Part 6

“‘Don’t git wrathy, Parson Coolridge,’ I shouted. ‘I can’t prevent the pig from gwine in. I have hold of the rudder, but I’ll be boosted if I can steer the ship.’ With that, through the openin’ we went, pig fust and me arter, and the hul crowd a clatterin’ behind us. The judge was amongst ’em, but got left in the hind end of it, where the women were a-trottin’. The Parson’s flowers went down with broken necks quicker than lightnin’. It wasn’t more’n ten seconds until they were six inches under ground, for the hog kept a circlin’ around and the hoorayin’ crowd follerin’ arter, payin’ no more attention to the Parson than if he had been a young ’un a-runnin’ around. When they saw the crowd, the pall bearers and most of the people who were jest follerin’ the remains through sympathy, turned back on the run and left the mourners standin’ thar by the coffin.

“Oh! it was the most excitin’ time the village ever seed. The ground was too soft in the gardin for the pig to git around well, and pooty soon he gin out. I was awful tired, too, and was hangin’ a dead weight on him for the last ten minutes.

“When the boys see the knot on the tail you ought to hear ’em a-hollerin’, ‘Bets off! bets off!’ They were set on claimin’ a foul, and surrounded the old judge demandin’ thar money.

“But, as the crowd was increasin’ and the Parson was e’enmost crazy, the judge told ’em to come with him to the Court-house—he wouldn’t decide nothin’ in the gardin. As the hog couldn’t walk, the judge took his tobacco knife and cut the tail off and took it along with him to introduce as proof. He decided in my favor. He said that I had held on to the tail and touched nothin’ else, and if I managed to tie a knot while runnin’ I had performed a feat never before heard of in the country, so he paid over the money.

“But Parson Coolridge was the most worked up of any of ’em. He had legal advice on the matter, but the lawyer told him to gin it up, for the judge was on my side. Besides, he shouldn’t have left the gate open, if he didn’t want the pig to go in thar. Arter a while he gin up the notion of suin’ me, but while he stopped in the village he never got over it.

“The boys had pictures chalked up on the fences and shop doors, so that wherever you’d look you’d see sketches of the Parson runnin’ back from the funeral, and me a holdin’ on to the pig’s tail. He paid out more’n ten dollars in small sums to one boy, hirin’ him to go round and rub out the pictures wherever he’d happen to see ’em. But every time the Parson would start out through the village, thar on some fence or door, or side of a buildin’, would be the same strikin’ picture of him, a streakin’ it to head off the hog, so he would start the rubbin’-out boy arter that one.

“One evenin’ he happened to ketch that selfsame little rascal hard at work chalkin’ out the identical sketch on the cooper’s shop door, and the Parson was so bilin’ mad he chased him all over the village. The young speculator had bin carryin’ on a lively business, but arter that discovery thar was a sudden fallin’ away in his income. I tell ye it made a plag’y stir thar for awhile, and I reckon if Judge Perkins hadn’t been on my side I’d have been obliged to git out of the place.”

CORA LEE.

Would you hear the story told Of the controversy bold, That this day I did behold, In a court of low degree, Where his Honor sat like fate, To decide betwixt the state And a wanton villain’s mate, Named Cora Lee?

The bold chief of stars was near, As a witness to appear. (By his order, Cora dear Was languishing below.) And for counsel she had got A descendant of old Wat— Noted for his daring plot, Some years ago.

It was he commenced the fuss, “For,” said he, “by this and thus, Here I smell an _animus_[1] As strong as musk of yore; And it’s my condensed belief, That in language terse and brief, I can trace it to the chief, E’en to his door.”

Then to all it did appear That the chief was seized with fear; To the lawyer he drew near, And to him muttered low: “I could never think that ye Would be quite so hard with me; You had better let me be, And travel slow.”

Then the lawyer quit his chair As if wasps were buzzing there, And with quite a tragic air, Addressed his Honor thus— “At your hands I claim protection. Keep your eyes in this direction, Take cognizance of his action, This _animus_!”

Then arose the chief of stars, And his visage shone like Mars, When he recks not battle scars, But charges to the fray. And his hand began to glide To his pocket deep and wide, Where a weapon well supplied In waiting lay.

“Ho!” he cried, “you shyster hound, If you go on nosing round Till an _animus_ you’ve found, My dear sir, hearken you: I will open, by my soul! In your carcass such a hole, You will think a wagon pole Has run you through.

“_You_ would prate about the law? _You_ would magnify a flaw? _You_ would touch me on the raw? So now, sir, say no more! Keep a padlock on your jaw, Not a sentence, or I’ll draw, And I’ll scatter you like straw Around the floor!”

Now the Judge’s face grew red As a turkey gobbler’s head When a scarlet robe is spread On the lawn or fence. “I adjourn the court,” he cried, “’Till that _animus_ has died, And is buried head and hide Far from hence.”

Then the rush was for the door; From the corridors they pour,— Three old women were run o’er Within the justice hall; And above the tramp and patter, And the cursing and the chatter, And the awful din and clatter, Rose their squall.

When the open air was gained, Then the epithets were rained, And the passer’s ear was pained With profanity flung loose, Back and forth the wordy pair, Shameless swapped opinions there; ’Till all parties got their share Of vile abuse.

When the man of “briefs” would flee, Chieftain followed like a bee, Or a shark a ship at sea When hunger presses sore; ’Till, enraged, the lawyer, he Cried, “If fight you want of me, Wait with patience minutes three, Not any more;

“’Till I hasten up the stair To my office, and prepare, Like yourself for rip and tear, And piling bodies dead. Then, if you can blaze it faster, Carve designs for probe or plaster, Quicker work a soul’s disaster, Just waltz ahead.”

But alas! his hasty tongue, Vulgar name or sentence flung, And the chieftain’s pride was stung Down to the marrow bone. Now upon him, head and tail, Pitched policemen, tooth and nail, Hot as bees when they assail A lazy drone.

And upon the evening breeze Rose the “begorras” and the “yees” Of a dozen Mulroonees, As they roughly hale The poor lawyer through the street, Sometimes lifted from his feet, Sometimes o’er the noddle beat, Toward the jail.

Now upon a truss of straw, Lies the counsellor-at-law, Wishing Satan had his paw On wily Cora Lee. For himself to grief is brought, While the _animus_ he sought Running is, as free as thought, Or like his fee.

Footnote 1:

Private enmity towards the prisoner.

A BRILLIANT FORENSIC EFFORT.

Having learned that a highly-educated and respectable lady of this city had instituted a suit in one of our courts for the purpose of obtaining a divorce from her husband, I stepped into the hall of justice to learn how the case progressed. The fact of a young wife demanding a separation in a country like this, which is proverbial for its separations, is nothing to be wondered at, and I was considerably surprised, on reaching the court room, to find it so full of people that I could hardly gain admittance. I was not so much astonished at the great rush, however, when informed by the bailiff that the ground on which the lady rested her case was that her husband snored. As I entered, the plaintiff’s lawyer commenced addressing the court. He entered into the case with the spirit and fire of a Clay or a Webster. After reviewing and commenting largely upon the testimony given in the case, he ended his argument in the following words:—

“Now, sir, whatever other people may think of this application, I take a bold stand, regardless whose corns or bunions I tread upon, so long as I put my foot down where it belongs. We have too many snorers among us. They are in our places of amusement, introducing groans and thunder where none were intended in the play. We find them in our places of worship, breaking forth in the midst of the pastor’s prayer, or while he is picturing to the congregation the wreck of ages and the crash of worlds. I maintain that this application is a righteous one; that it is a shot in the right direction, which will in all likelihood eventually bring down the game; and were I a judge invested with power to decide a peculiar case of this kind, I would show no hesitation, but grant the plaintiff her natural and very reasonable request more readily than if the grounds on which she sued for a separation were drunkenness or desertion.

“The absurdity of an irascible wife seeking a divorce from a husband because he indulges too freely in the flowing bowl must be apparent to all. She rushes into the crowded court room, and, figuratively speaking, catches the astonished justice by the ear, as Joab in the extremity of his distress laid hold upon the horns of the altar, and requests him to sever the chafing bonds with his legal shears. Again: what a pitiable lack of discretion that woman exhibits who appeals to the court merely because her husband deserts her, leaving her to pursue the even tenor of her way. Why, in nine cases out of ten this is a ‘consummation devoutly to be wished;’ she is left untrammeled, and has no husband to support.

“I will not allude to the many other failings which wreck the home and put out the cheerful light of many a hearthstone.

“But, sir, it is with no ordinary thrill of pride that I espouse the cause of the woman who seeks a divorce from a snoring husband. I say, and I may remark that I say it boldly, that I rejoice it was reserved for me to raise my voice in her defence. I hold that a man who with malice aforethought takes from her peaceful home a tender and confiding maiden without first informing her of his trouble, commits a grave and unpardonable crime. The dogs of justice should be loosened at his heels to hound him from Puget’s Sound to Passamaquoddy Bay. He should be made to repent his villainous act. Think how the tender nerves of a sensitive creature must be shocked on being awakened by such an outburst. Picture to yourself her husband, not breathing her name in words of love, but lying flat on his back, and snoring with the vehemence of a stranded porpoise.

“Now, sir, I ask what mercy should be shown the monster who has himself shown none? He has doomed a fair representative of that sex whose presence civilizes ours, to an ever new affliction and a life of perpetual wakefulness. What course can she pursue? There are but two roads. Which shall she take? One leads to the court room and the other leads to the cemetery. She must either be freed from her husband or go down to an untimely grave, perhaps to have her place quickly filled by another unsuspecting victim. No, your Honor; this man, and I regret to say it, this husband and father, should not be permitted to destroy the peace and bright prospects of more than one female. Let it be known to the world that he has ruined the hopes of a loving wife, let it be blazoned upon the housetops and upon the fences that he _snores_; then let him get another mate, if he can.

“The wife should not only have a divorce from the deceptive monster, but she should have the custody of the children. She deserves them by virtue of her long suffering and patience, while he who has so heartlessly deceived her cannot be competent to guide their little feet aright in the dangerous walks of life. On behalf of this sorrowing wife, all other wives, and of the wives yet to be, who are ripening into womanhood around our hearths, I cry separation! In the name of confidence betrayed, of hopes blasted, and of a life aged before its time, I repeat, separation! separation!”

He sank into his seat, and despite the order of the bailiff for “silence in court,” generous applause swept throughout the room. The judge took occasion to compliment the lawyer for his able argument, and said it was the greatest forensic effort he had listened to since he assumed the responsibilities of his office. The prayer was granted and the children awarded to the plaintiff.

VISITING A SCHOOL.

Accepting an invitation extended by the principal of an uptown school, I visited that institution to-day. The masses of young humanity a person finds in these temples of instruction is something amazingly impressive. Eight or nine hundred scholars are attending the one school on which I bestowed my attentions to-day.

This article must be embellished with a faithful sketch of the boy who stood at the head of his class. How he felt at that moment, I couldn’t say, never having any experience in the position myself. He looked happy and confident, however, and snapped eagerly at the words as they fell from the teacher’s lips, much as a hungry dog does at the crumbs falling from a table. But my sympathies were decidedly with the little contortionist who stood mournfully at the foot of her class. I knew how that was myself. I had been “yar,” and I regretted I wasn’t a ventriloquist, that I might from afar whisper in her ear, and assist her over some clogging syllables. If she could have gone into the yard, where I noticed a scholar of the senior class throwing herself in a delirium of joy, brought about by a skipping-rope, she would probably have acquitted herself in a creditable manner, and won the praise of all, for however inferior a person may be to another in some matters, when they can choose their game they often reverse the order, and peradventure the poor stammering scholar could have skipped the skirts off those jogging ahead of her in the common speller.

THE REJECTED SUITOR.

Not often does a sadder sight Wake sympathetic strain, Than glimpse of some rejected wight Whose suit has proved in vain; Who often pinched necessities For bouquets, sweet and rare, For tickets to the carnival, The opera, or fair;

Whose pocket oft was visited The candy box to fill; The dollar spent that should have gone To pay his laundry bill. Especially the case is sad, If he who seeks a wife Has, step by step, encroached upon The shady side of life.

The fly no darker prospect views That in the inkstand peers, Than he, whose unrequited love Must leak away in tears. At such a time how ill the smile Becomes the rival face; The “ha, ha, ha’s!” the winks and nods, Seem sadly out of place.

And then comparisons are drawn At the expense, no doubt, Of him whose overflowing cup Seems full enough without. While he who moves away, alas! Of every grace so free, To criticism opens wide The door, as all may see.

His mind is not reflecting now On fashions, style, or art, On proper pace, or rules of grace; But on his slighted heart. He now but sees his promised joys All foundering in his view, His castles tumbling down, that high In brighter moments grew.

To know that now those ruby lips Another’s mouth will press, And now that soft and soothing hand Another’s brow caress,— Oh, dark before, and dark behind, And full of woe and pain Is life to him, whose heavy loss Makes up a rival’s gain.

The gravel-walk beneath his feet Cannot too sudden ope’, To gather in the wretch, who mourns The death of every hope. The swallows, whispering in a row, Seem mocking at his tear, And in the cawing of the crow He seems to catch a sneer; The cattle grazing in the field Awhile their lunch delay, To gaze at him, who moves along In such a listless way.

Perhaps he’ll know a thousand griefs Ere death has laid him low. Perhaps, beside an open grave, He’ll shed the tear of woe; Perhaps he’ll turn him from the sods That hide a mother’s face, A father’s smile, a brother’s hand, Or sister’s buried grace; But there can hardly come a time When life will look so drear, Or can so little reason show Why he should linger here.

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

I am not the oldest inhabitant, and don’t know what sort of storms they used to have here before the flood; but I’ll wager a corner lot against a plug of tobacco, that this section, for the last twenty years, has not snoozed through a rougher night than the one just past.

It would have been a glorious night for a revivalist to stir up the masses. Converts would have crowded in like grists to a mill after harvest. Since the last great earthquake I have not felt so much concern about my future state as I did about twelve o’clock last night. I arose from bed, and went to rummaging books, trying to find the description of a storm that would equal ours. I found the tempest that Tam O’Shanter faced the night he discovered the witches, and the one in which King Lear was cavorting around, bare-headed, and that which made Cæsar take an account of stock and turn to interpreting dreams, and jumbled them all together; but the product was unequal to the fury that was raging without. There was no more similarity than a baby’s rattle bears to a Chinese gong.

Then I fished out the storm that howled while Macbeth was murdering Duncan, and tumbled it in with the others. This addition made things about even. The “lamentations heard i’ the air” of Macbeth’s tempest were a fair precedent of the clamorous uproar from the fire bell in the City Hall tower. Only an earthquake was lacking to enable us to say, “The earth was feverous, and did shake,” or boast a night outvieing four of the roughest on record, all woven into one.

It had one good effect, however—one for which poison and boot-jacks have been tried in vain: it did silence the dogs and cats. Their midnight carousals were as rare as they were in Paris just before the capitulation. Quarrelsome curs postponed the settlement of their little differences and defiant barks until such times as they would be able to discover themselves whether they barked or yawned, and cats sought other places besides a fellow’s window-sill to express opinions about each other or chant their tales of love.

I know the rain is refreshing, the wind purifying, the lightning grand, and the thunder awe-inspiring; but as the poor land-lubber advised, when he was clinging to the spar of the wrecked vessel, “Praise the sea, but keep on land,” so I say to those people who want to prick up their willing ears, like a war-horse, to catch the sublime rumble of heaven’s artillery, or sit by their window and blink at the blazing sky, like a bedazzled owl at a calcium light; but I know _one_ individual who could have got along quite as well if there had raged no war of the elements. He would have slept soundly and never mourned for what he had lost.

MY DRIVE TO THE CLIFF.

I am wofully out of humor, and what is worse, out of pocket, and have just been settling a bill for repairs to a buggy which was knocked out of kilter on the Cliff House road the other day. At the present writing I feel that it will be some time before I take the chances of injuring another. The moon may fill her horn and wane again, the seals howl, and the ocean roar, but I will hardly indulge in the luxury of a drive to the beach for many a day to come. I had a couple of ladies with me. Splendid company ladies are—so long as they have unlimited confidence in your skill as a driver. But they try one’s patience after they lose faith, and want to get the lines in their own hands every time you chance to run a wheel into the ditch, or accidentally climb over a pig or calf. Those who were with me on that occasion are not particularly loud in their praise of my driving. The fact is, I didn’t acquit myself in a manner calculated to draw down encomiums in showers upon my head. I drove a span that day. They were called high-strung animals. But I don’t like high-strung horses any more. If they would only run along the track like a locomotive, I could hold the ribbons as gracefully as anybody; but I am very much opposed to all of their little by-plays. This getting scared at a floating thistle-down, or grasshopper swinging on a straw, is something I don’t approve of in a horse. There is no reason in it; no profit accrues from it.

But my trotters were frightened at different objects at the same moment—one at a snail peacefully pursuing his way across the road, and the other at a butterfly winging his wabbling flight along the ditch. At once they became unmanageable, and vied with each other in extravagant antics. From the first the ladies had no very exalted opinion of my manner of handling the lines. Even before we were well under way I had the misfortune to run down a calf. Then a Newfoundland dog thought to stop the buggy by taking hold of one of the hubs, but he made a mis-dive, and shoving his head between the spokes, kept us company for twenty rods without any effort on his part whatever. I also ran over a wheelbarrow loaded with bricks (the Irishman escaped with a crushed hat), and overthrew an apple woman’s stand while turning a corner. I can yet hear ringing in my ear the shouts and execrations of the old vender, when she saw the wheels mounting her baskets and squeezing the cider out of her choicest bellflowers. Until I passed the next street I could look back and see the old lady in her embarrassing situation. There she sat, caught under the broken table, and kicking about wildly in frantic efforts to free herself, while her bonnet was knocked askew by the fall and stuck on one side of her head in the most jaunty position imaginable.

At this point the horses became more frightened, and commenced cutting up strange didos. Things were getting badly mixed, so much so that one horse turned his head to the dasher. The ladies took a hurried view of the situation, and voting me an incompetent driver, began to desert me by back-action movements over the rear end of the buggy.

I shall always think that I could have managed the animals without any difficulty if they had not both been frightened at the same time. But with one bucking like a Mexican plug, evidently bent on crawling under the buggy, and the other seemingly striving to reach the stars by an invisible ladder, they were indeed difficult to control.

My companions concluded they had sufficient buggy riding for one day, and took the cars into town, while I patched up the harness as best I could, and returned to the livery stable, fully concurring with the women folks that as a driver I was not a success, and that hereafter promenades would suit me better.

SECOND SIGHT.

A singular case of second sight occurred in the western part of the city last evening while I was there. An old Irishman named McSweegan, who lives in that locality, is the possessor of a multiplying pair of eyes. That is, they have the strange faculty of making two objects of one. This natural endowment is particularly distinguishable after he has been indulging freely in strong decoctions of old rye.