XIX. THE BEST-NATURED MAN IN THE WORLD.[13]

XIX. THE BEST-NATURED MAN IN THE WORLD.^[13]

A yielding temper, when not carefully watched and curbed, is one of the most dangerous of faults. Like unregulated generosity, it is apt to carry its owner into a thousand difficulties, and, too frequently, to hurry him into vice, if not into crimes. But as it is of advantage to others while inflicting injury upon its possessor, it has, by the common consent of mankind, received a fine name, which covers its follies and promotes its growth. This easiness of disposition, which is a compound of indolence, vanity, and irresolution, is known and applauded as “good-nature;” and, to have reached the superlative degree, so as to be called the “best-natured fellow in the world—almost too good-natured for his own good,” is regarded as a lofty merit.

The “best-natured fellow in the world” is merely a convenience; very useful to others, but worse than useless to himself. He is the bridge across the brook, and men walk over him. He is the wandering pony of the Pampas, seeking his own provender, yet ridden by those who contribute not to his support. He giveth up all the sunshine, and hath nothing but chilling shade for himself. He waiteth at the table of the world, serveth the guests, who clear the board, and, for food and pay, give him fine words, which culinary research hath long since ascertained cannot be used with profit, even in the buttering of parsnips. He is, in fact, an appendage, not an individuality; and when worn out, as he soon must be, is thrown aside to make room for another, if another can be had. Such is the result of excessive compliance and obsequious good-nature. It plundereth a man of his spine, and converteth him into a flexible willow, to be bent and twisted as his companions choose, and, should it please them, to be wreathed into a fish-basket.

Are there any who doubt of this? Let them inquire for one Leniter Salix, and ask his opinion. Leniter may be ragged, but his philosophy has not so many holes in it as might be inferred from the state of his wardrobe. Nay, it is the more perfect on that account; a knowledge of the world penetrates the more easily when, from defective apparel, we approach the nearer to our original selves. Leniter’s hat is crownless, and the clear light of knowledge streams without impediment upon his brain. He is not bound up in the strait jacket of prejudice, for he long since pawned his solitary vest, and his coat, made for a Goliath, hangs about him as loosely as a politician’s principles, or as the purser’s shirt in the poetical comparison. Salix has so long bumped his head against a stone wall, that he has knocked a hole in it, and like Cooke, the tragedian, sees through his error. He has speculated as extensively in experience as if it were town lots. The quantity of that article he has purchased, could it be made tangible, would freight a seventy-four;—were it convertible into cash, Crœsus would be a Chelsea pensioner to Salix. But unluckily for him, there are stages in life when experience itself is more ornamental than useful. When, to use a forcible expression—when a man is “done,”—it matters not whether he has as much experience as Samson had hair, or as Bergami had whisker—he can do no more. Salix has been in his time so much pestered with duns, “hateful to gods and men,” that he is done himself.

“The sun was rushing down the west,” as Banim has it, attending to its own business, and, by that means, shedding benefit upon the world, when Leniter Salix was seen in front of a little grocery, the locale of which shall be nameless, sitting dejectedly upon a keg of mackerel, number 2. He had been “the best-natured fellow in the world,” but, as the geologists say, he was in a state of transition, and was rapidly becoming up to trap. At all events, he had his nose to the grindstone, an operation which should make men keen. He was houseless, homeless, penniless, and the grocery man had asked him to keep an eye upon the dog, for fear of the midsummer catastrophe which awaits such animals when their snouts are not in a birdcage. This service was to be recompensed with a cracker, and a glass of what the shopman was pleased to call racky mirackilis, a fluid sometimes termed “railroad,” from the rapidity with which it hurries men to the end of their journey. Like many of the best-natured fellows in the world, Salix, by way of being a capital companion, and of not being different from others, had acquired rather a partiality for riding on this “railroad,” and he agreed to keep his trigger eye on the dog.

“That’s right, Salix. I always knowed you were the best-natured fellow in the world.”

“H-u-m-p-s-e!” sighed Salix, in a prolonged, plaintive, uncertain manner, as if he admitted the fact, but doubted the honour; “h-u-m-p-s-e! but, if it wasn’t for the railroad, which is good for my complaint, because I take it internally to drive out the perspiration, I’ve a sort of a notion Carlo might take care of himself. There’s the dog playing about without his muzzle, just because I’m good-natured; there’s Timpkins at work making money inside, instead of watching his own whelp, just because I’m good-natured; and I’m to sit here doing nothing instead of going to get a little job a man promised me down town, just because I’m good-natured. I can’t see exactly what’s the use of it to me. It’s pretty much like having a bed of your own, and letting other people sleep in it, soft, while you sleep on the bare floor, hard. It wouldn’t be so bad if you could have half, or quarter of the bed; but no—these good friends of mine, as I may say, turn in, take it all, roll themselves up in the kivering, and won’t let us have a bit of sheet to mollify the white pine sacking bottom, the which pleasant to whittle with a sharp knife—quite soft enough for that purpose—but the which is not the pink of feather-beds. I don’t like it—I’m getting tired.”

The brow of Salix began to blacken—therein having decidedly the advantage of his boots, which could neither blacken themselves, nor prevail on their master to do it—when Mrs. Timpkins, the shopman’s wife, popped out with a child in her arms, and three more trapesing after her.

“Law, Salix, how-dee-doo? I’m so glad—I know you’re the best-natured creature in the world. Jist hold little Biddy a while, and keep an eye on t’other young ’uns—you’re such a nurse—he! he! he!—so busy—ain’t got no girl—so busy washing—most tea time—he! he! he! Salix.”

Mrs. Timpkins disappeared, Biddy remained in the arms of Salix, and “t’other young ’uns” raced about with the dog. The trigger eye was compelled to invoke the aid of its coadjutor.

“Whew!” whistled Salix; “the quantity of pork they give in this part of the town for a shilling is amazin’—I’m so good-natured! That railroad will be well earnt any how. I’m beginning to think it’s queer there ain’t more good-natured people about besides me—I’m a sort of mayor and corporation all myself in this business. It’s a monopoly where the profit’s all loss. Now, for instance, these Timpkinses won’t ask me to tea, because I’m ragged; but they ar’n’t a bit too proud to ask me to play child’s nurse and dog’s uncle—they won’t lend me any money, because I can’t pay, and they’re persimmony and sour about cash concerns—and they won’t let me have time to earn any money, and get good clothes—that’s because I’m so good-natured. I’ve a good mind to strike, and be sassy.”

“Hallo! Salix, my good fellow!” said a man, on a horse, as he rode up; “you’re the very chap I’m looking for. As I says to my old woman, says I, Leniter Salix is the wholesoul’dest chap I ever did see. There’s nothing he won’t do for a friend, and I’ll never forget him, if I was to live as old as Methuselah.”

Salix smiled—Hannibal softened rocks with vinegar, but the stranger melted the ice of our hero’s resolution with praise. Salix walked towards him, holding the child with one hand as he extended the other for a friendly shake.

“You’re the best-natured fellow in the world, Salix,” ejaculated the stranger, as he leaped from the saddle, and hung the reins upon Salix’s extended fingers, instead of shaking hands with him; “you’re the best-natured fellow in the world. Just hold my horse a minute. I’ll be back in a jiffey, Salix; in less than half an hour,” said the dismounted rider, as he shot round the corner.

“If that ain’t cutting it fat, I’ll be darned!” growled Salix, as soon as he had recovered from his breathless amazement, and had gazed from dog to babe—from horse to children.

“Mr. Salix,” screamed Miss Tabitha Gadabout from the next house, “I’m just running over to Timpson’s place. Keep an eye on my street door—back in a minute.”

She flew across the street, and as she went, the words “best-natured soul alive” were heard upon the breeze.

“That’s considerable fatter—it’s as fat as show beef,” said Salix. “How many eyes has a good-natured fellow got, anyhow? Three of mine’s in use a’ready. The good-natureder you are, the more eyes you have, I s’pose. That job up town’s jobbed without me, and where I’m to sleep, or to eat my supper, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to tell. Ain’t paid my board this six months, I’m so good-natured; and the old woman’s so good-natured, she said I needn’t come back. These Timpkinses and all of ’em are ready enough at asking me to do things, but when I ask them—There, that dog’s off, and the ketchers are coming—Carlo! Carlo!”

The baby began squalling, and the horse grew restive, the dog scampered into the very teeth of danger; and the three little Timpkinses, who could locomote, went scrabbling, in different directions, into all sorts of mischief, until finally one of them pitched head foremost into a cellar.

Salix grew furious.

“Whoa, pony!—hush, you infernal brat!—here, Carlo!—Thunder and crockery!—there’s a young Timpkins smashed and spoilt!—knocked into a cocked hat!”

“Mr. Salix!” shouted a boy, from the other side of the way, “when you’re done that ’ere, mammy says if you won’t go a little narrand for her, you’re so good-nater’d.”

There are moments when calamity nerves us; when wild frenzy congeals into calm resolve; as one may see by penning a cat in a corner. It is then that the coward fights; that the oppressed strikes at the life of the oppressor. That moment had come to Salix. He stood bolt upright, as cold and as straight as an icicle. His good-nature might be seen to drop from him in two pieces, like Cinderella’s kitchen garments in the opera. He laid Biddy Timpkins on the top of the barrel, released the horse, giving him a vigorous kick, which sent him flying down the street, and strode indignantly away, leaving Carlo, Miss Gadabout’s house, and all other matters in his charge, to the guardianship of chance.

The last time Salix was seen in the busy haunts of men, he looked the very incarnation of gloom and despair. His very coat had gone to relieve his necessities, and he wandered slowly and dejectedly about, relieving the workings of his perturbed spirit by kicking whatever fell in his way.

“I’m done,” soliloquized he; “pardenership between me and good-nature is this day dissolved, and all persons indebted will please to settle with the undersigned, who alone is authorized. Yes, there’s a good many indebted, and it’s high time to dissolve, when your pardener has sold all the goods and spent all the money. Once I had a little shop—ah! wasn’t it nice?—plenty of goods and plenty of business. But then comes one troop of fellows, and they wanted tick—I’m so good-natured; then comes another set of chaps, who didn’t let bashfulness stand in their way a minute; they sailed a good deal nearer the wind, and wanted to borry money—I’m so good-natured; and more asked me to go security. These fellows were always very particular friends of mine, and got what they asked for; but I was a very particular friend of theirs, and couldn’t get it back. It was one of the good rules that won’t work both ways; and I, somehow or other, was at the wrong end of it, for it wouldn’t work my way at all. There’s few rules that will, barring substraction, and division, and alligation, when our folks allegated against me that I wouldn’t come to no good. All the cypherin’ I could ever do made more come to little, and little come to less; and yet, as I said afore, I had a good many assistants too.

“Business kept pretty fair; but I wasn’t cured. Because I was good-natured, I had to go with ’em frolicking, tea-partying, excursioning, and busting; and for the same reason, I was always appinted treasurer to make the distribution when there wasn’t a cent of surplus revenue in the treasury, but my own. It was my job to pay all the bills. Yes, it was always ‘Salix, you know me’—‘Salix, pony up at the bar, and lend us a levy’—‘Salix always shells out like a gentleman.’ Oh, to be sure! and why not?—now I’m shelled out myself—first out of my shop by old venditioni exponas, at the State House—old fiery fash’us to me directed. But they didn’t direct him soon enough, for he only got the fixtures. The goods had gone out on a bust long before I busted. Next, I was shelled out of my boarding house; and now,” (with a lugubrious glance at his shirt and pantaloons,) “I’m nearly shelled out of my clothes. It’s a good thing they can’t easy shell me out of my skin, or they would, and let me catch my death of cold. I’m a mere shell-fish—an oyster with the kivers off.

“But, it was always so—when I was a little boy, they coaxed all my pennies out of me; coaxed me to take all the jawings, and all the hidings, and to go first into all sorts of scrapes, and precious scrapings they used to be. I wonder if there isn’t two kinds of people—one kind that’s made to chaw up t’other kind, and t’other kind that’s made to be chawed up by one kind?—cat-kind of people, and mouse-kind of people? I guess there is. I’m very much of a mouse myself.

“What I want to know is, what’s to become of me. I’ve spent all I had in getting my eddication. Learnin’, they say, is better than houses and lands. I wonder if anybody will swap some house and land with me for mine? I’d go it even and ask no boot. They should have it at prime cost; but they won’t; and I begin to be afraid I’ll have to get married, or ’list in the marines. That’s what most people do when they’ve nothing to do.”

What became of Leniter Salix immediately, is immaterial; what will become of him eventually is clear enough. His story is one acting every day, and, though grotesquely sketched, is an evidence of the danger of an accommodating disposition when not regulated by prudence. The softness of “the best-natured fellow in the world” requires a large admixture of hardening alloy to give it the proper temper.