Chapter 8

Last night to the Play where comes Lasselle and makes very merry and telleth jokes the which of great amusement to my wife while I find no mirth therein. Later to supper at the coffee house and my wife exceedingly witty and me all of a wonder at the change in her in public and on reflection do find it passing strange that one ugly like Mistress Badminton will effort her to be gracious at home while one so handsome as my wife sleeps ever.

To my office where did buy and sell as usual.

_September sixteenth_

My wife not well and strangely indisposed towards me yawning unduly and complaining that life is dull, yet gay enough for others and of a great joy over riding horseback with Lasselle. Last night did chide her in bed for upwards of an hour and misliked me greatly when I had done to find that she slept for some while before. Will have the doctor to her for there be surely something amiss in a woman who is not happy with me.

To my office and H. Nevil all excitement over his margins.

_October twenty-ninth_

Returned this day from a trip to the Coast and find my wife no better although the doctor hath been with her each day. She saith the doctor adviseth quiet until spring. Comes Mrs. Badminton her face all awry and will that I go with her to Carlsbad and my affairs so many as never was and never any lover of the sea. That which causeth me great vexation that I have a wife and say flatly to Mrs. Badminton to ask the doctor if he can not take her to Carlsbad any money being wiser than to travel with oats where they be now and chicken feed going up to beat the band, at which the good woman raiseth her hands aloft and maketh such demonstration that I clean out of patience and basted her with the fire shovel the same being not courteous but sadly necessary to all appearance.

_November sixth_

My wife most nervous and there being no peace with Her did discuss the same with Lasselle to-day and although unmarried yet did sympathize much and advise for me with a right good will telling me of a place in southern France where he hath been and the same beyond all else for the nerves only lonely but that not so bad since he proposeth going there this winter himself and can see after my wife somewhat the which greatly to my relief and so home and did discourse thereon with Mistress Badminton the which drew a long face and plain to see was dead against the plan the which putting me in a fine temper with what a woman hath for brains.

Wheat rising and A. B. & C. going down comes H. Nevil short to borrow the which crowneth my fury his niece being so far from making me happy and he being the cause of all. But did indorse two notes for him and so home and to bed with a bad grace and glad that my wife has betaken herself to another room.

_December ninth_

From the dock and my wife do be gone and now we may look for some peace the which sad enough needed.

_December tenth_

Comes H. Nevil all distraught to say that it is about at the clubs that my wife will have a divorce and marry the doctor, on the which hearing I much annoyed and summon Mrs. Badminton who denyeth the doctor but asserteth Lasselle whereupon we in a great taking and much brandy and soda but at last reflection and do decide not to sue but to pity Lasselle for of a verity she be forever out of temper and flounceth when questioned.

To mine office and D. & E. going up comes H. Nevil to borrow again the gall of which doth take me greatly.

_January seventeenth_

Am all of a taking for that the papers in my wife's divorce do be filed into me this day and great to do when I learn that the cause she declareth is Sarah Badminton a woman as little comely as never was and mine own cousin. Verily the ways of a wife be past understanding.

_April eleventh_

Free this day and being free comes Mrs. Badminton weeping and declareth she be ruined if I marry her not next the which doth so overcome me that ere I have time to rally she hath kissed me and called me hers.

To my office with a heavy heart having no assurance of how this second marriage will turn out and little hope but seeing H. Nevil with a long face did refuse to give him any inside information the which led to his going under about noon to my great joy for it was he who did get me in this marrying habit.

_February first_

My birthday and Lord what eating and drinking the which being good beyond compare my wife staying in the pantry to keep the whole in trim and all my friends discoursing on my joy the which is truly great she being so plain that a man will never look at her and so loving that she adoreth me come smiles come frowns.

But that which doth astonish me much is that H. Nevil telleth me that she that was once my wife is of exceeding content with Lasselle a piece of news which I can scarce credit comparing him with myself.

But so wags the world.

THE PAINTERMINE[3]

BY KENYON COX

Its innocence deserves no jibe-- Pity the creature, do not mock it. 'Tis type of all the artist tribe; Its trousers haven't any pocket!

[Footnote 3: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright 1904, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]

THE ADVERTISER

BY EUGENE FIELD

I am an advertiser great! In letters bold The praises of my wares I sound, Prosperity is my estate; The people come, The people go In one continuous, Surging flow. They buy my goods and come again And I'm the happiest of men; And this the reason I relate, I'm an advertiser great!

There is a shop across the way Where ne'er is heard a human tread, Where trade is paralyzed and dead, With ne'er a customer a day. The people come, The people go, But never there. They do not know There's such a shop beneath the skies, Because _he_ does not advertise! While I with pleasure contemplate That I'm an advertiser great.

The secret of my fortune lies In one small fact, which I may state, Too many tradesmen learn too late, If I have goods, I advertise. Then people come And people go In constant streams, For people know That he who has good wares to sell Will surely advertise them well; And proudly I reiterate, I am an advertiser great!

THE FAMOUS MULLIGAN BALL

BY FRANK L. STANTON

Did ever you hear of the Mulligan ball--the Mulligan ball so fine, Where we formed in ranks, and danced on planks, and swung 'em along the line? Where the first Four Hundred of the town moved at the music's call? There was never a ball in the world at all--like the famous Mulligan ball!

Town was a bit of a village then, and never a house or shed From street to street and beat to beat was higher than Mulligan's head! And never a theater troup came round to 'liven us, spring or fall, And so Mulligan's wife she says, says she: "Plaze God, I'll give a ball!"

And she did--God rest her, and save her, too! (I'm liftin' to her my hat!) And never a ball at all, at all, was half as fine as that! Never no invitations sent--nothin' like that at all; But the whole Four Hundred combed their hair and went to the Mulligan ball.

And "Take yer places!" says Mulligan, "an' dance till you shake the wall!" And I led Mrs. Mulligan off as the lady that gave the ball; And we whirled around till we shook the ground, with never a stop at all; And I kicked the heels from my boots--please God--at the famous Mulligan ball.

Mulligan jumped till he hit the roof, and the head of him went clean through it! The shingles fell on the floor pell-mell! Says Mulligan: "Faith, I knew it!" But we kept right on when the roof was gone, with never a break at all; We danced away till the break o' day at the famous Mulligan ball.

But the best of things must pass away like the flowers that fade and fall, And it's fifty years, as the records say, since we danced at Mulligan's ball; And the new Four Hundred never dance like the Mulligans danced--at all, And I'm longing still, though my hair is gray, for a ball like Mulligan's ball!

And I drift in dreams to the old-time town, and I hear the fiddle sing; And Mulligan sashays up and down till the rafters rock and ring! Suppose, if I had a woman's eye, maybe a tear would fall For the old-time fellows who took the prize at the famous Mulligan ball!

THE GENIAL IDIOT DISCUSSES THE MUSIC CURE

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

"Good morning, Doctor," said the Idiot as Capsule, M.D., entered the dining-room. "I am mighty glad you've come. I've wanted for a long time to ask you about this music cure that everybody is talking about and get you if possible to write me out a list of musical nostrums for every day use. I noticed last night before going to bed that my medicine chest was about run out. There's nothing but one quinine pill and a soda-mint drop in it, and if there's anything in the music cure I don't think I'll have it filled again. I prefer Wagner to squills, and compared to the delights of Mozart, Hayden and Offenbach those of paregoric are nit."

"Still rambling, eh?" vouchsafed the Doctor. "You ought to submit your tongue to some scientific student of dynamics. I am inclined to think, from my own observation of its ways, that it contains the germ of perpetual motion."

"I will consider your suggestion," replied the Idiot. "Meanwhile, let us consult harmoniously together on the original point. Is there anything in this music cure, and is it true that our Medical Schools are hereafter to have conservatories attached to them in which aspiring young M.D.'s are to be taught the _materia musica_ in addition to the _materia medica_?"

"I had heard of no such idiotic proposition," returned the Doctor. "And as for the music cure I don't know anything about it. Haven't heard everybody talking about it, and doubt the existence of any such thing outside of that mysterious realm which is bounded by the four corners of your own bright particular cerebellum. What do you mean by the music cure?"

"Why, the papers have been full of it lately," explained the Idiot. "The claim is made that in music lies the panacea for all human ills. It may not be able to perform a surgical operation like that which is required for the removal of a leg, and I don't believe even Wagner ever composed a measure that could be counted on successfully to eliminate one's vermiform appendix from its chief sphere of usefulness, but for other things, like measles, mumps, the snuffles, or indigestion, it is said to be wonderfully efficacious; What I wanted to find out from you was just what composers were best for which specific troubles."

"You'll have to go to somebody else for the information," said the Doctor. "I never heard of the theory and, as I said before, I don't believe anybody else has, barring your own sweet self."

"I have seen a reference to it somewhere," put in Mr. Whitechoker, coming to the Idiot's rescue. "As I recall the matter, some lady had been cured of a nervous affection by a scientific application of some musical poultice or other, and the general expectation seems to be that some day we shall find in music a cure for all our human ills, as the Idiot suggests."

"Thank you, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot gratefully. "I saw that same item and several others besides, and I have only told the truth when I say that a large number of people are considering the possibilities of music as a substitute for drugs. I am surprised that Doctor Capsule has neither heard nor thought about it, for I should think it would prove to be a pleasant and profitable field for speculation. Even I who am only a dabbler in medicine, and know no more about it than the effects of certain remedies upon my own symptoms, have noticed that music of a certain sort is a sure emollient for nervous conditions."

"For example?" said the Doctor. "Of course we don't doubt your word, but when a man makes a statement based upon personal observation it is profitable to ask him what his precise experience has been merely for the purpose of adding to our own knowledge."

"Well," said the Idiot, "the first instance that I can recall is that of a Wagner Opera and its effects upon me. For a number of years I suffered a great deal from insomnia. I could not get two hours of consecutive sleep and the effect of my sufferings was to make me nervous and irritable. Suddenly somebody presented me with a couple of tickets for a performance of Parsifal and I went. It began at five o'clock in the afternoon. For twenty minutes all went serenely and then the music began to work. I fell into a deep and refreshing slumber. The intermission came, and still I slept on. Everybody else went home, dressed for the evening part of the performance, had their dinner, and returned. Still I slept and continued so to do until midnight when one of the gentlemanly ushers came and waked me up and told me that the performance was over. I rubbed my eyes and looked about me. It was true, the great auditorium was empty, and was gradually darkening. I put on my hat and walked out refreshed, having slept from five twenty until twelve, or six hours and forty minutes, straight. That was one instance. Two weeks later I went again, this time to hear _Die Goetherdammerung_. The results were the same, only the effect was instantaneous. The curtain had hardly risen before I retired to the little ante-room of the box our party occupied and dozed off into a fathomless sleep. I didn't wake up this time until nine o'clock the next day, the rest of the party having gone off without awakening me, as a sort of joke. Clearly Wagner, according to my way of thinking, then deserves to rank among the most effective narcotics known to modern science. I have tried all sorts of other things--sulfonal, trionel, bromide powders, and all the rest and not one of them produced anything like the soporific results that two doses of Wagner brought about in one instant, and best of all there was no reaction. No splitting headache or shaky hand the next day, but just the calm, quiet, contented feeling that goes with the sense of having got completely rested up."

"You run a dreadful risk, however," said the Doctor, with a sarcastic smile. "The Wagner habit is a terrible thing to acquire, Mr. Idiot."

"That may be," said the Idiot. "Worse than the sulfonal habit by a great deal I am told, but I am in no danger of becoming a victim to it while it costs from five to seven dollars a dose. In addition to this experience I have also the testimony of a friend of mine who was cured of a frightful attack of the colic by Sullivan's Lost Chord played on a Cornet. He had spent the day down at Asbury Park and had eaten not wisely but too copiously. Among other things that he turned loose in his inner man were two plates of Lobster Salade, a glass of fresh cider and a saucerful of pistache ice-cream. He was a painter by profession and the color scheme he thus introduced into his digestive apparatus was too much for his artistic soul. He was not fitted by temperament to assimilate anything quite so strenuously chromatic as that, and as a consequence shortly after he had retired to his studio for the night the conflicting tints began to get in their deadly work and within two hours he was completely doubled up. The pain he suffered was awful. Agony was bliss alongside of the pangs that now afflicted him and all the palliatives and pain killers known to man were tried without avail, and then, just as he was about to give himself up for lost, an amateur cornetist who occupied a studio on the floor above began to play the Lost Chord. A counter-pain set in immediately. At the second bar of the Lost Chord the awful pain that was gradually gnawing away at his vitals seemed to lose its poignancy in the face of the greater suffering, and physical relief was instant. As the musician proceeded the internal disorder yielded gradually to the external and finally passed away entirely, leaving him so far from prostrated that by one A.M. he was out of bed and actually girding himself with a shotgun and an Indian Club to go upstairs for a physical encounter with the cornetist."

"And you reason from this that Sullivan's Lost Chord is a cure for Cholera morbus, eh?" sneered the Doctor.

"It would seem so," said the Idiot. "While the music continued my friend was a well man ready to go out and fight like a warrior, but when the cornetist stopped--the colic returned and he had to fight it out in the old way. In these episodes in my own experience I find ample justification for my belief and that of others that some day the music cure for human ailments will be recognized and developed to the full. Families going off to the country for the summer instead of taking a medicine-chest along with them will go provided with a music-box with cylinders for mumps, measles, summer complaint, whooping-cough, chicken-pox, chills and fever and all the other ills the flesh is heir to. Scientific experiment will demonstrate before long what composition will cure specific ills. If a baby has whooping-cough, an anxious mother, instead of ringing up the Doctor, will go to the piano and give the child a dose of Hiawatha. If a small boy goes swimming and catches a cold in his head and is down with a fever, his nurse, an expert on the accordeon, can bring him back to health again with three bars of Under the Bamboo Tree after each meal. Instead of dosing kids with cod liver oil when they need a tonic, they will be set to work at a mechanical piano and braced up on Narcissus. There'll Be a Hot Time In The Old Town To-Night will become an effective remedy for a sudden chill. People suffering from sleeplessness can dose themselves back to normal conditions again with Wagner the way I did. Tchaikowski, to be well Tshaken before taken, will be an effective remedy for a torpid liver, and the man or woman who suffers from lassitude will doubtless find in the lively airs of our two-step composers an efficient tonic to bring their vitality up to a high standard of activity. Nothing in it? Why, Doctor, there's more in it that's in sight to-day that is promising and suggestive of great things in the future than there was of the principle of gravitation in the rude act of that historic pippin that left the parent tree and swatted Sir Isaac Newton on the nose."

"And the Drug Stores will be driven out of business, I presume," said the Doctor.

"No," said the Idiot. "They will substitute music for drugs, that is all. Every man who can afford it will have his own medical phonograph or music-box, and the drug stores will sell cylinders and records for them instead of quinine, carbonate of soda, squills, paregoric and other nasty tasting things they have now. This alone will serve to popularize sickness and instead of being driven out of business their trade will pick up."

"And the Doctor? And the Doctor's gig and all the appurtenances of his profession--what becomes of them?" demanded the Doctor.

"We'll have to have the Doctor just the same to prescribe for us, only he will have to be a musician, but the gig--I'm afraid that will have to go," said the Idiot.

"And why, pray?" asked the Doctor. "Because there are no more drugs must the physician walk?"

"Not at all," said the Idiot. "But he'd be better equipped if he drove about in a piano-organ, or if he preferred an auto on a steam calliope."

THE OCTOPUSSYCAT[4]

BY KENYON COX

I love Octopussy, his arms are so long; There's nothing in nature so sweet as his song. 'Tis true I'd not touch him--no, not for a farm! If I keep at a distance he'll do me no harm.

[Footnote 4: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright 1904, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]

THE BOOK-CANVASSER

ANONYMOUS

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,--

"Mr. ----, I'm canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can't take your name.

"Now, just cast your eyes over that," he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. "That's--lemme see--yes, that's Columbus. Perhaps you've heard sumfin' about him? The publisher was telling me to-day before I started out that he discovered--no; was it Columbus that dis--oh, yes, Columbus he discovered America,--was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he stayed on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain't it? Taken from a photograph; all of 'em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that's the way they dressed in them days.

"Look at this one. Now, isn't that splendid? That's William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t'other day about him. When he first arrived he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and when they shook some apples down he set one on top of his son's head and shot an arrow plump through it and never fazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold, he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn't he? face shaved clean; he didn't wear a moustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch, so's to see how the fust settlers looked and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs, too! Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek; but he's all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?

"There's something nice. That, I think is--is--that--a--a--yes, to be sure, Washington; you recollect him, of course? Some people call him Father of his Country. George--Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton, and seems to me, if I recollect right, I've read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her when the old man was asleep. The girl's family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don't he? He's got it in his eye. If it'd been me I'd gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her; some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you'll conclude to take this I'll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring 'em round to you, so's you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things, but I've forgot 'em; my memory's so awful poor.