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."

 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.

