John Brown’s Body and the Bones of John Paul Jones.
That Paul Jones was not alone soon became evident. With his coming,
other ghostly forms had taken shape in the semi-gloom and the admiral
became the centre of a throng which included the greatest men of all
time—the only great men, in fact, for one must die before he can be
accorded any measure of greatness. Only in the perspective of the past
does a man loom large in the vision of the present.
“It were better to be a live politician than a dead hero,” observed
Paul Jones, reading my thoughts. Then he sighed.
“But you are honored on earth and even here,” I said, with a glance
around the circle at the illustrious members of the Asbestos Society of
Sinners.
“Earthly honor is but hysteria,” Jones replied wearily. “Yet, ‘twas
ever thus. One is usually crushed by the honors showered upon him, as
were the Romans in attending the banquet of Emperor Elagabalus, who
rained roses upon his guests until all were buried and smothered by
the flowers. Like them ‘bouquets’ are thrown at me when I am dead, of
which I would have been more appreciative while living. Yet ‘bouquets’
are preferable to ‘brickbats,’ even though they do not make so lasting
an impression. Hades, as you will soon learn, is more of a news centre
than London, and so I have heard that in recent years the city hall
of New York was draped in mourning for Hiram Cronk, last survivor of
the War of 1812, whose only claim to fame was that he did not die
sooner. If earthly honors died on earth I wouldn’t complain, but they
are all reproduced in Hades, which is a burlesque of the upper world.
Ever since Ambassador Porter found a body which he thought might have
looked like me had I looked like that body, I have been given homage by
every man in Hades. The joke of the matter—if a Scotchman may take an
Irish bull by the horns and joke at his own funeral—is that there is no
certainty about the body being mine.”
“Do you doubt it in the face of—”
“When face to face with a dead doubt, don’t look a gift corpse in the
mouth,” interrupted the admiral dryly. “Had Porter done so, he would
have discovered two gold teeth, and I really must insist that if that
body is mine, those teeth were filled after I died. In the old days,
before the doctors invented appendicitis, I did not mind swallowing all
the grape sent with the enemy’s compliments, but I always did draw the
line at the dentist’s chair, and any manipulator of the forceps would
have struck a snag had he investigated my corpse too closely. Perhaps
I ought not to complain, for it may be that if I keep my mouth shut I
shall get a decent funeral, and unfortunately this is supposed to be my
funeral.”
“But the proofs,” I remonstrated.
“My dear fellow, it is easy to pile up proofs on a dead man, for he
cannot rise up to refute them. Here is a dead body; Paul Jones is
dead: therefore, this must be Paul Jones. That may be logic but it is
not common-sense. Yet this text-book reasoning is no more absurd than
the ‘proofs.’ First of all, there was the absence of a coffin plate;
had the body been missing instead of the name it would have been more
worthy of notice. An autopsy has revealed traces of the disease of
which I died, and this after a hundred years! If they were as expert
in diagnosing the living as they are in cutting up the dead, fewer of
the mistakes of the doctors would have to be buried from sight and
mind. Then these learned savants triumphantly point to the height as
a sure proof that this is the body of Jones and not of Smith, though
both families are so numerous that the bones of one more or less
doesn’t matter save as a museum exhibit—from which fate may the Stars
and Stripes protect me! It seems from this deduction that I was the
only person ever born into the world who ever attained to a stature of
five feet and seven inches. That’s what a man gets for measuring up to
the standard! The most remarkable coincidence of all is that neither
uniform nor sword was found. Evidently Paris makes it a custom to bury
its dead, civilian and officer alike, in a shroud of mystery, epaulets
and gold stripes.
“Really, the only proof distilled is that the body was found floating
in alcohol. I was so fond of that preservative in life, according to
the historical novelists, that if a dead body can move of its own
volition, I know mine would have sought out the alcohol. It may be the
body of John Jones or John Smith, or it may be the remains of some
Johnny Craupaud of a century ago; who knows? A slip of genealogy has
lost thrones and made more than one man get off the earth.”
“At least you must concede it is not often that many cities squabble
over the honor of giving sepulture to a man’s remains.”
“After a century of neglect,” retorted Jones, “‘history repeats
itself,’ as my friend Tom Heyward will tell you.”
“‘Seven cities warred for Homer being dead
Who living had no roof to shroud his head!’”
“It’s a wonder some of those cities did not foresee the coming events
of which Homer was the shadow and make a play for Jones. Now, Seward,
it’s your turn. Come, Tom, speak your little piece.”
“‘Great Homer’s birthplace seven rival cities claim;
Too mighty such monopoly of fame.’”
Paul Jones was about to speak when he was interrupted by a newcomer who
chanted:
“‘Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.’”
“That is Mr. Anon,” whispered Lord Bacon. “Shakespeare is quite jealous
of him, for Anon claims to be the most voluminous author in the world
and, like Byron’s reviewer, has ‘just enough learning to misquote.’ He
seldom quotes anyone correctly, not even excepting himself, but in this
he is not unlike those other authors whom excess of egotism persuades
into signing their names to that which would be their own had not some
one said it before.”
“‘Heed him not, gentle sirs,
’Tis but the fool,’”
observed Shakespeare.
“I ought to give you a pension for making my sayings so well known;
I notice you never quote your own sentiments because mine answer all
purposes so much better.”
It was Lord Bacon who spoke.
“I was talking of you, I grant that,” retorted Shakespeare. “Shall I
repeat it? My wife says that it’s only by a hair—”
“You two men are always quarreling,” interrupted Anon. “Please keep the
age of Anne from his lordship’s notice, for she hath a way to fry his
Bacon. My lord, you should never judge a poet by his hair.”
“Nor yet by his feet,” interrupted Longfellow; “although if a poet
looks well to his feet there are no heights to which he cannot climb.”
“I accept the measure of your judgment,” went on Anon calmly. “As for
the lady, Delilah’s barber stunt convinced Samson it isn’t wise to tell
the truth to a woman.”
“Yet I must insist,” continued Lord Bacon, “that Shakespeare is rather
shy of hair to be a real poet. Of course, I have heard the story that
Anne Hathaway, after a conference with Delilah, sought to reduce the
strength of the Samson of letters by cutting his name from Shakespeare
to Shakspeare and trimming his hair to make assurance doubly sure, but
Lot’s wife, in looking backward, has recommended that the pig-tale be
swallowed with a grain of salt. My dear Willie, your poetry has pains
in its feet, your rhyme has received the absent treatment, and your
rythm, like your hair, is lacking.”
“Oh, well, hair doesn’t grow on brains,” retorted the claimant to
“Hamlet.”
But Anon was not to be out-argued, and continued:
“A hirsute chrysanthemum growing on a man’s head is more likely to
indicate a quarterback Freshman on the gridiron than a hunchback poet
on the Mount of Parnassus. As for the poet’s other extreme, metrical
feet are not always symmetrical.”
“You’ve told it all—so for a spell
For more rhymes where’s the reason?
Besides, just now we are in h—”
“That’s blank verse,” interrupted Shakespeare.
“You mean damn!” interjected Lord Bacon, profanely. “Let me lend you
the metres, Bill, so that you may measure up to my standard, or else
cork the rythmic bottle and spill no more mimic blood of red ink.”
“The gas man is the only person who controls my metre,” said the
Bard of Avon, chuckling at his own wit. “You quite sweep me off my
metaphorical feet. That may not be original, but I have no aspirations
in the direction of originality.”
“The last broker who arrived from Wall Street says that you are too
full of quotations to be original,” sneered Lord Bacon.
“Have you forgotten that you once said ‘a man that hath no virtue in
himself ever envieth virtue in others?’ Bartlett allows you seven
pages, while he gives me more than a hundred. Familiarity breeds
imitators. Even in quotations, you follow after me.”
“If you wear so long a face, you’ll stub your toe on your chin,”
observed Anon, noting that Lord Bacon was getting the worst of his
controversy with Shakespeare. “Never mind Bill’s raving. Burton
tells him he larded his lean books with the fat of others’ works.
Maybe that’s the reason why he gives his readers mental dyspepsia;
to inwardly digest ‘Hamlet’ would disagree with the stomach of an
ostrich. After all, the world knows that Shakespeare was not a man but
a syndicate, to which I was the largest contributor. I’ll call the man
a plagiarist who says I’m a liar.”
No one cared to knock off the verbal chip which Anon had put upon his
shoulders, so Paul Jones resumed:
“Have I equalled Homer’s record?”
“Of course,” I answered; “you, as an American, couldn’t stand being
beaten by a foreigner like Homer, even though you are both dead ones.
You are claimed by New York, Philadelphia, Washington, Arlington,
Richmond, Fredericksburg, Annapolis, and Ocean Grove. I believe there
are a few other cities whose names have escaped my memory. Have you any
preference in the matter?”
“It’s odd no one has thought about consulting me before. I could have
settled the controversy at once. France did not treat me or my bones
very well, yet I can’t say I am glad to leave there. It isn’t very
pleasant to be dead, but it’s worse to have people squabble over your
body. I wonder if Porter ever heard the adage ‘Let the dead rest in
peace,’ and that other one ‘Cursed be he who moves my bones!’ You’ve
seen two dogs fight over a bone, but you never saw the bone fight. I am
nothing but bones.”
“New York’s claim—”
“I hope they won’t bury me in New York. I’ve heard it said that the
metropolis is noisy enough to wake the dead and it is certain that my
presence would make Captain Landais turn over in his grave. I always
did bore Landais and so if I invaded the territory of the tired, St.
Patrick’s cemetery would yawn and give up its dead.”
“Had you been a politician,” observed Matt Quay, “some faction of our
party would long since have unearthed one of your letters in which you
had selected your burial place.”
“You have not yet told me your choice,” I reiterated, remembering the
city editor’s parting words.
“I would rather be embalmed in the throbbing heart of the sea, with
which my own heart beat so long in unison. My grave has been unmarked
for a century, so why not forever? I would prefer to be commander of
that greatest army of all, the unknown dead, whose resting place is
marked only by monuments of billows and flowers of feathery spray. A
bridal veil of silver surge is as elaborate a shroud as I desire.”
“How about cremation?”
“We’ll get enough of that down here some day, so it is useless to
undergo the ‘roasting’ process twice. Yet it has its advantages.
Soldiers and sailors don’t get much time for godliness, you know, and
as cleanliness is next to it, cremation might—”
“John Brown’s body lies a smouldering in—”
That was as far as Mr. Anon could proceed, for he had fired John
Brown’s anger. That worthy said he was hanged if he were going to allow
anybody to “roast” him by any such incendiary remark.
“Choke him off,” came the chorus from all sides. “Here’s a rope. String
him up.”
This brought up such unpleasant recollections of the past that John
Brown subsided. I hastened to pacify him by observing:
“You have no cause for disquiet, for your bones lie peacefully in the
Adirondacks at North Elba.”
“Hush!” warned Holmes. “That word always invokes Napoleon.”
The Corsican had indeed materialized. He glared at me as he said:
“Peace at Elba? If you found peace there, you accomplished more than
did the great Napoleon, and that were impossible.”
“Ah, but you see I hadn’t met my Waterloo,” I retorted. Wellington
laughed tauntingly.
“Neither had I when I went to Elba,” supplemented Bonaparte, and then
and there I met my Waterloo at the hands of Napoleon. It is poor policy
for a writer of history to dispute the maker of it, though I am aware
the historical novelists hold other views. For a moment it seemed as if
Wellington’s tantalizing mirth would precipitate another battle between
the illustrious warriors. Then the two men shook hands, looking like
two prize fighters about to enter the ring. Nothing happened, however,
and with a trace of disappointment in his tone,—for immortals are very
like mortals and he dearly loved a fight,—Paul Jones went on:
“It is a good thing I’m dead, for living heroes always get restless and
tumble from the clay pedestal on which an admiring public places them.
Heroes should be handled with care, for they are perishable goods. Both
Dewey and Dowie have had their day. Dewey turned his house over to
his wife so the sheriff couldn’t get it, as many another man has done
before and since. Evidently the dear public didn’t believe the two
were one, for the hero-worshippers swept him to obscurity on a tidal
wave of regretful tears. I wonder if he said it was all Mrs. Dewey’s
fault. You know it is more difficult to manage a wife in America
nowadays than it was in the days of Solomon, when the wives were so
frequent that a man couldn’t remember which one was to blame.”
“The English still claim that you were a pirate,” I observed.
“I feel quite honored at so illustrious an accession to our ranks,”
said Captain Kidd.
The admiral smiled.
“Stop your Kidding,” he said to the pirate. “I believe my conduct was
unsatisfactory to them on several occasions when I bearded the lion in
his channel. The English are queer. They made Captain Pierson a baronet
for getting defeated.”
“If we had had Paul Jones,” said Lord Nelson, “we would have made him
prime minister and buried him in Westminster Abbey. England is the most
grateful of all nations.”
“You need not remind me of the ungratefulness of republics,” rejoined
Jones. “I have experienced it, though I am not a living example. But,
my lord, I wish I had had you pitted against me in the days of ’77; I
would dearly have loved to have exchanged shots with you.”
“You are too kind,” drawled Nelson, lifting his monocle to his blind
eye. “I really can’t see you in that light.”
“You have an eye single to your own interest,” I said to Nelson; then
turning to Jones:
“We have swung around the circle and you haven’t yet told me—”
“We will leave it to Roosevelt,” replied the admiral. “Whether it is
John Brown, John Jones or Johnny Craupaud, he will see that the body
gets a square deal—box!”
“How about your epitaph? I would suggest: First in war, last in peace,
and at present in the hearts of his countrymen, to mark the tomb of the
father of the American navy. That epitomizes your whole career.”
“I do not want to usurp Washington’s paternal honors. Of course all
epitaphs are written by Mephisto, ‘the father of liars,’ as you
know, but if mine were to be truthful, my tomb would bear the simple
inscription:
“Pause, stranger, yet weep not,
For here lies the body of
John Paul Jones—perhaps!”
HENRY VIII. AND HIS HAREM IN
HADES.