* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *

This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available by Toronto Public Library Digital Archive.

BY WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL.

The inhabitants of Sandy Beach had a strong and enduring interest in General Bain, he being the most fascinating and mercurial character in that vicinity. The “General,” (how he ever got the title no one knew), was all in all the most reprobate of reprobate characters who had arrived in that region.

If a bundle of negative virtues and positive vices make up a character, he certainly was one. He had arrived one season from that vague and unsatisfying region called “down below,” whence all the inhabitants had come at some time or other, and which designated one of the older settled districts. On his arrival, he had taken up his residence on a deserted apology for a farm, composed of seven dry and bald conical sandhills, with a certain amount of slightly arable land between. Here, in a small hut built by the former owner, he established his home and proceeded also to establish his claims to the title of farmer, by methods which, if not the most solid and painstaking, were certainly the most unique ever practised in that region. The General, as he said himself, was Irish and Protestant to the backbone. He was from the North, that home of Orangemen and flaxen fabrics, but he had, in common with the rest of his race, a perpetual thirst, which was only satisfied by the contents of a black bottle. To add that he was a mixture of braggart and coward, that he was well on to eighty, and yet, as he said of himself, as “frisky as a kitten,” would be to enumerate some of his characteristics. He was of a tall and bony figure, with a prominent nose which had a purplish terminus, and, when well dressed and not drunk, the General had a seductive and engaging manner which had deceived many a parson.

He had come suddenly, and had certainly brought enough money, however he had got it, to furnish his rude home, and to be able to buy a yoke of oxen, and a cart and sleigh, things indispensable even to a pretence of farming in that or any other region. His first arrival had been celebrated by a series of debauches, and this, coupled with his conduct at the nearest village, and a certain rumor as to his past that was as much surmisal as fact, did not add much to the General’s character as a saint. And, even in that rude region, the inhabitants were doubtful as to his admission to society, until he conquered them all by an act that settled his claim to respectability for ever after. Once a month, a wandering parson would come and hold forth in the log school house, and there was a large attendance, and, when made aware of the occurrence, the General said “Sartinly” he would “attind” the “sarvice” as “become” a “rispictable” man. He always spoke of himself in this way, and never seemed to have lost confidence in his own personality, however much the world might doubt it. He had bragged in a vague way of his former greatness of estate down “below,” but only in a general way, and beyond this and the fact that he was a man of family, and had been through the trials of wedlock three times—a fact of which he seemed to be very proud—they got nothing more out of him. Sometimes, when in a maudlin state, he would bemoan his late deceased spouse in a manner certainly not to her credit. “Poor baste of a woman, she was a great thrial to me, that she was; divilish great thrial,” he would say: but what her name was, or where she had lived, or whether or not he had had any children by her, the General never stated.

At last, the Sunday on which there would be service had arrived. The General had been sobering all the previous day, and had kept to himself, and on Sunday morning the group of young and old, who had already arrived, were amazed and dumbfounded by the sight of the General coming round the bend of the road, seated on a board in his oxcart, and dressed in a grandeur of fashion never before seen in that community. His body was encased in an old and well worn but neat dress suit of black broadcloth, and on his head he wore an equally old and well worn beaver hat, that showed signs, to the close observer, of having been slightly battered in places, and to complete his attire he had on the remnants of a once respectable shirt collar, that much washing and want of washing had wasted and marred. In a more particular community, the General would have been regarded as decidedly seedy, if not dilapidated, as to his outward apparel, but, at Sandy Beach, where even a paper collar was scarcely known, and black clothes rarely came, even with the parson, this was a sign of dignity and grandeur that was not to be slighted. There was also a sort of compliment to the inhabitants in this tribute to their feelings that made them all bound to honor the man who so added to their respectability. So those who had but the day before called him a drunken beast, approached the General to-day with a sense of respect. Mooring his cart by the nearest stump, the General alighted with a certain stiff dignity, which might have been overdone, but which impressed the bystanders, and, going forward, he began a series of handshakes with those he knew.

“D——, ef the Gineral ain’t most a gintleman,” said one old man to a neighbor. “He’s the rale stuff in him; it’s easy seein’ he’s lived below,” whimpered an old crone to another. The General, evidently greatly pleased in a stiff way with all this notice, moved to the centre of the door, and, with an old battered silver watch displayed in his hand, gravely awaited the parson. That person, when he arrived, was so dumbfounded at the General’s dignity and patronage that he could hardly preach, with observing him, and, in his confusion, gave the plate to the General to take up the collection, passing over the leading Deacon, who, in his wonder at the General’s style, forgot to notice the omission. The next day, when he had discarded the dignities with his clothes, on being complimented on his success, he answered: “Ah! didn’t I, though; wer’nt I the divil of a churchwarden in me day?” But there was no doubt, that with all the General’s peccadilloes, there was a certain link between him and society which he asserted in this much valued suit of clothes, as, when he wore them, he was always a more respectable man.

Next in order to his wonderful dress and unique character, the General was chiefly attractive to the community as a marriageable man, and when, in referring to the “poor baste” of a woman, “who was such a thrial,” he hinted that he was on the look out for another to take her place, there was quite a sensation in the settlement. “The Gineral’s goin’ to get married,” was the general talk; “wonder who he’ll take.”

But, after quite a little flirting and coquetry in an ancient way of his own, he finally singled out a strapping young maiden (one of a large family), who had just turned fourteen, which was the marriageable age in the settlement; and dressed out in his resplendent apparel, he took her in the oxcart to the nearest town, where they were married. When remonstrated with as to their great disparity of ages, he merely remarked: “O, shure, she’ll grow, and as for me, why I’m jist one of the bys.”

But, successful as he was as a man of society, the General proved a failure as a husband. Whether owing to the disparity of their ages, or to the General’s eccentric habits and extreme distaste for work, is not known, but the result was a series of domestic storms at the Seven Hills farm, in which there was a good deal of give and take on both sides, for, if the General was a man of remarkable parts, the young woman was endowed with a certain muscle as well as determination. So, if the young woman appeared with a black eye, the General matched it with a scored nose, the hostilities being well equalized.

But the climax came when the General, who, egged on by some waggish admirers, attempted to conquer a woman, was ruined in the attempt.

He had a habit of periodically going to the nearest village and getting gloriously drunk, and, while in this uncertain state, he would brag of his great prowess as a fighter. “Form a ring, bys; Gineral Bain’s going to fight,” he would say, and then, when, contrary to his expectations, a ring was accommodatingly formed, he would commence weeping for some one to “hould” him, for fear he would hurt somebody. So far, in their broils, his young wife had respected his person, when he came home drunk and quarrelsome, for the sake of the clothes he wore; but when he was in other attire, she gave no quarter. He soon began to perceive this, and, thinking to take advantage of her weakness in this respect, and his vanity being touched at the many stories of her prowess, he said: “Bys, if there’s a man av matremonyal expayrience, it’s me’s the man. Just come home with me, bys, and see me conquer a wiman;” and they went. The General had on his elfin attire, so he thought he was infallible. “She’d niver spile these, no matter what I did,” he said to himself, as he went under the darkness, followed by the others, who had come to see “the Gineral conquer a wiman.”

But the General was out in his calculation for once, for who can speculate on a woman, and in this case there were other conditions involved. She met him at the door, so there was a pitched battle in the yard. But to the General’s horror, the conquering was all on the other side. She went for him with a vengeance, did that young woman he had essayed to conquer. She jammed his darling beaver on a stump, and then sat him so heavily on it that its symmetry was destroyed forever. She slit his elfin coat from the tail to the collar, and then ripped it from his astonished back. The crowd who came to see her conquered, were even too astonished to laugh at this surprising outbursting of feminine energy, but she kept on till the General and his darling wardrobe were in two separate heaps, and each in a state of ruin.

“Thar,” she said to the young men, as she flung the final rag on the heap of clothes. “Thar; I don’t feel married a bit. I married that thar suit of clothes, I did, and now it’s gone I feel as single as ever;” and, with a defiant laugh, she disappeared into the house. That night she left for parts unknown with a younger man.

From that night the General was a doomed being. The settlement was much excited over the conjugal rupture, and some tried to commiserate with him on her unfaithfulness. But it was the clothes he lamented and not the young woman. “Wimmen is plinty,” he would say, “but if she’d only lift thim clothes—It’s kilt entirely that I am.” It was soon seen that the General was broken-hearted; he took to his bed and complained for the first time of being old. He had a man with slight claims to being a tailor come and try to fix up his wrecked wardrobe, but it was no use—she had done her work too well; the tailor did his best to fix them together, but they were not the garments of yore. The General took this circumstance more and more to heart; he had them placed on his bed, where he could see and feel them. “If she’d only a lift me them” he would mourn.

A kindred spirit with similar tastes came to stay with him, and they took more and more to drink. At last the General sent for a doctor.

“You had better sober up, General;” said the doctor, “it’s your only chance.” “The divil, docther,” said the General; “it’s a quare, unhealthy counthry where a man can’t have his wee drop; it’s better to be out of it. O, thim’s happy as is under the sthones. If she’d only a lift me thim clothes, docther, I might a stood it.”

It soon became more and more evident that the General was about to depart to another country, and this being made clear to him, with the suggestion that a parson be sent for, he said: “It’s nary use, Tim, it’s too fer—an’ then it’s too late; but just put on me clothes, Tim, and I’ll feel as I’m in churrch. I’ll die rispictable at laste.” By dint of a great deal of work, Tim managed to get the poor, weak, old man into his dilapidated garments, and though sinking fast, his eyes brightened when they were on; he tried to fondle the tattered sleeve with his emaciated hand; then he lay for a long time very quiet, when suddenly starting up, he said: “Indade, it’s about time for the collection;” and then he rolled over—the collection was at last taken up, and so was the General.

But it was afterwards known that the General with all his shiftless ways, had been mindful of his latter end, for Tim had found a small wooden slab in an old outhouse, which he put over the grave, and on it had been carved the following legend by the General himself, in rude capitals:—

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

A cover was created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain. Originally published in the September 1894 issue of “The Canadian Magazine”.

[The end of “General” Bain, of Sandy Beach by William Wilfred Campbell]