Part 5

Alone and friendless in New York, young and ambitious, yet weak and moneyless, success and he were strangers. The health of the poor boy failed him, and he would have died had he remained in New York. He shipped on board of a steamer bound for the gulf, and worked his way home--not home, for he had none, but to New Orleans, where he had, at least, a few friends among the journalists of that city. He returned to work upon the Times, and published some of the daintiest bits of dialect humor ever given to the public.

By a strange coincidence his last published lines were written upon the subject of his own grave. They appeared in the New Orleans Times, December 14th, just ten days before the author gave up the struggle with fate and died.

THE CEMETERY.

“I stand within this solemn place, And think of days gone by-- I think of many an old-time face, Here’s where those faces lie,

“I think of when, what time God please, The hour shall came to me, That covered with the clay, like these, My face shall masked be.

“No marble monument shall rise Above that grave of mine-- No loving friends will wipe their eyes When life I shall resign.

“But when I leave my life--have left My every present care-- I’ll find a home of care bereft; My friends are living there.

The New Orleans Times, in speaking of Irwin Russell, after his death, said of him: “He was employed occasionally on this paper, and while so, wrote many a pretty little poem, and many a little catch which reveal an inner life, which hard lines hid from the view of the world. His fund of humor showed itself best in dialect writing, and some things he has written have already found permanent resting places in the compiled editions of American humorous verse.”

For several years Irwin Russell was an interesting and valued contributor to Scribner’s Monthly, and some of his poems have appeared since his death, in The Century. The productions were mostly of the negro dialect order, and occasionally they consisted of Irish sketches in verse. About the last thing published was an Irish dialect poem, entitled Larry’s on the Force, which appeared in The Century. The poem tells in the fourth verse of Larry’s appearance as a policeman:

“He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you’d think he owned the town, And houlds his shtick convenient to be tappin’ some wan down-- Aich blissed day, I watch to see him comin’ up the sthrate, For by the greatest bit of luck, our house is on his bate.”

Russell’s crowning effort was a piece of dialect verse entitled The First Banjo. It appeared in Scribner’s, and is worthy of reprint here:

THE FIRST BANJO.

Go ’way fiddle!--folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’. Keep silence fur yo’ betters--don’t you heah de banjo talkin’? About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!-- About de ha’r what isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’.

“Dar’s gwine to be an oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn-- For Noah tuk the Herald, an’ he read de ribber column-- An’ so he sot his hands to work a-cl’arin’ timber-patches, An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah “Natchez.”

Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’, an’ a-chippin’, an’ a-sawin’; An’ all de wicked neighboirs kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’; But Noah didn’t min’ ’em--knowin’ what wuz gwine to happen; An’ forty days and forty nights de rain it kept a-drappin’.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebery sort o’ beas’es-- Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’ it beat ’em all to pieces! He had a Morgan colt, an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle-- An’ drew ’em ’board de ark as soon’s he heared de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby De ribber riz immegitly, an’ bursted troo de lebbee; De people all wuz drownded out--’cept Noah an’ de critters, An’ men he’d hired to work de boat--an’ one to mix de bitters.

De ark she kep’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’; De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’-- De sarpints hissed--de painters yelled--tell--what wid all de fussin’, You c’u’d’n’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ roun’ an’ cussin’.

Now, Ham, de only niggar what wuz runnin’ on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket; An’ so, for to amuse he-self, he steamed some wood an’ bent it, An’ soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge, an’ screws, an’ apron; An’ fitted in a proper neck--’twas bery long and tap’rin’; He tuk some tin and twisted him a thimble for to ring it; An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a singin’; De ha’r’s so long, an’ thick, an’ strong--jes’ fit for banjo stringin’-- Dat niggar shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces; An’ sorted ob ’em by de size, from little E’s to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig--’twas Nebber Min’ de Wedder-- She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder; Some went to pattin’, some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers-- An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggars!

Now, sence dat time--it’s mighty strange--dere’s not de slightest showin’. Ob any ha’r upon de cunnin’ ’possum’s tail a-growin’; An’ curi’s too--dat nigger’s ways; his people nebber los’ ’em-- For, whar you finds de niggar, dar’s de banjo an’ de possum!

JOHN H. WILLIAMS.

Mr. J. H. Williams, better known as “the Norristown Herald man,” is one of the few successful latter-day humorists. He was born in Montgomery county, Pennsylvania, and after a few years of common school education, he located in Norristown, a lively town of the Keystone State, serving an apprenticeship as a printer’s devil. In 1860 he began writing for the New York Mercury over the signature of “B. Dadd.” About this time he also produced a series of letters signed “A. Ward, Jr.,” which, by the way, were excellent imitations, and were widely copied, some papers dropping the Jr. and crediting them to Artemus Ward himself. For several years Williams resided in Wilmington, Delaware, but in 1871 he returned to Norristown and became attached to the Herald. Williams is considered one of the most rollicking writers on the American press. He is still a young man and has been married for several years. He forbade my writing a biography for him and begged of me to allow him to compose his own “obituary,” as he is pleased to call it. Here is what he wrote:

“MY DEAR MR. CLEMENS:

“A man’s biography auto always be written by himself. A disinterested party is liable to omit some of the facts. A personal history should above all things be truthful--devoid of fulsomeness, and embrace all the important events of its subject’s life, good or bad. Too many biographers lie like a patent medicine advertisement. This is to be regretted.

“My memory is too treacherous to write my own life anyhow. I have been informed that I was present on the occasion of my birth, but I haven’t the slightest recollection of it--as some one has previously remarked.

“I am older--am uglier--than I was two score years ago.

“_Then_, young ladies would chuck me under the chin and gushingly exclaim: “B’ess its purty ’ittle heart.”

“_Now_--they don’t.

“And I am rather glad of it, for the aforesaid young ladies must be nearly sixty years old now, and some of them wear glasses and decayed teeth. If I had time, dear reader, I could tell you how, in 1492, under the _nom de plume_ of Christopher Columbus, I discovered America. This is a fact not generally known. Sometimes it seems like a wild, weird dream. You may have read something about the discovery. It was considered important at the time; but more than one person, no doubt, upon looking around and seeing the distressing amount of misery in America, and observing how bogus mining companies, policy shops, rowing matches, political corruption and other frauds flourish like a green baize, will regret that I ever discovered it.

“I have one wife.

“I could, if my other duties permitted, describe how, in 1773, I surrounded thirty-two wild Indians, and after a hand-to-hand conflict lasting seven hours, I killed twenty-four of the redskins, wounded sixteen, and took eleven prisoners. The remainder fled. Aside from being pierced by twenty-one arrows, I escaped without a scratch.

“And yet I was never made the hero of a dime novel! Probably because I didn’t wear long hair and a soft hat as big around as a cart wheel.

“I am not addicted to bicycle riding--and therefore still retain the respect of my neighbors.

“If it was not my hour to go out and see a man, it would afford me great pleasure to allude to the day that I landed at Plymouth Rock, with a lot of pilgrims, without any “rocks” in my pocket. I shall never do it again.

“I never wrote a comic opera.

“This assertion, if made public, would be received with an air--or rather a tornado of incredulity. It would be accepted as a wild, reckless piece of exaggeration. And yet it is a positive fact.

“I shall not refer to the time I fell at Bunker Hill--caused by stepping on a banana skin,--nor mention the fact that I once struck a gentleman called Billy Patterson. I forgot the date of the latter event; but I desire to say in extenuation that Mr. Patterson struck me first. And yet he had the facial prominence to sue me for assault and battery. However, the grand jury ignored the bill, and saddled the cost upon the plaintiff.

“I have never--never, understand, without any ‘hardly’ qualification about it--lectured.

“My wife has, to an audience of one.

“I don’t suppose it would interest the general public to know that, about sixty years ago, while at breakfast, I was blown up with dynamite, by a party of enraged subscribers of our paper. Their provocation was great, but I think they were a little too impetuous, as it were. In an unguarded moment, I printed the alleged pun, ‘What did the corn-brake?’ and thousands of our subscribers nearly lost their reason trying to discover the joke, which they naturally thought must lurk therein. About fifty of them arose in their might,--and dynamite,--and elevated things. I lost two arms and two legs. But this was not the worst. A religious weekly chromo was irreparably ruined. Perhaps I should explain that the arms and legs belonged to a chair and a table, respectively.

“This little incident effectually cured me of punning in print. I have not made a joke since.

“I invented the ‘fifteen puzzle,’ but I would rather not have this piece of imprudence made known until I get my life heavily insured.

“Since 1850 I have killed my grandmother, burned an orphan asylum, embezzled fifty thousand dollars, and committed arson. These facts came out soon after I was nominated for a political office. They came out in an opposition paper. They always do; and the only way to prevent their appearance is to buy the paper--or its editor.

“I have never been in jail or in Congress--though there may be worse people in both pla--. But, as I remarked at the outset, I am compelled to forego the pleasure of sending you a biographical sketch. I suppose my esteemed friend, Eli Perkins, would write one for me for a mere pittance, but I would rather journey through life without a biography to my back, than to have one that does not breathe the spirit of truth, in every line--truth that is neither warped nor bent--sweet, pure, undefiled truth that will wash.

“Yours, etc.,

J. H. WILLIAMS.”

JAMES M. BAILEY.

Albany, New York, claims Mr. James M. Bailey, of the Danbury News, as her offspring. The boyhood days of the Danbury News man were characterized by nothing unusual or exciting. At an early age he left school and sought a situation in a grocery store. As a grocer, James proved an utter failure, and without hesitation left his newly found occupation, and soon after took to the law, building air castles of a great and glorious future.

Not satisfied, however, with the fullness of his money coffers, Bailey deserted the law to seek a more profitable business. He gave up all professional desires and turned mechanic, serving two long years as a carpenter. But in 1862 the war of the Rebellion again changed his occupation, and Bailey, with all the patriotism of an American youth, enlisted as a private in the Seventh regiment of Connecticut volunteers. For three years he fought with a desperation only equalled by his desperate attempts at producing puns, in after years.

In the early part of 1866 Bailey, in company with T. Donovan, purchased the Danbury (Connecticut) Times. In 1870 the firm purchased the only opposition paper in the town, and named the result of the combination the Danbury News. In 1873 Bailey made a trip to California, and in April of the next year went to Europe, where he remained until 1875. During these travels he wrote constantly for his paper, and by so doing acquired the title of “the Danbury News Man.”

In 1873 Bailey issued, through the Boston house of Lee & Shepard, his first volume of humorous sketches, under the caption of Life in Danbury. The book had a tremendous sale for several years, and fully fifty thousand copies were sold. In the fall of the same year he produced an almanac, the first and last work of the kind he ever published.

As a lecturer Bailey has never been a great success. Perhaps if he had entered the lecture field in 1874, at which time he was far more popular than at any time during his life, he would have realized a small fortune from his lectures. But as a speaker he never made the name he has acquired through his writings. In 1877, They all Do It was issued and so well was the volume received that the Danbury News Man’s name again became a household word. Another work which appeared in 1879, also became quite popular. It was entitled Mr. Phillips’ Goneness.

Bailey’s first humorous paragraph appeared in the News in 1872, and, by January of the next year, his productions were being published in almost every paper in the country. About this time a special edition of the News was issued for general circulation throughout the country. It took exceedingly well for several years, but was discontinued about two years ago. Bailey has acquired his fame and fortune through his own endeavors and struggles in the world. He is a self-made man in every respect. He is quite prepossessing in his personal appearance, his manner is dignified and pleasing, his demeanor modest and unassuming, and his countenance honest and frank. In his face there is nothing to note his humor, save the merry, bright, and unmistakable twinkle of the eye.

Some time ago an entertainment was given in New York, in honor of Robert J. Burdette, of the Burlington Hawkeye. To W. A. Croffut, who gave the entertainment, the Danbury News Man wrote the following letter of request:

“MY DEAR CROFFUT:--Your invitation received, and I thank you heartily for it, while I regret that I am unable to accept it. Age and the cares of life (I have two of the puzzles) are giving me away, and prevent me from taking a journey to your city. Besides we are getting ready to move, and my wife feels that much of the symmetry of the performance would be lost, if I were not here to permeate it with my presence. One of our carpets is so worn that it could hardly be trusted in the hands of a stranger, and it will be necessary for me to shake it in person. This I cannot very well avoid, or I would. Confidentially, my desire to be here is to prevent the removal to the new house of about two tons of old rubbish that no one but a woman would think of carting around. You are married and will understand me. Give my regards to the guest of the evening, and tell him that I hope to have the pleasure some time of taking him by the hand.

“Yours sincerely,

J. M. BAILEY.”

CHARLES H. SMITH.

Charles H. Smith (Bill Arp) is one of the oldest of living humorists. Under the _nom de plume_ of Bill Arp he has given the world some very rich things in the way of humor, and the columns of the Atlanta (Georgia) Constitution, have, during the past few years, teemed with his witty, sparkling letters. Bill Arp is known all over the South, and in many of the Gulf States his reputation is equal to that of Mark Twain.

Mr. Smith lives in a retired manner at his country-seat near Cartersville, Georgia. From this rural retreat, he writes me of his life as follows:

“Speaking as though I was another fellow, let me say that--Major Charles H. Smith was born in Lawrenceville, Georgia, June 15, 1826--that is to say, the ‘major’ part was not born then, though I suppose he was born all at once, but the title, the prefix, the dignity I mean, wasn’t born to him until June, 1861, when he was knighted by Jeff Davis, and assigned to the staff of Colonel Barton, with aspirations more sanguine than sanguinary. The Major used to be a ‘peace colonel,’ but was reduced to a war major, for you must know that these peace colonels abounded in the land. There was no harm in them, and the title signified only a patriotic devotion to the political fortunes of the governor--that is, the commander in chief.

“You must know, if you do not, that Georgia boasted of an army and navy in the good old times. The navy was altogether imaginary, picturesque, esthetic, and did not muster nor parade; but the army was a fact, and was mobilized twice a year, not in corpses, or cores, or whatever you call them, but in brigades and regiments, in each county, and as the commander in chief could not be in every county at the same time to review his ‘meelish,’ he had to attend by proxy, therefore he appointed a proxy in every county, with the rank of colonel. This honor when conferred was intended as a kind of mucilage that cemented the donee to the donor, and the donee was expected to cry ‘encore’ if the donor wanted to be re-elected to the gubernatorial chair. Parties were pretty equally balanced in Georgia, and every time we had a new governor we had a new set of colonels, say an hundred or more, on the average, every two or four years. This is how we boasted of so many peace colonels, for when a man once got the title he kept it, no matter if he didn’t keep the office. All this is to explain how Major Smith came to be a colonel under Governor Howell Cobb, and was afterwards reduced to his present rank. He says he really prefers the minor title to the major, for it is based on a war footing, and besides, the ladies have a way of saying ‘major’ with a softer and sweeter inflection than they used to say colonel.

“The Major was born and bred as usual, but his singular parentage is to be made a note of. His father was a Massachusetts man, and his mother a native of Charleston. This combination was happy enough in itself, but developed in the ‘boy’ a disposition to fits of passion, on which occasions he used to bite himself and bump his head against the door, but his good mother always said he couldn’t help it, for it was South Carolina fighting Massachusetts.

“The Major’s father was a merchant, and as the boy grew up he trained him to trade and traffic behind the counter. Later in life he sent him to a manual labor institute, where the boys were expected to pay for their board by working in the field three hours every day. Presumptuous expectation! It generally took the boys about three hours to find their tools and get ready for work. Link pins were stolen, and by the time the wagon reached the field the wheel came off. When the overseer was watching one squad another slipped off to the creek to go in bathing, and so in due time the school collapsed. The ‘boy’ was next initiated into the mysteries of riding the mail to a neighboring village. This was not considered a very elegant or aristocratic occupation. The steed was a kind of equine dromedary, and jogged along at his leisure without regard to whip or spur. The monotony of this employment became very monotonous to the boy, and gave him abundant leisure for mental exercise.

“There is nothing romantic or thrilling about riding an old-fashioned mail--nothing like the long express across the plains that Mark Twain has so bewitchingly described in Roughing It; no fleet-footed mustang, no ’ostler standing with another ready at the station, no running against time, no passing returning post-boys with a smile and a salute, no nothing but an occasional old woman coming to the fence with a pair of socks she wanted to send to town to exchange for indigo or copperas, and as she looked over her spectacles inquired ‘Are you the mail boy?’ The youth sometimes looked smilingly at her as he replied: ‘Why--yes--mam, you didn’t think I was a female boy, did you?’

“In due time the boy graduated at this business, and his father sent him to college. He had as good a time there as is usual. He made many pleasant acquaintances, some lasting friendships, and a love or two, and at the close of his career married a daughter of Judge Hutchins. He next studied law with the judge, and after his admission to the bar, removed to Rome, Georgia, and founded a partnership with Judge Underwood, a gentleman noted for his ability, both as a judge and a statesman. This partnership was pleasant and profitable. It was obliged to be profitable as a matter of necessity, for it continued until there were a score of children in the two families, and paternal ancestors knew but little of economy, or its prudence of laying up money for a rainy day.

“Prior to the war Major Smith had frequently indulged his inclinations for humorous and critical observations on men and measures, but it was not until the spring of 1861 that his peculiar genius found a field rich enough to harvest in. The famous proclamation of President Lincoln, ordering the people of the rebellious South to ‘cease their turbulent demonstrations and to disband their military companies, and disperse and retire to their homes, within thirty days, under penalty of being arrested and tried for treason,’ seemed very ludicrous and absurd to the hot bloods of the South, who really felt like they could whip all the world and the rest of mankind, and so the Major burlesqued it in his way as though he was an unlettered countryman who wanted to disperse but couldn’t. He said he ‘had done his darndest to disperse, but the boys were so hot that when you throwed water on ’em they sizzed, and that was the way they was making up their companies.’ If a boy ‘sizzed’ they took him, and if he didn’t, they didn’t, and he respectfully asked ‘Mr. Linkhorn’ for a little more time.

“The Major read his manuscript to two or three friends in his office, and at the conclusion noticed that the original Bill Arp stood at the door a listener.

“Bill’s merry eyes seemed to enjoy it, and he came forward with a query, ‘Colonel,’ said he, ‘are you gwine to print that?’

“‘I think I will, Bill,’ said he.

“‘What name are you gwine to put to it?’ said Bill.

“‘I don’t know, Bill,’ said he.