University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
PHILOSOPHY OF FIGHTING.

“You're not a fighter, Bill Hinkley, and that's about the
worst fault that I can find against you.”

Such was the beginning of a dialogue between the cousins
some three days after the affair which was narrated in
our last chapter. The two young men were at the house
of the speaker, or rather at his mother's house; where, a
favorite and only son, he had almost supreme dominion.
He was putting his violin in tune, and the sentences were
spoken at intervals with the discordant scraps of sound
which were necessarily elicited by this unavoidable musical
operation. These sounds might be said to form a running
accompaniment for the dialogue, and, considering the sombre
mood of the person addressed, they were, perhaps, far
more congenial than any more euphonious strains would
have been.

“Not a fighter!” said the other; “why, what do you
mean?”

“Why, just what I say — you are not a fighter. You
love reading, and fiddling, and fishing sometimes, and sometimes
dancing, and hunting, and swimming; but I'm pretty
certain you don't love fighting. You needn't contradict,
Bill — I've been thinking the matter over; and I'm sure of
it. I recollect every battle or scrape you ever were in,
from the time we went to old Chandler's, and I tell you,
you're not a fighter — you don't love fighting!”

This was concluded with a tremendous scrape over the
strings, which seemed to say as well as scrape could speak
—“There can be no mistake on the subject — I've said it.”

“If I knew exactly what you were driving at,” said the
other, “perhaps I might answer you. I never pretended
to be a fighter; and as for loving it, as I love eating, drinking,
books, fiddling, and dancing, why that needs no answer.
Of course I do not, and I don't know who does.”

“There it is. I told you. I knew it. You'd sooner do
almost anything than fight.”

“If you mean that I would submit to insult,” said the
more peaceable cousin, with some displeasure in his tones
and countenance, “sooner than resent it, you are very much
mistaken. It wouldn't be advisable even for you to try the
experiment.”

“Poh, poh, Bill, you know for that matter that it
wouldn't take much trying. I'd lick you as easily now as
I did when we were boys together.”

“We are boys no longer,” said the other gravely.

“I'm as much a boy as ever, so far as the licking capacity
calls for boyhood. I've pretty much the same spirit
now that I had then, and ten times the same strength and
activity. But don't look so blue. I'm not going to try my
strength and spirit and activity on you. And don't suppose,
Bill Hinkley, that I mean to say you're anything of
a coward, or that you'd submit to any open insult; but
still I do say, you're not only not fond of fighting, but
you're just not as much inclined that way as you should
be.”

“Indeed! what more would you have? Do you not say
that I would not submit to insult? — that I show the proper
degree of courage in such cases?”

“Not the proper degree. That's the very question.
You're not quick enough. You wait for the first blow.
You don't step out to meet the enemy. You look for him
to come to you.”

“Surely! I look upon fighting as brutal — to be waited
for, not sought — to be resorted to only in compliance with
necessity — to be avoided to the last!”

“No such thing — all a mistake. Fighting and the desire
to get on the shoulders of our neighbors is a natural
passion. We see that every day. The biggest boy licks
the one just below him, he whips the next, and so down,
and there's not one that don't lick somebody and don't
stand licked himself — for the master licks the biggest.
The desire to fight and flog is natural, and this being the
case, it stands to reason that we must lick our neighbor or
he'll be sure to lick us.”

“Pshaw! you speak like a boy yet. This is schoolhouse
philosophy.”

“And very good philosophy too. I'm thinking the
schoolhouse and the play-ground is pretty much a sort of
world to itself. It's no bad show of what the world without
is; and one of its first lessons and that which I think
the truest, is the necessity of having a trial of strength
with every new-comer; until we learn where he's to stand
in the ranks, number one or number nothing. You see
there just the same passions, though, perhaps, on a small
scale, that we afterward find to act upon the big world of
manhood. There, we fight for gingerbread, for marbles,
top and ball; not unfrequently because we venture to look
at our neighbor's sweetheart; and sometimes, quite as
often, for the love of the thing and to know where the
spirit and the sinew are. Well, isn't that just what the
big world does after us? As men, we fight for bigger play-things,
for pounds, where before we fought for pence — for
gold where before we fought for coppers — for command of
a country instead of a schoolyard; for our wives instead
of sweethearts, and through sheer deviltry and the love of
the thing, when there's nothing else to fight about, just the
same as we did in boyhood.”

“But even were you to prove, and I to admit, that it is

so, just as you say, that would not prove the practice to
be a jot more proper, or a jot less brutal.”

“Begging your pardon, Bill, it proves it to be right and
proper, and accordingly, if brutal, a becoming brutality.
If this is the natural disposition of boys and men, don't
you see that this schoolboy licking and fighting is a necessary
part of one's moral education? It learns one to use
his strength, his limbs and sinews, as he may be compelled
to use them, in self-defence, in every future day of his life.
You know very well what follows a boy at school who
doesn't show himself ready to bung up his neighbor's eye
the moment he sees it at a cross-twinkle. He gets his own
bunged up. Well, it's just the same thing when he gets
to be a man. If you have a dispute with your enemy, I
don't say that you shouldn't reason with him, but I do say
that your reasoning will have very little effect upon him
unless he sees that you are able and willing to write it in
black and blue upon his sheepskin. And what better way
could you find to show him that, unless by giving him
word and blow, the blow first, as being the most impressive
argument?”

“You must have been dreaming of these subjects last
night,” said the grave cousin — “you seem to have them
unusually well cut and dried.”

“I haven't been dreaming about it, Bill, but I confess
I've been thinking about it very seriously all night, and
considering all the arguments that I thought you would
make use of against it. I haven't quite done with my discussion,
which I took up entirely for your benefit.”

“Indeed! you are quite philanthropic before breakfast;
but let us hear you?”

“You talk of the brutality of fighting — now in what
does that brutality consist? Is it not in breaking noses,
kicking shins, bunging up eyes, and making one's neighbor
feel uncomfortable in thigh, and back, and arms, and

face, and skin, and indeed, everywhere, where a big fist or
a cowhide shoe may plant a buffet or a bruise?”

“Quite a definition, Ned.”

“I'm glad you think so: for if it's brutal in the boy to
do so to his schoolmate, is it less so for the schoolmaster
to do the same thing to the boy that's under his charge?
He bruises my skin, makes my thighs, and arms, and back,
and legs, and face, and hands, ache, and if my definition be
a correct one, he is quite as brutal as the boys who do the
same thing to one another.”

“He does it because the boys deserve it, and in order to
make them obedient and active.”

“And when did a boy not deserve a flogging when he
gets licked by his companion?” demanded the other triumphantly
— “and don't the licking make him obedient,
and don't the kicking make him active? By gemini, I've
seen more activity from one chap's legs under the quick
application of another's feet, than I think anything else
could produce, unless it were feet made expressly for such
a purpose and worked by a steam-engine. That might
make them move something faster, but I reckon there
would be no need in such a case of any such improvement.”

“What are you driving at, Ned Hinkley? This is by
far the longest argument, I think, that you've ever undertaken.
You must be moved by some very serious considerations.”

“I am, and you'll see what I'm driving at after a little
while. I'm not fond of arguing, you know, but I look
upon the fighting principle as a matter to be known and
believed in, and I wish to make clear to you my reasons
for believing in it myself. You don't suppose I'd put down
the fiddle for a talk at any time if the subject was not a
serious one?”

“Give way — you have the line.”

“About the brutality of fighting then, there's another

thing to be said. Fighting produces good feeling — that is
to say supposing one party fairly to have licked another.”

“Indeed — that's new.”

“And true too, Bill Hinkley. It cures the sulks. It
lets off steam. It's like a thunderstorm that comes once in
a while, and drives away the clouds, and clears the skies
until all's blue again.”

“Black and blue.”

“No! what was black becomes blue. Chaps that have
been growling at each other for weeks and months lose their
bad blood—”

“From the nostrils!”

“Yes, from the nostrils. It's a sort of natural channel,
and runs freely from that quarter. The one crows and the
other runs and there's an end of the scrape and the sulks.
The weaker chap, feeling his weakness, ceases to be impudent;
the stronger, having his power acknowledged, becomes
the protector of the weak. Each party falls into his
place, and so far from the licking producing bad feeling it
produces good feeling and good humor; and I conclude
that one half of the trouble in the world, the squabbles between
man and man, woman and woman, boy and boy —
nay, between rival nations — is simply because your false
and foolish notions of brutality and philanthropy keep them
from coming to the scratch as soon as they should. They
hang off, growling and grumbling, and blackguarding, and
blaspheming, when, if they would only take hold, and come
to an earnest grapple, the odds would soon show themselves
— broken heads and noses would follow — the bad blood
would run, and as soon as each party found his level, the
one being finally on his back, peace would ensue, and there
would be good humor for ever after, or at least until the
blood thickened again. I think there's reason in my notion.
I was thinking it over half the night. I've thought
of it oftentimes before. I've never yet seen the argument
that's strong enough to tumble it.”

“Your views are certainly novel, Ned, if not sound.
You will excuse me if I do not undertake to dispute them
this morning. I give in, therefore, and you may congratulate
yourself upon having gained a triumph if not a convert?”

“Stop, stop, William Hinkley: you don't suppose I've
done all this talking only to make a convert or to gain a
triumph?”

“Why, that's your object in fighting, why not in arguing?”

“Well, that's the object of most persons when they dispute,
I know; but it is not mine. I wish to make a practical
application of my doctrine.”

“Indeed! who do you mean to fight now?”

“It's not for me to fight, it's for you.”

“Me!”

“Yes; you have the preference by rights, though if you
don't — and I'm rather sorry to think, as I told you at the
start, that the only fault I had to find with you is that you're
not a fighter — I must take your place and settle the difference.”

William Hinkley turned upon the speaker. The latter
had laid down the violin, having, in the course of the argument,
broken all its strings; and he stood now, unjacketed,
and still in the chamber, where the two young men
had been sleeping, almost in the attitude of one about to
grapple with an antagonist. The serious face of him whose
voice had been for war — his startling position — the unwonted
eagerness of his eye, and the ludicrous importance
which he attached to the strange principle which he had
been asserting — conquered for a moment the graver mood
of his love-sick companion, and he laughed outright at his
pugnacious cousin. The latter seemed a little offended.

“It's well you can laugh at such things, Bill Hinkley,
but I can't. There was a time when every mother's son
in Kentucky was a man, and could stand up to his rack

with the best. If he couldn't keep the top place, he went
a peg lower; but he made out to keep the place for which
he was intended. Then, if a man disliked his neighbor he
crossed over to him and said so, and they went at it like
men, and as soon as the pout was over they shook hands,
and stood side by side, and shoulder to shoulder, like true
friends, in every danger, and never did fellows fight better
against Indians and British than the same two men, that
had lapped muscles, and rolled in the grain together till
you couldn't say whose was whose, and which was which,
till the best man jumped up, and shook himself, and gave
the word to crow. After that it was all peace and good
humor, and they drank and danced together, and it didn't
lessen a man in his sweetheart's eyes, though he was licked,
if he could say he had stood up like a man, and was downed
after a good hug, because he couldn't help it. Now,
there's precious little of that. The chap that dislikes his
fellow, hasn't the soul to say it out, but he goes aside and
sneers and snickers, and he whispers things that breed
slanders, and scandals, and bad blood, until there's no
trusting anybody; and everything is full of hate and enmity
— but then it's so peaceful! Peaceful, indeed! as if
there was any peace where there is no confidence, and no
love, and no good feeling either for one thing or another.”

“Really, Ned, it seems to me you're indignant without
any occasion. I am tempted to laugh at you again.”

“No, don't. You'd better not.”

“Ha! ha! ha! I can not help it, Ned; so don't buffet
me. You forced me into many a fight when I was a boy,
for which I had no stomach; I trust you will not pummel
me yourself because the world has grown so hatefully pacific.
Tell me, in plain terms, who I am to fight now.”

“Who! who but Stevens? — this fellow Stevens. He's
your enemy, you say — comes between you and your sweetheart
— between you and your own mother — seems to look
down upon you — speaks to you as if he was wiser, and

better, and superior in every way — makes you sad and
sulky to your best friends — you growl and grumble at him
— you hate him — you fear him—”

“Fear him!”

“Yes, yes, I say fear him, for it's a sort of fear to skulk
off from your mother's house to avoid seeing him—”

“What, Ned, do you tell me that — do you begrudge me
a place with you here, my bed, my breakfast?”

“Begrudge! dang it, William Hinkley, don't tell me
that, unless you want me to lay heavy hand on your shoulder!”
— and the tears gushed into the rough fellow's eyes
as he spoke these words, and he turned off to conceal them.

“I don't mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that I
skulk — that I fear this man?”

“Begrudge!” muttered the other.

“Nay, forgive me; I didn't mean it. I was hasty when
I said so; but you also said things to provoke me. Do you
suppose that I fear this man Stevens?”

“Why don't you lick him then, or let him lick you, and
bring the matter to an ending? Find out who's the best
man, and put an end to the growling and the groaning. As
it now stands you're not the same person — you're not fit
company for any man. You scarcely talk, you listen to
nobody. You won't fish, you won't hunt: you're sulky
yourself and you make other people so!”

“I'm afraid, Ned, it wouldn't much help the matter even
if I were to chastise the stranger.”

“It would cure him of his impudence. It would make
him know how to treat you; and if the rest of your grievance
comes from Margaret Cooper, there's a way to end
that too.”

“How! you wouldn't have me fight her?” said William
Hinkley, with an effort to smile.

“Why, we may call it fighting,” said the advocate for
such wholesale pugnacity, “since it calls for quite as much
courage sometimes to face one woman as it does to face

three men. But what I mean that you should do with her
is to up and at her. Put the downright question like a
man, `will you?' or `won't you?' and no more beating about
the bush. If she says `no!' there's no more to be said, and
if I was you after that, I'd let Stevens have her or the
d—l himself, since I'm of the notion that no woman is
fit for me if she thinks me not fit for her. Such a woman
can't be worth having, and after that I wouldn't take her
as a gracious gift were she to be made twice as beautiful.
The track's before you, William Hinkley. Bring the stranger
to the hug, and Margaret Cooper too, if she'll let you.
But, at all events, get over the grunting and the growling,
the sulky looks, and the sour moods. They don't become
a man who's got a man's heart, and the sinews of a man.”

William Hinkley leaned against the fireplace with his
head resting upon his hand. The other approached him.

“I don't mean to say anything, Bill, or even to look anything,
that'll do you hurt. I'm for bringing your trouble
to a short cut. I've told you what I think right and reasonable,
and for no other man in Kentucky would I have taken
the pains to think out this matter as I have done. But you
or I must lick Stevens.”

“You forget, Ned. Your eagerness carries you astray.
Would you beat a man who offers no resistance?”

“Surely not.”

“Stevens is a non-combatant. If you were to slap John
Cross on one cheek he'd turn you the other. He'd never
strike you back.”

“John Cross and Stevens are two persons. I tell you
the stranger will fight. I'm sure of it. I've seen it in his
looks and actions.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do; I'm sure of it. But you must recollect besides,
that John Cross is a preacher, already sworn in, as I may
say. Stevens is only a beginner. Besides, John Cross is
an old man; Stevens, a young one. John Cross don't care

a straw about all the pretty girls in the country. He
works in the business of souls, not beauties, and it's very
clear that Stevens not only loves a pretty girl, but that he's
over head and heels in love with your Margaret—”

“Say no more. If he will fight, Ned Hinkley, he shall
fight!”

“Bravo, Bill — that's all that I was arguing for — that's
all that I want. But you must make at Margaret Cooper
also.”

“Ah! Ned, there I confess my fears.”

“Why, what are you afraid of?”

“Rejection!”

“Is that worse than this suspense — this anxiety — this
looking out from morning till night for the sunshine, and
this constant apprehension of the clouds — this knowing not
what to be about — this sulking — this sadding — this growling
— this grunting — this muling — this moping — this eternal
vinegar-face and ditchwater-spirit?”

“I don't know, Ned, but I confess my weakness — my
want of courage in this respect!”

“Psho! the bark's worse always than the bite. The fear
worse than the danger! Suspense is the very d—l! Did
you ever hear of the Scotch parson's charity? He prayed
that God might suspend Napoleon over the very jaws of
hell — but `Oh, Lord!' said he, `dinna let him fa' in!' To
my mind, mortal lips never uttered a more malignant
prayer!”