zeal for science that would be
found, no doubt, to exist generally in the human race, if
a trial were but fairly made, “and what sort 's it, then,
clouds? or fire? or what?”

“Wall, sir, 'taint made o' silk or satin. So ye think
the Church,—that's the Holy Roman Catholic Church,
'course,—hasn't ben c'rupted, do ye?”

“Sure, I think we may say we've proved that once, well
enough, anny way,” said the Priest, whose easy progress
had given him great confidence, even with a strange subject,
like Mr. Bangs.

“Wall, ye've proved it one way, fact. 'S'pose we've
got to grant 't's ben altered a mite or two, 'n the way 'f
improvin' 'n' growin' better, haven't we? 'Strikes me we
don't hear so much 's we might, 'n Scriptur, 'bout the
Holy Father, the Pope; and Scriptur's ruther mum on
subject 'f Indulgences and Purgatory. Dono's 't anywher's
recommends usin' graven images and pictures to
help devotion; and then it's kind o' backward—seems to
hang fire—'bout wushippin' Virgin Mary—.”

Here the worthy priest began to prick up his ears a

little, as if he had mistaken his man; but he had not
time fairly to get rid of his happy state of satisfaction in
himself and his convert, before he was reassured by the
latter going on, in his own way, to a more satisfactory
ending than his sentence had promised. The ending was
thus:—

“'S you say, these things are all real patterns o' truth;
all is, I leave 't to any body to say whether 't don't seem
's if they didn't know 's much, when Scriptur 's written,
's they do now.”

“Ye'll allow,” said the Priest, trying a little more argument,
just to finish the thing up, “God has more ways
than wan, mostly? Well, then, in this present case, th'
other's traddition, and it's as good as Scripture itself; do
ye see that?”

“'N' then, 's that great text, here, f' Purgytory, 'n the
References,—Matthoo Fifth, Twenty-sixth,—why, 't's as
pat 's butter. I guess, to this day, ye don't take 'em out,
t'll somb'dy's paid the utmost farthin'. Come t' hitch tradition
on, too, 'n' ye can prove 'most any thing, 's clear 's
starch, 's the woman said.”

“Ah! then, I was fearful of ye, a while ago, that ye
might have got some o' the Protestant notions into ye,
that they talk about corruptions; but here's something,
then, I'd like ye to consider, just by way of example:
Supposing ye were disposed to hold an argument,
which y'are not, ye'd say the Church was pure at the
beginning, and corrupt after; now if it was pure at the
first, and corrupt after, what way was it those corruptions
came in, just? Can anny Protestant answer that question
at all?”

The position in which the reverend arguer seemed to
feel himself, was that of having his hold fast upon his

convert, and being able to deal thoroughly and leisurely
with him. Mr. Bangs answered—

“Way I heard that question, put b' your friend, Father
Nicholas, there, t'other day, 's this: ('t had a tail a
little mite different—) `If religion was pure at first, 'n'
b'come corrupted, 'must have ben a time when corruptions
come. Now can any body put his finger on the time when
they come?' 'Struck me 's bein' a p'ty 'cute question 'n
I heard it.”

“Ay, that's the very thing, in other words; it was th'
other way, then, meself was giving it to ye, just to put a
bit more force in it,” answered the Priest.

“'T may be 'nother view o' the same thing,” said his
pupil. “'Bout 's much like 's two sides 'f a flounder,
there 'n Charles River Bridge, fact.”

Whether Mr. Bangs was or was not aware, that the
two sides of a flounder, which ought to correspond, are
strangely different,—one being white and the other black,
one having two eyes and the other none,—Father Terence
accepted the illustration triumphantly.

“Ay, or anny where else!” said he. “Can anny
man living tell what time these corruptions came in they
talk so much about? Not wan or all o' them can do
it?”

“Case 'n point,” said Mr. Bangs: “Casty Divy Scienshy,
ye know, 't I told ye 'bout, Father O'Toole, 's
blind o' one eye, (she's pleggy well off, though, and had 's
many sparks 's a cat in cold weather,—'fact, they joked
me 'bout her once.) Wall, 's I's sayin', one eye 's blind
's a beetle; 'twa'n't al'a's so, 't's grown so—('t must be
one o' these beetles th' have f' knockin' in wedges, f'r
insects ain't blind,—natch'l hist'ry 'd tell 'em that;) wall,
I guess Casty Divy 'd find it pleggy hard to tell when

that blindness come; that is, time o' day, day o' th' week,
day o' th' month, 'n' so on.”

“There it is, now,” said the Priest; “she can't tell
what time it came; and can anny wan o' them tell what
time these corruptions came, I'd like to know.”

“'F I's goin' to answer that 'n the affirmative, I sh'd
say the's few men c'd keep up 'th ye 'n an argument. I
s'pose the way changes come 'bout, 's p'ty much l'k' this:
say ye've got a junk o' pure ice, in water 'taint altogether
clean; wall, bymby ye come to give a look at it, and
half 'f it, or two thirds 'f it say, 's gone into water; 't's
made cleaner water, but 'taint ice any more. 'T'd puzzle
the old fox himself, I guess, to tell when that b'gan to
come 'bout. Or, take 'n' slew the figger right round—
here's water, say, and ye 'xpose it to temperature o'
frezin',—that's 32 Fahrenheit,—'f it's a little mite warm,
't'll be all the better f' the 'xperiment,—shavin'-water 'll
do;—wall, go 'n' take a look 't that, after a spell, 'n' ye'll
find 'twunt look 's if the cold 'd done any thin' to it; but
jest stick yer finger, or, 'f ye don't want to put your finger,
put a stick in, and I guess ye'll find it all cuslush;
'f 'taint, I've misst a figger, that's all.”

How this illustration supported the “argument” of the
worthy converter, it was not easy for Father O'Toole to
see, and he answered as follows—rather kindly passing
by it, as the work of an obtuse but well-intentioned mind,
than rebuking it as the suggestion of a hostile one:—

“It's a very disagree'ble and tadious process, then, that
melting and freezing; and it's not often I tried it. I prefer
having my shaving-watter warm, towards having it
cold, the way ye speak of. I'll be going on, now, to give
ye instruction in a few points o' the Catholic Faith. The
Pope's th' entire head o' Christendom—that's taken for

granted; I think ye were satisfied with the proof I gave
ye on that point.”

“Oh, yes, Father O'Toole, 'don't need 'ny more proof.
'T's only 'stonishin' t' my mind, t' find a man l'k' Father
Debree, there, akickin' over th' traces, 'th all that proof.”

“An' what traces is he kicking over, then?” inquired
the Priest. “I didn't hear of his kicking over anny
thing.” The lesson was suspended, and the book was
(inadvertently) shut.

“Wall, he's a pleggy smart fullah, b' all accounts.
'Didn't know b't what he'd got a little mite agee 'pon
some points. 'Glad to hear he's all right. 'S'pose 'twas
only 't he got ruther put out 'th the Prot'stants f' makin'
such a fuss, 'n' 'cusing the Cath'lics o' carryin' off Miss
Barberry, there. They say 't's t'other way.”

“And who's carried her off, then?” asked Father
O'Toole, with some warmth.

“I sh'd like to see 'em prove 't she is carried off,”
said Mr. Bangs. “'Guess 'f 'twas Father Nicholas managed
it, 't'll take more gumpshion 'n they've got, to find 't
out.”

“And what's about Father Nicholas?” asked the
worthy old Priest.

“Wall, 'f 'twan't f'r his bein' under you, 'guess folks 'd
say he'd had his finger in it; but how 'd he go 'n' do
any thing 'thout your tellin' him? 'n' nobody 'd think o'
suspectin' you, Father O'Toole. B't 's you's sayin, 'bout
those sacrymunts—.”

The good Priest was discomposed, and had lost his
place in the book. The American's assurance of the
general confidence in his supremacy over his assistant,
may have helped to restore his equanimity. Presently,
in his good-natured way, he began again:—

“Well, then, there are seven Sacraments. Ye've been
taught two, I suppose.”

“'Don't undertake to determine that point, how many
we had. Seven 's a good number for you to have, and I
guess ye can prove it 's well 's any thing else. Sh'd like
to have the proof.”

“Those Protestants want the proof from Holy Scripture,
mostly. We'll go to the Holy Scripture, now. First,
How many days was it the Almighty God created the
heavens and the earth?”

“Seven. That does come pleggy near, fact,” said Mr.
Bangs.

“Ah! and isn't it exactly, then, it is? What's the difference
betwixt seven and seven? Well, then, you see
it in the days o' the week itself. Seven 's a sacred number.
Seven Orders there are, and seven Sacraments, the
same way; is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, that's 's clear 's glass in 'n 'clipse o' the sun,
's the man said.”

“Then, Order, Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Penance,
Extreme Unction, Matrimony 's seven. Baptism
gives righteousness, and faith and the like; and Confirmation
strengthens all, again; and then the Holy Eucharist”—

“That's what ye have for the Lord's Supper, I s'pose.
Mass, I guess ye call it,” said Mr. Bangs.

“Indeed, y'are very right. It's the Unbloody Sacrifice,
also. Ye've heard some o' those things the Protestants
speak against the truth, about transubstantiation; but
when ye think, once, isn't God almighty? I think the
like of you,—a man that's in the right way,—wouldn't
find any difficulty at all, in that. He says, `This is my
Body,—hoc est corpus meum,' literally; and it must be,
literally, his body.”

“I want to know the whole o' that,” said the American.
“I heard two fullahs arguing t'other day, Catholic and
Protestant. Catholic said p'ty much 's you've said, just
now, Latin ('f 'tis Latin) 'n' all; 'n' then the other man
said, `Look ahere; when the Lord fus' said that, He had
His body on Him; now the bread, 't He said 't of, wa'n't
a piece o' that body; 'n' if 't wa'n't, then 't wa'n't His
literal body,—('f that's what ye call it.)—That's what
the man said.”

“And do you think, was he the first man ever said
that? no, nor won't be the last ayther, so long as the
Devil 's in the world. That's what I'm saying; ye can
answer that this way: `God's word is true, and Himself's
almighty, and so, where's the trouble of Him making it
what He says?' Doesn't He make all things? and how
does He make them? Isn't it by His word?” This
was said with real solemnity and dignity.

“That's what I want,” said Mr. Bangs. “I want a
real good answer, 'n case I meet him again. He'll say
't's 'genst the senses”—

“And are the senses to be trusted in a miracle, I'd
like to know?” inquired the Priest, with great animation
and spirit.

“Wh' I take it, the senses 'r' the only things 't is a
mirycle to,—that is, 't's what the man 'd say,” said Mr.
Bangs; “he'd say 't's meant for the senses, l'k' the wine
at the marriage, there”—

“I'm thinking its more than once you're speaking with
that man; but isn't it the greater faith to believe against
every sense and all senses?” asked the Priest, putting a
deep question.

“Wall, that's a home-thrust, 's ye may say. Don'
b'lieve the fullah 'd answer that, 'f he sh'd try t'll 's head
come off.”

“And 'twas with the Scripture, I did it, too, that
they're always crying out for,” said the Priest, complacently.

“Wall, the's a good many fellahs take 'n' go by Scripture,
one way 'r 'nother. Th'r' ain't one of 'em 't takes
th' ben'fit o' th' 'nsolvent Act, 't don't git a good house 'n'
property f' life;—'cordin' to Scripcher 'bout `failin' 'n'
gittin' int' everlastin' habitations,' s'pose they'd say.
The's a man wanted t' git a lot o' money t' put up s'm'
buildins,—great pr'fessor, too,—took 'n' borrowed all
'round, 'n' then he failed, f'r ever-so-many thousand dollars,
(guess 'twas two hundred thousand,) 'n', come t' look
into it, he hadn't got 'ny money to pay, 'n' one mortgage
piled atop 'f 'nother, 'n' no doin' any thing,—'said the
buildins were 'n ornament t' th' town; and he'd gone on
'n faith, 'n' he didn't know 'ny better, 'n' what-not,—knoo
'nough not to lose any thing himself, though;—wall, a
friend 'f his, when the' come to see nobody 'd git any
thing, says to him, `Look-a-here! 'Thought you's a
pr'fessor; don't the Bible say, Owe no man any thing?'
So says he, `I don't owe any man; 'took 'n' borrowed 't
all o' widows 'n' orphans.'—He wanted it set down on
his head-stone, 't he w's 'providential instr'ment f' puttin'
up those buildins.”

“See the badness o' private judgment, now, tow'rds
having the judgment o' the Church!” said Father
O'Toole.

“Wall, that kind o' private judgment ain't wuth much,
I guess. Common sense ain't private judgment; 'fact, 't's
the common judgment o' the Whole. 'Guess private
judgment 's 'bout 's good 's any, 'f 't sticks to common
sense. Church wouldn't be much, 'thout that, I guess.—
's I was sayin',—'bout that text, there, `My Body;' 'taint

the look, no' the smell, no' the taste, no' the feel, no' the
heft; but 't's IT.

“'S a woman 'n our town,—('taint the man, this time,)
—name 's Peggy Mansur,—'t any rate 't's what th' uset
to call her,—good-natured, poor, shiftless soul,—never did
'ny harm; uset t' take 'n everlastin' sight o' snuff,—
Mac—guess 'twas Scotch snuff, come to think;—wall,
she b'lieved p'ty much 's this Bible says, here,” (taking
his Douay out of his hat,) “'bout Peter, 'n Matthew, sixteenth,
eighteenth, 'n a note 't the bottom, 't says 'same 's
if He'd said, 'n English, `Thou art a rock;' on'y she went
on 'n' b'lieved 't Peter was a rock, cause the Lord said
so, 'n' He's almighty. A fullah said to her, `Look a-here;
do you mean to say that they could 'a' set to work on him
'n' hammered 'n' hacked 'n' what not, and made part 'f a
meetin'-house out of him?' `Why, no, I guess I don't,'
s's she. `I don't mean 't he looked so, 'r' acted so; but
I mean 't he wus so.' `Wall,' s's the man”—

“I thought I hard ye saying it wasn't the man it was,
this time,” interposed the Priest, as the familiar sound
occurred in Mr. Bangs's story.

The interrupted story-teller smiled and knit his brows
slightly closer, and looking still to the left of the object to
whom he addressed himself, explained:—

“Oh! This 's away out 'n Mass'chusetts, 'n the States,
this was. Wall, they spoke up, 'n' says to her, s'd they,
`Why, look a-here, aunty, Wus't his skin, 't was rock?'
so s's she, `I guess not.' `Wall, wus't his flesh?' `Guess
not,' s's she. `Wus't his blood?' `Ruther guess not,'
s's she. `Wus't his cords?' `Guess not.' `Wall, wus't
his stomuch?' `Guess not.' `Wus't his brains?' `Guess
not.' Finally, she guessed 't wa'n't 's eyes, nor 's ears, nor
's nose, 'n I dono what all; and finally they come to ask

'f 'twas his bones, 'n' she didn't know but 't might be 's
bones. But s's they, `Aunty, bones ain't a man, and 't
looks l'k' pleggy small p'taters, to come down t' that. You
said the hull man's rock, when ye b'gan 'th him. `Wall,' s's
she, `I say so, now.' `Then you don't say 't 's his bones
more 'n the rest-part 'f him?' `No, I don't,' s's she.
`Wall,' s's they, `Look a-here, if twa'n't 'ny part 'f him,
't wus rock, 'n' you say th' man 's rock, what wus the' o'
rock 'bout th' man?' `Why, 't's THE MAN HIMSELF,'
s's she.”

“Wall, I tell ye, Father O'Toole, the' wa'n't one o' the
whole boodle 'f 'em c'd answer that; 'n she shovelled th'
snuff 'nto her nose, l'k' a dam breakin' away, 'n kep' a
laughin', t'll she got tired.'

Mr. Bangs's illustrations were all of the most left-handed
sort, that did not at all explain or enforce the
things they were brought to illustrate; but rather the
contrary. The Priest saw this, and answered, with a
view to it.

“Y'are not accustomed, it's likely, to discussions of the
sort,—I mane if your mind is just drawing the way ye
said it was. I'm thinking it wanders, a little, just now;
maybe it's better we leave off now, for it's my opinion
ye've got just about as much as ye can cleverly bear.
One thing I'd like to know: Are ye desiring to be converted,
as I understood ye were?”

“My wishes haven't changed one mite, sir,” said the
American.

“I think ye'll do, for a bit, with the teaching ye've had.
It's important to make an impression upon ye with the
solemnities of religion, for it's a great hold they take upon
a man, and, though I speak it with reverence, it's my solemn
opinion there's few places where ye'd be like to get

a stronger impression upon ye than just in my own
church, though there's larger in the country, doubtless,
and finer, in some unimportant particulars; but I'll take
ye to high mass, on Sunday next,—(the day's Wednesday,)—and
I think ye'll be struck with surprise and devotion,
all at wance, if ye give yer mind to it.”

“Jesso,” said Mr. Bangs, bowing his head at the same
time. “'Want to see the real thing. Have heard 't aint
alw's what 't should be;—that is, 'n the fixins, I mean;—
holy candles and what not. 'Tell me the' don't have real
candles, but things t' look like 'em. 'Taint so 'th you,
'course. Wh' I know a lot 'f 's good candles 's any 'n the
universe, f' next to nothing.” So Mr. Bangs departed.