names must act upon character. every preceding waddy, save one short-lived ira, from the first ancestor, the primal waddy, cook of the mayflower, had been a type of placid meekness, of mild, humble endurance. during all boston’s material changes, from a petty colony under winthrop to a great city under general jackson, and all its spiritual changes from puritanism to unitarianism, boston divines had pointed to the representative waddy of their epoch as the worthy successor of moses upon earth—moses the meekest man, not moses the stalwart smiter of rocks and irate iconoclast of golden calves.

why, then, was ira waddy, with whom this tale is to concern itself, other than his race? why had he revolutionised the family history? why was he a captor, not a captive of fate? why was the waddy name no longer hid from the world in the unfragrant imprisonment and musty gloom of a[2] blind court in boston, but known and seen and heard of all men, wherever tea-chests and clipper-ships are found, or fire-crackers do pop? why was ira waddy, in all senses, the wholesale man, while every other waddy had been retail? brief questions—to be answered not so briefly in this history of his return.

yes, the waddy fortunes had altered. to the small shop, the only patrimony of the waddy family, went little vulgar boys in days of salem witchcraft, in days of dorchester sieges, and after when the fourth of july began to noise itself abroad as a festival of the largest liberty: on all great festal days when parents and uncles rattled with candy money, and coppers were certain, and on all individual festal days when the unlooked-for copper came, then went brats, whig and tory, federal and democrat, to the waddys’ shop and bullied largely there. not only the representative mr. waddy did they bully and bargain into pecuniary bewilderment and total loss of profit, but also the representative mrs. waddy, a feeble, scrawny dame, whose courage died when she put the fateful question to the representative mr. waddy, otherwise never her spouse.

but there was no more bullying about the little shop. in fact, the shop had grown giantly with the fortunes of the name. a row of stately warehouses covered its site, and many other sites where neighbour[3] pride had once looked down upon it. the row was built of granite, without ornament or gaud, enduring as the eternal hills. on its front, cut in solid letters on a gigantic block, were the words

waddy buildings

ginger was sold there in dust-heaps like a vesuvius, not gingerbread in the amorphous penny idol; aromatic cinnamon by the ceroons of a plundered forest, not by the chewing-stick for dull sabbath afternoons; tea by the barricade of chests, product of a province, not by the tin shoeful, as the old-time waddys had sold it for a century before the tea party. and ira waddy owned these buildings, which he had never seen.

it is not necessary that i should speculate to discover where the traits that distinguished ira waddy from his ancestors had their origin. of this i have accurate information. my wonder is at the delay in a development of character certain to arrive. but late springs bring scorching summers. fires battened long below hatches gather strength for one swift leap to the main-truck.

whitegift waddy, cook of the mayflower, was meek. how he came to be a puritan, on the mayflower, in its caboose and a cook,—out of his element in religion, in space, in place, and in profession,—i[4] cannot say; these are questions that the massachusetts historical society will probably investigate, now that the waddys are rich and can hire cooks to give society dinners. at all events, there he was, and there he daily made a porridge for miles standish, and there he peppered the same. now as to pepper in cream tarts there is question; in porridge none: i do not, therefore, blame miles, peppery himself and loving pepper, for wrath when, one day, a bowl of pepperless insipidity was placed before him. he sent for the cook and thus addressed him:

“milksop! thou hast the pepper forgot. i will teach thy caitiff life a lesson. ho, trencherman! bring pepper!”

it was brought. he poured it all into the porridge, and, standing by, compelled waddy to swallow spoonful after spoonful. at the screams of the victim, the pilgrim grandfathers, governor carver, father winslow, and elder brewster, rushed from on deck into the cabin and besought the infuriated hero to desist as he valued the life of mrs. susanna white, who was soon to add a little pilgrim to their colony.

“enough!” said standish. “the pepper hath entered into his soul.”

it had, indeed! nothing was cooked on the mayflower for six days. on the seventh, whitegift waddy re-entered the caboose. he had always been a meek, he was now a crushed man. yet there[5] seemed to have grown within him, as we sometimes see in those the world has wronged, a quiet confidence in a redressing future.

pepper, thus implanted in the waddy nature, seemed to have no effect for generations. it was, however, slowly leavening their lumpishness. it was impelling them to momentary tricks of a strange vivacity. at last, the permeating was accomplished, and our hero, ira, the first really alive waddy, was born. i have said the first, but there was another ira waddy who, at one period in his brief career, showed a momentary sparkle of the smouldered flame. of him a word anon, as his fate had to do with the fates of others, strangely interwoven with the fate of his great-nephew and namesake.