in many other lines. Even a language serious enough in itself, may be so
twisted as to make people laugh, especially if the twist can be nicknamed
“dialect”; so we have the purveyor of German humor (so called) the
manufacturer of Irish “bulls,” the sedlac of French jokes, the broker in
Italian bon-mots, and a few days ago I heard of a cosmopolitan individual
with a high sounding Celt-Iberian name, who offered to supply a prominent
comedian with the latest humor of Portugal and Brazil. I don’t doubt
that before long some enterprising Mongolian will be trotting around
among vaudeville managers with a stock of the latest _jeux d’esprit_ of
Chinatown, Canton, and Hong-kong, or that some one will put them in good
enough shape to make people laugh. Good luck to them, for after all, the
laugh is the thing. No one joke will be equally amusing to everybody,
for each person has his own ideas of fun. For instance on a sunny Sunday
afternoon in the country, a lot of good healthy minded folks will munch
red winter apples and gather round the piano and sing “Happy Day,” and
other Sunday-school songs, and look as full of fun as any comedian’s
audience. And the grab-bag at the church fair! Around it there is more
fun visible in human faces, than some great men get out of the cleverest
jokes ever cracked. There is no end to fun, no more than there is to the
melodies that keep rising, like birds from the eight keyed home of song,
that octave that reaches from “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” to “Tannhäuser.”
And there is no need of it all, for “mirth is medicine and laughter
lengthens life.” That is what my good friend Colonel Robert Ingersoll
wrote under his picture which adorns my wall. The Colonel was one of
us entertainers, though not professionally. Our merry champion he! The
spirit of his tender epigram seems to haunt the dim twilight ways of men,
looking with cheery solicitude for those who are weary, to take them by
the hand and tell them tales full of dawn and breaking day, and rush
of rosy life in rising sun. It stands on the side of light and love
along the paths where flowers bloom and birds are glad in song. And it
is needed, for from the start, there has been a fight between merriment
and misery and the latter has its stout advocates. The gloomster and the
jester have ever been sparring for paints and sometimes the jester has
gone down under swinging right-handers; then, something that its enemies
call Puritanism, probably because it hates all purity not of its own
peculiar brand, has clapped its hands, all smeared with brimstone, until
you could see the blue flames of the place that Ingersoll said didn’t
exist.
XXV
“BILL” NYE
A Humorist of the Best Sort.—Not True to His Own Description
of Himself.—Everybody’s Friend.—His Dog “Entomologist” and
the Dog’s Companions.—A Man With the Right Word for Every
Occasion.—His Pen-Name was His Own.—Often Mistaken for a
Distinguished Clergyman.—Killed by a Published Falsehood.
In one respect entertainers closely resemble preachers;—they greatly
enjoy listening to the greater members of their own profession.
Consequently, I never lost a chance to listen to Bill Nye, and I worship
the memory of him as he was—a gentle yet sturdy and persistent humorist
of so good a sort, that he never could help being humorous, no matter how
uncongenial the surroundings. Although he saw hundreds and thousands of
chances of hitting other men so hard that the hurt would last forever, he
dropped every one of them and trampled them so hard that they never dared
show their faces again. He was an apostle of the Golden Rule, which he
exemplified in himself, so there never was a sting in his jokes; gentle
raillery was the sweetest thing he ever attempted, and even this he did
with so genial a smile and so merry an eye, that a word of his friendly
chaffing was worth more than a cart-load of formal praise.
I speak what I do know, for he and I were close friends for many years
before his untimely death, and he was so solicitous for my welfare and
comfort, that after he had played father and mother to me successfully,
he couldn’t help going on till he had become my grandfather and
grandmother, as well as a number of sisters and cousins and aunts.
I don’t believe he ever had an enemy but himself, and he injured himself
only by his peculiarities of self-description. Any one reading his
humorous articles would imagine him an undersized scrawny backwoods
invalid with an irritable disposition and an unquenchable thirst for
something else than water. In reality he was a tall, broad-shouldered,
deep-chested, healthy, genial chap so in love with the mere fact of
living, that he took scrupulous care of himself in every way. He was as
abstemious as any clergyman who is not a total abstainer, and he never
lost his temper except when some deliberate scoundrelism was inflicted
upon him. He would go out of his way—a whole day’s journey out of his
way, with all the railway fares and other discomforts in such cases made
and provided,—to help a friend out of a sick bed or other trouble, and he
endured all the torments of a busy entertainer’s season on the road as
cheerfully, as if he were perpetual holder of the record for patience.
People often wondered how he could go on year after year digging the
same kind of fun out the same old vein, but the secret was that he lived
right in the centre of that vein and was merely digging his way out of
it. He had a full assortment of polite commonplaces, and carried them
as gracefully as he did his full-dress clothes, but as soon as he got
well acquainted with a man—and it didn’t take him long to get inside of
any decent fellow’s waistcoat—he would talk in his characteristic droll
manner all day and seven days a week, and as much longer as they two
traveled together.
As seriously as if he were talking of audiences or hotel tables or
railway nuisances, he told me a story of a dog he had owned. It was a
Dachshund, and Nye described him as two and a-half dogs long by one dog
high. He had named the animal “Entomologist,” because it was a collector
of insects. In fact, the dog lived up to his name so strenuously that
something had to be done. A friend suggested soaking the dog in kerosene,
saying,
“If it doesn’t rid the dog of fleas, it will rid you of the dog.”
So kerosene was tried and the dog passed away. After all was over
Bill felt so bad that he went out for a walk, which did him no good.
Returning home with dejected spirits and a sorrowing soul, he was smitten
afresh with remorse when he realized that there would be no little dog
awaiting him. But yes, surely there was something on the steps. Looking
closer he saw seven hundred fleas sitting there, and they all looked up
into his face as if to say,
[Illustration: “He has named the animal ‘Entomologist.’”]
“When are you going to get us another dog?”
Few of the great world’s great dispatches contained so much wisdom in so
few words as Nye’s historic wire from Washington—
“My friends and money gave out at 3 A. M.”
He had an enviable faculty for suppressing annoyances in the course of
an entertainment—something more dreaded by any entertainer than a thin
house. In the course of one of his lectures in Minneapolis a late-comer
had some difficulty about his seat, and lingered inside the inner door
to voice some loud protestations. Of course every head in the audience
turned toward the door;—anything for a change, no matter how good a thing
has been provided.
[Illustration: Lingered inside the inner door to voice some loud
protestations.]
Nye endured the disturbance for some time; then he said politely but
icily,
“This is a large auditorium, and a difficult one in which to hear, but
fortunately we are provided with a speaker at each end of the house.” It
is needless to say which speaker received attention after that.
Mr. Nye was engaged to speak at Columbus, Ohio, in a newly-finished
church with which the minister and his flock were as well pleased as a
small boy with his first pair of trousers. So, in a short preliminary
and self-congratulatory address the minister referred to the church
edifice, called attention to its many details of architectural beauty and
convenience, and laid special stress on its new and improved system of
exits.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” drawled Nye a moment later, “I have appeared in a
great many cities, but this is the first time I have been preceded by any
one instructing the audience how to get out.”
Every man has his special trouble, but Nye had two; one was the
reluctance of the public to believe that his pen name was his real name,
and the other was the persistency of some people at mistaking for another
fine fellow in a somewhat different public position—The Rev. Morgan Dix,
D. D., LL. D., Rector of Trinity Parish, New York. Mr. Dix’s stories are
as good as his sermons, which is saying a great deal, and Nye’s face when
in repose suggested a man who could preach a strong sermon of his own.
Nevertheless, it is awkward to be mistaken for any one but yourself. As
to his name, every one who heard of Bill Nye associated him mentally
with the oft-quoted person of the same name who first appeared in Bret
Harte’s poem “The Heathen Chinee,” and assumed that the humorist’s
professional name was assumed. The poor chap explained at length, through
a popular magazine, that he came honestly by his name, having been
christened Edgar William Nye and nicknamed “Bill” from his cradle, but to
his latest days he was besieged by autograph-hunters who asked for his
signature—“your real name, too, please.”
This genial man of cleanly life and good habits was brutally slaughtered
by the public to whom for years he had given laughter and sunshine.
People throughout the country turned against him when they heard the
first breath of calumny. Without waiting to hear whether the story told
of him was true or false, “The Dear Public” treated him so meanly that it
crushed his spirit, sturdy, honest man though he was, broke his heart,
and caused his death within a year.
It came about at Paterson, New Jersey, where he had been engaged to
deliver a lecture. He had been suffering greatly from insomnia, for which
expert medical direction he had taken a certain anodyne (non-alcoholic).
Before his evening nap preceding the lecture he may have taken an
overdose, or it may have worked slower than usual. Whatever the medical
cause—for he had taken nothing else, he was drowsy and slow of speech
on the platform. To make matters worse from the start, he tumbled over
a loose edge of carpet as he came before the audience; although very
near sighted, he had good professional precedents for disliking to wear
glasses on the platform, otherwise his eyes might have saved his feet.
But the succession of accident and manner impressed the audience wrongly.
When the lecture was over some rough characters who had been in the
audience followed Nye’s carriage to the railway, throwing eggs at it and
whooping like demons.
Next morning almost all the New York papers published the report that Mr.
Nye had appeared before an audience the night before in an outrageously
intoxicated condition, and had been egged off the platform! Newspapers
are entirely at the mercy of the men whom they employ to collect news for
them; some which used the Paterson story were honest enough to publish
corrections afterward, but no correction is ever strong and swift enough
to catch up with a lie. What I have said regarding the causeless cause of
the untimely death of a humorist who can never be replaced is of my own
knowledge; I was very close to Mr. Nye in the last year of his life and
know what he thought and said.
I also had a strange reminder of the night on which the story started.
Some of the audience had complained to the lecture committee that they
had not received their money’s worth, so it was decided to give another
lecture without charge, to make amends for the disappointment. I chanced
to be the man chosen to give the entertainment which was to apply salve
to the wounded pockets of that audience, though I did not know it at
the time. I did notice however, that the committee seemed to be “in a
state of mind” and urged me to do my best. It also seemed to me that,
metaphorically speaking, the entire audience had a chip on its shoulder;
still, I succeeded in pleasing it.
After I had finished I learned that I had been selected to pacify the
very people whose ignorance, stupidity and folly had caused the death of
a good man who had been my friend. By a sad coincidence, it was on that
very day that dear Bill Nye was buried!
XXVI
SOME SUNNY SOLDIERS
General Sherman.—His Dramatic Story of a Trysting-place.—The
Battle of Shiloh Fought Anew.—Sherman and Barney
Williams.—General Russell A. Alger On War.—General Lew
Wallace.—The Room in Which He Wrote “Ben Hur.”—His Donkey
Story.—General Nelson A. Miles and Some of His Funny Stories.—A
Father Who Wished He Had Been a Priest.
Soldiers are popularly supposed to be the grimmest men in the world,
but I have found them a jolly lot, and the more prominent they were the
greater the assortment of fun in them.
The first of the military profession whom I came to know well was General
Sherman, and I never had a kindlier or cheerier friend. He had no end of
good stories at his tongue’s end, and no one cared if they were funny
or serious when Sherman told them, for his manner was so earnest and
animated that it was a treat to listen to him and look at him. Besides
having a fluent tongue and a voice with no end of modulation, he talked
also with his eyes and all his features, his head, hands and shoulders.
It used to seem to me that a deaf man could understand all that Sherman
was saying. He was one of the few talkers who could interest all sorts
and conditions of hearers, from wise men and women, to simple boys and
girls. Speaking of girls, reminds me of a story that General Sherman told
one day at a dinner I attended with my friend Col. John A. Cockerill:
“When I was driving one day with General Grant, I asked him what he
was going to have as a hobby, now that the war was over. He answered
promptly, ‘Horses,’ and continued,
“‘What’s to be yours, Sherman?’ and I replied,
“‘Oh, I’ll take the girls!’ My fondness for the fair sex seems to be
pretty well known, but I’m not ashamed of it; on the contrary, I’m very
proud of it, for I don’t know of any better company than nice girls of
all ages—say from a hundred minutes to a hundred years. My fondness for
them began early; why, when I was a mere boy I had a little sweetheart
down South of whom I was very fond. We used to take long walks in the
scented pine woods, and ride down the white ‘pikes’; but our favorite
spot—it became almost a trysting-place,—was a little hill on her father’s
plantation. No matter where we rode or walked, we were pretty sure to
find our way to that spot, for it commanded a view of all the country
round, yet it could scarcely be seen from the lower ground, for some
pine-trees screened it.
“But this love idyl of mine came to naught, like many other boyish
affairs. I went to West Point, the girl married another fellow and the
next time I found myself in that part of the country was on the day of a
desperate battle. The enemy was pressing us closely, we were contesting
every step, yet losing ground, for lack of a good position for our
batteries. Trees were so numerous that it seemed impossible to find a
clearing or elevation from which the guns could be served to advantage.
“Suddenly, in spite of a head full of business and trouble, for my aides
and other men’s aides were bringing me dismal reports, and things were
looking very dark, I realized where I was and remembered our beloved
knoll. My mind’s eye informed me that a more perfect position for field
artillery could not have been designed, for it commanded the surrounding
country to the full range of our guns. Yet for a moment I hesitated. It
seemed desecration, for I had absolute reverence for the ground which
that dear girl’s feet had often pressed. But—yes, war _is_ hell—my duty
at the moment was to the nation, so I turned to an aide, described the
knoll and told how the artillery could reach it. The batteries were soon
in position there, and, as most of the enemy were in the open beyond the
trees, they were quickly checked by a deadly fire, and we were saved.”
This story was told as simply as I have repeated it, yet the manner of
telling affected all the listeners noticeably. Colonel Cockerill leaned
over me and whispered,
“I’m going to write that story up some day, Marshall, so you be careful
to let it alone, and leave it to me.”
I promised, but Cockerill’s untimely death prevented him doing it.
Besides, I have not attempted to “write it up.”
Sherman’s pen was quite as descriptive as his tongue, as the following
letters to me will attest. One is on a subject on which he was very
sore—the oft repeated story that on the first day of the battle of
Pittsburg Landing, or Shiloh, our army was surprised and defeated.
“_No. 75 West 71st St., New York, Jan. 1., 1890._
“DEAR MARSHALL:—
“I thank you for sending me the printed paper containing the
observations and experiences of our friend Cockerill about the
battle of Shiloh or Pittsburg Landing, April 6 or 7, 1862.
Having leisure this New Year’s day, I have read every word of
it, and from his standpoint as a boy, four miles from the war,
where the hard fighting was done, his account was literally
true. His father (a noble gentleman) and I were fighting for
_time_ because our enemy for the moment outnumbered us, and we
had good reason to expect momentarily Lew Wallace’s division,
only six miles off, and Buell’s whole army, only twenty miles
away. By contesting every foot of ground, the enemy was checked
till night. Our reinforcements came on the 7th. We swept our
front and pursued a retreating enemy ten miles, and afterward
followed up to Corinth, Memphis, Vicksburg, etc., etc., to
the end. That bloody battle was fought April 6 and 7, 1862.
After we had actually driven our assailants back to Corinth,
twenty-six miles, we received the St. Louis, Cincinnati and
Louisville papers, that we were ‘surprised,’ bayonetted in our
beds (blankets on the ground) and disgracefully routed.
“These reports we heard at the river bank, and from steamboats
under high pressure to get well away. And such is history.
“In the van of every battle is a train of fugitives. We had at
the time 32,000 men, of which, say five or six thousand were at
the steamboat landing, but what of the others? A braver, finer
set of men never existed on earth. The reporters dwelt on the
fugitives, because they were of them, but who is to stand up
for the brave men at the front?
“We had no reporters with us. Like sensible men they preferred
a steamboat bound for Paducah and Cincinnati, where they could
describe the battle better than we, who were without pen and
ink.
“This to me, is straw already threshed, for we had fought this
battle on paper several times—a much more agreeable task than
to fight with bullets.
“When in England some years ago, I was gratified to listen to
old veterans fighting Waterloo and Sebastopol over again. So,
I infer, our children will continue the fight of Shiloh long
after we are dead and gone.
“Wishing you a Happy New Year, I am,
“Sincerely yours,
“W. T. SHERMAN.”
[Illustration: “Preferred a Steamboat Bound for Paducah.”]
“_75 W. 71st St., New York, Sept. 20, 1889._
“_Marshall P. Wilder, Esq., The Alpine, New York City._
“MY DEAR MARSHALL:—
“I have now completed the first reading of the volume entitled,
‘The People I’ve Smiled With,’ and according to promise, write
to assure you that it has afforded me unusual pleasure. I
feel the better at having smiled with you, with enjoying many
a happy laugh, and moved by its pathos; and as I infer you
will have occasion to amend and add other volumes in the same
strain, I venture to suggest, as to myself, page 211 should
read, ‘some years ago, down at the little village of Paducah,
Ky., the Seventieth Ohio reported to me. Cockerill was a
drummer boy in the regiment. His father was _the_ colonel, and
had got his education in Virginia, but was true to the nation.
That regiment was with me at Shiloh, where we stood a heavy
fire, and that is what made us staunch friends. He went ahead
right straight along, as he has been doing ever since. As the
sins of the father go down to the fourth generation, as the
Bible says, it is a comfort to realize that the virtues go down
_one_.’
“The stereotype plate can easily be changed to this, and it
would be more accurate and satisfactory to military readers.
“Your anecdotes of after-dinner speakers, actors, actresses,
etc., etc., are most interesting, and soon may become historic.
I venture to add one which you can ‘stow away’ and use, or
_not_ according to your pleasure.
“In January, 1872, I was with my two aides, Colonel Anderson
and Fred Grant, at the hotel Chauerain, Nice, when the servant
brought me a card ‘B. F. Williams, New York.’ I answered
‘show him up.’ He soon entered my room, where I had a fire
on the hearth, and for some minutes we talked about the
weather, New York, etc.,—when he remarked: ‘General Sherman,
I don’t believe you recognize me. Possibly if I say I am
_Barney_ Williams, you will know me better.’ Of course I did,
and my greeting then was as hearty as he could have wished.
He had called to invite me to a dinner party at his villa,
which compliment I accepted for the next Sunday, and agreed
upon the guests, including our minister, Mr. Washburn, then
at Nice, James Watson Webb, Luther M. Kennet of St. Louis,
and others, and a more distinguished or congenial company
never assembled than did at that dinner. I must not, and
will not attempt descriptions, even as to our witty genial
host Barney Williams; all told stories of their personal
experiences, and the veteran, James Watson Webb, in his
grand and inimitable way, recounted his adventures when, in
1824, he was a lieutenant at Fort Dearborn (now Chicago). He
traveled by night with a Sergeant of his Company, concealing
himself by day, to Rock Island, to notify the Garrison that
the Sioux and Foxes contemplated a surprise on their stockade
on an occasion of a ball play, in which the Indians intended
to massacre the whole garrison, which was prevented by this
notice. But I now come to the real anecdote of Barney Williams.
He narrated in his best style, his own early life as an
actor: that in Dublin he was very poor, and took his meals
at a cheap restaurant along with some fellows. Habitually
they were waited on by a servant, most prompt and obliging,
but who would periodically get on a bad spree. This occurred
about the time when the Catholic priest, Father Matthews, was
preaching the crusade against intemperance. These young actors
conspired to cure this servant, and laid their plot. Paddy
was absent several days, and their meals were served badly.
At last he made his appearance, eyes bunged, face flushed,
and the well-known symptoms of a big drunk. Whilst arranging
the table for breakfast, Barney Williams read from the
morning paper—‘Horrible! Most Horrible! Last night as Terence
O’Flanagan was lying on his bed, near which he had brought his
candle, which he tried to blow out, the flames followed the
fumes of the alcohol to his throat, and he died in terrible
agony, etc., etc.’
“‘What is that, sor? Please read it again,’ said Paddy. It
was read again with increased accent and additions. ‘Please
send for the Bible, mark on it the cross, and I will take the
pledge.’ The Bible was sent for and on it was marked the cross,
when Paddy placed his hand on the book, and pronounced the
pledge.
“Never as long as he lived, when on a drunk, would he attempt
to blow out a candle. How far short of the reality seems the
effect of words spoken or written. Therein comes the part of
the drama, not the thing itself, but the nearest possible.
“I have seen Dioramas, Cycloramas, Dramas, Plays, etc., of war
and its thousands of incidents. All fall short of the real
thing; but I wish to be understood as not discouraging any
honest effort to record the past, draw from it the lessons
which make us wise and better, and still more, to give such as
you, who make men, women and children happy and cheerful, when
otherwise they might be moping and unhappy. God bless you!
“Sincerely your friend,
“W. T. SHERMAN.”
A battle story seems natural to follow any mention of General Sherman,
so here is one, given me one day, by General Russell A. Alger, Secretary
of War in President McKinley’s cabinet and also one of the best
story-tellers in the Union. I have always been as curious as any other
civilian regarding the feelings of a soldier going into battle and while
he is fighting. General Alger told me one day that he could not describe
it better than by repeating a little story. He said: