INTRODUCTORY.
I was sitting the other afternoon before my library fire, listening to the fitful breeze without that swayed the trees to and fro before the house and moaned down in the neighbouring woods, when I suddenly recollected that the last sheets of “The Reefer” had gone to press a fortnight before, and that, consequently, my career of authorship was closed. The idea, I confess, gave me pleasure, for I am by nature an indolent man, and would at any time rather dream by a cheery fire, with my slippered feet reposing on my tiger-skin rug, than tie myself down to a writing-table, even though it be to record my own or my friends’ adventures, and “go about the world from hand to hand.” I am not ambitious. I prefer ease to reputation, quiet to turmoil, the epicurean to all other philosophy. To read my favorite authors; to indulge in reveries at the twilight hour; to gaze on fine pictures, choice statues, and tasteful rooms; to listen to the melting airs of Burns, or the glorious hallelujahs of Handel; to sport on my own grounds on a clear, bracing morning; to gallop over the wild hills and through the romantic valleys which surround my residence;—these are the enjoyments in which I delight, and which I prefer to all the reputation either the pen or the sword can give. Others may choose a more bustling life; but I have had my share of that! Give me a quiet, happy home, for there only is true happiness to be found.
Musing thus, I was unconscious of the entrance of an intruder, until I heard a slight cough beside me, and looking up, I saw my faithful servant John standing over my chair. He laid on my lap, at the instant, a copy of Graham’s Magazine for December. As John did so, he heaved a sigh, and then, as if something was on his mind, busied himself in arranging various articles in the room. I knew by these tokens that he was desirous of attracting my attention. The woe-begone expression which he wore during all this time, amused me, for I fancied I could guess what was passing through his mind. As I quietly cut the pages of the book, I indulged him by opening the conversation.
“Well, John,” I said, “it is finished. ‘The Reefer’ has followed my own adventures, and you will have no more trouble in acting as proof-reader for me. Our days,” and here, at the use of the plural, the old fellow grinned from ear to ear, “our days of authorship are over. I think we had better retire while our laurels are green. Are you not glad?”
“Glad! What for Massa Danforth think that? No, no,” and he shook his grey head mournfully, “John not glad.”
“And why not, John? We shall have more time to ourselves. I’m afraid,” I said, looking towards the window, and endeavoring to peer through the twilight without, “I am afraid our planting is sadly behind hand—the clump of trees out yonder wants thinning—and then the water-fall is getting out of order—and Mrs. Danforth has been pleading for an addition to her garden—all this requires overseeing—and besides these, there are a thousand other things which will require our attention.”
I could see that the old fellow had, with difficulty, restrained himself until I had finished; for he kept moving his body unceasingly, and once or twice had opened his mouth to speak. He now broke out—
“Nebber do, Massa Danforth, nebber do to give up authorship, take old John word for dat. You now great man—talk of in all de papers—it Massa Danforth here and Massa Danforth dare—ebbery few month you get extra puff in de prospective of de Magazine—and think you discontinue if you give ober writing? Gor amighty nebber! Ebbery body can do planting,—dere Massa Jones, Massa Tyson, Massa Smit, and de oder blockheads in de county—but you be only one hereabout been to sea, or can drive a pen ober paper like a four-in-hand, polishing skrimanges for a hundred thousand readers—for dat many Massa Graham say thumb his book ebbery month. It plain text, plain sermon. Who so big as Massa Danforth de author?—who so little, beg pardon for say it, as Massa Danforth de farmer? De public like our sleepy boy Joe in de kitchen, he nebber know any one alive, unless dey keep bawling, bawling in his ear all de time.”
“But what am I to do?” said I, smiling at his earnestness, and peculiar style of illustration. “Even if I wished to continue an author, I could not. My own adventures are published; so are those of the Reefer,—if I go on, I must—to say nothing of the trouble—draw on my fancy, and that, you know, wouldn’t do. I always bear in mind what honest Sancho Panza says—‘Let every one take heed how they talk or write of people, and not set down at random the first thing that comes into their imagination.’ ”
“Massa Sanka Pancer had better keep his advice to himself, dat my mind—I nebber saw him here, or read his name in de papers, and he derefore no great shakes—but I no see dat dere be an accessory for any fiction about it. Ah! I hab him—I hab him. I think of a new feature.”
“A new feature! Well—let’s hear it.”
“But first, dere be accessory for a story. Once Massa know I be a poor scoundrel in newspaper office—hard life dat, where kicks plenty and dinners scarce—and ebbery now and den when editor pushed to de wall for cash, he say in his paper dat de next day he come out wid a new feature. Well, ebbery body, besure, be on tip-toe. Office run down next mornin for paper. Massa editor fill his pockets for once anyhow—no trouble, little cost, all wit do it. How? He put in new head to his paper, and call dat ‘new feature.’ Now, suppose Massa Danforth get a new head to ‘Cruising in de Last War,’ and so be author, and dat widout trouble, for anoder year. Ah! ha! dat grand stroke.”
I laughed heartily at the proposal, but replied—
“That would never do, John—but I must tell Graham of your idea.”
“Eh! what?—put old John in print. Gor amighty dat make him grand as de minister—not dat he care much for it—he not vain—but, but, what Massa gwine to say?”
“You’ll know in good time—but at present see who knocks at the library door.”
“Package forgot at post-office,” said John, returning from his errand, and giving me a huge bundle of manuscript.
“Ah! what have we here? A letter from Graham, I declare. What says he?—‘a valuable private history of the revolutionary times,’—‘only wants a little pruning’—‘thrilling adventures’—‘a run unsurpassed for years’—‘unequalled’—‘edit it as a great favor’—and so forth. Well, let us see what it is.”
“Eh! yes—see what he is. Massa Graham one obi man, he know de quandary we in, and send dis to settle de argument. No escape now, Massa Danforth—it little trouble—thank God! you be great man still—and de people still say as we drive out togedder, ‘dare go de celebrated Massa Danforth, and his man John!’ ”
And now, reader, having acquainted you with the manner in which the following history came into my hands, and given you a hint as to the reasons which have induced me to appear again in print, I will take leave of you without further parley, and let the autobiographer speak for himself.