The Best American Humorous Short Stories

[Dark Saint Alaick]

Two of the boys glanced slyly at each other, with what Edward Morland comprehended
as an expression of pitch-penny and marbles.
"They are now engaged at their game of astronomy," continued Mrs. Watkinson. "They
have also a sort of geography cards, and a set of mathematical cards. It is a blessed
discovery, the invention of these educationary games; so that even the play-time of
children can be turned to account. And you have no idea, ma'am, how they enjoy them."
Just then the boy Joseph rose from the table, and stalking up to Mrs. Watkinson, said to
her, "Mamma, please to whip me."
At this unusual request the visitors looked much amazed, and Mrs. Watkinson replied to
him, "Whip you, my best Joseph--for what cause? I have not seen you do anything wrong
this evening, and you know my anxiety induces me to watch my children all the time."
"You could not see me," answered Joseph, "for I have not done anything very wrong. But
I have had a bad thought, and you know Mr. Ironrule says that a fault imagined is just as
wicked as a fault committed."
"You see, ma'am, what a good memory he has," said Mrs. Watkinson aside to Mrs.
Morland. "But my best Joseph, you make your mother tremble. What fault have you
imagined? What was your bad thought?"
"Ay," said another boy, "what's your thought like?"
"My thought," said Joseph, "was 'Confound all astronomy, and I could see the man
hanged that made this game.'"
"Oh! my child," exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, "I am indeed shocked. I am
glad you repented so immediately."

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"Yes," returned Joseph, "but I am afraid my repentance won't last. If I am not whipped, I
may have these bad thoughts whenever I play at astronomy, and worse still at the
geography game. Whip me, ma, and punish me as I deserve. There's the rattan in the
corner: I'll bring it to you myself."
"Excellent boy!" said his mother. "You know I always pardon my children when they are
so candid as to confess their faults."
"So you do," said Joseph, "but a whipping will cure me better."
"I cannot resolve to punish so conscientious a child," said Mrs. Watkinson.
"Shall I take the trouble off your hands?" inquired Edward, losing all patience in his
disgust at the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this young Blifil. "It is such a rarity for a boy to
request a whipping, that so remarkable a desire ought by all means to be gratified."
Joseph turned round and made a face at him.
"Give me the rattan," said Edward, half laughing, and offering to take it out of his hand.
"I'll use it to your full satisfaction."
The boy thought it most prudent to stride off and return to the table, and ensconce himself
among his brothers and sisters; some of whom were staring with stupid surprise; others
were whispering and giggling in the hope of seeing Joseph get a real flogging.
Mrs. Watkinson having bestowed a bitter look on Edward, hastened to turn the attention
of his mother to something else. "Mrs. Morland," said she, "allow me to introduce you to
my youngest hope." She pointed to a sleepy boy about five years old, who with head
thrown back and mouth wide open, was slumbering in his chair.

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Mrs. Watkinson's children were of that uncomfortable species who never go to bed; at
least never without all manner of resistance. All her boasted authority was inadequate to
compel them; they never would confess themselves sleepy; always wanted to "sit up,"
and there was a nightly scene of scolding, coaxing, threatening and manoeuvring to get
them off.
"I declare," said Mrs. Watkinson, "dear Benny is almost asleep. Shake him up,
Christopher. I want him to speak a speech. His school-mistress takes great pains in
teaching her little pupils to speak, and stands up herself and shows them how."
The child having been shaken up hard (two or three others helping Christopher), rubbed
his eyes and began to whine. His mother went to him, took him on her lap, hushed him
up, and began to coax him. This done, she stood him on his feet before Mrs. Morland,
and desired him to speak a speech for the company. The child put his thumb into his
mouth, and remained silent.
"Ma," said Jane Watkinson, "you had better tell him what speech to speak."
"Speak Cato or Plato," said his mother. "Which do you call it? Come now, Benny--how
does it begin? 'You are quite right and reasonable, Plato.' That's it."
"Speak Lucius," said his sister Jane. "Come now, Benny--say 'your thoughts are turned
on peace.'"
The little boy looked very much as if they were not, and as if meditating an outbreak.
"No, no!" exclaimed Christopher, "let him say Hamlet. Come now, Benny--'To be or not
to be.'"
"It ain't to be at all," cried Benny, "and I won't speak the least bit of it for any of you. I
hate that speech!"

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"Only see his obstinacy," said the solemn Joseph. "And is he to be given up to?"
"Speak anything, Benny," said Mrs. Watkinson, "anything so that it is only a speech."
All the Watkinson voices now began to clamor violently at the obstinate child--"Speak a
speech! speak a speech! speak a speech!" But they had no more effect than the reiterated
exhortations with which nurses confuse the poor heads of babies, when they require them
to "shake a day-day--shake a day-day!"
Mrs. Morland now interfered, and begged that the sleepy little boy might be excused; on
which he screamed out that "he wasn't sleepy at all, and would not go to bed ever."
"I never knew any of my children behave so before," said Mrs. Watkinson. "They are
always models of obedience, ma'am. A look is sufficient for them. And I must say that
they have in every way profited by the education we are giving them. It is not our way,
ma'am, to waste our money in parties and fooleries, and fine furniture and fine clothes,
and rich food, and all such abominations. Our first duty is to our children, and to make
them learn everything that is taught in the schools. If they go wrong, it will not be for
want of education. Hester, my dear, come and talk to Miss Morland in French."
Hester (unlike her little brother that would not speak a speech) stepped boldly forward,
and addressed Caroline Morland with: "Parlez-vous Français, mademoiselle? Comment
se va madame votre mère? Aimez-vous la musique? Aimez-vous la danse? Bon jour--bon
soir--bon repos. Comprenez-vous?"
To this tirade, uttered with great volubility, Miss Morland made no other reply than,
"Oui--je comprens."

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"Very well, Hester--very well indeed," said Mrs. Watkinson. "You see, ma'am," turning
to Mrs. Morland, "how very fluent she is in French; and she has only been learning
eleven quarters."
After considerable whispering between Jane and her mother, the former withdrew, and
sent in by the Irish girl a waiter with a basket of soda biscuit, a pitcher of water, and some
glasses. Mrs. Watkinson invited her guests to consider themselves at home and help
themselves freely, saying: "We never let cakes, sweetmeats, confectionery, or any such
things enter the house, as they would be very unwholesome for the children, and it would
be sinful to put temptation in their way. I am sure, ma'am, you will agree with me that the
plainest food is the best for everybody. People that want nice things may go to parties for
them; but they will never get any with me."
When the collation was over, and every child provided with a biscuit, Mrs. Watkinson
said to Mrs. Morland: "Now, ma'am, you shall have some music from my daughter Jane,
who is one of Mr. Bangwhanger's best scholars."
Jane Watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece of six mortal
pages, which she played out of time and out of tune; but with tremendous force of hands;
notwithstanding which, it had, however, the good effect of putting most of the children to
sleep.
To the Morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long. Still it was only half
past ten when Jane was in the midst of her piece. The guests had all tacitly determined
that it would be best not to let Mrs. Watkinson know their intention to go directly from
her house to Mrs. St. Leonard's party; and the arrival of their carriage would have been
the signal of departure, even if Jane's piece had not reached its termination. They stole
glances at the clock on the mantel. It wanted but a quarter of eleven, when Jane rose from
the piano, and was congratulated by her mother on the excellence of her music. Still no
carriage was heard to stop; no doorbell was heard to ring. Mrs. Morland expressed her
fears that the coachman had forgotten to come for them.

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"Has he been paid for bringing you here?" asked Mrs. Watkinson.
"I paid him when we came to the door," said Edward. "I thought perhaps he might want
the money for some purpose before he came for us."
"That was very kind in you, sir," said Mrs. Watkinson, "but not very wise. There's no
dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he may be sure of business enough this
rainy night he may never come at all--being already paid for bringing you here."
Now, the truth was that the coachman had come at the appointed time, but the noise of
Jane's piano had prevented his arrival being heard in the back parlor. The Irish girl had
gone to the door when he rang the bell, and recognized in him what she called "an ould
friend." Just then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in the rain came running
along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at a door, the gentleman inquired of the driver if
he could not take them to Rutgers Place. The driver replied that he had just come for two
ladies and a gentleman whom he had brought from the Astor House.
"Indeed and Patrick," said the girl who stood at the door, "if I was you I'd be after making
another penny to-night. Miss Jane is pounding away at one of her long music pieces, and
it won't be over before you have time to get to Rutgers and back again. And if you do
make them wait awhile, where's the harm? They've a dry roof over their heads, and I
warrant it's not the first waiting they've ever had in their lives; and it won't be the last
neither."

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"Exactly so," said the gentleman; and regardless of the propriety of first sending to
consult the persons who had engaged the carriage, he told his wife to step in, and
following her instantly himself, they drove away to Rutgers Place.
Reader, if you were ever detained in a strange house by the non-arrival of your carriage,
you will easily understand the excessive annoyance of finding that you are keeping a
family out of their beds beyond their usual hour. And in this case, there was a double
grievance; the guests being all impatience to get off to a better place. The children, all
crying when wakened from their sleep, were finally taken to bed by two servant maids,
and Jane Watkinson, who never came back again. None were left but Hester, the great
French scholar, who, being one of those young imps that seem to have the faculty of
living without sleep, sat bolt upright with her eyes wide open, watching the
uncomfortable visitors.
The Morlands felt as if they could bear it no longer, and Edward proposed sending for
another carriage to the nearest livery stable.
"We don't keep a man now," said Mrs. Watkinson, who sat nodding in the rocking-chair,
attempting now and then a snatch of conversation, and saying "ma'am" still more
frequently than usual. "Men servants are dreadful trials, ma'am, and we gave them up
three years ago. And I don't know how Mary or Katy are to go out this stormy night in
search of a livery stable."
"On no consideration could I allow the women to do so," replied Edward. "If you will
oblige me by the loan of an umbrella, I will go myself."

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Accordingly he set out on this business, but was unsuccessful at two livery stables, the
carriages being all out. At last he found one, and was driven in it to Mr. Watkinson's
house, where his mother and sister were awaiting him, all quite ready, with their calashes
and shawls on. They gladly took their leave; Mrs. Watkinson rousing herself to hope they
had spent a pleasant evening, and that they would come and pass another with her on
their return to New York. In such cases how difficult it is to reply even with what are
called "words of course."
A kitchen lamp was brought to light them to the door, the entry lamp having long since
been extinguished. Fortunately the rain had ceased; the stars began to reappear, and the
Morlands, when they found themselves in the carriage and on their way to Mrs. St.
Leonard's, felt as if they could breathe again. As may be supposed, they freely discussed
the annoyances of the evening; but now those troubles were over they felt rather inclined
to be merry about them.
"Dear mother," said Edward, "how I pitied you for having to endure Mrs. Watkinson's
perpetual 'ma'aming' and 'ma'aming'; for I know you dislike the word."
"I wish," said Caroline, "I was not so prone to be taken with ridiculous recollections. But
really to-night I could not get that old foolish child's play out of my head--
Here come three knights out of Spain
A-courting of your daughter Jane."
"I shall certainly never be one of those Spanish knights," said Edward. "Her daughter
Jane is in no danger of being ruled by any 'flattering tongue' of mine. But what a shame
for us to be talking of them in this manner."

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They drove to Mrs. St. Leonard's, hoping to be yet in time to pass half an hour there;
though it was now near twelve o'clock and summer parties never continue to a very late
hour. But as they came into the street in which she lived they were met by a number of
coaches on their way home, and on reaching the door of her brilliantly lighted mansion,
they saw the last of the guests driving off in the last of the carriages, and several
musicians coming down the steps with their instruments in their hands.
"So there has been a dance, then!" sighed Caroline. "Oh, what we have missed! It is
really too provoking."
"So it is," said Edward; "but remember that to-morrow morning we set off for Niagara."
"I will leave a note for Mrs. St. Leonard," said his mother, "explaining that we were
detained at Mrs. Watkinson's by our coachman disappointing us. Let us console ourselves
with the hope of seeing more of this lady on our return. And now, dear Caroline, you
must draw a moral from the untoward events of to-day. When you are mistress of a
house, and wish to show civility to strangers, let the invitation be always accompanied
with a frank disclosure of what they are to expect. And if you cannot conveniently invite
company to meet them, tell them at once that you will not insist on their keeping their
engagement with you if anything offers afterwards that they think they would prefer;
provided only that they apprize you in time of the change in their plan."
"Oh, mamma," replied Caroline, "you may be sure I shall always take care not to betray
my visitors into an engagement which they may have cause to regret, particularly if they
are strangers whose time is limited. I shall certainly, as you say, tell them not to consider
themselves bound to me if they afterwards receive an invitation which promises them
more enjoyment. It will be a long while before I forget, the Watkinson evening."

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Titbottom's Spectacles


By George William Curtis (1824-1892)


From Putnam's Monthly, December, 1854
Republished in the volume, Prue and I (1856)
(Harper & Brothers)