Part 26

Delilah.

I must call her by the name we gave her after she had trimmed the Samson locks of our Professor. Delilah is a puzzle to most of us. A pretty creature, dangerously pretty to be in a station not guarded by all the protective arrangements which surround the maidens of a higher social order. It takes a strong cage to keep in a tiger or a grizzly bear, but what iron bars, what barbed wires, can keep out the smooth and subtle enemy that finds out the cage where beauty is imprisoned? Our young Doctor is evidently attracted by the charming maiden who serves him and us so modestly and so gracefully. Fortunately, the Mistress never loses sight of her. If she were her own daughter, she could not be more watchful of all her movements. And yet I do not believe that Delilah needs all this overlooking. If I am not mistaken, she knows how to take care of herself, and could be trusted anywhere, in any company, without a duenna. She has a history,--I feel sure of it. She has been trained and taught as young persons of higher position in life are brought up, and does not belong in the humble station in which we find her. But inasmuch as the Mistress says nothing about her antecedents, we do not like to be too inquisitive. The two Annexes are, it is plain, very curious about her. I cannot wonder. They are both good-looking girls, but Delilah is prettier than either of them. My sight is not so good as it was, but I can see the way in which the eyes of the young people follow each other about plainly enough to set me thinking as to what is going on in the thinking marrow behind them. The young Doctor's follow Delilah as she glides round the table,--they look into hers whenever they get a chance; but the girl's never betray any consciousness of it, so far as I can see. There is no mistaking the interest with which the two, Annexes watch all this. Why shouldn't they, I should like to know? The Doctor is a bright young fellow, and wants nothing but a bald spot and a wife to find himself in a comfortable family practice. One of the Annexes, as I have said, has had thoughts of becoming a doctress. I don't think the Doctor would want his wife to practise medicine, for reasons which I will not stop to mention. Such a partnership sometimes works wonderfully well, as in one well-known instance where husband and wife are both eminent in the profession; but our young Doctor has said to me that he had rather see his wife,--if he ever should have one,--at the piano than at the dissecting-table. Of course the Annexes know nothing about this, and they may think, as he professed himself willing to lecture on medicine to women, he might like to take one of his pupils as a helpmeet.

If it were not for our Delilah's humble position, I don't see why she would not be a good match for any young man. But then it is so hard to take a young woman from so very lowly a condition as that of a “waitress” that it would require a deal of courage to venture on such a step. If we could only find out that she is a princess in disguise, so to speak,--that is, a young person of presentable connections as well as pleasing looks and manners; that she has had an education of some kind, as we suspected when she blushed on hearing herself spoken of as a “gentille petite,” why, then everything would be all right, the young Doctor would have plain sailing,--that is, if he is in love with her, and if she fancies him,--and I should find my love-story,--the one I expected, but not between the parties I had thought would be mating with each other.

Dear little Delilah! Lily of the valley, growing in the shade now,--perhaps better there until her petals drop; and yet if she is all I often fancy she is, how her youthful presence would illuminate and sweeten a household! There is not one of us who does not feel interested in her,--not one of us who would not be delighted at some Cinderella transformation which would show her in the setting Nature meant for her favorite.

The fancy of Number Seven about the witches' broomsticks suggested to one of us the following poem:

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN; OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES.

Lookout! Look out, boys! Clear the track! The witches are here! They've all come back! They hanged them high,--No use! No use! What cares a witch for a hangman's noose? They buried them deep, but they would n't lie, still, For cats and witches are hard to kill; They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die, Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

--A couple of hundred years, or so, They had knocked about in the world below, When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call, And a homesick feeling seized them all; For he came from a place they knew full well, And many a tale he had to tell. They long to visit the haunts of men, To see the old dwellings they knew again, And ride on their broomsticks all around Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Essex county there's many a roof Well known to him of the cloven hoof; The small square windows are full in view Which the midnight hags went sailing through, On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high, Seen like shadows against the sky; Crossing the track of owls and bats, Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives, The sights we see in our daily drives Shimmer of lake and shine of sea, Brown's bare hill with its lonely tree, (It wasn't then as we see it now, With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;) Dusky nooks in the Essex woods, Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes, Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake Glide through his forests of fern and brake; Ipswich River; its old stone bridge; Far off Andover's Indian Ridge, And many a scene where history tells Some shadow of bygone terror dwells, Of “Norman's Woe” with its tale of dread, Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead, (The fearful story that turns men pale Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can, Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann, Rest in the bowers her bays enfold, Loved by the sachems and squaws of old? Home where the white magnolias bloom, Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume, Hugged by the woods and kissed by the seal Where is the Eden like to thee?

For that “couple of hundred years, or so,” There had been no peace in the world below; The witches still grumbling, “It is n't fair; Come, give us a taste of the upper air! We've had enough of your sulphur springs, And the evil odor that round them clings; We long for a drink that is cool and nice, Great buckets of water with Wenham ice; We've served you well up-stairs, you know; You're a good old-fellow--come, let us go!”

I don't feel sure of his being good, But he happened to be in a pleasant mood, As fiends with their skins full sometimes are, (He'd been drinking with “roughs” at a Boston bar.) So what does he do but up and shout To a graybeard turnkey, “Let 'em out!”

To mind his orders was all he knew; The gates swung open, and out they flew. “Where are our broomsticks?” the beldams cried. “Here are your broomsticks,” an imp replied. “They've been in--the place you know--so long They smell of brimstone uncommon strong; But they've gained by being left alone, Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown.” --And where is my cat? “a vixen squalled. Yes, where are our cats?” the witches bawled, And began to call them all by name: As fast as they called the cats, they came There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim, And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim, And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau, And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,

And many another that came at call, It would take too long to count them all. All black,--one could hardly tell which was which, But every cat knew his own old witch; And she knew hers as hers knew her, Ah, did n't they curl their tails and purr!

No sooner the withered hags were free Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree; I could n't tell all they did in rhymes, But the Essex people had dreadful times. The Swampscott fishermen still relate How a strange sea-monster stole thair bait; How their nets were tangled in loops and knots, And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots. Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops, And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops. A blight played havoc with Beverly beans, It was all the work of those hateful queans! A dreadful panic began at “Pride's,” Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides, And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms 'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

Now when the Boss of the Beldams found That without his leave they were ramping round, He called,--they could hear him twenty miles, From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles; The deafest old granny knew his tone Without the trick of the telephone. “Come here, you witches! Come here!” says he, --“At your games of old, without asking me I'll give you a little job to do That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!”

They came, of course, at their master's call, The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all; He led the hags to a railway train The horses were trying to drag in vain. “Now, then,” says he, “you've had your fun, And here are the cars you've got to run.

“The driver may just unhitch his team, We don't want horses, we don't want steam; You may keep your old black cats to hug, But the loaded train you've got to lug.”

Since then on many a car you'll see A broomstick plain as plain can be; On every stick there's a witch astride, The string you see to her leg is tied. She will do a mischief if she can, But the string is held by a careful man, And whenever the evil-minded witch Would cut come caper, he gives a twitch. As for the hag, you can't see her, But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr, And now and then, as a car goes by, You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.

Often you've looked on a rushing train, But just what moved it was not so plain. It couldn't be those wires above, For they could neither pull nor shove; Where was the motor that made it go You couldn't guess, but now you know.

Remember my rhymes when you ride again On the rattling rail by the broomstick train!

In my last report of our talks over the teacups I had something to say of the fondness of our people for titles. Where did the anti-republican, anti-democratic passion for swelling names come from, and how long has it been naturalized among us?

A striking instance of it occurred at about the end of the last century. It was at that time there appeared among us one of the most original and singular personages to whom America has given birth. Many of our company,--many of my readers,--all well acquainted with his name, and not wholly ignorant of his history. They will not object to my giving some particulars relating to him, which, if not new to them, will be new to others into whose hands these pages may fall.

Timothy Dexter, the first claimant of a title of nobility among the people of the United States of America, was born in the town of Malden, near Boston. He served an apprenticeship as a leather-dresser, saved some money, got some more with his wife, began trading and speculating, and became at last rich, for those days. His most famous business enterprise was that of sending an invoice of warming-pans to the West Indies. A few tons of ice would have seemed to promise a better return; but in point of fact, he tells us, the warming-pans were found useful in the manufacture of sugar, and brought him in a handsome profit. His ambition rose with his fortune. He purchased a large and stately house in Newburyport, and proceeded to embellish and furnish it according to the dictates of his taste and fancy. In the grounds about his house, he caused to be erected between forty and fifty wooden statues of great men and allegorical figures, together with four lions and one lamb. Among these images were two statues of Dexter himself, one of which held a label with a characteristic inscription. His house was ornamented with minarets, adorned with golden balls, and surmounted by a large gilt eagle. He equipped it with costly furniture, with paintings, and a library. He went so far as to procure the services of a poet laureate, whose business it seems to have been to sing his praises. Surrounded with splendors like these, the plain title of “Mr.” Dexter would have been infinitely too mean and common. He therefore boldly took the step of self-ennobling, and gave himself forth--as he said, obeying “the voice of the people at large”--as “Lord Timothy Dexter,” by which appellation he has ever since been known to the American public.

If to be the pioneer in the introduction of Old World titles into republican America can confer a claim to be remembered by posterity, Lord Timothy Dexter has a right to historic immortality. If the true American spirit shows itself most clearly in boundless self-assertion, Timothy Dexter is the great original American egotist. If to throw off the shackles of Old World pedantry, and defy the paltry rules and examples of grammarians and rhetoricians, is the special province and the chartered privilege of the American writer, Timothy Dexter is the founder of a new school, which tramples under foot the conventionalities that hampered and subjugated the faculties of the poets, the dramatists, the historians, essayists, story-tellers, orators, of the worn-out races which have preceded the great American people.

The material traces of the first American nobleman's existence have nearly disappeared. The house is still standing, but the statues, the minarets, the arches, and the memory of the great Lord Timothy Dexter live chiefly in tradition, and in the work which he bequeathed to posterity, and of which I shall say a few words. It is unquestionably a thoroughly original production, and I fear that some readers may think I am trifling with them when I am quoting it literally. I am going to make a strong claim for Lord Timothy as against other candidates for a certain elevated position.

Thomas Jefferson is commonly recognized as the first to proclaim before the world the political independence of America. It is not so generally agreed upon as to who was the first to announce the literary emancipation of our country.