CHAPTER I.
TWO HAT WEARERS.
Princess Anne, as its royal name implies, is an old seat of justice, andgentle-minded town on the Eastern Shore. The ancient county of Somersethaving been divided many years before the revolutionary war, and itscourts separated, the original court-house faded from the world, and theforest pines have concealed its site. Two new towns arose, and flourishyet, around the original records gathered into their plain brickoffices, and he would be a forgetful visitor in Princess Anne who wouldnot say it had the better society. He would get assurances of this from"the best people" living there; and yet more solemn assurances from thetwo venerable churches, Presbyterian and Episcopalian, whosegrave-stones, upright or recumbent, or in family rows, say, in epitaphsLatinized, poetical, or pious, "_We_ belonged to the society of PrincessAnne." That, at least, is the impression left on the visitor as hewanders amid their myrtle and creeper, or receives, on the wide, loamystreets, the bows of the lawyers and their clients.
There were but two eccentric men living in Princess Anne in the earlyhalf of our century, and both of them were identified by their hats.
The first was Jack Wonnell, a poor fellow of some remote origin who hadonce attended an auction, and bought a quarter gross of beaver hats.Although that happened years before our story opens, and the fashionshad changed, Jack produced a new hat from the stock no oftener than whenhe had well worn its predecessor, and, at the rate of two hats a year,was very slowly extinguishing the store. Like most people who frequentauctions, he was not provident, except in hats, and presented astartling appearance in his patched and shrunken raiment when he mounteda bright, new tile, and took to the sidewalk. His name had become, inall grades of society, "Bell-crown."
The other eccentric citizen was the subject of a real mystery, and evenmore burlesque. He wore a hat, apparently more than a century old, of atall, steeple crown, and stiff, wavy brim, and nearly twice as high asthe cylinders or high hats of these days. It had been rubbed andrecovered and cleaned and straightened, until its grotesque appearancewas infinitely increased. If the wearer had walked out of the court ofKing James I. directly into our times and presence, he could not haveproduced a more singular effect. He did not wear this hat on everyoccasion, nor every day, but always on Sabbaths and holidays, on funeralor corporate celebrations, on certain English church days, and wheneverhe wore the remainder of his extra suit, which was likewise of thegenteel-shabby kind, and terminated by greenish gaiters, nearly thecounterpart, in color, of the hat. To daily business he wore a cheap,common broadbrim, but sometimes, for several days, on freak or unknownmethod, he wore this steeple hat, and strangers in the place generallygot an opportunity to see it.
Meshach Milburn, or "Steeple-top," was a penurious, grasping, hardlysocial man of neighborhood origin, but of a family generallyunsuccessful and undistinguished, which had been said to be dying outfor so many years that it seemed to be always a remnant, yet neverquite gone. He alone of the Milburns had lifted himself out of theforest region of Somerset, and settled in the town, and, by silence,frugality, hard bargaining, and, finally, by money-lending, had become aperson of unknown means--himself almost unknown. He was, ostensibly, amerchant or storekeeper, and did deal in various kinds of things,keeping no clerk or attendant but a negro named Samson, who knew aslittle about his mind and affections as the rest of the town. Samson'sbusiness was to clean and produce the mysterious hat, which he knew tobe required every time he saw his master shave.
As soon as the lather-cup and hone were agitated, Samson, withoutinquiry, went into a big green chest in the bedroom over the old woodenstore, and drew out of a leather hat-box the steeple-crown, whereMeshach Milburn himself always sacredly replaced it. Then "Samson Hat,"as the boys called him, exercised his brush vigorously, and put thequeer old head-gear in as formal shape as possible, and he silentlyattended to its rehabilitation through the medium of the village hatter,never leaving the shop until the tile had been repaired, and sufferingnone whatever to handle it except the mechanic. In addition to this,Samson cooked his master's food, and performed rough work around thestore, but had no other known qualification for a confidential servantexcept his bodily power.
He was now old, probably sixty, but still a most formidable pugilist;and he had caught, running afoot, the last wild deer in the county.Though not a drinking man Samson Hat never let a year pass withouthaving a personal battle with some young, willing, and powerful negro.His physical and mental system seemed to require some such periodicalindulgence, and he measured every negro who came to town solely in thelight of his prowess. At the appearance of some Herculean orclean-chested athlete, Samson's eye would kindle, his smile start up,and his friendly salutation would be: "You're a _good_ man! 'Most asgood as me!" He was never whipped, rumor said, but by an inoffensiveblack class-leader whom he challenged and compelled to fight.
"Befo' God, man, I never see you befo'! I'se jined de church! I kintfight! I never didn't do it!"
"Can't help it, brother!" answered Samson. "You're too _good_ a man togo froo Somerset County. Square off or you'll ketch it!"
"Den if I must I must! de Lord forgive me!" and after a tremendousbattle the class-leader came off nearly conqueror.
Whenever Samson indulged his gladiatorial propensities he disappearedinto the forest whence he came, and being a free man of mentalindependence equal to his nerve, he merely waited in his lonely cabinuntil Meshach Milburn sent him word to return. Then silently the oldnegro resumed his place, looked contrition, took the few bitter,overbearing words of his master silently, and brushed the ancient hat.
Meshach kept him respectably dressed, but paid him no wages; the negrohad what he wanted, but wanted little; on more than one occasion thecourt had imposed penalties on Samson's breaches of the peace, and helay in jail, unsolicitous and proud, until Meshach Milburn paid thefine, which he did grudgingly; for money was Meshach's sole pursuit, andhe spent nothing upon himself.
Without a vice, it appeared that Meshach Milburn had not an emotion,hardly a virtue. He had neither pity nor curiosity, visitors norfriends, professions nor apologies. Two or three times he had beensummoned on a jury, when he put on his best suit and his steeple-crown,and formally went through his task. He attended the Episcopal worshipevery Sunday and great holiday, wearing inevitably the ancient tile,which often of itself drew audience more than the sermon. He gave a verysmall sum of money and took a cheap pew, and read from his prayer-bookmany admonitions he did not follow.
He was not litigious, but there was no evading the perfectness of hiscontracts. His searching and large hazel eyes, almost proud and quiteunkindly, and his Indian-like hair, were the leading elements of a facenot large, but appearing so, as if the buried will of some longfrivolous family had been restored and concentrated in this man and hadgiven a bilious power to his brows and jaws and glances.
His eccentricity had no apparent harmony with anything else nor anyespecial sensibility about it. The boys hooted his hat, and the littlegirls often joined in, crying "Steeple-top! He's got it on! Meshach'sloose!" But he paid no attention to anybody, until once, at court time,some carousing fellows hired Jack Wonnell to walk up to Meshach Milburnand ask to swap a new bell-crown for the old decrepit steeple-top.Looking at Wonnell sternly in the face, Meshach hissed, "You miserablevagrant! Nature meant you to go bareheaded. Beware when you speak to meagain!"
"I was afraid of him," said Jack Wonnell, afterwards. "He seemed to havea loaded pistol in each eye."
No other incident, beyond indiscriminate ridicule, was recorded of thishat, except once, when a group of little children in front of JudgeCustis's house began to whisper and titter, and one, bolder than therest, the Judge's daughter, gravely walked up to the unsocial man; itwas the first of May, and he was in his best suit:
"Sir," she said, "may I put a rose in your old hat?"
The harsh man looked down at the little queenly child, standing straightand slender, with an expression on her face of composure and courtesy.Then he looked up
and over the Judge's residence to see if anymischievous or presuming person had prompted this act. No one was insight, and the other children had run away.
"Why do you offer me a flower?" he said, but with no tenderness.
"Because I thought such a very old hat might improve with a rose."
He hesitated a minute. The little girl, as if well-born, received hisstrong stare steadily. He took off the venerable old head-gear, and putit in the pretty maid's hand. She fixed a white rose to it, and then heplaced the hat and rose again on his head and took a small piece of goldfrom his pocket.
"Will you take this?"
"My father will not let me, sir!"
Meshach Milburn replaced the coin and said nothing else, but walked downthe streets, amid more than the usual simpering, and the weather-beatendoor of the little rickety storehouse closed behind him.