Gilded Age A tale of today , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Mark Twain

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281 pages

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. This book was not written for private circulation among friends; it was not written to cheer and instruct a diseased relative of the author's; it was not thrown off during intervals of wearing labor to amuse an idle hour. It was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is submitted without the usual apologies.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819917113
Langue	English

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PREFACE.
This book was not written for private circulationamong friends; it was not written to cheer and instruct a diseasedrelative of the author's; it was not thrown off during intervals ofwearing labor to amuse an idle hour. It was not written for any ofthese reasons, and therefore it is submitted without the usualapologies.
It will be seen that it deals with an entirely idealstate of society; and the chief embarrassment of the writers inthis realm of the imagination has been the want of illustrativeexamples. In a State where there is no fever of speculation, noinflamed desire for sudden wealth, where the poor are allsimple-minded and contented, and the rich are all honest andgenerous, where society is in a condition of primitive purity andpolitics is the occupation of only the capable and the patriotic,there are necessarily no materials for such a history as we haveconstructed out of an ideal commonwealth.
No apology is needed for following the learnedcustom of placing attractive scraps of literature at the heads ofour chapters. It has been truly observed by Wagner that suchheadings, with their vague suggestions of the matter which is tofollow them, pleasantly inflame the reader's interest withoutwholly satisfying his curiosity, and we will hope that it may befound to be so in the present case.
Our quotations are set in a vast number of tongues;this is done for the reason that very few foreign nations amongwhom the book will circulate can read in any language but theirown; whereas we do not write for a particular class or sect ornation, but to take in the whole world.
We do not object to criticism; and we do not expectthat the critic will read the book before writing a notice of it:We do not even expect the reviewer of the book will say that he hasnot read it. No, we have no anticipations of anything unusual inthis age of criticism. But if the Jupiter, Who passes his opinionon the novel, ever happens to peruse it in some weary moment of hissubsequent life, we hope that he will not be the victim of aremorse bitter but too late.
One word more. This is - what it pretends to be ajoint production, in the conception of the story, the exposition ofthe characters, and in its literal composition. There is scarcely achapter that does not bear the marks of the two writers of thebook. S. L. C. C. D. W.
CHAPTER I.
June 18 - . Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyramid oflarge blocks, called the "stile," in front of his house,contemplating the morning.
The locality was Obedstown, East Tennessee. Youwould not know that Obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, forthere was nothing about the landscape to indicate it - but it did:a mountain that stretched abroad over whole counties, and rose verygradually. The district was called the "Knobs of East Tennessee,"and had a reputation like Nazareth, as far as turning out any goodthing was concerned.
The Squire's house was a double log cabin, in astate of decay; two or three gaunt hounds lay asleep about thethreshold, and lifted their heads sadly whenever Mrs. Hawkins orthe children stepped in and out over their bodies. Rubbish wasscattered about the grassless yard; a bench stood near the doorwith a tin wash basin on it and a pail of water and a gourd; a cathad begun to drink from the pail, but the exertion was overtaxingher energies, and she had stopped to rest. There was an ash- hopperby the fence, and an iron pot, for soft-soap-boiling, near it.
This dwelling constituted one-fifteenth ofObedstown; the other fourteen houses were scattered about among thetall pine trees and among the corn- fields in such a way that a manmight stand in the midst of the city and not know but that he wasin the country if he only depended on his eyes for information.
"Squire" Hawkins got his title from being postmasterof Obedstown - not that the title properly belonged to the office,but because in those regions the chief citizens always must havetitles of some sort, and so the usual courtesy had been extended toHawkins. The mail was monthly, and sometimes amounted to as much asthree or four letters at a single delivery. Even a rush like thisdid not fill up the postmaster's whole month, though, and thereforehe "kept store" in the intervals.
The Squire was contemplating the morning. It wasbalmy and tranquil, the vagrant breezes were laden with the odor offlowers, the murmur of bees was in the air, there was everywherethat suggestion of repose that summer woodlands bring to thesenses, and the vague, pleasurable melancholy that such a time andsuch surroundings inspire.
Presently the United States mail arrived, onhorseback. There was but one letter, and it was for the postmaster.The long-legged youth who carried the mail tarried an hour to talk,for there was no hurry; and in a little while the male populationof the village had assembled to help. As a general thing, they weredressed in homespun "jeans," blue or yellow - here were no othervarieties of it; all wore one suspender and sometimes two - yarnones knitted at home, - some wore vests, but few wore coats. Suchcoats and vests as did appear, however, were rather picturesquethan otherwise, for they were made of tolerably fanciful patternsof calico - a fashion which prevails thereto this day among thoseof the community who have tastes above the common level and areable to afford style. Every individual arrived with his hands inhis pockets; a hand came out occasionally for a purpose, but italways went back again after service; and if it was the head thatwas served, just the cant that the dilapidated straw hat got bybeing uplifted and rooted under, was retained until the next callaltered the inclination; many' hats were present, but none wereerect and no two were canted just alike. We are speakingimpartially of men, youths and boys. And we are also speaking ofthese three estates when we say that every individual was eitherchewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on his own premises, orsmoking the same in a corn-cob pipe. Few of the men wore whiskers;none wore moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair under thechin and hiding the throat - the only pattern recognized there asbeing the correct thing in whiskers; but no part of anyindividual's face had seen a razor for a week.
These neighbors stood a few moments looking at themail carrier reflectively while he talked; but fatigue soon beganto show itself, and one after another they climbed up and occupiedthe top rail of the fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like acompany of buzzards assembled for supper and listening for thedeath-rattle. Old Damrell said:
"Tha hain't no news 'bout the jedge, hit ain'tlikely?"
"Cain't tell for sartin; some thinks he's gwyne tobe 'long toreckly, and some thinks 'e hain't. Russ Mosely he toteole Hanks he mought git to Obeds tomorrer or nex' day hereckoned."
"Well, I wisht I knowed. I got a 'prime sow and pigsin the, cote-house, and I hain't got no place for to put 'em. Ifthe jedge is a gwyne to hold cote, I got to roust 'em out, Ireckon. But tomorrer'll do, I 'spect."
The speaker bunched his thick lips together like thestem-end of a tomato and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on aweed seven feet away. One after another the several chewersexpressed a charge of tobacco juice and delivered it at thedeceased with steady, aim and faultless accuracy.
"What's a stirrin', down 'bout the Forks?" continuedOld Damrell.
"Well, I dunno, skasely. Ole, Drake Higgins he's bendown to Shelby las' week. Tuck his crap down; couldn't git shet o'the most uv it; hit wasn't no time for to sell, he say, so he'fotch it back agin, 'lowin' to wait tell fall. Talks 'bout goin'to Mozouri - lots uv 'ems talkin' that- away down thar, Ole Higginssay. Cain't make a livin' here no mo', sich times as these. SiHiggins he's ben over to Kaintuck n' married a high- toned galthar, outen the fust families, an' he's come back to the Forks withjist a hell's-mint o' whoop-jamboree notions, folks says. He's tuckan' fixed up the ole house like they does in Kaintuck, he say, an'tha's ben folks come cler from Turpentine for to see it. He's tuckan gawmed it all over on the inside with plarsterin'."
"What's plasterin'?"
"I dono. Hit's what he calls it. 'Ole Mam Higgins,she tole me. She say she wasn't gwyne to hang out in no sich a dernhole like a hog. Says it's mud, or some sich kind o' nastiness thatsticks on n' covers up everything. Plarsterin', Si calls it."
This marvel was discussed at considerable length;and almost with animation. But presently there was a dog-fight overin the neighborhood of the blacksmith shop, and the visitors slidoff their perch like so many turtles and strode to the battle-fieldwith an interest bordering on eagerness. The Squire remained, andread his letter. Then he sighed, and sat long in meditation. Atintervals he said:
Missouri. Missouri. Well, well, well, everything isso uncertain."
At last he said:
"I believe I'll do it. - A man will just rot, here.My house my yard, everything around me, in fact, shows' that I ambecoming one of these cattle - and I used to be thrifty in othertimes."
He was not more than thirty-five, but he had a wornlook that made him seem older. He left the stile, entered that partof his house which was the store, traded a quart of thick molassesfor a coonskin and a cake of beeswax, to an old dame inlinsey-woolsey, put his letter away, an went into the kitchen. Hiswife was there, constructing some dried apple pies; a slovenlyurchin of ten was dreaming over a rude weather-vane of his owncontriving; his small sister, close upon four years of age, wassopping corn-bread in some gravy left in the bottom of a frying-panand trying hard not to sop over a finger-mark that divided the panthrough the middle - for the other side belonged to the brother,whose musings made him forget his stomach for the moment; a negrowoman was busy cooking, at a vast fire-place. Shiftlessness andpoverty reigned in the place.
"Nancy, I've made up my mind. The