The Fortunes of Oliver Horn | Page 9

at six o'clock, served without
pretence or culinary assistance from the pastry-cook outside--even the
ices were prepared at home. To these dinners any distinguished
strangers who were passing through the city were sure to be invited.
Malachi in his time had served many famous men--Charles Dickens,
Ole Bull, Macready, and once the great Mr. Thackeray himself with a
second glass of "that pale sherry, if you please," and at the great man's
request, too. An appreciation which, in the case of Mr. Thackeray, had
helped to mollify Malachi's righteous wrath over the immortal
novelist's ignorance of Southern dishes:
"Dat fat gemman wid de gold specs dat dey do say is so mighty great,
ain't eat nuffin yet but soup an' a li'l mite o' 'tater," he said to Aunt
Hannah on one of his trips to the kitchen as dinner went on. "He let dat
tar'pin an' dem ducks go by him same as dey was pizen. But I lay he
knows 'bout dat ole yaller sherry," and Malachi chuckled. "He keeps a'
retchin' fur dat decanter as if he was 'feared somebody'd git it fust."
On Fridays there would invariably be a musicale-- generally a quartette,
with a few connoisseurs to listen and to criticise. Then the piano would
be drawn out from its corner and the lid propped up, so that Max Unger
of the "Harmonie" could find a place for his 'cello behind it, and there
still be room for the inventor with his violin--a violin with a tradition,
for Ole Bull had once played on it and in that same room, too, and had
said it had the soul of a Cremona --which was quite true when Richard
Horn touched its strings.
On all the other nights of the week Mrs. Horn was at home to all who
came. Some gentle old lady from across the Square, perhaps, in lace
caps and ribbons, with a work-basket filled with fancy crewels, and
whose big son came at nine o'clock to take her home; or Oliver's young

friends, boys and girls; or old Doctor Wallace, full of the day's gossip;
or Miss Lavinia Clendenning, with news of the latest Assembly; or
Nathan Gill with his flute.
But then it was Nathan always, whatever the occasion. From the time
Malachi unlocked the front doors in the morning until he bolted them
for the night, Nathan came and went. The brick pavements were worn
smooth, the neighbors said, between the flute-player's humble lodgings
in a side street and the Horn house, so many trips a day did the old man
make. People smiled at him as he hurried along, his head bent forward,
his long pen-wiper cloak reaching to his heels, a wide-brimmed Quaker
hat crowning his head.
And always, whenever the night or whatever the function or whoever
the guests, a particular side-table was sure to be moved in from
Malachi's pantry and covered with a snow-white cloth which played an
important part in the evening's entertainment. This cloth was never
empty. Upon its damask surface were laid a pile of India-blue plates
and a silver basket of cake, besides a collection of low glass tumblers
with little handles, designed to hold various brews of Malachi's own
concoctions, which he alone of all the denizens of Kennedy Square
could compound, and the secret of which unhappily has perished with
him.
And what wondrous aromas, too!
You may not believe it, but I assure you, on the honor of a Virginian,
that for every one of these different nights in the old house on Kennedy
Square there were special savory odors emanating from these brews,
which settled at once and beyond question the precise function of the
evening, and all before you could hand your hat to Malachi. If, for
instance, as the front door was opened the aroma was one of hot coffee
and the dry smell of fresh wafer-biscuit mingled with those of a certain
brand of sherry, then it was always to be plain whist in the parlor, with
perhaps only Colonel Clayton and Miss Clendenning or some one of
the old ladies of the neighborhood, to hold hands in a rubber. If the
fumes of apple-toddy mingled with the fragrance of toasted apples were
wafted your way, you might be sure that Max Unger, and perhaps

Bobbinette, second violin, and Nathan--whatever the function it was
always Nathan, it must be remembered--and a few kindred spirits who
loved good music were expected; and at the appointed hour Malachi,
his hands encased in white cotton gloves, would enter with a flourish,
and would graciously beg leave to pass, the huge bowl held high above
his head filled to the brim with smoking apple-toddy, the little pippins
browned to a turn floating on its top.
If the occasion was one of