{"id":4371,"date":"2018-07-15T18:07:02","date_gmt":"2018-07-15T22:07:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/HatchetOnline\/?p=4371"},"modified":"2024-08-17T14:52:38","modified_gmt":"2024-08-17T18:52:38","slug":"news-and-views-that-wouldnt-fit-notes-from-the-compositors-bench-august-2008","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/news-and-views-that-wouldnt-fit-notes-from-the-compositors-bench-august-2008\/","title":{"rendered":"News and Views that Wouldn’t Fit: Notes from the Compositor’s Bench, August, 2008"},"content":{"rendered":"

First published in August\/September, 2008, Volume 5, Issue 3, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n


\nThe Truth Shall Make You Free
\n<\/i><\/strong>Or
\n<\/i><\/strong>The Sniffler\u2019s Confession<\/i><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I do not often, Reader, have good reason to look much beyond our own humble grounds for things in the way of interesting news\u2014indeed, as friend Porter might express it: \u201cYe gods, with the Bordens<\/i> constantly afoot, what more could a feller possibly need<\/i> in the way of interesting<\/i> news?!\u201d He did express it that way actually, not long ago during a card game.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>Bless his heart, that feller just hasn\u2019t been the same since the hatchet met its marks the summer of 1892.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Now usually I tend to overlook these Porterian <\/i>segues as best I can, but it is sometimes more than a little difficult, to the point where I\u2019m left thinking I might have better luck keeping the feet clean whilst waltzing blindfolded and barefoot through some well-used Swansea cow pasture.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know Porter, if you ever decide to retire<\/i> from being a famous author, lecturer, and historian, you just might find a new career altogether. You\u2019ve become awfully adept at hogwashing in the last few years.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The distinguished author and historian turned up his nose at me in disapproval.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThink of it, Porter: what Mr. Joe Howard did for the bovine community last year at New Bedford\u2014why, you could go him one better and do even greater things for pigs!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter threw down a card and turned his gaze out in the direction of my front windows:<\/span><\/p>\n

When old age shall this generation waste,
\n<\/span><\/span>Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
\n<\/span><\/span>Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say\u2019st,
\n<\/span><\/span>\u201cBeauty is truth, truth beauty,\u201d – that is all
\n<\/span><\/span>Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next instant, he cut loose with what can only be described as a most miserable sneeze. No, bless his heart that feller just hasn\u2019t been the same since the hatchet met its marks the summer of 1892. His resurrection of Mr. John Keats\u2019 scribblings of some threescore and fifteen years now past right here in my front room only served to prove things all the more, you might say.<\/span><\/p>\n

It came out of nowhere. \u201cPorter, have you been sniffing the cork again, feller?\u201d I inquired, laying a card down between us on the table. \u201cYou\u2019re not sounding just right today.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>Now lest you wonder why<\/i> I asked that, Reader, I\u2019d noticed that his s<\/i>\u2019s seemed to be suffering the same malady as had Alice Feeney\u2019s during bygone occasions of \u201cbethottedneth.\u201d For the record, the single time in any given year I\u2019ve ever known Ed Porter to tip the jar<\/i> as it were is during the Christmas holiday season, when he allows himself just enough Madeira to soil the bottom of a pristine glass, and imbibes such within the confines of my own humble abode.<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter looked at me with watery eyes and shook his head as he removed a large handkerchief from his pocket. As he unfurled it, I jerked my thumb in a more-or-less westerly direction. \u201cOver that way feller if you please. My own humors are in pretty good humor at the moment, and I\u2019d like to keep it that way.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter shook his head again but complied. Had he not been sitting right there (or had I my eyes closed) it would have been quite easy to mistake him for a kettleful of water on the stove for all his hissing, wheezing, and spluttering. That image was a fleeting one, for in the very next instant friend Porter turned aside and cut loose with a sneeze that sounded for all the world like a small herd of elephants, in full charge and at the same time choking to death on six French horns, four trombones, and a clarinet.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know feller, if you could somehow manage to tune<\/i> that, Mr. J. P. Sousa just might find a spot for you in his band.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHo, now aren\u2019t we funny! Keep that up and I\u2019ll breed<\/i> on you!\u201d Friend Porter punctuated that threat by once again heaving to into that mainsail-sized handkerchief.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI hab a tode today,\u201d he said as the last echoes of his nasal blast died away.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I\u2019m right glad you cleared that up, feller; I\u2019d thought maybe it was a dose of the pox<\/i> put you in this shape.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He\u2019d been away up to Wutland<\/i> on business, he said, merrily minding his very own when the malady struck.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI see. And so it be writ that since there was no room in the inn, the good folks of Rutland did lodge the famous author in a vacant stall of the town\u2019s foremost livery establishment, I suppose?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cI hab you know dis was a dift<\/i> from admiring weedahs<\/i>.\u201d Friend Porter tried his best to puff out his cheeks with a look of pride, but was thwarted thanks to a repeat performance by the aforementioned thundering pachydermal herd, in full gust.<\/span><\/p>\n

An involuntary tear wound its way down his cheek, followed in close marching order by a sniffle and a snort.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I understand that part of it, Porter\u2014but these admirers,<\/i> are we talking about horses or humans, feller?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>Now it should be noted that in all likelihood we were<\/i> talking about some<\/i> species of admirer anyway, for neatly embroidered upon the soiled and somewhat sogged-out elephantine swatch were the words Richardson & Richardson, Livery Stables, Boarding, and Sales<\/i>. This establishment is apparently located at 32-34 Center Street in Rutland, Vermont.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat in the world did you find so attractive up to Rutland this time of year anyway, Porter? Their weather up that way is usually the same as what we get here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter again heaved a mighty sneeze into the cloth, muttered something about business<\/i> as best I could tell and groaned as he wiped his nose. He had business <\/i>in the town of Rutland, Vermont at least three and sometimes four times in any given year, and had for nearly as long as I\u2019d known him. I\u2019d thought it odd initially, but given events which have transpired occasionally since that first Thursday in August 1892, it is sufficient to say that I\u2019ve seen worse<\/i> things in the way of oddity from Friend Porter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI wondered why Mr. George Buffinton was so good-humored recently,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ll bet it was because you were out of his hair awhile.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter harrumphed <\/i>at me beneath eyes that resembled those of a foundling pup and then dissolved into yet another fit of sneezing.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGive me that thing if you will feller,\u201d I said when he\u2019d finished\u2014\u201ca dry<\/i> end of it, thank you very kindly. I\u2019ll take care of it and get you a fresh cloth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter eyed me warily but handed the swatch over just the same.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be back in two shakes, feller. Your memento will be perfectly safe,\u201d I said. \u201cIn the meantime, I\u2019ll fetch you something that might take care of that beast on your back there.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Taking the proffered end of the cloth betwixt thumb and forefinger, I headed back toward the kitchen, dropped it into a potful of water on the stove, and pulled out a clean cloth from the linen drawer. Pocketing the clean linen, I hauled out the bottle of Madeira along with two cups and headed back in the direction of the sniffling scribbler.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHere you are, Porter,\u201d I said, handing over the clean linen. \u201cSee if that one\u2019s not just a bit better. Your fancy bit of monogrammed sailcloth was getting to be something of a mess. I dropped it into a pot of boiling water on the stove; that should help some <\/i>anyway.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter eyed my kitchen entry somewhat anxiously. \u201cNow feller, ease yourself,\u201d I said, following his gaze. \u201cThe linen you came with is right back there in yonder pot, and will be there just the same when you\u2019re ready to leave. You really should be more attentive to that little memento. The blasted thing fairly squealed in agony when I dropped it into the pot.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter nodded with a sigh, but then caught sight of the Madeira and cups I\u2019d set down upon the table. His eyes took on as much of a devilish twinkle as his present condition would allow. As it was he passed, although barely<\/i>. Intermittent lachrymal flow did about as much for that devilish twinkle as a springtime downpour does for a long-stemmed match fully aflame.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI shouldn\u2019t give you a drop of this, feller\u201d I said, splashing Madeira into a cup and sliding it toward Porter. \u201cThe fact that you\u2019re spouting Keats<\/i> at such hour as this for no reason which a man might be justly paid\u2014well, as I said, it suggests among other things that you\u2019ve already<\/i> taken at least a few laps around Brother Barleycorn\u2019s swimming pool.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter glared at me\u2014briefly. His distaste was summarily snuffed out in the next instant as the aforementioned marauding band of musically-inclined wildlife returned and took up its instruments for another serenade.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYe gods, feller,\u201d I said. \u201cThrow off the mantle of temperance and drink that down if you will. It\u2019s off your usual schedule I know, but any help where it might be found is what I say about the matter.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter nodded, then squeezed his eyes shut and emptied the cup straightaway in one swallow, quivering slightly as he did so. Noting some slight improvement in his former condition, I refilled Porter\u2019s cup and my own, then returned the bottle of Madeira to its usual place.<\/span><\/p>\n

I returned to find Porter in a much gentler condition. The sneezing rampages had largely ceased, although his nose was still pretty badly plugged. He sipped rather tenderly at the contents of his cup I noticed. It seemed to allay his wheezing a fair bit also.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, are we feeling better, old Porter? You certainly look<\/i> to be so, anyway. The ladies may have their business, weeping and wailing about the \u2018Demon rum,\u2019 but you this very day, Porter my good feller, are an example, I should think, of the evils<\/i> of strict temperance. A medicinal nip or two now and then never hurts anyone. Here\u2019s to you, feller!\u201d I raised my cup in a gesture of salute.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Porter just snorted at me and swallowed a bit more of the Madeira in an apparent effort to head off another bout of sneezing. He sniffled and braced himself, but then relaxed again when the feeling had passed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNow then Porter, what\u2019s ailing you besides the cold? You\u2019ve never but once before mentioned the name John Keats that I recall, and that was only in response to a challenge, what was it\u2014two years back?\u201d Porter the card sharp had found his pockets sorely lacking one afternoon after a game. I was ready to give up the ten cent fare that would get him home, but decided to make him work for it a bit. \u201cFinish this line, my good feller\u201d:<\/span><\/p>\n

Give me women, wine, and snuff<\/span>
\nUntil I cry out \u201chold, enough!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, Porter looked at me wide-eyed, mopped his brow and called me a filthy beast for dragging literature<\/i> into the mix and spoiling an otherwise wonderful day of card play\u2014strange ideas that feller had, when wonderful <\/i>day of card play meant no more than empty pockets or purse where shortly before there\u2019d been plenty<\/i> apocket to get him home again.<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter scarleted and muttered something unintelligible, which is just as well. If my hearing was correct, the remark amounted to an ancient Scottish expletive. He suddenly brightened and began to recite:<\/span><\/p>\n

Give me women, wine, and snuff<\/span>
\nUntil I cry out \u201chold, enough!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Here Porter did pause long enough to look at me, a wolfish twinkle of victory in his eye.<\/span><\/p>\n

You may do so sans <\/i>objection<\/span>
\nTill the day of resurrection:<\/span>
\nFor, bless my beard, they aye shall be<\/span>
\nMy beloved Trinity.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cExcellent, feller!\u201d I said, and within a few minutes he left, an unfamiliar jingling in his pockets until he hopped the horse car up the way.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now don\u2019t misunderstand me, Reader. Plagued by whatever faults or foibles as he is occasionally, Mr. Edwin H. Porter the noted scribbler-about-town, lecturer, and historian is neither fool nor fop when it comes to education.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Why, only last year at New Bedford when the Borden matter was just barely out of the legal starting gate at court in New Bedford, Porter proved himself an educated<\/i> feller. The instance to which I refer occurred upon the 5th<\/sup> day of June, in the very court that would see Miss Lizzie Borden tried for the crimes alleged. Before jury selection opened, Mr. Justice Mason briefly outlined the process by which jurors would be selected, not long into his remarks invoking the name of the presiding judge in the cause of the Commonwealth v. John Webster, <\/i>which came before the highest court of the Commonwealth now more than two-score years ago.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Justice Mason had barely gotten out the name of the presiding judge in Webster<\/i> when Porter nudged me in the ribs. \u201cWell, here we go\u2014the circus train has got underway at last. Old Melville, may the Lord bless and keep his soul, would surely be proud to hear the name of Lem Shaw mentioned.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m glad there were none present who answered to the names \u2018Peleg Boomer\u2019 or \u2018Samuel Enderby\u2019 when the role was called\u2014I\u2019d have laughed and walked out the door never to return.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHush up, feller,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m trying to listen to this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter grinned at me. \u201cWhat do you wager the ballot box is scrimshaw?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t make me get the harpoon, feller. If I have to do that, you can wager it will certainly have your name<\/i> on it. Now hush up<\/i>!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

No, to imply that friend Porter is lacking in education by any measure would be unjust and a misrepresentation. It is, however, enough to say that Mr. John Keats is not one whose work he often quotes.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cC\u2019mon now, feller let\u2019s have it. You simply cannot go about dropping Keatsian tidbits in a feller\u2019s abode like that and expect to pass unmolested. It\u2019s a bit like trying to sneak a skunk into one of those fancy cat shows they sometimes have up to Boston, and get away with it; no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you might be, the secret will out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter looked at me anew with those eyes of a foundling pup. \u201cI never did thank you. I\u2019m sorry I missed the New Year celebration but I was\u2026unavoidably detained on my way over here that evening.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you missed a fine soir\u00e9e there feller, and that\u2019s the truth,\u201d I said. \u201cWe had some of the finest food you\u2019ll ever put to your lips thanks to Alice Feeney. The Dohertys arrived late but at least were here. It turned up to be a smaller crowd than expected.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

This I will tell you, Porter my good feller: until fair late of that evening, I was more than ready to leave a boot imprint on that sorry backside of yours. Luckily for said sorry backside, Pat Doherty filled me in on your situation when he arrived. It was handled privately<\/i> feller, betwixt the Captain and me, so that no one else knew.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter nodded, stifling a sniffle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStand up here a minute, feller,\u201d I said, looking him over carefully. Porter stood up without difficulty. \u201cThe bottle of Madeira is\u2014well, you know where it is feller. If you\u2019ll get it, I\u2019ll pour us another nip.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m<\/i> the sick one, and sent to fetch the bottle?\u201d Porter snorted at that, but just the same headed for the spot where I keep the bottle of Madeira. I noted as he did so that his step was actually somewhat improved<\/i> compared to what it had been when he arrived.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy thank you my good feller,\u201d I said upon his return as he handed over the bottle. \u201cYou may sit.\u201d He did so as I poured out two more splashes of Madeira into our cups.<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter resumed his seat and with some mental effort began recounting his activities of early evening, the final hours of the old year 1893.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019d said to arrive at 6:00 or thereabouts in the evening if I remember correctly. I only missed that by ten or so minutes if good intentions mean anything.\u201d Here friend Porter paused and sipped at his cup. \u201cThe revelers were out in force as you may remember.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey were, yes indeed. Seamus Feeney and I had a personal<\/i> encounter with one such reveler,\u201d I said, recounting our experience out in the yard when the G.A.R. band took a notion to strike up Garryowen. <\/i>\u201cThink what you will of Alice Feeney, Porter, but this much I will say: if that girl had been with the 7th<\/sup> Cavalry Regiment back in \u201976, the \u2018Boy General\u2019 just might be around today. I don\u2019t doubt for a minute that Alice would have personally<\/i> whipped<\/i> every last one of the opposing force.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you fared better than I did, and that\u2019s the truth,\u201d Porter said, laughing somewhat darkly. \u201cI\u2019d have made it just fine had I took a slightly different route to get here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t use the horse car then?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I didn\u2019t. Had I started from home<\/i> I would have, but the object of my tardiness put me near enough by here to make a comfortable walk.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I nodded, looked expectantly at Porter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe most I can tell you offhand is that there were a number of them\u2014four or five. They stopped me just over there a ways,\u201d he said, gesturing out my front window. \u201cI paused, thought I\u2019d wish them a good holiday and luck for the new year . . .\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter looked into my eyes. \u201cThey had no interest at all in my good wishes. The next thing I knew, one of them cried out \u2018Well, if it isn\u2019t Mr. Porter of the Globe.<\/i>\u2019 From her tone, you might have thought I\u2019d killed her favorite kitten. Then one of their number grabbed my legs . . .\u201d Porter paused, sniffled and sipped a bit more Madeira to steady himself.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe man who picked him up said he looked as though he had been literally scared out of his mind \u2014had a wild look of terror in his eyes,\u201d Captain Pat Doherty told me months ago on the very night in question. That same look, an almost otherworldly terror, returned to Ed Porter\u2019s eyes as he sat in the front room of my own humble abode sipping at a cup of Madeira.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPorter, are you trying to say that you got yourself whipped<\/i> right there in the public street, is that it?\u201d Friend Porter nodded, wiped his nose and heaved a heavy sigh.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, feller, who was . . . ?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf anyone would know this it\u2019d be you,\u201d he said. \u201cDo you recollect at the New Bedford trial, there was a gaggle of females outdoors most days at court standing steadfast in defense of Miss Lizzie Borden?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Porter there were a great many<\/i> folks out there most days as you may recall.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I know that. I\u2019m trying to think here, please bear with me. The folks I\u2019m thinking of were a local bunch for the most part, but with one or two more besides. They all wore white if I recall, and carried all-weather bumbershoots to ward off rain or sun.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll right, Porter; I\u2019m following you now. I remember them I think\u2014the Sisters of Seraphim<\/i> they called themselves.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter nodded.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now Reader, as you are undoubtedly aware, seraphim<\/i> is a word that dates back to the most ancient of times and refers to the highest class of angels. The Old Testament, sixth chapter of the book of Isaiah, describes them thus:<\/span><\/p>\n

1: In the year that king Uzziah died I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

2: Above it stood the seraphims: each one had six wings; with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

3: And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

4: And the posts of the door moved at the voice of him that cried, and the house was filled with smoke.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

5: Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

6: Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar:\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

7: And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now the Sisters of Seraphim<\/i>, as you might suppose, <\/i>are something entirely different. Sisters of Seraphim <\/i>is what they call themselves, but they are little more than one of the many groups today engaged in feminine promotion<\/i>, you might say.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The only difference betwixt them and the others (Mrs. Livermore being an example which comes to mind at present) is this, so far as I can see: Mary Livermore unfailingly takes the high road. She presents herself as no more than what she is\u2014a fine and worthy example of a woman deserving<\/i> of full recognition.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

The Sisters of Seraphim<\/i> by contrast, take the low road at every<\/i> opportunity. Their aim is to appear<\/i> worthy of the full recognition, which Mrs. Livermore and others like old \u2018Mother\u2019 Bickerdyke truly<\/i> deserve<\/i>\u2014by doing absolutely nothing<\/i> at all. The Seraphims<\/i> in their local incarnation are nothing more than a group of opportunistic, mean-spirited militants unworthy of the time of day\u2014much less any higher<\/i> considerations.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d happily<\/i> see Alice Feeney elected Governor before I\u2019d give the Seraphims<\/i> a blessed thing, and that\u2019s the truth of the matter.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>The Sisters of Seraphim <\/i>is what they call themselves. Trial watchers however, had another name for them altogether: Miss Borden\u2019s Beneficent Biddies.<\/i>\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s odd, really: publicity hounds these folks are, yet they shun or openly scorn any honest, earnest attempts to give them publicity. Mr. Joe Howard, the writer feller, even leaves them be these days. He encountered one of their number upon a trial afternoon during a recess, out front of the courthouse there at New Bedford. Mr. Howard approached one of the Seraphims<\/i>, a female of perhaps threescore years or just shy of that, and the two chatted briefly<\/i> beneath the shade of the lady\u2019s bumbershoot.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell now young man, I ask what you<\/i> would do?\u201d Mr. Joe Howard said to me when that day\u2019s session concluded. \u201cI thought I might do them a service<\/i> somehow. But the woman said \u2018Leave me be this instant, sir, else I will personally clean that disused<\/i> belfry clock<\/i> of yours but good.\u2019 She tapped her forehead and winked<\/i> at me.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, since you put it that way feller, I would have left the bunch alone too, I think.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Joe Howard also mentioned that this local band of Seraphims<\/i> favors such things as public beatings of journalists who are (in their opinion) useless <\/i>and irresponsible<\/i>. He shuddered as he said it.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I never gave it much thought, but Mr. Joe Howard\u2019s encounter with the Seraphims<\/i> might well explain why he took a sudden interest in distressed heifers<\/i> during a murder<\/i> trial!<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPorter, just a minute there feller,\u201d I said, raising my hand. \u201cAre you telling me that it was these Sisters of Seraphim <\/i>put you out of commission the past New Years Eve?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter nodded, but then turned away as his face went scarlet. \u201cI didn\u2019t know myself again for two days afterward. One of that merry little band took a swing at my head with her blasted bumbershoot. Fancy thing it was, with a marble-inlaid handle.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPorter, you\u2019ll excuse me, feller. It\u2019s not that I don\u2019t believe you, but this is a bit difficult to put together all at once.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It was exactly that, although within a moment or two things started to make very good sense\u2014in fact, Porter\u2019s accounting fit in near perfectly with the intelligence I received from Captain Doherty upon the 31st <\/sup>day of December, 1893.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPorter, do you remember anything at all after\u2014?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I remember just what I told you a bit earlier. I was on my way over here and ran upon the Seraphims<\/i>. One of them cried out \u2018Well, if it isn\u2019t Mr. Porter<\/i> of the Globe.<\/i>\u2019 I may have gotten the word Happy <\/i>out before they started in, but I can\u2019t be sure of that at all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDid anyone ever tell<\/i> you anything afterward?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot really. The only thing I know for sure is that they kept me at the Taunton hospital until the second of January.\u201d Waking in the middle of the night to find oneself tied sturdily to the bed in an unfamiliar place does not a thing for the sense of well-being, he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, Porter it would appear that you\u2019ve had no better luck with Miss Lizzie Borden than you\u2019ve had on the lecture circuit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter looked at me with a whatever do you mean?<\/i> sort of look.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh Porter, don\u2019t even try that look. I know all about your brush with disaster at the Hartford Lyceum\u2014the Wesson feller, the putrid flying fruit, all of it. Deny it as you please, but I read the Hartford Courant<\/i> occasionally myself; and unfortunately for a certain author-turned-historian-turned lecturer-about-town, Wish McGillicuddy was also at the Lyceum that evening. He let the puss out of the pouch in the next day\u2019s Courant<\/i>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t see him there,\u201d Porter said. \u201cI thought he\u2019d retired, or found other business anyway.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, now let\u2019s be sensible about things here, feller: on the night in question you were doing your level best to avoid flying fruits and vegetables, so it makes perfect sense<\/i> that you might well have overlooked<\/i> Wish McGillicuddy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I reached into a drawer and pulled out the Courant<\/i> piece that Mr. Wish McGillicuddy had written. \u201cIt\u2019s right here, Porter.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Now Reader, perhaps you may recollect the gentleman of whom I speak\u2014or at the very least his published accounting of the night in question. Mr. Aloysius Lysander McGillicuddy\u2014known informally to friends and readers as Wish\u2014was until just a few years ago known throughout the region as one of the finest newspaper fellers in the business of \u201chard news.\u201d What Ed Porter is to Mr. George Buffinton, Fall River and its environs, Mr. Wish McGillicuddy was to several editors in numerous venues.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

It would be unfair to say that Porter is jealous<\/i> of Mr. Wish McGillicuddy or his abilities, but it is entirely fair to say that they were in former times in direct competition occasionally\u2014or were until Mr. Wish McGillicuddy became involved in something of a scandal a few years ago. McGillicuddy was not involved directly in it but rather indirectly\u2014something along the lines of an observer-turned-unwilling-participant<\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

It happened along about springtime of 1891. McGillicuddy was working for a newspaper in Plymouth County. As Wish himself later said: \u201cWe\u2019d got wind from some reliable source that a certain official of the city of Brockton had a lady-friend he\u2019d become rather fond of<\/i>, shall we say.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNow, of course ordinarily such a thing might be written up on almost any of the society pages. Indeed it might well have been\u2014 except that the gentleman in question had a perfectly lovely wife, two young children and a miniaturized beagle pup who waited faithfully at home for him each night. It oughtn\u2019t take anything more than good Yankee sense to see the problem there.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Owing to a desire for the utmost secrecy and discretion, that certain official of the city of Brockton decided that the best course of action involved occasionally removing himself and this aforementioned lady-friend from Brockton and Plymouth County altogether. After some discussion and deliberation amongst themselves, the two selected the Mellen House at Fall River as the venue-most-likely<\/i>, you might say.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Aloysius Lysander McGillicuddy, every bit the intrepid and resourceful bringer of news that is Ed Porter, ultimately got himself caught up in what we here locally would call a McHenry, gone bad<\/i>. Through a friendly contact at the Mellen House, he obtained entry into the room the official of the city of Brockton would occupy with the aforementioned lady-friend-other-than-his-wife.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Surveying the room, McGillicuddy picked out the most discreet position from which he might indirectly observe, taking notice of any activities that might develop. He slid himself (notebook, pencils and all) beneath the double bed and waited. The Brockton city official and his lady entered the room about twenty minutes later.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt really was the most god-awful and embarrassing place to be,\u201d he later said. \u201cThe one bit of good luck I had, the two of them after a while were making enough noise that they didn\u2019t notice me there at all. I\u2019ve never heard such caterwauling in all my life!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But alas, as it does to the luckiest schoolchildren everywhere, the light of discovery<\/i> did dawn very soon that day in the Mellen House.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe trysting bed<\/i> apparently didn\u2019t care much for the situation either I suppose. Because all of asudden (clearly audible over the amorous sounds above) I heard first a small sigh, thence a cracking sound followed in close order by a deafening squeak. The foot of the bed was giving way. The Brockton city official hollered out, the lady-friend who was not his wife screamed, and the very bands of Hades did strike up all at once it seemed.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI had both of them beat for yellin\u2019 though after just a few seconds, because the full weight of the portside after-end of the bed (official, lady-friend and all) came down right on top of my left leg.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Now as you might suppose Reader, the official of the city of Brockton formed up for immediate retreat, the lady-friend-not-his-wife close behind. McGilicuddy, bless his heart divided his time betwixt alternately hollerin\u2019 for help and cussin\u2019 himself, the Brockton city official, the lady-friend-not-his-wife, the source of the story to start with, and the editor of the newspaper by whom he was employed.<\/span><\/p>\n

Well, they hauled McGillicuddy out of the Mellon House (he was chewing on a water-soaked towel to keep himself from screaming and thus making the situation far worse than it was already), took him straight to the nearest hospital, where physicians were able to detect that his left leg and ankle were broken in at least three places.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Owing to limited equipment, however, they were unable to treat these injuries properly.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

So Wish was sent up to Boston to the Massachusetts General Hospital. He left the city of Fall River with a vow never to return for any reason. It seems that one of the physicians who examined McGillicuddy at Fall River had an odd turn of humor about him, said there was really nothing much to do but get the bone saw and be done with the matter.<\/span><\/p>\n

You\u2019ll pardon me for saying so I hope, Reader, but when Mr. Aloysius Lysander McGillicuddy heard the words bone saw<\/i> he went into immediate action, raising all manner of unshirted hell. He grabbed that doctor feller by the collar of his fine white coat and yanked him downward so that he was bent over the bed, his own face within inches of McGillicuddy\u2019s.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

In pain and sweating buckets by that time, he said, \u201cI want to see Dr. John W. Coughlin\u2014now<\/i>, please. I don\u2019t care where he is<\/i>. If you enjoy being a doctor as much as he enjoys being mayor<\/i> of this pest hole, you\u2019ll get him over here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>Mayor Dr. John W. Coughlin was located in good and due time, and McGillicuddy\u2019s message relayed.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI simply informed the Mayor when he arrived,\u201d as McGillicuddy later said, \u201cthat if he let one of those boneheaded butchers come near<\/i> my leg with a saw, I would do everything<\/i> in my power to see that he was never again<\/i> elected to any<\/i> public office, anywhere.<\/i> I told him it wouldn\u2019t matter if he were the favored veterinarian to Mr. Grover Cleveland\u2019s beloved billy goat Peter\u2014if they took off my leg, I\u2019d personally see him finished<\/i> with politics.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

After a thorough examination of McGillicuddy\u2019s injured leg, the mayor Dr. John W. Coughlin declared amputation too extreme<\/i> and arranged to send him up to Boston to the Massachusetts General Hospital.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mr. Aloysius Lysander McGillicuddy was indeed able to keep that leg as things worked out, although three surgical procedures were required to assure that. He spent the next sixteen months shuttling between surgical procedures and recuperative therapies. He was two days past the second surgical procedure on the morning of August 4, 1892.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The bills for these treatments were duly forwarded to that certain official in Brockton, who promptly paid them on pain of exposure.<\/span><\/p>\n

As you might expect, Reader, Mr. Aloysius Lysander McGillicuddy\u2019s experience at Fall River caused him to re-evaluate his vocational choice. He\u2019s still the same newspaper feller as he ever was, but has merely shifted his focus, as it were. He\u2019s made quite a name for himself writing feature stories, but with a more relevant, newsier<\/i> angle. Mr. Joe Howard could take a lesson from him it seems to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

By the time he covered Mr. Edwin H. Porter\u2019s epic Lyceum appearance, McGillicuddy had finished his surgical cycle and was able to get around quite well, only occasionally using a walking stick.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPorter, my good feller,\u201d I said, as I sipped away the last bit of Madeira in my cup, \u201cwere I in your shoes I\u2019d not rest a minute until I saw every last one of those Sisters of Seraphim<\/i> locked up on charges of assault and criminal mischief.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWould you have said the same thing to McGillicuddy? Does personal embarrassment<\/i> mean nothing at all to you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPorter, these are two different instances altogether feller. What makes them different is that at the time you were stomped over by that gaggle of biddies, yours was the mantel of private citizen making his way to a place of merriment and celebration.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Friend Porter harrumphed <\/i>at me, emptied his cup of Madeira and waited. When the expected sneeze failed to show itself, he grinned and heaved a sigh of relief.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t forget your fancy bit of sailcloth, Porter,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Keats was right after all:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBeauty is truth, truth beauty,\u201d – that is all
\n<\/span><\/i><\/span>Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m glad Porter finally told it. I suspect he is, too.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Doug Walters takes a whimsical look at modern day from the perspective of a Victorian.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15,"featured_media":5253,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[47],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4371","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-notes-from-the-compositors-bench"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4371","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4371"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4371\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5346,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4371\/revisions\/5346"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5253"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4371"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4371"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4371"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}