gcls_courant_009 2

66 THE COURANT; A SOUTHERN LITERARY JOURNAL.
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"Father," said the youth, "they have misrepresented
me; I have been culpable, but not to that extent--"
"Hush, my son," said the old man, warming with his
subject, "this is no misrepresentation. I have seen it
with my own eyes; this night I stood concealed and
watched you------"
"Were you looking on to-night, father?" asked Tom,
in a despairing tone, but with a face all aglow with lat-
ent mischief.
"Yes, Thomas, I almost blush to say what I saw this
night."
With a start as unexpected as active, Tom grasped
his father's hand with a force quite energetic, consider-
ing the feeble state of his health.
"Well, say, old horse, didn't we have a jolly time?"
Language fails to describe the emotions that passed
visibly over Mr. Woffton's features. As Tom said, "he
began to smell a pretty big mice." Without a word, he
arose and left the room, evidently thinking "comment
unnecessary." Tom fell back completely exhausted with
laughter.
The next morning, he was aroused at an unusually
early hour, and on going down into the hall the first
thing that met his eye, was a trunk already packed and
corded, on which, in conspicuous capitals, he read his
own name; and out through the grey dawn, he saw the
old stage-coach drawn up before the door.
Tom needed not to be told what all this meant, yet,
his father, coming out of the adjoining room, said,--
"I think, Thomas, that old Time will excuse the re-
maining apprenticeship of your boyhood. It is my de-
sire that you pack this morning for the college."
Tom went. Whether or not, in his midnight excur-
sions for subjects, he ever encountered any "spirits,"
deponent sayeth not.
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For the Courant.
HOBBIES.
------
BY MRS. WINIFRED WEAZLE.
------
Reader, what's your hobby? You won't tell? Well,
I don't much blame you, for some people's hobbies are
ridiculous enough. I have one or two myself, that for
the life and soul of me I can't keep from riding, and
every time I mount Reason whispers, "stop," but Im-
pulse shots "onward!" and away I go at a hard gal-
lip, amusing some people, boring more, and fatiguing
myself, only to feel miserably ashamed afterwards. Why
will people "see the right, and yet the wrong pursue?"
And I have often noticed that those who ride their own
hobbies most furiously, have the least patience when a
friend mounts his. Why, this very morning I detected
Maria Morris gaping in the middle of one of my best
stories, and when I stopped short, and accused her of it,
intending to punish her by leaving the story unfinished,
she said,
"Well, aunt Weazle, I really could'nt help it, you've
told me that same story so many times before, that I
know it by heart."
Now this was very provoking, for I am always particu-
lar to avoid repetition, having been so often annoyed by
it myself, and Maria is guilty of it, as I know to my
cost, her hobby is story telling, and herself the heroine
of every one. She likes to talk about the many lovers
she has had, the splendid offers she has refused, and
how one young man, with beautiful curly hair, heavenly
blue eyes, and pearly teeth, killed himself (with wine,
I guess) on her account, and would'nt I know that young
man, if he was to appear befor me this very minute?
I've heard him described so often; and she to talk about
repetition. But I was willing to bear with her, for I
am either gifted with, by nature, or circumstances have
forced me to acquire the power to sometimes withdraw
my thoughts from all that is going on around me, and I
can be revelling in memories of past delights, mourning
over old disappointments, or laying plans for the future,
at the very time that a steady stream of somebody else's
reminiscenses, hopes, or fears is falling on my ear, so I
don't often seem bored, and am therefore oftener victi-
mized than most people.
About the worst trial in the way of hobbies, that I
ever did have, came upon me fortunately when I was
young and able to bear it. Old Mrs. Doleful's hobby
was sickness, her pet was a corpse. She delighted in
the attentions necessary to the one, and positively revel-
ed in the task of arraying the other. People could
not be grateful for her attentions, indeed they learned
to dread them, she so plainly showed her gladness at
their being necessary, so evidently enjoyed the possibili-
ty of a fatal termination. For my part, if I had the sick
headache, and she happened to come in, I gave myself
right up, and would begin to grow cold and stiff all over,
and if I had been as old and nervous then as I am now,
I am certain that she would have killed me.
As soon as this old lady entered the chamber of a sick
person, no matter how light the attack, she would, in spite
of all remonstrances, close the shutters, draw down the
curtains, stop the clock, tip-toe about, whisper, glance
toward the victim, shake her head mysteriously, tell
dismal tales of sickness or death next door, and descant
upon the necessity of people's being prepared, until I
often wondered that the poor sick body did not spring
out of the bed and take to the woods. And if the sum-
mons really did come, and when it was beyond all doubt
that the soul had taken its flight, how quickly she glided
into the place of superintendant of affairs. How gently,
yet firmly she led the real mourners from the room, and
then with what zest she entered upon her favorite duties,
groaning all the time. How she would arrange, re-
arrange, observe the effect, tell her experience in similar
cases, and at last, when compelled to admit that all was
done, how fervently she would exclaim,
"What a buteeful corpse!"
And I have heard her make that exclamation on
occasions when it seemed a sarcasm, so opposite was the
fact, and what a busy, yet properly sad woman she was
until the funeral was over, and then how she would
distress everybody who was interested in the departed,
and bore everybody who was not, with minute descrip-
tions of the melancholy event, till she heard of another
case, and then she was off to gloat over that.
Years ago, when I was quite a child, there was an
old man (no matter where) whose name was "Nelligan."
He was very homely in the face, being badly pox-
marked, his nose twisted to one side, and his upper lip
so short that his large mouth could never be entirely
closed, and his long yellow sharp-pointed teeth had a
vicious look, as though he would like to bite everybody,
and his neck was so short, that his head seemed to rest
on his shoulders, besides this, he was dwarfish, and dread-
fully deformed by rheumatism, his knees being drawn
up nearly to his breast. Like most old bachelor's, he
had a cross, sneering disposition, which, in connection
with his appearance, caused him to be avoided by grown
people, and dreaded by children. And if there was
one person on earth whom he hated with all the inten-
sity of his bitter nature, that person was Mrs. Doleful,
and she either could not, or would not see it, for her
visits to the house of the aged relative, with whom he
resided, were frequent and long. The old man was
always ailing, but no matter how weak he was, the
moment she entered the house, his crutches would bear
him rapidly from it, sometimes only to the lower end of
the garden, where he would lie down upon the grass,
and fairly howl with rage. At last he got too ill to
make his escape, and then he turned upon her. She was
proof against all his sneers, insinuations, and angry
looks, meeting them with a pitying indulgence, which
nearly crazed him; at last he broke forth into open
insult:
"Begone, old Crocodile!" he cried, "you shall not
whine and roll up your hateful eyes before me; I've no
notion of dying, and when I have, you shall not see me,
or see what a 'buteeful corpse' I am. Beautiful, indeed."
And he suddenly became silent, while a dark, resent-
ful scowl settled on his face, and remained there till the
grave hid it. And who knows what torturing memories
of a life-time of bitter disappointments, repressed feel-
ings, unrequited love, betrayed friendships, and of what
perhaps soured him more than all the rest--the constant
ridicule of the world, endured probably from his child-
hood, were crowded into the hour which (forgetful of
the presence of his tormentor) he gave to deep thought.
When he spoke again he seemed forgetful of the lapse
of time, and, as if continuing a sentence--
"No, indeed, you shall not see me, you shall not gloat
over my hideousness, while you hypocritically exclaim,
'What a buteeful corpse!' If you dare to come near me
when I am dead I will rise from my coffin and destroy
you!"
This was too much even for Mrs. Doleful, so she re-
tired, shaking her head, and saying in a tone of deep
feeling:
"Quite delirious, quite beside himself, quite crazy,
quite out of his senses, don't know what he is saying,
he can't last much longer, I'm afraid that I'll never see
him again alive, though, if I'm spared, I'll come back to-
morrow, for I don't mind anything he says now, poor
dying soul."
The next morning Nelligan died, and, greatly to her
chagrin, Mrs. Doleful knew nothing about it for several
hours. As soon as she did hear of it, she donned her
rusty black canton crape dress, and her long fronted
bombazine bonnet, and hurried to the house of mourn-
ing, where she was really mortified to find every thing
done that was necessary on the occasion. Concealing
her sense of injury, she addressed herself to the only
task left her--that of consoling the bereaved relative,
(who might with more truth have been called the relieved
relative, but things were not called by their right names
then any oftener than they are now,) which she did in
all the hackneyed phrases her memory could supply, and
then she proceeded to the enjoyment of the only pleasure
left her, that of viewing and commenting on the de-
parted.
It had been necessary to straighten his limbs forcibly,
and secure them with cords, and Mrs. Doleful's first ex-
clamation was:
"Dear me! he's come out all straight; I always said
he would, and how natural he does look, (bending curi-
ously over him to see if there was nothing she could pos-
sibly alter or amend.) Well, I must say, 'he makes a
buteeful corpse.'"
Just as the words passed her lips, by a strange coin-
cidence, the cord which held his limbs snapt, and his
knees flew up, actually touching the old lady's face.--
She staggered back, and but for the wall would have fal-
len to the floor, while of her companions one ran wildly
away, and the other stood still and screamed until the
room was crowded with people, among whom was the old
man's relative, who being ignorant and superstitious,
and remembering the conversation of the day before,
fully believed that Nelligan had executed his threat,
and really awakened to resent the intrusion of Mrs.
Doleful; and whether the belief gave most pain or pleas-
ure to the disinterested heiress of his little propenty,
was never known but to herself; for the deep sigh
which escaped her when the state of the case was ex-
plained, might have been one of relief or of disappoint-
ment. However that might be, the agitation she had
been thrown into was a sufficient excuse for her to pour
out the phials of her wrath on the devoted head of Mrs.
Doleful, who, pale and shrinking, cowered in the corner
to which she had tottered, and received it all without
saying a word, and made her exit as soon as possible,
and she did not bore any one with an account of that
event; indeed, was never known to mention it; but I
heard it from one who professed to have been an eye-wit-
ness, and "I say the tale as it was said to me."
It id dnot destroy Mrs. Doleful's ruling passion; for
sickness was her hobby, and a corpse her pet, until she
became one herself, which was not till she had reached
extreme old age, and then she passed away "unwept,
unhonored," and, but for my little sketch, would have
been "unsung."
I have seen many strange and ridiculous hobbies;
have ridden many myself--I have seen people pet horses,
cows, goats, bears, dogs, cats, birds, mice, and even
snakes; I've seen men pet watches, guns, pistols, and
even fire-engines, but Mrs. Doleful's hobby still remains
in my estimation the strongest one I ever did know.
Columbia, June 18th, 1859.
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