IN PARTNERSHIP.

IN PARTNERSHIP

STUDIES IN STORY-TELLING By BRANDER MATTHEWS and H. C. BUNNER

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 1884

Copyright, 1884, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

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CONTENTS.

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THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE.

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS AND H. C. BUNNER.

PART FIRST.

Document No. 1.

Paragraph from the “Illustrated London News,” published under the head of “Obituary of Eminent Persons,” in the issue of January 4th, 1879:

SIR WILLIAM BEAUVOIR, BART.

Sir William Beauvoir, Bart., whose lamented death has just occurred at Brighton, on December 28th, was the head and representative of the junior branch of the very ancient and honourable family of Beauvoir, and was the only son of the late General Sir William Beauvoir, Bart., by his wife Anne, daughter of Colonel Doyle, of Chelsworth Cottage, Suffolk. He was born in 1805, and was educated at Eton and Trinity Hall, Cambridge. He was M. P. for Lancashire from 1837 to 1847, and was appointed a Gentleman of the Privy[4] Chamber in 1843. Sir William married, in 1826, Henrietta Georgiana, fourth daughter of the Right Honourable Adolphus Liddell, Q. C., by whom he had two sons, William Beauvoir and Oliver Liddell Beauvoir. The latter was with his lamented parent when he died. Of the former nothing has been heard for nearly thirty years, about which time he left England suddenly for America. It is supposed that he went to California, shortly after the discovery of gold. Much forgotten gossip will now in all probability be revived, for the will of the lamented baronet has been proved, on the

2d inst., and the personalty sworn under £70,000. The two sons are appointed executors. The estate in Lancashire is left to the elder, and the rest is divided between the brothers. The doubt as to the career of Sir William’s eldest son must now of course be cleared up.

This family of Beauvoirs is of Norman descent, and of great antiquity. This is the younger branch, founded in the last century by Sir William Beauvoir, Bart., who was Chief Justice of the Canadas, whence he was granted the punning arms and motto now borne by his descendants—a beaver sable rampant on a field gules; motto, “Damno.”

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PART SECOND.

Document No. 2.

Promises to pay, put forth by William Beauvoir, junior, at various times in 1848:

I. O. U.

£105. 0. 0.

April 10th, 1848.

William Beauvoir, junr.

Document No. 3.

The same.

I. O. U.

£250. 0. 0.

April 22d, 1848.

William Beauvoir, junr.

Document No. 4.

The same.

I. O. U.

£600. 0. 0.

May 10th, 1848.

William Beauvoir, junr.

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Document No. 5.

Extract from the “Sunday Satirist”, a journal of high-life, published in London, May 13th, 1848:

Are not our hereditary lawmakers and the members of our old families the guardians of the honour of this realm? One would not think so to see the reckless gait at which some of them go down the road to ruin. The D——e of D——m and the E——l of B——n and L——d Y——g,—are not these pretty guardians of a nation’s name? Quis custodiet? etc. Guardians, forsooth, parce qu’ils se sont donnés la peine de naître! Some of the gentry make the running as well as their betters. Young W——m B——r, son of old Sir W——m B——r, late M.P. for L——e, is a truly model young man. He comes of a good old county family—his mother was a daughter of the Right Honourable A——s L——l, and he himself is old enough to know better. But we hear of his escapades night after night, and day after day. He bets all day and he plays all night, and poor tired nature has to make the best of it. And his poor worn purse gets the worst of it. He has duns by the score. His I.O.U.’s are held by every Jew in the city. He is not content with a

little gentlemanlike game of whist or écarté, but he must needs revive for his special use and behoof the dangerous and well-nigh forgotten pharaoh. As luck would have it, he had lost as much at this game of brute chance as ever he would at any game of skill. His judgment of horseflesh is no better than his luck at cards. He came a cropper over the “Two Thousand[7] Guineas.” The victory of the favourite cost him to the tune of over six thousand pounds. We learn that he hopes to recoup himself on the Derby, by backing Shylock for nearly nine thousand pounds; one bet was twelve hundred guineas.

And this is the sort of man who may be chosen at any time by force of family interest to make laws for the toiling millions of Great Britain!

Document No. 6.

Extract from “Bell’s Life” of May 19th, 1848:

THE DERBY DAY.

Wednesday.—This day, like its predecessor, opened with a cloudless sky, and the throng which crowded the avenues leading to the grand scene of attraction was, as we have elsewhere remarked, incalculable.

THE DERBY.

The Derby Stakes of 50 sovs. each, h. ft. for three-year-olds; colts, 8 st. 7 lb., fillies, 8 st. 2 lb.; the second to receive 100 sovs., and the winner to pay 100 sovs. towards police, etc.; mile and a half on the new Derby course; 215 subs.

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Document No. 7.

Paragraph of Shipping Intelligence from the “Liverpool Courier” of June 21st, 1848:

The bark Euterpe, Captain Riding, belonging to the Transatlantic Clipper Line of Messrs. Judkins & Cooke, left the Mersey yesterday afternoon, bound for New York. She took out the usual complement of steerage passengers. The first officer’s cabin is occupied by Professor Titus Peebles, M.R.C.S., M.R.G.S., lately instructor in metallurgy at the University of Edinburgh, and Mr. William Beauvoir. Professor Peebles, we are informed, has an important scientific mission in the States, and will not return for six months.

Document No. 8.

Paragraph from the “N. Y. Herald” of September 9th, 1848.

While we well know that the record of vice and dissipation can never be pleasing to the refined tastes of the cultivated denizens of the only morally pure metropolis on the face of the earth, yet it may be of interest to those who enjoy the fascinating study of human folly and frailty to “point a moral or adorn a tale” from the events transpiring in our very midst. Such as these will view with alarm the sad example afforded the youth of our city by the dissolute career of a young lump of aristocratic affectation and patrician profligacy, recently arrived in this city. This young gentleman’s (save the mark!) name is Lord[9] William F. Beauvoir, the latest scion of a venerable and wealthy English family. We print the full name of this beautiful exemplar of “haughty Albion,” although he first appeared among our citizens under the alias of Beaver, by which name he is now generally known, although recorded on the books of the Astor House by the name which our enterprise first gives to the public. Lord Beauvoir’s career since his arrival

here has been one of unexampled extravagance and mad immorality. His days and nights have been passed in the gilded palaces of the fickle goddess, Fortune, in Thomas Street and College Place, where he has squandered fabulous sums, by some stated to amount to over £78,000 sterling. It is satisfactory to know that retribution has at last overtaken him. His enormous income has been exhausted to the ultimate farthing, and at latest accounts he had quit the city, leaving behind him, it is shrewdly suspected, a large hotel bill, though no such admission can be extorted from his last landlord, who is evidently a sycophantic adulator of British “aristocracy.”

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Document No. 9.

Certificate of deposit, vulgarly known as a pawn-ticket, issued by one Simpson to William Beauvoir, December 2d, 1848.

John Simpson, Loan Office, 36 Bowery, New York.

Dec. 2d, 1848.

Not accountable in case of fire, damage, moth, robbery, breakage, &c. 25% per ann.

Good for 1 year only.

Document No. 10.

Letter from the late John Phœnix, found among the posthumous papers of the late John P. Squibob, and promptly published in the “San Diego Herald.”

Off the Coast of Florida, Jan. 3, 1849.

My Dear Squib:—I imagine your pathetic inquiry as to my whereabouts—pathetic, not to say hypothetic—for I am now where I cannot hear the dulcet strains of your voice. I am on board ship. I am half seas over. I am bound for California by way of the Isthmus. I am going for the gold, my boy, the gold. In the mean time I am lying around loose on the deck of this magnificent vessel, the Mercy G. Tarbox, of[11] Nantucket, bred by Noah’s Ark out of Pilot-boat, dam by Mudscow out of Raging Canawl. The Mercy G. Tarbox is one of the best boats of Nantucket, and Captain Clearstarch is one of the best captains all along shore—although, friend Squibob, I feel sure that you are about to observe that a captain with a name like that would give anyone the blues. But don’t do it, Squib! Spare me this once.

But as a matter of fact this ultramarine joke of yours is about east. It was blue on the Mercy G.—mighty blue, too. And it needed the inspiring hope of the gold I was soon to pick up in nuggets to stiffen my backbone to a respectable degree of rigidity. I was about ready to wilt. But I discovered two Englishmen on board, and now I get along all right. We have formed a little temperance society—just we three, you know—to see if we cannot, by a course of sampling and severe study, discover which of the captain’s liquors is most dangerous, so that we can take the pledge not to touch it. One of them is a chemist or a metallurgist, or something scientific. The other is a gentleman.

The chemist or metallurgist or something scientific is Professor Titus Peebles, who is going out to prospect for gold. He feels sure that his professional training will give him the inside track in the gulches and gold mines. He is a smart chap. He invented the celebrated “William Riley Baking Powder”—bound to rise up every time.

And here I must tell you a little circumstance. As I was coming down to the dock in New York, to go[12] aboard the Mercy G., a small boy was walloping a boy still smaller; so I made peace, and walloped them both. And then they both began heaving rocks at me—one of which I caught dexterously in the dexter hand. Yesterday, as I was pacing the deck with the professor, I put my hand in my pocket and found this stone. So I asked the professor what it was.

He looked at it and said it was gneiss.

“Is it?” said I. “Well, if a small but energetic youth had taken you on the back of the head with it, you would not think it so nice!”

And then, O Squib, he set out to explain that he meant “gneiss,” not “nice!” The ignorance of these English about a joke is really wonderful. It is easy to see that they have never been brought up on them. But perhaps there was some excuse for the professor that day, for he was the president pro tem. of our projected temperance society, and as such he had been making a quantitative and qualitative analysis of another kind of quartz.

So much for the chemist or metallurgist or something scientific. The gentleman and I get on better. His name is Beaver, which he persists in spelling Beauvoir. Ridiculous, isn’t it? How easy it is to see that the English have never had the advantage of a good common-school education—so few of them can spell. Here’s a man don’t know how to spell his own name. And this shows how the race over there on the little island is degenerating. It was not so in other days. Shakspere, for instance, not only knew how to spell his own name, but—and this is another proof of his[13] superiority to his contemporaries—he could spell it in half a dozen different ways.

This Beaver is a clever fellow, and we get on first rate together. He is going to California for gold—like the rest of us. But I think he has had his share—and spent it. At any rate he has not much now. I have been teaching him poker, and I am afraid he won’t have any soon. I have an idea he has been going pretty fast—and mostly down hill. But he has his good points. He is a gentleman all through, as you can see. Yes, friend Squibob, even you could see right through him. We are all going to California together, and I wonder which one of the three will turn up trumps first—Beaver, or the chemist, metallurgist or something scientific, or

Yours respectfully, John Phœnix.

P. S.—You think this a stupid letter, perhaps, and not interesting. Just reflect on my surroundings. Besides, the interest will accumulate a good while before you get the missive. And I don’t know how you ever are to get it, for there is no post-office near here, and on the Isthmus the mails are as uncertain as the females are everywhere. (I am informed that there is no postage on old jokes—so I let that stand.)

J. P.

Document No. 11.

Extract from the “Bone Gulch Palladium,” June 3d, 1850:

Our readers may remember hovv frequeñtly vve have declared our firm belief iñ the future uñexampled[14] prosperity of Boñe Gulch. VVe savv it iñ the immediate future the metropolis of the Pacific Slope, as it vvas iñteñded by ñature to be. VVe poiñted out repeatedly that a time vvould come vvheñ Boñe Gulch vvould be añ emporium of the arts añd scieñces añd of the best society, eveñ more thañ it is ñovv. VVe foresavv the time vvheñ the best meñ from the old cities of the East vvould come flockiñg to us, passiñg vvith coñtempt the puñy settlemeñt of Deadhorse. But eveñ vve did ñot so sooñ see that members of the aristocracy of the effete moñarchies of despotic Europe vvould ackñovvledge the uñdeñiable advañtages of Boñe Gulch, añd come here to stay permañeñtly añd forever. VVithiñ the past vveek vve have received here Hoñ. VVilliam Beaver, oñe of the first meñ of Great Britaiñ añd Irelañd, a statesmañ, añ orator, a soldier, añd añ exteñsive traveller. He has come to Boñe Gulch as the best spot oñ the face of the everlastiñg

uñiverse. It is ñeedless to say that our promiñeñt citizeñs have received him vvith great cordiality. Boñe Gulch is ñot like Deadhorse. VVe kñovv a geñtlemañ vvheñ vve see oñe.

Hoñ. Mr. Beaver is oñe of ñature’s ñoblemeñ; he is also related to the Royal Family of Eñglañd. He is a secoñd cousiñ of the Queeñ, añd boards at the Tovver of Loñdoñ vvith her vvheñ at home. VVe are iñformed that he has frequeñtly takeñ the Priñce of VVales out for a ride iñ his baby-vvagoñ.

VVe take great pleasure iñ coñgratulatiñg Boñe Gulch oñ its latest acquisitioñ. Añd vve kñovv Hoñ. Mr. Beaver is sure to get aloñg all right here uñder[15] the best climate iñ the vvorld añd vvith the ñoblest meñ the suñ ever shoñe oñ.

Document No. 12.

Extract from the Dead Horse “Gazette and Courier of Civilization” of August 26th, 1850:

BONEGULCH’S BRITISHER.

Bonegulch sits in sackcloth and ashes and cools her mammoth cheek in the breezes of Colorado canyon. The self-styled Emporium of the West has lost her British darling, Beaver Bill, the big swell who was first cousin to the Marquis of Buckingham and own grandmother to the Emperor of China, the man with the biled shirt and low-necked shoes. This curled darling of the Bonegulch aristocrat-worshippers passed through Deadhorse yesterday, clean bust. Those who remember how the four-fingered editor of the Bonegulch “Palladium” pricked up his ears and lifted up his falsetto crow when this lovely specimen of the British snob first honored him by striking him for a $ will appreciate the point of the joke.

It is said that the “Palladium” is going to come out, when it makes its next semi-occasional appearance, in full mourning, with turned rules. For this festive occasion we offer Brother B. the use of our late retired Spanish font, which we have discarded for the new and elegant dress in which we appear to-day, and to which we have elsewhere called the attention of our readers. It will be a change for the “Palladium’s” eleven unhappy readers, who are getting very tired of the old[16] type cast for the Concha Mission in 1811, which tries to make up for its lack of w’s by a plentiful superfluity of greaser u’s. How are you, Brother Biles?

“We don’t know a gent when we see him.” Oh no (?)!

Document No. 13.

Paragraph from “Police Court Notes,” in the New Centreville [late Dead Horse] “Evening Gazette,” January 2d, 1858:

HYMENEAL HIGH JINKS.

William Beaver, better known ten years ago as “Beaver Bill,” is now a quiet and prosperous agriculturalist in the Steal Valley. He was, however, a pioneer in the 1849 movement, and a vivid memory of this fact at times moves him to quit his bucolic labors and come in town for a real old-fashioned tare. He arrived in New Centreville during Christmas week; and got married suddenly, but not unexpectedly, yesterday morning. His friends took it upon themselves to celebrate the joyful occasion, rare in the experience of at least one of the parties, by getting very high on Irish Ike’s whiskey and serenading the newly-married couple with fish-horns, horse-fiddles, and other improvised musical instruments. Six of the participators in this epithalamial serenade, namely, José Tanco, Hiram Scuttles, John P. Jones, Hermann Bumgardner, Jean Durant (“Frenchy”), and Bernard McGinnis (“Big Barney”), were taken in tow by the police force, assisted by citizens, and locked up over night, to cool their generous enthusiasm in the gloomy dungeons of Justice[17]

Skinner’s calaboose. This morning all were discharged with a reprimand, except Big Barney and José Tanco, who, being still drunk, were allotted ten days in default of $10. The bridal pair left this noon for the bridegroom’s ranch.

Document No. 14.

Extract from “The New York Herald” for June 23d, 1861:

THE RED SKINS.

A BORDER WAR AT LAST!

INDIAN INSURRECTION.

RED DEVILS RISING!

Women and Children seeking safety in the larger Towns.

HORRIBLE HOLOCAUSTS ANTICIPATED.

Burying the Hatchet—in the White Man’s Head.

[SPECIAL DESPATCH TO THE NEW YORK HERALD.]

Chicago, June 22, 1861.

Great uneasiness exists all along the Indian frontier. Nearly all the regular troops have been withdrawn from the West for service in the South. With the return of the warm weather it seems certain that the red skins will take advantage of the opportunity thus offered, and inaugurate a bitter and vindictive fight against the whites. Rumors come from the agencies that the[18] Indians are leaving in numbers. A feverish excitement among them has been easily to be detected. Their ponies are now in good condition, and forage can soon be had in abundance on the prairie, if it is not already. Everything points toward a sudden and startling outbreak of hostilities.

[SPECIAL DESPATCH TO THE NEW YORK HERALD.]

St. Paul, June 22, 1861.

The Sioux near here are all in a ferment. Experienced Indian fighters say the signs of a speedy going on the war-path are not to be mistaken. No one can tell how soon the whole frontier may be in a bloody blaze. The women and children are rapidly coming in from all exposed settlements. Nothing overt as yet has transpired, but that the Indians will collide very soon with the settlers is certain. All the troops have been withdrawn. In our defenceless state there is no knowing how many lives may be lost before the regiments of volunteers now organizing can take the field.

LATER.

THE WAR BEGUN.

FIRST BLOOD FOR THE INDIANS.

The Scalping Knife and the Tomahawk at work again.

[SPECIAL DESPATCH TO THE NEW YORK HERALD.]

Black Wing Agency, June 22, 1861.

The Indians made a sudden and unexpected attack on the town of Coyote Hill, forty miles from here, last[19] night, and did much damage before the surprised settlers rallied and drove them off. The red skins met with heavy losses. Among the whites killed are a man named William Beaver, sometimes called Beaver Bill, and his wife. Their child, a beautiful little girl of two, was carried off by the red rascals. A party has been made up to pursue them. Owing to their taking their wounded with them, the trail is very distinct.

Document No. 15.

Letter from Mrs. Edgar Saville, in San Francisco, to Mr. Edgar Saville, in Chicago.