The Gentleman from Indiana | Page 9

Muggleton cricket match and the
subsequent dinner oratory.
The lecture proceeded. The orator winged away to soary heights with
gestures so vigorous as to cause admiration for his pluck in making use
of them on such a night; the perspiration streamed down his face, his
neck grew purple, and he dared the very face of apoplexy, binding his
auditors with a double spell. It is true that long before the peroration the
windows were empty and the boys were eating stolen, unripe fruit in
the orchards of the listeners. The thieves were sure of an alibi.
The Hon. Mr. Halloway reached a logical conclusion which convinced
even the combative and unwilling that the present depends largely upon
the past, while the future will be determined, for the most part, by the
conditions of the present. "The future," he cried, leaning forward with
an expression of solemn warning, "The future is in our own hands,
ladies and gentlemen of the city of Plattville. Is it not so? We will find
it so. Turn it over in your minds." He leaned backward and folded his
hands benevolently on his stomach and said in a searching whisper;
"Ponder it." He waited for them to ponder it, and little Mr. Swanter, the
druggist and bookseller, who prided himself on his politeness and who
was seated directly in front, scratched his head and knit his brows to
show that he was pondering it. The stillness was intense; the fans
ceased to beat; Mr. Snoddy could be heard breathing dangerously. Mr.
Swanter was considering the advisability of drawing a pencil from his

pocket and figuring on it upon his cuff, when suddenly, with the energy
of a whirlwind, the lecturer threw out his arms to their fullest extent
and roared: "It is a fact! It is carven on stone in the gloomy caverns of
TIME. It is writ in FIRE on the imperishable walls of Fate!"
After the outburst, his voice sank with startling rapidity to a tone of
honeyed confidence, and he wagged an inviting forefinger at Mr.
Snoddy, who opened his mouth. "Shall we take an example? Not from
the marvellous, my friends; let us seek an illustration from the ordinary.
Is that not better? One familiar to the humblest of us. One we can all
comprehend. One from our every-day life. One which will interest even
the young. Yes. The common house-fly. On a window-sill we place a
bit of fly-paper, and contiguous to it, a flower upon which the happy
insect likes to feed and rest. The little fly approaches. See, he hovers
between the two. One is a fatal trap, an ambuscade, and the other a safe
harbor and an innocuous haven. But mystery allures him. He poises,
undecided. That is the present. That, my friends, is the Present! What
will he do? WHAT will he do? What will he DO? Memories of the past
are whispering to him: 'Choose the flower. Light on the posy.' Here we
clearly see the influence of the past upon the present. But, to employ a
figure of speech, the fly-paper beckons to the insect toothsomely, and,
thinks he; 'Shall I give it a try? Shall I? Shall I give it a try?' The future
is in his own hands to make or unmake. The past, the voice of
Providence, has counselled him: 'Leave it alone, leave it alone, little fly.
Go away from there.' Does he heed the warning? Does he heed it,
ladies and gentlemen? Does he? Ah, no! He springs into the air, decides
between the two attractions, one of them, so deadly to his interests
and--drops upon the fly-paper to perish miserably! The future is in his
hands no longer. We must lie upon the bed that we have made, nor can
Providence change its unalterable decrees."
After the tragedy, the orator took a swallow of water, mopped his brow
with the figured handkerchief and announced that a new point herewith
presented itself for consideration. The audience sank back with a gasp
of release from the strain of attention. Minnie Briscoe, leaning back,
breathless like the others, became conscious that a tremor agitated her
visitor. Miss Sherwood had bent her head behind the shelter of the

judge's broad shoulders; was shaking slightly and had covered her face
with her hands.
"What is it, Helen?" whispered Miss Briscoe, anxiously. "What is it? Is
something the matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing, dear." She dropped her hands from her face. Her
cheeks were deep crimson, and she bit her lip with determination.
"Oh, but there is! Why, you've tears in your eyes. Are you faint? What
is it?"
"It is only--only----" Miss Sherwood choked, then cast a swift glance at
the profile of the melancholy young man. The perfectly dismal
decorum of this gentleman seemed to inspire her