American citizen. [volume] (Canton, Miss.) 1864-1890, 1873-06-21
VOL. NXIII.
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T.
BY MARY HARTWELL.

the conformation she gives his head, de
veloping this bump, suppressing that, may
shape his course to happiness or misery
before he has voice in the matter. Yet
ever do great effects hang on little hooks
of causes. Mr.. Spurzheim tells us if that
little bony process is tlattened whereunder
Hope is supposed to tabernacle, the man
is predisposed to melancholy, to the black
blues, to selfdestruction, in fact.
My Tom had a brave olive face, but his
fleece must have grown over that bump
depressed, as grass grows over a sunken
grave. You see | want to handle Toms
case impartially; to find excuses for him
if I can. You have no right to judge a
man before looking at all the motives I'M
der which he moved.
When Tom was very young, finding
himself in the mud, he determined to
stand high and dry soon as endeavor
could put him so. He took hold of life
with his might Now every son of Adam
must expect to be turned out of his garden
with people is that they expect too much
of the world. Tom held it only honest of
the world to give him success for his hon
est endeavOr. But the world Is Just
''leetle near" like Barkis, hard listed in
dealing out rewards to beginners.
Toms natural bent was towards Journal
ism. So he begun in the chrysalis state of
carrier, and wriggled through the inter
mediate stages of printer, reporter, cor
respondent, hoping in time to sport in he
high sun of prosperity, full-spread,
qreen-bached editor-a mighty editor, who
should reach all over the nation and
mould the masses. That was Toms ideal
Tom. And do say, and shall maintain
till my latest breath, it is nobler to point
your arrow at the sun and miss it, than to
spend your life growing vain over your
ability to bring down game flying on a
level with your nose.
Toms peculiar genius was not appre-
ciated by the public. He was progress
sive, independent fellow, but failed to
make himself 1.-The style" He was faith
full reporter, ran up and down whole
Babels of stairs, played Nero over fires
till he could scent flame for miles, outran
the coroner to every murder, and knew
everything that was going on almost be-
fore it happened. But there We're things
my spirited Tom did not do. He never
borrowed Jenkins quill, and went to Mrs.
Grundy's ball with Webster's Unabridged
under his arm to squeeze dry of adjectives
on the dry-goods there whirled before
him. He never whispered to the public
how lovely the refined and elegant Mrs.
A looked in sand-papered fiounces, how
Miss Florence No on this occasion found
something to wear in the shape of trans
cendcnt robe de sole, finished by an elabo-
rate dress-coat with tails en- train, and the
stately Misses B. disported themselves
in superb and overpowering point shawls.
But he was father to many of those
startling paragraphs, now so common to
the reporter that they cease to shock you.
Instead of telling you that Patrick Muir
ply fell off a train and was killed. he
would dish you up spicy item about
Mr.. Murphy's diving from the top of
car after his hat when running at thirty
miles an hour, and his sons f1lially wear
ing that hat at the funeral next day
Unfortunately, just as Tom was coming
out nervous correspondent, he fell in
love. Now, generally speaking, it is good
to fall in love. The best mental exercise
you are capable of, is loving. 1t isn't
the "saddest of all the sad things of 1ife''
as MIR. Willard sings. Nor life, nor death,
nor municipalities, nor powers can sepa-
rate our souls from the crowns which rest
on them when we learn this self-renunci-
alton. You had better even love hui
man grind and have it wear you to
intense keenness and sensibility, than
tumble about rusty and blunt all your
days. But no two people look at thing
in the same light. My ardent, impassion-
ed Tom expected as large return from
his investment in matrimony as he did
from his investment in business. He
hadn't learned large charity for his kind.
He was young. And truly few have
learned it when they are old.
He tore his hair, and neglected his
work, till the angel was in his arms. Then
after a brief revel, he stared to discover
that angels take deal of pluming, are
capricious in their desires, and fret to fly
higher than single poor newspaper
mans quill will carry them. If Tom had
married his grandmother, or the strong
m Of ba
her straight skirts and umbrella, or if he
had met the queen of women that joyous,
true, passionate, strong, mobile creature,
who takes hold of the world and blesses
her whole passage through it, how diff
ferent might Toms record have been!
But he married Ada Ada had bright
hair, but it shone like the sun-abOve
frequent storms. She was small, but her
wants were large. She wasn't an intel
lectual woman no blue was Ada, but she
made Tom blue. You want your wife to
adapt herself to your needs-to be your
child, friend, sister, mother. What would
you do with woman forever pulling
back from your leading hand, with about
as much insi ght of you and your love as a
lap-dog in ribbonss Why the manufac-
ture of women without souls goes on,
know no., unless it be because there is
demand for them among the unsupplted
Ada's spirit lay bleeding ever. Be
cause her dress wasn't flounced like Mrs.
Smiths or was f1ounced like Mrs. Browns;
because Toms paper sent him North,
when he could see, if he were not utterly
selfish, that she needed a trip South; be
cause he scrubbed until late at night, and
because he didn't scribble enough; be
cause he didn't make fortune, and be-
cause he didn't lavish more on her;
because she couldn't go to Washington,
and because she did go to Washington,
but couldn't keep up with the Cabinet
ladies. But in all her wailing, it never
ting wife for the proud and sensitive
fight for the position he could give her
Neither did she lift up her voice and weep
because her disposition developed his
bile and made him desperate.
Misfortunes gloomed around Tom His
paper changed hands, and instead of be
ing beckoned higher, he was put in
tered Tom, "This to the end of the chap
teri"
you don't seem to care what becomes
of your wifer' whimpered Ada.
Then he fell sick, and some clever fel-
low stepped into even this lower
place. Tom was put to one make
shift and another. Had good
berth half promised to him here,
and brilliant prospects opened to
him there; but when he put out his hand,
they weren't there. Just my luckn' he
fell into the habit of saying. He did the
meanest literary work, except toadying
This he never was driven to, even by Ada's