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.
"Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was
one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he
is celebrated for, but I think it was a flying a--oh, yes, flying a
kite, that's it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a
kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up
in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree
and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of
gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn't it? Now, if you or me'd
'a' ben hit, it'd just made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin'.
But men are so different. One man's meat's another man's pison. See what
a double chin he's got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would
have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn't got on a sword, and I
reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out
with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain't one myself, and
I think all the better of him for it.
"Ah, here we are! Look at that! Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn't
that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands
while he lays on the ground and that big fellow with a club tries to
hammer him up. Talk about woman's love! There it is for you. Modocs, I
believe; anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the
publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is,
there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and
this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose,
and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, 'Why don't you let
John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I'll
never speak to you as long as I live,' or words like them, and so the
man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher and were
married and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn't it? A
good wife she made him, too, I'll bet, if she was a little
copper-colored. And don't she look just lovely in that picture? But
Smith appears kinder sick; evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I
don't wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a
discouraging club.
"And now we come to--to--ah--to--Putnam,--General Putnam: he fought in
the war, too; and one day a lot of 'em caught him when he was off his
guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse and then licked the
horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go
pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with
General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways, the
publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he
came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse and made a pretty good thing
of it. What surprises me is he didn't break his neck; but maybe it was a
mule, for they're pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of
these men have gone through, ain't it?
"Turn over a couple of leaves. That's General Jackson. My father shook
hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New
Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then when the Ku-Kluxes got
after him he fought 'em behind cotton breastworks and licked 'em till
they couldn't stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,--hit
straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew his
fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.
"And then here's John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates,
and a whole lot more pictures; so you see it's cheap as dirt. Lemme have
your name, won't you?"
HER VALENTINE
BY RICHARD HOVEY
What, send her a valentine? Never!
I see you don't know who "she" is.
I should ruin my chances forever;
My hopes would collapse with a fizz.
I can't see why she scents such disaster
When I take heart to venture a word;
I've no dream of becoming her master,
I've no notion of being her lord.
All I want is to just be her lover!
She's the most up-to-date of her sex,
And there's such a multitude of her,
No wonder they call her complex.
She's a bachelor, even when married,
She's a vagabond, even when housed;
And if ever her citadel's carried
Her suspicions must not be aroused.
She's erratic, impulsive and human,
And she blunders,--as goddesses can;
But if _she's_ what they call the New Woman,
Then _I'd_ like to be the New Man.
I'm glad she makes books and paints pictures,
And typewrites and hoes her own row,
And it's quite beyond reach of conjectures
How much further she's going to go.
When she scorns, in the L-road, my proffer
Of a seat and hangs on to a strap;
I admire her so much, I could offer
To let her ride up on my lap.
Let her undo the stays of the ages,
That have cramped and confined her so long!
Let her burst through the frail candy cages
That fooled her to think they were strong!
She may enter life's wide vagabondage,
She may do without flutter or frill,
She may take off the chains of her bondage,--
And anything else that she will.
She may take _me_ off, for example,
And she probably does when I'm gone.
I'm aware the occasion is ample;
That's why I so often take on.
I'm so glad she can win her own dollars
And know all the freedom it brings.
I love her in shirt-waists and collars,
I love her in dress-reform things.
I love her in bicycle skirtlings--
Especially when there's a breeze--
I love her in crinklings and quirklings
And anything else that you please.
I dote on her even in bloomers--
If Parisian enough in their style--
In fact, she may choose her costumers,
Wherever her fancy beguile.
She may box, she may shoot, she may wrestle,
She may argue, hold office or vote,
She may engineer turret or trestle,
And build a few ships that will float.
She may lecture (all lectures but curtain)
Make money, and naturally spend,
If I let her have _her_ way, I'm certain
She'll let me have _mine_ in the end!
THE WELSH RABBITTERN[5]
BY KENYON COX
This is a very fearsome bird
Who sits upon men's chests at night.
With horrid stare his eyeballs glare:
He flies away at morning's light.
[Footnote 5: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright, 1904, by
Fox, Duffield & Co.]
COMIC MISERIES
BY JOHN G. SAXE
I
My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
II
You're at an evening party, with
A group of pleasant folks,--
You venture quietly to crack
The least of little jokes:
A lady doesn't catch the point,
And begs you to explain,--
Alas for one who drops a jest
And takes it up again!
III
You're taking deep philosophy
With very special force,
To edify a clergyman
With suitable discourse:
You think you've got him,--when he calls
A friend across the way,
And begs you'll say that funny thing
You said the other day!
IV
You drop a pretty _jeu-de-mot_
Into a neighbor's ears,
Who likes to give you credit for
The clever thing he hears,
And so he hawks your jest about,
The old, authentic one,
Just breaking off the point of it,
And leaving out the pun!
V
By sudden change in politics,
Or sadder change in Polly,
You lose your love, or loaves, and fall
A prey to melancholy,
While everybody marvels why
Your mirth is under ban,
They think your very grief "a joke,"
You're such a funny man!
VI
You follow up a stylish card
That bids you come and dine,
And bring along your freshest wit
(To pay for musty wine);
You're looking very dismal, when
My lady bounces in,
And wonders what you're thinking of,
And why you don't begin!
VII
You're telling to a knot of friends
A fancy-tale of woes
That cloud your matrimonial sky,
And banish all repose,--
A solemn lady overhears
The story of your strife,
And tells the town the pleasant news:--
You quarrel with your wife!
VIII
My dear young friend, whose shining wit
Sets all the room ablaze,
Don't think yourself "a happy dog,"
For all your merry ways;
But learn to wear a sober phiz,
Be stupid, if you can,
It's such a very serious thing
To be a funny man!
THE MERCHANT AND THE BOOK-AGENT
ANONYMOUS
A book-agent importuned James Watson, a rich merchant living a few miles
out of the city, until he bought a book,--the "Early Christian Martyrs."
Mr. Watson didn't want the book, but he bought it to get rid of the
agent; then, taking it under his arm, he started for the train which
takes him to his office in the city.
Mr. Watson hadn't been gone long before Mrs. Watson came home from a
neighbor's. The book-agent saw her, and went in and persuaded the wife
to buy a copy of the book. She was ignorant of the fact that her husband
had bought the same book in the morning. When Mr. Watson came back in
the evening, he met his wife with a cheery smile as he said, "Well, my
dear, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day? Well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes! had an early caller this morning."
"Ah, and who was she?"
"It wasn't a 'she' at all; it was a gentleman,--a book-agent."
"A what?"
"A book-agent; and to get rid of his importuning I bought his book,--the
'Early Christian Martyrs.' See, here it is," she exclaimed, advancing
toward her husband.
"I don't want to see it," said Watson, frowning terribly.
"Why, husband?" asked his wife.
"Because that rascally book-agent sold me the same book this morning.
Now we've got two copies of the same book,--two copies of the 'Early
Christian Martyrs,' and--"
"But, husband, we can--"
"No, we can't, either!" interrupted Mr. Watson. "The man is off on the
train before this. Confound it! I could kill the fellow. I--"
"Why, there he goes to the depot now," said Mrs. Watson, pointing out of
the window at the retreating form of the book-agent making for the
train.
"But it's too late to catch him, and I'm not dressed. I've taken off my
boots, and--"
Just then Mr. Stevens, a neighbor of Mr. Watson, drove by, when Mr.
Watson pounded on the window-pane in a frantic manner, almost
frightening the horse.
"Here, Stevens!" he shouted, "you're hitched up! Won't you run your
horse down to the train and hold that book-agent till I come? Run! Catch
'im now!"
"All right," said Mr. Stevens, whipping up his horse and tearing down
the road.
Mr. Stevens reached the train just as the conductor shouted, "All
aboard!"
"Book-agent!" he yelled, as the book-agent stepped on the train.
"Book-agent, hold on! Mr. Watson wants to see you."
"Watson? Watson wants to see me?" repeated the seemingly puzzled
book-agent. "Oh, I know what he wants: he wants to buy one of my books;
but I can't miss the train to sell it to him."
"If that is all he wants, I can pay for it and take it back to him. How
much is it?"
"Two dollars, for the 'Early Christian Martyrs,'" said the book-agent,
as he reached for the money and passed the book out of the car-window.
Just then Mr. Watson arrived, puffing and blowing, in his
shirt-sleeves. As he saw the train pull out he was too full for
utterance.
"Well, I got it for you," said Stevens,--"just got it, and that's all."
"Got what?" yelled Watson.
"Why, I got the book,--'Early Christian Martyrs,'--and paid--"
"By--the--great--guns!" moaned Watson, as he placed his hands to his
brow and swooned right in the middle of the street.
THE COQUETTE
_A Portrait_
BY JOHN G. SAXE
"You're clever at drawing, I own,"
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
"But say, can you paint a Coquette?"
"She's painted already," quoth I;
"Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette,
"Now none of your joking,--but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette."