Part 7

Sharp glanced the driver at Bangs; then said, “What scared me of goin’ was this, d’ye see,— I’d a friend in New York, whose letters I read; And he wrote: In the whole of your country, He ’ad looked the biggest graveyards through, Looked ’em through with uncommon keer, But never ’ad come to a single view Of a cove[10] as wos aged fifty year.

“And as this is the case in hevery State, I think there’s nothink on hearth for cure’n A chap hof a fancy to hemigrate Like readin’ of them graveyards of yourn. So I thought I’d rather perlong my breath, Tho’ sometimes here a fellow they hangs”—— “You are right, my friend. Choose your own way of death, _I_ go in for that,” said Professor Bangs.

“But I see you have not understood Why no aged person is ever found Among us. We only want _young_ blood On our driving, thriving, Yankee ground. Youth alone has the power to go it; Old men are a drag on putting it through, So we kill them off—and our tombstones show it— Before they arrive at forty-two.”

Here the driver gave a long _cher_—_rup_! And gazed at the Yankee, dark and wan, As if he had woke the wrong passenger up While calmly Professor Bangs went on: “In walking up and down Broadway, Large mourning sign-boards at times appear With this inscription in letters grey— ‘_Elderly persons extinguished here_.’

“And they put in your hand a pamphlet small, Adapted to people of different stations, Which cites the law, and exhorts them all _To dismiss in peace_ their old relations. ‘Why let them linger in a vale,’ It states, ‘where often colds they catch? Send them to _us_, and we’ll end the tale With politeness, humanity, and dispatch.’

“‘N.B.—For those who would die by the trigger We’ve a merciful man who’s a practised shot, With an elegant room, and a careful nigger To lay them genteelly out on the spot. Our principal has a chemist of fame, Whom he exclusively employs on Those who set their checks on a different game And like to pass to heaven by poison.’

“’Tis thus the ladies generally choose it; They love to die without pain or pangs By a nice little globule—who could refuse it? None but a man,” said Professor Bangs. “A _saw buck_ extra they always charge For the stylish mode of extinguishing breath. A saw buck’s ten dollars. It’s rather large, But then it ensures you a _cocktail_ death.”

“Vot may that be?” said the driver, meekly, In the tone of a greatly altered man. I observed that he seemed to be growing weakly Since the Professor his story began. “A cocktail’s a tipple—America vaunts of it— So flavoured, so foamy, so spiced, and whirled, That he who can get as much as he wants of it Very soon drinks himself out of the world.

“’Tis said in the sky—right over Paris, Where the American heaven is found, Where everything brick-like and fast and rare is— The cocks with tumblers for tails run round. They cut to the bar for all things thinkable,— All that is nice is a gratis boon,— Then they come back with your favourite drinkable And their sickle-feather’s a silver spoon!

“But he who invented the cocktail brew is The man before you. Thus came the hint: I had once been kissing a pretty Jewess, Who just before had been nibbling mint; And in order to recall the taste Which I found in pressing her luscious two lips, I mingled brandy and mint, in haste, With sugar and ice—and thus made Juleps.

“The first step was, therefore, the julep perfected, Which gives us a _menthal_ spirit of wine; And finding myself thereby respected, I sought to make bitter and sweet combine. So I took of bitters aromatic (I prefer the tincture of bark myself, With orange flavoured, but if you lack it, Try any kind on the bar-room shelf).

“And I fixed them with sugar, and ice, and spirits, In a silver tumbler, lightning-quick, sir, Which I shook till all their several merits Were combined in one subtle and strange elixir. Then I passed it through a silver sieve Kept carefully free from spot or rust; And the final jimglorious touch to give, I threw in a sprinkle of nutmeg-dust.

“And I am told by the spirit-rappers That in the American Paris-heaven, Though they’ve fancy drinks which are total snappers, There’s nothing better than mine are given. So they die in New York without any pangs, For they know in the next world, to requite ’em, They’ll sit over Paris,” said Mr. Bangs, “A-drinking cocktails _ad infinitum_.”

Here we got down, and the driver said, “Vell, _you_’re of the kind that will allers bang ’em!” And turning our mocassins homeward, we sped To that great American wigwam, the Langham. Said Bangs, “O’er _my_ eyes there is drawn no wool. That man has no heart who would tell you a mock tale; But story for story I told to the Bull, What I call a real American cocktail.”

[10] _Cove_, a word erroneously supposed to be slang. It is derived from the Gypsy _covo_ or _covi_, meaning _that_—that fellow, that thing.

JUDGE WYMAN A RURAL YANKEE LEGEND

Long ago, in the State of Maine, There lived a Judge—a good old soul, Rather well up in “genial vein,” And not by any means “down on” the bowl. N.B.—By “bowl” I mean the “cup,” And by “cup”—N.B.—I mean a _glass_, Since neither bowls nor cups go up At present when we our liquor pass. (Although I recall— ’Tis three years this Fall— When travelling in the wilderness, And things were all in an awful mess, And our crockery, with a horrible crash, Had gone its way to eternal smash) (It came, as the driver allowed, from racin’), We drank champagne from a tin wash-basin. Excuse the digression—_non est crimen_— And return to our Judge, whose name was Wyman. The Judge oft drank in a hostelrie Kept by a man whose name was Sterret, Where he met with jolly company, But where the whisky was void of merit. The real Minié rifle brand, That at forty rods kills out of hand.

Well, it came to pass that one night the Judge At Sterret’s, after a long, hot day, Got so tight that he couldn’t budge, And found himself “well over the bay,” With a “snake in his boot” and one in his hat, Like a biled owl, or a monkey horned, Tangle-legged, hawk-eyed, on a bat, Peepy, skewered, and slewed, and corned. Couldn’t tell a skunk from a pint of Cologne, Couldn’t see the difference ’tween _fips_ and cents; And when he attempted to walk alone, Simply made a Virginia fence; Till liquor yielded at last to sleep, And he sank into Dream River—four miles deep.

_Sanctus Ivus fuit Brito, advocatus sed non latro._ “Saint Ives the Briton first took a brief, For though a lawyer he wasn’t a thief.” This is what the story declares, Which says he listens to lawyers’ prayers. Likely enough! perhaps he may— Whenever a lawyer tries to pray! But another legend, old and quaint, Assigns them a different kind of saint, With a singular foot and peculiar hue, Whose breath is tinged with a beautiful blue;

And this was _rather_ the saint, I think, Who inspired the young lawyers, twenty-four, Who helped Judge Wyman to stow his drink, And made them rejoice to hear him snore. Who, save the devil, would not have wept To see these graceless legal loons Tricking the good old Judge as he slept, And filling his pockets with Sterret’s spoons? With silver spoons; likewise for butter A handsome ten-dollar silver knife; Then put Judge Wyman on a shutter, And carried him home to his loving wife.

If any ladies read these rhymes, Which in Edgar A. Poetry are called “runes,” They may just imagine what sort of times Mrs. Wyman had when she found the spoons! The Judge’s grief was full of merit, And his lady wasn’t inclined to flout it; But she quietly took the spoons to Sterret, And nothing more was said about it. A month went by, and _Fama_, the wench! Had not spread a whisper to urge remorse, And Judge Wyman sat on the legal bench, Trying a fellow for stealing a horse. The evidence was all due north. It froze the prisoner every minute, Till Judge Wyman called the culprit forth, And asked what “he had to say _agin_ it?”

The prisoner looked at the planks of pine Of the little rural court-house ceiling, At all the jury in a line, Then answered, his only small card dealing, “Judge, I hev lots of honesty, But when I’m drunk I can’t control it; And as for this ’ere hoss—d’ye see?— I was drunk as blazes when I stole it.” Answered the Judge, “If this Court were a dunce, She would say, in law that is no excuse; For the Court held that opinion _once_, But of late her connection’s been gettin’ loose. One may be certain on law to-day, And find himself to-morrow dumb.—

“But answer me one thing truly, and say Where’bouts it was you got your rum?” “I drank because I was invited, And got my rum at Sterret’s, d’ye see?” “Mr. Sheriff,” cried the Judge, excited, “This instant set that poor man free! The liquor that Sterret sells, by thunder! Would make a man do anything, And some time or other, I shouldn’t wonder If it made a saint on the gallows swing; It will run a man to perdition quicker Than it takes a fiddler to reel off tunes; _Why, this Court herself once got drunk on that liquor,_ _And stole the whole of old Sterret’s spoons_!”

IN NEVADA

Like an awful alligator Breathing fire and screeching hell-some, With a pack of hounds behind him, As if hunted by the devil, Came the smoking locomotive, Followed by the cars and tender, Down among the mountain gorges, Till it stopped before a village As the starry night came on.

Just before a mountain village, Where there was a howling shindy Just around a bran-new gallows, With a roaring blazing bonfire Casting a red light upon it, While a crowd of roughest rowdies Shouted, “Cuss him! darn his vitals! Bust him! sink him! burn him! skin him!” Evidently much excited As the starry night came on.

On the gallows stood a culprit Shrieking painfully for mercy. As the train and engine halted, Louder yelled the gasping victim. Then out cried the grim conductor, “What in thunder is the matter? What’s ye doin’ with that feller? Why’ve ye got both fire and gallows?” And unto him some one answered, As the starry night came on:—

“This all-fired, skunk-eyed villain, Whom you see upon the gallows, Lately stole the loveliest mewel[11] That you ever sot your peeps on, For a hundred shiny dollars, Went and sold it to the Greasers; But, as you perceive, we’ve nailed him, And at present we’re debatin’ Whether we had better hang him, Or else roast him like an Injun, Ere the starry night comes on.

“And I think ez ther ar’ ladies Here to grace this gay occasion, In the train, and quite convenient, We had better take and burn him. ’Twould be kinder interestin’, Or, as folks might say, romantic, To behold an execution, As we do ’em here in Hell Town, In the real frontier fashion, Ere the starry night comes on.”

Up from all the assembled ladies, And from all the passageros, Went a scream of protestation,— “What! for nothing but a mewel! Only for a hundred dollars Roast alive a fine young fellow! Never, never, never, ne—ver!” Falling on her knees, a damsel Begged the maddened crowd to spare him, And to her replied the spokesman, As the starry night came on:—

“Since the lady begs it of us, And as we ar’ galiant fellers, We will smash the tail of Jestis, And will spare this orful miscrint, Ef you’ll raise a hundred dollars To replace the vanished mewel. Then this fiend, unwhipped, undamaged, May go wanderin’ to thunder, Soon as he darnation pleases, Ere the starry night comes on.”

Straight among the pitying ladies, And the other passageros, Went the hat around in circle. Dollars, quarters, halves, and greenbacks Rained into it till the hundred Was accomplished, and the ransom Paid unto Judge Lynch in person, Who received it very gracious, And at once released the prisoner, Sternly bidding him to squaddle, Just as fast as he could make it, Ere the starry night came on. And the lady who by kneeling Had destroyed the path of justice, Seized upon the fine young fellow, He who had the mulomania, Or who was a kleptomuliac; And she led him by the halter, While the reckless population Made atrocious puns upon it; And she stowed him in the Pullman As the safest sanctuary, As the starry night came on.

It was over. Loud the whistle Blew a signal of departure; Still the dying bonfire flickering Showed on high the ghastly gallows, Seeming like some hungry monster Disappointed of a victim, Gasping as in fitful anger, Pouring out unto the gallows Or the sympathetic scaffold All the story of its sorrow, As the clouds passed o’er the moon-face, And the starry night came on.

Soon the train and those within it Reached and passed a second station, And was speeding ever onward, When at once a shriek came ringing— ’Twas an utterance from the lady Who by tears had baffled justice; Loud she cried, “Where is my hero? Where, oh, where’s the handsome prisoner?” And the affable conductor Searched the train from clue to ear-ring, But they could not find the captive. He had clearly just evaded At the station just behind them, As the starry night came on. Then outspoke a man unnoted Hitherto: “I heard the fellow Say just now to the conductor, Ere we reached the second teapot, That he reckoned he must hook it This here time a little sooner, If he hoped to get his portion Of the hundred, since the last time He came awful nigh to lose it; For it might be anted off all ’Fore he got a chance to strike it, Ere the starry night came on.”

And the Unknown thus continued: “They hev hed that gallows standin’ All the summer, and the people Mostly git ther livin’ from it, For they take ther turns in bein’ Mournful victims who hev stolen Every one a lovely mewel; And they always every evenin’ Hev the awful death-fire kindled, And the ghastly captive ready. It’s the fourth time I hev seen it, Comin’ through and never missed it; Only for a variation Now and then they hire a nigger For the people from New England, As the starry night comes on.

“And they find that fire and gallows Just as good as a bonanza, For they got the Legislater Lately to incopperate it; And I hear the stock is risin’ Up like prairie smoke in autumn. Yes, in this world men diskiver Cur’ous ways to make a livin’, Ez you’ll find when you hev tried it For a year or so about here.” And the passengers in silence Mused upon this new experience, Most of all the fine young lady, As the dragon darted onward, And the starry night came on.

[11] Mule.

THE PHILANTHROPIC CLUB

I am the member of a club of reg’lar noble seeds, Whose object is to give rewards for philanthropic deeds. We root for magnanimity as spiders hunt for flies, So we lately held a meeting to award our annual prize.

Then our President reported with great solemnity The case of Dayball Carter, a man in Tennessee, Who plunged into a burning store as if his doom had come, But emergéd with an infant—and a gallon jug of rum.

But the club could nowise settle, admitting all the fact, If the baby or the liquor had inspired the noble act, For ’twas proved he kept the liquor while he let the infant go, So the case of Mr. Carter was adjourned _in dubio_.

Then the Secretary read us, in very moving tones, The wondrous case of courage of General Pompey Jones, Who found a hydrophobic dog upon a neighbour’s farm, And roped his neck and led him off where he could do no harm.

Then Brother Chunk, of Pewterville, declared that it was sad To have to state that Jones had no idea the dog was mad, And that in circles where he moved ’twas very freely said He’d picked it up intending to come out one dog ahead.

Then the next case reported in the doings of the day Was that of Huckleberry Pod, a man in Iowa, Who slopped into a raging flood to save a drowning maid, And did it like a beaver, as admiring neighbours said.

Then Brother Chunk again let down his fist with startling bump, And said he’d found that Mr. Pod refused to make the jump Till offered fifty dollars by the people of the town, And that then he wouldn’t do it till he got the money down.

Last of all we heard the instance of Golias Purple Fife, Who went into an awful well to save a fellow’s life, A man who always spoke of Fife as of a blooming fool, And who recently had done him blind in trading for a mule;

And on top of this, moreover, in addition, ’twas a fact, He refused a quarter-dollar for this noble manly act, And when they asked him what he’d drink, or if he’d take a bite, He jumped in silence on his mule and rode into the night.

This case, in the opinion of the members of the club, Was much the most deserving, and the nearest to the hub; And each allowed he’d never heard the like in all his life, So, by general acclamation, they bestowed the prize on Fife:—

A silver-plated snuff-box, with a compass in the lid, With the words, “_If sold at auction always do as you are bid_,” Which we sent him in a hurry ere it might be understood That this, too, was not an instance of the pure unmingled good.

And these are the proceedings of these noble-minded seeds, Who make it their profession to discover virtuous deeds; And every day turns out a lot, but still ’tis on our mind That a case without a speck in it is very hard to find.

THE COLOURED FORTUNE-HUNTER

Pete Jonsing went to see the County Clerk About a marriage license, and the man Said unto him for fun, but seriously: “I hope the bride possesses fifty cents, Because the Legislature’s passed a law That any girl with less must not be wed.” “Jis’ go ahead wid dat ’ar paper, Boss,” Peter replied; then whispered, bending down: “Dar’s rumers—and dey is reliable— Dat de young woman dat I’m goin’ fur Has got two dollars and a quarter—_shoa_. And dat’s de reason wy I marries her.”

PENN ON A TEXT BY ROBERT BURDETTE

When William Penn appeared before King Charles To get the charter of his Promised Land In Pennsylvaniá, ’Twas in his usual free-and-easy style, With hands in pockets and his hat on side— Singing _Lard-dardy day_! _Let us drink and be merry, laugh, sing, and rejoice,_ _With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice,_ _Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_

King Charles at once removed his feathered tile. “Keep on your hat, young man!” said William Penn, “It is our Quaker way; And people will not know that you are bald; Be quite at home to make your guests at home— Singing _Lard-dardy day_! _This changeable world to our joys is unjust,_ _All treasure’s uncertain, so down with your dust,_ _Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_”

“It is the custom here,” the King replied, “For only one to cover at a time; This is the courtly way.” “Then you should have more covers,” warbled Penn. “Warm people’s heads to make them merry men— Singing _Lard-dardy day_! _And in frolics dispose of your shillings and pence,_ _Since we all shall be past it a hundred years hence,_ _Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay_!

“’Tis a queer world, and faith! I do not lay My hat around, loose, in a domicile Where I don’t know the way, Unless some party gives a check for it; I’ve travelled some—I have—and can’t be bit— Singing _Lard-dardy day_! Since, despite your invention, and learning, and sense, You’ll be _non est inventus_ a hundred years hence, _Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_”

“Odds-fish!” exclaimed his Royal Majesty, “He talks full well, but as it seems to me, According to our way, There’s a tremendous pig in this same Penn.” “Bravo, young man!” said William; “try again— Singing _Lard-dardy day_! You have brought me a terrible one on the nob, But I bear you no malice, not being a snob, _Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_”

And thus it is that history is writ, And thus it is good men are slandered sore From ever till to-day. Some writer pastes a joke; it may remain Safe in a corner from Time’s wind and rain Till Time has rolled away. _So, hurrah for King Charles! and hurrah, too, for Penn!_ _And all such and similar excellent men!_ _Merry-ton-ton-ton ta-lay!_

BALLAD OF THE FOXES

There is a golden glory in my song As of a picture by Carpaccio, For it is of the early morning-time When every man believed with tender faith That animals could talk—oh, lovely lore! So, lady, listen as the lay runs on.

There was a goose, and she was travelling Across the land for her dyspepsia, And at the noontide sat to rest herself In a small thicket, when there came along Two starving foxes, perishing to find Something which was not too-too-utter-ish To serve for dinner. And as they were wild For want of food, it was but natural That they should likewise be confounded cross; Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

And as they halted near the thicket, one Of them observed, “If you were half as sharp As books make out, you would not now, I’ll bet, Be ravenous enough to gnaw the grass.” “And if you were as big, or half as big, As you believe you are,” snarled Number Two, “You’d be a lion of the largest size _Minus_ his roar, and pluck, and dignity.” Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

“Please to observe I want no impudence From any fifteen-nickel quadruped Of your peculiar shape,” snapped Number One. “And if you give me but another note Of your chin-music,” snarled out Number Two, “I’ll make a wreck of you, you wretched beast, Beyond insurance—bet your tail on that!” Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!

“You are the champion snob of all the beasts!” “And you the upper scum of all the frauds.” “You are the weathercock of infamy.” “And you the lightning-rod of falsehood’s spire.” “You are a thief!” “Ditto.” “You lie.” “I ain’t.” “Shut up, you goy!” And hearing this, the goose Could bear no more, but walking from the bush, Put on expression most benevolent, And said, “Oh, gentlemen, for shame! for shame! I’ll settle this dispute: in the first place Let me remark, as an impartial friend——” Oh, listen, lady, as the lay runs on!

But she did not remark, because they made A rush at her and caught her by the throat, And ate her up; and as they picked their teeth With toothpicks made of her last pin-feathers, The first observed, and that quite affably, “Only a goose would ever make attempt To settle a dispute when foxes fight”— Oh, lady, listen as the lay runs on!