prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XV. AN OLD MISER, UPON SUITABLE REPRESENTATIONS, IS PREVAILED UPON TO VENTURE AN INVESTMENT.

The merchant having withdrawn, the other remained seated alone for a
time, with the air of one who, after having conversed with some
excellent man, carefully ponders what fell from him, however
intellectually inferior it may be, that none of the profit may be lost;
happy if from any honest word he has heard he can derive some hint,
which, besides confirming him in the theory of virtue, may, likewise,
serve for a finger-post to virtuous action.

Ere long his eye brightened, as if some such hint was now caught. He
rises, book in hand, quits the cabin, and enters upon a sort of
corridor, narrow and dim, a by-way to a retreat less ornate and cheery
than the former; in short, the emigrants' quarters; but which, owing to
the present trip being a down-river one, will doubtless be found
comparatively tenantless. Owing to obstructions against the side
windows, the whole place is dim and dusky; very much so, for the most
part; yet, by starts, haggardly lit here and there by narrow, capricious
sky-lights in the cornices. But there would seem no special need for
light, the place being designed more to pass the night in, than the day;
in brief, a pine barrens dormitory, of knotty pine bunks, without
bedding. As with the nests in the geometrical towns of the associate
penguin and pelican, these bunks were disposed with Philadelphian
regularity, but, like the cradle of the oriole, they were pendulous,
and, moreover, were, so to speak, three-story cradles; the description
of one of which will suffice for all.

Four ropes, secured to the ceiling, passed downwards through auger-holes
bored in the corners of three rough planks, which at equal distances
rested on knots vertically tied in the ropes, the lowermost plank but an
inch or two from the floor, the whole affair resembling, on a large
scale, rope book-shelves; only, instead of hanging firmly against a
wall, they swayed to and fro at the least suggestion of motion, but were
more especially lively upon the provocation of a green emigrant
sprawling into one, and trying to lay himself out there, when the
cradling would be such as almost to toss him back whence he came. In
consequence, one less inexperienced, essaying repose on the uppermost
shelf, was liable to serious disturbance, should a raw beginner select a
shelf beneath. Sometimes a throng of poor emigrants, coming at night in
a sudden rain to occupy these oriole nests, would--through ignorance of
their peculiarity--bring about such a rocking uproar of carpentry,
joining to it such an uproar of exclamations, that it seemed as if some
luckless ship, with all its crew, was being dashed to pieces among the
rocks. They were beds devised by some sardonic foe of poor travelers,
to deprive them of that tranquility which should precede, as well as
accompany, slumber.--Procrustean beds, on whose hard grain humble worth
and honesty writhed, still invoking repose, while but torment responded.
Ah, did any one make such a bunk for himself, instead of having it made
for him, it might be just, but how cruel, to say, You must lie on it!

But, purgatory as the place would appear, the stranger advances into it:
and, like Orpheus in his gay descent to Tartarus, lightly hums to
himself an opera snatch.

Suddenly there is a rustling, then a creaking, one of the cradles swings
out from a murky nook, a sort of wasted penguin-flipper is
supplicatingly put forth, while a wail like that of Dives is
heard:--"Water, water!"

It was the miser of whom the merchant had spoken.

Swift as a sister-of-charity, the stranger hovers over him:--

"My poor, poor sir, what can I do for you?"

"Ugh, ugh--water!"

Darting out, he procures a glass, returns, and, holding it to the
sufferer's lips, supports his head while he drinks: "And did they let
you lie here, my poor sir, racked with this parching thirst?"

The miser, a lean old man, whose flesh seemed salted cod-fish, dry as
combustibles; head, like one whittled by an idiot out of a knot; flat,
bony mouth, nipped between buzzard nose and chin; expression, flitting
between hunks and imbecile--now one, now the other--he made no response.
His eyes were closed, his cheek lay upon an old white moleskin coat,
rolled under his head like a wizened apple upon a grimy snow-bank.

Revived at last, he inclined towards his ministrant, and, in a voice
disastrous with a cough, said:--"I am old and miserable, a poor beggar,
not worth a shoestring--how can I repay you?"

"By giving me your confidence."

"Confidence!" he squeaked, with changed manner, while the pallet swung,
"little left at my age, but take the stale remains, and welcome."

"Such as it is, though, you give it. Very good. Now give me a hundred
dollars."

Upon this the miser was all panic. His hands groped towards his
waist, then suddenly flew upward beneath his moleskin pillow, and
there lay clutching something out of sight. Meantime, to himself he
incoherently mumbled:--"Confidence? Cant, gammon! Confidence? hum,
bubble!--Confidence? fetch, gouge!--Hundred dollars?--hundred devils!"

Half spent, he lay mute awhile, then feebly raising himself, in a voice
for the moment made strong by the sarcasm, said, "A hundred dollars?
rather high price to put upon confidence. But don't you see I am a poor,
old rat here, dying in the wainscot? You have served me; but, wretch
that I am, I can but cough you my thanks,--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

This time his cough was so violent that its convulsions were imparted to
the plank, which swung him about like a stone in a sling preparatory to
its being hurled.

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"What a shocking cough. I wish, my friend, the herb-doctor was here now;
a box of his Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would do you good."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I've a good mind to go find him. He's aboard somewhere. I saw his long,
snuff-colored surtout. Trust me, his medicines are the best in the
world."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, how sorry I am."

"No doubt of it," squeaked the other again, "but go, get your charity
out on deck. There parade the pursy peacocks; they don't cough down here
in desertion and darkness, like poor old me. Look how scaly a pauper I
am, clove with this churchyard cough. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Again, how sorry I feel, not only for your cough, but your poverty.
Such a rare chance made unavailable. Did you have but the sum named, how
I could invest it for you. Treble profits. But confidence--I fear that,
even had you the precious cash, you would not have the more precious
confidence I speak of."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" flightily raising himself. "What's that? How, how? Then
you don't want the money for yourself?"

"My dear, _dear_ sir, how could you impute to me such preposterous
self-seeking? To solicit out of hand, for my private behoof, an hundred
dollars from a perfect stranger? I am not mad, my dear sir."

"How, how?" still more bewildered, "do you, then, go about the world,
gratis, seeking to invest people's money for them?"

"My humble profession, sir. I live not for myself; but the world will
not have confidence in me, and yet confidence in me were great gain."

"But, but," in a kind of vertigo, "what do--do you do--do with people's
money? Ugh, ugh! How is the gain made?"

"To tell that would ruin me. That known, every one would be going into
the business, and it would be overdone. A secret, a mystery--all I have
to do with you is to receive your confidence, and all you have to do
with me is, in due time, to receive it back, thrice paid in trebling
profits."

"What, what?" imbecility in the ascendant once more; "but the vouchers,
the vouchers," suddenly hunkish again.

"Honesty's best voucher is honesty's face."

"Can't see yours, though," peering through the obscurity.

From this last alternating flicker of rationality, the miser fell back,
sputtering, into his previous gibberish, but it took now an arithmetical
turn. Eyes closed, he lay muttering to himself--

"One hundred, one hundred--two hundred, two hundred--three hundred,
three hundred."

He opened his eyes, feebly stared, and still more feebly said--

"It's a little dim here, ain't it? Ugh, ugh! But, as well as my poor old
eyes can see, you look honest."

"I am glad to hear that."

"If--if, now, I should put"--trying to raise himself, but vainly,
excitement having all but exhausted him--"if, if now, I should put,
put----"

"No ifs. Downright confidence, or none. So help me heaven, I will have
no half-confidences."

He said it with an indifferent and superior air, and seemed moving to
go.

"Don't, don't leave me, friend; bear with me; age can't help some
distrust; it can't, friend, it can't. Ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh, I am so old and
miserable. I ought to have a guardian. Tell me, if----"

"If? No more!"

"Stay! how soon--ugh, ugh!--would my money be trebled? How soon,
friend?"

"You won't confide. Good-bye!"

"Stay, stay," falling back now like an infant, "I confide, I confide;
help, friend, my distrust!"

From an old buckskin pouch, tremulously dragged forth, ten hoarded
eagles, tarnished into the appearance of ten old horn-buttons, were
taken, and half-eagerly, half-reluctantly, offered.

"I know not whether I should accept this slack confidence," said the
other coldly, receiving the gold, "but an eleventh-hour confidence, a
sick-bed confidence, a distempered, death-bed confidence, after all.
Give me the healthy confidence of healthy men, with their healthy wits
about them. But let that pass. All right. Good-bye!"

"Nay, back, back--receipt, my receipt! Ugh, ugh, ugh! Who are you? What
have I done? Where go you? My gold, my gold! Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

But, unluckily for this final flicker of reason, the stranger was now
beyond ear-shot, nor was any one else within hearing of so feeble a
call.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After Mr. Roberts leaves, Tassel thinks back over their conversation. He figures that even if Mr. Roberts was his intellectual inferior, Tassel might as well try to glean something useful from him to increase his own virtue and build up his character--you know--be the best Tassel he can be. Suddenly remembering something Mr. Roberts said, Tassel runs to the poor quarters on board the ship; he recalls the miser on his deathbed. We're afraid this isn't going to end well. Tassel finds the miser coughing and begging for water. The miser thanks Tassel for getting him a drink. Tassel promptly asks him if he has confidence in him. Miser: Sure. Tassel: Give me $100. Miser: What? No way, you scoundrel. Tassel first offers to call for the herb-doctor to administer some Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator. What? Then he guilts the miser--yes, guilts him--into giving him money by saying he could get a triple return on his investment. Miser: Investment, you say? Tassel: Yeah, I do everything for you, babe. The miser is uncertain. Tassel does the I'm walking away because I don't need your suspicious money thing. Miser calls Tassel back and gives him the $100. Tassel is cold. He scoffs at this meek offer of confidence in him and walks away with the money. The miser calls Tassel back asking for a receipt. He calls and coughs over and over. No one hears him.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XVI. A SICK MAN, AFTER SOME IMPATIENCE, IS INDUCED TO BECOME A PATIENT

The sky slides into blue, the bluffs into bloom; the rapid Mississippi
expands; runs sparkling and gurgling, all over in eddies; one magnified
wake of a seventy-four. The sun comes out, a golden huzzar, from his
tent, flashing his helm on the world. All things, warmed in the
landscape, leap. Speeds the daedal boat as a dream.

But, withdrawn in a corner, wrapped about in a shawl, sits an
unparticipating man, visited, but not warmed, by the sun--a plant whose
hour seems over, while buds are blowing and seeds are astir. On a stool
at his left sits a stranger in a snuff-colored surtout, the collar
thrown back; his hand waving in persuasive gesture, his eye beaming with
hope. But not easily may hope be awakened in one long tranced into
hopelessness by a chronic complaint.

To some remark the sick man, by word or look, seemed to have just made
an impatiently querulous answer, when, with a deprecatory air, the other
resumed:

"Nay, think not I seek to cry up my treatment by crying down that of
others. And yet, when one is confident he has truth on his side, and
that is not on the other, it is no very easy thing to be charitable; not
that temper is the bar, but conscience; for charity would beget
toleration, you know, which is a kind of implied permitting, and in
effect a kind of countenancing; and that which is countenanced is so far
furthered. But should untruth be furthered? Still, while for the world's
good I refuse to further the cause of these mineral doctors, I would
fain regard them, not as willful wrong-doers, but good Samaritans
erring. And is this--I put it to you, sir--is this the view of an
arrogant rival and pretender?"

His physical power all dribbled and gone, the sick man replied not by
voice or by gesture; but, with feeble dumb-show of his face, seemed to
be saying "Pray leave me; who was ever cured by talk?"

But the other, as if not unused to make allowances for such despondency,
proceeded; and kindly, yet firmly:

"You tell me, that by advice of an eminent physiologist in Louisville,
you took tincture of iron. For what? To restore your lost energy. And
how? Why, in healthy subjects iron is naturally found in the blood, and
iron in the bar is strong; ergo, iron is the source of animal
invigoration. But you being deficient in vigor, it follows that the
cause is deficiency of iron. Iron, then, must be put into you; and so
your tincture. Now as to the theory here, I am mute. But in modesty
assuming its truth, and then, as a plain man viewing that theory in
practice, I would respectfully question your eminent physiologist:
'Sir,' I would say, 'though by natural processes, lifeless natures taken
as nutriment become vitalized, yet is a lifeless nature, under any
circumstances, capable of a living transmission, with all its qualities
as a lifeless nature unchanged? If, sir, nothing can be incorporated
with the living body but by assimilation, and if that implies the
conversion of one thing to a different thing (as, in a lamp, oil is
assimilated into flame), is it, in this view, likely, that by banqueting
on fat, Calvin Edson will fatten? That is, will what is fat on the board
prove fat on the bones? If it will, then, sir, what is iron in the vial
will prove iron in the vein.' Seems that conclusion too confident?"

But the sick man again turned his dumb-show look, as much as to say,
"Pray leave me. Why, with painful words, hint the vanity of that which
the pains of this body have too painfully proved?"

But the other, as if unobservant of that querulous look, went on:

"But this notion, that science can play farmer to the flesh, making
there what living soil it pleases, seems not so strange as that other
conceit--that science is now-a-days so expert that, in consumptive
cases, as yours, it can, by prescription of the inhalation of certain
vapors, achieve the sublimest act of omnipotence, breathing into all but
lifeless dust the breath of life. For did you not tell me, my poor sir,
that by order of the great chemist in Baltimore, for three weeks you
were never driven out without a respirator, and for a given time of
every day sat bolstered up in a sort of gasometer, inspiring vapors
generated by the burning of drugs? as if this concocted atmosphere of
man were an antidote to the poison of God's natural air. Oh, who can
wonder at that old reproach against science, that it is atheistical? And
here is my prime reason for opposing these chemical practitioners, who
have sought out so many inventions. For what do their inventions
indicate, unless it be that kind and degree of pride in human skill,
which seems scarce compatible with reverential dependence upon the power
above? Try to rid my mind of it as I may, yet still these chemical
practitioners with their tinctures, and fumes, and braziers, and occult
incantations, seem to me like Pharaoh's vain sorcerers, trying to beat
down the will of heaven. Day and night, in all charity, I intercede for
them, that heaven may not, in its own language, be provoked to anger
with their inventions; may not take vengeance of their inventions. A
thousand pities that you should ever have been in the hands of these
Egyptians."

But again came nothing but the dumb-show look, as much as to say, "Pray
leave me; quacks, and indignation against quacks, both are vain."

But, once more, the other went on: "How different we herb-doctors! who
claim nothing, invent nothing; but staff in hand, in glades, and upon
hillsides, go about in nature, humbly seeking her cures. True Indian
doctors, though not learned in names, we are not unfamiliar with
essences--successors of Solomon the Wise, who knew all vegetables, from
the cedar of Lebanon, to the hyssop on the wall. Yes, Solomon was the
first of herb-doctors. Nor were the virtues of herbs unhonored by yet
older ages. Is it not writ, that on a moonlight night,

    "Medea gathered the enchanted herbs
    That did renew old AEson?"

Ah, would you but have confidence, you should be the new AEson, and
I your Medea. A few vials of my Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator would, I am
certain, give you some strength."

Upon this, indignation and abhorrence seemed to work by their excess the
effect promised of the balsam. Roused from that long apathy of
impotence, the cadaverous man started, and, in a voice that was as the
sound of obstructed air gurgling through a maze of broken honey-combs,
cried: "Begone! You are all alike. The name of doctor, the dream of
helper, condemns you. For years I have been but a gallipot for you
experimentizers to rinse your experiments into, and now, in this livid
skin, partake of the nature of my contents. Begone! I hate ye."

"I were inhuman, could I take affront at a want of confidence, born of
too bitter an experience of betrayers. Yet, permit one who is not
without feeling----"

"Begone! Just in that voice talked to me, not six months ago, the German
doctor at the water cure, from which I now return, six months and sixty
pangs nigher my grave."

"The water-cure? Oh, fatal delusion of the well-meaning Preisnitz!--Sir,
trust me----"

"Begone!"

"Nay, an invalid should not always have his own way. Ah, sir, reflect
how untimely this distrust in one like you. How weak you are; and
weakness, is it not the time for confidence? Yes, when through weakness
everything bids despair, then is the time to get strength by
confidence."

Relenting in his air, the sick man cast upon him a long glance of
beseeching, as if saying, "With confidence must come hope; and how can
hope be?"

The herb-doctor took a sealed paper box from his surtout pocket, and
holding it towards him, said solemnly, "Turn not away. This may be the
last time of health's asking. Work upon yourself; invoke confidence,
though from ashes; rouse it; for your life, rouse it, and invoke it, I
say."

The other trembled, was silent; and then, a little commanding himself,
asked the ingredients of the medicine.

"Herbs."

"What herbs? And the nature of them? And the reason for giving them?"

"It cannot be made known."

"Then I will none of you."

Sedately observant of the juiceless, joyless form before him, the
herb-doctor was mute a moment, then said:--"I give up."

"How?"

"You are sick, and a philosopher."

"No, no;--not the last."

"But, to demand the ingredient, with the reason for giving, is the mark
of a philosopher; just as the consequence is the penalty of a fool. A
sick philosopher is incurable?"

"Why?"

"Because he has no confidence."

"How does that make him incurable?"

"Because either he spurns his powder, or, if he take it, it proves a
blank cartridge, though the same given to a rustic in like extremity,
would act like a charm. I am no materialist; but the mind so acts upon
the body, that if the one have no confidence, neither has the other."

Again, the sick man appeared not unmoved. He seemed to be thinking what
in candid truth could be said to all this. At length, "You talk of
confidence. How comes it that when brought low himself, the herb-doctor,
who was most confident to prescribe in other cases, proves least
confident to prescribe in his own; having small confidence in himself
for himself?"

"But he has confidence in the brother he calls in. And that he does so,
is no reproach to him, since he knows that when the body is prostrated,
the mind is not erect. Yes, in this hour the herb-doctor does distrust
himself, but not his art."

The sick man's knowledge did not warrant him to gainsay this. But he
seemed not grieved at it; glad to be confuted in a way tending towards
his wish.

"Then you give me hope?" his sunken eye turned up.

"Hope is proportioned to confidence. How much confidence you give me, so
much hope do I give you. For this," lifting the box, "if all depended
upon this, I should rest. It is nature's own."

"Nature!"

"Why do you start?"

"I know not," with a sort of shudder, "but I have heard of a book
entitled 'Nature in Disease.'"

"A title I cannot approve; it is suspiciously scientific. 'Nature in
Disease?' As if nature, divine nature, were aught but health; as if
through nature disease is decreed! But did I not before hint of the
tendency of science, that forbidden tree? Sir, if despondency is yours
from recalling that title, dismiss it. Trust me, nature is health; for
health is good, and nature cannot work ill. As little can she work
error. Get nature, and you get well. Now, I repeat, this medicine is
nature's own."

Again the sick man could not, according to his light, conscientiously
disprove what was said. Neither, as before, did he seem over-anxious to
do so; the less, as in his sensitiveness it seemed to him, that hardly
could he offer so to do without something like the appearance of a kind
of implied irreligion; nor in his heart was he ungrateful, that since a
spirit opposite to that pervaded all the herb-doctor's hopeful words,
therefore, for hopefulness, he (the sick man) had not alone medical
warrant, but also doctrinal.

"Then you do really think," hectically, "that if I take this medicine,"
mechanically reaching out for it, "I shall regain my health?"

"I will not encourage false hopes," relinquishing to him the box, "I
will be frank with you. Though frankness is not always the weakness of
the mineral practitioner, yet the herb doctor must be frank, or nothing.
Now then, sir, in your case, a radical cure--such a cure, understand, as
should make you robust--such a cure, sir, I do not and cannot promise."

"Oh, you need not! only restore me the power of being something else to
others than a burdensome care, and to myself a droning grief. Only cure
me of this misery of weakness; only make me so that I can walk about in
the sun and not draw the flies to me, as lured by the coming of decay.
Only do that--but that."

"You ask not much; you are wise; not in vain have you suffered. That
little you ask, I think, can be granted. But remember, not in a day, nor
a week, nor perhaps a month, but sooner or later; I say not exactly
when, for I am neither prophet nor charlatan. Still, if, according to
the directions in your box there, you take my medicine steadily, without
assigning an especial day, near or remote, to discontinue it, then may
you calmly look for some eventual result of good. But again I say, you
must have confidence."

Feverishly he replied that he now trusted he had, and hourly should pray
for its increase. When suddenly relapsing into one of those strange
caprices peculiar to some invalids, he added: "But to one like me, it is
so hard, so hard. The most confident hopes so often have failed me, and
as often have I vowed never, no, never, to trust them again. Oh," feebly
wringing his hands, "you do not know, you do not know."

"I know this, that never did a right confidence, come to naught. But
time is short; you hold your cure, to retain or reject."

"I retain," with a clinch, "and now how much?"

"As much as you can evoke from your heart and heaven."

"How?--the price of this medicine?"

"I thought it was confidence you meant; how much confidence you should
have. The medicine,--that is half a dollar a vial. Your box holds six."

The money was paid.

"Now, sir," said the herb-doctor, "my business calls me away, and it may
so be that I shall never see you again; if then----"

He paused, for the sick man's countenance fell blank.

"Forgive me," cried the other, "forgive that imprudent phrase 'never see
you again.' Though I solely intended it with reference to myself, yet I
had forgotten what your sensitiveness might be. I repeat, then, that it
may be that we shall not soon have a second interview, so that
hereafter, should another of my boxes be needed, you may not be able to
replace it except by purchase at the shops; and, in so doing, you may
run more or less risk of taking some not salutary mixture. For such is
the popularity of the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator--thriving not by the
credulity of the simple, but the trust of the wise--that certain
contrivers have not been idle, though I would not, indeed, hastily
affirm of them that they are aware of the sad consequences to the
public. Homicides and murderers, some call those contrivers; but I do
not; for murder (if such a crime be possible) comes from the heart, and
these men's motives come from the purse. Were they not in poverty, I
think they would hardly do what they do. Still, the public interests
forbid that I should let their needy device for a living succeed. In
short, I have adopted precautions. Take the wrapper from any of my vials
and hold it to the light, you will see water-marked in capitals the word
'_confidence_,' which is the countersign of the medicine, as I wish it
was of the world. The wrapper bears that mark or else the medicine is
counterfeit. But if still any lurking doubt should remain, pray enclose
the wrapper to this address," handing a card, "and by return mail I will
answer."

At first the sick man listened, with the air of vivid interest, but
gradually, while the other was still talking, another strange caprice
came over him, and he presented the aspect of the most calamitous
dejection.

"How now?" said the herb-doctor.

"You told me to have confidence, said that confidence was indispensable,
and here you preach to me distrust. Ah, truth will out!"

"I told you, you must have confidence, unquestioning confidence, I meant
confidence in the genuine medicine, and the genuine _me_."

"But in your absence, buying vials purporting to be yours, it seems I
cannot have unquestioning confidence."

"Prove all the vials; trust those which are true."

"But to doubt, to suspect, to prove--to have all this wearing work to
be doing continually--how opposed to confidence. It is evil!"

"From evil comes good. Distrust is a stage to confidence. How has it
proved in our interview? But your voice is husky; I have let you talk
too much. You hold your cure; I will leave you. But stay--when I hear
that health is yours, I will not, like some I know, vainly make boasts;
but, giving glory where all glory is due, say, with the devout
herb-doctor, Japus in Virgil, when, in the unseen but efficacious
presence of Venus, he with simples healed the wound of AEneas:--

    'This is no mortal work, no cure of mine,
    Nor art's effect, but done by power divine.'"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It's morning, and it is glo-ri-ous. The sun is out. It's beaming its beautiful rays on the whole world and everyone in it. Everyone except that guy right over there out on the deck, that is. He looks miserable. Worse, he looks like he's on death's door. He may be. He's clearly feeble and ill. Worse still, dude's got an herb-doctor next to him touting the value of natural remedies and decrying the false medical arts of chemists. Our ill old man has apparently taken some sort of draught containing iron and maybe a whole host of other chemicals that have degenerated his body. The herb-doctor goes through various arguments about why those other doctors are snake-oil salesmen but he's the real McCoy. His main point is that he is on the side of nature, nature is on the side of God, and God can do no wrong. Therefore, everything from nature is good. If everything from God-nature is good, then bam, syllogism complete: he, the herb-doctor, is a man to trust. Throughout this one-sided conversation, the old man has remained silent, but when trust is mentioned, he balks. He's done with all doctors. The herb-doctor is relentless in offering his Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator, so the old man asks what's in it. He doesn't get an answer to that question. Instead, the herb-doctor smart-shames him for having the skepticism of a philosopher. He tells the old man that he needs the faith of the uneducated in order for this to work. The herb-doctor plays on the very human desire to keep going in order to convince the old man his herbs will work. The herb-doctor repeats that the old man must have complete confidence in the herbs, or they won't work. The old man ponies up the cash. As he's leaving, the herb-doctor says he may never see the old man again, but he should just trust in the herbs while having no expectations for when he might recover. Great. The old man freezes because he thinks the herb-doctor meant he'd never see him due to the old man's death. Oops. Foot in mouth. The herb-doctor nopes out of that pretty quickly by saying he only meant that the two might not meet again on the ship--or ever. Oh. Before he goes, though, the herb-doctor wants the old man to know that if he needs a refill, he should be super wary of counterfeiters. They all want to make money off of the herb-doctor's discovery. Instead, the old man should peel back the label of anything advertised as the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator to find a watermark of the word "confidence." The old man is dispirited again--he just started to have confidence. Now the herb-doctor is sowing distrust. The herb-doctor clarifies: Have confidence in me alone, but above all else, give the credit of my healing you to God.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XVII. TOWARDS THE END OF WHICH THE HERB-DOCTOR PROVES HIMSELF A FORGIVER OF INJURIES.

In a kind of ante-cabin, a number of respectable looking people, male
and female, way-passengers, recently come on board, are listlessly
sitting in a mutually shy sort of silence.

Holding up a small, square bottle, ovally labeled with the engraving of
a countenance full of soft pity as that of the Romish-painted Madonna,
the herb-doctor passes slowly among them, benignly urbane, turning this
way and that, saying:--

"Ladies and gentlemen, I hold in my hand here the Samaritan Pain
Dissuader, thrice-blessed discovery of that disinterested friend of
humanity whose portrait you see. Pure vegetable extract. Warranted to
remove the acutest pain within less than ten minutes. Five hundred
dollars to be forfeited on failure. Especially efficacious in heart
disease and tic-douloureux. Observe the expression of this pledged
friend of humanity.--Price only fifty cents."

In vain. After the first idle stare, his auditors--in pretty good
health, it seemed--instead of encouraging his politeness, appeared, if
anything, impatient of it; and, perhaps, only diffidence, or some small
regard for his feelings, prevented them from telling him so. But,
insensible to their coldness, or charitably overlooking it, he more
wooingly than ever resumed: "May I venture upon a small supposition?
Have I your kind leave, ladies and gentlemen?"

To which modest appeal, no one had the kindness to answer a syllable.

"Well," said he, resignedly, "silence is at least not denial, and may be
consent. My supposition is this: possibly some lady, here present, has a
dear friend at home, a bed-ridden sufferer from spinal complaint. If so,
what gift more appropriate to that sufferer than this tasteful little
bottle of Pain Dissuader?"

Again he glanced about him, but met much the same reception as before.
Those faces, alien alike to sympathy or surprise, seemed patiently to
say, "We are travelers; and, as such, must expect to meet, and quietly
put up with, many antic fools, and more antic quacks."

"Ladies and gentlemen," (deferentially fixing his eyes upon their now
self-complacent faces) "ladies and gentlemen, might I, by your kind
leave, venture upon one other small supposition? It is this: that there
is scarce a sufferer, this noonday, writhing on his bed, but in his hour
he sat satisfactorily healthy and happy; that the Samaritan Pain
Dissuader is the one only balm for that to which each living
creature--who knows?--may be a draughted victim, present or prospective.
In short:--Oh, Happiness on my right hand, and oh, Security on my left,
can ye wisely adore a Providence, and not think it wisdom to
provide?--Provide!" (Uplifting the bottle.)

What immediate effect, if any, this appeal might have had, is uncertain.
For just then the boat touched at a houseless landing, scooped, as by a
land-slide, out of sombre forests; back through which led a road, the
sole one, which, from its narrowness, and its being walled up with story
on story of dusk, matted foliage, presented the vista of some cavernous
old gorge in a city, like haunted Cock Lane in London. Issuing from that
road, and crossing that landing, there stooped his shaggy form in the
door-way, and entered the ante-cabin, with a step so burdensome that
shot seemed in his pockets, a kind of invalid Titan in homespun; his
beard blackly pendant, like the Carolina-moss, and dank with cypress
dew; his countenance tawny and shadowy as an iron-ore country in a
clouded day. In one hand he carried a heavy walking-stick of swamp-oak;
with the other, led a puny girl, walking in moccasins, not improbably
his child, but evidently of alien maternity, perhaps Creole, or even
Camanche. Her eye would have been large for a woman, and was inky as the
pools of falls among mountain-pines. An Indian blanket, orange-hued, and
fringed with lead tassel-work, appeared that morning to have shielded
the child from heavy showers. Her limbs were tremulous; she seemed a
little Cassandra, in nervousness.

No sooner was the pair spied by the herb-doctor, than with a cheerful
air, both arms extended like a host's, he advanced, and taking the
child's reluctant hand, said, trippingly: "On your travels, ah, my
little May Queen? Glad to see you. What pretty moccasins. Nice to dance
in." Then with a half caper sang--

    "'Hey diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle;
      The cow jumped over the moon.'

Come, chirrup, chirrup, my little robin!"

Which playful welcome drew no responsive playfulness from the child, nor
appeared to gladden or conciliate the father; but rather, if anything,
to dash the dead weight of his heavy-hearted expression with a smile
hypochondriacally scornful.

Sobering down now, the herb-doctor addressed the stranger in a manly,
business-like way--a transition which, though it might seem a little
abrupt, did not appear constrained, and, indeed, served to show that his
recent levity was less the habit of a frivolous nature, than the frolic
condescension of a kindly heart.

"Excuse me," said he, "but, if I err not, I was speaking to you the
other day;--on a Kentucky boat, wasn't it?"

"Never to me," was the reply; the voice deep and lonesome enough to have
come from the bottom of an abandoned coal-shaft.

"Ah!--But am I again mistaken, (his eye falling on the swamp-oak stick,)
or don't you go a little lame, sir?"

"Never was lame in my life."

"Indeed? I fancied I had perceived not a limp, but a hitch, a slight
hitch;--some experience in these things--divined some hidden cause of
the hitch--buried bullet, may be--some dragoons in the Mexican war
discharged with such, you know.--Hard fate!" he sighed, "little pity for
it, for who sees it?--have you dropped anything?"

Why, there is no telling, but the stranger was bowed over, and might
have seemed bowing for the purpose of picking up something, were it not
that, as arrested in the imperfect posture, he for the moment so
remained; slanting his tall stature like a mainmast yielding to the
gale, or Adam to the thunder.

The little child pulled him. With a kind of a surge he righted himself,
for an instant looked toward the herb-doctor; but, either from emotion
or aversion, or both together, withdrew his eyes, saying nothing.
Presently, still stooping, he seated himself, drawing his child between
his knees, his massy hands tremulous, and still averting his face, while
up into the compassionate one of the herb-doctor the child turned a
fixed, melancholy glance of repugnance.

The herb-doctor stood observant a moment, then said:

"Surely you have pain, strong pain, somewhere; in strong frames pain is
strongest. Try, now, my specific," (holding it up). "Do but look at the
expression of this friend of humanity. Trust me, certain cure for any
pain in the world. Won't you look?"

"No," choked the other.

"Very good. Merry time to you, little May Queen."

And so, as if he would intrude his cure upon no one, moved pleasantly
off, again crying his wares, nor now at last without result. A
new-comer, not from the shore, but another part of the boat, a sickly
young man, after some questions, purchased a bottle. Upon this, others
of the company began a little to wake up as it were; the scales of
indifference or prejudice fell from their eyes; now, at last, they
seemed to have an inkling that here was something not undesirable which
might be had for the buying.

But while, ten times more briskly bland than ever, the herb-doctor was
driving his benevolent trade, accompanying each sale with added praises
of the thing traded, all at once the dusk giant, seated at some
distance, unexpectedly raised his voice with--

"What was that you last said?"

The question was put distinctly, yet resonantly, as when a great
clock-bell--stunning admonisher--strikes one; and the stroke, though
single, comes bedded in the belfry clamor.

All proceedings were suspended. Hands held forth for the specific were
withdrawn, while every eye turned towards the direction whence the
question came. But, no way abashed, the herb-doctor, elevating his voice
with even more than wonted self-possession, replied--

"I was saying what, since you wish it, I cheerfully repeat, that the
Samaritan Pain Dissuader, which I here hold in my hand, will either cure
or ease any pain you please, within ten minutes after its application."

"Does it produce insensibility?"

"By no means. Not the least of its merits is, that it is not an opiate.
It kills pain without killing feeling."

"You lie! Some pains cannot be eased but by producing insensibility, and
cannot be cured but by producing death."

Beyond this the dusk giant said nothing; neither, for impairing the
other's market, did there appear much need to. After eying the rude
speaker a moment with an expression of mingled admiration and
consternation, the company silently exchanged glances of mutual sympathy
under unwelcome conviction. Those who had purchased looked sheepish or
ashamed; and a cynical-looking little man, with a thin flaggy beard, and
a countenance ever wearing the rudiments of a grin, seated alone in a
corner commanding a good view of the scene, held a rusty hat before his
face.

But, again, the herb-doctor, without noticing the retort, overbearing
though it was, began his panegyrics anew, and in a tone more assured
than before, going so far now as to say that his specific was sometimes
almost as effective in cases of mental suffering as in cases of
physical; or rather, to be more precise, in cases when, through
sympathy, the two sorts of pain cooeperated into a climax of both--in
such cases, he said, the specific had done very well. He cited an
example: Only three bottles, faithfully taken, cured a Louisiana widow
(for three weeks sleepless in a darkened chamber) of neuralgic sorrow
for the loss of husband and child, swept off in one night by the last
epidemic. For the truth of this, a printed voucher was produced, duly
signed.

While he was reading it aloud, a sudden side-blow all but felled him.

It was the giant, who, with a countenance lividly epileptic with
hypochondriac mania, exclaimed--

"Profane fiddler on heart-strings! Snake!"

More he would have added, but, convulsed, could not; so, without another
word, taking up the child, who had followed him, went with a rocking
pace out of the cabin.

"Regardless of decency, and lost to humanity!" exclaimed the
herb-doctor, with much ado recovering himself. Then, after a pause,
during which he examined his bruise, not omitting to apply externally a
little of his specific, and with some success, as it would seem, plained
to himself:

"No, no, I won't seek redress; innocence is my redress. But," turning
upon them all, "if that man's wrathful blow provokes me to no wrath,
should his evil distrust arouse you to distrust? I do devoutly hope,"
proudly raising voice and arm, "for the honor of humanity--hope that,
despite this coward assault, the Samaritan Pain Dissuader stands
unshaken in the confidence of all who hear me!"

But, injured as he was, and patient under it, too, somehow his case
excited as little compassion as his oratory now did enthusiasm. Still,
pathetic to the last, he continued his appeals, notwithstanding the
frigid regard of the company, till, suddenly interrupting himself, as
if in reply to a quick summons from without, he said hurriedly, "I come,
I come," and so, with every token of precipitate dispatch, out of the
cabin the herb-doctor went.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: More people have boarded the ship. This crop of new blood is sitting in a room, kind of shy, and very quiet. We see the herb-doctor hawking another concoction. This time it's the Samaritan Pain Dissuader--good for whatever pains you--mind, body, and soul. The crowd just stares at the herb-doctor. They all seem healthy. The herb-doctor tries again in an appeal to the women, asking if they have any sick, bedridden friends at home who would appreciate this as a gift. Cricket cricket. Undeterred by the crowd's apathy, the herb-doctor continues with another tack: You're fine now, but you may have a sudden, terrible pain by noon. No response. Just then, another new passenger boards the ship and enters the room. We're talking chillingly dramatic entrance here, folks. Imagine the tough, quiet, tall, dark outlaw type walking up to a saloon. He's s man of mystery. He's got a limp and a little girl with bright, dark eyes as deep as eternity. They're no nonsense. The herb-doctor goes to these new passengers and makes the number-one wrong move when talking to kids: he acts like a cheery doofus. He takes the girl's hand , sings at her, and tries to get her to sing with him. She gives him a blank stare. Her dad offers him a look of scorn. The herb-doctor does the "Don't I know you from the Kentucky ship?" thing. The man says no. The herb-doctor suggests his Samaritan Pain Dissuader as a cure for the guy's limp. The man says no. He goes to sit down with difficulty. Another dude arrives--much less dramatically this time. He's not from the shore like this crowd, but from another part of the boat. He buys a bottle of Samaritan Pain Dissuader. This seems to signal a go for the others gathered there, and some others buy a few bottles. From his seat, the father asks the herb-doctor to repeat what he just said to the crowd. Gladly: This stuff will ease pain in ten minutes. Father: Does it make you drowsy or numb? Herb-doctor: Nah, you retain your brain game. Father: Lies. You're a lying liar who lies. The crowd is silent again. Those who have bought some of the meds already feel sheepish. The herb-doctor shakes it off and launches into a story about how this concoction will cure mental and emotional pain in addition to physical suffering. He purports to have cured a woman in agony over the death of her husband and child. The father can't stand it any longer. He blows up at the herb-doctor, calls him a snake, and leaves the room. The herb-doctor pauses and narrates his internal monologue for the audience: he's hurt, no doubt, but he's not going to lower himself to be as wrathful as that man. Instead, he hopes that the audience will see this behavior and have confidence in him. The herb-doctor gets only cold stares from the audience. In a weirdly Shakespearean exit, the herb-doctor responds to a voice only he hears calling him.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XVIII. INQUEST INTO THE TRUE CHARACTER OF THE HERB-DOCTOR.

"Sha'n't see that fellow again in a hurry," remarked an auburn-haired
gentleman, to his neighbor with a hook-nose. "Never knew an operator so
completely unmasked."

"But do you think it the fair thing to unmask an operator that way?"

"Fair? It is right."

"Supposing that at high 'change on the Paris Bourse, Asmodeus should
lounge in, distributing hand-bills, revealing the true thoughts and
designs of all the operators present--would that be the fair thing in
Asmodeus? Or, as Hamlet says, were it 'to consider the thing too
curiously?'"

"We won't go into that. But since you admit the fellow to be a
knave----"

"I don't admit it. Or, if I did, I take it back. Shouldn't wonder if,
after all, he is no knave at all, or, but little of one. What can you
prove against him?"

"I can prove that he makes dupes."

"Many held in honor do the same; and many, not wholly knaves, do it
too."

"How about that last?"

"He is not wholly at heart a knave, I fancy, among whose dupes is
himself. Did you not see our quack friend apply to himself his own
quackery? A fanatic quack; essentially a fool, though effectively a
knave."

Bending over, and looking down between his knees on the floor, the
auburn-haired gentleman meditatively scribbled there awhile with his
cane, then, glancing up, said:

"I can't conceive how you, in anyway, can hold him a fool. How he
talked--so glib, so pat, so well."

"A smart fool always talks well; takes a smart fool to be tonguey."

In much the same strain the discussion continued--the hook-nosed
gentleman talking at large and excellently, with a view of demonstrating
that a smart fool always talks just so. Ere long he talked to such
purpose as almost to convince.

Presently, back came the person of whom the auburn-haired gentleman had
predicted that he would not return. Conspicuous in the door-way he
stood, saying, in a clear voice, "Is the agent of the Seminole Widow and
Orphan Asylum within here?"

No one replied.

"Is there within here any agent or any member of any charitable
institution whatever?"

No one seemed competent to answer, or, no one thought it worth while
to.

"If there be within here any such person, I have in my hand two dollars
for him."

Some interest was manifested.

"I was called away so hurriedly, I forgot this part of my duty. With the
proprietor of the Samaritan Pain Dissuader it is a rule, to devote, on
the spot, to some benevolent purpose, the half of the proceeds of sales.
Eight bottles were disposed of among this company. Hence, four
half-dollars remain to charity. Who, as steward, takes the money?"

One or two pair of feet moved upon the floor, as with a sort of itching;
but nobody rose.

"Does diffidence prevail over duty? If, I say, there be any gentleman,
or any lady, either, here present, who is in any connection with any
charitable institution whatever, let him or her come forward. He or she
happening to have at hand no certificate of such connection, makes no
difference. Not of a suspicious temper, thank God, I shall have
confidence in whoever offers to take the money."

A demure-looking woman, in a dress rather tawdry and rumpled, here drew
her veil well down and rose; but, marking every eye upon her, thought it
advisable, upon the whole, to sit down again.

"Is it to be believed that, in this Christian company, there is no one
charitable person? I mean, no one connected with any charity? Well,
then, is there no object of charity here?"

Upon this, an unhappy-looking woman, in a sort of mourning, neat, but
sadly worn, hid her face behind a meagre bundle, and was heard to sob.
Meantime, as not seeing or hearing her, the herb-doctor again spoke, and
this time not unpathetically:

"Are there none here who feel in need of help, and who, in accepting
such help, would feel that they, in their time, have given or done more
than may ever be given or done to them? Man or woman, is there none such
here?"

The sobs of the woman were more audible, though she strove to repress
them. While nearly every one's attention was bent upon her, a man of the
appearance of a day-laborer, with a white bandage across his face,
concealing the side of the nose, and who, for coolness' sake, had been
sitting in his red-flannel shirt-sleeves, his coat thrown across one
shoulder, the darned cuffs drooping behind--this man shufflingly rose,
and, with a pace that seemed the lingering memento of the lock-step of
convicts, went up for a duly-qualified claimant.

"Poor wounded huzzar!" sighed the herb-doctor, and dropping the money
into the man's clam-shell of a hand turned and departed.

The recipient of the alms was about moving after, when the auburn-haired
gentleman staid him: "Don't be frightened, you; but I want to see those
coins. Yes, yes; good silver, good silver. There, take them again, and
while you are about it, go bandage the rest of yourself behind
something. D'ye hear? Consider yourself, wholly, the scar of a nose, and
be off with yourself."

Being of a forgiving nature, or else from emotion not daring to trust
his voice, the man silently, but not without some precipitancy,
withdrew.

"Strange," said the auburn-haired gentleman, returning to his friend,
"the money was good money."

"Aye, and where your fine knavery now? Knavery to devote the half of
one's receipts to charity? He's a fool I say again."

"Others might call him an original genius."

"Yes, being original in his folly. Genius? His genius is a cracked pate,
and, as this age goes, not much originality about that."

"May he not be knave, fool, and genius altogether?"

"I beg pardon," here said a third person with a gossiping expression who
had been listening, "but you are somewhat puzzled by this man, and well
you may be."

"Do you know anything about him?" asked the hooked-nosed gentleman.

"No, but I suspect him for something."

"Suspicion. We want knowledge."

"Well, suspect first and know next. True knowledge comes but by
suspicion or revelation. That's my maxim."

"And yet," said the auburn-haired gentleman, "since a wise man will keep
even some certainties to himself, much more some suspicions, at least he
will at all events so do till they ripen into knowledge."

"Do you hear that about the wise man?" said the hook-nosed gentleman,
turning upon the new comer. "Now what is it you suspect of this fellow?"

"I shrewdly suspect him," was the eager response, "for one of those
Jesuit emissaries prowling all over our country. The better to
accomplish their secret designs, they assume, at times, I am told, the
most singular masques; sometimes, in appearance, the absurdest."

This, though indeed for some reason causing a droll smile upon the face
of the hook-nosed gentleman, added a third angle to the discussion,
which now became a sort of triangular duel, and ended, at last, with but
a triangular result.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Two men are discussing the herb-doctor. They disagree over whether it was fair that he was exposed as a fake. One thinks he's a clear charlatan, while the other only accuses him of being a fool. Suddenly, the herb-doctor returns, asking for the man collecting money for the Seminole Widow and Orphan Asylum . The herb-doctor says he always donates half of his sales to charity. There's no response from the crowd. Been there, done that. The herb-doctor keeps offering the money, saying he'll give to anyone connected with another charity, whether they have a certificate to prove it or not, because he trusts them out of the goodness of his heart. People shuffle their feet but don't speak. A woman stands to get the money. The crowd side-eyes her until she sits down. Then the herb-doctor says that anyone in need can just have it. Another woman in clear mourning garb starts weeping, but she doesn't move to get the cash. Eventually, a man with a bandage across his face goes to claim the money. As the man with the bandage heads back to where he was standing, camp-charlatan guy stops him and asks to see the coins. He's surprised that they're real silver. Camp-fool guy is not surprised. Now they disagree over whether this was sincere or whether it was part of another bizarre ploy. A third guy interjects. Giddy for gossip, he says he knows what's up. The crowd asks what's up. New guy says he's a Jesuit roaming the land to confound the public. The other two give the Jesuit a You're a silly old bear smile. Nothing is resolved.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XIX. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.

"Mexico? Molino del Rey? Resaca de la Palma?"

"Resaca de la _Tomba_!"

Leaving his reputation to take care of itself, since, as is not seldom
the case, he knew nothing of its being in debate, the herb-doctor,
wandering towards the forward part of the boat, had there espied a
singular character in a grimy old regimental coat, a countenance at once
grim and wizened, interwoven paralyzed legs, stiff as icicles, suspended
between rude crutches, while the whole rigid body, like a ship's long
barometer on gimbals, swung to and fro, mechanically faithful to the
motion of the boat. Looking downward while he swung, the cripple seemed
in a brown study.

As moved by the sight, and conjecturing that here was some battered hero
from the Mexican battle-fields, the herb-doctor had sympathetically
accosted him as above, and received the above rather dubious reply. As,
with a half moody, half surly sort of air that reply was given, the
cripple, by a voluntary jerk, nervously increased his swing (his custom
when seized by emotion), so that one would have thought some squall had
suddenly rolled the boat and with it the barometer.

"Tombs? my friend," exclaimed the herb-doctor in mild surprise. "You
have not descended to the dead, have you? I had imagined you a scarred
campaigner, one of the noble children of war, for your dear country a
glorious sufferer. But you are Lazarus, it seems."

"Yes, he who had sores."

"Ah, the _other_ Lazarus. But I never knew that either of them was in
the army," glancing at the dilapidated regimentals.

"That will do now. Jokes enough."

"Friend," said the other reproachfully, "you think amiss. On principle,
I greet unfortunates with some pleasant remark, the better to call off
their thoughts from their troubles. The physician who is at once wise
and humane seldom unreservedly sympathizes with his patient. But come, I
am a herb-doctor, and also a natural bone-setter. I may be sanguine, but
I think I can do something for you. You look up now. Give me your story.
Ere I undertake a cure, I require a full account of the case."

"You can't help me," returned the cripple gruffly. "Go away."

"You seem sadly destitute of----"

"No I ain't destitute; to-day, at least, I can pay my way."

"The Natural Bone-setter is happy, indeed, to hear that. But you were
premature. I was deploring your destitution, not of cash, but of
confidence. You think the Natural Bone-setter can't help you. Well,
suppose he can't, have you any objection to telling him your story? You,
my friend, have, in a signal way, experienced adversity. Tell me, then,
for my private good, how, without aid from the noble cripple, Epictetus,
you have arrived at his heroic sang-froid in misfortune."

At these words the cripple fixed upon the speaker the hard ironic eye of
one toughened and defiant in misery, and, in the end, grinned upon him
with his unshaven face like an ogre.

"Come, come, be sociable--be human, my friend. Don't make that face; it
distresses me."

"I suppose," with a sneer, "you are the man I've long heard of--The
Happy Man."

"Happy? my friend. Yes, at least I ought to be. My conscience is
peaceful. I have confidence in everybody. I have confidence that, in my
humble profession, I do some little good to the world. Yes, I think
that, without presumption, I may venture to assent to the proposition
that I am the Happy Man--the Happy Bone-setter."

"Then, you shall hear my story. Many a month I have longed to get hold
of the Happy Man, drill him, drop the powder, and leave him to explode
at his leisure.".

"What a demoniac unfortunate" exclaimed the herb-doctor retreating.
"Regular infernal machine!"

"Look ye," cried the other, stumping after him, and with his horny hand
catching him by a horn button, "my name is Thomas Fry. Until my----"

--"Any relation of Mrs. Fry?" interrupted the other. "I still correspond
with that excellent lady on the subject of prisons. Tell me, are you
anyway connected with _my_ Mrs. Fry?"

"Blister Mrs. Fry! What do them sentimental souls know of prisons or any
other black fact? I'll tell ye a story of prisons. Ha, ha!"

The herb-doctor shrank, and with reason, the laugh being strangely
startling.

"Positively, my friend," said he, "you must stop that; I can't stand
that; no more of that. I hope I have the milk of kindness, but your
thunder will soon turn it."

"Hold, I haven't come to the milk-turning part yet. My name is Thomas
Fry. Until my twenty-third year I went by the nickname of Happy
Tom--happy--ha, ha! They called me Happy Tom, d'ye see? because I was so
good-natured and laughing all the time, just as I am now--ha, ha!"

Upon this the herb-doctor would, perhaps, have run, but once more the
hyaena clawed him. Presently, sobering down, he continued:

"Well, I was born in New York, and there I lived a steady, hard-working
man, a cooper by trade. One evening I went to a political meeting in the
Park--for you must know, I was in those days a great patriot. As bad
luck would have it, there was trouble near, between a gentleman who had
been drinking wine, and a pavior who was sober. The pavior chewed
tobacco, and the gentleman said it was beastly in him, and pushed him,
wanting to have his place. The pavior chewed on and pushed back. Well,
the gentleman carried a sword-cane, and presently the pavior was
down--skewered."

"How was that?"

"Why you see the pavior undertook something above his strength."

"The other must have been a Samson then. 'Strong as a pavior,' is a
proverb."

"So it is, and the gentleman was in body a rather weakly man, but, for
all that, I say again, the pavior undertook something above his
strength."

"What are you talking about? He tried to maintain his rights, didn't
he?"

"Yes; but, for all that, I say again, he undertook something above his
strength."

"I don't understand you. But go on."

"Along with the gentleman, I, with other witnesses, was taken to the
Tombs. There was an examination, and, to appear at the trial, the
gentleman and witnesses all gave bail--I mean all but me."

"And why didn't you?"

"Couldn't get it."

"Steady, hard-working cooper like you; what was the reason you couldn't
get bail?"

"Steady, hard-working cooper hadn't no friends. Well, souse I went into
a wet cell, like a canal-boat splashing into the lock; locked up in
pickle, d'ye see? against the time of the trial."

"But what had you done?"

"Why, I hadn't got any friends, I tell ye. A worse crime than murder, as
ye'll see afore long."

"Murder? Did the wounded man die?"

"Died the third night."

"Then the gentleman's bail didn't help him. Imprisoned now, wasn't he?"

"Had too many friends. No, it was _I_ that was imprisoned.--But I was
going on: They let me walk about the corridor by day; but at night I
must into lock. There the wet and the damp struck into my bones. They
doctored me, but no use. When the trial came, I was boosted up and said
my say."

"And what was that?"

"My say was that I saw the steel go in, and saw it sticking in."

"And that hung the gentleman."

"Hung him with a gold chain! His friends called a meeting in the Park,
and presented him with a gold watch and chain upon his acquittal."

"Acquittal?"

"Didn't I say he had friends?"

There was a pause, broken at last by the herb-doctor's saying: "Well,
there is a bright side to everything. If this speak prosaically for
justice, it speaks romantically for friendship! But go on, my fine
fellow."

"My say being said, they told me I might go. I said I could not without
help. So the constables helped me, asking _where_ would I go? I told
them back to the 'Tombs.' I knew no other place. 'But where are your
friends?' said they. 'I have none.' So they put me into a hand-barrow
with an awning to it, and wheeled me down to the dock and on board a
boat, and away to Blackwell's Island to the Corporation Hospital. There
I got worse--got pretty much as you see me now. Couldn't cure me. After
three years, I grew sick of lying in a grated iron bed alongside of
groaning thieves and mouldering burglars. They gave me five silver
dollars, and these crutches, and I hobbled off. I had an only brother
who went to Indiana, years ago. I begged about, to make up a sum to go
to him; got to Indiana at last, and they directed me to his grave. It
was on a great plain, in a log-church yard with a stump fence, the old
gray roots sticking all ways like moose-antlers. The bier, set over the
grave, it being the last dug, was of green hickory; bark on, and green
twigs sprouting from it. Some one had planted a bunch of violets on the
mound, but it was a poor soil (always choose the poorest soils for
grave-yards), and they were all dried to tinder. I was going to sit and
rest myself on the bier and think about my brother in heaven, but the
bier broke down, the legs being only tacked. So, after driving some hogs
out of the yard that were rooting there, I came away, and, not to make
too long a story of it, here I am, drifting down stream like any other
bit of wreck."

The herb-doctor was silent for a time, buried in thought. At last,
raising his head, he said: "I have considered your whole story, my
friend, and strove to consider it in the light of a commentary on what I
believe to be the system of things; but it so jars with all, is so
incompatible with all, that you must pardon me, if I honestly tell you,
I cannot believe it."

"That don't surprise me."

"How?"

"Hardly anybody believes my story, and so to most I tell a different
one."

"How, again?"

"Wait here a bit and I'll show ye."

With that, taking off his rag of a cap, and arranging his tattered
regimentals the best he could, off he went stumping among the passengers
in an adjoining part of the deck, saying with a jovial kind of air:
"Sir, a shilling for Happy Tom, who fought at Buena Vista. Lady,
something for General Scott's soldier, crippled in both pins at glorious
Contreras."

Now, it so chanced that, unbeknown to the cripple, a prim-looking
stranger had overheard part of his story. Beholding him, then, on his
present begging adventure, this person, turning to the herb-doctor,
indignantly said: "Is it not too bad, sir, that yonder rascal should lie
so?"

"Charity never faileth, my good sir," was the reply. "The vice of this
unfortunate is pardonable. Consider, he lies not out of wantonness."

"Not out of wantonness. I never heard more wanton lies. In one breath to
tell you what would appear to be his true story, and, in the next, away
and falsify it."

"For all that, I repeat he lies not out of wantonness. A ripe
philosopher, turned out of the great Sorbonne of hard times, he thinks
that woes, when told to strangers for money, are best sugared. Though
the inglorious lock-jaw of his knee-pans in a wet dungeon is a far more
pitiable ill than to have been crippled at glorious Contreras, yet he is
of opinion that this lighter and false ill shall attract, while the
heavier and real one might repel."

"Nonsense; he belongs to the Devil's regiment; and I have a great mind
to expose him."

"Shame upon you. Dare to expose that poor unfortunate, and by
heaven--don't you do it, sir."

Noting something in his manner, the other thought it more prudent to
retire than retort. By-and-by, the cripple came back, and with glee,
having reaped a pretty good harvest.

"There," he laughed, "you know now what sort of soldier I am."

"Aye, one that fights not the stupid Mexican, but a foe worthy your
tactics--Fortune!"

"Hi, hi!" clamored the cripple, like a fellow in the pit of a sixpenny
theatre, then said, "don't know much what you meant, but it went off
well."

This over, his countenance capriciously put on a morose ogreness. To
kindly questions he gave no kindly answers. Unhandsome notions were
thrown out about "free Ameriky," as he sarcastically called his country.
These seemed to disturb and pain the herb-doctor, who, after an interval
of thoughtfulness, gravely addressed him in these words:

"You, my Worthy friend, to my concern, have reflected upon the
government under which you live and suffer. Where is your patriotism?
Where your gratitude? True, the charitable may find something in your
case, as you put it, partly to account for such reflections as coming
from you. Still, be the facts how they may, your reflections are none
the less unwarrantable. Grant, for the moment, that your experiences are
as you give them; in which case I would admit that government might be
thought to have more or less to do with what seems undesirable in them.
But it is never to be forgotten that human government, being subordinate
to the divine, must needs, therefore, in its degree, partake of the
characteristics of the divine. That is, while in general efficacious to
happiness, the world's law may yet, in some cases, have, to the eye of
reason, an unequal operation, just as, in the same imperfect view, some
inequalities may appear in the operations of heaven's law; nevertheless,
to one who has a right confidence, final benignity is, in every
instance, as sure with the one law as the other. I expound the point at
some length, because these are the considerations, my poor fellow,
which, weighed as they merit, will enable you to sustain with unimpaired
trust the apparent calamities which are yours."

"What do you talk your hog-latin to me for?" cried the cripple, who,
throughout the address, betrayed the most illiterate obduracy; and, with
an incensed look, anew he swung himself.

Glancing another way till the spasm passed, the other continued:

"Charity marvels not that you should be somewhat hard of conviction, my
friend, since you, doubtless, believe yourself hardly dealt by; but
forget not that those who are loved are chastened."

"Mustn't chasten them too much, though, and too long, because their skin
and heart get hard, and feel neither pain nor tickle."

"To mere reason, your case looks something piteous, I grant. But never
despond; many things--the choicest--yet remain. You breathe this
bounteous air, are warmed by this gracious sun, and, though poor and
friendless, indeed, nor so agile as in your youth, yet, how sweet to
roam, day by day, through the groves, plucking the bright mosses and
flowers, till forlornness itself becomes a hilarity, and, in your
innocent independence, you skip for joy."

"Fine skipping with these 'ere horse-posts--ha ha!"

"Pardon; I forgot the crutches. My mind, figuring you after receiving
the benefit of my art, overlooked you as you stand before me."

"Your art? You call yourself a bone-setter--a natural bone-setter, do
ye? Go, bone-set the crooked world, and then come bone-set crooked me."

"Truly, my honest friend, I thank you for again recalling me to my
original object. Let me examine you," bending down; "ah, I see, I see;
much such a case as the negro's. Did you see him? Oh no, you came aboard
since. Well, his case was a little something like yours. I prescribed
for him, and I shouldn't wonder at all if, in a very short time, he were
able to walk almost as well as myself. Now, have you no confidence in my
art?"

"Ha, ha!"

The herb-doctor averted himself; but, the wild laugh dying away,
resumed:

"I will not force confidence on you. Still, I would fain do the friendly
thing by you. Here, take this box; just rub that liniment on the joints
night and morning. Take it. Nothing to pay. God bless you. Good-bye."

"Stay," pausing in his swing, not untouched by so unexpected an act;
"stay--thank'ee--but will this really do me good? Honor bright, now;
will it? Don't deceive a poor fellow," with changed mien and glistening
eye.

"Try it. Good-bye."

"Stay, stay! _Sure_ it will do me good?"

"Possibly, possibly; no harm in trying. Good-bye."

"Stay, stay; give me three more boxes, and here's the money."

"My friend," returning towards him with a sadly pleased sort of air, "I
rejoice in the birth of your confidence and hopefulness. Believe me
that, like your crutches, confidence and hopefulness will long support a
man when his own legs will not. Stick to confidence and hopefulness,
then, since how mad for the cripple to throw his crutches away. You ask
for three more boxes of my liniment. Luckily, I have just that number
remaining. Here they are. I sell them at half-a-dollar apiece. But I
shall take nothing from you. There; God bless you again; good-bye."

"Stay," in a convulsed voice, and rocking himself, "stay, stay! You have
made a better man of me. You have borne with me like a good Christian,
and talked to me like one, and all that is enough without making me a
present of these boxes. Here is the money. I won't take nay. There,
there; and may Almighty goodness go with you."

As the herb-doctor withdrew, the cripple gradually subsided from his
hard rocking into a gentle oscillation. It expressed, perhaps, the
soothed mood of his reverie.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The herb-doctor, unaware that his reputation is in question, is long gone and chatting up a man with two gnarled legs on crutches wearing a tattered soldier's uniform. He wants to know where the soldier fought and was wounded. Turns out the dude didn't fight anywhere. Instead, he happened to be witness to a murder during a political rally. Everyone else present during the debacle made bail, but he didn't have the funds. While everyone else got to live their lives until the trial took place, he had to wait in a damp cell until he was called as a witness. This wet prison mangled his legs. Once at the trial, he testified that he saw the gentlemen kill a man with a sword-cane. The Penguin much? This murderer got off scot-free--apparently it's nice to have low friends in high places. After the trial, Thomas Fry just gets dumped at a government hospital, where his condition worsens. The interaction between the herb-doctor and Tom is frayed because the herb-doctor is all silver-linings, and Tom is just not having it. The herb-doctor also says he can't believe something that bad happened. Nobody ever believes, apparently, so Tom lies about being a wounded soldier. Tom then gives the herb-doctor an example by begging for change from other passengers. Someone who heard Tom's other story is miffed and wants to expose him as a fake. The herb-doctor sticks up for Tom and dissuades the volunteer whistleblower. Tom returns, having collected a lot of cash. The herb-doctor tells him to cheer up. No. The herb-doctor says Tom should skip around and be happy. Ummm, can't skip: crutches. The herb-doctor says that he was thinking about how Tom might fare if he tries some of his herbs and gives him a box free of charge. Embarrassed, Tom refuses to accept anything free. Instead, asking for confirmation that this stuff really works, he buys three more boxes. That just happens to be the exact amount that the herb-doctor has left.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XX. REAPPEARANCE OF ONE WHO MAY BE REMEMBERED.

The herb-doctor had not moved far away, when, in advance of him, this
spectacle met his eye. A dried-up old man, with the stature of a boy of
twelve, was tottering about like one out of his mind, in rumpled clothes
of old moleskin, showing recent contact with bedding, his ferret eyes,
blinking in the sunlight of the snowy boat, as imbecilely eager, and, at
intervals, coughing, he peered hither and thither as if in alarmed
search for his nurse. He presented the aspect of one who, bed-rid, has,
through overruling excitement, like that of a fire, been stimulated to
his feet.

"You seek some one," said the herb-doctor, accosting him. "Can I assist
you?"

"Do, do; I am so old and miserable," coughed the old man. "Where is he?
This long time I've been trying to get up and find him. But I haven't
any friends, and couldn't get up till now. Where is he?"

"Who do you mean?" drawing closer, to stay the further wanderings of one
so weakly.

"Why, why, why," now marking the other's dress, "why you, yes you--you,
you--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"I?"

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!--you are the man he spoke of. Who is he?"

"Faith, that is just what I want to know."

"Mercy, mercy!" coughed the old man, bewildered, "ever since seeing him,
my head spins round so. I ought to have a guard_ee_an. Is this a
snuff-colored surtout of yours, or ain't it? Somehow, can't trust my
senses any more, since trusting him--ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, you have trusted somebody? Glad to hear it. Glad to hear of any
instance, of that sort. Reflects well upon all men. But you inquire
whether this is a snuff-colored surtout. I answer it is; and will add
that a herb-doctor wears it."

Upon this the old man, in his broken way, replied that then he (the
herb-doctor) was the person he sought--the person spoken of by the other
person as yet unknown. He then, with flighty eagerness, wanted to know
who this last person was, and where he was, and whether he could be
trusted with money to treble it.

"Aye, now, I begin to understand; ten to one you mean my worthy friend,
who, in pure goodness of heart, makes people's fortunes for them--their
everlasting fortunes, as the phrase goes--only charging his one small
commission of confidence. Aye, aye; before intrusting funds with my
friend, you want to know about him. Very proper--and, I am glad to
assure you, you need have no hesitation; none, none, just none in the
world; bona fide, none. Turned me in a trice a hundred dollars the other
day into as many eagles."

"Did he? did he? But where is he? Take me to him."

"Pray, take my arm! The boat is large! We may have something of a hunt!
Come on! Ah, is that he?"

"Where? where?"

"O, no; I took yonder coat-skirts for his. But no, my honest friend
would never turn tail that way. Ah!----"

"Where? where?"

"Another mistake. Surprising resemblance. I took yonder clergyman for
him. Come on!"

Having searched that part of the boat without success, they went to
another part, and, while exploring that, the boat sided up to a landing,
when, as the two were passing by the open guard, the herb-doctor
suddenly rushed towards the disembarking throng, crying out: "Mr.
Truman, Mr. Truman! There he goes--that's he. Mr. Truman, Mr.
Truman!--Confound that steam-pipe., Mr. Truman! for God's sake, Mr.
Truman!--No, no.--There, the plank's in--too late--we're off."

With that, the huge boat, with a mighty, walrus wallow, rolled away from
the shore, resuming her course.

"How vexatious!" exclaimed the herb-doctor, returning. "Had we been but
one single moment sooner.--There he goes, now, towards yon hotel, his
portmanteau following. You see him, don't you?"

"Where? where?"

"Can't see him any more. Wheel-house shot between. I am very sorry. I
should have so liked you to have let him have a hundred or so of your
money. You would have been pleased with the investment, believe me."

"Oh, I _have_ let him have some of my money," groaned the old man.

"You have? My dear sir," seizing both the miser's hands in both his own
and heartily shaking them. "My dear sir, how I congratulate you. You
don't know."

"Ugh, ugh! I fear I don't," with another groan. "His name is Truman, is
it?"

"John Truman."

"Where does he live?"

"In St. Louis."

"Where's his office?"

"Let me see. Jones street, number one hundred and--no, no--anyway, it's
somewhere or other up-stairs in Jones street."

"Can't you remember the number? Try, now."

"One hundred--two hundred--three hundred--"

"Oh, my hundred dollars! I wonder whether it will be one hundred, two
hundred, three hundred, with them! Ugh, ugh! Can't remember the number?"

"Positively, though I once knew, I have forgotten, quite forgotten it.
Strange. But never mind. You will easily learn in St. Louis. He is well
known there."

"But I have no receipt--ugh, ugh! Nothing to show--don't know where I
stand--ought to have a guard_ee_an--ugh, ugh! Don't know anything. Ugh,
ugh!"

"Why, you know that you gave him your confidence, don't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well, then?"

"But what, what--how, how--ugh, ugh!"

"Why, didn't he tell you?"

"No."

"What! Didn't he tell you that it was a secret, a mystery?"

"Oh--yes."

"Well, then?"

"But I have no bond."

"Don't need any with Mr. Truman. Mr. Truman's word is his bond."

"But how am I to get my profits--ugh, ugh!--and my money back? Don't
know anything. Ugh, ugh!"

"Oh, you must have confidence."

"Don't say that word again. Makes my head spin so. Oh, I'm so old and
miserable, nobody caring for me, everybody fleecing me, and my head
spins so--ugh, ugh!--and this cough racks me so. I say again, I ought to
have a guard_ee_an."

"So you ought; and Mr. Truman is your guardian to the extent you
invested with him. Sorry we missed him just now. But you'll hear from
him. All right. It's imprudent, though, to expose yourself this way. Let
me take you to your berth."

Forlornly enough the old miser moved slowly away with him. But, while
descending a stairway, he was seized with such coughing that he was fain
to pause.

"That is a very bad cough."

"Church-yard--ugh, ugh!--church-yard cough.--Ugh!"

"Have you tried anything for it?"

"Tired of trying. Nothing does me any good--ugh! ugh! Not even the
Mammoth Cave. Ugh! ugh! Denned there six months, but coughed so bad the
rest of the coughers--ugh! ugh!--black-balled me out. Ugh, ugh! Nothing
does me good."

"But have you tried the Omni-Balsamic Reinvigorator, sir?"

"That's what that Truman--ugh, ugh!--said I ought to take.
Yarb-medicine; you are that yarb-doctor, too?"

"The same. Suppose you try one of my boxes now. Trust me, from what I
know of Mr. Truman, he is not the gentleman to recommend, even in behalf
of a friend, anything of whose excellence he is not conscientiously
satisfied."

"Ugh!--how much?"

"Only two dollars a box."

"Two dollars? Why don't you say two millions? ugh, ugh! Two dollars,
that's two hundred cents; that's eight hundred farthings; that's two
thousand mills; and all for one little box of yarb-medicine. My head, my
head!--oh, I ought to have a guard_ee_an for; my head. Ugh, ugh, ugh,
ugh!"

"Well, if two dollars a box seems too much, take a dozen boxes at twenty
dollars; and that will be getting four boxes for nothing, and you need
use none but those four, the rest you can retail out at a premium, and
so cure your cough, and make money by it. Come, you had better do it.
Cash down. Can fill an order in a day or two. Here now," producing a
box; "pure herbs."

At that moment, seized with another spasm, the miser snatched each
interval to fix his half distrustful, half hopeful eye upon the
medicine, held alluringly up. "Sure--ugh! Sure it's all nat'ral? Nothing
but yarbs? If I only thought it was a purely nat'ral medicine now--all
yarbs--ugh, ugh!--oh this cough, this cough--ugh, ugh!--shatters my
whole body. Ugh, ugh, ugh!"

"For heaven's sake try my medicine, if but a single box. That it is pure
nature you may be confident, Refer you to Mr. Truman."

"Don't know his number--ugh, ugh, ugh, ugh! Oh this cough. He did speak
well of this medicine though; said solemnly it would cure me--ugh, ugh,
ugh, ugh!--take off a dollar and I'll have a box."

"Can't sir, can't."

"Say a dollar-and-half. Ugh!"

"Can't. Am pledged to the one-price system, only honorable one."

"Take off a shilling--ugh, ugh!"

"Can't."

"Ugh, ugh, ugh--I'll take it.--There."

Grudgingly he handed eight silver coins, but while still in his hand,
his cough took him and they were shaken upon the deck.

One by one, the herb-doctor picked them up, and, examining them, said:
"These are not quarters, these are pistareens; and clipped, and sweated,
at that."

"Oh don't be so miserly--ugh, ugh!--better a beast than a miser--ugh,
ugh!"

"Well, let it go. Anything rather than the idea of your not being cured
of such a cough. And I hope, for the credit of humanity, you have not
made it appear worse than it is, merely with a view to working upon the
weak point of my pity, and so getting my medicine the cheaper. Now,
mind, don't take it till night. Just before retiring is the time. There,
you can get along now, can't you? I would attend you further, but I land
presently, and must go hunt up my luggage."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The herb-doctor runs into the coughing miser who gave Tassel the $100. The miser is in a panic looking for Tassel. When the miser sees the herb-doctor, he realizes this is the guy Tassel had mentioned. The miser verifies his identity, and the herb-doctor is delighted to help search for Tassel--or John Thurman, as he calls him. Another name. Woot. The herb-doctor walks the miser around and around on the boat until catching sight of Thurman. The miser doesn't see him, but he follows close behind the herb-doctor as he calls for him. According to the herb-doctor's singular perspective, we get this: Oh, no, the boat is docking. Oh, no, Thurman is getting off the ship. Oh, no, the ship is heading back out again. Too bad, so sad. The herb-doctor tells the miser he wishes they could have caught Thurman so that the miser could invest. The miser repeats that he already has invested but needs a receipt. The herb-doctor is thrilled and says pish-posh to receipts--Thurman's got your back. The herb-doctor leads the miser back to his room, and they discuss the miser's cough. The miser buys a box of herbs, but he tries to cheat the herb-doctor by giving him Spanish coins of low value. The herb-doctor accepts the coins but tells the miser he hopes he isn't faking a cough to get discounted medicine. Anyway, the herb-doctor has to go now, because he's getting off the ship that night.