If, Yes and Perhaps Four Possibilities and Six Exaggerations with Some Bits of Fact

Everett Hale Edward

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. I dedicate this book to the youngest of my friends, now two hours old. Fun, fact, and fancy, - may his fresh life mix the three in their just proportions.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

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• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 23 octobre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819915447
• Langue: English

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DEDICATION.
I dedicate this book to the youngest of my friends,now two hours old. Fun, fact, and fancy, – may his fresh life mixthe three in their just proportions.
MILTON, June 6, 1868.
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
The title to this book has met with generalopprobrium, except in a few quarters, where it was fortunatelyregarded as beneath contempt. Colonel Ingham even exacted anexplanation by telegraph from the Editor, when he learned from theGovernor-General of Northern Siberia what the title was. Thisexplanation the Editor gave in the following note. It is, however,impossible to change the title, as he proposes. For reasons knownto all statesmen, it is out of the question to swap horses incrossing a river; and all publishers know that it is equallyimpossible to change titles under those circumstances. BOSTON,October 17, 1868. MY DEAR COLONEL INGHAM: –
I have your note complaining of the sensationaltitle, "somewhat affected," as you think, which I gave to ourlittle story-book. Of course I am sorry you do not like the name;but, while you strike, I beg you to hear. I readily acceded to youroriginal title, and called the book in manuscript as you bade me, –"A Few Short Sketches taken from Ancient History, Modern Travel,and the Realm of Imagination, Illustrative of the Poetry of theBible, the History of Christianity, the Manners of the Times, andthe Politics of the Present and Past Generations." This titlewould, I admit, meet the views of most of our present critics. ButI abandoned it on my own responsibility, – you being then beyondthe telegraph, at the mouth of the Oby River, – because it occurredto me, that, under the catalogue rules of Panizzi and the lamentedJewett, we should be indexed and catalogued at "Few." I did notthink that a good omen. Relinquishing, therefore, the effort atdescription of subject, I tried description of object, anddetermined on this: – "Moral Sketches of Human Society, in thePast, the Present, and Imagined Worlds." By F. I., and c., and c.,and c. But, as I slept and waked on this, I said, "Who knows thatthese are moral sketches?" We wished them to be moral, butIngham's have been attacked by such patient critics as read them asbeing immoral, while many of the sketches seem to have no moral atall. Who are we, to claim that we have attained a moral standard?Waking and sleeping once more, I asked myself, "What are thethings, – poor, nameless heathen children, that can get no sponsorand no Christian baptism?" I said, in reply, that at least one ofthem was the living truth, so far as it could be squeezed out ofblue books and the most proper of documents. Others might have beentrue, if the destinies had so willed. Others would have been true,had they not been untrue. Others should have been true, hadpoetical justice been the working rule of a vulgar world. "Might,Could, Would, or Should," then, would have been an available namefor most of them, – unless one took from the older grammars thetitle of "The Potential Mood." But, you observe, my dear Ingham,that our little story-book is destined mostly for young readers,who know no more of "The Potential Mood" than they know of thesurrender of Cornwallis (this day celebrated). And, besides, wehave some facts in the treatise which are not hypothetical. Whyignore them? Do you not see that your miserable suggestion of "ThePotential Mood" is as worthless as it is sensational and fails asnot comprehensive, inadequate, unintelligible, and not true? Forthese reasons I settled on the plain, straightforward title ofunadorned truth, viz. "Four Possibilities, Six Exaggerations, andsome Bits of Fact"; and with this we went to the publisher. But, asI entered his shop, a boy from Dutton's rushed in with hisorder-book, and cried: – "I want seventy Chimes and ninety Ivanhoe ." "What," said I, "if, by any good fortune, it hadbeen our story-book that was wanted, this boy would then havecalled for "'Seventy Four Possibilities.' Can there be so many in aworld which runs in grooves? Will he even get the number that heneeds of our treatises? Alexander a robber! Let me reflect."Reflecting thus, I determined that the title of a book must be, –1. Brief. 2. Intelligible. 3. Suggestive. 4. It must not begin witha numeral. I took a Tremont Street car and returned home. "What," Isaid in the night-watches, "is the brief expression of apossibility? Surely it is in the word PERHAPS. "What of a fact?"Surely it is YES. "What of an exaggeration? Why, it is that whichwould be true If it had not been overstated. Our title then,clearly, is "PERHAPS, YES, AND IF." I see that the critics wouldhave been better satisfied with this. But, on the principle of thelittle elephants sacrificing themselves in the passage of a river,Mr. Fields and I determined to start the smallest word first, andthus to drive a gentle wedge into the close chasm of the publicfavor. Sensitive, however, as I am, dear Ingham, to your criticism,I will at the earliest opportunity consult with him as to a returnto the original title: – "A Few Sketches Illustrative," and c., andc., and c. Or might we not let the one word "Etcetera" stand alone?Or thus, with the stars, " and c., and c., and c."? Truly yours, E.E. HALE.
CHAPTER I.
THE PORK-BARREL. "Felix," said my wife to me, as Icame home to-night, "you will have to go to the pork-barrel." "Areyou quite sure," said I, – "quite sure? 'Woe to him,' says theoracle, 'who goes to the pork-barrel before the moment of hisneed.'" "And woe to him, say I," replied my brave wife, – "woe anddisaster to him; but the moment of our need has come. The figuresare here, and you shall see. I have it all in black and inwhite."
And so it proved, indeed, that when Miss Sampson,the nurse, was paid for her month's service, and when the boys hadtheir winter boots, and when my life-insurance assessment wasprovided for, and the new payment for the insurance on the house, –when the taxes were settled with the collector (and my wife had tolay aside double for the war), – when the pew-rent was paid for theyear, and the water-rate, – we must have to start with, on the 1stof January, one hundred dollars. This, as we live, would pay, incash, the butcher, and the grocer, and the baker, and all thedealers in things that perish, and would buy the omnibus tickets,and recompense Bridget till the 1st of April. And at my house, ifwe can see forward three months we are satisfied. But, at my house,we are never satisfied if there is a credit at any store for us. Weare sworn to pay as we go. We owe no man anything.
So it was that my wife said: "Felix, you will haveto go to the pork-barrel."
This is the story of the pork-barrel.
It happened once, in a little parish in the GreenMountains, that the deacon reported to Parson Plunkett, that, as herode to meeting by Chung-a-baug Pond, he saw Michael Stowersfishing for pickerel through a hole in the ice on the Sabbath day.The parson made note of the complaint, and that afternoon droveover to the pond in his "one-horse shay." He made his visit, notunacceptable, on the poor Stowers household, and then crossed lotsto the place where he saw poor Michael hoeing. He told Michael thathe was charged with Sabbath breaking, and bade him plead to thecharge. And poor Mike, like a man, plead guilty; but, inextenuation, he said that there was nothing to eat in the house,and rather than see wife and children faint, he had cut a hole inthe ice, had put in his hook again and again, and yet again, andcoming home had delighted the waiting family with an unexpectedbreakfast. The good parson made no rebuke, nodded pensive, anddrove straightway to the deacon's door. "Deacon," said he, "whatmeat did you eat for breakfast yesterday?"
The deacon's family had eaten salt pork, fried. "Andwhere did you get the pork, Deacon?"
The Deacon stared, but said he had taken it from hispork-barrel. "Yes, Deacon," said the old man; "I supposed so. Ihave been to see Brother Stowers, to talk to him about hisSabbath-breaking; and, Deacon, I find the pond is hispork-barrel."
The story is a favorite with me and with Fausta. But"woe," says the oracle, "to him who goes to the pork-barrel beforethe moment of his need." And to that "woe" both Fausta and I say"amen." For we know that there is no fish in our pond forspendthrifts or for lazy-bones; none for people who wear goldchains or Attleborough jewelry; none for people who are ashamed ofcheap carpets or wooden mantelpieces. Not for those who run in debtwill the fish bite; nor for those who pretend to be richer orbetter or wiser than they are. No! But we have found, in our lives,that in a great democracy there reigns a great and gracioussovereign. We have found that this sovereign, in a reckless andunconscious way, is, all the time, making the most profuseprovision for all the citizens. We have found that those who arenot too grand to trust him fare as well as they deserve. We havefound, on the other hand, that those who lick his feet or flatterhis follies fare worst of living men. We find that those who workhonestly, and only seek a man's fair average of life, or a woman's,get that average, though sometimes by the most singular experiencesin the long run. And thus we find that, when an extraordinarycontingency arises in life, as just now in ours, we have only to goto our pork-barrel, and the fish rises to our hook or spear.
The sovereign brings this about in all sorts ofways, but he does not fail, if, without flattering him, you trusthim. Of this sovereign the name is – "the Public." Fausta and I areapt to call ourselves his children, and so I name this story of ourlives, "THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC."
CHAPTER II.
WHERE IS THE BARREL? "Where is the barrel this time,Fausta?" said I, after I had added and subtracted her figures threetimes, to be sure she had carried her tens and hundreds rightly.For the units, in such accounts, in face of Dr. Franklin, I confessI do not care. "The barrel," said she, "is in FRANK LESLIE'SOFFICE. Here is the