Election Day Beyond the Styx.
Hades has two newspapers to mirror forth the daily doings of the
Stygian smart set. Owing to the uncounted population of the resort,
these publications have circulations which would make the most yellow
of earthly journals grow pink with envy. Here are some clippings from
recent issues of the rival newspapers:
THE CIMMERIAN CHATTERBOX
PUBLISHED EVERY LITTLE WHILE TO KEEP PACE
WITH THE LARGEST CIRCULATION LIES
OF THE AMERICAN PRESS.
_Edited by Horace Greeley and other defeated politicians, who tell
the truth if the man is not a subscriber, and print all the news that
doesn’t make a lightning coupling with the waste basket._
Domestic News: Registering the Vote—It is no sinecure to be registrar
of voters in Hades. If you think it is, ask “Boss” Tweed, who threw
up his job to Matt Quay, who is sticking it out, though it take all
eternity. Many of those who take up their residence on the banks of
the Styx know little about themselves and less about their ancestors.
Notwithstanding this, there are few people in Hades who haven’t stood
up before the registrar to have their noses counted, and the endeavor
has been to have every Tom, Dick, and Harry, as well as every Jane,
Mary, and Anne on the list. The age of Anne and also the more famous
age of Elizabeth gave the registrar some trouble at first, but after
telling the “eternal feminine” that no affidavit or birth certificate
is required with the age declaration, the statistics became less
alarming to the fair sex.
There are some people, however, who think that to right a lie it is
only necessary to write one and so requested blanks which they later
mailed to Quay, the head nose enumerator. In this way they could tell
what their age has been, without the annoyance of seeing the ungallant
smile of unbelief depicted on the registrar’s face as he marks down
“age 16” in his book and mentally adds fifteen as in the days when he
studied oral arithmetic. Many a woman’s figure belies the statement
that “figures can’t lie.” While the unwritten law of chivalry makes
it rude to ask a lady’s age, the law of Hades gives a man the right
to estimate her age if the lady slams the door in his face. Woman’s
rights are still a subject for debate. You can tell the age of a horse
by his teeth, but no man can tell a woman’s age by her lack of gray
hairs.
STYGIAN SIFTINGS.
PRINTERS’ PI COOKED TO A CRISP FOR THE DELECTATION OF LOVERS OF
REALISM, AND SERVED HOT FROM THE GRIDDLE OF OUR REPORTER’S IMAGINATION.
DEVIL-BAKED by Arthur Big Brain and Willie Randy’s Nurse.
_N. B.—We have the largest circulation and we can prove it. We
always arrange the event to suit the “extra.” Our paper is read; our
contemporary is redder. Imitation is the sincerest proof of color
blindness. We print all the news that no one else will print. It’s all
here and all untrue. If you see it in the Siftings, you may be excused
for having your doubts. We cater to the great reading public, not to
the Sunday School. There is no hyphenated heaviness in this paper. Our
motto: More muck to mix._
_EDITORIAL: AN ELECTION PROPHECY._
Owing to the many claims presented, the Stygian Siftings acknowledges
that it is a difficult matter to decide who has been the greatest
benefactor to Hell, but we think Nero should be accorded the palm. We
say this not because we wish to play favorites, but merely for the sake
of harmony, which we believe would be best secured by the selection of
Nero, the violinist, at the coming election to fill the position of
janitor in the hall of fame.
_NERO RECALLED FROM THE CATACOMBS._
(_From the Cimmerian Chatterbox._)
We do not reprint legends of the bib and rattle, so we treat our
contemporary with the contemptuous silence which it deserves. Its
scissor blades are longer than the nose of its editor. A subsidized
press, which the Stygian Siftings is known to be, is unworthy of
notice. But to the candidate put forth, whose conduct needs careful
editing and much blue pencil, we would apostrophize thusly: Nero, your
only claim to fame is that you murdered your mother, kicked your wife
down stairs and made Rome howl while you painted the town red. Many
another man has done all three and only got his picture in the rogues’
gallery and the newspapers in return for his efforts. Nero, put that
upon your catgut and play it to the shades of the tunes you have
murdered! Nero was born without whiskers and he’s had many a close
shave since then. Who was the first shaver? A coupon for a hair cut and
a cup of red ink given for the best answer!
_THE CANDIDATE SPEAKS._
(_Oration of Nero Stenographically Reported for the Stygian Siftings._)
LADIES AND FELLOW-CITIZENS—If it please the ladies, I come to speak in
my own behalf and crave your attention and your vote. As there appears
to be no other candidate who is so anxious for the office of janitor
of the hall of fame and general benefactor of Hades as I, it seems to
me that no other qualifications are needed. However, there are some
persons who are conceited enough to imagine that they will give me a
hard run for my money. Why, fellow-citizens and voters, these men are
not even natives of this fair country, the finest the sun forgot to
shine upon! ‘Tis true they have been naturalized, but they never can be
civilized. They may have push and cheek, but they lack the pull to get
there.
Some men are so suspicious that they won’t take stock in anything
except the thermometer; under the present climatic conditions in
Hades, that is bound to rise. The time for prejudice is past. It may
be necessary to remind the opposition that we are a populous community.
We have not taken into our limits any farm lands. In all our borders
there are only solid blocks of houses with here and there a football
park, where the players may break each other’s bones on the gridiron.
There are other institutions to which we might refer with pride, but
the metropolitan press is stirring them up with a muck rake. We own up
to all the charges made and herein we differ from summer resorts up on
the earth, where they sit on the lid and say their prayers, and then
lie a little about the real condition of things in their community. The
Stygianite, who lives in the earth and not on it, cannot prevaricate
without being found out. He owns up whenever he has to, and that is
pretty often. Up on earth, however, descendants of Ananias are as
numberless as the hairs on the head of an after-taking advertisement.
I do not desire to answer the idiotorial attack of the editor of the
Cimmerian Chatterbox, for I agree with him that it is better to boil
your candidates in printers’ ink before election than to roast them
afterward.
If I decide to accept the office which the chairman of the Roman
executive committee assures me will be tendered to the only Nero, I
promise you all exemption from taxes, divorce without six months’
probation in the backwoods—anything and everything you ask shall be
yours. You deposit the ballot; Nero will do the rest.
Among the reforms I intend to institute will be a wholesale cleaning
of Hades. I will put fresh paint on the houses daily to keep Alexander
from wearing out the buildings by leaning against them. I will install
couches in the public parks for men who have run for office so much
that they must be tired, and I will not debar any of the candidates
I defeat from six feet of Squatters’ Ground. I will even distribute
campaign mirrors to others who would like to see themselves as I see
them. Of course I believe that the man should seek the office, but the
only reason I ask for your votes is so that I may have another office
to put on my official letter-head. I’m not sure I can find room for it,
but I can increase the size of the paper and perhaps employ another
typewriter. Don’t be like a balance wheel, ready to move in either
direction on the slightest provocation. The man who borrows trouble on
election day must return the goods if he bets on the wrong man. Never
mind if the reformers ask: “Where did he get it?” Every politician
knows where his graft comes from; call on me the day after election and
I’ll see that you all get yours. Don’t sell your vote for a mess of
political pottage without seeing the color of my long green.
And now I must conclude, for my voice is husky with much speaking.
Most of the great orators are dead. Cicero is dead; Demosthenes is
dead, and to tell the truth, gentlemen, I don’t feel very much alive
myself! (Great applause.)
_NERO’S LETTER OF ACCEPTANCE._
TO THE DILETTANTE POLITICAL CLUB: Greeting—It is with pleasure that I
accept the endorsement of your distinguished body. All I ask is that
if the voters don’t feel like giving the position to me, kindly turn
down the other fellows. Alexander and Louis XIV. will serve their
constitutions, but not their country. They offered their services in
the late unpleasantness, but only on condition that they were not to
leave the country unless the enemy entered it. Your endorsement of me
has been hanging over their heads like a dynamite bomb swung from a
socialistic cobweb. Now the silence of political oblivion has fallen
with a dull, sickening thud, and they are shaking in their boots with
muffled ice and bated breath.
The party plank is a see-saw to catch votes. I stand upon this
platform: I am in favor of making Hades the centre of the universe as
it now is of the earth, and building a bridge over the Styx to New
York, so that disappointed politicians and all others weary of life may
here find refuge and a warm welcome.
I am in favor of fortifying the Styx, which would give Captain Kidd
and his pirates a chance to swoop down on the commerce in New York Bay
and get back to Hades unmolested. They could also form a combination
with the chicken thieves of the African colony, and the supply of fowls
brought across the river would establish for all time the pre-eminence
of Hades as an all-the-year-’round resort.
Yours for harmony,
NERO, REX.
Hotel Hereafter,
CIMMERIA, HADES-ON-STYX.
Mephisto, Proprietor and Cook.
_WHEN IS WAGED THE BATTLE OF BALLOTS._
The Siftings is informed, on the best of authority, that an election is
in progress. On his way to the office, the editor was buttonholed by
a ward heeler and handed a pawned ticket. He was then conducted to a
booth, where he retired—except for about three feet of trousers and two
of leather. Having scratched to his heart’s content, he saw his ballot
chewed by a stuffed box, and was permitted to go to his sanctum, there
to forecast the outcome—a more uncertain quantity than the weather
brewed in the department of the interior. Our reporter says it’s all
over but the shouting and he is shouting for Nero one minute and for
Alexander the next. Personally, the editor is in doubt as to whom will
be elected. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, he has heard the
speeches of three of the candidates and has read the predictions of
the chairmen of the different parties. One side or the other must be
laboring under a “misapprehension.” Our attorney assures us that this
phrase is perfectly safe. Having already two suits for libel on hand,
we don’t feel like starting a clothing store to get rid of surplus
suits. Misfit personalities always give the editor a libel suit. He
needs a font of nonpareil with many daggers in it to keep off a minion
of misunderstanding. Our attorney is Col. Robert G. Ingersoll. (See
advertising columns.)
Alexander needs a few votes and Nero needs a lot and by the time they
get through needing, there will be no votes left for anybody else.
Louis XIV. has bolted his party and is running on an independent
ticket. It is said that his name appears on the voting lists of all the
wards; if so, he ought to be challenged. However, “Boss” Tweed, who is
chairman of Nero’s campaign committee, may be confidentially expected
to look out for his candidate’s interests—and his own.
Some say the dark horse will win, having the support of the tea party
gang and of the Prince of Darkness. In this spirit-moving campaign
no one knows where the population is going to focus. The residence
of a repeater is a mystery deeper than the fixed locale of a New
York poolroom. After all, Hades is a good deal like the earth, where
graveyards, forgetting the ethics of etiquette, yawn on election day to
permit dead men to vote. Just as the paper goes to press, it is stated
that pasters are being freely used and that 5,876,433 candidates have
sprung up. The voting is still going on. If the polls close at the
usual time, it is believed there would be about twenty small boys who
had been overlooked in the voting, and these would kick as soon as they
discovered they were not in the running.
We understand that in Hades woman has her rights, that she can exercise
her franchise, yet not a single woman has voted to-day. It all goes to
show that a woman desires only what she can’t get. She would rather use
the ballots for curling papers or to trim her bonnet than to put into a
stuffed box. But there’s another reason. According to the registration,
not one woman in Hades is of votable age. None would acknowledge being
more than “sweet and twenty!”
_ELECTION EXTRA! LAST EDITION!_
The battle of ballots is over. The last scratched ticket has been
counted and the victor is—“Boss” Tweed! The New York politician, as
Nero’s manager, had charge of the distribution of tickets and pasted
his own name over that of the Roman emperor. All’s fair in war and
politics. Tweed deserves a tablet in the corridors of the hall of fame
as well as the key to its front door!
NOAH’S PERSONALLY CONDUCTED
EXCURSION TO EARTH.