The Booming of Acre Hill And Other Reminiscences of Urban and Suburban Life

Carson was a philosopher, and on the whole it was a great blessing that he was so.  No man needed to be possessor of a philosophical temperament more than he, for, in addition to being a resident of Dumfries Corners, Carson had other troubles which, to an excitable nature, would have made life a prolonged period of misery.  He was the sort of a man to whom irritating misfortunes of the mosquito order have a way of coming.  To some of us it seemed as if a spiteful Nature took pleasure in pelting Carson with petty annoyances, none of them large enough to excite compassion, many of them of a sort to provoke a quiet smile.  Of all the dogs in the neighborhood it was always his dog that got run into the pound, although it was equally true that Carson’s dog was one of the few that were properly licensed.  If he bought a new horse something would happen to it before a week had elapsed; and how his coachman once ripped off the top of his depot wagon by driving it under a loose telephone wire is still one of the stories of the vicinity in which he lives.  Anything out of the way in the shape of trouble seemed to choose the Carson household for experimental purposes.  He was the medium by which new varieties of irritations were introduced to an ungrateful world, but such was his nature that, given the companionship of Herbert Spencer and a cigar, he could be absolutely counted on not to murmur.

This disposition to accept the trials and tribulations which came upon him without a passionate outburst was not by any means due to amiability.  Carson was of too strong a character to be continually amiable.  He merely exercised his philosophy in meeting trouble.  He boiled within, but presented a calm, unruffled front to the world, simply because to do otherwise would involve an expenditure of nervous force which he did not consider to be worth while.

I can never forget the sense of admiring regard which I experienced when in Genoa, while he and I were about to enter our banker’s together, he slipped upon a bit of banana peeling, bruising his knee and destroying his trouser leg.  I should have indulged in profane allusions to the person who had thoughtlessly thrown the peeling upon the ground if by some mischance the accident had happened to me.  Carson, however, did nothing of the sort, but treated me to a forcible abstract consideration of the unthinking habits of the masses.

The unknown individual who was responsible for the accident did not enter into the question; no one was consigned to everlasting torture in the deepest depths of purgatory; a calm, dispassionate presentation of an abstraction was all that greeted my ears.  The practice of thoughtlessness was condemned as a thing entirely apart from the practitioner, and as a tendency needing correction.  Inwardly, I know he swore; outwardly, he was as serene as though nothing untoward had happened to him.  It was then that I came to admire Carson.  Before that he had my affectionate regard in fullest measure, but now admiration for his deeper qualities set in, and it has in no sense diminished as time has passed.  Once, and once only, have I known him to depart from his philosophical demeanor, and that one departure was, I think, justified by the situation, since it was the culminating point of a series of aggravations, to fail to yield to which would have required a more than human strength.

The incident to which I refer was in connection with a fine organ, which at large expense Carson had had built in his house, for, like all philosophers, Carson has a great fondness for music, and is himself a musician of no mean capacity.  I have known him to sit down under a parlor-lamp and read over the score of the “Meistersinger” just as easily as you or I would peruse one of the lighter novels of the day.  This was one of his refuges.  When his spirit was subjected to an extreme tension he relieved his soul by flying to the composers; to use his own very bad joke, when he was in need of composure he sought out the “composures.”  As time progressed, however, and the petty annoyances grew more numerous, the merely intellectual pleasure of the writings of Wagner and Handel and Mozart possibly failed to suffice, and an organ was contracted for.

“I enjoy reading the music,” said he as we sat and talked over his plan, “but sometimes—­very often, in fact—­I feel as if something ought to shriek, and I’m going to have an organ of my own to do it for me.”

So, as I have said, the organ was contracted for, was built, and an additional series of trials began.  Upon a very important occasion the organ declined to shriek, although every effort to persuade it to perform the functions for which it was designed was made.  Forty or fifty very charming people were gathered together to be introduced to the virtues of the new instrument—­for Carson was not the kind of man to keep to himself the good things which came into his life; he shared all his blessings, while keeping his woes to himself; a well-known virtuoso was retained to set forth the possibilities of the acquisition, and all was going as “merry as a marriage bell” when suddenly there came a wheeze, and the fingers of the well-known virtuoso were powerless to elicit the harmonious shrieks which all had come to hear.

It was a sad moment, but Carson was equal to the occasion.

“Something’s out of gear,” he said, with a laugh due rather to his philosophical nature than to mirth.  “I’m afraid we’ll have to finish on the piano.”

* * * * *

And so we did, and a delightful evening we had of it, although many of us went home wondering what on earth was the matter with the organ.

A few days later I met Carson on the train and the mystery was solved.

“The trouble was with the water-pipes,” he explained.  “They were put in wrong, and the location of the house is such that every time Colonel Hawkins, on the other side of the street, takes a bath, all the water that flows down the hill is diverted into his tub.”

I tried not to laugh.

“You’ll have to enter into an agreement with the Colonel,” I said.  “Make him promise not to bathe between certain hours.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Carson, smiling, “but after all I guess I’d better change the pipes.  Heaven forbid that in days like these I should seek to let any personal gratification stand between another man and the rare virtue of cleanliness.”

Several weeks went by, and men were busily employed in seeing that the water supply needed for a proper running of the organ came direct from the mains, instead of coming from a pipe of limited capacity used in common by a half dozen or more residents of a neighboring side street.

Somewhere about the end of the fourth week Carson invited me to dinner.  The organ was all right again, he said.  The water supply was sufficient, and if I cared to I might dine with him, and afterward spend an evening sitting upon the organ bench while Carson himself manipulated the keys.  I naturally accepted the invitation, since, in addition to his other delightful qualities, Carson is a past grand-master in the art of giving dinners.  He is a man with a taste, and a dinner good enough for him is a thing to arouse the envy of the gods.  Furthermore, as I have already said, he is a musician of no mean order, and I know of no greater pleasure than that of sitting by his side while he “potters through a score,” as he puts it.  But there was a disappointment in store for us.  I called at the appointed hour and found the household more or less in consternation.  The cook had left, and a dinner of “cold things” confronted us.

“She couldn’t stand the organ,” explained Carson.  “She said it got on to her nerves—­’rumblin’ like.’”

I gazed upon him in silent sympathy as we dined on cold roast beef, stuffed olives, and ice cream.

“This is serious,” my host observed as we sat over our coffee and cigars after the repast.  “That woman was the only decent cook we’ve managed to secure in seven years, and, by Jingo, the minute she gets on to my taste the organ gets on to her nerves and she departs!”

“One must eat,” I observed.

“That’s just it,” said Carson.  “If it comes to a question of cook or organ the organ will have to go.  She was right about it, though.  The organ does rumble like the dickens.  Some of the bass notes make the house buzz like an ocean-steamer blowing off steam.”  It was a picturesque description, for I had noticed at times that when the organ was being made to shriek fortissimo every bit of panelling in the house seemed to rattle, and if a huge boiler of some sort suffering from internal disturbance had been growling down in the cellar, the result would have been quite similar.

“It may work out all right in time,” Carson said.  “The thing is new yet, and you can’t expect it to be mellow all at once.  What I’m afraid of, apart from the inability of our cook to stand the racket, is that this quivering will structurally weaken the house.  What do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said.  “Some of the wainscot panels rattle a bit, but I imagine the house will stand it unless you go in too much for Wagner.  ‘Tannhäuser’ or ‘Siegfried’ might shake a few beams loose, but lighter music, I think, can be indulged in with impunity.”

Time did not serve, as Carson had hoped, to mellow things.  Indeed, the succeeding weeks brought more trouble, and most of it came through the organ.  Some of the rattling panels, in spite of every effort to make them fast, rattled the more.  One night when the servants were alone in the house, of its own volition the organ sent forth, to break the still hours, a blood-curdling basso-profundo groan that suggested ghosts to their superstitious minds.  The housemaid came to regard the instrument as something uncanny, and, even as the cook had done before her, shook the dust of the house of Carson from her feet.

Then a rat crawled into one of the pipes—­Carson was unable to ascertain which—­and died there, with results that baffle description.  I doubt if Wagner himself could have expressed the situation in his most inspired moments.  Still Carson was philosophical.

“I’ll play a requiem to the rodent,” he said, “that will make him turn over in his grave, wherever that interesting spot may be.”

This he did, and the effect was superb, and no doubt the deceased did turn over in his grave, for the improvisation called into play every pipe on the whole instrument.  However, I could see that this constant pelting at the hands of an unkind fate through the medium of his most cherished possession was having its effect upon Carson’s hitherto impregnable philosophy.  When he spoke of the organ it was with a tone of suppressed irritation which boded ill, and finally I was not surprised to hear that he had offered to give the organ away.

“After all,” he said, “I made a mistake—­flying so high.  A man doesn’t want a church-organ in his house any more than he wants an elephant for a lap-dog.  I’ve offered it to the Unitarian Church.”

I felt a little hurt about this, for my own church was badly in need of an instrument of that nature, but I said nothing, and considering the amount of trouble the organ had given I got over my regret when I realized that the Unitarian Church, and not mine, was shortly to have it.  In this, however, I was mistaken, for, after due deliberation, the Unitarians decided that the organ was so very large that they’d have to build a new church to go with it, and so declined it with thanks.

Carson bit his lip and then offered it to us.  “Don’t seem to be able to give it away,” he said.  “But I’ll try again.  You tell your vestry that if they want it they can have it.  I’ll take it out and put it in the barn up in the hay-loft.  They can take it or leave it.  It will cost them cartage and the expense of putting it up.”

I thanked him, and joyously referred the matter to the vestry.  At first the members of that body were as pleased as I was, but after a few minutes of jubilation the Chairman of the Finance Committee asked; “How much will it cost to get this thing into shape?”

Nobody knew, and finally the acceptance of the gift was referred to a committee consisting of the Chairman of the Finance Committee, the Chairman of the Music Committee, and myself, with full power to act.

Inquiry showed that the cost of every item in connection with the acceptance of the gift would amount to about a thousand dollars, and we called upon Carson to complete the arrangement.  He received us cordially.  We thanked him for his generosity, and were about to accept the gift finally, when the Chairman of the Finance Committee said: 

“It is very good of you, Mr. Carson, to give us this organ.  Heaven knows we need it, but it will cost us about a thousand dollars to put it in.”

“So I judged,” said Carson.  “But when it is in you’ll have a thirty-five-hundred-dollar organ.”

“Splendid!” ejaculated the Chairman of the Music Committee.

“The great difficulty that now confronts us,” said the financier, “is as to how we shall raise that money.  The church is very poor.”

“I presume it is a good deal of a problem in these times,” acquiesced Carson.  “Ah—­”

“It’s a most baffling one,” continued the financier.  “I suppose, Mr. Carson,” he added, “that if we do put it in and pass around a subscription paper, we can count on you for—­say two hundred and fifty dollars?”

I stood aghast, for I saw the thread of Carson’s philosophy snap.

“What?” he said, with an effort to control himself.

“I say I suppose we can count on you for a subscription of two hundred and fifty dollars,” repeated the financier.

There was a pause that seemed an eternity in passing.  Carson’s face worked convulsively, and the seeming complacency of the Chairman of the Finance Committee gave place to nervous apprehension as he watched the color surge through the cheeks and temples of our host.

He thought Carson was about to have a stroke of apoplexy.

I tried to think of something to say that might relieve the strain, but it wouldn’t come, and on the whole I rather enjoyed the spectacle of the strong philosopher struggling with inclination, and I think the philosopher might have conquered had not the Chairman of the Music Committee broken in jocularly with: 

“Unless he chooses to make it five hundred dollars, eh?” And he grinned maddeningly as he added:  “If you’ll give five hundred dollars we’ll put a brass plate on it and call it ‘The Carson Memorial,’ eh?  Ha—­ha—­ha.”

Carson rose from his seat, walked into the hall and put on his hat.

“Mr.—­ah—­Blank,” said he to the financier, “would you and Mr. Hicks mind walking down to the church with me?”

“Say, he’s going to put it in for us!” whispered Hicks, the Chairman of the Music Committee, rubbing his hands gleefully.

“Don’t you want me, Carson?” I asked, rising.

“No—­you stay here!” he replied, shortly.

And then the three went out, while I lit a cigar and pottered about Carson’s library.  In half an hour he returned alone.  His face was red and his hand trembled slightly, but otherwise he had regained his composure.

“Well?” said I.

“Well, I’m going to put it up,” said he.

“Now—­see here, Carson,” I remonstrated.  It seemed so like a rank imposition on his generosity.  To give the organ was enough, without putting him to the expense of erecting it.

“Don’t interrupt,” said he.  “I’m not going to put it up in the organ-loft, as you suppose, but in a place where it is likely to be quite as much appreciated.”

“And that?” I asked.

“In the hay-loft,” he replied.

“I don’t blame you,” said I, after a pause.

“Neither do I,” said he.

“But why did you go down to the church?” I asked.

“Well,” he explained, chuckling in spite of himself.  “It was this way.  My grandfather, I have been told, used to be able to express himself profanely without using a profane word, but I can’t, and there were one or two things I wanted to say to those men that wouldn’t go well with the decorations of my house, and which couldn’t very well be said to a guest in my house.”

“But, man alive, you didn’t go to the church to do your swearing?”

“No,” he answered.  “I did it on the way down; and,” he added, enthusiastically, “I did it exceeding well.”

“But why the church?” I persisted.

“I thought after what I had to say to them,” said he, “that they might need a little religious consolation.”

And with that the subject was dropped.

The organ, as Carson threatened, was transferred to the hay-loft and not to the church, and as for the two Chairmen, they have several times expressed themselves to the effect that Carson is a very irritable, not to say profane, person.

But I am still inclined to think him a philosopher.  Under the provocation any man of a less philosophical temperament might have forgotten the laws of hospitality and cursed his offending guests in his own house.