The Sad Case of Deacon Perkins

"The Sad Case of Deacon Perkins" by Charles Battell Loomis is a humorous novel that revolves around the misadventures of Deacon Perkins, a well-meaning but hapless church deacon in a small town. Faced with various comedic challenges in his attempts to uphold the values of his community, Deacon Perkins finds himself entangled in absurd situations that highlight the quirks and eccentricities of small-town life. Through witty prose and satirical observations, Loomis examines themes of morality, faith, and the human condition, creating a charming and entertaining portrayal of a character striving to do good in a complicated world.

• Short story

								
It is now some fifteen years since the dialect story assumed undue
prominence in the literary output of the time, and about eight
since it became a “craze.” There is no craze without its attendant
disease or ailment: thus roller-skating developed “roller’s heel”;
gum-chewing, “chewer’s jaw”; bicycling, the “bicycle face,” and later
the “leg”; housekeeping, “housemaid’s knee”; golf-playing, “idiocy”;
and so on, every craze having a damaging effect upon some portion of
the anatomy. It is only within the last year, however, that it has
been discovered that an over-indulgence in dialect stories is liable
to bring on an affection of the tongue.

A peculiarly sad case and the most notable that has thus far been
brought to the attention of the public is that of Deacon Azariah
Perkins of West Hartford, Connecticut.

Far from deploring the spread of the dialect story, he reveled in
it, reading all the tales that he could get hold of in magazines
or circulating library. But his was not a healthy, catholic taste;
he had ears and eyes for one dialect alone--the negro. For him Ian
Maclaren and Barrie spread their most tempting Scotch jaw-breakers in
vain; he had no desire for them. After fifteen years of negro dialect
in every form in which Southern and Northern writers can serve it,
any specialist in nervous disorders could have told the deacon that
he was liable to have “negromania”; but West Hartford does not
employ specialists, and so the stroke came unheralded, with all the
suddenness of apoplexy.

Deacon Perkins has always been able to think standing; indeed, he
has been called the Chauncey Depew of West Hartford, and no revival
meeting or strawberry festival or canned clam-bake was considered a
success unless the deacon’s ready tongue took part in the exercises.

Last Sunday they had a children’s festival in the Congregational
Church, and after the children had made an end of reciting and
singing, the deacon was called upon for a few remarks. He is a
favorite with young and old, and a man of great purity and simplicity
of character. He arose with alacrity and walked down the isle with
the lumbering gait peculiar to New-Englanders who have struggled with
rocky farms the best part of their lives. He ascended the platform
steps, inclined his head to the audience, and spoke as follows:

“Mah deah li’l’ chillun! Yo’ kahnd sup’inten’ent has ast me to mek a
few remahks.” (Subdued titters on the part of the scholars.) “Ah don’
s’pose you-all’ll b’lieve me w’en Ah say dat Ah too was once a li’l’
piccaninny same as yo’, but Ah was, an’ Ah ’membeh how mah ol’ mammy
use teh tek me to Sunny-school.” (Consternation on the part of the
superintendent and teachers.)

“Now, ef you-all wan’ to go to heb’n w’en yo’ die, be ci’cumspectious
’bout de obsarvence ob de eighth c’man’ment. Hit ain’t so awful
wicked ter steal--dat ain’t hit, but hit’s jes nach’ly tryin’ to a
man’s self-respec’ ter git cotched. Don’ steal jes fer deviltry, but
ef yo’ is ’bleeged ter steal, study de wedder repohts, ac’ accordin’,
an’--don’ git foun’ out--or in, eiver.”

During the delivery of this remarkable speech the deacon’s face wore
his habitual expression; a kindly light shone in his eye, a smile of
ineffable sweetness played about his lips, and he evidently imagined
that he was begging them to turn from their evil ways and seek the
narrow path.

But at this juncture Dr. Pulcifer of New York, the eminent
neurologist, who happened to be spending Sunday in West Hartford,
whispered to the superintendent, and on receiving an affirmative
nod to his interrogation, went up to the platform. He held out his
hand to Deacon Perkins, who was making a rhetorical pause, and said
kindly, “Good morning, uncle.”

“Mornin’, sah,” said the deacon, bowing awkwardly and scratching his
head.

“Can you direct me to a good melon-patch?”

Deacon Perkins gave vent to an unctuous negro chuckle. Then, holding
up his forefinger to enjoin caution, he tiptoed off the platform,
closely followed by the doctor; and before nightfall he was on his
way to a private hospital for nervous diseases, where rest and a
total abstention from negro-dialect stories is expected to restore
him to his usual sane condition of mind in a short time.
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