Chapter 20

I am sorry to see such a woeful change In the health of the hardiest; It is wonderful odd--it is "passing strange"-- As over the country you travel and range, To behold such a sudden, lamentable change All over the East and the West.

"Blades" tough and hearty a week ago, Who tippled and danced and laughed, Are "suddenly taken," and some quite low With an epidemical illness, you know: "What!--Zounds!--the cholera?" you quiz;--no--no-- The doctors call it the "Draft."

What a blessed thing it were to be old-- A little past "forty-five;" 'Twere better indeed than a purse of gold At a premium yet unwritten, untold, For what poor devil that's now "enrolled" Expects to get off alive?

There's a miracle wrought in the Democrats; They swore it was murder and sin To put in the "Niggers," like Kilkenny cats, To clear the ship of the rebel rats, But now I notice they swing their hats And shout to the "Niggers"--"_Go in!_"

THE DEVIL AND THE MONK

Once Satan and a monk went on a "drunk," And Satan struck a bargain with the monk, Whereby the Devil's crew was much increased By penceless poor and now and then a priest Who, lacking cunning or good common sense, Got caught _in flagrante_ and out of pence. Then in high glee the Devil filled a cup And drank a brimming bumper to the pope: Then--"Here's to you," he said, "sober or drunk, In cowl or corsets, every monk's a punk. Whate'er they preach unto the common breed, At heart the priests and I are well agreed. Justice is blind we see, and deaf and old, But in her scales can hear the clink of gold. The convent is a harem in disguise, And virtue is a fig-leaf for the wise To hide the naked truth of lust and lecheries.

"And still the toilers feed the pious breed, And pin their faith upon the bishop's sleeve; Hungry for hope they gulp a moldy creed And dine on faith. 'Tis easier to believe An old-time fiction than to wear a tooth In gnawing bones to reach the marrow truth. Priests murder Truth and with her gory ghost They frighten fools and give the rogues a roast Until without or pounds or pence or price-- Free as the fabled wine of paradise-- They furnish priestly plates with buttered toast. Your priests of superstition stalk the land With Jacob's winning voice and Esau's hand; Sinners to hell and saints to heaven they call, And eat the fattest fodder in the stall. They, versed in dead rituals in dead language deep, Talk Greek to th' _grex_ and Latin to their sheep, And feed their flocks a flood of cant and college For every drop of sense or useful knowledge."

"I beg your pardon," softly said the monk, "I fear your Majesty is raving drunk. I would be courteous." But the Devil laughed And slyly winked and sagely shook his head. "My fawning dog," the sage satanic said, "Wags not his tail for me but for my bread. Brains rule to day as they have ruled for aye, And craft grown craftier in this modern day Still rides the fools, but in a craftier way; And priestcraft lingers and survives its use; What was a blessing once is now abuse: Grown fat and arrogant on power and pelf, The old-time shepherd has become a wolf And only feeds his flocks to feast himself. To clink of coin the pious juggler jumps, For still he thinks, as in the days of old, The key to holy heaven is made of gold, That in the game of mortals money is trumps, That golden darts will pierce e'en Virtue's shield, And by the salve of gold all sins are healed. So old Saint Peter stands outside the fence With hand outstretched for toll of Peter-pence, And sinners' souls must groan in Purgatory Until they pay the admission-fee to glory.

"There was an honest poet once on earth Who beat all other bardies at a canter; Rob' Burns his mother called him at his birth. Though handicapped by rum and much a ranter, He won the madcap race in _Tam O'Shanter_. He drove a spanking span from Scottish heather, Strong-limbed, but light of foot as flea or feather-- Rhyme and Reason, matched and yoked together, And reined them with light hand and limber leather. He wrote to me once on a time--I mind it-- A bold epistle and the poet signed it. He thought to cheat "Auld Nickie" of his dues, But who outruns the Devil casts his shoes; And so at last from frolicking and drinkin', 'Some luckless hour' sent him to Hell 'alinkin'![CW] Times had been rather dull in my dominion, And all my imps like lubbers lay a snoring, But Burns began to rhyme us his opinion, And in ten minutes had all Hell aroaring. Then Robbie pulled his book of poems out And read us sundry satires from the book; '_Death and Doctor Hornbook_' raised a shout Till all the roof-tin on the rafters shook; And when his '_Unco Guid_' the bardie read The crew all clapped their hands and yelled like mad; But '_Holy Willie's Prayer_' 'brought down the house'. So I was glad to give the bard a pass And a few pence for toll at Peter's gate; For if the roof of Hell were made of brass Bob Burns would shake it off as sure as fate. I mind it well--that poem on a louse! 'O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us,' Monk, 'To see oursels as others see us'--drunk; 'It wad frae monie a blunder free us'--list!-- 'And foolish notion.' Abbot, bishop, priest, 'What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e' you all, 'And ev'n devotion.' Cowls and robes would fall, And sometimes leave a bishop but a beast, And show a leper sore where erst they made a priest."

[CW] Tripping. See Burns' "_Address to the Deil_"

Not to be beat the jolly monk filled up His silver mug with rare old Burgundy; "Here's to your health," he said, "your Majesty"-- And drained the brimming goblet at a gulp-- "'For when the Devil was sick the Devil a monk would be; But when the Devil got well a devil a monk was he.' _In vino veritas_ is true, no doubt-- When wine goes in teetotal truth comes out. To shake a little Shakespeare in the wine: 'Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall'; But in the realm of Fate, as I opine, A devil a virtue is or sin at all. 'The Devil be damned' is what we preach, you know it-- At mass and vespers, holy-bread and dinner: From priest to pope, from pedagogue to poet, We sanctify the sin and damn the sinner. This poet Shakespeare, whom I read with pleasure, Wrote once--I think, in taking his own 'Measure':-- 'They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.' The reason halts: If read between the lines--not by the letter-- 'Tis plain enough that Shakespeare was atrimmin' His own unruly ship and furling sail To meet a British tempest or a gale, And keep cold water from his wine and women. Now I'll admit, when he's a little mellow, The Devil himself's a devilish clever fellow, And, though his cheeks and paunch are somewhat shrunk, He only lacks a cowl to make a monk. Time is the mother of twins _et hic et nunc;_ Come, hood your horns and fill the mug abrimmin', For we are cheek by jowl on wit and wine and women."

And so the monk and Devil filled the mug, And quaffed and chaffed and laughed the night away; And when the "wee sma" hours of night had come, The monk slipped out and stole the abbot's rum; And when the abbot came at break of day, There cheek by jowl--horns, hoofs, and hood--they lay, With open missal and an empty jug, And broken beads and badly battered mug-- In fond embrace--dead drunk upon the rug.

Think not, wise reader, that the bard hath drunk The wine that fumed these vagaries from the monk; Nor, in the devil ethics thou hast read, There spake the poet in the Devil's stead. Let Virtue be our helmet and our shield, And Truth our weapon--weapon sharp and strong And deadly to all error and all wrong. Yea, armed with Truth, though rogues and rascals throng The citadel of Virtue shall not yield, For God's right arm of Truth prevails in every field.

THE TARIFF ON TIN

Monarch of Hannah's rocking-chair, With unclipped beard and unkempt hair, Sitting at ease by the kitchen fire, Nor heeding the wind and the driving sleet, Jo Lumpkin perused the _Daily Liar_-- A leading and stanch Democratic sheet, While Hannah, his wife, in her calico, Sat knitting a pair of mittens for Jo.

"Hanner," he said, and he raised his eyes And looked exceedingly grave and wise, "The kentry's agoin, I guess, tu the dogs: Them durned Republikins, they air hogs: A dev'lish purty fix we air in; They've gone un riz the teriff on tin."

"How's thet?" said Hannah, and turned her eyes With a look of wonder and vague surprise.

"Why them confoundered Congriss chaps Hez knocked the prices out uv our craps: We can't sell butter ner beans no more Tu enny furren ship er shore, Becuz them durned Republikins Hez gone un riz the teriff on tins."

Hannah dropped her knitting-work on her knees, And looked very solemn and ill-at-ease: She gazed profoundly into the fire, Then hitched her chair a little bit nigher, And said as she glanced at the _Daily Liar_ With a sad, wan look in her buttermilk eyes: "I vum thet's a tax on punkin-pies, Fer they know we allers bakes 'em in Pans un platters un plates uv tin."

"I wouldn't agrumbled a bit," said Jo, "Et a tax on sugar un salt un sich; But I swow it's a morul political sin Tu drive the farmer intu the ditch With thet pesky teriff on tin. Ef they'd a put a teriff on irn un coal Un hides un taller un hemlock bark, Why thet might a helped us out uv a hole By buildin uv mills un givin uv work, Un gladd'nin many a farmer's soul By raisin the price of pertaters un pork: But durn their eyes, it's a morul sin-- They've gone un riz the teriff on tin. I wouldn't wonder a bit ef Blaine Hed diskivered a tin mine over in Maine; Er else he hez foundered a combinashin Tu gobble the tin uv the hull creashin. I'll bet Jay Gould is intu the'trust,' Un they've gone in tergether tu make er bust; Un tu keep the British frum crowdin in They've gone un riz the teriff on tin. What'll we du fer pans un pails When the cow comes in un the old uns fails? Tu borrer a word frum Scripter, Hanner, Un du it, tu, in pious manner, You'll hev tu go down in yer sock fer a ducat, Er milk old Roan in a wooden bucket: Fer them Republikins--durn their skin-- Hez riz sich a turrible teriff on tin. Tu cents a pound on British tin-plate! Why, Hanner, you see, at thet air rate, Accordin tu this ere newspaper-print-- Un it mus be so er it wouldn't' be in't-- It's a dollar un a half on one tin pan, Un about six shillin on a coffee-can, Un ten shillin, Hanner, on a dinner-pail! Gol! won't it make the workin men squeal-- Thet durned Republikin tax un steal! They call it Protecshin, but blast my skin Ef it aint a morul political sin-- Thet durned Republikin teriff on tin.

"Un then they hev put a teriff on silk Un satin un velvit un thet air ilk, Un broadcloth un brandy un Havanny cigars, Un them slick silk hats thet our preacher wears; Un he'll hev tu wear humspun un drink skim milk. Un, Hanner, you see we'll hev tu be savin, Un whittle our store-bill down tu a shavin; You can't go tu meetin in silks; I vum You'll hev tu wear ging-um er stay tu hum." But Hannah said sharply--"I won't though, I swum!" And Hannah gazed wistfully on her Jo As he rocked himself mournfully to and fro, And then she looked thoughtfully into the fire, While the sleet fell faster and the wind blew higher, And Jo took a turn at the _Daily Liar_.

1890.

PAT AND THE PIG

Old Deutchland's the country for sauerkraut and beer, Old England's the land of roast beef and good cheer, Auld Scotland's the mother of gristle and grit, But Ireland, my boy, is the mother of wit. Once Pat was indicted for stealing a pig, And brought into court to the man in the wig. The indictment was long and so lumbered with Latin That Pat hardly knew what a pickle was Pat in; But at last it was read to the end, and the wig Said: "Pat, are you guilty of stealing the pig?" Pat looked very wise, though a trifle forlorn, And he asked of milord that the witness be sworn. "Bless yer sowl," stammered Pat, "an' the day ye was born! Faith how in the divil d'ye think Oi can tell Till Oi hear the ividince?" Pat reckoned well; For the witness was sworn and the facts he revealed-- How Pat stole the piggy and how the pig squealed, Whose piggy the pig was and what he was worth, And the slits in his ears and his tail and--so forth; But he never once said, 'in the county of Meath,'[CX] So Pat he escaped by the skin of his teeth.

[CX] In criminal cases it is necessary to prove that the crime was committed in the county where the venue is laid.

NOTES

[1] Called in the Dakota tongue "_Hok-sée-win-nâ-pee Wo-hán-pee_"--Virgins' Dance (or Feast).

[2] One of the favorite and most exciting games of the Dakotas is ball-playing. A smooth place on the prairie, or in winter, on a frozen lake or river, is chosen. Each player has a sort of bat, called "_Tâ-kée-cha-psé-cha_," about thirty-two inches long, with a hoop at the lower end four or five inches in diameter, interlaced with thongs of deer-skin, forming a sort of pocket. With these bats they catch and throw the ball. Stakes are set as bounds at a considerable distance from the center on either side. Two parties are then formed and each chooses a leader or chief. The ball (_Tâpa_) is then thrown up half way between the bounds, and the game begins, the contestants contending with their bats for the ball as it falls. When one succeeds in getting it fairly into the pocket of his bat he swings it aloft and throws it as far as he can toward the bound to which his party is working, taking care to send it if possible where some of his own side will take it up. Thus the ball is thrown and contended for till one party succeeds in casting it beyond the bounds of the opposite party. A hundred players on a side are sometimes engaged in this exciting game. Betting on the result often runs high. Moccasins, pipes, knives, hatchets, blankets, robes and guns are hung on the prize-pole. Not unfrequently horses are staked on the issue and sometimes even women. Old men and mothers are among the spectators, praising their swift-footed sons, and young wives and maidens are there to stimulate their husbands and lovers. This game is not confined to the warriors but is also a favorite amusement of the Dakota maidens, who generally play for prizes offered by the chief or warriors. (See _Neill's Hist. Minn._, pp 74-5; _Riggs' Tâkoo Wakân_, pp 44-5, and _Mrs. Eastman's Dacotah_, p 55.)

[3] Pronounced _Wah-zeé-yah_--the god of the North, or Winter. A fabled spirit who dwells in the frozen North, in a great _teepee_ of ice and snow. From his mouth and nostrils he blows the cold blasts of winter. He and _I-tó-ka-ga Wi câs-ta_--the spirit or god of the South (literally the "South Man") are inveterate enemies, and always on the war-path against each other. In winter _Wa-zi-ya_ advances southward and drives _I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta_ before him to the Summer-Islands. But in spring the god of the South having renewed his youth and strength in the "Happy Hunting Grounds," is able to drive _Wa-zi-ya_ back again to his icy wigwam in the North. Some Dakotas say that the numerous granite boulders scattered over the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota, were hurled in battle by _Wa-zi-ya_ from his home in the North at _I-tó-ka-ga Wi-câs-ta_. The _Wa-zi-ya_ of the Dakotas is substantially the same as "_Ka be-bon-ik-ka_"--the "Winter-maker" of the Ojibways.

[4] Mendota--(meeting of the waters) at the confluence of the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers. The true Dakota word is _Mdó-tè_--applied to the mouth of a river flowing into another, also to the outlet of a lake.

[5] Pronounced _Wee-wâh-stay_; literally--a beautiful virgin or woman.

[6] _Cetân-wa-ká-wa-mâni_--"He who shoots pigeon-hawks walking"--was the full Dakota name of the grandfather of the celebrated "Little Crow" (_Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_--His Red People) who led his warriors in the terrible outbreak in Minnesota in 1862-3. The Chippeways called the grandfather _Ká-ká-gè_--crow or raven--from his war-badge, a crow-skin; and hence the French traders and _courriers du bois_ called him "_Petit Corbeau_"--Little Crow. This sobriquet, of which he was proud, descended to his son, _Wakinyan Tânka_--Big Thunder, who succeeded him as chief; and from Big Thunder to his son _Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_, who became chief on the death of _Wakinyan Tânka_. These several "Little Crows" were successively Chiefs of the Light-foot, or _Kapóza_ band of Dakotas. _Kapóza_, the principal village of this band, was originally located on the east bank of the Mississippi near the site of the city of St. Paul. _Col. Minn. Hist. Soc._, 1864, p. 29. It was in later years moved to the west bank. The grandfather whom I, for short, call _Wakâwa_, died the death of a brave in battle against the Ojibways (commonly called Chippeways)--the hereditary enemies of the Dakotas. _Wakinyan Tânka_--Big Thunder, was killed by the accidental discharge of his own gun. They were both buried with their kindred near the "_Wakan Teepee_," the sacred Cave--(Carver's Cave). _Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_, the last of the Little Crows, was killed July 3, 1863, during the outbreak, near Hutchinson, Minnesota, by the Lampsons--father and son, and his bones were duly "done up" for the Historical Society of Minnesota. See _Heard's Hist. Sioux War_, and _Neill's Hist. Minnesota_, Third Edition.

Little Crow's sixteen-year-old son, _Wa-wi-na-pe_--(One who appears --like the spirit of his forefather) was with him at the time he was killed; but escaped, and after much hardship and suffering, was at last captured at _Mini Wakan_ (Devil's Lake, in North Dakota). From him personally I obtained much information in regard to Little Crow's participation in the "Sioux War," and minutely the speech that Little Crow made to his braves when he finally consented to lead them on the war-path against the whites. A literal translation of that speech will be found further on in this note.

I knew _Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_, and from his own lips, in 1859-60 and 61, obtained much interesting information in regard to the history, tradition, customs, superstitions and habits of the Dakotas, of whom he was the recognized Head-Chief. He was a remarkable Indian--a philosopher and a brave and generous man. "Untutored savage" that he was, he was a prince among his own people, and the peer in natural ability of the ablest white men in the Northwest in his time. He had largely adopted the dress and habits of civilized man, and he urged his people to abandon their savage ways, build houses, cultivate fields, and learn to live like the white people. He clearly forsaw the ultimate extinction of his people as a distinct race. He well knew and realized the numbers and power of the whites then rapidly taking possession of the hunting-grounds of the Dakotas, and the folly of armed opposition on the part of his people. He said to me once: "No more Dakotas by and by; Indians all white men. No more buffaloes by and by; all cows, all oxen." But his braves were restless. They smarted under years of wrong and robbery, to which, indeed, the most stinging insults were often added by the traders and officials among them. If the true, unvarnished history of the cause and inception of the "Sioux Outbreak" in Minnesota is ever written and published, it will bring the blush of shame to the cheeks of every honest man who reads it.

Against his judgment and repeated protests, Little Crow was at last, after the depredations had begun, forced into the war on the whites by his hot-headed and uncontrollable "young men."

Goaded to desperation, a party of Little Crow's young "bucks," in August, 1862, began their depredations and spilled white blood at Acton. Returning to their chief's camp near the agency, they told their fellow braves what they had done. The hot-headed young warriors immediately demanded of Little Crow that he put on the "war-paint" and lead them against the white men. The chief severely rebuked the "young men" who had committed the murders, blackened his face (a sign of mourning), retired to his _teepee_ and covered his head in sorrow.

His braves surrounded his tent and cut it into strips with their knives. They threatened to depose him from the chiefship unless he immediately put on the "war-paint" and led them against the whites. They knew that the Civil War was then in progress, that the white men were fighting among themselves, and they declared that now was the time to regain their lost hunting-grounds; that now was the time to avenge the thievery and insults of the Agents who had for years systematically cheated them out of the greater part of their promised annuities, for which they had been induced to part with their lands; that now was the time to avenge the debauchery of their wives and daughters by the dissolute hangers-on who, as employees of the Indian Agents and licensed traders, had for years hovered around them like buzzards around the carcasses of slaughtered buffaloes.

But Little Crow was unmoved by the appeals and threats of his warriors. It is said that once for a moment he uncovered his head; that his face was haggard and great beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. But at last one of his enraged braves, bolder than the rest, cried out:

"_Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_ is a coward!"

Instantly Little Crow sprang from his _teepee_, snatched the eagle-feathers from the head of his insulter and flung them on the ground. Then, stretching himself to his full height, his eyes flashing fire, and in a voice tremulous with rage, he exclaimed:

"_Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_ is not a coward, and he is not a fool! When did he run away from his enemies? When did he leave his braves behind him on the war-path and turn back to his _teepees_? When he ran away from your enemies, he walked behind on your trail with his face to the Ojibways and covered your backs as a she-bear covers her cubs! Is _Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_ without scalps? Look at his war-feathers! Behold the scalp-locks of your enemies hanging there on his lodge-poles! Do they call him a coward? _Ta-ó-ya-te-dú-ta_ is not a coward, and he is not a fool. Braves, you are like little children; you know not what you are doing.

"You are full of the white man's _devil-water_" (rum). "You are like dogs in the Hot Moon when they run mad and snap at their own shadows. We are only little herds of buffaloes left scattered; the great herds that once covered the prairies are no more. See!--the white men are like the locusts when they fly so thick that the whole sky is a snow-storm. You may kill one--two--ten; yes, as many as the leaves in the forest yonder, and their brothers will not miss them. Kill one--two--ten, and ten times ten will come to kill you. Count your fingers all day long and white men with guns in their hands will come faster than you can count.

"Yes; they fight among themselves--away off. Do you hear the thunder of their big guns? No; it would take you two moons to run down to where they are fighting, and all the way your path would be among white soldiers as thick as tamaracks in the swamps of the Ojibways. Yes; they fight among themselves, but if you strike at them they will all turn on you and devour you and your women and little children just as the locusts in their time fall on the trees and devour all the leaves in one day. You are fools. You cannot see the face of your chief; your eyes are full of smoke. You cannot hear his voice; your ears are full of roaring waters. Braves, you are little children--you are fools. You will die like the rabbits when the hungry wolves hunt them in the Hard Moon (January). _Ta-ó-ya-té dú-ta_ is not a coward: he will die with you."