CONDY O’NEAL.
“Welcome to Wheatland!” cried I, one fine autumnal evening, seeing my old friend, Captain Evans, approaching my door. “You are a bad paymaster in the article of visits,” I continued, handing him an arm-chair. “Here have I been living fifteen years, visiting you half a dozen times a year, and receiving nothing but fruitless promises of a return for my civilities: but here you are at last, and right welcome to your ancient hall.”
“Aye, aye,” replied the Captain. “Every year, and every month, since leaving this, have I determined that you should have me for your guest; but, I know not how it happened, that each day seemed to bring forth a trouble, or an occupation, at least, sufficient for itself. But here I am at last; and, as Tom is at length out of the way, I mean to be at my ease here, and billet myself upon you for a month at the least.”
Captain Evans was a hardy old “revolutioner,” nearly seventy years of age, but hale and stout, and as active as most men of forty. The farm on which I resided had been the property of his father, and the Captain had passed the greater portion of his life upon it. Inheriting the farm upon the death of his father, the Captain continued to reside on it until the time of my purchasing it from him. His only daughter having been left a widow, with four sons, as yet young, he, at her request, sold the farm, and went to reside with her in another part of the country, devoting himself to the care of his grandchildren and the management of his daughter’s estate. Here I had frequently visited him, and received many an unfulfilled promise of a return in kind to my visits. He had at length taken the opportunity, when the youngest of his grandsons was sent to college, to pay me the long deferred visit.
On the morning following his arrival my guest was, according to his wont, astir very early, and before breakfast was announced we had rambled over the greater part of the farm; each well-remembered spot eliciting its anecdote from my communicative friend.
In the evening we again walked abroad; and, having followed the windings of the creek to its junction with the Schuylkill, we seated ourselves upon the mouldering trunk of a gigantic, fallen button-wood tree. The bank of the stream was here about twenty feet in height, and descended perpendicularly to the water, which was very deep. Toward the opposite side the water shoaled, and was bordered by a low, muddy shore.
“This,” said I, after a short pause in the conversation, “has been a magnificent tree.”
The Captain laughed, and said, rather suddenly, “Do you remember Condy O’Neal, a little Irishman, who formerly lived in this neighborhood?”
“I have but a faint recollection of the man; he has been dead many a year since.”
“This tree has recalled to my mind a droll adventure of Condy’s, in which the tree bore a part.
“Condy came into the county about the year 1770, and opened a school. He was a true son of Erin, fond of fun, the bottle, and the girls, and seemed to have been, by nature, designed for amusement. He was a short, fat, little mortal, with a bald patch on his carroty poll; his face was flat and nearly square, his mouth was large, and puckered with a smile of habitual drollery, and his little gray eyes twinkled like those of a cat. No one had ever seen Condy looking sad; and he never spoke but to excite a smile by his humor or his bulls. Withal he was by no means touchy, and could laugh very heartily at a joke even at his own expense. But it was among the girls that his powers were most fully displayed; no professor of blarney could outshine Condy in the art of flattery. When in the society of the fair, Condy’s eloquence was unbounded: the torrent of compliments, jokes, and blunders flowed with unpausing rapidity. It is, therefore, not to be wondered at that he became a leading man in conversation, and that our country beau, one and all, felt themselves below par in his presence. Condy was not slow to remark this, and infinite was the pleasure he took in teasing them as often as opportunity offered. No sooner did he observe a beau looking particularly tender at one of the lasses, than Condy took upon himself to cut him out; and many an evening has he thus consumed in wronging a poor dog of a lover.
“The man whom Condy chiefly delighted to torment was a young farmer, named John Bingaman, a man of great stature and prodigious strength—the hero of all the broils and boxing-matches in the country. These boxing-matches are now out of fashion, but at the time of which I am speaking, they were very common; each county having one or more champions, who often tried their prowess against those of the neighboring counties. In these contests John had never yet found his match; and his temper had, in consequence, become so proud and overbearing, as to render him an object of dislike to all his acquaintance. John’s air of superiority was intolerable to Condy. He felt himself to be John’s superior in all but brute force; and was grieved to think that so thick-skulled a mortal should be at all noticed by the side of a man of mind like Condy O’Neal. On the other hand, John was equally chagrined by the deference paid to so diminutive a creature as Condy. He was perpetually galled by Condy’s remarks on the superiority of mind over muscle—of wit over strength. He felt that his former influence was sadly impaired; and how to re-establish it, was beyond his contrivance. To attempt to pick a quarrel with Condy and flog him, would, he was aware, be useless; for, in the first place, Condy was too well acquainted with his rival’s bodily powers to risk a battle; and, secondly, Condy’s superiority, resting in his wit, could not be beaten out of him by kicks and cuffs. John, therefore, concluded that it would be best to bear Condy’s presence with patience; certain that the roving disposition natural to school-masters must, ere long, remove the evil from his sight. In the mean time, however, he resolved to wreak his vengeance by playing all manner of boorish practical jokes upon Condy.
“One evening, late in autumn, Condy, John, and a number more, found themselves assembled at a husking frolic, where John, whose Dulcinea was of the party, exerted himself to the utmost to get the better of Condy; and, by dint of tripping up his heels and then burying him beneath a huge heap of corn-husks, or pushing him headlong over a row of lasses seated at their work, he contrived to keep the laughers on his own side. Condy bore all this with his characteristic good humor, until, the business of the evening having been nearly completed, and his scheme of vengeance matured, he suddenly assumed the air of a man whose patience is exhausted, and let fall a menace of revenge. Irritated by such a speech from a man like Condy, John roughly seized him by the shoulder, and demanded to know what he was threatening. ‘What I may never be able to undo,’ replied Condy, gravely. ‘And what may that be?’ asked John. ‘Why, Mister Bingaman, I could clap a horse’s head upon your shoulders, and that is more than I could take off again.’ John burst into an outrageous fit of laughter, and dared Condy to the trial. ‘No! no!’ said Condy, ‘I don’t want to do you an injury. I could easily put a horse’s head upon you, but if I should do so, there it must stick as long as you live: I could not take it off.’ ‘Try your best,’ again cried John; ‘I am not afraid of you.’ ‘Well, well,’ replied Condy, ‘as you doubt my ability, I’ll just do something for a small bit that shall harm no one, and convince you of the truth of what I said about the horse’s head. Now, John, strong as you are, I will undertake to make a cat pull you across that creek by a rope. Will you bet me a joe upon it?’ ‘Done,’ cried John; ‘post your joe.’ The money was regularly staked, when Condy, turning to the company, requested them to adjourn to the farm-house, where he would presently join them, in order to make some necessary preparations. Condy went to his school-room, which was not very far off, and in a few minutes returned, bearing a sheet of paper, a pencil, a pair of dividers, and a Gunter’s scale. Entering the house, he found the company very merry upon the occasion. At first, all was laughter and jesting at Condy’s expense; but he, nothing moved thereby, seated himself with the most imperturbable gravity by the side of a table; while John, with a grin of anticipated triumph on his visage, seated himself opposite and watched his motions. Condy pored intently upon his scale, then adjusted his dividers upon it, and proceeded to draw three concentric circles upon the paper. In the central circle he wrote John Bingaman, and within the two outer he drew a number of strange figures of animals, birds, insects, etc. During this process, which was conducted with great solemnity and extreme slowness, John’s phiz gradually lost its comic expression, and assumed a dolorous cast. The whole company caught the infection of solemnity, and, to noise and merriment, there succeeded a silence so dead, that the sound of Condy’s pencil was distinctly audible as it slowly passed over the paper. Having now tickled his audience to the proper point, Condy arose, and, in a solemn tone, said, ‘John Bingaman!’ John rose from his seat with a visage rueful as his who drew King Priam’s curtains in the night, to tell him that his warlike son was dead. ‘John Bingaman!’ Condy repeated, ‘put your finger upon this magic circle and acknowledge it for your hand and seal.’ Spite of his natural intrepidity, John’s superstitious fears had completely overpowered him, and he stood gazing upon Condy, while his knees almost smote together with apprehension. ‘John Bingaman!’ again said Condy, ‘do you refuse to acknowledge this to be your hand and seal?’ John muttered something unintelligibly. ‘Well,’ said Condy, ‘then the bet is lost—the joe is mine.’ The idea of so easily parting with his joe, and the fear of the ridicule which began already to manifest itself in the titters of the company, recalled John from his stupor, and, hastily clapping his finger upon the fatal circle, he said, ‘This is my hand and seal, confound you!—now make what you please of it.’ ‘’Tis well!’ said Condy, with solemnity, folding his paper and gathering up his drawing instruments: ‘now I must ask the assistance of the company in this affair. The cat must be black, a female which has never had kittens, and must weigh two pounds exactly.’ He also informed them that the proposed feat could be performed only when both sun and moon were below the horizon.
“The company dispersed. John went away with a feeling of dread for which he could not account, and which, with his utmost exertions, he failed to dispel. Could Condy be serious? Could he really make so diminutive a creature perform what he had proposed? Yet there was nothing like jesting in Condy’s manner, and he was not the man to throw away a joe and at the same time risk a dozen kicks from John, besides incurring the ridicule of the whole vicinity. John shook his wise head again and again, but could not attain to any satisfactory conclusion. Condy sought his home in a very different mood. He laughed heartily as soon as he was in his own room: for now he had his mighty rival in his power, and could, without fail, expose him, a laughing-stock, to the whole county.
“As to the rest of the company, they viewed the matter in various lights. The more superstitious portion, awed by the solemnity of the pedagogue, looked upon him with mingled fear and admiration; while the less credulous part, most of them young, laughed, chatted, jested, and laid wagers upon the success of the plot. As more than a week must pass before the day fixed upon for the decision of the wager, there was full time for gossiping; and innumerable were the tales of witchcraft, ghosts, and horrors which that interval brought forth. Each veteran talker, male or female, had one or more marvellous tales wherewith to entertain the fireside assembly, and send the children to bed half terrified out of their reason.
“During this time Condy was more busy and more solemn than he had ever before been known to be. Every nook and corner was searched for the mystical cat, and as he paraded the streets in anxious quest, every one ran to his door to look at Condy, as if he had been some strange creature from lands unknown. At length the cat was found, but where he had procured her he would not tell. This led people to the very rational conclusion that she had been lent for the express purpose by the devil, or that she was one of the witches who, about that period, greatly infested the ‘east countrie.’
“On the appointed evening John and Condy, accompanied by about one hundred persons, repaired to the spot on which we are now sitting, where Condy had warned them all to remain: informing them that if any one crossed the creek he must do it at the risk of being torn to pieces by the devil. This tree at that time stood on the bank with one half of its naked roots projecting over the water—the earth having been washed away by the floods. Here John took his seat, his body reclining against the foot of the tree, his feet firmly planted against a root, and either hand grasping a root by his side. Condy tied the rope securely about John’s body, and then crossed the creek, carrying the other end of the rope to a spot a few yards from the water. You have planted a very pretty hedge garden near the water’s edge, but at the time of which I speak the shore was bare, and about ten yards from the water was a fence with a thick growth of alders and rank weeds. Condy, having fastened his cat to the rope, proceeded to describe a large circle round her, muttering incantations and contriving so to spin out the time as to leave as little light as possible on the transaction. The crowd upon the bank stood awestruck in silent expectation. John
‘With half shut eyes, pucker’d cheeks,
And teeth presented bare,’
sat grasping the roots on either side, a very picture of melancholy desperation. Condy, having prolonged his preparatory measures until it had become tolerably dark, notified John that he must look out, for he was now about to give the fatal pull. At this unwelcome intelligence John’s breath came thick and hard. Condy whipped his cat, and cried ‘come!’—the cat squalled, and John squeezed the roots with the gripe of a giant, but remained unmoved. Condy now addressed the stars and planets, calling several by name, whipped his cat, and again cried ‘come!’ and again John gave the roots a more than affectionate squeeze. Condy now talked Irish to his cat, whipped her, upbraided the stars with their neglect of him, and cried ‘come!’—still John maintained his position, while the cat seemed unable even to stretch the heavy rope to which she and John were attached. This farce of whipping and calling having been repeated for nearly a quarter of an hour, John began to suspect that Condy had brought him thither for the purpose of making a fool of him. Irritated by this idea, he incautiously arose from his recumbent posture, and with divers oaths and curses, demanded to know what Condy meant. Condy seeing John thus off his guard, plied his cat with Irish and hickory most energetically, and cried ‘now come!’ So said, so done: down went John into the creek. The crowd fled from the spot with a universal cry of horror. John, after having sunk for a moment in the deep water, reappeared on the surface—cut his way through the stream with the foaming rapidity of a steamboat—ploughed through the mud of the opposite shore, and brought up against the old worn fence with a shock that tumbled it in ruins to the earth. Condy hastily cut the rope, and lifting the heap of rails from his body, begged him, for God’s sake, to make the best of his way across the creek, ‘or the devil would tear him to pieces.’ John needed not much persuasion to induce him to this course, and he dashed through the water little less rapidly than when the cat helped him on. He afterward affirmed, with many an oath, that, turning his head during this passage, he saw a fiery-eyed, black monster, of the size of a bull, and bearing with him a strong odor of brimstone, leap from the bushes and pursue him to the middle of the stream.
“Thus ended the business of the night. John went home as if he had had a thousand devils at his heels. Condy marched deliberately to his lodging, exulting in the certainty of having forever humbled his mighty rival. How did his heart swell with the idea of having, little as he was, conquered the mightiest man in Chester County! ‘Now,’ said he to himself, ‘John is down, and so I will keep him; as often as he attempts to bully or look big, I have only to remind him of this night’s adventure and his crest will fall. Lord! what a time I shall have of it, and what a nourish I shall cut among the girls! Not a man of those boobies will dare to open his mouth where Condy O’Neal happens to be.’ Thus did Condy exult, little thinking of the fate which awaited him. He had no idea that, at this happy moment, his evil genius was filling the vials of his wrath in order to pour them on his devoted head.
“Condy slept soundly, and having risen, proceeded, at the usual hour, to his school-house, where he found all silent and lonely. There was no fire in the stove, nor was there a human being visible. What could it mean? Condy looked at his watch and then at the sun, but both affirmed that the hour was 9, A. M. Was this a holyday? No! Christmas does not come in November, and that is the nearest holyday. Condy mused as he prepared to kindle a fire, endeavoring to discover the probable reason of the desertion of his flock. His musings, however, were interrupted by the arrival of a middle-aged matron, followed by her children and a dozen scholars besides, who began to gather up books, slates, etc., and to decamp without even the ceremony of good-by! Condy, not a little surprised, demanded the reason of this extempore proceeding. Madam replied, that neither she nor her neighbors could think of sending their children to a teacher who had dealings with the devil. This was too much for Condy’s gravity, and loud and long did he laugh as madam retreated from the room. After his fit of merriment had subsided, Condy sat down to consider what was best to be done. ‘To argue with these people would be useless, and to reveal the secret of the trick upon John, might be only to hand my bones over to the surgeon for repairs. Well, I suppose there are other places, besides this, where the children lack learning. So there is no use in grieving about the business; for if I were as sad as the bottom of a cherry-pie, I could not mend matters a whit! It is very provoking, though, to have to run off in the moment of signal victory. But I suppose I must say farewell to Chester County.’
“Condy collected what was due to him by his patrons, and went off to Bucks County, thence to Montgomery, and so forth, seeking a situation, but in vain, for the story of his necromantic exploit had preceded him with the most awful exaggerations. Still he kept up a good heart, but soon began to find that his pocket was growing alarmingly light, and that, unless something was done to restore its gravity, he must be famished. Upon arriving at this very natural conclusion, he faced about, resolved to go to Virginia, where, under a feigned name and at a sufficient distance from the theatre of his unlucky celebrity, he might ‘teach the young idea how to shoot’ in full security.
“His knapsack was already buckled on, his bill paid, his half gill disposed of, and his staff grasped in his dexter hand, when he was surprised by the apparition of one of his comrades from Chester, who shook him most cordially by the hand, laughed heartily, slapped his shoulder, and swore that he was the cleverest fellow in the world. ‘Come Condy,’ said he, ‘you must come with me to Chester. It is all out about the cat; and look here, my old boy!’ Saying this he unfolded a school-subscription paper, containing a most imposing array of signatures, the signers promising ‘severally to pay unto Condy O’Neal the sums unto their names annexed,’ etc., etc.
“I must now inform you how the matter of the cat had been managed. On the evening preceding that on which John followed the cat with so much rapidity and so little good will, Condy took Adam North and myself, whom he had let into the secret, to the shore yonder. We had with us a good rope, which we buried slightly in the mud; one end touching the spot where Condy was to make his circle, the other end being drawn through the fence and concealed amid the weeds and alders. A stout stick about two feet long, tied by the middle to this end of the rope, was to serve us as a handle. On the appointed evening, some time before sunset, North and I took our fishing-rods and wandered down the stream, pretending to be very busy fishing; and when evening approached, we laid our rods aside and crept into the midst of the bushes at the place where our rope lay, which we found as we had left it on the preceding evening. Our instructions were, to remain quietly at our post, having our hands upon the stick, until Condy should cry, ‘now come!’ when we were to run. We were mightily tickled, as you may suppose, with the idea of the ducking and fright we were about to give the big bully; but our pleasure was not a little damped by a most unexpected apparition. North had, on leaving home, tied up his dog, a huge black deerhound, for fear of his betraying us by his barking; but shortly after the people had begun to assemble on this bank, we saw the black rascal coming toward us with his nose to the ground. Our only resource, then, was, in making him lie down with us and keep quiet; but, to our utter dismay, when he came up to the place where we lay, we discovered that he had killed a skunk by the way. There was, however, no help for us; and we had to lie close, enduring the horrible stench for nearly half an hour. When we started up to run, the hound started with us; but hearing the mighty splash made by John in his voyage, and fancying, probably, that a deer had run into the creek, he wheeled about, gave tongue, and ran toward the water, where he arrived just in time to follow John into the stream. This occasioned John’s mistake about the monster and the smell of brimstone.
“The secret had been too good to be kept; and North, notwithstanding the danger to which he thereby subjected himself of a hearty thumping from John, told the whole matter (confidentially of course) to a few dozens of his intimate friends, and so the whole matter came to light. I must confess I was horribly afraid when I found it had got wind; but John never betrayed any ill feeling toward us. Upon Condy, however, he vowed vengeance most dire. On the matter becoming public, John was driven almost mad; for he was roasted without mercy wherever he went. Fancy also came to the aid of reality; and he imagined that there was an allusion to his defeat as often as cats, or ropes, or water, or Irish school-masters were mentioned. He even ran out of the church when the parson, one Sunday, read the story of the Egyptians in the Red Sea.
“If poor John was now down, Condy was in proportion elated. His school nourished to the utmost extent of his wishes; his finances were, of course, considerably increased; his popularity, with both male and female, was unbounded; and his vanity and good humor were augmented tenfold. The grin was never absent from his mouth, and he laughed and chuckled over his cat exploit as if he had conquered a kingdom. John studiously avoided him; and whenever accident brought them into each other’s company, Condy swelled and looked as big as if he could have eaten him up at a single sitting.”
