Chapter 25

by Herman Melville

　　THE COSMOPOLITAN MAKES AN ACQUAINTANCE.In the act of retiring, the cosmopolitan was met by a passenger, whowith the bluff abord of the West, thus addressed him, though astranger."Queer 'coon, your friend. Had a little skrimmage with him myself.Rather entertaining old 'coon, if he wasn't so deuced analytical.Reminded me somehow of what I've heard about Colonel John Moredock, ofIllinois, only your friend ain't quite so good a fellow at bottom, Ishould think."It was in the semicircular porch of a cabin, opening a recess from thedeck, lit by a zoned lamp swung overhead, and sending its lightvertically down, like the sun at noon. Beneath the lamp stood thespeaker, affording to any one disposed to it no unfavorable chance forscrutiny; but the glance now resting on him betrayed no such rudeness.A man neither tall nor stout, neither short nor gaunt; but with a bodyfitted, as by measure, to the service of his mind. For the rest, oneless favored perhaps in his features than his clothes; and of these thebeauty may have been less in the fit than the cut; to say nothing ofthe fineness of the nap, seeming out of keeping with something thereverse of fine in the skin; and the unsuitableness of a violet vest,sending up sunset hues to a countenance betokening a kind of bilioushabit.But, upon the whole, it could not be fairly said that his appearance wasunprepossessing; indeed, to the congenial, it would have been doubtlessnot uncongenial; while to others, it could not fail to be at leastcuriously interesting, from the warm air of florid cordiality,contrasting itself with one knows not what kind of aguish sallowness ofsaving discretion lurking behind it. Ungracious critics might havethought that the manner flushed the man, something in the samefictitious way that the vest flushed the cheek. And though his teethwere singularly good, those same ungracious ones might have hinted thatthey were too good to be true; or rather, were not so good as they mightbe; since the best false teeth are those made with at least two or threeblemishes, the more to look like life. But fortunately for betterconstructions, no such critics had the stranger now in eye; only thecosmopolitan, who, after, in the first place, acknowledging his advanceswith a mute salute--in which acknowledgment, if there seemed less ofspirit than in his way of accosting the Missourian, it was probablybecause of the saddening sequel of that late interview--thus nowreplied: "Colonel John Moredock," repeating the words abstractedly;"that surname recalls reminiscences. Pray," with enlivened air, "was heanyway connected with the Moredocks of Moredock Hall, Northamptonshire,England?""I know no more of the Moredocks of Moredock Hall than of the Burdocksof Burdock Hut," returned the other, with the air somehow of one whosefortunes had been of his own making; "all I know is, that the lateColonel John Moredock was a famous one in his time; eye like Lochiel's;finger like a trigger; nerve like a catamount's; and with but two littleoddities--seldom stirred without his rifle, and hated Indians likesnakes.""Your Moredock, then, would seem a Moredock of Misanthrope Hall--theWoods. No very sleek creature, the colonel, I fancy.""Sleek or not, he was no uncombed one, but silky bearded and curlyheaded, and to all but Indians juicy as a peach. But Indians--how thelate Colonel John Moredock, Indian-hater of Illinois, did hate Indians,to be sure!""Never heard of such a thing. Hate Indians? Why should he or anybodyelse hate Indians? I admire Indians. Indians I have always heard to beone of the finest of the primitive races, possessed of many heroicvirtues. Some noble women, too. When I think of Pocahontas, I am readyto love Indians. Then there's Massasoit, and Philip of Mount Hope, andTecumseh, and Red-Jacket, and Logan--all heroes; and there's the FiveNations, and Araucanians--federations and communities of heroes. Godbless me; hate Indians? Surely the late Colonel John Moredock must havewandered in his mind.""Wandered in the woods considerably, but never wandered elsewhere, thatI ever heard.""Are you in earnest? Was there ever one who so made it his particularmission to hate Indians that, to designate him, a special word has beencoined--Indian-hater?""Even so.""Dear me, you take it very calmly.--But really, I would like to knowsomething about this Indian-hating, I can hardly believe such a thing tobe. Could you favor me with a little history of the extraordinary manyou mentioned?""With all my heart," and immediately stepping from the porch, gesturedthe cosmopolitan to a settee near by, on deck. "There, sir, sit youthere, and I will sit here beside you--you desire to hear of ColonelJohn Moredock. Well, a day in my boyhood is marked with a whitestone--the day I saw the colonel's rifle, powder-horn attached, hangingin a cabin on the West bank of the Wabash river. I was going westward along journey through the wilderness with my father. It was nigh noon,and we had stopped at the cabin to unsaddle and bait. The man at thecabin pointed out the rifle, and told whose it was, adding that thecolonel was that moment sleeping on wolf-skins in the corn-loft above,so we must not talk very loud, for the colonel had been out all nighthunting (Indians, mind), and it would be cruel to disturb his sleep.Curious to see one so famous, we waited two hours over, in hopes hewould come forth; but he did not. So, it being necessary to get to thenext cabin before nightfall, we had at last to ride off without thewished-for satisfaction. Though, to tell the truth, I, for one, did notgo away entirely ungratified, for, while my father was watering thehorses, I slipped back into the cabin, and stepping a round or two upthe ladder, pushed my head through the trap, and peered about. Not muchlight in the loft; but off, in the further corner, I saw what I took tobe the wolf-skins, and on them a bundle of something, like a drift ofleaves; and at one end, what seemed a moss-ball; and over it,deer-antlers branched; and close by, a small squirrel sprang out from amaple-bowl of nuts, brushed the moss-ball with his tail, through a hole,and vanished, squeaking. That bit of woodland scene was all I saw. NoColonel Moredock there, unless that moss-ball was his curly head, seenin the back view. I would have gone clear up, but the man below hadwarned me, that though, from his camping habits, the colonel could sleepthrough thunder, he was for the same cause amazing quick to waken at thesound of footsteps, however soft, and especially if human.""Excuse me," said the other, softly laying his hand on the narrator'swrist, "but I fear the colonel was of a distrustful nature--little or noconfidence. He was a little suspicious-minded, wasn't he?""Not a bit. Knew too much. Suspected nobody, but was not ignorant ofIndians. Well: though, as you may gather, I never fully saw the man,yet, have I, one way and another, heard about as much of him as anyother; in particular, have I heard his history again and again from myfather's friend, James Hall, the judge, you know. In every company beingcalled upon to give this history, which none could better do, the judgeat last fell into a style so methodic, you would have thought he spokeless to mere auditors than to an invisible amanuensis; seemed talkingfor the press; very impressive way with him indeed. And I, having anequally impressible memory, think that, upon a pinch, I can render youthe judge upon the colonel almost word for word.""Do so, by all means," said the cosmopolitan, well pleased."Shall I give you the judge's philosophy, and all?""As to that," rejoined the other gravely, pausing over the pipe-bowl hewas filling, "the desirableness, to a man of a certain mind, of havinganother man's philosophy given, depends considerably upon what school ofphilosophy that other man belongs to. Of what school or system was thejudge, pray?""Why, though he knew how to read and write, the judge never had muchschooling. But, I should say he belonged, if anything, to thefree-school system. Yes, a true patriot, the judge went in strong forfree-schools.""In philosophy? The man of a certain mind, then, while respecting thejudge's patriotism, and not blind to the judge's capacity for narrative,such as he may prove to have, might, perhaps, with prudence, waive anopinion of the judge's probable philosophy. But I am no rigorist;proceed, I beg; his philosophy or not, as you please.""Well, I would mostly skip that part, only, to begin, somereconnoitering of the ground in a philosophical way the judge alwaysdeemed indispensable with strangers. For you must know thatIndian-hating was no monopoly of Colonel Moredock's; but a passion, inone form or other, and to a degree, greater or less, largely sharedamong the class to which he belonged. And Indian-hating still exists;and, no doubt, will continue to exist, so long as Indians do.Indian-hating, then, shall be my first theme, and Colonel Moredock, theIndian-hater, my next and last."With which the stranger, settling himself in his seat, commenced--thehearer paying marked regard, slowly smoking, his glance, meanwhile,steadfastly abstracted towards the deck, but his right ear so disposedtowards the speaker that each word came through as little atmosphericintervention as possible. To intensify the sense of hearing, he seemedto sink the sense of sight. No complaisance of mere speech could havebeen so flattering, or expressed such striking politeness as this muteeloquence of thoroughly digesting attention.