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    The Gentleman from Indiana
    The Gentleman from Indiana
    The Gentleman from Indiana
    Ebook361 pages6 hours

    The Gentleman from Indiana

    By Booth Tarkington

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    About this ebook

    Alongside William Faulkner and John Updike, Booth Tarkington is one of just three authors to win the Pulitzer Prize more than once. Tarkington accomplished the feat with Alice Adams and The Magnificent Ambersons, dramas that explored the lives of fictional characters who live in a setting similar to the one Tarkington experienced in Indianapolis. Tarkington continues to garner praise for his works' historical realism.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKrill Press
    Release dateDec 16, 2015
    ISBN9781518337505
    The Gentleman from Indiana
    Author

    Booth Tarkington

    Booth Tarkington (1869–1946) was an American novelist and playwright. Tarkington won the Pulitzer Prize in 1919 for the novel The Magnificent Ambersons and again in 1922 for Alice Adams. He is one of only three authors to have been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction more than once. Though Tarkington was educated at Princeton University, his works are strongly grounded in his native Indiana. 

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      Book preview

      The Gentleman from Indiana - Booth Tarkington

      THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA

      ..................

      Booth Tarkington

      YURITA PRESS

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2015 by Booth Tarkington

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG MAN WHO CAME TO STAY

      CHAPTER II. THE STRANGE LADY

      CHAPTER III. LONESOMENESS

      CHAPTER IV. THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER

      CHAPTER V. AT THE PASTURE BARS: ELDER-BUSHES MAY HAVE STINGS

      CHAPTER VI. JUNE

      CHAPTER VII. MORNING: "SOME IN RAGS AND SOME IN TAGS AND SOME IN VELVET

      CHAPTER VIII. GLAD AFTERNOON: THE GIRL BY THE BLUE TENT-POLE

      CHAPTER IX. NIGHT: IT IS BAD LUCK TO SING BEFORE BREAKFAST

      CHAPTER X. THE COURT-HOUSE BELL

      CHAPTER XI. JOHN BROWN’S BODY

      CHAPTER XII. JERRY THE TELLER

      CHAPTER XIII. JAMES FISBEE

      CHAPTER XIV. A RESCUE

      CHAPTER XV. NETTLES

      CHAPTER XVI. PRETTY MARQUISE

      CHAPTER XVII. HELEN’S TOAST

      CHAPTER XVIII. THE TREACHERY OF H. FISBEE

      CHAPTER XIX. THE GREAT HARKLESS COMES HOME

      The Gentleman from Indiana

      By

      Booth Tarkington

      The Gentleman from Indiana

      Published by Yurita Press

      New York City, NY

      First published 1899

      Copyright © Yurita Press, 2015

      All rights reserved

      Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      About Krill Press

      Krill Press is a boutique publishing company run by people who are passionate about history’s greatest works. We strive to republish the best books ever written across every conceivable genre and making them easily and cheaply available to readers across the world. Please visit our site for more information.

      CHAPTER I. THE YOUNG MAN WHO CAME TO STAY

      ..................

      THERE IS A FERTILE STRETCH of flat lands in Indiana where unagrarian Eastern travellers, glancing from car-windows, shudder and return their eyes to interior upholstery, preferring even the swaying caparisons of a Pullman to the monotony without. The landscape lies interminably level: bleak in winter, a desolate plain of mud and snow; hot and dusty in summer, in its flat lonesomeness, miles on miles with not one cool hill slope away from the sun. The persistent tourist who seeks for signs of man in this sad expanse perceives a reckless amount of rail fence; at intervals a large barn; and, here and there, man himself, incurious, patient, slow, looking up from the fields apathetically as the Limited flies by. Widely separated from each other are small frame railway stations—sometimes with no other building in sight, which indicates that somewhere behind the adjacent woods a few shanties and thin cottages are grouped about a couple of brick stores.

      On the station platforms there are always two or three wooden packing-boxes, apparently marked for travel, but they are sacred from disturbance and remain on the platform forever; possibly the right train never comes along. They serve to enthrone a few station loafers, who look out from under their hat-brims at the faces in the car-windows with the languid scorn a permanent fixture always has for a transient, and the pity an American feels for a fellow-being who does not live in his town. Now and then the train passes a town built scatteringly about a court-house, with a mill or two humming near the tracks. This is a county-seat, and the inhabitants and the local papers refer to it confidently as our city. The heart of the flat lands is a central area called Carlow County, and the county-seat of Carlow is a town unhappily named in honor of its first settler, William Platt, who christened it with his blood. Natives of this place have sometimes remarked, easily, that their city had a population of from five to six thousand souls. It is easy to forgive them for such statements; civic pride is a virtue.

      The social and business energy of Plattville concentrates on the Square. Here, in summer-time, the gentlemen are wont to lounge from store to store in their shirt sleeves; and here stood the old, red-brick court-house, loosely fenced in a shady grove of maple and elm—slipp’ry ellum—called the Court-House Yard. When the sun grew too hot for the dry-goods box whittlers in front of the stores around the Square and the occupants of the chairs in front of the Palace Hotel on the corner, they would go across and drape themselves over the court-house fence, under the trees, and leisurely carve there initials on the top board. The farmers hitched their teams to the fence, for there were usually loafers energetic enough to shout Whoa! if the flies worried the horses beyond patience. In the yard, amongst the weeds and tall, unkept grass, chickens foraged all day long; the fence was so low that the most matronly hen flew over with propriety; and there were gaps that accommodated the passage of itinerant pigs. Most of the latter, however, preferred the cool wallows of the less important street corners. Here and there a big dog lay asleep in the middle of the road, knowing well that the easy-going Samaritan, in his case, would pass by on the other side.

      Only one street attained to the dignity of a name—Main Street, which formed the north side of the Square. In Carlow County, descriptive location is usually accomplished by designating the adjacent, as, Up at Bardlocks’, Down by Schofields’, Right where Hibbards live, Acrost from Sol. Tibbs’s, or, Other side of Jones’s field. In winter, Main Street was a series of frozen gorges land hummocks; in fall and spring, a river of mud; in summer, a continuing dust heap; it was the best street in Plattville.

      The people lived happily; and, while the world whirled on outside, they were content with their own. It would have moved their surprise as much as their indignation to hear themselves spoken of as a secluded community; for they sat up all night to hear the vote of New York, every campaign. Once when the President visited Rouen, seventy miles away, there were only few bankrupts (and not a baby amongst them) left in the deserted homes of Carlow County. Everybody had adventures; almost everybody saw the great man; and everybody was glad to get back home again. It was the longest journey some of them ever set upon, and these, elated as they were over their travels, determined to think twice ere they went that far from home another time.

      On Saturdays, the farmers enlivened the commercial atmosphere of Plattville; and Miss Tibbs, the postmaster’s sister and clerk, used to make a point of walking up and down Main Street as often as possible, to get a thrill in the realization of some poetical expressions that haunted her pleasingly; phrases she had employed frequently in her poems for the Carlow County Herald. When thirty or forty country people were scattered along the sidewalks in front of the stores on Main Street, she would walk at nicely calculated angles to the different groups so as to leave as few gaps as possible between the figures, making them appear as near a solid phalanx as she could. Then she would murmur to herself, with the accent of soulful revel, The thronged city streets, and, Within the thronged city, or, Where the thronging crowds were swarming and the great cathedral rose. Although she had never been beyond Carlow and the bordering counties in her life, all her poems were of city streets and bustling multitudes. She was one of those who had been unable to join the excursion to Rouen when the President was there; but she had listened avidly to her friends’ descriptions of the crowds. Before that time her muse had been sylvan, speaking of Flow’rs of May, and hinting at thoughts that overcame her when she roved the woodlands thro’; but now the inspiration was become decidedly municipal and urban, evidently reluctant to depart beyond the retail portions of a metropolis. Her verses beginning, O, my native city, bride of Hibbard’s winding stream,—Hibbard’s Creek runs west of Plattville, except in time of drought—When thy myriad lights are shining, and thy faces, like a dream, Go flitting down thy sidewalks when their daily toil is done, were pronounced, at the time of their publication, the best poem that had ever appeared in the Herald.

      This unlucky newspaper was a thorn in the side of every patriot of Carlow County. It was a poor paper; everybody knew it was a poor paper; it was so poor that everybody admitted it was a poor paper—worse, the neighboring county of Amo possessed a better paper, the Amo Gazette. The Carlow County Herald was so everlastingly bad that Plattville people bent their heads bitterly and admitted even to citizens of Amo that the Gazette was the better paper. The Herald was a weekly, issued on Saturday; sometimes it hung fire over Sunday and appeared Monday evening. In their pride, the Carlow people supported the Herald loyally and long; but finally subscriptions began to fall off and the Gazette gained them. It came to pass that the Herald missed fire altogether for several weeks; then it came out feebly, two small advertisements occupying the whole of the fourth page. It was breathing its last. The editor was a clay-colored gentleman with a goatee, whose one surreptitious eye betokened both indolence of disposition and a certain furtive shrewdness. He collected all the outstanding subscriptions he could, on the morning of the issue just mentioned, and, thoughtfully neglecting several items on the other side of the ledger, departed from Plattville forever.

      The same afternoon a young man from the East alighted on the platform of the railway station, north of the town, and, entering the rickety omnibus that lingered there, seeking whom it might rattle to deafness, demanded to be driven to the Herald Building. It did not strike the driver that the newcomer was precisely a gay young man when he climbed into the omnibus; but, an hour later, as he stood in the doorway of the edifice he had indicated as his destination, depression seemed to have settled into the marrow of his bones. Plattville was instantly alert to the stranger’s presence, and interesting conjectures were hazarded all day long at the back door of Martin’s Dry-Goods Emporium, where all the clerks from the stores around the Square came to play checkers or look on at the game. (This was the club during the day; in the evening the club and the game removed to the drug, book, and wall-paper store on the corner.) At supper, the new arrival and his probable purposes were discussed over every table in the town. Upon inquiry, he had informed Judd Bennett, the driver of the omnibus, that he had come to stay. Naturally, such a declaration caused a sensation, as people did not come to Plattville to live, except through the inadvertency of being born there. In addition, the young man’s appearance and attire were reported to be extraordinary. Many of the curious, among them most of the marriageable females of the place, took occasion to pass and repass the sign of the Carlow County Herald during the evening.

      Meanwhile, the stranger was seated in the dingy office upstairs with his head bowed low on his arms. Twilight stole through the dirty window-panes and faded into darkness. Night filled the room. He did not move. The young man from the East had bought the Herald from an agent; had bought it without ever having been within a hundred miles of Plattville. He had vastly overpaid for it. Moreover, the price he had paid for it was all the money he had in the world.

      The next morning he went bitterly to work. He hired a compositor from Rouen, a young man named Parker, who set type all night long and helped him pursue advertisements all day. The citizens shook their heads pessimistically. They had about given up the idea that the Herald could ever amount to anything, and they betrayed an innocent, but caustic, doubt of ability in any stranger.

      One day the new editor left a note on his door; Will return in fifteen minutes.

      Mr. Rodney McCune, a politician from the neighboring county of Gaines, happening to be in Plattville on an errand to his henchmen, found the note, and wrote beneath the message the scathing inquiry, Why?

      When he discovered this addendum, the editor smiled for the first time since his advent, and reported the incident in his next issue, using the rubric, Why Has the ‘Herald’ Returned to Life? as a text for a rousing editorial on honesty in politics, a subject of which he already knew something. The political district to which Carlow belonged was governed by a limited number of gentlemen whose wealth was ever on the increase; and honesty in politics was a startling conception to the minds of the passive and resigned voters, who discussed the editorial on the street corners and in the stores. The next week there was another editorial, personal and local in its application, and thereby it became evident that the new proprietor of the Herald was a theorist who believed, in general, that a politician’s honor should not be merely of that middling healthy species known as honor amongst politicians; and, in particular, that Rodney McCune should not receive the nomination of his party for Congress. Now, Mr. McCune was the undoubted dictator of the district, and his followers laughed at the stranger’s fantastic onset.

      But the editor was not content with the word of print; he hired a horse and rode about the country, and (to his own surprise) he proved to be an adaptable young man who enjoyed exercise with a pitchfork to the farmer’s profit while the farmer talked. He talked little himself, but after listening an hour or so, he would drop a word from the saddle as he left; and then, by some surprising wizardry, the farmer, thinking over the interview, decided there was some sense in what that young fellow said, and grew curious to see what the young fellow had further to say in the Herald.

      Politics is the one subject that goes to the vitals of every rural American; and a Hoosier will talk politics after he is dead.

      Everybody read the campaign editorials, and found them interesting, although there was no one who did not perceive the utter absurdity of a young stranger’s dropping into Carlow and involving himself in a party fight against the boss of the district. It was entirely a party fight; for, by grace of the last gerrymander, the nomination carried with it the certainty of election. A week before the convention there came a provincial earthquake; the news passed from man to man in awe-struck whispers—McCune had withdrawn his name, making the hollowest of excuses to his cohorts. Nothing was known of the real reason for his disordered retreat, beyond the fact that he had been in Plattville on the morning before his withdrawal and had issued from a visit to the Herald office in a state of palsy. Mr. Parker, the Rouen printer, had been present at the close of the interview; but he held his peace at the command of his employer. He had been called into the sanctum, and had found McCune, white and shaking, leaning on the desk.

      Parker, said the editor, exhibiting a bundle of papers he held in his hand, I want you to witness a verbal contract between Mr. McCune and myself. These papers are an affidavit and copies of some records of a street-car company which obtained a charter while Mr McCune was in the State legislature. They were sent to me by a man I do not know, an anonymous friend of Mr. McCune’s; in fact, a friend he seems to have lost. On consideration of our not printing these papers, Mr. McCune agrees to retire from politics for good. You understand, if he ever lifts his head again, politically, We publish them, and the courts will do the rest. Now, in case anything should happen to me——

      Something will happen to you, all right, broke out McCune. You can bank on that, you black——

      Come, the editor interrupted, not unpleasantly why should there be anything personal, in all this? I don’t recognize you as my private enemy—not at all; and I think you are getting off rather easily; aren’t you? You stay out of politics, and everything will be comfortable. You ought never to have been in it, you see. It’s a mistake not to keep square, because in the long run somebody is sure to give you away—like the fellow who sent me these. You promise to hold to a strictly private life?

      You’re a traitor to the party, groaned the other, but you only wait——

      The editor smiled sadly. Wait nothing. Don’t threaten, man. Go home to your wife. I’ll give you three to one she’ll be glad you are out of it.

      I’ll give you three to one, said McCune, that the White Caps will get you if you stay in Carlow. You want to look out for yourself, I tell you, my smart boy!

      Good-day, Mr. McCune, was the answer. Let me have your note of withdrawal before you leave town this afternoon. The young man paused a moment, then extended his hand, as he said: Shake hands, won’t you? I—I haven’t meant to be too hard on you. I hope things will seem easier and gayer to you before long; and if—if anything should turn up that I can do for you in a private way, I’ll be very glad, you know. Good-by.

      The sound of the Herald’s victory went over the State. The paper came out regularly. The townsfolk bought it and the farmers drove in for it. Old subscribers came back. Old advertisers renewed. The Herald began to sell in Amo, and Gaines County people subscribed. Carlow folk held up their heads when journalism was mentioned. Presently the Herald announced a news connection with Rouen, and with that, and the aid of patent insides, began an era of three issues a week, appearing on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. The Plattville Brass Band serenaded the editor.

      During the second month of the new regime of the Herald, the working force of the paper received an addition. One night the editor found some barroom loafers tormenting a patriarchal old man who had a magnificent head and a grand white beard. He had been thrown out of a saloon, and he was drunk with the drunkenness of three weeks steady pouring. He propped himself against a wall and reproved his tormentors in Latin. I’m walking your way, Mr. Fisbee, remarked the journalist, hooking his arm into the old man’s. Suppose we leave our friends here and go home?

      Mr. Fisbee was the one inhabitant of the town who had an unknown past; no one knew more about him than that he had been connected with a university somewhere, and had travelled in unheard-of countries before he came to Plattville. A glamour of romance was thrown about him by the gossips, to whom he ever proved a fund of delightful speculation. There was a dark, portentous secret in his life, it was agreed; an opinion not too well confirmed by the old man’s appearance. His fine eyes had a pathetic habit of wandering to the horizon in a questioning fashion that had a queer sort of hopelessness in it, as if his quest were one for the Holy Grail, perhaps; and his expression was mild, vague, and sad. He had a look of race and blood; and yet, at the first glance, one saw that he was lost in dreams, and one guessed that the dreams would never be of great practicability in their application. Some such impression of Fisbee was probably what caused the editor of the Herald to nickname him (in his own mind) The White Knight, and to conceive a strong, if whimsical, fancy for him.

      Old Fisbee had come (from nobody knew where) to Plattville to teach, and had been principal of the High School for ten years, instructing his pupils after a peculiar fashion of his own, neglecting the ordinary courses of High School instruction to lecture on archaeology to the dumfounded scholars; growing year by year more forgetful and absent, lost in his few books and his own reflections, until, though undeniably a scholar, he had been discharged for incompetency. He was old; he had no money and no way to make money; he could find nothing to do. The blow had seemed to daze him for a time; then he began to drop in at the hotel bar, where Wilkerson, the professional drunkard, favored him with his society. The old man understood; he knew it was the beginning of the end. He sold his books in order to continue his credit at the Palace bar, and once or twice, unable to proceed to his own dwelling, spent the night in a lumber yard, piloted thither by the hardier veteran, Wilkerson.

      The morning after the editor took him home, Fisbee appeared at the Herald office in a new hat and a decent suit of black. He had received his salary in advance, his books had been repurchased, and he had become the reportorial staff of the Carlow County Herald; also, he was to write various treatises for the paper. For the first few evenings, when he started home from the office, his chief walked with him, chatting heartily, until they had passed the Palace bar. But Fisbee’s redemption was complete.

      The old man had a daughter. When she came to Plattville, he told her what the editor of the Herald had done for him.

      The journalist kept steadily at his work; and, as time went on, the bitterness his predecessor’s swindle had left him passed away. But his loneliness and a sense of defeat grew and deepened. When the vistas of the world had opened to his first youth, he had not thought to spend his life in such a place as Plattville; but he found himself doing it, and it was no great happiness to him that the congressional representative of the district, the gentleman whom the Herald’s opposition to McCune had sent to Washington, came to depend on his influence for renomination; nor did the realization that the editor of the Carlow County Herald had come to be McCune’s successor as political dictator produce a perceptibly enlivening effect on the young man. The years drifted very slowly, and to him it seemed they went by while he stood far aside and could not even see them move. He did not consider the life he led an exciting one; but the other citizens of Carlow did when he undertook a war against the White Caps. The natives were much more afraid of the White Caps than he was; they knew more about them and understood them better than he did.

      CHAPTER II. THE STRANGE LADY

      ..................

      IT WAS JUNE. FROM THE patent inner columns of the Carlow County Herald might be gleaned the information (enlivened by cuts of duchesses) that the London season had reached a high point of gaiety; and that, although the weather had grown inauspiciously warm, there was sufficient gossip for the thoughtful. To the rapt mind of Miss Selina Tibbs came a delicious moment of comparison: precisely the same conditions prevailed in Plattville.

      Not unduly might Miss Selina lay this flattering unction to her soul, and well might the Herald declare that Carlow events were crowding thick and fast. The congressional representative of the district was to deliver a lecture at the court-house; a circus was approaching the county-seat, and its glories would be exhibited rain or shine; the court had cleared up the docket by sitting to unseemly hours of the night, even until ten o’clock—one farmer witness had fallen asleep while deposing that he had knowed this man Hender some eighteen year—and, as excitements come indeed when they do come, and it seldom rains but it pours, the identical afternoon of the lecture a strange lady descended from the Rouen Accommodation and was greeted on the platform by the wealthiest citizen of the county. Judge Briscoe, and his daughter, Minnie, and (what stirred wonder to an itch almost beyond endurance) Mr. Fisbee! and they then drove through town on the way to the Briscoe mansion, all four, apparently, in a fluster of pleasure and exhilaration, the strange lady engaged in earnest conversation with Mr. Fisbee on the back seat.

      Judd Bennett had had the best stare at her, but, as he immediately fell into a dreamy and absent state, little satisfaction could be got from him, merely an exasperating statement that the stranger seemed to have a kind of new look to her. However, by means of Miss Mildy Upton, a domestic of the Briscoe household, the community was given something a little more definite. The lady’s name was Sherwood; she lived in Rouen; and she had known Miss Briscoe at the eastern school the latter had attended (to the feverish agitation of Plattville) three years before; but Mildy confessed her inadequacy in the matter of Mr. Fisbee. He had driven up in the buckboard with the others and evidently expected to stay for supper Mr. Tibbs, the postmaster (it was to the postoffice that Miss Upton brought her information) suggested, as a possible explanation, that the lady was so learned that the Briscoes had invited Fisbee on the ground of his being the only person in Plattville they esteemed wise enough to converse with her; but Miss Tibbs wrecked her brother’s theory by mentioning the name of Fisbee’s chief.

      You see, Solomon, she sagaciously observed, if that were true, they would have invited him, instead of Mr. Fisbee, and I wish they had. He isn’t troubled with malaria, and yet the longer he lives here the sallower-looking and sadder-looking he gets. I think the company of a lovely stranger might be of great cheer to his heart, and it will be interesting to witness the meeting between them. It may be, added the poetess, that they have already met, on his travels before he settled here. It may be that they are old friends—or even more.

      Then what, returned her brother, what is he doin’ settin’ up in his office all afternoon with ink on his forehead, while Fisbee goes out ridin’ with her and stays for supper afterwerds?

      Although the problem of Fisbee’s attendance remained a mere maze of hopeless speculation, Mildy had been present at the opening of Miss Sherwood’s trunk, and here was matter for the keen consideration of the ladies, at least. Thoughtful conversations in regard to hats and linings took place across fences and on corners of the Square that afternoon; and many gentlemen wondered (in wise silence) why their spouses were absent-minded and brooded during the evening meal.

      At half-past seven, the Hon. Kedge Halloway of Amo delivered himself of his lecture; The Past and Present. What we may Glean from Them, and Their Influence on the Future. At seven the court-room was crowded, and Miss Tibbs, seated on the platform (reserved for prominent citizens), viewed the expectant throng with rapture. It is possible that she would have confessed to witnessing a sea of faces, but it is more probable that she viewed the expectant throng. The thermometer stood at eighty-seven degrees and there was a rustle of incessantly moving palm-leaf fans as, row by row, their yellow sides twinkled in the light of eight oil lamps. The stouter ladies wielded their fans with vigor. There were some very pretty faces in Mr. Halloway’s audience, but it is a peculiarity of Plattville that most of those females who do not incline to stoutness incline far in the opposite direction, and the lean ladies naturally suffered less from the temperature than their sisters. The shorn lamb is cared for, but often there seems the intention to impart a moral in the refusal of Providence to temper warm weather to the full-bodied.

      Old Tom Martin expressed a strong consciousness of such intention when he observed to the shocked Miss Selina, as Mr. Bill Snoddy, the stoutest citizen of the county, waddled abnormally up the aisle: The Almighty must be gittin a heap of fun out of Bill Snoddy to-night."

      Oh, Mr. Martin! exclaimed Miss Tibbs, fluttering at his irreverence.

      Why, you would yourself. Miss Seliny, returned old Tom. Mr. Martin always spoke in one key, never altering the pitch of his high, dry, unctuous drawl, though, when his purpose was more than ordinarily humorous, his voice assumed a shade of melancholy. Now and then he meditatively passed his fingers through his gray beard, which followed the line of his jaw, leaving his upper lip and most of his chin smooth-shaven. Did you ever reason out why folks laugh so much at fat people? he continued. No, ma’am. Neither’d anybody else.

      Why is it, Mr. Martin? asked Miss Selina.

      It’s like the Creator’s sayin’, ‘Let there be light.’ He says, ‘Let ladies be lovely—’ (Miss Tibbs bowed)—and ‘Let men-folks be honest—sometimes;’ and, ‘Let fat people be held up to ridicule till they fall off.’ You can’t tell why it is; it was jest ordained that-a-way.

      The room was so crowded that the juvenile portion of the assemblage was ensconced in the windows. Strange to say, the youth of Plattville were not present under protest, as their fellows of a metropolis would have been, lectures being well understood by the young of great cities to have instructive tendencies. The boys came to-night because they insisted upon coming. It was an event. Some of them had made sacrifices to come, enduring even the agony

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