into his office thicker than diseased Jews to the troubled pool of
Bethesda. If any stranger chanced to drop in for medical treatment, the
crowd of hired specimens began at once to converse among themselves of
the wonderful skill of the physician. One remarked how his sight had
improved under treatment, how he could see two objects now where he used
to see but one. Another related in glowing terms the ravenous appetite
the doctor’s bitters had awakened in his system; through all the hours
of the day he was now as hungry as a whirlpool. A third would eulogize
his method of treating contagious diseases in general.
In this way the real patient, though receiving no actual benefit from
the watery potions administered, was retained in hopes of an ultimate
cure. At length the curiosity of the resident physician of the Hospital
was aroused. He couldn’t imagine where his patients filed away to every
morning, as regularly as liberated geese to some well-known pond.
Following up the bandaged crew and investigating the matter, he soon
learned the state of affairs, and forbade their leaving the Hospital
yard without a permit. This sudden falling off in the would-be-doctor’s
patients made a material change in the appearance of his office. In
short, it leveled his business and his hopes, and again the quack sank
into that obscurity from which he so energetically struggled to emerge.
A TERRIBLE TAKE IN.
To-day, while taking dinner in an eating-house in a Western town, I
witnessed an amusing incident. It appears the proprietor had often been
imposed upon by bummers who would walk boldly into the dining-room, and
after stowing away a supply of victuals that would fill an ordinary
carpet sack, would shuffle up to the counter, and in an undertone of
voice inform the person there officiating that they were unfortunately
“dead broke.” Of course the law doesn’t allow any ripping to be done on
such occasions, other than swearing. Then the well-filled rascals would
walk off picking their teeth with the utmost composure; except in
extreme cases when the out-going party would be assisted over the
threshold by an uprising boot. But even kicks would not bring the coin
into the till, or bring back upon the table the vanished edibles, so
this treatment was seldom resorted to. Finally, the proprietor bought a
large syringe, and placing it in a drawer in the dining-room, bided his
time.
It happened while I was sitting at the table an individual, whose cheek
the proprietor had reason to believe far exceeded his checks, entered
the room and sat down directly in front of me. A plate of hot bean soup
sat invitingly before him, from which the savory steam rose up in
clouds, and not only filled the nostrils of the hungry man with
delicious and enticing odors, but served to whet the hungry edge of
appetite.
[Illustration: “PAY IN ADVANCE, SIR.”]
Lifting a large pewter spoon that lay beside the plate, he was about to
introduce it to the hot decoction before him. Already the limber hinges
of his jaw began to relax, preparatory to admitting the well-filled
spoon. His attention was suddenly arrested by the proprietor, who, with
one hand behind him and the other laid upon the spoon-arm of the
would-be eater, demanded the price of the dinner before he went any
further. The man, it seems, was not a member of that class of
individuals which the hotel keeper thought him. He was justly indignant,
therefore, at the demand, and sharply informed mine host that “he
guessed after he had eaten his dinner would be time enough to pay for
it.” But the oft-swindled proprietor thought differently. The man had
scarcely got the words out of his mouth before “mine host” produced a
syringe, large as the trunk of a small-sized elephant, and slapping the
nozzle of it into the soup, ran it circling around the plate, and with
one long, slobbering draught, like that of a horse drinking through his
bits, the soup plate was left lying before the hungry man, as empty as
his own stomach.
The astonished individual looked first at his plate, on which not even a
bean was left, then at the dripping, steaming muzzle of the syringe, and
lastly at the landlord, who stood with a look of triumph spreading over
his face, silently waiting for the man to either come down with the coin
or leave the table.
Though not liking that summary way of treating a person, the man was
either too hungry or too limited in time to go further for a meal, so he
fished out of his pocket the change and handed it to the proprietor. The
latter thereupon discharged the contents of the syringe into the soup
plate again, and walked away, leaving the customer to proceed with his
dinner.
[Illustration]
A FAMILY JAR.
One night, while passing through the street,
A stranger paused to hear
The tumult from a cottage nigh,
That stunned the listening ear.
And as he stood without the door
The sound of war arose,
As when Boroo the Irish king
Engaged his stubborn foes.
So drawing nigh the window-sill
He studied matters fair,
And lo, the husband and the wife
Engaged in battle there:
The former with his doubled fists
The battle sought to win;
While to his head the wife applied
The heavy rolling-pin.
And as the stranger stood without
He thus communed with care,—
For he was shrewd and thought it best
To weigh the danger there,—
“This is some family affair:
Some question I opine
That I should not discuss with them,
Nor make the quarrel mine;
For I am newly risen up
From off the bed of pain,
And they perchance will turn on me,
And send me there again.”
[Illustration: STRANGER WHO WENT NOT IN.]
So turning from the window-sill
He journeyed on his way,
And went not in, but left the pair
Engaged in doubtful fray;
And when he was a great way off
The stranger paused once more,
And lo! the noise of battle fell
Still louder than before.
Then he remarked, “This is indeed
A battle fierce and great;
I now repent me that I went
Not in, to remonstrate.”
Then taking to his road again,
He moved, repenting still,
And turned not back to enter in,
But slowly climbed the hill.
Not many minutes later on,
Behold, another man
Was passing by, and heard the war
That through the building ran;
And lo! the tumult that arose
Was like the clamor high
When Michael’s host and Satan’s horde
Did mingle in the sky.
And while he paused, he heard the stroke
The active husband sped;
And heard the fall of rolling-pin
Upon the husband’s head.
And he communed thus with himself,—
For he loved ways of peace,
Delighting not in heavy strokes,
But thinking war should cease:
Said he, “A family jar, no doubt,
Now falls upon mine ear;
And I should promptly enter in
The house, to interfere;
Or soon, perchance, a murder will
Be done beneath this roof;
And I appear like one to blame,
Because I stood aloof,
Or passed along upon my way
And took no noble stand,
Nor raised my voice the war to stay,
Nor caught a lifted hand.”
So then the traveler left the street
And bravely entered in,
Through porch and hall, and gained the room
Where rose the fearful din;
And on the husband laying hold,
He cried, “Why do ye go
Beyond the brute that roots the sod
In this contention low,
And neither spare the sex, nor kin,
Which you are bound to do?
Now use no more your ready hand
Or you the act may rue!”
Then said the husband, turning round,
“Why, is she not mine own?
My flesh of flesh, as we are told,
And also bone of bone?
And who are you that here comes in
At me to rail and scout,
When I, by neither word nor line,
Sent invitation out?
Do I not answer for the rent?
And all the taxes pay?
And say to whom I will, ‘Come in,’
Or, ‘Stand without,’ I pray?”
Then also did that warring wife
Now rest her rolling-pin,
And thus addressed the stranger too,
“Aye! wherefore came ye in?
Come, let us beat him soundly here,
And throw him down the stairs,
And teach him not to interfere
With other folks’ affairs.”
So hands they laid upon the wretch
While edging for the door,
And beat him freely out of shape,
And dragged him round the floor.
The wife would hold him down awhile
The husband’s blows to bide;
And then the husband held him till
The wife her weapon plied.
They rent the garments from his back,
And from his scalp the hair;
And from his face in handfuls plucked
The whiskers long and fair;
And there, contrary to the laws,
And to his wish to boot,
He swallowed teeth that in his jaws
In youth had taken root.
At last, uniting at the task,
They hauled him to the door
And sent him howling home in pain;
A man both lame and sore.
[Illustration: THE STRANGER WHO WENT IN.]
Who showed the greatest wisdom here,—
The one who heard the fray
And went not in, but later stood
Repenting in the way?
Or he, who turning from his path
Went in to stay the rout,
And after wished, with all his heart,
That he had stayed without?
The observations of a life
Prove, eight times out of nine,
They best can meddle with a strife
Who bear official sign.
But notwithstanding all the facts
This lesson has laid bare;
Of reaping good for noble acts
We never should despair.
Not here below reward we’ll know,
But virtue still prevails;
And valor, love, and rightful deeds,
Will count upon the scales.
[Illustration]
THE ROD OF CORRECTION.
It is not often that a poor fellow like myself can have a good laugh at
the expense of a high dignitary. To-day, however, an opportunity
presented itself, and happily I was in the right humor to appreciate it.
Passing along a narrow street, I saw an old Irish woman unmercifully
beating her boy with a rod, which, if it had not been divested of twigs
and leaves, would have served as a Christmas tree for a good-sized
family. This of itself was nothing to make one smile, and perhaps no
person would more readily endorse such a sentiment than the boy himself.
But the end was not yet.
It appears that while on his way from the grocery, with a pitcher of
beer for his mother, the little fellow tripped-up and spilled nearly the
whole contents in the street. This was something that Temperance folk
might well rejoice over, but it was a serious matter for the boy. The
old woman, with parched lips was standing at the gate, impatiently
awaiting her youngster’s return. She saw him emerge from the store,
pitcher in hand. Her quick eye caught sight of the light foam rising in
airy bubbles above the brim, and she knew the grocer had sent her no
stinted measure. In fancy she was already quenching her thirst with
copious draughts of the cooling drink—when she saw the boy measuring his
length upon the planks. Worst, and most lamentable of all, she saw the
delectable beverage coursing down the sidewalk in a dozen foaming
streams. Her rage knew no bounds. The moment the boy put his foot inside
the gate, she seized him with the grip of a virago, and belabored him
with the cudgel till he roared. So great was the outcry that every
window in the vicinity was immediately crammed with heads. Taught by the
lessons of my youth that he who meddles in other people’s affairs often
treads upon his own corns, I maintained a wise silence; but I mentally
prayed that the wrath of the old fury would be appeased, for the cries
and wild antics of the little wretch began to grow monotonous.
[Illustration: A REAR ATTACK.]
There chanced at that moment to be passing an eminent minister who
weekly fills his fashionable, spacious church with a glittering
congregation. He saw the woman was in a towering passion, and he
ventured to remark: “My good woman, the rod of correction should never
become the weapon of passion.” The remark, which seemed good and to the
point, caused her temporarily to suspend hostilities; but she still
retained her hold on the collar, as she turned around sharply to
ascertain who dared criticise her method of training up a child in the
way he should go.
For a minute she glared upon the clergyman with flashing eyes, as if
astonished at his interference. Surveying him from the soles of his
boots to the very crown swirl of his silk hat, she drew herself up to
her full height, and, in the most indignant voice, shouted: “Away wid
yer cotations, you ould sermon thief! It’s not from the likes of yees I
learn me juty!”
The clergyman was nonplussed; he quailed before the fiery eyes and
sarcastic tongue of the old vixen; and I fancied his face lit up with
joy when he discovered that he was nigh a corner, around which he
quickly disappeared.
[Illustration]
GONE FROM HIS GAZE.
There was a little man,
And he had a little dog;
And he said: “Little dog, you must stay, stay, stay,
Playing here by the house,
As peaceful as a mouse,
And never hoist your tail and away, ’way, ’way—
And never hoist your tail and away.”
Then said this little pup,
At its master looking up:
“I know, little master, you are cute, cute, cute;
But if you will allow
Such a question, tell me, now,
What the dickens do you want with a brute, brute, brute?
What the dickens do _you_ want with a brute?”
Then the little man did stare,
And up rose his little hair;
And his cheeks with fear grew pale, pale, pale,
As he said: “I do propose,
Soon as you have found your nose,
To kill by the dozen little quail, quail, quail—
To kill by the dozen little quail.”
At this the puppy grinned,
Like a mischief-making fiend,
As he whined: “You cannot come it upon me, me, me.
You would have me lie around
In a back-yard, like a hound,
And become a paradise for the flea, flea, flea—
And become a paradise for the flea.”
When the toil of day had flown,
Little man, with little bone,
Went out where the little dog ought to be, be, be;
He whistled, and he called,
He patted, and he bawled,
But nary little dog could he see, see, see—
But nary little dog could he see.
Next day he chanced to stop
By a sausage maker’s shop,
And something that he saw made him holler, holler, holler;
For there in the street,
All bloody, at his feet,
Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar, collar, collar—
Lay his poor little dog’s leather collar.
[Illustration]
ST. PATRICK’S DAY.
Erin go bragh! St. Patrick’s day is upon us, and the city seems wrapped
in a “mantle of green,” so numerous are the Irish flags flying in the
breeze.
From hovel roof, and church of size
Alike, the harp and sun-burst flies!
The ear of morn is stunned with the bray of at least a dozen blatant
bands, as they discourse Old Erin’s soul-stirring airs. It is an easy
matter for a person to imagine himself sitting by some sheeling door in
“County Kerry” instead of this great American city by the sea. The
Ancient Order of Hibernians and the Fenians are out in full force, with
clean-boiled shirts and soap-washed faces. Marshals charge around upon
their caparisoned steeds like real heroes, and sitting gracefully as a
sack of potatoes upon the back of a spavined mule trotting over a
corduroy road. Evidently some of them have never before bent over
anything that came nigher to an equine than a saw-horse. It is plain
Those who always rode, now ride the more,
And those now ride who never rode before.
Well, they love the country that gave them birth, and that is a virtue
that is certainly commendable,—a natural excellence often wanting in
other nationalities. Besides, celebrating the old gentleman’s birthday
makes business lively with the stable men and the shoemakers, and that
of itself is a good reason why the demonstration should be encouraged.
It is hardly probable that any of the great powers will be materially
weakened by these loyal manifestations.
Here is a sketch of a spirited member of the “Ancient Order of
Hibernians,” as he appeared passing my window in the morning, full of
life and loyalty, tripping the asphaltum pavement lightly as though
traversing the springy surface of his native bogs. And following is
another sketch of the same individual in the evening, when full of oaths
and whiskey, lying in the gutter with all that ease and abandon which
characterizes the Celtic race, wherever dispersed, in every land and in
every age.
[Illustration: IN THE MORNING.]
The different races of men have their different weaknesses. It may seem
an extravagant statement, but I venture to say if there had been no rice
plant in the world, the Chinese would not have cared to live. I will
even go further and say perhaps there would have been no Mongolian race.
And now the thought occurs to me, this deficiency in the human family
would not have been such a terrible thing after all. True, we should
have been obliged to get along with catnip tea instead of Souchong,
which would have been pretty heavy on old women. We also would have been
obliged to worry through without old Confucius, which might have made
some confusion in metaphysics or political morality. But as the latter
could hardly be worse than it is at present with all his teachings, we
possibly might have managed to exist very well without the moon-eyed
philosopher.
[Illustration: IN THE EVENING.]
The Teuton dotes on his well-seasoned bologna. The grizzly Emperor
William I, standing upon an eminence near Rezonville, overlooking the
battle-field, with a spy-glass in one hand and a large bologna sausage
in the other, furnished indeed a striking sketch for the special artist
of the occasion. The humor of the situation came in when the Emperor,
forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment, raised the sausage
to his eye instead of the spy-glass, and because he failed to see the
squadron of Uhlans—that a moment before were charging upon a
battery—concluded they were blown to smithereens, and losing his usual
equanimity, commenced to swear fearfully, and order up another division
to take their place. There was a broad and sarcastic humor couched in
the remark of the officer at his side, who observed the mistake, and
ventured the suggestion, “If your Majesty will take another bite from
the sausage, perhaps you will be able to see through it.”
And then, there is the jovial, careless, free-hearted, yet quarrelsome
Irishman, who thinks a new Jerusalem without a little whiskey still in
one corner of it,—“over beyant the throne, and forninst the back dure,”
for instance—would be just no Paradise at all. I believe there is not a
race of men on the face of the earth—from Behring Straits to Terra del
Fuego, round and about, over and under, or down either quarter—that can
extract the same genuine soul-satisfying bliss from a flattened nose or
swelled lip, that a real, irrepressible, County Kerry Irishman can. Let
him have that, and a good stiff horn of whiskey to keep the blood
running freely, and my advice to you is, keep upon the other side of the
street, if you intend to sit for your picture that afternoon, or visit
your sweetheart that evening, or expect to take up the collection during
divine worship the next Sunday. At such a time he is no respecter of
persons, this set-up Irishman.
You may be the Rector of the finest cathedral in the place, the mayor of
the city, the judge of the supreme court, or even the governor of the
state, and should your hat chance to blow off and roll in front of
him,—though it should cost him a fall upon the pavement,—that man will
kick it. I tell you he will kick it, and soundly too. He will make no
mincing about it, but go for it, as he would for his neighbor’s pig,
should he find it in his garden of cabbages. At such he is full of words
also, and can bestow upon the stone that trips him up the same flow of
abuse that he can shower upon the man who assists him to his feet.
THE CONTENTED FROG.
The frog that once in Selby’s dam
Its weird music shed,
Now lies as mute as stranded clam—
Because that frog is dead.
So sleeps the plague of former days,
So noisy nights are o’er,
And he now on the pond decays
Who long cried, “Sleep no more!”
A frog upon a log one day
In meditation sat,
And gazed upon his pond, that lay
Still as a tanner’s vat.
No fish swam in his fetid lake,
No current seaward run;
But hemmed by grasses, weed, and brake,
It mantled in the sun.
[Illustration: IN MEDITATION.]
At length from revery he woke,
And thus to free his mind,
He in the gutt’ral jargon spoke
Peculiar to his kind:—
“Give me my slimy pool,” quoth he,
“Before a river wide,
Where cranes are found, still wading round,
And hungry fishes glide.
“Here light first dawn’d, here was I spawn’d,
And here I make my home—
Those longest live who’re not inclined
In foreign parts to roam.
“Upon this log, or stone, I sit,
The water-fly to view,
Or watch the glossy whirligig
Describe his circles true.
“How foolish are some pollywogs;
Before they’ve lost their tails
They often class themselves with frogs,
And leave their native swales;
“And while exploring down some ditch,
Beneath a scorching ray,
Upon a sandy bar they hitch,
And bake as dry as hay.
“Had they but waited till the tail
Had from their body dropp’d—
And in its stead four legs shot forth—
Away they might have hopp’d.”
Thus while he sat above the pool,
Commenting on his lot,
He heard a truant boy from school
Come whistling to the spot.
“Ah ha!” quoth he, “I hear, I see
An ancient foe of mine;
He stones will throw, that well I know,
And straight ones I divine.
“The sparrow on the picket fence,
The squirrel on the limb,
The swallow flying overhead,
Alike look out for him.
“There are some hands I scarcely fear,
So ill a stone they guide;
But when Bob Stevenson is near
’Tis meet that I should hide.”
So, prompted by the fearful thought,
He leaped in with a thud,
And diving to the bottom, sought
Concealment in the mud.
Now burrow, burrow, little frog,
As you will trouble find;
Think not because your eyes are shut
That every one is blind.
Then burrow deeper, deeper far,
Leave not one claw in view;
Or, swifter than a falling star,
A stone will cleave you through.
“While here,” said he, “I’m safe enough,
And here I’ll peaceful lie
Until that little whistling rough
Has passed the water by.”
[Illustration: BOB’S ATTACK.]
But, ah! while he did reckon that
The host was not around,—
The youngster saw him quit the log,
And soon a stone was found.
He stood beside the circling pond,
And gazed a while below—
The tell-tale mud the frog disturbed
Rose from the bottom slow.
But, ah! for childhood’s searching eyes!
What can escape their darts?
Projecting from the mud he spies
The croaker’s hinder parts.
“Ho! ho!” then laughed this cruel boy,
As downward he did stare,
“If you from trouble would be free
Of every part take care.”
Then down he sent the ready stone,
Nor went it down in vain—
Dead as the missile that was thrown,
The frog came up again.
Along the river’s ferny banks
The frogs still chant their lays
While floating on his native pool
That stone-killed frog decays.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ALL FOOLS’ DAY.
This is “all fools’ day,” and judging by the number of people who are
passing along the sidewalk with strings and rags dangling from their
coat tails, the custom of making people appear ridiculous is not
obsolete. What delight the youngsters take in covering a few bricks with
an old hat, and leaving it temptingly upon the sidewalk, while they
withdraw into some nook to watch the bait and halloo at the person who
is thoughtless enough to kick it.
[Illustration: SOLD.]
Though the custom has age to sanction it, I am decidedly opposed to
making people—either on the first of April or upon any other day—appear
ridiculous in their own eyes as well as in the eyes of every person with
whom they come in contact. People will make fools of themselves often
enough, without the assistance of others. I wonder why men are not more
upon their guard upon this day. Just now I saw a newspaper reporter, who
certainly should have known better, kick an old hat from his way, and go
limping to the office, denouncing everybody in general, but children in
particular. Speaking of reporters calls to mind something that I have
often thought. I believe if I had been endowed with more cheek and less
scruples about over-stepping the line of veracity, I long before this
would have made my mark in the world as a newspaper scribbler.
My unconquerable modesty always rose up like a barrier between me and
reportorial fame. It would never allow me to dip into trivial, baseless
rumors, and magnify them into scandalous reports. My pride, too, was a
clog that blocked the wheel of progress. I could never throw it aside
long enough to intrude myself uninvited at select gatherings, or creep
and crouch under a window-sill or behind a door, like a base
eavesdropper, to hear words that were not intended for the public ear,
in order to work up a stirring article. But for these drawbacks, I
cannot help thinking I would have done well at the business, because, by
a singular decree of fate, I am generally present whenever any strange
or amusing incident transpires, or even when scenes of a serious nature
furnish work for the pen, and many a time, too, when I could well wish
myself suddenly removed far enough from the distressing scene before me.