University of Virginia Library

1. I.
THE LAST NIGHT OF AUTUMN.

“PLEASE, ma'am, I want to come in out of the rain,”
said the dripping figure at the door.

“And who are you, sir?” demanded the lady, astonished;
for the bell had been rung familiarly, and, thinking
her son had come home, she had hastened to let him in,
but had met instead (at the front door of her fine house!)
this wretch.

“I 'm Fessenden's fool, please, ma'am,” replied the son
— not of this happy mother, thank Heaven! not of this
proud, elegant lady, O no! — but of some no less human-hearted
mother, I suppose, who had likewise loved her
boy, perhaps all the more fondly for his infirmity, — who
had hugged him to her bosom so many, many times, with
wild and sorrowful love, — and who, be sure, would not
have kept him standing there, ragged and shivering, in
the rain.

“Fessenden's fool!” cries the lady. “What 's your
name?”

“Please, ma'am, that 's my name.” Meekly spoken,
with an earnest, staring face. “Do you want me?”

“No; we don't want a boy with such a name as
that!”

And the lady scowls, and shakes her head, and half

closes the forbidding door, — not thinking of that other
mother's heart, — never dreaming that such a gaunt and
pallid wight ever had a mother at all. For the idea that
those long, lean hands, reaching far out of the short and
split coat-sleeves, had been a baby's pure, soft hands once,
and had pressed the white maternal breasts, and had
played with the kisses of the fond maternal lips, — it was
scarcely conceivable; and a delicate-minded matron, like
Mrs. Gingerford, may well be excused for not entertaining
any such distressing fancy.

“Wal! I 'll go!” And the youth turned away.

She could not shut the door. There was something in
the unresentful, sad face, pale cheeks, and large eyes, that
fascinated her; something about the tattered clothes, thin,
wet locks of flaxen hair, and ravelled straw hat-brim,
fantastic and pitiful. And as he walked wearily away,
and she saw the night closing in bleak and dark, and felt
the cold dash of the rain blown against her own cheek, she
concluded to take pity on him. For she was by no means
a hard-hearted woman; and though her house was altogether
too good for poor folks, and she really did n't know
what she should do with him, it seemed too bad to send
him away shelterless, that stormy November night. Besides,
her husband was a rising politician, — the public-spirited
Judge Gingerford, you know, — the eloquent philanthropist
and reformer; — and to have it said that his
door had been shut against a perishing stranger might
tarnish his reputation. So, as I remarked, she concluded
to have compassion on the boy, and, after duly weighing the
matter, to call him back. And she called, — though, as I
suspect, not very loud. Moreover, the wind was whistling
through the leafless shrubbery, and his rags were fluttering,
and his hat was flapping about his ears, and the rain
was pelting him; and just then the Judge's respectable

dog put his head out of the warm, dry kennel, and barked;
so that he did not hear, — the lady believed.

He had heard very well, nevertheless. Why did n't he
go back, then? Maybe, because he was a fool. More
likely, because he was, after all, human. Within that
husk of rags, under all that dull incumbrance of imperfect
physical organs that cramped and stifled it, there
dwelt a soul; and the soul of man knows its own worth,
and is proud. The coarsest, most degraded drudge still
harbors in his wretched house of clay a divine guest.
There is that in the convict and slave which stirs yet at
an insult. And even in this lank, half-witted lad, the
despised and outcast of years, there abode a sense of
inalienable dignity, — an immanent instinct that he, too,
was a creature of God, and worthy therefore to be treated
with a certain tenderness and respect, and not to be
roughly repulsed. This was strong in him as in you.
His wisdom was little, but his will was firm. And though
the house was cheerful and large, and had room and comfort
enough and to spare, rather than enter it, after he
had been flatly told he was not wanted, he would lie down
in the cold, wet fields and die.

“Certainly he will find shelter somewhere,” thought the
Judge's lady, discharging her conscience of the responsibility.
“But I am sorry he did n't hear.”

Was she very sorry?

She went back into her cosey, fire-lighted sewing-room,
and thought no more of the beggar-boy. And the watch-dog,
having barked his well-bred, formal bark, without
undue heat, — like a dog that knew the world, and had
acquired the tone of society, — stood a minute, important,
contemplating the drizzle from the door of his kennel, out
of which he had not deigned to step, then stretched himself
once more on his straw, gave a sigh of repose, and

curled himself up, with his nose to the air, in an attitude
of canine enjoyment, in which it was to be hoped no
inconsiderate vagabond would again disturb him.

As for Fessenden's — How shall we name him? Somehow,
it goes against the grain to call any person a fool.
Though we may forget the Scriptural warning, still charity
remembers that he is our brother. Suppose, therefore, we
stop at the possessive case, and call him simply Fessenden's?

As for Fessenden's, then, he was less fortunate than the
Judge's mastiff. He had no dry straw, not even a kennel
to crouch in. And the fields were uninviting; and to die
was not so pleasant. The veriest wretch alive feels a
yearning for life, and few are so foolish as not to prefer a
dry skin to a wet one. Even Fessenden's knew enough to
go in when it rained, — if he only could. So, with the
dismallest prospect before him, he kept on, in the wind
and rain of that bitter November night.

And now the wind was rising to a tempest; and the rain
was turning to sleet; and November was fast becoming
December. For this was the last day of the month, —
the close of the last day of autumn, as we divide the seasons:
autumn was flying in battle before the fierce onset of
winter. It was the close of the week also, being Saturday.

Saturday night! what a sentiment of thankfulness and
repose is in the word! Comfort is in it; and peace
exhales from it like an aroma. Your work is ended; it is
the hour of rest; the sense of duty done sweetens reflection,
and weariness subsides into soothing content. Once
more the heart grows tenderly appreciative of the commonest
blessings. That you have a roof to shelter you,
and a pillow for your head, and love and light and supper,
and something in store for Sunday, — that the raving
rain is excluded, and the wolfish wind howls in vain, —

that those dearest to you are gathered about your hearth,
and all is well, — it is enough; the full soul asks no more.

But this particular Saturday evening brought no such
suffusion of bliss to Fessenden's, — if, indeed, any ever
did. He saw, through the streaming, misty air, the happy
homes in the village lighted up one by one as it grew
dark. He had glimpses, through warm windows, of white
supper-tables. The storm made sufficient seclusion; there
was no need to draw the curtains. Servants were bringing
in the tea-things. Children were playing about the
floors, — laughing, beautiful children. Behold them, shivering
beggar-boy! Lean by the iron rail, wait patiently
in the rain, and look in upon them; it is worth your while.
How frolicsome and light-hearted they seem! They are
never cold, and seldom very hungry, and the world is dry
to them, and comfortable. And they all have beds, —
delicious beds. Mothers' hands tuck them in; mothers'
lips teach them to say their little prayers, and kiss them
good night. Foolish fellow! why did n't you be one of
those fortunate children, well fed, rosy, and bright, instead
of a starved and stupid tatterdemalion? A question
which shapes itself vaguely in his dull, aching soul, as he
stands trembling in the sleet, with only a few transparent
squares of glass dividing him and his misery from them
and their joy.

Mighty question! it is vast and dark as the night to
him. He cannot answer it; can you?

Vast and dark and pitiless is the night. But the morning
will surely come; and after all the wrongs and tumults
of life will rise the dawn of the Day of God. And then
every question of fate, though it fill the universe for you
now, shall dissolve in the brightness like a vapor, and
vanish like a little cloud.

Meanwhile a servant comes out and drives Fessenden's

away from the fence. He recommenced his wanderings,
— up one street and down another, in search of a place to
lay his head. The inferior dwellings he passed by. But
when he arrived at a particularly fine one, there he rang.
Was it not natural for him to infer that the largest houses
had amplest accommodations, and that the rich could best
afford to be bounteous? If in all these spacious mansions
there was no little nook for him, if out of their luxuries
not a blanket or crust could be spared, what could he hope
from the poor? You see, he was not altogether witless, if
he was a — Fessenden's. Another proof: At whatever
house he applied, he never committed the vulgarity of a
détour to the back entrance, but advanced straight, with
bold and confident port, to the front door. The reason of
which was equally simple and clear: front doors were the
most convenient and inviting; and what were they made
for, if not to go in at?

But he grew weary of ringing and of being repulsed. It
was dismal standing still, however, and quite as comfortless
sitting down. He was so cold! So, to keep his blood in
motion, he keeps his limbs in motion, — till, lo! here he
is again at the house where the happy children were!
They have ceased their play. Two young girls are at the
window, gazing out into the darkness, as if expecting
some one. Not you, miserable! You need n't stop and
make signs for them to admit you. There! don't you see
you have frightened them? You are not a fitting spectacle
for such sweet-eyed darlings. They do well to drop
the shade, to shut out the darkness, and the dim, gesticulating
phantom. Flit on! 'T is their father they are
looking for, coming home to them with gifts from the city.

But he does not flit. When, presently, they lift a corner
of the shade and peep out, they see him still standing
there, spectral in the gloom. He is waiting for them to

open the door! He thinks they have quitted the window
for that purpose! Ah! here comes the father, and they
are glad.

He comes hurrying from the cars under his umbrella,
which is braced against the gale and shuts out from his
eyes the sight of the unsheltered wretch. And he is
hastily entering his door, which is opened to him by the
eager children, when they scream alarm; and looking over
his shoulder, he perceives, following at his heels, the fright.
He is one of your full-blooded, solid men; but he is
startled.

“What do you want?” he cries, and lifts the threatening
umbrella.

“I 'm hungry,” says the intruder, with a ghastly glare,
still advancing.

He stands taller in his tattered shoes than the solid
gentleman in his boots; and those long, lean, claw-like
hands act as if anxious to clutch something. Papa thinks
it is his throat.

“By heavens! do you mean to —” And he prepares to
charge umbrella.

“You may!” answers the wretch, with perfect sincerity,
presenting his ragged bosom to the blow.

The lord of the castle lowers his weapon. The children
huddle behind him, hushing their screams.

“Go in, Minnie! In, all of you! Tell Stephen to come
here, — quick!”

The children scamper. And the florid, prosperous
parent and the gaunt and famishing vagrant are alone,
confronting each other by the light of the shining hall-lamp.

“I 'm cold,” says the latter, — “and wet,” with an
aguish shiver.

“I should think so!” cries the gentleman, recovering

from his alarm, and getting his breath again, as he hears
Stephen's step behind him. “Stand back, can't you?”
(indignantly.) “Don't you see you are dripping on the
carpet?”

“I 'm so tired!”

“Well! you need n't rub yourself against the door, if
you are! Don't you see you are smearing it? What are
you roaming about in this way for, intruding into people's
houses?”

“Please, sir, I don't know,” is the soft, sad answer; and
Fessenden's is meekly taking himself away.

“It 's too bad, though!” says the man, relenting.
“What can we do with this fellow, Stephen?”

“Send him around to Judge Gingerford's, — I should
say that 's about the best thing to do with him,” says the
witty Stephen.

The man knew well what would please. His master's
face lighted up. He rubbed his hands, and regarded the
vagabond with a humorous twinkle, with malice in it.

“Would you, Stephen? By George, I 've a good notion
to! Take the umbrella, and go and show him the way.”

Stephen did not like that.

“I was only joking, sir,” he said.

“A good joke, too! Here, you fellow! go with my
man. He 'll take you to a house where you 'll find friends.
Excellent folks! damned philanthropical! red-hot abolitionists!
If you only had nigger blood, now, they 'd treat
you like a prince. I don't know but I 'd advise you to
tell 'em you 're about a quarter nigger, — they 'll think
ten times as much of you!”

It was sufficiently evident that the gentleman did not
love his neighbor the Judge. With his own hands he
spread again the soaked umbrella, and, giving it to the
reluctant Stephen, sent him away with the vagabond.

Then he shut the door, and went in. By the fire he pulled
off his wet boots, and put on the warm slippers, which the
children brought him with innocent strife to see which
should be foremost. And he gave to each kisses and toys;
for he was a kind father. And sitting down to supper,
with their beaming faces around him, he thought of the
beggar-boy only in connection with the jocular spite he
had indulged against his neighbor.

Meanwhile the disgusted Stephen, walking alone under
the umbrella, drove Fessenden's before him through the
storm. They turned a corner. Stephen stopped.

“There, that 's the house, where the lights are. Good
by! Luck to you!” And Stephen and umbrella disappeared
in the darkness.

Fessenden's kept on, wearily, wearily! He reached the
house. And lo! it was the same at the door of which
the lady had told him that he, with his name, was not
wanted. Tiger slept in his kennel, and dreamed of barking
at beggars. The Judge, snugly ensconced in his study,
listened to the report of his speech before the Timberville
Benevolent Association. His son read it aloud, in the
columns of the “Timberville Gazette.” Gingerford smiled
and nodded; for it sounded well. And Mrs. Gingerford
was pleased and proud. And the heart of Gingerford
Junior swelled with the fervor of the eloquence, and with
exultation in his father's talents and distinction, as he
read. The sleet rattled a pleasant accompaniment against
the window-shutters; and the organ-pipes of the wind
sounded a solemn symphony. This last night of November
was genial and bright to these worthy people, in their
little family circle. And the future was full of promise.
And the rhetoric of the orator settled the duty of man to
man so satisfactorily, and painted the pleasures of benevolence
in such colors, that all their bosoms glowed.

“It is gratifying to think,” said Mrs. Gingerford, wiping
her eyes at the pathetic close, “how much good the printing
of that address in the `Gazette' must accomplish. It
will reach many so, who had n't the good fortune to hear it
at the rooms.”

Certainly, madam. The “Gazette” is taken, and perhaps
read this very evening, in every one of the houses at
which the homeless one has applied in vain for shelter,
since you frowned him from your door. Those exalted
sentiments, breathed in musical periods, are no doubt a
rich legacy to the society of Timberville, and to the world.
It was wise to print them; they will “reach many so.”
But will they reach this outcast beggar-boy, and benefit
him? Alas, it is fast growing too late for that!

Utter fatigue and discouragement have overtaken him.
The former notion of dying in the fields recurs to him
now; and wretched indeed must he be, since even that
desperate thought has a sort of comfort in it. But he is
too weary to seek out some suitably retired spot to take
cold leave of life in. On every side is darkness; on every
side, wild storm. Why endeavor to drag farther his benumbed
limbs? As well stretch himself here, upon this
wet wintry sod, as anywhere. He has the presumption to
do it, — never considering how deeply he may injure a fine
gentleman's feelings by dying at his door.

Tiger does not bark him away, but only dreams of barking,
in his cosey kennel. Close by are the windows of the
mansion, glowing with light. There beat the philanthropic
hearts; there smiles the pale, pensive lady; there beams
the aspiring face of her son; and there sits the Judge,
with his feet on the rug, pleasantly contemplating the
good his speech will do, and thinking quite as much,
perhaps, of the fame it will bring him, — happily unconscious
alike of his neighbor's malicious jest, and of the

real victim of that jest, lying out there in the tempest and
freezing rain.

So November goes out; and winter, boisterous and triumphant,
comes in.