The Fiend's Delight Read online

  The Glad New Year.

  A poor brokendown drunkard returned to his dilapidated domicile early onNew Year's morn. The great bells of the churches were jarring the creamymoonlight which lay above the soggy undercrust of mud and snow. As heheard their joyous peals, announcing the birth of a new year, his heartsmote his old waistcoat like a remorseful sledge-hammer.

  "Why," soliloquized he, "should not those bells also proclaim the adventof a new resolution? I have not made one for several weeks, and it'sabout time. I'll swear off."

  He did it, and at that moment a new light seemed to be shed upon hispathway; his wife came out of the house with a tin lantern. He rushedfrantically to meet her. She saw the new and holy purpose in his eye.She recognised it readily--she had seen it before. They embraced andwept. Then stretching the wreck of what had once been a manly form toits full length, he raised his eyes to heaven and one hand as nearthere as he could get it, and there in the pale moonlight, with onlyhis wondering wife, and the angels, and a cow or two, for witnesses, heswore he would from that moment abstain from all intoxicating liquorsuntil death should them part. Then looking down and tenderly smilinginto the eyes of his wife, he said: "Is it not well, dear one?" With aface beaming all over with a new happiness, she replied:

  "Indeed it is, John--let's take a drink." And they took one, she withsugar and he plain.

  The spot is still pointed out to the traveller. The Late Dowling,Senior.

  My friend, Jacob Dowling, Esq., had been spending the day very agreeablyin his counting-room with some companions, and at night retired to thedomestic circle to ravel out some intricate accounts. Seated at hisparlour table he ordered his wife and children out of the room andaddressed himself to business. While clambering wearily up a column offigures he felt upon his cheek the touch of something that seemedto cling clammily to the skin like the caress of a naked oyster.Thoughtfully setting down the result of his addition so far as he hadproceeded with it, he turned about and looked up.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but you have not the advantage of myacquaintance."

  "Why, Jake," replied the apparition--whom I have thought it useless todescribe--"don't you know me?"

  "I confess that your countenance is familiar," returned my friend, "butI cannot at this moment recall your name. I never forget a face, butnames I cannot remember."

  "Jake!" rumbled the spectre with sepulchral dignity, a look ofdispleasure crawling across his pallid features, "you're foolin'."

  "I give you my word I am quite serious. Oblige me with your name, andfavour me with a statement of your business with me at this hour."

  The disembodied party sank uninvited into a chair, spread out hisknees and stared blankly at a Dutch clock with an air of weariness andprofound discouragement. Perceiving that his guest was making himselftolerably comfortable my friend turned again to his figures, andsilence reigned supreme. The fire in the grate burned noiselessly witha mysterious blue light, as if it could do more if it wished; the Dutchclock looked wise, and swung its pendulum with studied exactness, likeone who is determined to do his precise duty and shun responsibility;the cat assumed an attitude of intelligent neutrality. Finally thespectre trained his pale eyes upon his host, pulled in a long breath andremarked:

  "Jake, I'm yur dead father. I come back to have a talk with ye 'bout theway things is agoin' on. I want to know 'f you think it's right notterrecognise yur dead parent?"

  "It is a little rough on you, dear," replied the son without looking up,"but the fact is that [7 and 3 are 10, and 2 are 12, and 6 are 18] it isso long since you have been about [and 3 off are 15] that I had kind offorgotten, and [2 into 4 goes twice, and 7 into 6 you can't] you knowhow it is yourself. May I be permitted to again inquire the precisenature of your present business?"

  "Well, yes--if you wont talk anything but shop I s'pose I must cometo the p'int. Isay! you don't keep any thing to drink 'bout yer, doye--Jake?"

  "14 from 23 are 9--I'll get you something when we get done. Pleaseexplain how we can serve one another."

  "Jake, I done everything for you, and you ain't done nothin' for mesince I died. I want a monument bigger'n Dave Broderick's, with aneppytaph in gilt letters, by Joaquin Miller. I can't git into any kindo' society till I have 'em. You've no idee how exclusive they are whereI am."

  This dutiful son laid down his pencil and effected a stiffly verticalattitude. He was all attention:

  "Anything else to-day?" he asked--rather sneeringly, I grieve to state.

  "No-o-o, I don't think of anything special," drawled the ghostreflectively; "I'd like to have an iron fence around it to keep the cowsoff, but I s'pose that's included."

  "Of course! And a gravel walk, and a lot of abalone shells, and freshposies daily; a marble angel or two for company, and anything elsethat will add to your comfort. Have you any other extremely reasonablerequest to make of me?"

  "Yes--since you mention it. I want you to contest my will. Horace Hawesis having his'n contested."

  "My fine friend, you did not make any will."

  "That ain't o' no consequence. You forge me a good 'un and contestthat."

  "With pleasure, sir; but that will be extra. Now indulge me in onequestion. You spoke of the society where you reside. Where do youreside?"

  The Dutch clock pounded clamorously upon its brazen gong a countlessmultitude of hours; the glowing coals fell like an avalanche through thegrate, spilling all over the cat, who exalted her voice in a squawk likethe deathwail of a stuck pig, and dashed affrighted through the window.A smell of scorching fur pervaded the place, and under cover of it theaged spectre walked into the mirror, vanishing like a dream. "Love'sLabour Lost."

  Joab was a beef, who was tired of being courted for his clean, smoothskin. So he backed through a narrow gateway six or eight times, whichmade his hair stand the wrong way. He then went and rubbed his fat sidesagainst a charred log. This made him look untidy. You never looked worsein your life than Joab did.

  "Now," said he, "I shall be loved for myself alone. I will change myname, and hie me to pastures new, and all the affection that is thenlavished upon me will be pure and disinterested."

  So he strayed off into the woods and came out at old Abner Davis' ranch.The two things Abner valued most were a windmill and a scratching-postfor hogs. They were equally beautiful, and the fame of their comelinesshad gone widely abroad. To them Joab naturally paid his attention. Thewindmill, who was called Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, received him withexpressions of the liveliest disgust. His protestations of affectionwere met by creakings of contempt, and as he turned sadly away he wasrewarded by a sound spank from one of her fans. Like a gentlemanly beefhe did not deign to avenge the insult by overturning Lucille Ashtonbury;and it is well for him that he did not, for old Abner stood by with apitchfork and a trinity of dogs.

  Disgusted with the selfish heartlessness of society, Joab shambled offand was passing the scratching-post without noticing her. (Her name wasArabella Cliftonbury Howard.) Suddenly she kicked away a multitude ofpigs who were at her feet, and called to the rolling beef of uncannyexterior:

  "Comeer!"

  Joab paused, looked at her with his ox-eyes, and gravely marching up,commenced a vigorous scratching against her.

  "Arabella," said he, "do you think you could love a shaggy-hided beefwith black hair? Could you love him for himself alone?"

  Arabella had observed that the black rubbed off, and the hair lay sleekwhen stroked the right way.

  "Yes, I think so; could you?"

  This was a poser: Joab had expected her to talk business. He did notreply. It was only her arch way; she thought, naturally, that the bestway to win any body's love was to be a fool. She saw her mistake. Shehad associated with hogs all her life, and this fellow was a beef!Mistakes must be rectified very speedily in these matters.

  "Sir, I have for you a peculiar feeling; I may say a tenderness.Hereafter you, and you only, shall scratch against Arabella CliftonburyHoward!"

  Joab was delighted; he s
tayed and scratched all day. He was loved forhimself alone, and he did not care for anything but that. Then he wenthome, made an elaborate toilet, and returned to astonish her. Alas!old Abner had been about, and seeing how Joab had worn her smooth anduseless, had cut her down for firewood. Joab gave one glance, thenwalked solemnly away into a "clearing," and getting comfortably astridea blazing heap of logs, made a barbacue of himself!

  After all, Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, the light-headed windmill, seemsto have got the best of all this. I have observed that the light-headedcommonly get the best of everything in this world; which thewooden-headed and the beef-headed regard as an outrage. I am notprepared to say if it is or not. A Comforter.

  William Bunker had paid a fine of two hundred dollars for beating hiswife. After getting his receipt he went moodily home and seatedhimself at the domestic hearth. Observing his abstracted and melancholydemeanour, the good wife approached and tenderly inquired the cause."It's a delicate subject, dear," said he, with love-light in his eyes;"let's talk about something good to eat."

  Then, with true wifely instinct she sought to cheer him up with pleasingprattle of a new bonnet he had promised her. "Ah! darling," he sighed,absently picking up the fire-poker and turning it in his hands, "let uschange the subject."

  Then his soul's idol chirped an inspiring ballad, kissed him on the topof his head, and sweetly mentioned that the dressmaker had sent in herbill. "Let us talk only of love," returned he, thoughtfully rolling uphis dexter sleeve.

  And so she spoke of the vine-enfolded cottage in which she fondly hopedthey might soon sip together the conjugal sweets. William became rigidlyerect, a look not of earth was in his face, his breast heaved, and thefire-poker quivered with emotion. William felt deeply. "Mine own," saidthe good woman, now busily irrigating a mass of snowy dough for theevening meal, "do you know that there is not a bite of meat in thehouse?"

  It is a cold, unlovely truth--a sad, heart-sickening fact--but it must betold by the conscientious novelist. William repaid all this affectionatesolicitude--all this womanly devotion, all this trust, confidence, andabnegation in a manner that needs not be particularly specified.

  A short, sharp curve in the middle of that iron fire-poker is eloquentof a wrong redressed. Little Isaac.

  Mr. Gobwottle came home from a meeting of the Temperance Legionextremely drunk. He went to the bed, piled himself loosely atop of itand forgot his identity. About the middle of the night, his wife, whowas sitting up darning stockings, heard a voice from the profoundestdepths of the bolster: "Say, Jane?"

  Jane gave a vicious stab with the needle, impaling one of her fingers,and continued her work. There was a long silence, faintly punctuated bythe bark of a distant dog. Again that voice--"Say--Jane!"

  The lady laid aside her work and wearily, replied: "Isaac, do go tosleep; they are off."

  Another and longer pause, during which the ticking of the clock becamepainful in the intensity of the silence it seemed to be measuring."Jane, what's off!" "Why, your boots, to be sure," replied the petulantwoman, losing patience; "I pulled them off when you first lay down."

  Again the prostrate gentleman was still. Then when the candle of thewaking housewife had burned low down to the socket, and the wasted flameon the hearth was expiring bluely in convulsive leaps, the head of thefamily resumed: "Jane, who said anything about boots?"

  There was no reply. Apparently none was expected, for the manimmediately rose, lengthened himself out like a telescope, andcontinued: "Jane, I must have smothered that brat, and I'm 'fernalsorry!"

  "What brat?" asked the wife, becoming interested.

  "Why, ours--our little Isaac. I saw you put 'im in bed last week, andI've been layin' right onto 'im!"

  "What under the sun do you mean?" asked the good wife; "we haven'tany brat, and never had, and his name should not be Isaac if we had. Ibelieve you are crazy."

  The man balanced his bulk rather unsteadily, looked hard into the eyesof his companion, and triumphantly emitted the following conundrum:"Jane, look-a-here! If we haven't any brat, what'n thunder's the use o'bein' married!"

  Pending the solution of the momentous problem, its author went out andsearched the night for a whisky-skin.