University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
PHILOSOPHY OF “BOOK-L'ARNING.”

Dick of Tophet returned to Muddicoat Castle the night of
the day when Inglehardt departed. He received the report of
Brunson in silence; listened, but without answer or comment, to
a message which his captain had left for him; and then passed
into the den where he kept with the others, and ordered a bowl
of coffee by way of appetizer for the evening. Dick of Tophet
was singularly grave for his companions — not so morose as
usual — but close, more reserved, and more serious. But he had
lost his taste for neither cards nor Jamaica; and, in these resources,
Muddicoat Castle was well supplied. They soon —
Dick, Brunson, Halliday, and Nelson — began to game, and
Dick was lucky, as usual; but, as Brunson phrased it, he was
still in the dumps.

“What's hit you on an end, Dick?” was the query of “the
Trailer” — the only one of the party who could have ventured
on such a liberty with this savage customer.

“H—l, I reckon!” was the reply of the swamp-diabolus.
“It wants me to stir up the brimstone that's a-boiling for the
good of all of you.”

“Well, don't make it too hot for summer-time,” said “the
Trailer” coolly. “Ef it's a hard winter, a blaze of brimstone
mout be as comforting as one of lightwood; but, for the summer-time,
it's a wasteful extravagance. — Is that your lead?”

“Yes; we'll take what you kin give us!” — and the game
proceeded, and the stakes were lifted, and, as was usually the
case, fortune seemed to favor Dick of Tophet.

“Well, the d—l sarves you faithfully, Dick, even ef he does
call upon you, now-and-then, to stir up his fires. You rake up
our shillings jest as ef you had a born, nateral right to 'em.”

“Well, I spends 'em as fast as I gits 'em, and you always
has a share. I'm a wasteful pusson. You all owes me more, I
reckon, than you ever kin pay me. I hope you keep it in recollection.”

“Wait tell I gits my pay,” said Brunson; and the rest echoed
him, while acknowledging their indebtedness.

“Oh, never mind the pay! So long as I has, I don't want.
But business is gitting mighty dull, fellows. Pickings is hard
to come at now. We've gutted the country pretty much.”

“Did you pick up any fellows?”

“A few pokes — not much; but they hev horses. I reckon
I'll get a few more to-morrow. Griffith has his eye on three
skunks that hev got to be mighty ragged in the swamps. But,
onless thyar's a leetle bait of gould on the hook, the fish don't
bite free these times. And whar's the gould to come from, or the
silver either, jest now? I'm jubous things ain't guine right with
the red-coats. Our cappin's mighty close with his money. It's
all work and no pay, jest now; and a man makes a breeze at
the resk of his neck every side.”

“Well, I'm glad you're considerin' the matter, Dick,” quoth
the Trailer, “for, you see, where we is now, it's onpossible to
make a raise any how, and we kaint hope for much out of our
rig'lar pay. Thyar's no windfalls; and besides, Dick, this
squatting here, jest only to watch them two captivated prisoners,
is a mighty tiresome business.”

“That's true; but, you see, ef we kin bring this tough ole
Cappin Travis to our tarms, we gits well paid in the eend.
That's sartain. Jest so soon as he's consentin' to his darter's
marriage with Inglehardt, then our cappin will come down,
handsome, with the gould picters of King George and the old
dragon, out of the ole cappin's pockets.”

The Trailer reported the scene of the previous night with
fidelity and some force. Dick listened to it with great gravity.

“Well,” said he, “I'd rather we could fix it so as to make
the starvation fall on the father, rather than that young cock;
for I like the fellow. He's got a big heart in his leetle buzzom,

and it rather goes again me to harness him down so tight. But
we've got to squeeze somebody to git the gould. We kaint do
without that. Even the buzzards must be fed, you know.”

“But a man ought to git better feeding than a buzzard, Dick.”

“En so I'm thinking all the time; but how's it that one man
will git the feed of twenty, and another man won't git his own
poor share of one, though he has all the trouble and the resk?
It's owing to the harrystocracy that keeps all the book-l'arning
to themselves. That's the how. I wonder, when the fighting's
done, how we're to git along? Do you feel like turning ploughman,
Rafe? You've been a blacksmith afore now, Ben Nelson;
but I reckon you never loved the trade too much. And you've
been a sort of overseer, in your time, Halliday, but I reckon
you never was no great shakes at planting! What's to become
of we all? That's the puzzle. As for me, I do believe I'm not
good for nothing but skrimmaging.”

“And I don't see, old fellow,” quoth Brunson, “that skrimmaging
ever did much for you, more than scouting for me! It
filled your pockets one day, may be; but somebody else come
along the next, and skrimmaged you empty agin.”

“Ah! it's owing to the want of book-l'arning. Them harrystocrats
keep all the books to themselves; but we'll see! I
reckon books ain't hard to l'arn, efter all; for, you sees, a poor
leetle brat of a boy, knee-high to a young turkey — why, he
kin l'arn to read, and spell, and write; and I don't see what's
to hender a grown man from book-l'arning, when he knows so
much more than a boy. It ought to be more easy to him.”

“Ay, that sounds like reason and sense, Dick; but, mout be,
he knows too much to l'arn from books. 'Tain't so easy to
break in an old woman or an old mule. You hev to begin with
'em before the muscle gits too tough, or they won't feel the
kairb, and they don't l'arn the right paces.”

“Well, I don't feel too stiff in the j'ints yit to try a tumble
in strange fields,” said Dick of Tophet, “and I ain't sich a
bloody fool as to kick against l'arning, with the idee that I
knows everything a'ready. Some things I knows jest like a
book, and nobody kin teach me; but thyar's a hundred other
things, I reckon, that I knows nothing about, no more than a
blind old millhorse. — Hand up that Jimmaker, Halliday — I'm

a-drying up for want of a drink! Ah, boys, ef we know'd as
much about book-l'arning as we knows about whiskey and Jimmaker,
I reckon we wouldn't be hyar to-night, playing second-fiddle
to any cappin of mounted men in the whole British
army.”

“Or the rebels' either! That's a most redikilous truth,
Dick.”

“Yes; but what's more redikilous than to think of a great
grown man like me having to ax a brat of a boy, knee-high to
a bantam, to read a book to him, and tell him what's the sense
of it? That's what I call a most cruel, redikilous thing — a
deuced sight more redikilous than anything else I knows on!
Yit, that's a sight to be seed everywhar, jest for the looking
out for it. Them harrystocrats makes it a p'int to edicate their
sons in book-l'arning, and their darters too; and that's more
redikilous yit. That a woman-child, that I could squeeze up
to a mummy by jest one gripe in these five fingers hyar — that
she should be able to read out of books and written papers, and
I not good for nothing in that line! Thyar's something quite
agin nater in these doings. — Ben Nelson, h'ist up that Jimmaker.”

And thus, drinking, gaming, and lamenting his educational
deficiencies, after his own fashion, Dick of Tophet brooded for
two mortal hours in a manner very new to his habit. Suddenly,
at the conclusion of a game, he pushed away the cards,
swallowed another mouthful of rum, and rose from the table.
In doing so, a book fell out of his pocket.

“Pick it up, Ben!” said Dick.

“Why, it's a book, sargeant!” exclaimed Nelson.

“I wonder how you come to know that so quick?”

“Well, I sees it's a book, sargeant.”

“Yes, I knows you sees it, and feels it, too; but how you
come so quick to the knowing of what 'tis, that's the puzzle!
I didn't think you hed got quite so much edication.”

“But whar did you git it, Dick?” demanded “the Trailer,”
showing some little curiosity.

“Whar? well, from a woman, I reckon.”

“And what air you guine to do with it?”

“Gut it ef I kin, and see what l'arning I kin git out of it.

I wants to hear what's in it, and jest see what sort of stuff it is
that makes a harrystocrat better than a common man.”

“And do you think sich a book as that's guine to help you?”

“Why not? I reckon there's something of l'arning in all
books, and they all ain't jest alike, for they calls them by different
names. Now, the woman what gin me this book, she's a
good woman, and she says it's a good book. So I reckon it
must be full of precious fine l'arning. But look here, Rafe:
hyar's something mighty curious, to begin. Jest look at that
picter thar, of the poor feller guine up hill, with that great bundle
on his back, and no we'pon; and do you see what an etarnal
ten-footer of a chap stands ready for him, with a most amazin'
big club—hickory, I reckon! Now, what's the little fellow's
chaince, without no we'pon at all, with a great bundle on his
back, and agin that all-fired ten-footer up thar?”

“Well, I reckon he's got no more chaince than a sucking
kaif [calf] agin a buffalo! Why don't he cut a stick out of the
woods, and throw off the bundle?”

“Ah! that's what he'd like to do; but he kaint. He's got
to mount hill, and fight the ten-footer jest as he is, and he
kaint fling off the bundle — not yit.”

“Then he's a gone coon.”

“No, by the hokies! The old lady tell'd me, that he got off
safe, and got up the hill, a'ter awhile, tho' he had to carry that
bundle in all his battles.”

“That was hard business.”

“That bundle, Rafe Brunson, and hyar you too, Ben Nelson
— and hyar you too, Halliday; that bundle was all of his sins,
packed hard like a tobacco-hogshead — clapt tight on his shoulders,
and sticking faist, like a pitch-plaister, to the naked skin!
And I reckon the meaning is, that it's a man's sins that keeps
him from gitting up, and gitting on, in the world; and leaves
him at the marcy of sich fellows as that ten-footer you sees upon
the hill. What I wants to know, now, is jest how the poor
leetle chap got shet of his great big bundle. Now, boys, what's
it keeps us down hill? Hev we got our big bundles on our
shoulders, and don't know it?”

The question was a poser. No one attempted to answer it.
The condition of Poor Pilgrim, however, occasioned no small

speculation among our reprobates, who found it no ways easy
to give any but a literal and physical interpretation to the allegorical
and spiritual problem which the inquiries involved.
And, after a long and curious examination of the picture, and a
fruitless turning of the leaves, Dick of Tophet finally closed it,
stuck the volume into his pocket, and said:—

“Now, boys, a swig all round, and hyar's that we may git our
edication without flinging away our knapsacks!”

They drank heartily to the wish, but had scarcely finished,
before Halliday suddenly put in:—

“I say, sergeant, I sees how the little fellow got up the hill,
and upset the ten-footer.”

“Eh! how?”

“Why he never showed his pistols, tell he was close upon
the inemy; then he down'd him suddently, with a bullet.”

“Well, I reckon that was the way; for, you see, ef he warn't
quite sure that he hed the we'pon, at hand, to do the big fellow's
business, he'd never ha' gone up hill so bravely. He'd 'a' fought
shy, and fetch'd a compass round the hill, or snaked off among
the bushes out of sight. I reckon 'twas jest so. He had the
pistols in his buzzom. But no! Mother Avinger tell'd me solemn,
he had never no we'pon at all.”

“So you got the book from Mother Avinger, Dick?” said
the Trailer, looking curiously into the other's eyes. Dick of
Tophet scowled at him in return.

“Yes: you worked it out of me.”

“It slipt out, you mean. What I wonder is, Dick, that you
ever went thar, knowing what we knows?”

“And I wonder myself, Rafe — I do. 'Twas jest as the
notion tuk me. So I went. I carried her a peck of salt.”

“The d—l you did! Well, there's no eend to the wonders.
And she tuk it?”

“Yes.” The answer was rather churlishly given, and Dick
of Tophet turned away, saying — “'Nough of that, Rafe.
Hyar's to you, boys, and a good sleep for all.”

He finished his can of liquor as he spoke, and, with a slightly
uncertain gait, stepped out into the open air. He walked
about the hammock, to and fro, for the space of half an hour —
seeming undecided somewhat in his purposes; at length, as if

he had reached conclusion, or resolve, he strode into the cabin
of the Blodgits.

“Well, Pete, how's the captivated boy?”

“Well, I reckon. He's thar.”

“Open: I wants a leetle talk with him.”

The next moment found him in the straw and darkness of
poor Harry Travis's dungeon. The boy seemed to start from
a doze, and murmured out, in broken tones:—

“I'll ride now, mother — the horse is at the door.”

“He's a-dreaming of home, and his horse, and his mammy.
That's the good of sleep. It makes a fellow so rich in his own
conceit. It gits him out of captivation. He's on horseback,
and jest ready to ride where the devil pleases.”

“Who's that?” demanded Henry Travis, now thoroughly
awakened.

“Well, it might be the old blackamoor devil himself, for all
you kin see in this place. How's you gitting on, boy?”

“Well,” was the indifferent answer.

“Hello, out thar, Pete Blodgit; bring's a light. Put some
knots into this old chimney hyar, and let's see if we kin make
it blaze.”

The first thought of Henry, when he distinguished the voice
of his brutal captor, was that he had come to murder him. He
had heard, and read, of such a fate for young captives, like himself,
who had lived too long for their neighbors. The poor boy
thought of the bright sky, and the green earth, the woods in
which he hunted, the waters where he fished; — and he said to
himself — “I shall see them no more;” and he thought of his
sister, and mother, father, and Willie Sinclair; and his heart
swelled within him, and his emotion became too great for
thought. And then he prayed silently — prayed for God's protection,
failing that of man; but, just then, the idea of Willie
Sinclair rushing in to help him, made him feel involuntarily
around him for a weapon, in the idea of doing something by
which to help himself. But he felt nothing but his straw; and
a deep moan broke from him without restraint, as he laid himself
down upon the straw in despair.

“Don't grunt, boy — don't grunt; a brave young cock-sparrow,
sich as you shouldn't grunt because you're captivated.

Wait a bit tell we kin git a light, and then you'll brighten up.
Hurrah, Pete.”

The torch was brought, and other brands added to it, in the
clay chimney, and soon the little den was conspicuously alight
in its farthest corners.

“Thar, my brave little fellow, what do you say to that? The
sun's a-coming out, you think. But 'tain't near to-day yit; and
I want some talk with you. — Git out, Pete Blodgit, and go the
rounds; and see that you keep a bright look out, tell I wants
you agin. And tell your 'spectable mammy to put her rheumatiz
to sleep, tell I'm out of hearing of it; you hear. Shet
the door, and skip, or limp, jest as you pleases.”

Somewhat surprised, Henry Travis was now sitting up in his
straw, and watching every movement of the ruffian. There was
neither bench nor table in the den. Dick of Tophet went out
and returned with a bench.

“Thar,” said he, “sit thar, my young un; let's have a leetle
talk together. I reckon you don't much care about it yourself;
but I don't know either, seeing as how you hain't got much
ch'ice of comp'ny. It's better 'cording to my idee, to have the
devil himself to talk to sometimes, than nobody at all!”

By this time, poor Henry had pretty much arrived at the
same conclusion, and he was the more reconciled to look with
toleration upon his present visiter, from that paralyzing and
prostrating sense of utter loneliness, which is so oppressive to
the young.

“You've got l'arning, my boy, I reckon? You've got your
edication?”

“No.”

“What! they hain't l'arned you to read in books, handwrite,
and printing, yit? You kaint read books? Why, what
the — are you good for?”

Henry was half inclined to answer `nothing'; but a growing
sense of policy prompted him to think better of it, and he replied
— however coldly and abruptly — civilly and to the
point:—

“Yes, I can read and write; but I haven't got my education
yet.”

“Oh, you mean you hain't finished gitting it. There's more,
and better, whar the other comes from? That's it, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that's what I thought. I s'pose, a man, though he's
never so l'arned, kin still be l'arning something every day he
gits older. I knows that myself, in fighting, and scouting, and
sarcumventions. Why, thar's `The Trailer' now, that knows
as much about scouting as the whole British army, yit he says
he l'arns some new sarcumventions every time he beats about
the bush. You, I 'spec', will be wanting some day to be a lawyer;
and you must have the l'arning for that; or a doctor; or
something else that you may airn the guineas by. But you
knows enough for me now. See thar! I've brought you a
book, and I wants you to read in it for me. See, thar's a pictur
— a man going up hill, with a great bundle on his back, and
no we'pon, to fight a ten-footer! What do you make out of
that, I wonder? But, I s'pose the book'll tell in the print.
Thyar's some writing thar, on the white leaf; — what's that
writing first? I'll see what you knows.”

We need not say that the surprise of Henry Travis was duly
increased by this application; and he was not at first persuaded
to comply with the wishes of his captor. He was about to fling
the proffered book from him, and to break out into bitter speech;
but the same little suggestion of policy, which prompted him to
answer the ruffian civilly, now served to reconcile him to the
proposed exercise. Besides, to say the truth, poor Henry
longed for a book — no matter of what sort — even more than
he longed for a companion. A book, in his situation, was the
safest of companions, the most honest, the least likely to deceive
and defraud the hope — the companion from whom he
could have no reason to fear treachery. Yes, he gazed at the
book with eyes of hunger, even as he gazed at Dick of Tophet
with eyes of surprise. While he hesitated, the other resumed:

“Come, boy, don't be huffish. 'Tain't much to do, ef you kin
do it. You don't like me, I knows, and you hain't got any good
reason to like me; that I knows too — and I don't always like
myself; and, you see, I reckon, that I'm a leetle in liquor jest
now. Jimmaker's an artful drink. It sneeks mighty soon into
the brain. Never you mind, drunk or sober, I wants you to read

to me some of that book. I don't reckon I could stand it all.
'Twould be too strong, like the Jimmaker; but a leetle now, on
trial, I may say. Come, my lad, jest begin a bit, and let me
hear how it sounds. And, first of all, jest read that writing
thar.”

The boy took the book and read the writing — written in a
boy's large hand — as follows:—

Dick of Tophet looked stricken — aghast — as he heard the
writing read.

“Is that the writin'?” he asked.

“That's all.”

“Well, I reckon you kin read. I reckon it's thar, jest as you
say. And 'twas his book the old woman gin me! And she
never made a wry face! And she never said a hard word to
me!”

This, though spoken aloud, was spoken unconsciously — to
himself.

And the forehead of the ruffian settled down between his
palms, while he sat upon the rushes; and he seemed to meditate,
forgetful of the presence of the captive. Henry's eyes,
meanwhile, alternated between the face of his keeper, and the
pages of the book within his grasp. The book was new to the
boy; — the title struck him — the picture awakened his curiosity,
as it had done that of Dick of Tophet. He, too, was
curious to see how the little fellow, struggling up hill, with such
a great pack on his back, was to escape the encounter with the
fierce, well-armed giant, who held the only pass over which he
could travel.

Dick of Tophet looked up, suddenly, while the boy was turning
the pages.

“A woman,” quoth he, “is a mighty strange animal. What
does you think, my boy? But you knows nothing of women
yit. Do you reckon a woman curses out loud, or only in her
heart?”

“I don't suppose a woman curses at all. I never heard
one curse.”

“I don't know. 'Twould be nater only, with some of them
to curse; that is, when they've got good cause. Is you the
only son of your mammy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, ef I was to cut your throat now, or make a dig, with
this knife, atwixt your ribs, so as to let your witals out; — do
you reckon you're mammy wouldn't curse me?”

The boy shuddered at the horrible suggestion, but did not
answer. He could not.

“Well, I reckon you kaint say. You never thought of that!
But, don't be skear'd; I'm not a meaning to skear or hurt you;
and we won't talk any more about sich bloody things. But,
jest you read a bit for me, and we'll see how we like the notion
of the article. It's a good book, the old woman said, and I
reckon it must be, seeing as how she gin it to her own son, for
his birthday. Jest read a bit now — begin at the beginning;
and we may onderstand how that poor little fellow with the
bundle took his first start up hill.”

And the boy read patiently for an hour by the flickering light
of the pine-torches in the fireplace, till his young head drooped
over the pages in which his young heart had already begun to
take an interest. But nature was temporarily exhausted. As
his voice faltered, Dick of Tophet looked up.

“You're sleepy, I reckon, boy; and so—”

“No,” said the boy, raising himself up; “but I'm so hungry!—”

“Hungry, is it? Humph! well, that's an ailing that kin be
cured, I reckon. You've hed your 'lowance for the day; but
night-work must hev its own 'lowance. I'll git you a bite, boy
— I will!”

And he did so. A bit of hoecake, and a slice of cold, fried
bacon — the latter an unwonted luxury in his dungeon — were
brought to sustain the boy in his up-hill labors with Poor Pilgrim.
He devoured the meat with famishing eagerness.

“Well, I reckon you've done enough for the book-l'arning
to-night,” said Dick of Tophet. “I kaint say that I sees what
it's all a-coming to; but I reckon we'll soon hear about that fight

with the ten-footer on the hill! Ef I feels like it, I'll come
agin, and we'll hev another s'arch into the l'arning; and you
shill hev another bait for the night-work. And so I leaves
you to sleep, and dream of your mammy, and what you pleases
besides.”

“Won't you leave me the book?” asked the boy.

“No! I reckon I can't trust it; for, 'twas a gift to me — and
it might hang another man to steal it, you know, as the writing
said. So I won't leave it, my young chicken — not this time!”

Strange! but poor Henry slept better than usual for his supper,
and, so far as he knew, never dreamed at all. Stranger
still, his heart felt lighter and more hopeful, even from the
presence of the dreary, rough, brutal aspect of Dick of Tophet
in his dungeon. But humanity is a wonderful dependant; and,
when we think of it, none of its eccentricities may be considered
strange, when they are moved by its need for sympathy.”