{"id":4432,"date":"2018-07-16T17:38:00","date_gmt":"2018-07-16T21:38:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/HatchetOnline\/?p=4432"},"modified":"2024-08-17T07:22:17","modified_gmt":"2024-08-17T11:22:17","slug":"news-and-views-that-wouldnt-fit-notes-from-the-compositors-bench-november-2008","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/news-and-views-that-wouldnt-fit-notes-from-the-compositors-bench-november-2008\/","title":{"rendered":"News and Views that Wouldn’t Fit: Notes from the Compositor’s Bench, November, 2008"},"content":{"rendered":"

First published in November\/December, 2008, Volume 5, Issue 4, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n


\nIn the Course of Human Events . . .<\/i><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Or But Thinking Makes It So<\/i><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning\u2019s end.<\/i><\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Seneca<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cHello? Oh, it\u2019s you Miss Fitcher. How are\u2014well, yes, I\u2019ve just come in the door here actually. I was over to Fairhaven most of the\u2014What\u2019s that? Oh my<\/i>! Will you ring him back for me please, Miss Fitcher and\u2014no, I don\u2019t need to talk to him myself. Will you ring Postmaster Whitehead please and tell him I\u2019m on my way over there within the next minute or so? Bless your heart, thank you, Miss Fitcher.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In the door and out again. Just another day in auld Fall River<\/i>, I thought to myself. As I headed back toward town and the post office, I hoped I\u2019d find out soon enough why it was John Whitehead wanted to whip<\/i> Seamus Feeney.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Whatever the ancient animosities prevailing between their respective homelands, there was no trace of anger or hatred in the relationship between John Whitehead and young Seamus Feeney. While you might never quite mistake them for father and son, the two are like enough to easily suggest they are somehow related.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I asked Seamus Feeney once how his Galway grandmother took the news of his working for Mr. John Whitehead, an \u00e9migr\u00e9 Englishman.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGranny? Oh, she took the news well enough I suppose, but I\u2019m fairly sure she broke into the scarlet hives for two days at least after she read my letter,\u201d Seamus Feeney said, snickering.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cThis the same grandmother Feeney that Alice learned the Irish from, Seamus? I remember you told me about that some time back, but I had the impression that she had passed on?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGranny? Oh, I know what you mean sir. She\u2019s been \u2018not long for this world\u2019 now and again for many years, since I was just a wee boy. Granny\u2019s just fine though, had her 73rd birthday the 6th<\/sup> of last month. I\u2019ll tell her you asked about her; she\u2019d be pleased at that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, by all means, Seamus\u2014please do give her my best.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t understand it, though,\u201d he said after a few seconds in a genuinely thoughtful voice. \u201cPostmaster Whitehead has been so good to Alice and me\u2014it\u2019s not right at all that folks should think or speak meanly of him. Folks will do as they will, of course, but it\u2019s still not right.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I understand what you\u2019re saying Seamus. It makes as much sense, to be truthful about it, as these adverts for jobs that say \u2018No Irish Need Apply\u2019 or the like. It\u2019s ignorant and self-degrading. Unfortunately, Seamus feller, the right to base foolishness is one that though it be unwritten, is universally guaranteed.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou mustn\u2019t pay Granny Feeney any mind at all on this one though, feller. Your granny is not by any means foolish or ignorant, bless her. She has just not had the benefit of your experiences, and that\u2019s the truth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Seamus grinned at me and snickered. \u201cThe birthday card I sent to Granny, I had Postmaster Whitehead sign his name to it first, then above his name I wrote \u2018To Granny Feeney on her birthday\u2014May she be blessed with many more! With Love, Seamus, Alice & . . . \u2019\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2026 \u2018and Postmaster John Whitehead?\u2019 Seamus feller, I don\u2019t care what anyone might say contrariwise. You definitely are a genius!\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFor my own part, I don\u2019t care what young Feeney says,\u201d was John Whitehead\u2019s only comment. \u201cWhatever in the way of kindnesses he may have received by my hand or my doing, you may be sure he\u2019s earned<\/i> each to the last. The only thing I ever gave<\/i> him was a chance\u2014and that gift has been repaid a thousand times over since the springtime of 1892.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Actually, in his own way, Seamus Feeney might be called a genius. But brilliance (assessed to whatever degree and regardless of intellectual ability) quite often imparts its own cross which must be borne.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Seamus Feeney\u2019s chief affliction was a soft and giving heart, coupled with a genuine sensitivity to the needs of others. If, for instance, Seamus had word that some illness or disaster prevented collection of the daily mail, he\u2019d deliver the mail to the afflicted party or parties on his way home from the post office (with John Whitehead\u2019s approval, of course), inquire after them, and extend best wishes on behalf of himself and Postmaster Whitehead.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

If he got word that someone passed on, Seamus made every effort to visit and comfort the bereaved\u2014no matter if he knew them well or just slightly.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI cannot really tell you why<\/i> for I don\u2019t know myself,\u201d he once said. \u201cBut the very last duty we have it seems to me, to them who have gone, is to render whatever we might in the way of aid and comfort to them who are left behind, isn\u2019t it?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I had to own that he was right.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell you this: For the life of me I don\u2019t know how that young feller does it,\u201d John Whitehead said to me one middlemorn in the springtime of 1895.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe came in this morning as usual. While he was making us up some tea, I noticed something that for Seamus is quite unusual. He keeps his uniform very neatly as you may have noticed by now. It was that I suppose, except that there were what looked to be water stains on the shoulder and left breast of the shirt. It hasn\u2019t rained today, of course, so I inquired about it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did Seamus have to say for himself, John?\u201d I knew, as did most folks who paid any attention at all, how careful Seamus Feeney was about his working clothes. They were in a way very like a badge of honor, so he kept them accordingly.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSeamus apologized immediately, of course, and explained that he hadn\u2019t noticed the splotches. They were, he said, remnants of a wake he attended last night.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know Emmaline Fitcher, I think?\u201d Whitehead inquired.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMiss Fitcher at the telephone exchange, you mean? Yes, I do know her,\u201d I said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, her sister passed away early yesterday morning.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGood lord, John! I hadn\u2019t heard that!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Whitehead nodded. \u201cShe did indeed, poor thing. She\u2019d been ill for several days. Nobody\u2019s really sure what exactly did her in, but there\u2019s some talk of milk sickness or the like.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I nodded. The malady to which John Whitehead referred is not uncommon but is (so far as I know, anyway) fairly rare in these times. The same illness reputedly killed Mr. Lincoln\u2019s natural mother now these many years ago.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cI presume you know of Seamus\u2019s romance with Emmaline Fitcher\u2019s niece?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I nodded, and had to laugh in spite of myself. Eligible bachelor such as he was, Seamus Feeney nevertheless had one admirer virtually guaranteed to melt even the hardest of hearts. His young lady-friend had turned up in the company of her mother one afternoon about six months or so previous and was, as the saying goes, immediately smitten. Seamus himself was in no better shape, according to reports. For the vision that met his eye upon that certain day was a petite little slip of a girl clad in a light blue dress and matching bonnet. But for the absence of a shepherd\u2019s crook, one might have easily mistaken her for a very<\/i> Little Bo-Peep.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She, who would ultimately leave a lasting mark upon the heart of young Seamus Feeney, was just about two years old. It seemed almost right away the two were meant for each other. Seamus, bless him, was done for instantly. All it took were three words from the youngster: \u201cHullo, Mistah Shaymus,\u201d uttered with a smile beneath curious, but adoring, eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Seamus bent down, slipped two fingers into her tiny hand and greeted her. \u201cHas Little Peeper lost her sheep again<\/i>?\u201d (She always referred to him as \u201cMistah Shaymus\u201d and he to her as \u201cLittle Peeper\u201d because peeper<\/i> was an easy word for her to say.)<\/span><\/p>\n

The child grinned at him. \u201cNope, I know just where they are, Mistah Shaymus, sir.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Seamus smiled, saying how fine that was, as he attended to business with the youngster\u2019s mother. Thereafter the two would meet openly in the post office, usually three times a week at least. She always said \u201cHullo, Mistah Shaymus, sir,\u201d and he greeted her just as at their first meeting, inquiring after the health and whereabouts of her sheep.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSeamus got to the wake,\u201d Whitehead recalled, \u201cand within just a few minutes there was the child, clad in a similar dress and bonnet, tugging at his coat.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe bent down and greeted the child in that same fashion the two are so accustomed to. When he asked after the health and whereabouts of her sheep, the youngster toddled a few steps toward him and he carefully took her up into his arms.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018No trouble with sheep today Mistah Shaymus,\u2019 she said as she looked into his eyes. \u2018I have lost Mama though, and I\u2019m not sure if I\u2019ll ever find her again. They say she has gone to a place called heaven<\/i>. I don\u2019t know just where that is, but I hope she will know where to find me.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBeing himself, Seamus immediately did what he could to comfort her, although really there was very little he could do. She sobbed quietly there in his arms for a minute or two, the whole of her very small self given over to grief.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

John Whitehead paused long enough to wipe the mist from his own eyes.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSeamus nodded to one of the Fitcher relations and stepped out with the child into the twilight air.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Look up there little one, see there?\u2019 Seamus directed the youngster\u2019s gaze to the twilight sky. \u2018That\u2019s where your Mama is. In fact, she\u2019s right up there winking at us,\u2019 he said, pointing to a bright and shimmering star.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey passed another minute or two while Seamus explained to the child as best he could\u00a0what heaven<\/i> was and why her mother had gone there. The youngster, Seamus said, was much becalmed after just a few minutes\u2014pleased enough apparently that she leaned backward and kissed his nose.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Thank you, Mistah Shaymus, sir.\u2019 She sniffled a bit, laid her head on his shoulder and yawned.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span>\u201cThe staining on Feeney\u2019s shirt was, of course, the result of tears shed by that child,\u201d John Whitehead continued. \u201cShe had buried her face against his shirt, her tears brimmed over onto it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSeamus himself came to tears when he told me about it this morning,\u201d Whitehead said. \u201cWhen he got himself together again, I told him not to worry another minute about the shirt, but to take a cloth and apply some of the remaining teakettle water to the spots to take care of things.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Now, Feeney\u2019s affliction manifested itself in other ways as well\u2014in that he simply would not, could<\/i> not<\/i>, allow himself to play cards with a certain scribbler-about-town turned lecturer and would-be historian. As I have occasionally noted, Mr. Edwin H. Porter might well have been one of the finest scribes in Mr. George Buffinton\u2019s stable. Where the simplest art and science of card play was concerned, however, the seasoned scribbler turned boob in the weeds on fairly a moment\u2019s notice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Porter, of course, took great, if somewhat misplaced, pride in his card playing and attributed any loss or misfortune associated therewith to something other<\/i> than his own poor skill. As he told it, the cause might be a cold or flu, unsuitable weather conditions, or\u2014if Seamus Feeney was part of the game\u2014dishonest scheming perpetrated upon the poor unfortunate by a rotgut-swilling back alley Irishman.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll right feller, tell me this: How exactly is it Seamus\u2019s fault that you play cards the way a dead dog hunts?\u201d I inquired of Porter one day after a game.<\/span><\/p>\n

Whatever skill Feeney possessed at card play (\u201cThat boy has the luck of the Irish in spades and every other suit,\u201d Pat Doherty once observed during a break in a game of whist), he took as a gift of the Father. Accordingly, he believed that such gift ought not be used in such a way as to afford him an unfair advantage over his fellow players.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

If things came out more or less even at game\u2019s end, then all was right with Seamus Feeney\u2019s world. If, however, a certain scribbler-about-town turned lecturer and would-be historian came out rather badly<\/i> when all was said and done (and this was usually the case, owing to the fact that said scribbler-about-town turned lecturer and would-be historian, whatever else he might have been, was well and truly a boob in the weeds when it came to the simplest art and science of successful card play), Seamus would shake his head sadly, his cheeks afire with embarrassment.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Perhaps in a gesture of atonement (or simply because he really was such a good and decent feller), Seamus always made sure that Porter left the game sufficiently funded so as to get himself home by way of the horse car.<\/span><\/p>\n

As I made my way from my Eight Rod Way abode toward the post office on Bedford Street (I might just as easily have walked the distance, but owing to the apparent urgency of John Whitehead\u2019s summons decided to hop the car), an old thought came home again to roost. Whatever the summertime horrors, which have ultimately become what seems to be an unfortunate legacy, the springtime of 1892 will ever be marked\u2014at least in the mind of ye humble Compositor\u2014as that season when the Feeneys arrived in Fall River.<\/span><\/p>\n

TO BE CONTINUED<\/i><\/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-4432","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\/4432","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=4432"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4432\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5304,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4432\/revisions\/5304"}],"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=4432"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4432"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lizzieandrewborden.com\/hatchetonline\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4432"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}