Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 April 1885 — THE CURIOUS SCRIBE. [ARTICLE]

THE CURIOUS SCRIBE.

CHAPTER I. I will not bore yon with a long story. I never told a long story. No one can say that Eli Buck has ever told stretched-ont anecdotes to a gaping company. Modest? Well, I’m not exactly bashfnl, but I haven’t that solfposh to which many a man owes his prominence. I was educated for a lawyer. In fact, I practiced the devilish profession for a short time. I say dev? uish because, during my short, and as Brete Harte would say, unhallowed career as a lawyer, I was fined for contempt of court and was mercilessly thumped by a witness who insisted that my pointless questions had led him unwittingly into falsehood. I shall not, however, discuss my career as a lawyer. It is of myself as an editor that I desire to speak. From the time when my recollection seemed to come ont of a dark closet and flit, like a miller, around the candle of newly awakened existence, I have had a great fondness for newspapers. My father often said that this predilection for hurried print would send me to the poor-house, but I found consolation in the reflection that considerable ingenuity would find long employment in arranging a poorer house than that which my father owned. Well, at last I secured a printing office. It was bought at a Sheriffs side. At different times, many papers of different names, had been issued from the worn hand-press, bnt waving aside the entire list of back-numbered christenings, I preferred to call my sheet the Arkansaw Cat Fish. This was surely an odd name—a kind of “odds-fish” name—and it was not, as an ignorant and heartless wag, who never paid his subscription, remarked, intended for exj elusive circulation among the colored people. One day while I was hard at work, an old man, very tall, with white hair and shrunken cheeks, came into the office. “I am very anxious to secure work.” eaid he. “I am the oldest compositor in the State. I bave worn myself out on daily papers, and now I wish to work on a weekly, where, instead of Buffering under gaslight, I can spend my nights in quiet. I ask for but little remuneration—a boarding place and a decent burial. Withers is my name.” I looked at him to determine if his mind were right, but in his calm eye there was no traces of insanity. “My dear sir,” said I, “do you expect to die so soon ?” “I have consumption,” he replied, “and my course is nearly run; but I am prepared. I regret no past; fear no future.” “It is true that I need some one, for •with my short experience I am a very slow compositor, and it is true that I am not able to pay an active printer.” “I can set up your paper with but little trouble. Say the word and I will take off my coat.”

CHAPTER H. The old man was an excellent compositor, wonderfully correct and untiring in his effort to please. * All day he would sit on a high stool, putting tip type with a regular click. His closest approach to a smile was the grim expression that crossed his face when he b nt himself over the “case” and coughed with a hollow sound. He kept a bottle of cod liver oil setting on the press, and three times a day he would take up the bottle and drink with as much zest, it appeared to me, as ‘ though he were imbibing choice wine. He slept in the office. One night while we were Bitting by the stove, he looked up suddenly and asked:«, “What is your religion ?" “1 do not belong to any church.” Which church do you favor ?” “I favor them all, for they all point to a place of final rest ” “And a final liellT said he. “Yes, the most of them believe in a hell, though not so strongly, I fancy, as they did before education became so general.” “Not so much as they did,” he assented. “Many of them do not now believe that bell is necessary to salvation, but there must be a difference in the treatment cf good and bad souls. Supposes man, who never harmed any one,. should kill hiniself ? Do you think bis soul would find rest ?” \ \

. “That’s a question upon which I would not likt to express an opinion." t “It if a question though," he continued, “which ooncerns me very much. My suffering daily increases, but I don’t see that I am approaching the grave with that degree of acceleration which promises an early relief from pain. I have often thought that in my case, a man would be justifiable in taking his own life. It looks to me as though I am relentlessly tortured.” I hardly knew what reply to make, for I felt that the old man had cause to complain, but after a few moments of reflection, I said: “Wait No matter how much you may be racked by pain, wait You surely cannot live much longer.” A light of encouragement shone in his eyes as he said: “Ah, those are pleasant words.” iAfter this I fancied that he was not so restless. He continued to take medicine, to alky pain rather than to prolong life, he said. He wrote several strangely readable articles for the Cat Fish. I didn’t know, that with all my experience in handling manuscripts, I have even seen a handwriting so peculiar as his. A number of our citizens who saw it remarked its dissimilarity to any chirography they had ever beheld, ond among them the old man was known as the curious scribe. , • One evening as I was about to leave the office, he followed me to the door. “Mr. Buck,” said he, “I think now that my time is short.” He looked as though he wanted to smile, but that his poor old lips had -lost the movement necessary to the reflection of so pleasing an expression. “Why do you think so. Mr. Withers?” v '■ . “I dreamed last night that I was dead. I thought that I lay down in quiet rest, like a tired man who goes to bed.” ■** ■; ~T~7

“I don’t think that you should sleep here alone.” “Yes,” he replied. “The presence of anyone would disturb my meditations. I have and impression that I will die suddenly. An attendant would do no good, and would rob the first few hours of my long coveted sleep of that deep solitude which I desire shall surround me.” As I was walking down the road toward the house where I boarded on long time and short rations, I met ’Squire Duval. “Well, Buck,” when I had stopped and shaken hands with him, “how is the curious scribe getting along?” “Almost cheerful in the thought that he is soon to leave us,” I replied. “Strange old man,'mighty queer, bnt I don’t think that his mind’s altogether out o’ whack. Him an’ me agrees putty well here o’ late, fur I’ve mighty nigh made a spiritualist outen him. ’Tuther day when he ’peered to be so dead sot on suicide, I said to him, says I, ‘Withers, don’t do it. If you do, your grade will be low. Live on, even if you do suffer, an’ your grade will be high.’" The next morning, as I was going to the office, I overtook the Sqnire near the place where I had met him the day before. “B'leve I’ll go with you,” said he, “an’ have a few moments’ chat with the old feller." There was no lock on the office door, and lifting the latch, we entered. Great God I The old man’s body lay on the ?fl6or. His head, with the face turned toward us, lay ou the imposing stone. A bloody—an awful scene! On the stone, near the head, lay a sheet of paper covered with the old man’s peculiar writing. Almost breathlessly, I read these words: “ Y6u will be surprised to find my head up here and my body on the floor. You do not see how it is possible for a man to cat off his head and place it where he chooses and then throw his body on the floor. It is sigular, but you see for yourself. How would you go about such a performance ? Ten to one you would fail.”

CHAPTER lIL Never before or since have I seen such excitement in a town. It was useless to deny that the note had been written by the curious scribe, but the old man could not have entirely severed his own head from his body, and, even could he have done so, he could not have placed it on the stone. Why any one should have murdered him no one could conceive. Expert detectives came and spent days in looking for a clue, but went away puzzled. ’Squire Duval declared that the old man had been aided by bad spirits, in the execution of the bloody design, yet this, while it may have found ready supporters among people who believed in supernatural agencies, was ridiculed by the Coroner and laughed at by the jury. . Some time previous to the arrival of the old man, I had incurred the mortal enmity of a fellow named Givens. This soulless wretch, biding his time, swore out a warrant for my arrest, charging, me with the murder of the curious scribe. Of course I was indignant, but I soon saw that the people paid but little attention to my protestations of innocence. I was arraigned for examination before a Justice of the Peace. I had ’Squire Duval and the roan with whom I boarded, introduced S 3 witnesses. The ’Squire’s testimony amounted to no ting, but the testimony of my landlord made my blood run cold. ‘‘Mr. Buck went to bed at the usual hour,” said he, “but about midnight he got up and went out When he came back, which he did after some time, I heard him washing his hands, and at morning When I went to the wash shelf on the porch I saw blood Rtains in the bottom of the bowl.” The truth is, unable to sleep I had gotten up. I went out, lighted my pipe, and walked around, smoking. XV I was returning to the house, I came in contact with the end of a rail which projec ed over the fence, forcing a few drops of bloo<f from my nose. When I made the statement, the people looked suspiciously at me. My lawyer made an able Bpeech, dwelling on the fact that I had nothing against him; and although 1. had known him to lie something of a materialist, yet supported the ’Squire’s opinion insomuch that as the old man had unquestionably written the note, he might nave cut off his own head. < The magistrate decided that the evidence was sufficiently strong to justify

my <3e£ention, and, as the case was not bailable, I was taken to jail. I bad great hopes that the grand jury would fail to return an indictment, but I was disappointed. When it became known that the charge Against me was sustained by the gentlemen in secret session, a mob assembled and it was with great difficulty that the sheriff could keep me from the clutches of the yelling avengers. f» One morning, just before the meeting of the court before which I was to be tried, the sheriff eintered the jail And said: “Mr. Buck, you are free. Bead this letter. It was written by a crazy man, well known in this community, and was addressed to the circuit judge.” The surprise was so gladdening^—the thought of regaining my liberty and once more taking my place among res spected men, filled me with such a de-’ sire to throw up my hat that it was with difficulty that I could repress my exultation long enough to read the letter. The document which effected my liberation ran as follows: “Judge, while no one is bothering me, and while I sit alone in my room, number 102 left wing, I will drop youJA few lines. We used to go to school toj gether didn’t we, judge ? Well, some time ago—l don’t kqow how long for sometimes it seems ten years and then ten minutes—l slipped away from the asylum. They had me the privilege of walking out. I got son a train and went up to your town. It was night and nobody saw me. After I had walked around awhile, I got down on my knees and lapped water ont of a puddle. Yes, I did. I saw a light in a house and I went in. s An old man with white hair was in the house. It tickled me to look at him. While we were talking, a funny idea occurred to me: ‘Suppose the people were to come here in the morning and find that old man’s head on the rock table, What would they say ? It would puzzle ’em if he was to leave a note saying that he had cut off his head and put it there. I could put his head there and write the note, but the people might know his handwriting and detect the forgery. I won’t commit forgery. It is wrong. They send the folks to the penitentiary' for forgery. I’ll get him to ’ write the note.’ That is tfhe way the funny idea ran through my head. I began to talk pleasantly to him, told him that I owned a farm a short distance from town. Well, I do, judge. I won’t tell a lie unless it is to help along a great cause. ‘Will you do me a great favor?’ I asked. He said that he would. ‘I want to play a joke on my little girl,’ said L ‘She can read and write, but I can’t. The other day she whipped her doll. I told her that she ought not to be so cruel, that if she didn't mind the doll would commit suicide. Now, I tell yon what lam going to do. lam going to cut off the doll’s head and put it on a stool and leave a note, explaining the funny situation. While she is weeping over the death of her doll I will take out a nicer one which I shall have handy, and make her glad. Won’t you please write down the words I dictate?’ He laughed at the idea, said it was the first time he had laughed for years. I told him that J was glad to afford him any amusement, and that I would be grateful 4f he would write the wdrds for me. IJe did so and I went ont. I slipped into a store, through a window end got a new butcher knife. Then I went back and found the old man reading. We talked a while and then, when he wasn’t noticing me, I grabbed him by the throat and forced him to the floor. He was too weak to struggle much and I had very little trouble in cutting his throat, but cutting off ki3 head was not such an easy job. I got it off after a while, and'had to laugh when I put it on the rock table, and when I put the note beside it. It tickled me so much That I had to blow out the light. I shut the door carefully and went away. I jumped on a freight train and rode where nobody could see me. When I got off, I threw nearly all of my clothes in the river. By morning I was at the asylum. They had been looking for me. Since then they won’t let me go out I showed this letter to the superintendent and expected him to laugh, but be did’t. He can’t see a joke. I asked him to hand it back, that I wanted to write a few more lines. He did so. If you see the old man’s head, it will tickle you.” * * * m * * The people vlio would have been willing to bang me, offered to generously support my paper if I would remain, but the town was distasteful to me. I am now engaged in farming, and am reasonably contented, bnt I shudder every time I see an old man with while hair .—Arkansaw Traveler.