[Illustration]
NYE AND RILEY'S
Wit and Humor
(Poems and Yarns)
BY
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY & BILL NYE
Illustrated
BY BARON DE GRIMM, E. ZIMMERMAN,
WALT McDOUGALL, AND OTHERS
THOMPSON & THOMAS,
CHICAGO.
COPYRIGHT 1900,
BY
THOMPSON & THOMAS.
COPYRIGHT 1905,
BY
THOMPSON & THOMAS.
Biographical
Edgar Wilson Nye was whole-souled, big-hearted and genial. Those who
knew him lost sight of the humorist in the wholesome friend.
He was born August 25, 1850, in Shirley, Piscataquis County, Maine.
Poverty of resources drove the family to St. Croix Valley, Wisconsin,
where they hoped to be able to live under conditions less severe. After
receiving a meager schooling, he entered a lawyer's office, where most
of his work consisted in sweeping the office and running errands. In his
idle moments the lawyer's library was at his service. Of this crude and
desultory reading he afterward wrote:
"I could read the same passage to-day that I did yesterday and it would
seem as fresh at the second reading as it did at the first. On the
following day I could read it again and it would seem as new and
mysterious as it did on the preceding day."
At the age of twenty-five, he was teaching a district school in Polk
County, Wisconsin, at thirty dollars a month. In 1877 he was justice of
the peace in Laramie. Of that experience he wrote:
"It was really pathetic to see the poor little miserable booth where I
sat and waited with numb fingers for business. But I did not see the
pathos which clung to every cobweb and darkened the rattling casement.
Possibly I did not know enough. I forgot to say the office was not a
salaried one, but solely dependent upon fees. So while I was called
Judge Nye and frequently mentioned in the papers with consideration, I
was out of coal half the time, and once could not mail my letters for
three weeks because I did not have the necessary postage."
He wrote some letters to the Cheyenne _Sun_, and soon made such a
reputation for himself that he was able to obtain a position on the
Laramie _Sentinel_. Of this experience he wrote:
"The salary was small, but the latitude was great, and I was permitted
to write anything that I thought would please the people, whether it was
news or not. By and by I had won every heart by my patient poverty and
my delightful parsimony with regard to facts. With a hectic imagination
and an order on a restaurant which advertised in the paper I scarcely
cared through the livelong day whether school kept or not."
Of the proprietor of the _Sentinel_ he wrote:
"I don't know whether he got into the penitentiary or the Greenback
party. At any rate, he was the wickedest man in Wyoming. Still, he was
warmhearted and generous to a fault. He was more generous to a fault
than to anything else--more especially his own faults. He gave me twelve
dollars a week to edit the paper--local, telegraph, selections,
religious, sporting, political, fashions, and obituary. He said twelve
dollars was too much, but if I would jerk the press occasionally and
take care of his children he would try to stand it. You can't mix
politics and measles. I saw that I would have to draw the line at
measles. So one day I drew my princely salary and quit, having acquired
a style of fearless and independent journalism which I still retain. I
can write up things that never occurred with a masterly and graphic
hand. Then, if they occur, I am grateful; if not, I bow to the
inevitable and smother my chagrin."
In the midst of a wrangle in politics he was appointed Postmaster of his
town and his letter of acceptance, addressed to the Postmaster-General
at Washington, was the first of his writings to attract national
attention.
He said that in his opinion, his being selected for the office was a
triumph of eternal right over error and wrong. "It is one of the epochs,
I may say, in the nation's onward march toward political purity and
perfection," he wrote. "I don't know when I have noticed any stride in
the affairs of State which has so thoroughly impressed me with its
wisdom."
Shortly after he became postmaster he started the _Boomerang_. The first
office of the paper was over a livery stable, and Nye put up a sign
instructing callers to "twist the tail of the gray mule and take the
elevator."
He at once became famous, and was soon brought to New York, at a salary
that seemed fabulous to him. His place among the humorists of the world
was thenceforth assured.
He died February 22, 1896, at his home in North Carolina, surrounded by
his family.
James Whitcomb Riley, the Hoosier poet, was for many years a close
personal friend of the dead humorist. When informed of Nye's death, he
said:
"Especially favored, as for years I have been, with close personal
acquaintance and association with Mr. Nye, his going away fills me with
selfishness of grief that finds a mute rebuke in my every memory of
him. He was unselfish wholly, and I am broken-hearted, recalling the
always patient strength and gentleness of this true man, the unfailing
hope and cheer and faith of his child-heart, his noble and heroic life,
and pure devotion to his home, his deep affections, constant dreams,
plans, and realizations. I cannot doubt but that somehow, somewhere, he
continues cheerily on in the unspoken exercise of these same
capacities."
Mr. Riley recently wrote the following sonnet:
O William, in thy blithe companionship
What liberty is mine--what sweet release
From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!
Ho! ho! It is thy fancy's finger-tip
That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip
That scarce may sing in all this glad increase
Of merriment! So, pray thee, do not cease
To cheer me thus, for underneath the quip
Of thy droll sorcery the wrangling fret
Of all distress is still. No syllable
Of sorrow vexeth me, no tear drops wet
My teeming lids, save those that leap to tell
Thee thou'st a guest that overweepeth yet
Only because thou jokest overwell.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Why it was done.]
What this country needs, aside from a new Indian policy and a style of
poison for children which will be liable to kill rats if they eat it by
accident, is a Railway Guide which will be just as good two years ago as
it was next spring--a Railway Guide, if you please, which shall not be
cursed by a plethora of facts, or poisoned with information--a Railway
Guide that shall be rich with doubts and lighted up with miserable
apprehensions. In other Railway Guides, pleasing fancy, poesy and
literary beauty, have been throttled at the very threshold of success,
by a wild incontinence of facts, figures, asterisks and references to
meal stations. For this reason a guide has been built at our own shops
and on a new plan. It is the literary _piece de resistance_ of the age
in which we live. It will not permit information to creep in and mar the
reader's enjoyment of the scenery. It contains no railroad map which is
grossly inaccurate. It has no time-table in it which has outlived its
uselessness. It does not prohibit passengers from riding on the
platform while the cars are in motion. It permits every one to do just
as he pleases and rather encourages him in taking that course.
The authors of this book have suffered intensely from the inordinate use
of other guides, having been compelled several times to rise at 3
o'clock a. m., in order to catch a car which did not go and which would
not have stopped at the station if it had gone.
They have decided, therefore, to issue a guide which will be good for
one to read after one has missed one's train by reason of one's faith in
other guides which we may have in one's luggage.
Let it be understood, then, that we are wholly irresponsible, and we
are glad of it. We do not care who knows it. We will not even hold
ourselves responsible for the pictures in this book, or the hard-boiled
eggs sold at points marked as meal stations in time tables. We have gone
into this thing wholly unpledged, and the man who gets up before he is
awake, in order to catch any East bound, or West bound, North bound,
South bound, or hide-bound train, named in this book, does himself a
great wrong without in any way advancing our own interests.
The authors of this book have made railroad travel a close study. They
have discovered that there has been no provision made for the man who
erroneously gets into a car which is side-tracked and swept out and
scrubbed by people who take in cars to scrub and laundry. He is one of
the men we are striving at this moment to reach with our little volume.
We have each of us been that man. We are yet.
He ought to have something to read that will distract his attention.
This book is designed for him. Also for people who would like to travel
but cannot get away from home. Of course, people who do travel will find
nothing objectionable in the book, but our plan is to issue a book worth
about $9, charging only fifty cents for it, and then see to it that no
time-tables or maps which will never return after they have been pulled
out once, shall creep in among its pages.
It is the design of the authors to issue this guide annually unless
prohibited by law, and to be the pioneers establishing a book which
shall be designed solely for the use of anybody who desires to subscribe
for it.
BILL NYE.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.
P. S.--The authors desire to express their thanks to Mr. Riley for the
poetry and to Mr. Nye for the prose which have been used in this
book.
[Illustration: Contents]
August--Riley 32
Anecdotes of Jay Gould--Nye 23
A Black Hills Episode--Riley 132
A Blasted Snore--Nye 190
A Brave Refrain--Riley 188
A Character--Riley 142
A Dose't of Blues--Riley 220
A Fall Creek View of the Earthquake--Riley 30
A Hint of Spring--Riley 168
A Letter of Acceptance--Nye 56
A Treat Ode--Riley 170
Craqueodoom--Riley 81
Curly Locks--Riley 118
Ezra House--Riley 161
From Delphi to Camden--Riley 75
Good-bye or Howdy-do--Riley 195
Healthy, but Out of the Race--Nye 101
Her Tired Hands--Nye 152
His Crazy Bone--Riley 89
His Christmas Sled--Riley 150
His First Womern--Riley 41
How to Hunt the Fox--Nye 46
In a Box--Riley 214
In the Afternoon--Riley 65
Julius Cæsar in Town--Nye 34
Lines on Hearing a Cow Bawl--Riley 107
Lines on Turning Over a Pass--Nye 120
Me and Mary--Riley 109
McFeeters' Fourth--Riley 211
My Bachelor Chum--Riley 178
Mr Silberberg--Riley 96
Niagara Falls from the Nye Side--Nye 111
Never Talk Back--Riley 20
Oh, Wilhelmina, Come Back--Nye 165
Our Wife--Nye 172
Prying Open the Future--Nye 90
Says He--Riley 204
Seeking to Be Identified--Nye 228
Seeking to Set the Public Right--Nye 216
Spirits at Home--Riley 99
Society Gurgs from Sandy Mush--Nye 197
Sutter's Claim--Riley 226
This Man Jones--Riley 43
That Night--Riley 124
The Boy Friend--Riley 54
The Chemist of the Carolinas--Nye 82
The Diary of Darius T Skinner--Nye 144
The Grammatical Boy--Nye 77
The Gruesome Ballad of Mr Squincher--Riley 21
The Man in the Moon--Riley 148
The Philanthropical Jay--Nye 180
The Truth about Methuselah--Nye 126
The Tar-heel Cow--Nye 137
The Rise and Fall of William Johnson--Nye 66
The Rossville Lecture Course--Riley 134
Wanted, a Fox--Nye 222
Where He First Met His Parents--Nye 17
Where the Roads are Engaged in Forking--Nye 206
While Cigarettes to Ashes Turn--Riley 201
Why It Was Done--Nye & Riley 11
Where He First Met His Parents
[Illustration]
Last week I visited my birthplace in the State of Maine. I waited thirty
years for the public to visit it, and as there didn't seem to be much of
a rush this spring, I thought I would go and visit it myself. I was
telling a friend the other day that the public did not seem to manifest
the interest in my birthplace that I thought it ought to, and he said I
ought not to mind that. "Just wait," said he, "till the people of the
United States have an opportunity to visit your tomb, and you will be
surprised to see how they will run excursion trains up there to
Moosehead lake, or wherever you plant yourself. It will be a perfect
picnic. Your hold on the American people, William, is wonderful, but
your death would seem to assure it, and kind of crystallize the
affection now existing, but still in a nebulous and gummy state."
A man ought not to criticise his birthplace, I presume, and yet, if I
were to do it all over again, I do not know whether I would select that
particular spot or not. Sometimes I think I would not. And yet, what
memories cluster about that old house! There was the place where I first
met my parents. It was at that time that an acquaintance sprang up which
has ripened in later years into mutual respect and esteem. It was there
that what might be termed a casual meeting took place, that has, under
the alchemy of resist-less years, turned to golden links, forming a
pleasant but powerful bond of union between my parents and myself. For
that reason, I hope that I may be spared to my parents for many years to
come.
Many memories now cluster about that old home, as I have said. There is,
also, other bric-a-brac which has accumulated since I was born there. I
took a small stone from the front yard as a kind of memento of the
occasion and the place. I do not think it has been detected yet. There
was another stone in the yard, so it may be weeks before any one finds
out that I took one of them.
How humble the home, and yet what a lesson it should teach the boys of
America! Here, amid the barren and inhospitable waste of rocks and cold,
the last place in the world that a great man would naturally select to
be born in, began the life of one who, by his own unaided effort, in
after years rose to the proud height of postmaster at Laramie City, Wy.
T., and with an estimate of the future that seemed almost prophetic,
resigned before he could be characterized as an offensive partisan.
Here on the banks of the raging Piscataquis, where winter lingers in
the lap of spring till it occasions a good deal of talk, there began a
career which has been the wonder and admiration of every vigilance
committee west of the turbulent Missouri.
There on that spot, with no inheritance but a predisposition to baldness
and a bitter hatred of rum; with no personal property but a misfit
suspender and a stone-bruise, began a life history which has never
ceased to be a warning to people who have sold goods on credit.
It should teach the youth of our great broad land what glorious
possibilities may lie concealed in the rough and tough bosom of the
reluctant present. It shows how steady perseverance and a good appetite
will always win in the end. It teaches us that wealth is not
indispensable, and that if we live as we should, draw out of politics at
the proper time, and die a few days before the public absolutely demand
it, the matter of our birthplace will not be considered.
Still, my birthplace is all right as a birthplace. It was a good, quiet
place in which to be born. All the old neighbors said that Shirley was a
very quiet place up to the time I was born there, and when I took my
parents by the hand and gently led them away in the spring of '53,
saying, "Parents, this is no place for us," it again became quiet.
It is the only birthplace I have, however, and I hope that all the
readers of this sketch will feel perfectly free to go there any time and
visit it and carry their dinner as I did. Extravagant cordiality and
overflowing hospitality have always kept my birthplace back.
[Illustration: Never Talk Back.]
Never talk back! sich things is ripperhensible;
feller only "corks" hisse'f that jaws a man that's hot;
In a quarrel, of you'll only keep your mouth shet and act sensible,
The man that does the talkin'll git worsted every shot!
Never talk back to a feller that's abusin' you--
Jest let him carry on, and rip, and cuss and swear;
And when he finds his lyin' and his dammin's jest amusin' you,
You've gut him clean kaflummixed, and you want to hold him there!
Never talk back, and wake up the whole community,
And call a man a liar, over law, or Politics,--
You can lift and land him furder and with gracefuller impunity
With one good jolt of silence than a half a dozen kicks!
The Gruesome Ballad of Mr. Squincher
"Ki-yi!" said Mr. Squincher,
As in contemplative pose,
He stood before the looking-glass
And burnished up his nose,
And brushed the dandruff from a span-
Spick-splinter suit of clothes,--
"Why, bless you, Mr. Squincher,
You're as handsome as a rose!"
[Illustration]
"There are some," continued Squincher,
As he raised upon his toes
To catch his full reflection,
And the fascinating bows
That graced his legs,--"I reckon
There are some folks never knows
How beautiful is human legs
In pantaloons like those!"
"But ah!" sighed Mr. Squincher,
As a ghastly phantom 'rose
And leered above his shoulder
Like the deadliest of foes,--
With fleshless arms and fingers,
And a skull, with glistening rows
Of teeth that crunched and gritted,--
"It's my tailor, I suppose!"
* * * * *
They found him in the morning--
So the mystic legend goes--
With the placid face still smiling
In its statuesque repose;--
With a lily in his left hand,
And in his right a rose,
With their fragrance curling upward
Through a nimbus 'round his nose.
Anecdotes of Jay Gould
[Illustration]
Facial Neuralgia is what is keeping Jay Gould back this summer and
preventing him from making as much money as he would otherwise. With
good health and his present methods of doing business Mr. Gould could in
a few years be beyond the reach of want, but he is up so much nights
with his face that he has to keep one gas-jet burning all the time.
Besides he has cabled once to Dr. Brown-Sequard for a neuralgia pill
that he thought would relieve the intense pain, and found after he had
paid for the cablegram that every druggist in New York kept the
Brown-Sequard pill in stock. But when a man is ill he does not care for
expense, especially when he controls an Atlantic cable or two.
This neuralgia pill is about the size of a two-year-old colt and pure
white. I have been compelled to take several of them myself while
suffering from facial neuralgia; for neuralgia does not spare the good,
the true or the beautiful. She comes along and nips the poor yeoman as
well as the millionaire who sits in the lap of luxury. Millionaires who
flatter themselves that they can evade neuralgia by going and sitting in
the lap of luxury make a great mistake.
"And do you find that this large porcelain pill relieves you at all, Mr.
Gould?" I asked him during one of these attacks, as he sat in his studio
with his face tied up in hot bran.
"No, it does me no good whatever," said the man who likes to take a lame
railroad and put it on its feet by issuing more bonds. "It contains a
little morphine, which dulls the pain but there's nothing in the pill to
cure the cause. My neuralgia comes from indigestion. My appetite is four
sizes too large for a man of my height, and every little while I
overeat. I then get dangerously ill and stocks become greatly depressed
in consequence. I am now in a position where, if I had a constitution
that would stand the strain, I could get well off in a few years, but I
am not strong enough. Every little change in the weather affects me. I
see a red-headed girl on the street and immediately afterwards I see one
of these big white pills."
"Are you sure, Mr. Gould," I asked him with some solicitude, as I bent
forward and inhaled the rich fragrance of the carnation in his
button-hole, "that you have not taken cold in some way?"
"Possibly I have," he said, as he shrank back in a petulant way, I
thought. "Last week I got my feet a little damp while playing the hose
on some of my stocks, but I hardly think that was what caused the
trouble. I am apt to overeat, as I said. I am especially fond of fruit,
too. When I was a boy I had no trouble, because I always divided my
fruit with another boy, of whom I was very fond. I would always divide
my fruit in two equal parts, keeping one of these and eating the other
myself. Many and many a time when this boy and I went out together and
only had one wormy apple between us, I have divided it and given him the
worm.
[Illustration]
"As a boy, I was taught to believe that half is always better than the
hole."
"And are you not afraid that this neuralgia after it has picnicked
around among your features may fly to your vitals?"
"Possibly so," said Mr. Gould, snapping the hunting case of his
massive silver watch with a loud report, "but I am guarding against this
by keeping my pocketbook wrapped up all the time in an old red flannel
shirt."
Here Mr. Gould arose and went out of the room for a long time, and I
could hear him pacing up and down outside, stopping now and then to peer
through the keyhole to see if I had gone away. But in each instance he
was gratified to find that I had not. Lest any one should imagine that I
took advantage of his absence to peruse his private correspondence, I
will say here that I did not do so, as his desk was securely locked.
Mr. Gould's habits are simple and he does not hold his cane by the
middle when he walks. He wears plain clothes and his shirts and collars
are both made of the same shade. He says he feels sorry for any one who
has to wear a pink shirt with a blue collar. Some day he hopes to endow
a home for young men who cannot afford to buy a shirt and a collar at
the same store.
He owes much of his neuralgia to a lack of exercise. Mr. Gould never
takes any exercise at all. His reason for this is that he sees no
prospect for exercise to advance in value. He says he is willing to take
anything else but exercise.
Up to within a very few years Jay Gould has always slept well at night,
owing to regular hours for rising and retiring and his careful
abstinence from tobacco and alcohol. Lately neuralgia has kept him awake
a good deal at night, but prior to that he used to sleep as sweetly and
peacefully as a weasel.
The story circulated some years ago to the effect that a professional
burglar broke into Mr. Gould's room in the middle of the night and
before he could call the police was robbed of his tools, is not true.
People who have no higher aim in life than the peddling about of such
improbable yarns would do well to ascertain the truth of these reports
before giving them circulation.
The story that Mr. Gould once killed a steer and presented his hoofs to
the poor with the remark that it would help to keep sole and body
together, also turned out to have no foundation whatever in fact, but
was set afloat by an English wag who was passionately fond of a bit of
pleasantry, don't you know.
Thus it is that a man who has acquired a competence by means of honest
toil becomes the target for the barbed shaft of contumely.
Mr. Gould is said to be a good conversationalist, though he prefers to
close his eyes and listen to others. Nothing pleases him better than to
lure a man on and draw him out and encourage him to turn his mind wrong
side out and empty it. He then richly repays this confidence by saying
that if it doesn't rain any more we will have a long dry time. The man
then goes away inflated with the idea that he has a pointer from Mr.
Gould which will materially affect values. A great many men are playing
croquet at the poor-house this summer who owe their prosperity to tips
given them by Mr. Gould.
As a fair sample of the way a story about a great man grows and becomes
distorted at the same time, one incident will be sufficient. Some years
ago, it is said, Mr. Gould bought a general admission ticket to hear
Sarah Bernhardt as Camille. Several gentlemen who were sitting near
where he stood asked him why he did not take a seat. Instead of
answering directly that he could not get one he replied that he did not
care for a seat, as he wanted to be near the door when the building
fell. Shortly after this he had more seats than he could use. I give
this story simply to illustrate how such a thing may be distorted, for
upon investigation it was found to have occurred at a Patti concert, and
not at a Bernhardt exhibition at all.
Mr. Gould's career, with its attendant success, should teach us two
things, at least. One is, that it always pays to do a kind act, for a
great deal of his large fortune has been amassed by assisting men like
Mr. Field, when they were in a tight place, and taking their depressed
stock off their hands while in a shrunken condition. He believes also
that the merciful man is merciful to his stock.
He says he owes much of his success in life to economy and neuralgia. He
also loves to relieve distress on Wall street, and is so passionately
fond of this as he grows older that he has been known to distress other
stock men just for the pleasant thrill it gave him to relieve them.
Jay Gould is also a living illustration of what a young man may do with
nothing but his bare hands in America. John L. Sullivan and Gould are
both that way. Mr. Gould and Col. Sullivan could go into Siberia
to-morrow--little as they are known there--and with a small Gordon
press, a quire of bond paper and a pair of three-pennyweight gloves they
would soon own Siberia, with a right of way across the rest of Europe
and a first mortgage on the Russian throne. As fast as Col. Sullivan
knocked out a dynasty Jay could come in and administer on the estate.
This would be a powerful combination. It would afford us an opportunity
also to get some of those Russian hay-fever names and chilblains by red
message. Mr. Gould would get a good deal of money out of the transaction
and Sullivan would get ozone.
[Illustration: A Fall Crick View of the Earthquake]
I kin hump my back and take the rain,
And I don't keer how she pours,
I kin keep kindo' ca'm in a thunder storm,
No matter how loud she roars;
I haint much skeered o' the lightnin',
Ner I haint sich awful shakes
Afeared o' _cyclones_--but I don't want none
O' yer dad-burned old _earth_-quakes!
As long as my legs keeps stiddy,
And long as my head keeps plum,
And the buildin' stays in the front lot,
I still kin whistle, _some_!
But about the time the old clock
Flops off'n the mantel-shelf,
And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen,
I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!
Plague-take! ef you keep me stabled
While any earthquakes is around!--
I'm jist like the stock,--I'll beller,
And break fer the open ground!
And I 'low you'd be as nervous,
And in jist about my fix,
When yer whole farm slides from inunder you,
And on'y the mor'gage sticks!
Now cars haint a-goin' to kill you
Ef you don't drive 'crost the track;
Crediters never'll jerk you up
Ef you go and pay 'em back;
You kin stand all moral and mundane storms
Ef you'll on'y jist behave--
But a' EARTHQUAKE:--well, ef it wanted you
It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!
[Illustration: August]
O mellow month and merry month,
Let me make love to you,
And follow you around the world
As knights their ladies do.
I thought your sisters beautiful,
Both May and April, too,
But April she had rainy eyes,
And May had eyes of blue.
And June--I liked the singing
Of her lips, and liked her smile--
But all her songs were promises
Of something, _after while_;
And July's face--the lights and shade
That may not long beguile,
With alternations o'er the wheat
The dreamer at the stile.
But you!--ah, you are tropical,
Your beauty is so rare:
Your eyes are clearer, deeper eyes
Than any, anywhere;
Mysterious, imperious,
Deliriously fair,
O listless Andalusian maid,
With bangles in your hair!
Julius Cæsar in Town
[Illustration]
The play of "Julius Cæsar," which has been at the Academy of Music this
week, has made a great hit. Messrs. Booth and Barrett very wisely
decided that if it succeeded here it would do well anywhere. If the
people of New York like a play and say so, it is almost sure to go
elsewhere. Judging by this test the play of "Julius Cæsar" has a glowing
future ahead of it. It was written by Gentlemen Shakespeare, Bacon and
Donnelly, who collaborated together on it. Shakespeare did the lines and
plot, Bacon furnished the cipher and Donnelly called attention to it
through the papers.
The scene of "Julius Cæsar" is laid in Rome just before the railroad was
completed to that place. In order to understand the play itself we must
glance briefly at the leading characters which are introduced and upon
whom its success largely depends.
Julius Cæsar first attracted attention through the Roman papers by
calling the attention of the medical faculty to the now justly
celebrated Cæsarian operation. Taking advantage of the advertisement
thus attained, he soon rose to prominence and flourished considerably
from 100 to 44 B. C., when a committee of representative citizens and
property-owners of Rome called upon him and on behalf of the people
begged leave to assassinate him as a mark of esteem. He was stabbed
twenty-three times between Pompey's Pillar and eleven o'clock, many of
which were mortal. This account of the assassination is taken from a
local paper and is graphic, succinct and lacks the sensational elements
so common and so lamentable in our own time. Cæsar was the implacable
foe of the aristocracy and refused to wear a plug hat up to the day of
his death. Sulla once said, before Cæsar had made much of a showing,
that some day this young man would be the ruin of the aristocracy, and
twenty years afterwards when Cæsar sacked, assassinated and holocausted
a whole theological seminary for saying "eyether" and "nyether," the old
settlers recalled what Sulla had said.
Cæsar continued to eat pie with a knife and in many other ways to endear
himself to the masses until 68 B. C., when he ran for Quæstor. Afterward
he was Ædile, during the term of which office he sought to introduce a
number of new games and to extend the limit on some of the older ones.
From this to the Senate was but a step. In the Senate he was known as a
good Speaker, but ambitious, and liable to turn up during a close vote
when his enemies thought he was at home doing his chores. This made him
at times odious to those who opposed him, and when he defended Cataline
and offered to go on his bond, Cæsar came near being condemned to death
himself.
In 62 B. C. he went to Spain as Proprætor, intending to write a book
about the Spanish people and their customs as soon as he got back, but
he was so busy on his return that he did not have time to do so.
Cæsar was a powerful man with the people, and while in the Senate worked
hard for his constituents, while other Senators were having their
photographs taken. He went into the army when the war broke out, and
after killing a great many people against whom he certainly could not
have had anything personal, he returned, headed by the Rome Silver
Cornet Band and leading a procession over two miles in length. It was at
this time that he was tendered a crown just as he was passing the City
Hall, but thrice he refused it. After each refusal the people applauded
and encored him till he had to refuse it again. It is at about this time
the play opens. Cæsar has just arrived on a speckled courser and
dismounted outside the town. He comes in at the head of a procession
with the understanding that the crown is to be offered him just as he
crosses over to the Court-House.
Here Cassius and Brutus meet, and Cassius tries to make a Mugwump of
Brutus, so that they can organize a new movement. Mr. Edwin Booth takes
the character of Brutus and Mr. Lawrence Barrett takes that of Cassius.
I would not want to take the character of Cassius myself, even if I had
run short of character and needed some very much indeed, but Mr.
Barrett takes it and does first-rate. Mr. Booth also plays Brutus so
that old settlers here say it seems almost like having Brutus here among
us again.
Brutus was a Roman republican with strong tariff tendencies. He was a
good extemporaneous after-dinner speaker and a warm personal friend of
Cæsar, though differing from him politically. In assassinating Cæsar,
Brutus used to say afterwards he did not feel the slightest personal
animosity, but did it entirely for the good of the party. That is one
thing I like about politics--you can cut out a man's vitals and hang
them on the Christmas tree and drag the fair name of his wife or mother
around through the sewers for six weeks before election, and so long as
it is done for the good of the party it is all right.
So when Brutus is authorized by the caucus to assassinate Cæsar he feels
that, like being President of the United States, it is a disagreeable
job; but if the good of the party seems really to demand it he will do
it, though he wishes it distinctly understood that personally he hasn't
got a thing against Cæsar.
In act 4 Brutus sits up late reading a story by E. P. Roe, and just as
he is in the most exciting part of it the ghost of the assassinated
Cæsar appears and states that it will meet him with hard gloves at
Philippi. Brutus looks bored and says that he is not in condition, but
the ghost leaves it that way and Brutus looks still more bored till the
ghost goes out through a white oak door without opening it.
At Philippi, Brutus sees that there is no hope of police interference,
and so before time is called he inserts his sword into his being and
dies while the polite American audience puts on its overcoat and goes
out, looking over its shoulder to see that Brutus does not take
advantage of this moment, while the people are going away, to
resuscitate himself.
[Illustration]
The play is thoroughly enjoyable all the way through, especially Cæsar's
funeral. The idea of introducing a funeral and engaging Mark Antony to
deliver the eulogy, with the understanding that he was to have his
traveling expenses paid and the privilege of selling the sermon to a
syndicate, shows genius on the part of the joint authors. All the way
through the play is good, but sad. There is no divertisement or tank in
it, but the funeral more than makes up for all that.
Where Portia begs Brutus, before the assassination, to tell her all and
let her in on the ground floor, and asks what the matter is, and he
claims that it is malaria, and she still insists and asks, "Dwell I but
in the suburbs of your good pleasure?" and he states, "You are my true
and honorable wife, as dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit my
sad heart," I forgot myself and wept my new plug hat two-thirds full. It
is as good as anything there is in Josh Whitcomb's play.
Booth and Barrett have the making of good actors in them. I met both of
these gentlemen in Wyoming some years ago. We met by accident. They were
going to California and I was coming back. By some oversight we had both
selected the same track, and we were thrown together. I do not know
whether they will recall my face or not. I was riding on the sleeper
truck at the time of the accident. I always take a sleeper and always
did. I rode on the truck because I didn't want to ride inside the car
and have to associate with a wealthy porter who looked down upon me. I
am the man who was found down the creek the next day gathering wild
ferns and murmuring, "Where am I?"
The play of "Julius Cæsar" is one which brings out the meanness and
magnetism of Cassius, and emphasizes the mistaken patriotism of Brutus.
It is full of pathos, duplicity, assassination, treachery, erroneous
loyalty, suicide, hypocrisy, and all the intrigue, jealousy, cowardice
and deviltry which characterized the politics of fifty years B. C., but
which now, thanks to the enlightenment and refinement which twenty
centuries have brought, are known no more forever. Let us not forget,
as we enter upon the year 1888, that it is a Presidential year, and that
all acrimony will be buried under the dew and the daisies, and that no
matter how high party spirit may run, there will be no personal
enmity.
His First Womern
[Illustration]
I buried my first womern
In the spring; and in the fall
I was married to my second,
And haint settled yit at all?--
Fer I'm allus thinkin'--thinkin'
Of the first one's peaceful ways,
A-bilin' soap and singin'
Of the Lord's amazin' grace.
And I'm thinkin' of her, constant,
Dyin' carpet-chain and stuff,
And a-makin' up rag-carpets,
When the floor was good enough!
And I mind her he'p a-feedin'
And I recollect her now
A-drappin' corn, and keepin'
Clos't behind me and the plow!
And I'm allus thinkin' of her
Reddin' up around the house;
Er cookin' fer the farm-hands;
Er a-drivin' up the cows.--
And there she lays out yender
By the lower medder-fence,
Where the cows was barely grazin',
And they're usin' ever sence.
And when I look acrost there--
Say its when the clover's ripe,
And I'm settin', in the evenin',
On the porch here, with my pipe,
And the _other'n_ hollers "Henry!"--
W'y, they ain't no sadder thing
Than to think of my first womern
And her funeral last spring
Was a year ago.
This Man Jones
This man Jones was what you'd call
A feller 'at had no sand at all:
Kindo consumpted, and undersize,
And saller-complected, with big sad eyes,
And a kind-of-a-sort-of-a-hang-dog style,
And a sneakin' kind-of-a-half-way smile
That kindo give him away to us
As a preacher, maybe, or sumpin' wuss.
Didn't take with the gang--well, no--
But still we managed to _use_ him, though,--
Coddin' the gilley along the rout'
And drivin' the stakes that he pulled out;--
For I was one of the bosses then
And of course stood in with the canvas-men--
And the way we put up jobs, you know,
On this man Jones jes' beat the show!
Used to rattle him scandalous,
And keep the feller a-dodgin' us,
And a-shyin' round jes' skeered to death,
And a-feered to whimper above his breath;
Give him a cussin', and then a kick,
And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick--
Jes' for the fun of seein' him climb
Around with a head on half the time.
But what was the curioust thing to me,
Was along o' the party--let me see,--
Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?--
Mamzelle Zanty, er De La Pierre?--
Well, no matter!--a stunnin' in mash,
With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash,
And a figger sich as the angels owns--
And one too many for this man Jones:
He'd always wake in the afternoon
As the band waltzed in on "the lion tune,"
And there, from the time that she'd go in,
Till she'd back out of the cage agin,
He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed--
'Specially when she come to "feed
The beast raw meat with her naked hand"--
And all that business, you understand.
And it _was_ resky in that den--
For I think she juggled three cubs then,
And a big "green" lion 'at used to smash
Collar-bones for old Frank Nash;
And I reckon now she haint forgot
The afternoon old "Nero" sot
His paws on her:--but as for me,
It's a sort-of-a-mixed-up mystery.
Kindo' remember an awful roar,
And see her back for the bolted door--
See the cage rock--heerd her call
"God have mercy!" and that was all--
For ther haint no livin' man can tell
What it's like when a thousand yell
In female tones, and a thousand more
Howl in bass till their throats is sore!
But the keeper said as they dragged her out,
They heerd some feller laugh and shout:
"Save her! Quick! I've got the cuss!"
... And yit she waked and smiled on us!
And we daren't _flinch_--for the doctor said,
Seein' as this man Jones was dead,
Better to jes' not let her know
Nothin' o' that for a week or so.
How to Hunt the Fox
[Illustration]
The joyous season for hunting is again upon us, and with the gentle fall
of the autumn leaf and the sough of the scented breezes about the
gnarled and naked limbs of the wailing trees--the huntsman comes with
his hark and his halloo and hurrah, boys, the swift rush of the chase,
the thrilling scamper 'cross country, the mad dash through the Long
Islander's pumpkin patch--also the mad dash, dash, dash of the farmer,
the low moan of the disabled and frozen-toed hen as the whooping
horsemen run her down; the wild shriek of the children, the low
melancholy wail of the frightened shoat as he flees away to the straw
pile, the quick yet muffled plunk of the frozen tomato and the dull
scrunch of the seed cucumber.
The huntsman now takes the flannels off his fox, rubs his stiffened
limbs with gargling oil, ties a bunch of firecrackers to his tail and
runs him around the barn a few times to see if he is in good order.
The foxhound is a cross of the bloodhound, the grayhound, the bulldog
and the chump. When you step on his tail he is said to be in full cry.
The foxhound obtains from his ancestors on the bloodhound side of the
house his keen scent, which enables him while in full cry 'cross country
to pause and hunt for chipmunks. He also obtains from the bloodhound
branch of his family a wild yearning to star in an "Uncle Tom" company,
and watch little Eva meander up the flume at two dollars per week. From
the grayhound he gets his most miraculous speed, which enables him to
attain a rate of velocity so great that he is unable to halt during the
excitement of the chase, frequently running so far during the day that
it takes him a week to get back, when, of course, all interest has died
out. From the bulldog the foxhound obtains his great tenacity of
purpose, his deep-seated convictions, his quick perceptions, his love of
home and his clinging nature. From the chump the foxhound gets his high
intellectuality and that mental power which enables him to distinguish
almost at a glance the salient points of difference between a
two-year-old steer and a two-dollar bill.
The foxhound is about two feet in height, and 120 of them would be
considered an ample number for a quiet little fox hunt. Some hunters
think this number inadequate, but unless the fox be unusually skittish
and crawl under the barn, 120 foxhounds ought to be enough. The trouble
generally is that hunters make too much noise, thus scaring the fox so
that he tries to get away from them. This necessitates hard riding and
great activity on the part of the whippers-in. Frightening a fox almost
always results in sending him out of the road and compelling horsemen to
stop in order to take down a panel of fence every little while that they
may follow the animal, and before you can get the fence put up again the
owner is on the ground, and after you have made change with him and
mounted again the fox may be nine miles away. Try by all means to keep
your fox in the road!
It makes a great difference what kind of fox you use, however. I once
had a fox on my Pumpkin Butte estates that lasted me three years, and I
never knew him to shy or turn out of the road for anything but a loaded
team. He was the best fox for hunting purposes that I ever had. Every
spring I would sprinkle him with Scotch snuff and put him away in the
bureau till fall. He would then come out bright and chipper. He was
always ready to enter into the chase with all the chic and embonpoint of
a regular Kenosha, and nothing pleased him better than to be about eight
miles in advance of my thoroughbred pack in full cry, scampering 'cross
country, while stretching back a few miles behind the dogs followed a
pale young man and his financier, each riding a horse that had sat down
too hard on its tail some time and driven it into his system about six
joints.
Some hunters, who are madly and passionately devoted to the sport, leap
their horses over fences, moats, donjon keeps, hedges and currant bushes
with utter sang froid and the wild, unfettered toot ongsomble of a brass
band. It is one of the most spirited and touchful of sights to see a
young fox-hunter going home through the gloaming with a full cry in
one hand and his pancreas in the other.
Some like to be in at the death, as it is called, and it is certainly a
laudable ambition. To see 120 dogs hold out against a ferocious fox
weighing nine pounds; to watch the brave little band of dogs and
whippers-in and horses with sawed-off tails, making up in heroism what
they lack in numbers, succeeding at last in ridding the country of the
ferocious brute which has long been the acknowledged foe of the human
race, is indeed a fine sight.
We are too apt to regard fox-hunting merely as a relaxation, a source of
pleasure, and the result of a desire to do the way people do in the
novels which we steal from English authors: but this is not all. To
successfully hunt a fox, to jump fences 'cross country like an unruly
steer, is no child's play. To ride all day on a very hot and restless
saddle, trying to lope while your horse is trotting, giving your friends
a good view of the country between yourself and your horse, then leaping
stone walls, breaking your collar-bone in four places, pulling out one
eye and leaving it hanging on a plum tree, or going home at night with
your transverse colon wrapped around the pommel of your saddle and your
liver in an old newspaper, requires the greatest courage.
Too much stress cannot be placed upon the costume worn while
fox-hunting, and in fact, that is, after all, the life and soul of the
chase. For ladies, nothing looks better than a close-fitting jacket,
sewed together with thread of the same shade and a skirt. Neat-fitting
cavalry boots and a plug hat complete the costume. Then, with a hue in
one hand and a cry in the other, she is prepared to mount. Lead the
horse up to a stone wall or a freight car and spring lightly into the
saddle with a glad cry. A freight car is the best thing from which to
mount a horse, but it is too unwieldy and frequently delays the chase.
For this reason, too, much luggage should not be carried on a fox-hunt.
Some gentlemen carry a change of canes, neatly concealed in a shawl
strap, but even this may be dispensed with.
[Illustration]
For gentlemen, a dark, four-button cutaway coat, with neat,
loose-fitting, white panties, will generally scare a fox into
convulsions, so that he may be easily killed with a club. A
short-waisted plug hat may be worn also, in order to distinguish the
hunter from the whipper-in, who wears a baseball cap. The only
fox-hunting I have ever done was on board an impetuous, tough-bitted,
fore-and-aft horse that had emotional insanity. I was dressed in a
swallow-tail coat, waistcoat of Scotch plaid Turkish toweling, and a
pair of close-fitting breeches of etiquette tucked into my boot-tops.
As I was away from home at the time and could not reach my own steed I
was obliged to mount a spirited steed with high, intellectual hips, one
white eye and a big red nostril that you could set a Shanghai hen in.
This horse, as soon as the pack broke into full cry, climbed over a
fence that had wrought-iron briers on it, lit in a corn field, stabbed
his hind leg through a sere and yellow pumpkin, which he wore the rest
of the day, with seven yards of pumpkin vine streaming out behind, and
away we dashed 'cross country. I remained mounted not because I enjoyed
it, for I did not, but because I dreaded to dismount. I hated to get off
in pieces. If I can't get off a horse's back as a whole, I would rather
adhere to the horse. I will adhere that I did so.
We did not see the fox, but we saw almost everything else. I remember,
among other things, of riding through a hothouse, and how I enjoyed it.
A morning scamper through a conservatory when the syringas and Jonquils
and Jack roses lie cuddled up together in their little beds, is a thing
to remember and look back to and pay for. To stand knee-deep in glass
and gladiolas, to smell the mashed and mussed up mignonette and the last
fragrant sigh of the scrunched heliotrope beneath the hoof of your
horse, while far away the deep-mouthed baying of the hoarse hounds,
hotly hugging the reeking trail of the aniseseed bag, calls on the
gorgeously caparisoned hills to give back their merry music or fork it
over to other answering hills, is joy to the huntsman's heart.
On, on I rode with my unconfined locks streaming behind me in the autumn
wind. On and still on I sped, the big, bright pumpkin slipping up and
down the gambrel of my spirited horse at every jump. On and ever on we
went, shedding terror and pumpkin seeds along our glittering track till
my proud steed ran his leg in a gopher hole and fell over one of those
machines that they put on a high-headed steer to keep him from jumping
fences. As the horse fell, the necklace of this hickory poke flew up and
adjusted itself around my throat. In an instant my steed was on his feet
again, and gayly we went forward while the prong of this barbarous
appliance, ever and anon plowed into a brand new culvert or rooted up a
clover field. Every time it ran into an orchard or a cemetery it would
jar my neck and knock me silly. But I could see with joy that it reduced
the speed of my horse. At last as the sun went down, reluctantly, it
seemed to me, for he knew that he would never see such riding again, my
ill-spent horse fell with a hollow moan, curled up, gave a spasmodic
quiver with his little, nerveless, sawed-off tail and died.
The other huntsmen succeeded in treeing the anise-seed bag at sundown,
in time to catch the 6 o'clock train home.