Moggs is in fault—ay, Montezuma Moggs—what, he "mend boots, mind shop, tend baby," bringing down his lofty aspirations for the future to be cabined within the miserable confines of the present!
"Hard work?" sneers Moggs—"yes, if a man sets himself down to hard work, there he may set—nothing else but hard work will ever come to him—but if he wont do hard work, then something easier will be sure to come toddlin' along sooner or later. What can ever find you but hard work if you are forever in the shop, a thumpin' and a hammerin'? Good luck never ventures near lap-stones and straps. I never saw any of it there in the whole course of my life; and I'm waitin' for good luck, so as to be ready to catch it when it comes by."
Montezuma Moggs had a turn for politics; and for many a year he exhibited great activity in that respect, believing confidently that good luck to himself might grow from town-meetings and elections; and you may have observed him on the platform when oratory addressed the "masses," or on the election ground with a placard to his button, and a whole handfull of tickets. But his luck did not seem to wear that shape; and politically, Montezuma Moggs at last took his place in the "innumerable caravan" of the disappointed. And thus, in turn, has he courted fortune in all her phases, without a smile of recognition from the blinded goddess. The world never knows its noblest sons; and Montezuma Moggs was left to sorrow and despair.
Could he have been honored with a lofty commission, Montezuma Moggs might have set forth to a revel in the halls of his namesake; but as one of the rank and file, he could not think of it. And in private conversation with his sneering friend Quiggens, to whose captiousness and criticism Moggs submitted, on the score of the cigars occasionally derivable from that source, he ventured the subjoined remarks relative to his military dispositions:
"What I want," said Moggs, "is a large amount of glory, and a bigger share of pay—a man like me ought to have plenty of both—glory, to swagger about with, while the people run into the street to stare at Moggs, all whiskers and glory—and plenty of pay, to make the glory shine, and to set it off. I wouldn't mind, besides, if I did have a nice little wound or two, if they've got any that don't hurt much, so that I might have my arm in a sling, or a black patch on my countenance. But if I was only one of the rank and file, I'm very much afraid I might have considerable more of knocks that would hurt a great deal, than I should of either the pay or the glory—that's what troubles me in the milentary way. But make me a gineral, and then, I'll talk to you about the matter—make me a gineral ossifer, with the commission, and the feathers, and the cocked-hat—plenty of pay, and a large slice of rations—there's nothing like rations—and then I'll talk to you like a book. Then I'll pledge you my lives, and my fortunes, and my sacred honors—all of 'em—that I will furnish the genus whenever it is wanted—genus in great big gloves, monstrous long boots, and astride of a hoss that scatters the little boys like Boston, whenever I touch the critter with my long spurs, to astonish the ladies. Oh, get out!—do you think I couldn't play gineral and look black as thunder, for such pay as ginerals get? I'd do it for half the money, and I'd not only do it cheaper, but considerable better than you ever see it done the best Fourth of July you ever met with. At present, I know I've not much rations, and no money at all—money's skurse—but as for genus—look at my eye—isn't genus there?—observation my nose—isn't it a Boneyparte?—aint I sevagerous about the mouth?—I tell you, Quiggens, there's whole lots of a hero in this little gentleman. I've so much genus that I can't work. When a man's genus is a workin' in his upper story, and mine always is, then his hands has to be idle, so's not to interrupt his genus."
"Yes," responded Quiggens, who is rather of the satirical turn, as one is likely to be who has driven the "Black Maria," and has thus found out that the world is all a fleeting show; "yes, you've got so much genus in your upper story that it has made a hole in the crown of your hat, so it can see what sort of weather is going on out of doors—and it 's your genus, I reckon, that's peeping out of your elbows. Why don't you ask your genus to patch your knees, and to mend the holes in your boots?"
"Quiggens, go 'way, Quiggens—you're of the common natur', Quiggens—a vulgar fraction, Quiggens; and you can't understand an indiwidooal who has a mind inside of his hat, and a whole soul packed away under his jacket. You'll never rise, a flutterin' and a ringin' like a bald-headed eagle—men like you have got no wings, and can only go about nibblin' the grass, while we fly up and peck cherries from the trees. I'm always thinkin' on what I'm going to be, and a preparin' myself for what natur' intended, though I don't know exactly what it is yet. But I don't believe that sich a man as Montezuma Moggs was brought into the world only to put patches on shoes and to heel-tap people's boots. No, Quiggens—no—it can't be, Quiggens. But you don't understand, and I'll have to talk to my genus. It's the only friend I have."
"Why don't you ask your genus to lend you a fip then, or see whether it's got any cigars to give away," replied Quiggs contemptuously, as he walked up the street, while Moggs, in offended majesty, stalked sulkily off in another direction.
"I would go somewheres, if I only knew where to go to," soliloquized Moggs, as he strolled slowly along the deserted streets; "but when there's nowheres to go to, then I suppose a person must go home—specially of cold nights like this, when the thermometer is down as far as Nero, and acts cruel on the countenance. It's always colder, too, when there's nobody about but yourself—you get your own share and every body else's besides; and it's lucky if you're not friz. Why don't they have gloves for people's noses? I ought to have a carriage—yes, and horses—ay, and a colored gemman to drive 'em, to say nothing of a big house warmed all over, with curtains to the windows. And why haven't I? Isn't Montezuma Moggs as good as anybody—isn't he as big—as full of genus? It's cold now, a footin' it round. But I'll wait—perhaps there's a good time comin', boys—there must be a good time, for there isn't any sort of times in the place where they keep time, which can be worse times than these times. But here's home—here's where you must go when you don't know what to do with yourself. Whenever a man tells you he has nowheres to go to, or says he's goin' nowheres, that man's a crawlin' home, because he can't help it. Well, well—there's nothin' else to be did, and so somebody must turn out and let me in home."
It appeared, however, that Montezuma Moggs erred in part in this calculation. It is true enough that he knocked and knocked for admission at the door of his domicile; but the muscular effort thus employed seemed to serve no other purpose than that of exercise. Tired with the employment of his hands in this regard, Moggs resorted to his feet—then tried his knee, and anon his back, after the usual desperate variety of such appeal resorted to by the "great locked out," when they become a little savage or so at the delay to which they are subjected. Sometimes, also, he would rap fiercely, and then apply his eye to the key-hole, as if to watch for the effect of his rapping. "I don't see 'em," groaned he. And then again, his ear would be placed against the lock—"I don't hear 'em either." There were moments when he would frantically kick the door, and then rush as frantically to the middle of the street, to look at the windows; but no sign of animation from within peered forth to cheer him. After full an hour of toil and of hope deferred, Montezuma Moggs tossed his arms aloft in despair—let them fall listlessly at his side, and then sat down upon the curb-stone to weep, while the neighbors looked upon him from their respective windows; a benevolent few, not afraid of catching cold, coming down to him with their condolements. None, however, offered a resting place to the homeless, unsheltered and despairing Moggs.