immediately disheartened. He loses caste among his companions and
confidence in himself. He wabbles about here and there to no purpose,
like an old bachelor. You deprive him at once of his song and his
supper. You can hardly picture to yourself a more dejected insect, one
more hopelessly down in the mouth. He withdraws to the ceiling, or
curtain, and looks with envious eyes upon his associates gorging
themselves while his poor digestive organs are drying through
inactivity.
We would be inclined to pity him in his sad condition, were it not that
we hold the whole insect race as coming under our ban. The whine of
disappointment, long, loud and quavering, that went up when they
ascertained I was protected, will always remain a fixture in my memory.
As they closed around the bed, so numerous were they, their flight was
actually impeded. Down they settled with locked wings on the bar above
me, thick as snow-flakes around some old uprooted pine by the Madawaska.
I had long heard of the mosquitoes of this locality, and was prepared
for an introduction to formidable insects, but found them even worse
than I expected.
Discouraged by the mosquitoes, I fled to a neighboring city, only to
find that it is the stronghold of fever and ague. In other parts it may
be more active for a few months of the year, but here it stays by the
people like their consciences. The winds may rise and comb the valley
until the very grass is lifted by the roots and borne to the mountains.
The sun may grow weary of well doing, enter Capricorn, and for a season
be hid; or the rains may descend until the narrow slough—by which the
city is situated—becomes a wide-spreading lake, through which ships of
the line might plow with safety; but the chills and fever stays by them
still. There is no “shaking” it off. It holds its grip like a mortgage.
The tender limbs of the new-born babe, and the pithless bones of ripe
old age, shiver alike in its awful grasp.
The citizens of this sad place are a serious, matter-of-fact people, who
seem to think it was not the original intention that men should spend
any time in laughter, for they indulge very little in witticisms or
humor. A good joke is often lost upon them, and the perpetrator of a bad
one places himself in jeopardy. A person who attempts a pun that does
not carry its point before it, like a sword-fish, is in danger of being
immediately seized from behind and hurried in the direction of the
Insane Asylum.
While stopping in this delightful place I visited the small theatre of
which the inhabitants are justly proud, and shall never forgive myself
if I fail to mention the orchestra, that discoursed most eloquent music
on that occasion.
[Illustration: THE ORCHESTRA.]
Whether the regular musicians of the theatre were on a strike for higher
wages, and the manager was obliged to bring in outside talent, I did not
learn; but certain it was, the sole instrument that kept the audience
awake between the acts, the night in question, was a large piece—a
bassoon, I think—filled and manipulated by a stout, spectacled
representative from the Faderland.
In addition to the musician’s frog-shaped body—which of itself would
doubtless have attracted my attention—he had a head that was truly a
study. To say he was bald, is to make a remark that would be applicable
to about two-thirds of the gentlemen in the theatre, but to say that his
head was as smooth, as shiny, and devoid of hair, from the eyebrows to
the very nape of the neck, as a billiard ball, is hardly doing the head
justice. It seemed actually peeled.
Besides, it was of a conical form, and as I looked upon it I thought
what an advantage it would have been to me in my younger days if I had
had some such thing in the barn-yard, over which to break pumpkins for
the cattle. I am certain a pumpkin or squash brought down upon such an
object with well-centred precision, would fly into as many fragments as
the Turkish Empire.
I was not the only person whose attention was arrested by that marvelous
development. If a diamond the size of a rutabaga had suddenly flashed,
the audience would scarcely have turned with greater haste to
contemplate its beauties than they did to regard that head the instant
the hat was removed.
It had such a smooth and polished surface that the actors, as they
passed back and forth upon the stage, were mirrored out upon it in
Liliputian proportions. The large globe light was reflected so perfectly
upon that glossy scalp that it shed a positive light to remote corners
of the auditorium; and a person would look first at the head, then up at
the globe, and then down at the head again, and _then_ hardly be
prepared to decide from which object the original rays of light
proceeded.
The musician had one original “turn” which afforded me much amusement.
At the commencement of a tune he would sit facing the stage, which was
proper enough; but as he proceeded he would turn by degrees until he was
sitting full face to the audience.
The gods in the gallery seemed to consider it their especial privilege
to pelt his head with peanuts; and when one would happen to hit—which
was quite often—it would bound and skip from the polished object in a
manner that would invariably bring down the house.
Standing as it did in bold relief from the dark panel-work and drapery
behind, it was a most excellent and inviting mark. Man though I am, with
the sobering cares of life closing gloomily around me, I actually
regretted I couldn’t try a shot at the old codger’s head myself.
It has been said “The king of Shadows loves a shining mark.” If this is
so, how that musician managed to escape the arrows so long is more than
I can understand. For many a year he certainly has presented a target
worthy the whole archery of the realm of Death.
The evening’s entertainment was made up of selections from Shakespeare’s
tragedies, “Macbeth,” and “Othello.”
[Illustration: MACBETH.]
The principal actor, whose name I forget, was the oddest and hungriest
looking player I ever saw stalk across a stage, or foam and fret in
histrionic effort. He looked as though he had been dangling from the
lowest spoke of Fortune’s wheel for the last twenty years. His make-up
was terrible also, and after I learned the performance was not an
intentional burlesque, I could hardly keep from hooting whenever he
appeared. As the evening advanced, however, he warmed up considerably.
When he appeared as the murderous Thane moving toward the apartments of
his slumbering victim, huskily repeating the thrilling lines, “The bell
invites me! I go, and it is done!” he looked every inch a villain, and
the little theatre rung again with the clapping and clattering of the
enthusiastic audience. In “Othello” his dress was even worse than in
“Macbeth.” In the scene where he smothers Desdemona, he was barefooted,
and looked supremely ridiculous. I would have given double the amount I
paid for admission for the glorious privilege of kicking him across the
stage.
[Illustration: OTHELLO.]
The customary pitcher-shaped lamp which the “Moor” usually bears in his
hand upon this occasion, and to which he alludes when he says:—
“If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me,”
was not procurable. The tragedian therefore carried a candle stuck in
the neck of a large wine-bottle, and under his left arm he carried a
pillow about the size of a single-bed mattress, with which to put out
the light of the fair Desdemona, who was lying upon a lounge at the left
of the stage. I was too great a lover of Shakespeare to sit longer by
and witness the terrible butchery. I arose and left the house, and as I
passed out, the pitying glances of the audience informed me that they
didn’t understand the real state of affairs, but thought I was taken
suddenly ill. I was ill at ease, and had been, during the entire
evening.
On the way down the next morning an over land passenger made my
acquaintance on the cars, and while conversing about the long snow sheds
and tunnels he had passed, I informed him of the long tunnel through
which we would pass on leaving the valley.
“Are we near that tunnel now?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered, “we will
enter it in about fifteen minutes.” “Is the tunnel dark?” he inquired.
“Yes, very dark,” I replied, “ten shades darker than a cloudy midnight.”
“By jingo!” he cried, “that’s just the thing for me. I forgot to put on
a clean shirt last night, and I hate like the deuce to arrive at my
destination looking as I do now. Do you think a fellow would have time
to put a shirt on while passing through it?” he continued, earnestly.
“He might,” I answered, “if he had it ready before reaching the tunnel.”
“Well, I’ll try a pull, anyway,” he said, as he took down the valise
from a rack overhead to select the garment. “I’ll have it all ready for
a hoist,” he continued, “and if I don’t climb into it faster than a
spark into a chimney, I’m not what I think I am, that’s all;” and with a
look of determination he went to a seat in the rear of the car, and for
a time seemed busily engaged preparing for the great change.
I had made an error in regard to the time that would elapse before we
reached the tunnel, and the result was we reached it before he was fully
prepared for it. Into it the locomotive plunged with a wild scream.
Gloom closed around the passengers, hiding the nearest objects from
their view. On we sped. The rattling of the trucks told us rail after
rail was passed, but still a darkness that might be felt enveloped the
rushing train.
Those who were conversing as the car entered the tunnel, stopped as
though the icy hand of death had been laid upon their throat. The
half-uttered word rested upon the tongue, and the tunnel, like a long
dash, stretched between the parts of a sentence.
I thought of the passenger, doubtless by this time struggling into his
linen, and turned around in my seat facing him. With considerable
interest I waited the return of light. At last it came glimmering far
ahead. Plainer and plainer the objects grew around, and first and most
noticeable of all, was the tall form of the passenger from over the
mountains, leaning over the seat in front of him, enveloped in his snowy
linen, his hands stuck in the sleeves at the elbows, and his head vainly
endeavoring to shoot through the opening at the neck, which in his haste
he had neglected to unbutton.
[Illustration: A STARTLING APPARITION.]
Notwithstanding his head was enveloped, he was conscious that light had
dawned upon the scene, and his struggles and frantic thrusts became
painful to look upon.
Finally the fastening at the neck gave way, and his face came through
the opening, red as a pickled beet. Fortunately most of the passengers
were sitting with backs toward him and but few witnessed the terrible
struggle. One old lady, however, got nearly frightened out of her wits.
When objects began to grow visible around her, she became suddenly
apprised of the startling fact that a white figure was bent over her,
with outstretched wings fanning the air, and she very naturally came to
the conclusion that an angel was about to gather her to her fathers.
The ashen look of the poor old body, as she stole a glance over her
shoulder at the white object behind, showed that however fitted she
was—in respect of years—for the final taking off, she was anything but
willing to start upon such an uncertain journey.
[Illustration]
HUNTING WITH A VENGEANCE.
“That man received his charge from me.”
—_Shakespeare._
My friend butcher Gale has been quail hunting under difficulties. His
case is a sad one, and as I feel in somewhat of a rhyming mood at
present, I will invoke the gods, and with eyes in “fine frenzy rolling,”
proceed to state his case in verse.
“Come leave your hogs,” said lawyer Boggs
To red-faced butcher Gale,
“We’ll take a day across the bay,
And slather lots of quail.”
Soon guns were got, and bags of shot,
With powder, wads, and caps,
And up the canyons dry and hot,
Tramped these two city chaps.
Old lawyer Boggs had borrowed dogs
Well worth their weight in gold;
The setter had a “double nose,”
And it of her was told,
That she could scent two different ways
As easy as you please;
While one nose smelled along the ground,
The other sniffed the trees.
[Illustration: ADVANCE OF THE EXPEDITION.]
The pointer had peculiar traits;
His power of scent was small;
But if he saw three birds at once,
He pointed at them all.
For while his nose would indicate
Where one poor piper sat,
His tail, straight as a marline-spike,
Would point another at;
Then if a third one raised its head,
Preparing for the air,
That dog would balance on three legs,
And aim the other there.
With such a pair the quick to scare,
And then retrieve the dead,
The hunters’ sole remaining care
Was how to scatter lead.
They traversed gorge and gully low,
And many a slippery height,
And though their feet did heavier grow,
Their game bags still were light.
While roving o’er the mountain side,
It seemed that every quail
Within the county limits wide
Was piping in the vale;
But when they would forsake the hills,
And in the valleys dive,
It seemed as if the heights around
With bevies were alive.
Boggs had one fault, from childhood brought,
More marked with age it grew;
He never failed to shut both eyes
Whilst he the trigger drew.
This plan might do, if lead he threw
At barns or target rings;
But frightened quail, when turning tail,
Are visionary things.
And let him sight, quick as he might,
Space still would grow between,
And bang! would go the shower of woe
Just where the bird—had been.
’Tis said those knowing canines knew
While men were taking aim,
Whether or not ’twould be their lot
To gather in some game.
So when they saw Boggs shut both eyes
Whene’er the piece he fired,
They dropped upon their hams and howled,
And from the hunt retired.
And he as soon could cause a stump
To walk upon its roots,
As from a sitting posture coax
The two disgusted brutes.
Wide was their aim, and wild the game,
And when such facts do yoke,
There’s many a shot goes off, I wot,
Brings nothing to the “poke.”
The grains were sown, the fields were mown,
The crops proved rather thin;
Oft was the raking summons thrown,
But slow the heads came in.
At last while Gale, just in advance,
Was clambering o’er some logs,
He got a charge of shot by chance,
From the excited Boggs.
Then was there rustling there a spell,
And as you may suppose,
From out the shaking chaparral
Linked oaths profusely rose.
Boggs dropped his gun and forward run,
With apprehension bleached,
And this poor lame excuse begun
When he the butcher reached:
“A splendid shot! I quite forgot
Precisely where you stood;
The birds flew fast, were nearly passed
Behind a screen of wood;
“I must let go, or lose a show
Of bagging three or four,
And in my mind you were behind,
Until I heard you roar.”
[Illustration: BOGGS RETRIEVING HIS GAME.]
He cursed the logs and kicked the dogs,
And wished the quail on toast,
But that did not take out the shot,
Which then was needed most.
The doctors who have dressed his wounds
Have to his friends declared,
That though he is a sorry sight,
His sight is not impaired.
There is a moral this within,
And shaped the times to suit,
But lest it should appear too thin,
Here’s this advice to boot:—
Ne’er venture on a hunting cruise
With any green galoot,
Who shuts both eyes whene’er he tries
The flitting game to shoot.
THE ART GALLERY.
Hearing that a large collection of paintings were on exhibition at the
Art Gallery, I visited the rooms this afternoon, and was agreeably
surprised to discover that quite a number were by eminent artists.
It is pleasant to gaze upon an old picture that has come down through
the dust of ages, so I made it a point to employ the hour at my disposal
in sketching several subjects most admired by the visitors. I did not
learn the author of the large picture from which the first of my
sketches was taken, but was assured that it came from the hand of an old
master.
[Illustration: FROM A PAINTING BY AN OLD MASTER.]
I would have thought it a representation of “Cleopatra before Cæsar,” if
the female had been running toward the man instead of away from him.
A gentleman present who examined the painting closely, gave it as his
opinion, that the couple represented “Tarquin and Lucrece.”
He informed me he had visited many art galleries of the Old World, and
found several paintings which had been copied from this masterpiece by
artists, who paid homage to such creative genius.
As he claimed to be something of a connoisseur, his supposition was
probably a correct one, though he was not able to thoroughly account for
the singular looking bonnet that shadowed the head of the prancing
“Lucrece.”
It is certainly anything but a Roman head-dress, and why it should be
dangling from her royal top, is something for critics to comment on, and
antiquarians to inquire into.
Another little sketch attracted great attention, especially from the
ladies, whose love for the beautiful is only excelled by their love for
the good. It was entitled “Love’s Young Dream.” I regret I am not able
to give the artist’s name. I could not get near enough to decipher the
signature, owing to the crowd of ladies admiring the beautiful gem.
The members of the Graphic Club were sketching. Accepting an invitation
from one I stepped into their room to see them draw. Quite a number of
artists were present. The famous marine painter was there, who loves to
paint the vessel going before the wind, when in its might it takes “the
ruffian billows by the top.” It was pleasant to watch his pencil pile up
the “yeasty waves” at will.
[Illustration: “LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.”]
It was also interesting to lean over the landscape painter’s shoulder
and see the branches sprout from his grand old oaks, against whose
trunks it would seem the storms of centuries had spent their force.
It was no less pleasant or interesting to perceive the horns shoot from
the animal painter’s cows. As the creature grows under his active
pencil, we may be inclined to think she will be of the Mooley species,
and never shake a gory horn above a prostrate victim; but alas! a few
hasty but well directed strokes, and she stands forth more formidable
than the armed rhinoceros or rampant unicorn. Then we hold our breath,
as we see the pencil slide away to some other locality before a tail is
attached to the body, and inwardly wonder whether the artist has
forgotten to bestow upon her that graceful adjunct, or is intentionally
giving us a new species of cattle. We heave a sigh of relief when the
pencil returns, after a brief skirmish along the ribs, to bestow upon
the cow that terminal appendage, at once a scourge for milk-maids and a
swing for dogs.
A ROLLING STONE.
This afternoon, while climbing a steep hill that overlooks the bay, in
company with a gentleman named Stone, I saw an illustration of the old
maxim, “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” We had almost completed the
ascent, when Stone’s feet slipped from under him, and striking upon his
side he commenced a rapid descent.
About four hundred feet of steep grade stretched before him without let
or hindrance. I saw at a glance he was bound to pass over every inch of
the space before he stopped. Onward he went, gathering speed as he
proceeded, and catching wildly around him at every revolution; but, as
there was nothing growing upon the barren slope but stunted grass or
brittle moss, his efforts to “slow speed” were in vain. After he had
made about ten revolutions his hat came off, and for a short time the
race between him and his tile was truly interesting. It would have been
an even bet, which would first reach the fence at the bottom of the
hill. After making about half the distance, however, the hat swung in
ahead of him.
[Illustration: A THROUGH PASSENGER.]
Whether it was the wind acted upon it I couldn’t tell, but Stone
overhauled it, and passing over it, materially injured its form as a
roller, by giving it an oblong shape, and soon left the crushed hat
wabbling far behind. He turned neither to the right nor to the left, but
rolled as straight down the hill as a saw-log down the bank of a river
into a mill-pond. Goats nibbling in the vicinity paused in their repast
and looked pitifully at the gentleman as he went tumbling by them, and
evidently congratulated themselves on being goats, that feel at home on
the steepest hillside that nature can present to their hoofs. When, in
his mad career, my friend Stone would reach some intercepting shelf he
would bounce about three feet into the air, and continue down the
incline with increased velocity. Nor did he stop his brilliant course
until he brought up whack against the fence.
Fortunately he was unhurt, but was so dizzy that everything was turning
around him for an hour afterwards. He declares that though he should
live until he becomes so old as to forget the way to his mouth, he has
taken his last look at the city and the surrounding bay from the summit
of that hill. And when we think of his last descent from that high
altitude, we can hardly wonder at the declaration.
RIDING IN THE STREET CARS.
A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes,
And faith he’ll prent it.
—_Burns._
The greater portion of this day I have spent riding in the street cars.
I find it is quite a pleasant way of passing a few leisure hours.
Neither is it an extravagant way of entertaining one’s self.
On figuring up I find, by choosing the longest routes, it cost just
seven and one-quarter cents per hour. This is certainly reasonable.
[Illustration: THE SIGNAL STATION.]
There is always something amusing to look at as you pass along. There
stands the nervous old lady upon the street corner. She wishes to ride,
and endeavors to signal the driver and prepare for embarking at one and
the same time. She proves the truth of the old saying that a person may
get too many irons in the fire. In her eagerness to attract the
attention of the driver or conductor, she is not aware that in lifting
her skirts she has elevated one or two thicknesses more than she
intended, or than is at all necessary. Poor old lady! She does indeed
present a picture that might well attract the artistic eye. We in more
becoming order turn our eyes from the singular spectacle and study the
advertisements ranged around for our special benefit. She emits a short,
quick cry, half whoop and half squeal, and signals repeatedly, to do
which the inevitable umbrella is brought into requisition, and
flourished around her head as though she was warding off a detachment of
aggressive wasps. She gives the conductor a look of surprise, if not
anger, because he completes the curve before stopping to take her up.
The old lady means business, and has never got it through her head that
conductors have rights which she is bound to respect. She no doubt
believes that on all occasions and at all times he ought to seize the
strap and stop the car as suddenly as he would a clock by grasping the
pendulum.
Then there are the fashions which we can study without having to pay
exorbitant prices for seats in the theatres. It is even better than to
go to a fashionable church.
Besides the advantages which a ride in the street car offers us in the
way of studying the fashions, we often see strange sights, well
calculated to awaken humor. There, for instance, we encounter the sleepy
passenger, who, in charity let us hope, is drowsy through loss of rest,
rather than loss of reason! Let us hope he is some physician who has
been attending to his patients; or a minister of the gospel who has
spent the night by the bedside of some sinking penitent; or a
supervisor, who—while his constituents have been snugly dreaming away
their troubles—has been legislating, and growing hoarse declaiming for
the public good. Doctor or supervisor, as the case may be, it is evident
he is sleepy, and cares not who knows it. Otherwise he would pick up his
hat, which has fallen off, before it has twice been stepped on by
passengers staggering through the car while it is in motion.
With a persistency truly amusing he tips in the direction of some old
lady, who apparently hates men, especially when excessive drowsiness
makes them familiar. He, however, is oblivious of her likes or dislikes,
even of her presence, it would seem.
[Illustration: RATHER “SLOROPPY.”]
He bobs towards her until his dishevelled forelock actually tickles her
under the ear, which sensation causes her to start suddenly, and look
around so quickly, that a person must think the movement gave her a
crick in the neck, and her subsequent rubbing of the cords below the ear
would seem to bear out the supposition as correct.
[Illustration: SNIFFING THE BATTLE FROM AFAR.]