Chapter VIII: Psychological Studies 390 (8)

140. Bell was not in the kirk. There being an infant of six months in the house it was a question of either Lisbeth or the lassie’s staying at home with him, and though Lisbeth was unselfish in a general way, she could not resist the delight of going to church. She had nine children besides the baby, and being but a woman, it was the pride of her life to march them into the T’Nowhead pew, so well watched that they dared not misbehave, and so tightly packed that they could not fall. The congregation looked at that pew, the mothers enviously, when they sang the lines--

“Jerusalem like a city is
Compactly built together.”

141. The first half of the service had been gone through on this particular Sunday without anything remarkable happening. It was at the end of the psalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders Elshioner, who sat near the door, lowered his head until it was no higher than the pews, and in that attitude, looking almost like a four-footed animal, slipped out of the church. In their eagerness to be at the sermon many of the congregation did not notice him, and those who did put the matter by in their minds for future investigation. Sam’l, however, could not take it so coolly. From his seat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear, and his mind misgave him. With the true lover’s instinct he understood it all. Sanders had been struck by the fine turn-out in the T’Nowhead’s pew. Bell was alone at the farm. What an opportunity to work one’s way up to a proposal. T’Nowhead was so overrun with children that such a chance seldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubtless, was off to propose, and he, Sam’l, was left behind.

142. The suspense was terrible. Sam’l and Sanders had both known all along that Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. Even those who thought her proud admitted that she was modest. Bitterly the weaver repented having waited so long. Now it was too late. In ten minutes Sanders would be at T’Nowhead; in an hour all would be over. Sam’l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him down by the coat-tail, and his father shook him, thinking he was walking in his sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle, which was so narrow that Dan’l Ross could only reach his seat by walking sideways, and was gone before the minister could do more than stop in the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him.

143. A number of the congregation felt that day the advantage of sitting in the loft. What was a mystery to those downstairs was revealed to them. From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to the south; and as Sam’l took the common, which was a short cut though a steep ascent, to T’Nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision. Sanders was not to be seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why. Thinking he had ample time, he had gone round by the main road to save his boots--perhaps a little scared by what was coming. Sam’l’s design was to forestall him by taking the shorter path over the burn and up the common.

144. It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery braved the minister’s displeasure to see who won. Those who favoured Sam’l’s suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friends of Sanders fixed their eyes on the top of the common where it ran into the road. Sanders must come into sight there, and the one who reached this point first would get Bell.

145. As Auld Lichts do not walk abroad on the Sabbath, Sanders would probably not be delayed. The chances were in his favour. Had it been any other day in the week Sam’l might have run. So some of the congregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him bend low and then take to his heels. He had caught sight of Sander’s head bobbing over the hedge that separated the road from the common, and feared that Sanders might see him. The congregation who could crane their necks sufficiently saw a black object, which they guessed to be the carter’s hat, crawling along the hedge-top. For a moment it was motionless, and then it shot ahead. The rivals had seen each other. It was now a hot race. Sam’l, dissembling no longer, clattered up the common, becoming smaller and smaller to the onlookers as he neared the top. More than one person in the gallery almost rose to their feet in their excitement. Sam’l had it. No, Sanders was in front. Then the two figures disappeared from view. They seemed to run into each other at the top of the brae, and no one could say who was first. The congregation looked at one another. Some of them perspired. But the minister held on his course.

146. Sam’l had just been in time to cut Sanders out. It was the weaver’s saving that Sanders saw this when his rival turned the corner; for Sam’l was sadly blown. Sanders took in the situation and gave in at once. The last hundred yards of the distance he covered at his leisure, and when he arrived at his destination he did not go in. It was a fine afternoon for the time of the year, and he went round to have a look at the pig, about which T’Nowhead was a little sinfully puffed up.

147. “Ay,” said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into the grunting animal; “quite so.”

148. “Grumph,” said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet.

149. “Ou ay; yes,” said Sanders, thoughtfully.

150. Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long and silently at an empty bucket. But whether his thoughts were of T’Nowhead’s Bell, whom he had lost for ever, or of the food the farmer fed his pig on, is not known.

151. “Lord preserve’s! Are ye no at the kirk?” cried Bell, nearly dropping the baby as Sam’l broke into the room.

152. “Bell!” cried Sam’l.

153. Then T’Nowhead’s Bell knew that her hour had come.

154. “Sam’l,” she faltered.

155. “Will ye hae’s, Bell?” demanded Sam’l, glaring at her sheepishly.

156. “Ay,” answered Bell.

157. Sam’l fell into a chair.

158. “Bring’s drink o’ water, Bell,” he said. But Bell thought the occasion required milk, and there was none in the kitchen. She went out to the byre, still with the baby in her arms, and saw Sanders Elshioner sitting gloomily on the pigsty.

159. “Weel, Bell,” said Sanders.

160. “I thocht ye’d been at the kirk, Sanders,” said Bell.

161. Then there was a silence between them.

162. “Has Sam’l spiered ye, Bell?” asked Sanders, stolidly.

163. “Ay,” said Bell again, and this time there was a tear in her eye. Sanders was little better than an “orra man,” and Sam’l was a weaver, and yet--But it was too late now. Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke with a stick, and when it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in the kitchen. She had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam’l only got water after all.

164. In after days, when the story of Bell’s wooing was told, there were some who held that the circumstances would have almost justified the lassie in giving Sam’l the go-by. But these perhaps forgot that her other lover was in the same predicament as the accepted one--that of the two, indeed, he was the more to blame, for he set off to T’Nowhead on the Sabbath of his own accord, while Sam’l only ran after him. And then there is no one to say for certain whether Bell heard of her suitors’ delinquencies until Lisbeth’s return from the kirk. Sam’l could never remember whether he told her, and Bell was not sure whether, if he did, she took it in. Sanders was greatly in demand for weeks after to tell what he knew of the affair, but though he was twice asked to tea to the manse among the trees, and subjected thereafter to ministerial cross-examinations, this is all he told. He remained at the pigsty until Sam’l left the farm, when he joined him at the top of the brae, and they went home together.

165. “It’s yersel, Sanders,” said Sam’l.

166. “It is so, Sam’l,” said Sanders.

167. “Very cauld,” said Sam’l.

168. “Blawy,” assented Sanders.

169. After a pause--

170. “Sam’l,” said Sanders.

171. “Ay.”

172. “I’m hearin’ yer to be mairit.”

173. “Ay.”

174. “Weel, Sam’l she’s a snod bit lassie.”

175. “Thank ye,” said Sam’l.

176. “I had ance a kin’ o’ notion o’ Bell mysel,” continued Sanders.

177. “Ye had?”

178. “Yes, Sam’l; but I thocht better o’t.”

179. “Hoo d’ye mean?” asked Sam’l, a little anxiously.

180. “Weel, Sam’l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity.”

181. “It is so,” said Sam’l, wincing.

182. “An’ no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation.”

183. “But it’s a blessed and honourable state, Sanders; ye’ve heard the minister on’t.”

184. “They say,” continued the relentless Sanders, “'at the minister doesna get on sair wi’ the wife himsel.”

185. “So they do,” cried Sam’l, with a sinking at the heart.

186. “I’ve been telt,” Sanders went on, “'at gin ye can get the upper han’ o’ the wife for a while at first, there’s the mair chance o’ a harmonious exeestence.”

187. “Bell’s no the lassie,” said Sam’l, appealingly, “to thwart her man.”

188. Sanders smiled.

189. “D’ye ye think she is, Sanders?”

190. “Weel, Sam’l, I d’na want to fluster ye, but she’s been ower lang wi’ Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An a’body kins what a life T’Nowhead has wi’ her.”

191. “Guid sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o’ this afore?”

192. “I thocht ye kent o’t, Sam’l.”

193. They had now reached the square, and the U. P. kirk was coming out. The Auld Licht kirk would be half an hour yet.

194. “But, Sanders,” said Sam’l, brightening up, “ye was on yer wy to spier her yersel.”

195. “I was, Sam’l,” said Sanders, “and I canna but be thankfu’ ye was ower quick for’s.”

196. “Gin’t hadna been you,” said Sam’l, “I wid never hae thocht o’t.”

197. “I’m sayin’ naething agin Bell,” pursued the other, “but, man Sam’l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o’ the kind.”

198. “It was michty hurried,” said Sam’l, woefully.

199. “It’s a serious thing to spier a lassie,” said Sanders.

200. “It’s an awfu’ thing,” said Sam’l.

201. “But we’ll hope for the best,” added Sanders, in a hopeless voice.

202. They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam’l looked as if he were on his way to be hanged.

203. “Sam’l?”

204. “Ay, Sanders.”

205. “Did ye--did ye kiss her, Sam’l?”

206. “Na.”

207. “Hoo?”

208. “There was varra little time, Sanders.”

209. “Half an 'oor,” said Sanders.

210. “Was there? Man Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thoct o’t.”

211. Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with contempt for Sam’l Dickie.

212. The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the minister would interfere to prevent the union, but beyond intimating from the pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-breakers were beyond praying for, and then praying for Sam’l and Sanders at great length, with a word thrown in for Bell, he let things take their course. Some said it was because he was always frightened lest his young men should intermarry with other denominations, but Sanders explained it differently to Sam’l.

213. “I hav’na a word to say agin the minister,” he said, “they’re gran’ prayers, but, Sam’l, he’s a mairit man himsel.”

214. “He’s a’ the better for that, Sanders, isna he?”

215. “Do ye no see,” asked Sanders, compassionately, “'at he’s tryin’ to mak the best o’t?”

216. “Oh, Sanders, man!” said Sam’l.

217. “Cheer up, Sam’l,” said Sanders, “it’ll sune be ower.”

218. Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with their friendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto been mere acquaintances, they became inseparables as the wedding-day drew near. It was noticed that they had much to say to each other, and that when they could not get a room to themselves they wandered about together in the churchyard. When Sam’l had anything to tell Bell he sent Sanders to tell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. There was nothing that he would not have done for Sam’l.

219. The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder Sam’l grew. He never laughed now on Saturdays, and sometimes his loom was silent half the day. Sam’l felt that Sanders’s was the kindness of a friend for a dying man.

220. It was to be a penny wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said it was delicacy that made Sam’l superintend the fitting-up of the barn by deputy. Once he came to see it in person, but he looked so ill that Sanders had to see him home. This was on the Thursday afternoon, and the wedding was fixed for Friday.

221. “Sanders, Sanders,” said Sam’l, in a voice strangely unlike his own, “it’ll a’ be ower by this time the morn.”

222. “It will,” said Sanders.

223. “If I had only kent her langer,” continued Sam’l.

224. “It wid hae been safer,” said Sanders.

[Sidenote: Flower.]

225. “Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell’s bonnet?” asked the accepted swain.

226. “Ay,” said Sanders, reluctantly.

227. “I’m dootin’--I’m sair dootin’ she’s but a flichty, licht-hearted crittur after a’.”

228. “I had ay my suspeecions o’t,” said Sanders.

229. “Ye hae kent her langer than me,” said Sam’l.

230. “Yes,” said Sanders, “but there’s nae gettin’ at the heart o’ women. Man Sam’l they’re desperate cunnin’.”

231. “I’m dootin’t; I’m sair dootin’t.”

232. “It’ll be a warnin’ to ye, Sam’l, no to be in sic a hurry i’ the futur,” said Sanders.

233. Sam’l groaned.

234. “Ye’ll be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi’ the minister the morn’s mornin’,” continued Sanders, in a subdued voice.

235. Sam’l looked wistfully at his friend.

236. “I canna do’t, Sanders,” he said, “I canna do’t.”

237. “Ye maun,” said Sanders.

238. “It’s aisy to speak,” retorted Sam’l, bitterly.

239. “We have a’ oor troubles, Sam’l,” said Sanders, soothingly, “an’ every man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny Davie’s wife’s dead, an’ he’s no repinin’.”

240. “Ay,” said Sam’l, “but a death’s no a mairitch. We hae haen deaths in our family too.”

241. “It may a’ be for the best,” added Sanders, “an’ there wid be a michty talk i’ the hale country-side gin ye didna ging to the minister like a man.”

242. “I maun hae langer to think o’t,” said Sam’l.

243. “Bell’s mairitch is the morn,” said Sanders, decisively.

244. Sam’l glanced up with a wild look in his eyes.

245. “Sanders,” he cried.

246. “Sam’l?”

247. “Ye hae been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair affliction.”

248. “Nothing ava,” said Sanders; “dount mention’d.”

249. “But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o’ the kirk that awfu’ day was at the bottom o’d a’.”

250. “It was so,” said Sanders, bravely.

251. “An’ ye used to be fond o’ Bell, Sanders.”

252. “I dinna deny’t.”

253. “Sanders laddie,” said Sam’l, bending forward and speaking in a wheedling voice, “I aye thocht it was you she likeit.”

254. “I had some sic idea mysel,” said Sanders.

255. “Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane anither as you an’ Bell.”

256. “Canna ye, Sam’l?”

257. “She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and she’s a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there’s no the like o’ her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, There’s a lass ony man micht be prood to tak. A’body says the same, Sanders. There’s nae risk ava, man: nane to speak o’. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders; it’s a grand chance, Sanders. She’s yours for the spierin. I’ll gie her up, Sanders.”

258. “Will ye, though?” said Sanders.

259. “What d’ye think?” said Sam’l.

260. “If ye wid rayther,” said Sanders, politely.

261. “There’s my han’ on’t,” said Sam’l. “Bless ye, Sanders; ye’ve been a true frien’ to me.”

262. Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives; and soon afterwards Sanders struck up the brae to T’Nowhead.

263. Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very busy the night before, put on his Sabbath clothes and strolled up to the manse.

264. “But--but where is Sam’l?” asked the minister; “I must see himself.”

265. “It’s a new arrangement,” said Sanders.

266. “What do you mean, Sanders?”

267. “Bell’s to marry me,” explained Sanders.

268. “But--but what does Sam’l say?”

269. “He’s willin’,” said Sanders.

270. “And Bell?”

271. “She’s willin’, too. She prefers’t.”

272. “It is unusual,” said the minister.

273. “It’s a’ richt,” said Sanders.

274. “Well, you know best,” said the minister.

275. “You see the hoose was taen, at ony rate,” continued Sanders. “An I’ll juist ging in til’t instead o’ Sam’l.”

276. “Quite so.”

277. “An’ I cudna think to disappoint the lassie.”

278. “Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders,” said the minister; “but I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state of matrimony without full consideration of its responsibilities. It is a serious business, marriage.”

279. “It’s a’ that,” said Sanders, “but I’m willin’ to stan’ the risk.”

280. So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wife T’Nowhead’s Bell, and I remember seeing Sam’l Dickie trying to dance at the penny wedding.

281. Years afterwards it was said in Thrums that Sam’l had treated Bell badly, but he was never sure about it himself.

282. “It was a near thing--a michty near thing,” he admitted in the square.

283. “They say,” some other weaver would remark, “'at it was you Bell liked best.”

284. “I d’na kin,” Sam’l would reply, “but there’s nae doot the lassie was fell fond o’ me. Ou, a mere passin’ fancy’s ye micht say.”

SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

1. In a few sentences, state whether the humor of this story centers in the central situation, the several incidents, the dialogue, the character, or in the climax.

2. If in more than one element, name them in the order of their interest, or humor, to you.

3. Does the humor go to the limit of silliness at any point?

4. Point out any passages which are serio-comic.

5. Define (a) Farce, (b) Burlesque, (c) Comedy, (d) Wit, (e) Satire.

6. Point out passages in this or any other stories which illustrate the foregoing types.

7. Name other humorous stories by O. Henry and J. M. Barrie.

8. Name the best humorous story you know.

TEN REPRESENTATIVE HUMOROUS STORIES

“The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County,” Mark Twain, in _Short Stories and Sketches_, Vol. I.

“Mike Grady’s Safety,” Will Lewis, _Everybody’s Magazine_, Aug., 1905.

“Their First Formal Call,” Grace MacGowan Cooke, in volume of same title.

“The Day of the Dog,” George Barr McCutcheon, in volume of same title.

“Edgar, the Choir-Boy Uncelestial,” _McClure’s Magazine_, Jan., 1902.

“The Pope’s Mule,” Alphonse Daudet, translated in _Short-Story Masterpieces_.

“Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff,” Bret Harte, _Harper’s Magazine_, Mar., 1901.

“The Phonograph and the Graft,” O. Henry, in _Cabbages and Kings_.

“The King of Boyville,” William Allen White, in _Tales from McClure’s_.

“The Bob-tailed Car,” Brander Matthews, in _The Family Tree_.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] Copyright, 1910, by Doubleday, Page and Co., and used by permission.

V
STORIES OF SETTING

_The Outcasts of Poker Flat._--BRET HARTE
_Moonlight._--GUY DE MAUPASSANT

It is the habit of my imagination to strive after as full a vision
of the medium in which a character moves as of the character
itself. The psychological causes which prompted me to give such
details of Florentine life and history as I have given [in
_Romola_] are precisely the same as those which determined me in
giving the details of English village life in _Silas Marner_ or the
“Dodson” life, out of which were developed the destinies of poor
Tom and Maggie.--GEORGE ELIOT, quoted in her _Life_ by J. W. CROSS.

STORIES OF SETTING

“Setting consists of the circumstances, material and immaterial, in which the characters are seen to move in the story. Its elements are time, place, occupations, and (I lack a more expressive word) conditions.”[24]

To be classified properly as a story of setting, a narrative must be more than merely rich in local-color--as the characteristic environment of a certain district, as set forth in fiction, is often called. The true story of setting is one in which the setting has a vital bearing on the natures or the destinies of the characters. To be sure, the setting of a story, like the staging of a play, has an important part in the realistic presentation of the scene, but setting assumes a predominating part when it actually moves the characters to certain deciding actions, as do the snow-storm in “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” and the soft light of the moon in “Moonlight.”

The local-color story is one which could not have been set elsewhere without vitally changing, that is to say destroying, the story. For example, Balzac’s “The Unknown Masterpiece” is set almost entirely in an artist’s studio. The story would be slain by dragging it away from that atmosphere. But it is also a story of setting, because, whatever internal influences also affected the characters, the setting influences their destinies--the men and the women live lives as determined by their surroundings. “Mateo Falcone,” too, is a story of setting, but not primarily so; for while it could have happened only in Corsica, and the local-color is singularly vivid, it is primarily a story of human motive and action.

Because of the powerful effect of environment upon character--in fiction just as in real life--the reader often judges of coming events by the feeling of the setting. The stage manager knows this, too, and accompanies, or even forecasts, a moral crisis by having lights, music, sounds, and other stage accessories harmonize with the mood of the actors. Or, contrariwise, the tone of the piece may best be brought out by a setting in contrast.

Observe how in the two stories illustrating this type the authors never draw pictures of costumes and scenery just for the sake of description, as beginners might do. The setting, to Harte and Maupassant, is vitally a part of the story, and any unnecessary detail would mar the harmony of the whole. Too much were worse than too little.

“When the characters live, move, and have their being in the setting, the result is ‘atmosphere.’ Atmosphere is thus an effect. It is felt, not seen. _Through_ its medium the reader must see all the action, yes, all the details of the story. Atmosphere gives value to the tones of fiction as in real life it does to landscape. The hills are actually the same in cloud and in sunshine, but the eye sees them as different through the mediate atmosphere. And so setting and characters, perfectly adjusted, make the reader, that is to say the beholder, see the story in the very tones the literary artist desires. A story of the sea has an atmosphere of its own, but the atmosphere does not consist merely of the accurately colored picture of sea and strand and sailor and ship and sky. The whole story is informed with the _spirit_ of the sea--its tang clings to the garments, its winds breathe through every passage, its wonderful lights and glooms tone the whole story. Without it the story would be a poor thing, bloodless and inert.”[25]

HARTE AND HIS WRITINGS

Francis Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, August 25, 1839, of gentle parents. Abandoning his common-school education at the age of fifteen, he followed the lure of the gold craze to California, but neither teaching nor mining enriched him, so in 1857 he became a compositor on the _Golden Era_, San Francisco. He then edited the _Californian_, and in 1864 was appointed secretary of the branch Mint, remaining until 1870. Two years before, however, he had become editor of the new _Overland Monthly_, where some of his best work appeared. This position did not prove permanent, and even less so was that of the professorship of “recent literature” in the University of California, for in 1871 he removed to New York. In 1878 he became United States Consul at Crefeld, Germany, and in 1880 was transferred to Glasgow, Scotland, holding this post until 1885. His later life was spent chiefly in London, where his brilliant talents brought him the full recognition of _littérateurs_. He died in London, May 6, 1902.

Bret Harte was a poet, critic, novelist, and short-story writer. His novels give him no such claim to fame as do his other writings. His best-known dialect verses are “The Society Upon the Stanislaus,” “Jim,” “Dickens in Camp,” “Dow’s Flat,” and “Plain Language From Truthful James” (often called “The Heathen Chinee”). His best sketches and short-stories include “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” “An Heiress of Red Dog,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “M’liss,” “The Idyl of Red Gulch,” “Brown of Calaveras,” and “The Outcasts of Poker Flat”--which was first published in _The Overland Monthly_, January, 1869.

* * * * *

If artistic repression, dramatic feeling, mingled humor and pathos, deft character drawing, a sure sense of a “good story,” and the ability to win the reader in spite of himself--if the certain possession of all these are marks of fictional genius, surely Bret Harte deserves the name. For themes, he chose--and doubtless over-colored at times--the people and the happenings of '49 during the gold craze, and not a few have charged him with a fondness for heroes and heroines of undoubted reputations--for evil. Social outcasts, they say, he treated too tenderly. But Bret Harte himself effectively answered this criticism when he said:

“When it shall be proven to him that communities are degraded and brought to guilt and crime, suffering or destitution, from a predominance of this quality [too much mercy]; when he shall see pardoned ticket-of-leave men elbowing men of austere lives out of situation and position, and the repentant Magdalen supplanting the blameless virgin in society, then he will lay aside his pen and extend his hand to the new Draconian discipline in fiction. But until then he will, without claiming to be a religious man or a moralist, but simply as an artist, reverently and humbly conform to the rules laid down by a Great Poet, who created the parable of the ‘Prodigal Son’ and the ‘Good Samaritan,’ whose works have lasted eighteen hundred years, and will remain when the present writer and his generation are forgotten.”

The secret of the American short story is the treatment of
characteristic American life, with absolute knowledge of its
peculiarities and sympathy with its methods; with no fastidious
ignoring of its habitual expression, or the inchoate poetry that
may be found even hidden in its slang; with no moral determination
except that which may be the legitimate outcome of the story
itself; with no more elimination than may be necessary for the
artistic conception, and never from the fear of the fetich of
conventionalism. Of such is the American short story of to-day--the
germ of American literature to come.--BRET HARTE, _The Rise of the
Short Story, Cornhill Magazine_, July, 1899.

He expounds an important half-truth which has been too much
neglected: that as being is greater than seeming, appearances
are often deceitful; under the most repellent exterior a soul of
goodness may exist. But if we study him over much, we may become
victims of the delusion that any person whose dress and manners are
respectable, is, to say the least, a suspicious character, while
drunken and profane ruffians are the saints of the earth.--WALTER
LEWIN, _The Abuse of Fiction_.

Mr. Kipling is a great man at sentiment (though we hear more of
his anti-sentimental side), but has he written a child-story we
can remember as long as “The Luck of Roaring Camp,” or anything
we shall remember as long as “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” or
“Tennessee’s Partner”? These things are not so exact in their
“business” (to borrow a term from still another art), but, perhaps
on that very account, they remain symbols of the human heart.
They have the simplicity of classics, a simplicity in which all
unnecessary subtleties are dissolved.--RICHARD LE GALLIENNE,
_Rudyard Kipling: A Criticism_.

His own style, as finally formed, leaves little to be desired;
it is clear, flexible, virile, laconic and withal graceful. Its
full meaning is given to every word, and occasionally, like all
original masters of prose, he imparts into a familiar word a
racier significance than it had possessed before. His genius is
nowhere more unmistakable than in the handling of his stories,
which is terse to the point of severity, yet wholly adequate;
everything necessary to the matter in hand is told, but with an
economy of word and phrase that betokens a powerful and radical
conception.--JULIAN HAWTHORNE and LEONARD LEMMON, _American
Literature_.

Tennessee’s Partner, John Oakhurst, Yuba Bill, Kentucky, are as
long-lived, seemingly, as any characters in nineteenth century
fiction.... What gives these characters their lasting power? Why
does that highly melodramatic tragedy in the hills above Poker
Flat, with its stagy reformations, and contrasts of black sinner
and white innocent, hold you spellbound at the thirtieth as at
the first reading? Why does Tennessee’s Partner make you wish to
grasp him by the hand? Bret Harte believed, apparently, that it
was his realism which did it.... But we do not wait to be told by
Californians, who still remember the red-shirt period, that Roaring
Camp is not realism.... Not the realism, but the idealization, of
this life of the Argonauts was the prize Bret Harte gained.--HENRY
S. CANBY, _The Short Story in English_.

FURTHER REFERENCES FOR READING ON HARTE

_Early Recollections of Bret Harte_, C. W. Stoddard, _Atlantic Monthly_, vol. 78; _Bret Harte in California_, Noah Brooks, _Century Magazine_, vol. 58; _American Humor and Bret Harte_, G. K. Chesterton, _Critic_, vol. 41; _Life of Bret Harte_, T. E. Pemberton (1903); _Bret Harte_, H. W. Boynton, in _Contemporary Men of Letters_ series (1905); _Life of Bret Harte_, H. C. Merwin (1911).

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
BY BRET HARTE

[Sidenote: Central character.]

[Sidenote: Crisis at once forecasted.]

[Sidenote: Preliminary setting.]

As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twenty-third of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.

[Sidenote: Physical delineation interwoven with the progress of the story.]

[Sidenote: Summary of tone of the fundamental situation. FOUNDATION CRISIS.]

2. Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small concern of these indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause, was another question. “I reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected; “likely it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.

[Sidenote: Situation explained.]

[Sidenote: FOUNDATION PLOT INCIDENT.]

[Sidenote: Euphemism.]

3. In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper persons. This was done permanently in regard to two men who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was only in such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.

[Sidenote: Note the author’s slight ironic tone, which later gives way to simple pathos.]

4. Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,” said Jim Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire stranger--carry away our money.” But a crude sentiment of equity residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.

[Sidenote: Character delineation.]

5. Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler not to accept Fate. With him life was at best an uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the dealer.

[Sidenote: First group of characters.]

[Sidenote: First group of characters.]

[Sidenote: Climax of first crisis.]

[Sidenote: End of Introduction and groundwork.]

6. A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman familiarly known as “The Duchess”; another, who had gained the infelicitous title of “Mother Shipton”; and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only, when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives.

[Sidenote: THIRD STAGE OF FIRST PLOT INCIDENT.]

[Sidenote: Is “their” well used?]

[Sidenote: Paragraph of character delineation.]

7. As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s heart out, to the repeated statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode forward. With the easy good-humor characteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, “Five Spot,” for the sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor of “Five Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle Billy included the whole party in one sweeping anathema.

[Sidenote: Second preliminary setting.]

[Sidenote: FOUNDATION FOR MAIN CRISIS.]

8. The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant a day’s severe journey. In that advanced season, the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foothills into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention of going no further, and the party halted.

[Sidenote: MAIN SETTING.]

[Sidenote: Character contrasts.]

9. The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp, had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of “throwing up their hand before the game was played out.” But they were furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.

[Sidenote: Setting in harmony with tone of story.]

10. Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which required coolness, impassiveness and presence of mind, and, in his own language, he “couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent fellow-exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah-trade, his habits of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him. He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him; at the sky, ominously clouded; at the valley below, already deepening into shadow. And, doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.

[Sidenote: Second group of characters.]

[Sidenote: OPENING OF MAIN PLOT SITUATION.]

11. A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the newcomer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as “The Innocent” of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire fortune--amounting to some forty dollars--of that guileless youth. After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, you’re a good little man, but you can’t gamble worth a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He then handed him his money back, pushed him gently from the room, and so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.

[Sidenote: Character Contrasts.]

12. There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. “Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact (a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they ran away, and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place to camp, and company. All this the Innocent delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen, emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of her lover.

[Sidenote: First effect of the newcomers on the tone of the first group of characters. This furnishes the _motif_ for the story.]

13. Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not felicitous. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for myself.”

[Sidenote: Further effect.]

[Sidenote: FOUNDATION FOR MAIN CRISIS--NOT YET APPARENT.]

14. Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to retire up the cañon until he could recover his gravity. There he confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to the party, he found them seated by a fire--for the air had grown strangely chill and the sky overcast--in apparently amicable conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. “Is this yer a d--d picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.

[Sidenote: Local color.]

15. As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine-boughs, was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a parting kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.

[Sidenote: Change--approach of main crisis.]

16. Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it--snow!

[Sidenote: Forecasted in ¶14.]

17. He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow.

[Sidenote: Tone of character.]

[Sidenote: Contrast with crisis. Note casual physical description.]

[Sidenote: MAIN PLOT INCIDENT--What follows is its outgrowth.]

[Sidenote: Crisis acute.]

18. The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by celestial guardians, and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It came slowly in a whirling mist of snow-flakes, that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley, and summoned up the present and future in two words,--“snowed in!”

[Sidenote: As the story progresses note how the physical crises and the moral crises keep pace.]

19. A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence they might last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst, _sotto voce_ to the Innocent, “if you’re willing to board us. If you ain’t--and perhaps you’d better not--you can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.” For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality, and so offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate’s defection. “They’ll find out the truth about us _all_ when they find out anything,” he added, significantly, “and there’s no good frightening them now.”

[Sidenote: Lull in crisis.]

[Sidenote: From this point the story develops gradually and by closely knit incidents in direct succession, all growing out of the setting, which furnishes the physical crisis.]

[Sidenote: Pseudo crisis.]

[Sidenote: Resolution of pseudo crisis.]

20. Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion. “We’ll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and we’ll all go back together.” The cheerful gayety of the young man, and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the others. The Innocent, with the aid of pine-boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. “I reckon now you’re used to fine things at Poker Flat,” said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something that reddened her cheek through its professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whiskey, which he had prudently _cachéd_. “And yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm and the group around it that he settled to the conviction that it was “square fun.”

[Sidenote: Contrast with the actual danger.]

[Sidenote: Contrast is the author’s main reliance in this story.]

[Sidenote: Contrast with character-habits. A hint of character change.]

[Sidenote: Is “Covenanter’s” well used?]

21. Whether Mr. Oakhurst had _cachéd_ his cards with the whiskey as something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. It was certain that, in Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say cards once” during the evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of his instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:--

“I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I’m bound to die in His army.”

22. The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.

[Sidenote: Hope.]

[Sidenote: Character revelation.]

23. At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent, by saying that he had “often been a week without sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker!” replied Oakhurst, sententiously; “when a man gets a streak of luck,--nigger-luck,--he don’t get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler, reflectively, “is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it’s bound to change. And it’s finding out when it’s going to change that makes you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat,--you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right along, you’re all right. For,” added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance:--

“‘I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I’m bound to die in His army’.”

[Sidenote: Note the union of setting with the progress of the story.]

[Sidenote: Contrast.]

[Sidenote: KEY TO SETTING.]

[Sidenote: Character change--a key passage.]

[Sidenote: Contributory incident.]

24. The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut,--a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the cast-aways still clung. Through the marvellously clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness, hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed the Duchess. “Just you go out there and cuss, and see.” She then set herself to the task of amusing “the child,” as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and ingenious theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn’t swear and wasn’t improper.

[Sidenote: Developing or contributory incident.]

25. When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney,--story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed, too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s ingenious translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem--having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words--in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the cañon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the Innocent persisted in denominating the “swift-footed Achilles.”

[Sidenote: Note upward and downward movement--alternations of hope and despair, but a gradual deepening of the crisis.]

[Sidenote: Note the contrast between the epithet “outcasts” and the feeling with which they are now invested.]

[Sidenote: Character progress.]

[Sidenote: Hint of later character revelation.]

[Sidenote: FIRST CHARACTER CLIMAX.]

26. So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the snow-flakes were sifted over the land. Day by day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other’s eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton--once the strongest of the party--seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. “I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, “but don’t say anything about it. Don’t waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched. “Give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler. “That’s what they call it,” said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.

[Sidenote: PLOT INCIDENT.]