prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER I. A MUTE GOES ABOARD A BOAT ON THE MISSISSIPPI.

At sunrise on a first of April, there appeared, suddenly as Manco Capac
at the lake Titicaca, a man in cream-colors, at the water-side in the
city of St. Louis.

His cheek was fair, his chin downy, his hair flaxen, his hat a white fur
one, with a long fleecy nap. He had neither trunk, valise, carpet-bag,
nor parcel. No porter followed him. He was unaccompanied by friends.
From the shrugged shoulders, titters, whispers, wonderings of the crowd,
it was plain that he was, in the extremest sense of the word, a
stranger.

In the same moment with his advent, he stepped aboard the favorite
steamer Fidele, on the point of starting for New Orleans. Stared at, but
unsaluted, with the air of one neither courting nor shunning regard, but
evenly pursuing the path of duty, lead it through solitudes or cities,
he held on his way along the lower deck until he chanced to come to a
placard nigh the captain's office, offering a reward for the capture of
a mysterious impostor, supposed to have recently arrived from the East;
quite an original genius in his vocation, as would appear, though
wherein his originality consisted was not clearly given; but what
purported to be a careful description of his person followed.

As if it had been a theatre-bill, crowds were gathered about the
announcement, and among them certain chevaliers, whose eyes, it was
plain, were on the capitals, or, at least, earnestly seeking sight of
them from behind intervening coats; but as for their fingers, they were
enveloped in some myth; though, during a chance interval, one of these
chevaliers somewhat showed his hand in purchasing from another
chevalier, ex-officio a peddler of money-belts, one of his popular
safe-guards, while another peddler, who was still another versatile
chevalier, hawked, in the thick of the throng, the lives of Measan, the
bandit of Ohio, Murrel, the pirate of the Mississippi, and the brothers
Harpe, the Thugs of the Green River country, in Kentucky--creatures,
with others of the sort, one and all exterminated at the time, and for
the most part, like the hunted generations of wolves in the same
regions, leaving comparatively few successors; which would seem cause
for unalloyed gratulation, and is such to all except those who think
that in new countries, where the wolves are killed off, the foxes
increase.

Pausing at this spot, the stranger so far succeeded in threading his
way, as at last to plant himself just beside the placard, when,
producing a small slate and tracing some words upon if, he held it up
before him on a level with the placard, so that they who read the one
might read the other. The words were these:--

"Charity thinketh no evil."

As, in gaining his place, some little perseverance, not to say
persistence, of a mildly inoffensive sort, had been unavoidable, it was
not with the best relish that the crowd regarded his apparent intrusion;
and upon a more attentive survey, perceiving no badge of authority about
him, but rather something quite the contrary--he being of an aspect so
singularly innocent; an aspect too, which they took to be somehow
inappropriate to the time and place, and inclining to the notion that
his writing was of much the same sort: in short, taking him for some
strange kind of simpleton, harmless enough, would he keep to himself,
but not wholly unobnoxious as an intruder--they made no scruple to
jostle him aside; while one, less kind than the rest, or more of a wag,
by an unobserved stroke, dexterously flattened down his fleecy hat upon
his head. Without readjusting it, the stranger quietly turned, and
writing anew upon the slate, again held it up:--

"Charity suffereth long, and is kind."

Illy pleased with his pertinacity, as they thought it, the crowd a
second time thrust him aside, and not without epithets and some buffets,
all of which were unresented. But, as if at last despairing of so
difficult an adventure, wherein one, apparently a non-resistant, sought
to impose his presence upon fighting characters, the stranger now moved
slowly away, yet not before altering his writing to this:--

"Charity endureth all things."

Shield-like bearing his slate before him, amid stares and jeers he moved
slowly up and down, at his turning points again changing his inscription
to--

"Charity believeth all things."

and then--

"Charity never faileth."

The word charity, as originally traced, remained throughout uneffaced,
not unlike the left-hand numeral of a printed date, otherwise left for
convenience in blank.

To some observers, the singularity, if not lunacy, of the stranger was
heightened by his muteness, and, perhaps also, by the contrast to his
proceedings afforded in the actions--quite in the wonted and sensible
order of things--of the barber of the boat, whose quarters, under a
smoking-saloon, and over against a bar-room, was next door but two to
the captain's office. As if the long, wide, covered deck, hereabouts
built up on both sides with shop-like windowed spaces, were some
Constantinople arcade or bazaar, where more than one trade is plied,
this river barber, aproned and slippered, but rather crusty-looking for
the moment, it may be from being newly out of bed, was throwing open
his premises for the day, and suitably arranging the exterior. With
business-like dispatch, having rattled down his shutters, and at a
palm-tree angle set out in the iron fixture his little ornamental pole,
and this without overmuch tenderness for the elbows and toes of the
crowd, he concluded his operations by bidding people stand still more
aside, when, jumping on a stool, he hung over his door, on the customary
nail, a gaudy sort of illuminated pasteboard sign, skillfully executed
by himself, gilt with the likeness of a razor elbowed in readiness to
shave, and also, for the public benefit, with two words not unfrequently
seen ashore gracing other shops besides barbers':--

"NO TRUST."

An inscription which, though in a sense not less intrusive than the
contrasted ones of the stranger, did not, as it seemed, provoke any
corresponding derision or surprise, much less indignation; and still
less, to all appearances, did it gain for the inscriber the repute of
being a simpleton.

Meanwhile, he with the slate continued moving slowly up and down, not
without causing some stares to change into jeers, and some jeers into
pushes, and some pushes into punches; when suddenly, in one of his
turns, he was hailed from behind by two porters carrying a large trunk;
but as the summons, though loud, was without effect, they accidentally
or otherwise swung their burden against him, nearly overthrowing him;
when, by a quick start, a peculiar inarticulate moan, and a pathetic
telegraphing of his fingers, he involuntarily betrayed that he was not
alone dumb, but also deaf.

Presently, as if not wholly unaffected by his reception thus far, he
went forward, seating himself in a retired spot on the forecastle, nigh
the foot of a ladder there leading to a deck above, up and down which
ladder some of the boatmen, in discharge of their duties, were
occasionally going.

From his betaking himself to this humble quarter, it was evident that,
as a deck-passenger, the stranger, simple though he seemed, was not
entirely ignorant of his place, though his taking a deck-passage might
have been partly for convenience; as, from his having no luggage, it was
probable that his destination was one of the small wayside landings
within a few hours' sail. But, though he might not have a long way to
go, yet he seemed already to have come from a very long distance.

Though neither soiled nor slovenly, his cream-colored suit had a tossed
look, almost linty, as if, traveling night and day from some far country
beyond the prairies, he had long been without the solace of a bed. His
aspect was at once gentle and jaded, and, from the moment of seating
himself, increasing in tired abstraction and dreaminess. Gradually
overtaken by slumber, his flaxen head drooped, his whole lamb-like
figure relaxed, and, half reclining against the ladder's foot, lay
motionless, as some sugar-snow in March, which, softly stealing down
over night, with its white placidity startles the brown farmer peering
out from his threshold at daybreak.

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

completion: April Fools' Day: it's sunrise on the Mississippi in St. Louis. A dude appears out of nowhere like he's some great Incan legend. Our guy boards the boat. Cue token shot of hair, duds, and doodads: dude's blonde, rocking peach fuzz only , and wearing a cream suit with white fur cap, but, umm, here's something weird: he's got no bags with him. According to the crowd on board, his look plus lack of luggage and friends means he's a stranger. They don't take kindly to strangers. Whatevs, dude's onboard the Fidele headed to New Orleans with a sense of duty. There's a crowd aboard and they stop judging our newbie for five hot seconds while they stare at a sign . Among the crowd are pickpockets and blokes hawking some dubious wares. Some of these are books on criminals and notorious bandits. This is a meta-moment with Melville name-dropping some books that exist IRL. In case we don't get that all of these characters are bad news bears, our narrator dubs them chevaliers. For realsies, that'd mean they would be honored French soldiers; for sarcastic funsies, this means--wink wink, nod nod--these guys are thoroughly up to no good and are definitely not soldiers. Back to our guy: he's threaded his way through the crowd up to the captivating placard. We still have no idea what it says, but our stranger decides to stand next to it, pulls out a slate. On it, he scribbles: "Charity thinketh no evil." Deep. This does not go over well with the crowd, so they give our dude a once-over. Their assessment: he's innocent but annoying. He doesn't belong. They push him to the side, and one dude with a bad attitude squashes his cap flat on his head. Sad. Our guy is undeterred. He updates his sign: "Charity suffereth long, and is kind." Crowd is really peeved now. They push him harder, and his lack of resentment upsets them all the more. They're violent types; he's not. According to them, he has got to go. Update to slate number three: "Charity endureth all things." The crowd stares at our guy, and he sort of walks in front of them, back and forth, meeting their gaze. Update to slate number four: "Charity believeth all things." And, finally, the last update: "Charity never faileth." It's worth noting that "charity" never gets erased when our guy updates his slate. It stays crisp while the rest of the words are smudged and written anew. After this keen observation, we get another this stranger is dif-fer-ent moment with a quick visual contrast: dude is standing there, staring at the audience with his charity slate, and up hops the local barber onto the scene. He's one of many vendors running a little dingy business on the boat. Whereas the stranger is tidy and quiet with a sharp little makeshift sign, the barber is gruff, loud, and props up a cheesy sign for his services. Turns out the crowd is cool with the barber's interruption. Weird. These folks are so not cool with the stranger's lingering presence; pushes turn into punches until he almost gets run down by two porters carrying luggage. This is the first time our guy seems distressed, and in the tussle, it becomes evident that he has a hearing impairment. The crowd continues to be unsympathetic. Shocking . The stranger goes to sit underneath a ladder in the deck-passage area signaling his station on board the ship. He's tuckered out and promptly checks out. While he snoozes, the narrator clues us in to his look: he's tidy, but worn down. He looks like he's been travelling a long, long way--and this is not his last stop.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER II. SHOWING THAT MANY MEN HAVE MANY MINDS.

"Odd fish!"

"Poor fellow!"

"Who can he be?"

"Casper Hauser."

"Bless my soul!"

"Uncommon countenance."

"Green prophet from Utah."

"Humbug!"

"Singular innocence."

"Means something."

"Spirit-rapper."

"Moon-calf."

"Piteous."

"Trying to enlist interest."

"Beware of him."

"Fast asleep here, and, doubtless, pick-pockets on board."

"Kind of daylight Endymion."

"Escaped convict, worn out with dodging."

"Jacob dreaming at Luz."

Such the epitaphic comments, conflictingly spoken or thought, of a
miscellaneous company, who, assembled on the overlooking, cross-wise
balcony at the forward end of the upper deck near by, had not witnessed
preceding occurrences.

Meantime, like some enchanted man in his grave, happily oblivious of all
gossip, whether chiseled or chatted, the deaf and dumb stranger still
tranquilly slept, while now the boat started on her voyage.

The great ship-canal of Ving-King-Ching, in the Flowery Kingdom, seems
the Mississippi in parts, where, amply flowing between low, vine-tangled
banks, flat as tow-paths, it bears the huge toppling steamers, bedizened
and lacquered within like imperial junks.

Pierced along its great white bulk with two tiers of small
embrasure-like windows, well above the waterline, the Fiddle, though,
might at distance have been taken by strangers for some whitewashed fort
on a floating isle.

Merchants on 'change seem the passengers that buzz on her decks, while,
from quarters unseen, comes a murmur as of bees in the comb. Fine
promenades, domed saloons, long galleries, sunny balconies, confidential
passages, bridal chambers, state-rooms plenty as pigeon-holes, and
out-of-the-way retreats like secret drawers in an escritoire, present
like facilities for publicity or privacy. Auctioneer or coiner, with
equal ease, might somewhere here drive his trade.

Though her voyage of twelve hundred miles extends from apple to orange,
from clime to clime, yet, like any small ferry-boat, to right and left,
at every landing, the huge Fidele still receives additional passengers
in exchange for those that disembark; so that, though always full of
strangers, she continually, in some degree, adds to, or replaces them
with strangers still more strange; like Rio Janeiro fountain, fed from
the Cocovarde mountains, which is ever overflowing with strange waters,
but never with the same strange particles in every part.

Though hitherto, as has been seen, the man in cream-colors had by no
means passed unobserved, yet by stealing into retirement, and there
going asleep and continuing so, he seemed to have courted oblivion, a
boon not often withheld from so humble an applicant as he. Those staring
crowds on the shore were now left far behind, seen dimly clustering like
swallows on eaves; while the passengers' attention was soon drawn away
to the rapidly shooting high bluffs and shot-towers on the Missouri
shore, or the bluff-looking Missourians and towering Kentuckians among
the throngs on the decks.

By-and-by--two or three random stoppages having been made, and the last
transient memory of the slumberer vanished, and he himself, not
unlikely, waked up and landed ere now--the crowd, as is usual, began in
all parts to break up from a concourse into various clusters or squads,
which in some cases disintegrated again into quartettes, trios, and
couples, or even solitaires; involuntarily submitting to that natural
law which ordains dissolution equally to the mass, as in time to the
member.

As among Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims, or those oriental ones crossing
the Red Sea towards Mecca in the festival month, there was no lack of
variety. Natives of all sorts, and foreigners; men of business and men
of pleasure; parlor men and backwoodsmen; farm-hunters and fame-hunters;
heiress-hunters, gold-hunters, buffalo-hunters, bee-hunters,
happiness-hunters, truth-hunters, and still keener hunters after all
these hunters. Fine ladies in slippers, and moccasined squaws; Northern
speculators and Eastern philosophers; English, Irish, German, Scotch,
Danes; Santa Fe traders in striped blankets, and Broadway bucks in
cravats of cloth of gold; fine-looking Kentucky boatmen, and
Japanese-looking Mississippi cotton-planters; Quakers in full drab, and
United States soldiers in full regimentals; slaves, black, mulatto,
quadroon; modish young Spanish Creoles, and old-fashioned French Jews;
Mormons and Papists Dives and Lazarus; jesters and mourners, teetotalers
and convivialists, deacons and blacklegs; hard-shell Baptists and
clay-eaters; grinning negroes, and Sioux chiefs solemn as high-priests.
In short, a piebald parliament, an Anacharsis Cloots congress of all
kinds of that multiform pilgrim species, man.

As pine, beech, birch, ash, hackmatack, hemlock, spruce, bass-wood,
maple, interweave their foliage in the natural wood, so these mortals
blended their varieties of visage and garb. A Tartar-like
picturesqueness; a sort of pagan abandonment and assurance. Here reigned
the dashing and all-fusing spirit of the West, whose type is the
Mississippi itself, which, uniting the streams of the most distant and
opposite zones, pours them along, helter-skelter, in one cosmopolitan
and confident tide.

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

completion: Kicking chapter two off, we get a rapid-fire list of impressions from the crowd about our sleeping stranger. As the title of the chapter suggests, we're dealing with a plethora of ideas here, and no one seems to be of one mind. Opinions about the cream-suited man range from Poor thing to Who dis? to Keep away from him to He just wants attention, so don't give him any. Lucky for him, the sleeping stranger has zero idea that this less-than-favorable commentary is going on around him. The ship is huge--carrying a dizzying array of passengers that get on and off at various ports. Eventually, the massive crowd breaks apart, forming groups, then trios, pairs, and finally individuals. The individuals constitute a cosmopolitan mass of people from all walks of life, from all over the world. No joke: Melville spends about a page listing all the different types of people he can think of--different cultures, different types of employment, different religions. All these people gather in a busy tangle of moving parts.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER III. IN WHICH A VARIETY OF CHARACTERS APPEAR.

In the forward part of the boat, not the least attractive object, for a
time, was a grotesque negro cripple, in tow-cloth attire and an old
coal-sifter of a tamborine in his hand, who, owing to something wrong
about his legs, was, in effect, cut down to the stature of a
Newfoundland dog; his knotted black fleece and good-natured, honest
black face rubbing against the upper part of people's thighs as he made
shift to shuffle about, making music, such as it was, and raising a
smile even from the gravest. It was curious to see him, out of his very
deformity, indigence, and houselessness, so cheerily endured, raising
mirth in some of that crowd, whose own purses, hearths, hearts, all
their possessions, sound limbs included, could not make gay.

"What is your name, old boy?" said a purple-faced drover, putting his
large purple hand on the cripple's bushy wool, as if it were the curled
forehead of a black steer.

"Der Black Guinea dey calls me, sar."

"And who is your master, Guinea?"

"Oh sar, I am der dog widout massa."

"A free dog, eh? Well, on your account, I'm sorry for that, Guinea. Dogs
without masters fare hard."

"So dey do, sar; so dey do. But you see, sar, dese here legs? What
ge'mman want to own dese here legs?"

"But where do you live?"

"All 'long shore, sar; dough now. I'se going to see brodder at der
landing; but chiefly I libs in dey city."

"St. Louis, ah? Where do you sleep there of nights?"

"On der floor of der good baker's oven, sar."

"In an oven? whose, pray? What baker, I should like to know, bakes such
black bread in his oven, alongside of his nice white rolls, too. Who is
that too charitable baker, pray?"

"Dar he be," with a broad grin lifting his tambourine high over his
head.

"The sun is the baker, eh?"

"Yes sar, in der city dat good baker warms der stones for dis ole darkie
when he sleeps out on der pabements o' nights."

"But that must be in the summer only, old boy. How about winter, when
the cold Cossacks come clattering and jingling? How about winter, old
boy?"

"Den dis poor old darkie shakes werry bad, I tell you, sar. Oh sar, oh!
don't speak ob der winter," he added, with a reminiscent shiver,
shuffling off into the thickest of the crowd, like a half-frozen black
sheep nudging itself a cozy berth in the heart of the white flock.

Thus far not very many pennies had been given him, and, used at last to
his strange looks, the less polite passengers of those in that part of
the boat began to get their fill of him as a curious object; when
suddenly the negro more than revived their first interest by an
expedient which, whether by chance or design, was a singular temptation
at once to _diversion_ and charity, though, even more than his crippled
limbs, it put him on a canine footing. In short, as in appearance he
seemed a dog, so now, in a merry way, like a dog he began to be treated.
Still shuffling among the crowd, now and then he would pause, throwing
back his head and, opening his mouth like an elephant for tossed apples
at a menagerie; when, making a space before him, people would have a
bout at a strange sort of pitch-penny game, the cripple's mouth being at
once target and purse, and he hailing each expertly-caught copper with a
cracked bravura from his tambourine. To be the subject of alms-giving is
trying, and to feel in duty bound to appear cheerfully grateful under
the trial, must be still more so; but whatever his secret emotions, he
swallowed them, while still retaining each copper this side the
oesophagus. And nearly always he grinned, and only once or twice did
he wince, which was when certain coins, tossed by more playful almoners,
came inconveniently nigh to his teeth, an accident whose unwelcomeness
was not unedged by the circumstance that the pennies thus thrown proved
buttons.

While this game of charity was yet at its height, a limping,
gimlet-eyed, sour-faced person--it may be some discharged custom-house
officer, who, suddenly stripped of convenient means of support, had
concluded to be avenged on government and humanity by making himself
miserable for life, either by hating or suspecting everything and
everybody--this shallow unfortunate, after sundry sorry observations of
the negro, began to croak out something about his deformity being a
sham, got up for financial purposes, which immediately threw a damp upon
the frolic benignities of the pitch-penny players.

But that these suspicions came from one who himself on a wooden leg went
halt, this did not appear to strike anybody present. That cripples,
above all men should be companionable, or, at least, refrain from
picking a fellow-limper to pieces, in short, should have a little
sympathy in common misfortune, seemed not to occur to the company.

Meantime, the negro's countenance, before marked with even more than
patient good-nature, drooped into a heavy-hearted expression, full of
the most painful distress. So far abased beneath its proper physical
level, that Newfoundland-dog face turned in passively hopeless appeal,
as if instinct told it that the right or the wrong might not have
overmuch to do with whatever wayward mood superior intelligences might
yield to.

But instinct, though knowing, is yet a teacher set below reason, which
itself says, in the grave words of Lysander in the comedy, after Puck
has made a sage of him with his spell:--

"The will of man is by his reason swayed."

So that, suddenly change as people may, in their dispositions, it is not
always waywardness, but improved judgment, which, as in Lysander's case,
or the present, operates with them.

Yes, they began to scrutinize the negro curiously enough; when,
emboldened by this evidence of the efficacy of his words, the
wooden-legged man hobbled up to the negro, and, with the air of a
beadle, would, to prove his alleged imposture on the spot, have stripped
him and then driven him away, but was prevented by the crowd's clamor,
now taking part with the poor fellow, against one who had just before
turned nearly all minds the other way. So he with the wooden leg was
forced to retire; when the rest, finding themselves left sole judges in
the case, could not resist the opportunity of acting the part: not
because it is a human weakness to take pleasure in sitting in judgment
upon one in a box, as surely this unfortunate negro now was, but that it
strangely sharpens human perceptions, when, instead of standing by and
having their fellow-feelings touched by the sight of an alleged culprit
severely handled by some one justiciary, a crowd suddenly come to be all
justiciaries in the same case themselves; as in Arkansas once, a man
proved guilty, by law, of murder, but whose condemnation was deemed
unjust by the people, so that they rescued him to try him themselves;
whereupon, they, as it turned out, found him even guiltier than the
court had done, and forthwith proceeded to execution; so that the
gallows presented the truly warning spectacle of a man hanged by his
friends.

But not to such extremities, or anything like them, did the present
crowd come; they, for the time, being content with putting the negro
fairly and discreetly to the question; among other things, asking him,
had he any documentary proof, any plain paper about him, attesting that
his case was not a spurious one.

"No, no, dis poor ole darkie haint none o' dem waloable papers," he
wailed.

"But is there not some one who can speak a good word for you?" here said
a person newly arrived from another part of the boat, a young Episcopal
clergyman, in a long, straight-bodied black coat; small in stature, but
manly; with a clear face and blue eye; innocence, tenderness, and good
sense triumvirate in his air.

"Oh yes, oh yes, ge'mmen," he eagerly answered, as if his memory, before
suddenly frozen up by cold charity, as suddenly thawed back into
fluidity at the first kindly word. "Oh yes, oh yes, dar is aboard here a
werry nice, good ge'mman wid a weed, and a ge'mman in a gray coat and
white tie, what knows all about me; and a ge'mman wid a big book, too;
and a yarb-doctor; and a ge'mman in a yaller west; and a ge'mman wid a
brass plate; and a ge'mman in a wiolet robe; and a ge'mman as is a
sodjer; and ever so many good, kind, honest ge'mmen more aboard what
knows me and will speak for me, God bress 'em; yes, and what knows me as
well as dis poor old darkie knows hisself, God bress him! Oh, find 'em,
find 'em," he earnestly added, "and let 'em come quick, and show you
all, ge'mmen, dat dis poor ole darkie is werry well wordy of all you
kind ge'mmen's kind confidence."

"But how are we to find all these people in this great crowd?" was the
question of a bystander, umbrella in hand; a middle-aged person, a
country merchant apparently, whose natural good-feeling had been made at
least cautious by the unnatural ill-feeling of the discharged
custom-house officer.

"Where are we to find them?" half-rebukefully echoed the young Episcopal
clergymen. "I will go find one to begin with," he quickly added, and,
with kind haste suiting the action to the word, away he went.

"Wild goose chase!" croaked he with the wooden leg, now again drawing
nigh. "Don't believe there's a soul of them aboard. Did ever beggar have
such heaps of fine friends? He can walk fast enough when he tries, a
good deal faster than I; but he can lie yet faster. He's some white
operator, betwisted and painted up for a decoy. He and his friends are
all humbugs."

"Have you no charity, friend?" here in self-subdued tones, singularly
contrasted with his unsubdued person, said a Methodist minister,
advancing; a tall, muscular, martial-looking man, a Tennessean by birth,
who in the Mexican war had been volunteer chaplain to a volunteer
rifle-regiment.

"Charity is one thing, and truth is another," rejoined he with the
wooden leg: "he's a rascal, I say."

"But why not, friend, put as charitable a construction as one can upon
the poor fellow?" said the soldierlike Methodist, with increased
difficulty maintaining a pacific demeanor towards one whose own asperity
seemed so little to entitle him to it: "he looks honest, don't he?"

"Looks are one thing, and facts are another," snapped out the other
perversely; "and as to your constructions, what construction can you put
upon a rascal, but that a rascal he is?"

"Be not such a Canada thistle," urged the Methodist, with something less
of patience than before. "Charity, man, charity."

"To where it belongs with your charity! to heaven with it!" again
snapped out the other, diabolically; "here on earth, true charity dotes,
and false charity plots. Who betrays a fool with a kiss, the charitable
fool has the charity to believe is in love with him, and the charitable
knave on the stand gives charitable testimony for his comrade in the
box."

"Surely, friend," returned the noble Methodist, with much ado
restraining his still waxing indignation--"surely, to say the least, you
forget yourself. Apply it home," he continued, with exterior calmness
tremulous with inkept emotion. "Suppose, now, I should exercise no
charity in judging your own character by the words which have fallen
from you; what sort of vile, pitiless man do you think I would take you
for?"

"No doubt"--with a grin--"some such pitiless man as has lost his piety
in much the same way that the jockey loses his honesty."

"And how is that, friend?" still conscientiously holding back the old
Adam in him, as if it were a mastiff he had by the neck.

"Never you mind how it is"--with a sneer; "but all horses aint virtuous,
no more than all men kind; and come close to, and much dealt with, some
things are catching. When you find me a virtuous jockey, I will find you
a benevolent wise man."

"Some insinuation there."

"More fool you that are puzzled by it."

"Reprobate!" cried the other, his indignation now at last almost boiling
over; "godless reprobate! if charity did not restrain me, I could call
you by names you deserve."

"Could you, indeed?" with an insolent sneer.

"Yea, and teach you charity on the spot," cried the goaded Methodist,
suddenly catching this exasperating opponent by his shabby coat-collar,
and shaking him till his timber-toe clattered on the deck like a
nine-pin. "You took me for a non-combatant did you?--thought, seedy
coward that you are, that you could abuse a Christian with impunity. You
find your mistake"--with another hearty shake.

"Well said and better done, church militant!" cried a voice.

"The white cravat against the world!" cried another.

"Bravo, bravo!" chorused many voices, with like enthusiasm taking sides
with the resolute champion.

"You fools!" cried he with the wooden leg, writhing himself loose and
inflamedly turning upon the throng; "you flock of fools, under this
captain of fools, in this ship of fools!"

With which exclamations, followed by idle threats against his
admonisher, this condign victim to justice hobbled away, as disdaining
to hold further argument with such a rabble. But his scorn was more than
repaid by the hisses that chased him, in which the brave Methodist,
satisfied with the rebuke already administered, was, to omit still
better reasons, too magnanimous to join. All he said was, pointing
towards the departing recusant, "There he shambles off on his one lone
leg, emblematic of his one-sided view of humanity."

"But trust your painted decoy," retorted the other from a distance,
pointing back to the black cripple, "and I have my revenge."

"But we aint agoing to trust him!" shouted back a voice.

"So much the better," he jeered back. "Look you," he added, coming to a
dead halt where he was; "look you, I have been called a Canada thistle.
Very good. And a seedy one: still better. And the seedy Canada thistle
has been pretty well shaken among ye: best of all. Dare say some seed
has been shaken out; and won't it spring though? And when it does
spring, do you cut down the young thistles, and won't they spring the
more? It's encouraging and coaxing 'em. Now, when with my thistles your
farms shall be well stocked, why then--you may abandon 'em!"

"What does all that mean, now?" asked the country merchant, staring.

"Nothing; the foiled wolf's parting howl," said the Methodist. "Spleen,
much spleen, which is the rickety child of his evil heart of unbelief:
it has made him mad. I suspect him for one naturally reprobate. Oh,
friends," raising his arms as in the pulpit, "oh beloved, how are we
admonished by the melancholy spectacle of this raver. Let us profit by
the lesson; and is it not this: that if, next to mistrusting Providence,
there be aught that man should pray against, it is against mistrusting
his fellow-man. I have been in mad-houses full of tragic mopers, and
seen there the end of suspicion: the cynic, in the moody madness
muttering in the corner; for years a barren fixture there; head lopped
over, gnawing his own lip, vulture of himself; while, by fits and
starts, from the corner opposite came the grimace of the idiot at him."

"What an example," whispered one.

"Might deter Timon," was the response.

"Oh, oh, good ge'mmen, have you no confidence in dis poor ole darkie?"
now wailed the returning negro, who, during the late scene, had stumped
apart in alarm.

"Confidence in you?" echoed he who had whispered, with abruptly changed
air turning short round; "that remains to be seen."

"I tell you what it is, Ebony," in similarly changed tones said he who
had responded to the whisperer, "yonder churl," pointing toward the
wooden leg in the distance, "is, no doubt, a churlish fellow enough, and
I would not wish to be like him; but that is no reason why you may not
be some sort of black Jeremy Diddler."

"No confidence in dis poor ole darkie, den?"

"Before giving you our confidence," said a third, "we will wait the
report of the kind gentleman who went in search of one of your friends
who was to speak for you."

"Very likely, in that case," said a fourth, "we shall wait here till
Christmas. Shouldn't wonder, did we not see that kind gentleman again.
After seeking awhile in vain, he will conclude he has been made a fool
of, and so not return to us for pure shame. Fact is, I begin to feel a
little qualmish about the darkie myself. Something queer about this
darkie, depend upon it."

Once more the negro wailed, and turning in despair from the last
speaker, imploringly caught the Methodist by the skirt of his coat. But
a change had come over that before impassioned intercessor. With an
irresolute and troubled air, he mutely eyed the suppliant; against whom,
somehow, by what seemed instinctive influences, the distrusts first set
on foot were now generally reviving, and, if anything, with added
severity.

"No confidence in dis poor ole darkie," yet again wailed the negro,
letting go the coat-skirts and turning appealingly all round him.

"Yes, my poor fellow _I_ have confidence in you," now exclaimed the
country merchant before named, whom the negro's appeal, coming so
piteously on the heel of pitilessness, seemed at last humanely to have
decided in his favor. "And here, here is some proof of my trust," with
which, tucking his umbrella under his arm, and diving down his hand into
his pocket, he fished forth a purse, and, accidentally, along with it,
his business card, which, unobserved, dropped to the deck. "Here, here,
my poor fellow," he continued, extending a half dollar.

Not more grateful for the coin than the kindness, the cripple's face
glowed like a polished copper saucepan, and shuffling a pace nigher,
with one upstretched hand he received the alms, while, as unconsciously,
his one advanced leather stump covered the card.

Done in despite of the general sentiment, the good deed of the merchant
was not, perhaps, without its unwelcome return from the crowd, since
that good deed seemed somehow to convey to them a sort of reproach.
Still again, and more pertinaciously than ever, the cry arose against
the negro, and still again he wailed forth his lament and appeal among
other things, repeating that the friends, of whom already he had
partially run off the list, would freely speak for him, would anybody go
find them.

"Why don't you go find 'em yourself?" demanded a gruff boatman.

"How can I go find 'em myself? Dis poor ole game-legged darkie's friends
must come to him. Oh, whar, whar is dat good friend of dis darkie's, dat
good man wid de weed?"

At this point, a steward ringing a bell came along, summoning all
persons who had not got their tickets to step to the captain's office;
an announcement which speedily thinned the throng about the black
cripple, who himself soon forlornly stumped out of sight, probably on
much the same errand as the rest.

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

completion: At the front of the boat is an alms-begging black man without the use of his legs. He's got a makeshift tambourine, and he has a knack for cheering up the gruffest grumpus who might have had the misfortune of waking up on the wrong side of the bed. The narrator problematically compares him to various animals like a sheep and a Newfoundland. The tambourine man comes across another man who drives cattle over great distances for a living. This man asks the tambourine man what is his name is and who owns him. Yikes. The tambourine man is called "Black Guinea," and he spends his nights warmed by the heat of the sun trapped in the stones of the streets of St. Louis. That's fairly poetic--we already like this guy. Up until now, Guinea hasn't been given too many pennies, but a random sort of game has been struck up: the members of the crowd--in the name of what they think of as charity and fun--toss coins into his open mouth. The narrator is careful to note that we have no clue what this man feels in his heart of hearts about this type of treatment, but, as far as his outward appearance is concerned, he's got the look of happiness about him. Just when this "game" is really getting into high gear, a party-pooper comes along. Every party needs one, that's why we invited a former customs house officer with a wooden leg to accuse Guinea of faking his injuries. He also accuses him of being a white man in blackface. Nobody likes this new guy. The crowd thinks he's ruined their fun--plus, they were riding high on gratuitous pat-yourself-on-the-back feels from tossing their spare change. This new guy starts to sway the others, though. He then goes over to the man on the ground and is about to try to reveal what he thinks is a trick , when the crowd stops him. Whoa. A crowd that doesn't want to turn into a rabid, murderous mob? Go fig. Anyway, the crowd shoos him away because nobody likes stingy, mean jerkiness. Then the crowd turns to Guinea. They don't trust him much now, either. They do the, um, logical thing and ask if he has any documentation proving that he is in fact unable to walk. Ten cent bet what Guinea's answer is? Yep: it's a big ol' goose egg. Nada. No. An Episcopal clergyman asks if there's anyone who can vouch for Guinea at the very least. There is. Guinea launches into a litany of randos who can offer themselves as character witnesses. Weirdly, they're solely identified by their outfits or items they may be holding. The clergyman runs off to find one or more of these potentially helpful folks, but Black Guinea isn't out of hot water yet. Accusations of a wild goose chase abound while the man with a wooden leg reiterates his suspicions. Eventually, the man with the wooden leg gets into a verbal altercation with a Methodist minister. Tension mounts. Violence is threatened. The crowd eggs the Methodist minister on. Things are tricky, but it doesn't come to blows. Phew. Instead, the man with a wooden leg leaves with a few parting shots about how these people are all fools. The Methodist minister takes this opportunity to bring the pulpit to the proverbial soapbox, and he waxes on about the virtue of faith in one's fellow man. The crowd is spellbound. Guinea ventures a quick check-in--You guys agree I'm legit then, yes? All Good? Crowd: Nah, brah. Guinea: Et tu, Methodist minister? Who promptly scorns him. Then, out of the crowd, a dude singled out as the "country merchant" gives a tour de force: he straight up walks up and tells Guinea that he alone believes in him. People are not happy. The country merchant gives Guinea a half dollar. In doing so, he drops his business card on the ground. Guinea gratefully accepts the coin, and the business card is covered by his stump. The crowd is unhappier still. They say mean things; they demand Guinea go find his own witness. Guinea's response is basically: Umm, hello? Can't just head out and find them on my own, remember? Thanks so much. Bye. The crowd is then shooed away by a steward reminding everyone to get their tickets for the ship or get gone.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IV. RENEWAL OF OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

"How do you do, Mr. Roberts?"

"Eh?"

"Don't you know me?"

"No, certainly."

The crowd about the captain's office, having in good time melted away,
the above encounter took place in one of the side balconies astern,
between a man in mourning clean and respectable, but none of the
glossiest, a long weed on his hat, and the country-merchant
before-mentioned, whom, with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, the
former had accosted.

"Is it possible, my dear sir," resumed he with the weed, "that you do
not recall my countenance? why yours I recall distinctly as if but half
an hour, instead of half an age, had passed since I saw you. Don't you
recall me, now? Look harder."

"In my conscience--truly--I protest," honestly bewildered, "bless my
soul, sir, I don't know you--really, really. But stay, stay," he
hurriedly added, not without gratification, glancing up at the crape on
the stranger's hat, "stay--yes--seems to me, though I have not the
pleasure of personally knowing you, yet I am pretty sure I have at least
_heard_ of you, and recently too, quite recently. A poor negro aboard
here referred to you, among others, for a character, I think."

"Oh, the cripple. Poor fellow. I know him well. They found me. I have
said all I could for him. I think I abated their distrust. Would I could
have been of more substantial service. And apropos, sir," he added, "now
that it strikes me, allow me to ask, whether the circumstance of one
man, however humble, referring for a character to another man, however
afflicted, does not argue more or less of moral worth in the latter?"

The good merchant looked puzzled.

"Still you don't recall my countenance?"

"Still does truth compel me to say that I cannot, despite my best
efforts," was the reluctantly-candid reply.

"Can I be so changed? Look at me. Or is it I who am mistaken?--Are you
not, sir, Henry Roberts, forwarding merchant, of Wheeling, Pennsylvania?
Pray, now, if you use the advertisement of business cards, and happen to
have one with you, just look at it, and see whether you are not the man
I take you for."

"Why," a bit chafed, perhaps, "I hope I know myself."

"And yet self-knowledge is thought by some not so easy. Who knows, my
dear sir, but for a time you may have taken yourself for somebody else?
Stranger things have happened."

The good merchant stared.

"To come to particulars, my dear sir, I met you, now some six years
back, at Brade Brothers & Co's office, I think. I was traveling for a
Philadelphia house. The senior Brade introduced us, you remember; some
business-chat followed, then you forced me home with you to a family
tea, and a family time we had. Have you forgotten about the urn, and
what I said about Werter's Charlotte, and the bread and butter, and that
capital story you told of the large loaf. A hundred times since, I have
laughed over it. At least you must recall my name--Ringman, John
Ringman."

"Large loaf? Invited you to tea? Ringman? Ringman? Ring? Ring?"

"Ah sir," sadly smiling, "don't ring the changes that way. I see you
have a faithless memory, Mr. Roberts. But trust in the faithfulness of
mine."

"Well, to tell the truth, in some things my memory aint of the very
best," was the honest rejoinder. "But still," he perplexedly added,
"still I----"

"Oh sir, suffice it that it is as I say. Doubt not that we are all well
acquainted."

"But--but I don't like this going dead against my own memory; I----"

"But didn't you admit, my dear sir, that in some things this memory of
yours is a little faithless? Now, those who have faithless memories,
should they not have some little confidence in the less faithless
memories of others?"

"But, of this friendly chat and tea, I have not the slightest----"

"I see, I see; quite erased from the tablet. Pray, sir," with a sudden
illumination, "about six years back, did it happen to you to receive any
injury on the head? Surprising effects have arisen from such a cause.
Not alone unconsciousness as to events for a greater or less time
immediately subsequent to the injury, but likewise--strange to
add--oblivion, entire and incurable, as to events embracing a longer or
shorter period immediately preceding it; that is, when the mind at the
time was perfectly sensible of them, and fully competent also to
register them in the memory, and did in fact so do; but all in vain, for
all was afterwards bruised out by the injury."

After the first start, the merchant listened with what appeared more
than ordinary interest. The other proceeded:

"In my boyhood I was kicked by a horse, and lay insensible for a long
time. Upon recovering, what a blank! No faintest trace in regard to how
I had come near the horse, or what horse it was, or where it was, or
that it was a horse at all that had brought me to that pass. For the
knowledge of those particulars I am indebted solely to my friends, in
whose statements, I need not say, I place implicit reliance, since
particulars of some sort there must have been, and why should they
deceive me? You see sir, the mind is ductile, very much so: but images,
ductilely received into it, need a certain time to harden and bake in
their impressions, otherwise such a casualty as I speak of will in an
instant obliterate them, as though they had never been. We are but clay,
sir, potter's clay, as the good book says, clay, feeble, and
too-yielding clay. But I will not philosophize. Tell me, was it your
misfortune to receive any concussion upon the brain about the period I
speak of? If so, I will with pleasure supply the void in your memory by
more minutely rehearsing the circumstances of our acquaintance."

The growing interest betrayed by the merchant had not relaxed as the
other proceeded. After some hesitation, indeed, something more than
hesitation, he confessed that, though he had never received any injury
of the sort named, yet, about the time in question, he had in fact been
taken with a brain fever, losing his mind completely for a considerable
interval. He was continuing, when the stranger with much animation
exclaimed:

"There now, you see, I was not wholly mistaken. That brain fever
accounts for it all."

"Nay; but----"

"Pardon me, Mr. Roberts," respectfully interrupting him, "but time is
short, and I have something private and particular to say to you. Allow
me."

Mr. Roberts, good man, could but acquiesce, and the two having silently
walked to a less public spot, the manner of the man with the weed
suddenly assumed a seriousness almost painful. What might be called a
writhing expression stole over him. He seemed struggling with some
disastrous necessity inkept. He made one or two attempts to speak, but
words seemed to choke him. His companion stood in humane surprise,
wondering what was to come. At length, with an effort mastering his
feelings, in a tolerably composed tone he spoke:

"If I remember, you are a mason, Mr. Roberts?"

"Yes, yes."

Averting himself a moment, as to recover from a return of agitation, the
stranger grasped the other's hand; "and would you not loan a brother a
shilling if he needed it?"

The merchant started, apparently, almost as if to retreat.

"Ah, Mr. Roberts, I trust you are not one of those business men, who
make a business of never having to do with unfortunates. For God's sake
don't leave me. I have something on my heart--on my heart. Under
deplorable circumstances thrown among strangers, utter strangers. I want
a friend in whom I may confide. Yours, Mr. Roberts, is almost the first
known face I've seen for many weeks."

It was so sudden an outburst; the interview offered such a contrast to
the scene around, that the merchant, though not used to be very
indiscreet, yet, being not entirely inhumane, remained not entirely
unmoved.

The other, still tremulous, resumed:

"I need not say, sir, how it cuts me to the soul, to follow up a social
salutation with such words as have just been mine. I know that I
jeopardize your good opinion. But I can't help it: necessity knows no
law, and heeds no risk. Sir, we are masons, one more step aside; I will
tell you my story."

In a low, half-suppressed tone, he began it. Judging from his auditor's
expression, it seemed to be a tale of singular interest, involving
calamities against which no integrity, no forethought, no energy, no
genius, no piety, could guard.

At every disclosure, the hearer's commiseration increased. No
sentimental pity. As the story went on, he drew from his wallet a bank
note, but after a while, at some still more unhappy revelation, changed
it for another, probably of a somewhat larger amount; which, when the
story was concluded, with an air studiously disclamatory of alms-giving,
he put into the stranger's hands; who, on his side, with an air
studiously disclamatory of alms-taking, put it into his pocket.

Assistance being received, the stranger's manner assumed a kind and
degree of decorum which, under the circumstances, seemed almost
coldness. After some words, not over ardent, and yet not exactly
inappropriate, he took leave, making a bow which had one knows not what
of a certain chastened independence about it; as if misery, however
burdensome, could not break down self-respect, nor gratitude, however
deep, humiliate a gentleman.

He was hardly yet out of sight, when he paused as if thinking; then with
hastened steps returning to the merchant, "I am just reminded that the
president, who is also transfer-agent, of the Black Rapids Coal Company,
happens to be on board here, and, having been subpoenaed as witness in a
stock case on the docket in Kentucky, has his transfer-book with him. A
month since, in a panic contrived by artful alarmists, some credulous
stock-holders sold out; but, to frustrate the aim of the alarmists, the
Company, previously advised of their scheme, so managed it as to get
into its own hands those sacrificed shares, resolved that, since a
spurious panic must be, the panic-makers should be no gainers by it. The
Company, I hear, is now ready, but not anxious, to redispose of those
shares; and having obtained them at their depressed value, will now sell
them at par, though, prior to the panic, they were held at a handsome
figure above. That the readiness of the Company to do this is not
generally known, is shown by the fact that the stock still stands on the
transfer-book in the Company's name, offering to one in funds a rare
chance for investment. For, the panic subsiding more and more every day,
it will daily be seen how it originated; confidence will be more than
restored; there will be a reaction; from the stock's descent its rise
will be higher than from no fall, the holders trusting themselves to
fear no second fate."

Having listened at first with curiosity, at last with interest, the
merchant replied to the effect, that some time since, through friends
concerned with it, he had heard of the company, and heard well of it,
but was ignorant that there had latterly been fluctuations. He added
that he was no speculator; that hitherto he had avoided having to do
with stocks of any sort, but in the present case he really felt
something like being tempted. "Pray," in conclusion, "do you think that
upon a pinch anything could be transacted on board here with the
transfer-agent? Are you acquainted with him?"

"Not personally. I but happened to hear that he was a passenger. For the
rest, though it might be somewhat informal, the gentleman might not
object to doing a little business on board. Along the Mississippi, you
know, business is not so ceremonious as at the East."

"True," returned the merchant, and looked down a moment in thought,
then, raising his head quickly, said, in a tone not so benign as his
wonted one, "This would seem a rare chance, indeed; why, upon first
hearing it, did you not snatch at it? I mean for yourself!"

"I?--would it had been possible!"

Not without some emotion was this said, and not without some
embarrassment was the reply. "Ah, yes, I had forgotten."

Upon this, the stranger regarded him with mild gravity, not a little
disconcerting; the more so, as there was in it what seemed the aspect
not alone of the superior, but, as it were, the rebuker; which sort of
bearing, in a beneficiary towards his benefactor, looked strangely
enough; none the less, that, somehow, it sat not altogether unbecomingly
upon the beneficiary, being free from anything like the appearance of
assumption, and mixed with a kind of painful conscientiousness, as
though nothing but a proper sense of what he owed to himself swayed him.
At length he spoke:

"To reproach a penniless man with remissness in not availing himself of
an opportunity for pecuniary investment--but, no, no; it was
forgetfulness; and this, charity will impute to some lingering effect of
that unfortunate brain-fever, which, as to occurrences dating yet
further back, disturbed Mr. Roberts's memory still more seriously."

"As to that," said the merchant, rallying, "I am not----"

"Pardon me, but you must admit, that just now, an unpleasant distrust,
however vague, was yours. Ah, shallow as it is, yet, how subtle a thing
is suspicion, which at times can invade the humanest of hearts and
wisest of heads. But, enough. My object, sir, in calling your attention
to this stock, is by way of acknowledgment of your goodness. I but seek
to be grateful; if my information leads to nothing, you must remember
the motive."

He bowed, and finally retired, leaving Mr. Roberts not wholly without
self-reproach, for having momentarily indulged injurious thoughts
against one who, it was evident, was possessed of a self-respect which
forbade his indulging them himself.

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

completion: In a balcony on the side of the ship, there's a brief Q&A between our country merchant, apparently named Mr. Roberts, and a man dressed all in black with a long weed pinned to his hat. Weeds, as we'll fondly think of him for now, is certain that he knows Mr. Roberts, but Roberts is pretty sure he'd remember him if they'd met. Besides, even though he doesn't know Weeds, he recalls that Weeds is one of the guys described in the previous chapter by the man who cannot walk as a character witness. Turns out, Weeds showed up and vouched for the coin-catching object of ire. Now he wants Mr. Roberts to remember him. Weeds tells Mr. Roberts that they met once, that they're both masons, that they drank tea together, and that they had great chats, for Pete's sake. How could Roberts forget him so easily? The tea, man. The tea. Mr. Roberts is unconvinced. Weeds continues by asking if Mr. Roberts ever had a brain injury that messed with his memory, because, you know, that's a normal how-do-you-do sort of greeting. Kind of. Sort of. Not really. Mr. Roberts gives Weeds the old that's cray look, so Weeds talks about his own memories of, umm, memory loss. Apparently he had a farming accident, and his friends had to fill in the pieces. Come to think of it, Mr. Roberts decides, there was that brain-fever that one time. Weeds, jumps in--Yes! The brain fever! That's why you forgot all about the tea! We're so over this tea. Story time: we're not privy to what Weeds says here, but he tells Mr. Roberts all about his misfortune as a fellow mason. Mr. Roberts drops some money to help him out. Weeds goes all stoic and pulls on some self-respect like it's a slick fur coat after pocketing the money. He's dignified, after all. Right. Before he leaves, Weeds indulges in a little insider trading and gives Mr. Roberts some secret stock tips on the Black Rapids Coal Company. The country merchant is so down to play the market on the DL, but he wants to know why Weeds didn't just buy some himself if this tip is so great. Cold. Ice Cold. 30 below is the temperature of the stare Weeds gives Mr. Roberts for that question. When Weeds speaks next, it is one world-class guilt trip about Mr. Roberts's faulty memory--because how could someone down and out capitalize on this secret knowledge? This country merchant feels bad.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER V THE MAN WITH THE WEED MAKES IT AN EVEN QUESTION WHETHER HE BE A GREAT SAGE OR A GREAT SIMPLETON.

"Well, there is sorrow in the world, but goodness too; and goodness that
is not greenness, either, no more than sorrow is. Dear good man. Poor
beating heart!"

It was the man with the weed, not very long after quitting the merchant,
murmuring to himself with his hand to his side like one with the
heart-disease.

Meditation over kindness received seemed to have softened him something,
too, it may be, beyond what might, perhaps, have been looked for from
one whose unwonted self-respect in the hour of need, and in the act of
being aided, might have appeared to some not wholly unlike pride out of
place; and pride, in any place, is seldom very feeling. But the truth,
perhaps, is, that those who are least touched with that vice, besides
being not unsusceptible to goodness, are sometimes the ones whom a
ruling sense of propriety makes appear cold, if not thankless, under a
favor. For, at such a time, to be full of warm, earnest words, and
heart-felt protestations, is to create a scene; and well-bred people
dislike few things more than that; which would seem to look as if the
world did not relish earnestness; but, not so; because the world, being
earnest itself, likes an earnest scene, and an earnest man, very well,
but only in their place--the stage. See what sad work they make of it,
who, ignorant of this, flame out in Irish enthusiasm and with Irish
sincerity, to a benefactor, who, if a man of sense and respectability,
as well as kindliness, can but be more or less annoyed by it; and, if of
a nervously fastidious nature, as some are, may be led to think almost
as much less favorably of the beneficiary paining him by his gratitude,
as if he had been guilty of its contrary, instead only of an
indiscretion. But, beneficiaries who know better, though they may feel
as much, if not more, neither inflict such pain, nor are inclined to run
any risk of so doing. And these, being wise, are the majority. By which
one sees how inconsiderate those persons are, who, from the absence of
its officious manifestations in the world, complain that there is not
much gratitude extant; when the truth is, that there is as much of it as
there is of modesty; but, both being for the most part votarists of the
shade, for the most part keep out of sight.

What started this was, to account, if necessary, for the changed air of
the man with the weed, who, throwing off in private the cold garb of
decorum, and so giving warmly loose to his genuine heart, seemed almost
transformed into another being. This subdued air of softness, too, was
toned with melancholy, melancholy unreserved; a thing which, however at
variance with propriety, still the more attested his earnestness; for
one knows not how it is, but it sometimes happens that, where
earnestness is, there, also, is melancholy.

At the time, he was leaning over the rail at the boat's side, in his
pensiveness, unmindful of another pensive figure near--a young gentleman
with a swan-neck, wearing a lady-like open shirt collar, thrown back,
and tied with a black ribbon. From a square, tableted-broach, curiously
engraved with Greek characters, he seemed a collegian--not improbably, a
sophomore--on his travels; possibly, his first. A small book bound in
Roman vellum was in his hand.

Overhearing his murmuring neighbor, the youth regarded him with some
surprise, not to say interest. But, singularly for a collegian, being
apparently of a retiring nature, he did not speak; when the other still
more increased his diffidence by changing from soliloquy to colloquy, in
a manner strangely mixed of familiarity and pathos.

"Ah, who is this? You did not hear me, my young friend, did you? Why,
you, too, look sad. My melancholy is not catching!"

"Sir, sir," stammered the other.

"Pray, now," with a sort of sociable sorrowfulness, slowly sliding along
the rail, "Pray, now, my young friend, what volume have you there? Give
me leave," gently drawing it from him. "Tacitus!" Then opening it at
random, read: "In general a black and shameful period lies before me."
"Dear young sir," touching his arm alarmedly, "don't read this book. It
is poison, moral poison. Even were there truth in Tacitus, such truth
would have the operation of falsity, and so still be poison, moral
poison. Too well I know this Tacitus. In my college-days he came near
souring me into cynicism. Yes, I began to turn down my collar, and go
about with a disdainfully joyless expression."

"Sir, sir, I--I--"

"Trust me. Now, young friend, perhaps you think that Tacitus, like me,
is only melancholy; but he's more--he's ugly. A vast difference, young
sir, between the melancholy view and the ugly. The one may show the
world still beautiful, not so the other. The one may be compatible with
benevolence, the other not. The one may deepen insight, the other
shallows it. Drop Tacitus. Phrenologically, my young friend, you would
seem to have a well-developed head, and large; but cribbed within the
ugly view, the Tacitus view, your large brain, like your large ox in the
contracted field, will but starve the more. And don't dream, as some of
you students may, that, by taking this same ugly view, the deeper
meanings of the deeper books will so alone become revealed to you. Drop
Tacitus. His subtlety is falsity, To him, in his double-refined anatomy
of human nature, is well applied the Scripture saying--'There is a
subtle man, and the same is deceived.' Drop Tacitus. Come, now, let me
throw the book overboard."

"Sir, I--I--"

"Not a word; I know just what is in your mind, and that is just what I
am speaking to. Yes, learn from me that, though the sorrows of the world
are great, its wickedness--that is, its ugliness--is small. Much cause
to pity man, little to distrust him. I myself have known adversity, and
know it still. But for that, do I turn cynic? No, no: it is small beer
that sours. To my fellow-creatures I owe alleviations. So, whatever I
may have undergone, it but deepens my confidence in my kind. Now, then"
(winningly), "this book--will you let me drown it for you?"

"Really, sir--I--"

"I see, I see. But of course you read Tacitus in order to aid you in
understanding human nature--as if truth was ever got at by libel. My
young friend, if to know human nature is your object, drop Tacitus and
go north to the cemeteries of Auburn and Greenwood."

"Upon my word, I--I--"

"Nay, I foresee all that. But you carry Tacitus, that shallow Tacitus.
What do _I_ carry? See"--producing a pocket-volume--"Akenside--his
'Pleasures of Imagination.' One of these days you will know it. Whatever
our lot, we should read serene and cheery books, fitted to inspire love
and trust. But Tacitus! I have long been of opinion that these classics
are the bane of colleges; for--not to hint of the immorality of Ovid,
Horace, Anacreon, and the rest, and the dangerous theology of Eschylus
and others--where will one find views so injurious to human nature as in
Thucydides, Juvenal, Lucian, but more particularly Tacitus? When I
consider that, ever since the revival of learning, these classics have
been the favorites of successive generations of students and studious
men, I tremble to think of that mass of unsuspected heresy on every
vital topic which for centuries must have simmered unsurmised in the
heart of Christendom. But Tacitus--he is the most extraordinary example
of a heretic; not one iota of confidence in his kind. What a mockery
that such an one should be reputed wise, and Thucydides be esteemed the
statesman's manual! But Tacitus--I hate Tacitus; not, though, I trust,
with the hate that sins, but a righteous hate. Without confidence
himself, Tacitus destroys it in all his readers. Destroys confidence,
paternal confidence, of which God knows that there is in this world none
to spare. For, comparatively inexperienced as you are, my dear young
friend, did you never observe how little, very little, confidence, there
is? I mean between man and man--more particularly between stranger and
stranger. In a sad world it is the saddest fact. Confidence! I have
sometimes almost thought that confidence is fled; that confidence is the
New Astrea--emigrated--vanished--gone." Then softly sliding nearer, with
the softest air, quivering down and looking up, "could you now, my dear
young sir, under such circumstances, by way of experiment, simply have
confidence in _me_?"

From the outset, the sophomore, as has been seen, had struggled with an
ever-increasing embarrassment, arising, perhaps, from such strange
remarks coming from a stranger--such persistent and prolonged remarks,
too. In vain had he more than once sought to break the spell by
venturing a deprecatory or leave-taking word. In vain. Somehow, the
stranger fascinated him. Little wonder, then, that, when the appeal
came, he could hardly speak, but, as before intimated, being apparently
of a retiring nature, abruptly retired from the spot, leaving the
chagrined stranger to wander away in the opposite direction.

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

completion: Not quite an "I'm king of the world!" moment, but the man with the weed in his hat is standing against the railing on the side of the boat. Just doing his own thing. At the moment, doing his own thing means indulging in the goodness of human nature. The narrator takes a minute here to contemplate the nature of showing gratitude, how tricky it can be to look grateful when you've got a sense of pride, and how uncomfortable it can be when people are too enthusiastic in their thanks. Awkward. There's another dude leaning against the railing. The narrator has us side-eye him. We learn that he's got a book, he's young, he's probably in college, he's wearing a frou-frou shirt, and he's probably a sophomore. Weeds is the first to speak, with a ZOMG, did I mumble so loudly you heard me? OMG how embarrassing, but I can see you're sad, too. Let's be sad friends. Schoolboy is too taken aback to say anything, but no need--for the rest of the chapter, Weeds basically takes over the whole conversation. The topic? Why this kid should abandon his book on Tacitus . Hint: it's because after reading it, the kid will never trust his fellow man again. We're sensing a theme here. Weeds finally asks if the kid would trust him. Confused, the kid walks away.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VI. AT THE OUTSET OF WHICH CERTAIN PASSENGERS PROVE DEAF TO THE CALL OF CHARITY.

----"You--pish! Why will the captain suffer these begging fellows on
board?";

These pettish words were breathed by a well-to-do gentleman in a
ruby-colored velvet vest, and with a ruby-colored cheek, a ruby-headed
cane in his hand, to a man in a gray coat and white tie, who, shortly
after the interview last described, had accosted him for contributions
to a Widow and Orphan Asylum recently founded among the Seminoles. Upon
a cursory view, this last person might have seemed, like the man with
the weed, one of the less unrefined children of misfortune; but, on a
closer observation, his countenance revealed little of sorrow, though
much of sanctity.

With added words of touchy disgust, the well-to-do gentleman hurried
away. But, though repulsed, and rudely, the man in gray did not
reproach, for a time patiently remaining in the chilly loneliness to
which he had been left, his countenance, however, not without token of
latent though chastened reliance.

At length an old gentleman, somewhat bulky, drew nigh, and from him also
a contribution was sought.

"Look, you," coming to a dead halt, and scowling upon him. "Look, you,"
swelling his bulk out before him like a swaying balloon, "look, you, you
on others' behalf ask for money; you, a fellow with a face as long as my
arm. Hark ye, now: there is such a thing as gravity, and in condemned
felons it may be genuine; but of long faces there are three sorts; that
of grief's drudge, that of the lantern-jawed man, and that of the
impostor. You know best which yours is."

"Heaven give you more charity, sir."

"And you less hypocrisy, sir."

With which words, the hard-hearted old gentleman marched off.

While the other still stood forlorn, the young clergyman, before
introduced, passing that way, catching a chance sight of him, seemed
suddenly struck by some recollection; and, after a moment's pause,
hurried up with: "Your pardon, but shortly since I was all over looking
for you."

"For me?" as marveling that one of so little account should be sought
for.

"Yes, for you; do you know anything about the negro, apparently a
cripple, aboard here? Is he, or is he not, what he seems to be?"

"Ah, poor Guinea! have you, too, been distrusted? you, upon whom nature
has placarded the evidence of your claims?"

"Then you do really know him, and he is quite worthy? It relieves me to
hear it--much relieves me. Come, let us go find him, and see what can be
done."

"Another instance that confidence may come too late. I am sorry to say
that at the last landing I myself--just happening to catch sight of him
on the gangway-plank--assisted the cripple ashore. No time to talk, only
to help. He may not have told you, but he has a brother in that
vicinity.

"Really, I regret his going without my seeing him again; regret it,
more, perhaps, than you can readily think. You see, shortly after
leaving St. Louis, he was on the forecastle, and there, with many
others, I saw him, and put trust in him; so much so, that, to convince
those who did not, I, at his entreaty, went in search of you, you being
one of several individuals he mentioned, and whose personal appearance
he more or less described, individuals who he said would willingly speak
for him. But, after diligent search, not finding you, and catching no
glimpse of any of the others he had enumerated, doubts were at last
suggested; but doubts indirectly originating, as I can but think, from
prior distrust unfeelingly proclaimed by another. Still, certain it is,
I began to suspect."

"Ha, ha, ha!"

A sort of laugh more like a groan than a laugh; and yet, somehow, it
seemed intended for a laugh.

Both turned, and the young clergyman started at seeing the wooden-legged
man close behind him, morosely grave as a criminal judge with a
mustard-plaster on his back. In the present case the mustard-plaster
might have been the memory of certain recent biting rebuffs and
mortifications.

"Wouldn't think it was I who laughed would you?"

"But who was it you laughed at? or rather, tried to laugh at?" demanded
the young clergyman, flushing, "me?"

"Neither you nor any one within a thousand miles of you. But perhaps you
don't believe it."

"If he were of a suspicious temper, he might not," interposed the man in
gray calmly, "it is one of the imbecilities of the suspicious person to
fancy that every stranger, however absent-minded, he sees so much as
smiling or gesturing to himself in any odd sort of way, is secretly
making him his butt. In some moods, the movements of an entire street,
as the suspicious man walks down it, will seem an express pantomimic
jeer at him. In short, the suspicious man kicks himself with his own
foot."

"Whoever can do that, ten to one he saves other folks' sole-leather,"
said the wooden-legged man with a crusty attempt at humor. But with
augmented grin and squirm, turning directly upon the young clergyman,
"you still think it was _you_ I was laughing at, just now. To prove your
mistake, I will tell you what I _was_ laughing at; a story I happened to
call to mind just then."

Whereupon, in his porcupine way, and with sarcastic details, unpleasant
to repeat, he related a story, which might, perhaps, in a good-natured
version, be rendered as follows:

A certain Frenchman of New Orleans, an old man, less slender in purse
than limb, happening to attend the theatre one evening, was so charmed
with the character of a faithful wife, as there represented to the life,
that nothing would do but he must marry upon it. So, marry he did, a
beautiful girl from Tennessee, who had first attracted his attention by
her liberal mould, and was subsequently recommended to him through her
kin, for her equally liberal education and disposition. Though large,
the praise proved not too much. For, ere long, rumor more than
corroborated it, by whispering that the lady was liberal to a fault. But
though various circumstances, which by most Benedicts would have been
deemed all but conclusive, were duly recited to the old Frenchman by his
friends, yet such was his confidence that not a syllable would he
credit, till, chancing one night to return unexpectedly from a journey,
upon entering his apartment, a stranger burst from the alcove: "Begar!"
cried he, "now I _begin_ to suspec."

His story told, the wooden-legged man threw back his head, and gave vent
to a long, gasping, rasping sort of taunting cry, intolerable as that of
a high-pressure engine jeering off steam; and that done, with apparent
satisfaction hobbled away.

"Who is that scoffer," said the man in gray, not without warmth. "Who is
he, who even were truth on his tongue, his way of speaking it would make
truth almost offensive as falsehood. Who is he?"

"He who I mentioned to you as having boasted his suspicion of the
negro," replied the young clergyman, recovering from disturbance, "in
short, the person to whom I ascribe the origin of my own distrust; he
maintained that Guinea was some white scoundrel, betwisted and painted
up for a decoy. Yes, these were his very words, I think."

"Impossible! he could not be so wrong-headed. Pray, will you call him
back, and let me ask him if he were really in earnest?"

The other complied; and, at length, after no few surly objections,
prevailed upon the one-legged individual to return for a moment. Upon
which, the man in gray thus addressed him: "This reverend gentleman
tells me, sir, that a certain cripple, a poor negro, is by you
considered an ingenious impostor. Now, I am not unaware that there are
some persons in this world, who, unable to give better proof of being
wise, take a strange delight in showing what they think they have
sagaciously read in mankind by uncharitable suspicions of them. I hope
you are not one of these. In short, would you tell me now, whether you
were not merely joking in the notion you threw out about the negro.
Would you be so kind?"

"No, I won't be so kind, I'll be so cruel."

"As you please about that."

"Well, he's just what I said he was."

"A white masquerading as a black?"

"Exactly."

The man in gray glanced at the young clergyman a moment, then quietly
whispered to him, "I thought you represented your friend here as a very
distrustful sort of person, but he appears endued with a singular
credulity.--Tell me, sir, do you really think that a white could look
the negro so? For one, I should call it pretty good acting."

"Not much better than any other man acts."

"How? Does all the world act? Am _I_, for instance, an actor? Is my
reverend friend here, too, a performer?"

"Yes, don't you both perform acts? To do, is to act; so all doers are
actors."

"You trifle.--I ask again, if a white, how could he look the negro so?"

"Never saw the negro-minstrels, I suppose?"

"Yes, but they are apt to overdo the ebony; exemplifying the old saying,
not more just than charitable, that 'the devil is never so black as he
is painted.' But his limbs, if not a cripple, how could he twist his
limbs so?"

"How do other hypocritical beggars twist theirs? Easy enough to see how
they are hoisted up."

"The sham is evident, then?"

"To the discerning eye," with a horrible screw of his gimlet one.

"Well, where is Guinea?" said the man in gray; "where is he? Let us at
once find him, and refute beyond cavil this injurious hypothesis."

"Do so," cried the one-eyed man, "I'm just in the humor now for having
him found, and leaving the streaks of these fingers on his paint, as the
lion leaves the streaks of his nails on a Caffre. They wouldn't let me
touch him before. Yes, find him, I'll make wool fly, and him after."

"You forget," here said the young clergyman to the man in gray, "that
yourself helped poor Guinea ashore."

"So I did, so I did; how unfortunate. But look now," to the other, "I
think that without personal proof I can convince you of your mistake.
For I put it to you, is it reasonable to suppose that a man with brains,
sufficient to act such a part as you say, would take all that trouble,
and run all that hazard, for the mere sake of those few paltry coppers,
which, I hear, was all he got for his pains, if pains they were?"

"That puts the case irrefutably," said the young clergyman, with a
challenging glance towards the one-legged man.

"You two green-horns! Money, you think, is the sole motive to pains and
hazard, deception and deviltry, in this world. How much money did the
devil make by gulling Eve?"

Whereupon he hobbled off again with a repetition of his intolerable
jeer.

The man in gray stood silently eying his retreat a while, and then,
turning to his companion, said: "A bad man, a dangerous man; a man to be
put down in any Christian community.--And this was he who was the means
of begetting your distrust? Ah, we should shut our ears to distrust, and
keep them open only for its opposite."

"You advance a principle, which, if I had acted upon it this morning, I
should have spared myself what I now feel.--That but one man, and he
with one leg, should have such ill power given him; his one sour word
leavening into congenial sourness (as, to my knowledge, it did) the
dispositions, before sweet enough, of a numerous company. But, as I
hinted, with me at the time his ill words went for nothing; the same as
now; only afterwards they had effect; and I confess, this puzzles me."

"It should not. With humane minds, the spirit of distrust works
something as certain potions do; it is a spirit which may enter such
minds, and yet, for a time, longer or shorter, lie in them quiescent;
but only the more deplorable its ultimate activity."

"An uncomfortable solution; for, since that baneful man did but just now
anew drop on me his bane, how shall I be sure that my present exemption
from its effects will be lasting?"

"You cannot be sure, but you can strive against it."

"How?"

"By strangling the least symptom of distrust, of any sort, which
hereafter, upon whatever provocation, may arise in you."

"I will do so." Then added as in soliloquy, "Indeed, indeed, I was to
blame in standing passive under such influences as that one-legged
man's. My conscience upbraids me.--The poor negro: You see him
occasionally, perhaps?"

"No, not often; though in a few days, as it happens, my engagements will
call me to the neighborhood of his present retreat; and, no doubt,
honest Guinea, who is a grateful soul, will come to see me there."

"Then you have been his benefactor?"

"His benefactor? I did not say that. I have known him."

"Take this mite. Hand it to Guinea when you see him; say it comes from
one who has full belief in his honesty, and is sincerely sorry for
having indulged, however transiently, in a contrary thought."

"I accept the trust. And, by-the-way, since you are of this truly
charitable nature, you will not turn away an appeal in behalf of the
Seminole Widow and Orphan Asylum?"

"I have not heard of that charity."

"But recently founded."

After a pause, the clergyman was irresolutely putting his hand in his
pocket, when, caught by something in his companion's expression, he eyed
him inquisitively, almost uneasily.

"Ah, well," smiled the other wanly, "if that subtle bane, we were
speaking of but just now, is so soon beginning to work, in vain my
appeal to you. Good-by."

"Nay," not untouched, "you do me injustice; instead of indulging present
suspicions, I had rather make amends for previous ones. Here is
something for your asylum. Not much; but every drop helps. Of course you
have papers?"

"Of course," producing a memorandum book and pencil. "Let me take down
name and amount. We publish these names. And now let me give you a
little history of our asylum, and the providential way in which it was
started."

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

completion: A rich dude decked out in Ruby hues is miffed that the captain lets "begging fellows" on board. He's talking about a man in grey and white--right in front of the dude. Rude. Ruby stomps away, and an old gentleman walks by. Grey-and-white asks him if he wants to donate to the Seminole Widow and Orphan Asylum. He does not. Like, at all. Plus, he accuses Grey-and-white of being a fake. Grey-and-white stands around looking glum. The Episcopal clergyman from way back when pops up. He recognizes Grey-and-white as yet another man that Guinea, the coin-catching man, described when he needed character witnesses. Grey-and-white: Yeah, I know that guy. Clergyman: He's not a fake? Grey-and-white: Not a fake. Clergyman: Oh, man, my bad. I feel all the guilt. I should apologize. Grey-and-white: Too bad and too late. Guinea's gone. Clergyman: I Messed Up. The guy with the wooden leg shows up and sort of weirdly laugh-groans. This turns into a whole "You laughing at me?" debate between him and the clergyman. He then tells Grey-and-white and the clergyman a jaded story about a man in New Orleans who was so trusting that he couldn't tell his wife was cheating on him. The other two do not like this guy and his bad attitude one little bit. He walks away. The clergyman tells Grey-and-white that this guy is the reason he suspected poor Guinea in the first place--not right away, but the dude's mean-spirited doubts sort of crept up on him. First off, Grey-and-white wants to call the mean man back to see if he was just joshing. The clergyman calls him back. You joshing? Not joshing. He's not joshing, Grey-and-white. Grey-and-white is icked out by this type of suspicious mindset. The mean man leaves again, and the clergyman promises to shield his own mind from distrust, then gives Grey-and-white a coin to give to Guinea when he next sees him. Grey-and-white totes will do that. In the meantime, will the clergyman donate to the Seminole Widow and Orphan Asylum? The clergyman eyes Grey-and-white suspiciously. Grey-and-white: Dude, what even? You just said you'd chill out. Clergyman: No, no--you got it wrong. I'm trying to show you I'm better. Here's money. But umm, you're not lying, right? You have papers to prove you're working with a charity? Grey-and-white: Yeah. I'll write your name down in this here logbook and everything. It's cool.