Irritated at the disruption, I went downstairs and answered the ring. A lightning rod man confronted me with disturbing news. He asked me what I knew about home protection from electrical storms. Not wanting to show my ignorance, for I knew nothing about lightning other than what I heard directly from Ben Franklin and his Sabbath breaking kite flying—which was not much—I answered the gentleman that I knew a great deal about electrics and whatnot. Then why, he accused, had I not protected myself and my dear ones inhabiting this finest of domiciles from the capricious violence of storms and the surety that with one lightning blast, and the smallest going at that, it would turn my manse to cinders—and all inhabitants within? I told him I was preoccupied with other matters of the gravest importance but had just about got around to doing it, and that as Providence had sent him to me, he was at liberty to correct my oversight with the very top-of-the-line installation he could provide. I went back upstairs to re-gather my important political economy thoughts.
I had reached the point in my dissertation about Smith’s abominable “invisible hand,” a mistake he related to me upon my letter of query about this nonsense. His return letter was filled with effusive apologies, said he had been “whiskified”, single malt, when writing that section and he meant to say “iron fist.” With great satisfaction in being able to clear up this unfortunate error, and pen on paper, I was once again interrupted by my doorbell.
It was that man again, back for his money I thought. No, not my money, yet. He pointed out to me that he had installed 12 first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods with the very highest grade, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire to be found in all of America. He added that he had expended his efforts on the one chimney and that while it provided great protection to one portion of my house, there was a lack of symmetry, a safety and aesthetic imbalance remained. I thanked him for bringing this to my attention and requested that, whatever the expense, my family’s safety came first; and, if he could immediately resolve this unfortunate perilous situation, I would be most grateful. He said he would, on the instance.
I went back upstairs with my thoughts all in a swirl and grabbed my pen. I had just finished the section of Lord Byron’s last words, using the certified statement of a chambermaid who, lurking about at his death, remembered clearly that the dear bard had renounced the frivolity of poetry. He whispered, she declared, that if he only had his life to live over again he would have applied himself to the study and writing of political economy—this said before he nobly expired.
I cannot remember exactly how many times my doorbell rang, but by day’s end the rod man’s work was finished; with edifying thoughts still flying from my pen came that final annoying ring. Asked to come outside to admire the work that had been done to my roof, I did so. I looked up. I shut my eyes, reopened them. I shook my head. There was no mistaking. What I beheld appeared to me to be every wrought iron fence for blocks around, standing as close packed as cattle in a pen, there, up on my roof. Only these were not fences, but first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods attached to a virtual spider web of the very highest grade, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire snaking down to the ground. I thought my roof was in instant danger of collapse.
I was presented my bill. It was somewhat more than I expected, but the assured safety of my loved ones was foremost in my mind as I wrote out the check. I returned to my work, but my thoughts would not coalesce into that fervent stream of wisdom so typical of my work It could have been the slightly higher than anticipated cost for the rods, or perhaps it was the added weight over my head, but I suffered severely until I looked out my window. Below in the street a large crowd had gathered; they were clearly interested in my roof, and I could detect by their actions they were in great admiration of the degree of attention I had placed on the safety of my dear ones, and the prudent use of my checkbook to do so. I went down the stairs and out onto my front porch.
I found it necessary to take a little bow.For three days I remained distracted from my critical work as the street continued to fill with people; some came from miles out; local establishments of entertainment closed for lack of custom. I was the wonder and talk of the town. It was, however, with blessed relief, on the third day, when a thunderstorm came up and the lightning began to “go for” my house, as the historian Josephus quaintly phrases it. It cleared the galleries, so to speak.
In five minutes there was not a spectator within half a mile of my place; but all the high houses about that distance away were full, windows, roof and all—taking in the show. And well they might be, for all the falling stars and Fourth of July fireworks of a generation put together rained down simultaneously out of heaven in one brilliant shower upon my helpless roof.
My house was a magnificent object of illumination in the general gloom of the storm. The continuous concussions blew out all my window panes—picked knick-knacks off my mantels, pictures off my walls, tossed them into the air, the results devastating to my plans for their cherished posterity—even blew open the cupboard doors sending the best Sunday chinaware flying with the same posterity results. Nearly caused me permanent deafness.
By actual count the lightning struck at my establishment seven hundred and sixty-four times in forty minutes, but each strike tripped on one of those faithful, first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods, every time, and slid down that highest quality, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire and shot into the earth before it probably had time to be surprised at the way the thing was done. Nothing was ever seen like it since the world began.
At last the awful siege came to an end—because there was no more electricity left in the clouds above us within grappling distance of my insatiable rods. Then I sallied forth, and with as many able-bodied men as I could find worked them without break until my roof was stripped of all its terrific armament. It was not until I had taken and completed this swift action that my neighbors dared appear once again out of their houses. (I left one rod on my chimney, as prudence demands, and which remains there, admired, to this day.)
I did not continue my work upon political economy. To this day, I am not yet settled enough in nerve and brain to resume it. I placed an advertisement in the local paper requesting that parties having need of three thousand two hundred and eleven feet of highest quality, spiral twist, zinc-coated wire lightning rod stuff and sixteen hundred and thirty-one first quality, silver barb-tipped iron rods, slightly used but all in tolerable repair, can negotiate a bargain by direct contact.Refreshed, not revised; use as seen fit, M.T. (deceased)
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