CHAPTER VIII.
THE MORNING ARGUS CREATES A SENSATION--A NEW EDITOR; MR. SLIMMER THE POET--AN OBITUARY DEPARTMENT--MR. SLIMMER ON DEATH--EXTRAORDINARY SCENE IN THE SANCTUM OF COLONEL BANGS--INDIGNANT ADVERTISERS--THE COLONEL VIOLENTLY ASSAILED--OBSERVATIONS OF THE POET--THE FINAL CATASTROPHE--MYSTERIOUS CONDUCT OF BOB PARKER--THE ACCIDENT ON MAGRUDER'S PORCH--MRS. ADELER ON THE SUBJECT OF OBITUARY POETRY IN GENERAL.
A rather unusual sensation has been excited in the village by the_Morning Argus_ within a day or two; and while most of the readers ofthat wonderful sheet have thus been supplied with amusement, the soul ofthe editor has been filled with gloom and wrath and despair. ColonelBangs recently determined to engage an assistant to take the place madevacant by the retirement of the eminent art-critic, Mr. Murphy, and hefound in one of the lower counties of the State a person who appeared tohim to be suitable. The name of the new man is Slimmer. He has oftencontributed to the _Argus_ verses of a distressing character, and Isuppose Bangs must have become acquainted with him through the medium ofthe correspondence thus begun. No one in the world but Bangs would everhave selected such a poet for an editorial position. But Bangs issingular--he is exceptional. He never operates in accordance with anyknown laws, and he is more than likely to do any given thing in such afashion as no other person could possibly have adopted for the purpose.As the _Argus_ is also _sui generis_, perhaps Bangs does right toconduct it in a peculiar manner. But he made a mistake when he employedMr. Slimmer.
The colonel, in his own small way, is tolerably shrewd. He had observedthe disposition of persons who have been bereaved of their relativesto give expression to their feelings in verse, and it occurred to himthat it might be profitable to use Slimmer's poetical talent in such away as to make the _Argus_ a very popular vehicle for the conveyanceto the public of notices of deaths. That kind of intelligence, he wellknew, is especially interesting to a very large class of readers, and hebelieved that if he could offer to each advertiser a gratuitous verseto accompany the obituary paragraph, the _Argus_ would not only attractadvertisements of that description from the country round about thevillage, but it would secure a much larger circulation.
When Mr. Slimmer arrived, therefore, and entered upon the performanceof his duties, Colonel Bangs explained his theory to the poet, andsuggested that whenever a death-notice reached the office, he shouldimmediately write a rhyme or two which should express the sentimentsmost suitable to the occasion.
"You understand, Mr. Slimmer," said the colonel, "that when the deathof an individual is announced I want you, as it were, to cheer themembers of the afflicted family with the resources of your noble art.I wish you to throw yourself, you may say, into their situation, and togive them, f'r instance, a few lines about the deceased which will seemto be the expression of the emotion which agitates the breasts of thebereaved."
"To lighten the gloom in a certain sense," said Mr. Slimmer, "and to--"
"Precisely," exclaimed Colonel Bangs. "Lighten the gloom. Do not mournover the departed, but rather take a joyous view of death, which, afterall, Mr. Slimmer, is, as it were, but the entrance to a better life.Therefore, I wish you to touch the heart-strings of the afflicted with atender hand, and to endeavor, f'r instance, to divert their minds fromcontemplation of the horrors of the tomb."
"Refrain from despondency, I suppose, and lift their thoughts to--"
"Just so! And at the same time combine elevating sentiment with suchpractical information as you can obtain from the advertisement. Throw aglamour of poesy, f'r instance, over the commonplace details of theevery-day life of the deceased. People are fond of minute descriptions.Some facts useful for this purpose may be obtained from the man whobrings the notice to the office; others you may perhaps be able tosupply from your imagination."
"I think I can do it first rate," said Mr. Slimmer.
"But, above all," continued the colonel, "try always to take a brightview of the matter. Cause the sunshine of smiles, as it were, to burstthrough the tempest of tears; and if we don't make the _Morning Argus_hum around this town, it will be queer."
Mr. Slimmer had charge of the editorial department the next day duringthe absence of Colonel Bangs in Wilmington. Throughout the afternoon andevening death-notices arrived; and when one would reach Mr. Slimmer'sdesk, he would lock the door, place the fingers of his left hand amonghis hair and agonize until he succeeded in completing a verse thatseemed to him to accord with his instructions.
The next morning Mr. Slimmer proceeded calmly to the office for thepurpose of embalming in sympathetic verse the memories of other departedones. As he came near to the establishment he observed a crowd of peoplein front of it, struggling to get into the door. Ascending some stepsupon the other side of the street, he overlooked the crowd, and couldsee within the office the clerks selling papers as fast as they couldhandle them, while the mob pushed and yelled in frantic efforts toobtain copies, the presses in the cellar meanwhile clanging furiously.Standing upon the curbstone in front of the office there was a long rowof men, each of whom was engaged in reading _The Morning Argus_ with anearnestness that Mr. Slimmer had never before seen displayed by thepatrons of that sheet. The bard concluded that either his poetry hadtouched a sympathetic chord in the popular heart, or that an appallingdisaster had occurred in some quarter of the globe.
He went around to the back of the office and ascended to the editorialrooms. As he approached the sanctum, loud voices were heard within. Mr.Slimmer determined to ascertain the cause before entering. He obtained achair, and placing it by the side door, he mounted and peeped over thedoor through the transom. There sat Colonel Bangs, holding _The MorningArgus_ in both hands, while the fringe which grew in a semicirclearound the edge of his bald head stood straight out, until he seemed toresemble a gigantic gun-swab. Two or three persons stood in front of himin threatening attitudes. Slimmer heard one of them say:
"My name is McGlue, sir!--William McGlue! I am a brother of the lateAlexander McGlue. I picked up your paper this morning, and perceived init an outrageous insult to my deceased relative, and I have come aroundto demand, sir, WHAT YOU MEAN by the following infamous language:
"'The death-angel smote Alexander McGlue, And gave him protracted repose; He wore a checked shirt and a Number Nine shoe, And he had a pink wart on his nose. No doubt he is happier dwelling in space Over there on the evergreen shore. His friends are informed that his funeral takes place Precisely at quarter-past four.'
"This is simply diabolical! My late brother had no wart on his nose,sir. He had upon his nose neither a pink wart nor a green wart, nor acream-colored wart, nor a wart of any other color. It is a slander! Itis a gratuitous insult to my family, and I distinctly want you to say_what do you mean_ by such conduct?"
"Really, sir," said Bangs, "it is a mistake. This is the horrible workof a miscreant in whom I reposed perfect confidence. He shall bepunished by my own hand for this outrage. A pink wart! Awful!sir--awful! The miserable scoundrel shall suffer for this--he shall,indeed!"
"How could I know," murmured Mr. Slimmer to the foreman, who with himwas listening, "that the corpse hadn't a pink wart? I used to know a mannamed McGlue, and _he_ had one, and I thought _all_ the McGlues had.This comes of irregularities in families."
"And who," said another man, addressing the editor, "authorized you toprint this hideous stuff about my deceased son? Do you mean to say,Bangs, that it was not with your authority that your low comedianinserted with my advertisement the following scandalous burlesque?Listen to this:
"'Willie had a purple monkey climbing on a yellow stick, And when he sucked the paint all off it made him deathly sick; And in his latest hours he clasped that monkey in his hand, And bade good-bye to earth and went into a better land.
"'Oh! no more he'll shoot his sister with his little wooden gun; And no more he'll twist the pussy's tail and make her yowl, for fun. The pussy's tail now stands out straight; the gun is laid aside; The monkey doesn't jump arou
nd since little Willie died.'
"The atrocious character of this libel will appear when I say that myson was twenty years old, and that he died of liver complaint."
"Infamous!--utterly infamous!" groaned the editor as he cast his eyesover the lines. "And the wretch who did this still remains unpunished!It is too much!"
"And yet," whispered Slimmer to the foreman, "he told me to lighten thegloom and to cheer the afflicted family with the resources of my art;and I certainly thought, that idea about the monkey would have thateffect, somehow. Bangs is ungrateful!"
Just then there was a knock at the door, and a woman entered, crying.
"Are you the editor?" she inquired of Colonel Bangs.
Bangs said he was.
"W-w-well!" she said, in a voice broken by sobs, "wh-what d'you mean bypublishing this kind of poetry about m-my child? M-my name is Sm-Smith;and wh-when I looked this m-morning for the notice of Johnny's d-deathin your paper, I saw this scandalous verse:
"'Four doctors tackled Johnny Smith-- They blistered and they bled him; With squills and anti-bilious pills And ipecac, they fed him. They stirred him up with calomel, And tried to move his liver; But all in vain--his little soul Was wafted o'er The River.'
"It's false! false! and mean! Johnny only had _one_ doctor. And theyd-didn't bl-bleed him and b-blister him. It's a wicked falsehood, andyou're a hard-hearted brute f-f-for printing it!"
"Madam, I shall go crazy!" exclaimed Bangs. "This is not my work. It isthe work of a villain whom I will slay with my own hand as soon as hecomes in. Madam, the miserable outcast shall die!"
"Strange! strange!" said Slimmer. "And this man told me to combineelevating sentiment with practical information. If the informationconcerning the squills and ipecac. is not practical, I havemisunderstood the use of that word. And if young Smith didn't have fourdoctors, it was an outrage. He ought to have had them, and they oughtto have excited his liver. Thus it is that human life is sacrificed tocarelessness."
At this juncture the sheriff entered, his brow clothed with thunder. Hehad a copy of _The Morning Argus_ in his hand. He approached the editor,and pointing to a death-notice, said,
"Read that outrageous burlesque, and tell me the name of the writer, sothat I can chastise him."
The editor read as follows:
"We have lost our little Hanner in a very painful manner, And we often asked, How can her harsh sufferings be borne? When her death was first reported, her aunt got up and snorted With the grief that she supported, for it made her feel forlorn.
"She was such a little seraph that her father, who is sheriff, Really doesn't seem to care if he ne'er smiles in life again. She has gone, we hope, to heaven, at the early age of seven (Funeral starts off at eleven), where she'll nevermore have pain."
"As a consequence of this, I withdraw all the county advertising fromyour paper. A man who could trifle in this manner with the feelings of aparent is a savage and a scoundrel!"
As the sheriff went out, Colonel Bangs placed his head upon the tableand groaned.
"Really," Mr. Slimmer said, "that person must be deranged. I tried, inhis case, to put myself in his place, and to write as if I was one ofthe family, according to instructions. The verses are beautiful. Thatallusion to the grief of the aunt, particularly, seemed to me to be veryhappy. It expresses violent emotion with a felicitous combination ofsweetness and force. These people have no soul--no appreciation of thebeautiful in art."
While the poet mused, hurried steps were heard upon the stairs, and in amoment a middle-aged man dashed in abruptly, and seizing the colonel'sscattered hair, bumped his prostrate head against the table three orfour times with considerable force. Having expended the violence of hisemotion in this manner, he held the editor's head down with one hand,shaking it occasionally by way of emphasis, and with the other handseized the paper and said,
"You disgraceful old reprobate! You disgusting vampire! You hoary-headedold ghoul! What d'you mean by putting such stuff as this in your paperabout my deceased son? What d'you mean by printing such awful doggerelas this, you depraved and dissolute ink-slinger--you imbecilequill-driver, you!
"'Oh! bury Bartholomew out in the woods, In a beautiful hole in the ground, Where the bumble-bees buzz and the woodpeckers sing, And the straddle-bugs tumble around; So that, in winter, when the snow and the slush Have covered his last little bed, His brother Artemas can go out with Jane And visit the place with his sled.'
"I'll teach you to talk about straddle-bugs! I'll instruct you aboutslush! I'll enlighten your insane old intellect on the subject ofsinging woodpeckers! What do _you_ know about Jane and Artemas, youwretched buccaneer, you despicable butcher of the English language? Goout with a sled! I'll carry you out in a hearse before I'm done withyou, you deplorable lunatic!"
At the end of every phrase the visitor gave the editor's head a freshknock against the table. When the exercise was ended, Colonel Bangsexplained and apologized in the humblest manner, promising at the sametime to give his assailant a chance to flog Mr. Slimmer, who wasexpected to arrive in a few moments.
"The treachery of this man," murmured the poet to the foreman, "isdreadful. Didn't he desire me to throw a glamour of poesy overcommonplace details? But for that I should never have thought ofalluding to woodpeckers and bugs, and other children of Nature. The manobjects to the remarks about the sled. Can the idiot know that it wasnecessary to have a rhyme for 'bed'? Can he suppose that I could writepoetry without rhymes? The man is a lunatic! He ought not to be atlarge!"
Hardly had the indignant and energetic parent of Bartholomew departedwhen a man with red hair and a ferocious glare in his eyes entered,carrying a club and accompanied by a savage-looking dog.
"I want to see the editor," he shouted.
A ghastly pallor overspread the colonel's face, and he said,
"The editor is not in."
"Well, when _will_ he be in, then?"
"Not for a week--for a month--for a year--for ever! He will never comein any more!" screamed Bangs. "He has gone to South America, with theintention to remain there during the rest of his life. He has departed.He has fled. If you want to see him, you had better follow him to theequator. He will be glad to see you. I would advise you, as a friend, totake the next boat--to start at once."
"That is unfortunate," said the man; "I came all the way from DelawareCity for the purpose of battering him up a lot with this club."
"He will be sorry," said Bangs, sarcastically. "He will regret missingyou. I will write to him, and mention that you dropped in."
"My name is McFadden," said the man. "I came to break the head of theman who wrote that obituary poetry about my wife. If you don't tell mewho perpetrated the following, I'll break _yours_ for you. Where's theman who wrote this? Pay attention:
"'Mrs. McFadden has gone from this life; She has left all its sorrows and cares; She caught the rheumatics in both of her legs While scrubbing the cellar and stairs. They put mustard-plasters upon her in vain; They bathed her with whisky and rum; But Thursday her spirit departed, and left Her body entirely numb.'"
"The man who held the late Mrs. McFadden up to the scorn of anunsympathetic world in that shocking manner," said the editor, "is namedJames B. Slimmer. He boards in Blank street, fourth door from thecorner. I would advise you to call on him and avenge Mrs. McFadden'swrongs with an intermixture of club and dog-bites."
"And this," sighed the poet, outside the door, "is the man who told meto divert McFadden's mind from contemplation of the horrors of the tomb.It was this monster who counseled me to make the sunshine of McFadden'ssmiles burst through the tempest of McFadden's tears. If that red-headedmonster couldn't smile over that allusion to whisky and rum, if thoseremarks about the rheumatism in her legs could not divert his mind fromthe horrors of the tomb, was it _my_ fault? McFadden grovels! He knowsno more about poetry than a mule knows about the Shorter Catechism."
The poe
t determined to leave before any more criticisms were made uponhis performances. He jumped down from his chair and crept softly towardthe back staircase.
The story told by the foreman relates that Colonel Bangs at the sameinstant resolved to escape any further persecution, and he moved off inthe direction taken by the poet. The two met upon the landing, and thecolonel was about to begin his quarrel with Slimmer, when an enragedold woman who had been groping her way up stairs suddenly plunged herumbrella at Bangs, and held him in the corner while she handed a copy ofthe _Argus_ to Slimmer, and pointing to a certain stanza, asked him toread it aloud. He did so in a somewhat tremulous voice and withfrightened glances at the enraged colonel. The verse was as follows:
"Little Alexander's dead; Jam him in a coffin; Don't have as good a chance For a fun'ral often. Rush his body right around To the cemetery; Drop him in the sepulchre With his Uncle Jerry."
The colonel's assailant accompanied the recitation with such energeticremarks as these:
"Oh, you willin! D'you hear that, you wretch? What d'you mean by writin'of my grandson in that way? Take that, you serpint! Oh, you wiper,you! tryin' to break a lone widder's heart with such scand'lus lies asthem! There, you willin! I kemmere to hammer you well with this hereumbreller, you owdacious wiper, you! Take that, and that, you wile,indecent, disgustin' wagabone! When you know well enough that Alecknever had no Uncle Jerry, and never had no uncle in no sepulchre anyhow,you wile wretch, you!"
When Mr. Slimmer had concluded his portion of the entertainment, he leftthe colonel in the hands of the enemy and fled. He has not been seen inNew Castle since that day, and it is supposed that he has returned toSussex county for the purpose of continuing in private his dalliancewith the Muses. Colonel Bangs appears to have abandoned the idea ofestablishing a department of obituary poetry, and the _Argus_ hasresumed its accustomed aspect of dreariness.
It may fairly boast, however, that once during its career it hasproduced a profound impression upon the community.
* * * * *
Mr. Bob Parker came home at a very late hour last night; and when Iopened the front door to let him in, he muttered something to the effectthat he was "sorry for being out so late." Then he pushed by me suddenlyand went up stairs in a very odd fashion, keeping his face as much aspossible toward the door, where I remained standing, astonished at hisvery strange behavior. When I closed the door and went to my room, itoccurred to me that something of a serious nature might have happened;and impelled partly by curiosity and partly by a desire to be ofservice, I knocked at Bob's door.
"Anything the matter?" I inquired.
"Oh no. I was detained down town," replied Bob.
"I can't do anything for you, then?"
"No; I'll be in bed in a couple of minutes."
"You acted so peculiarly when you came in that I thought you might beill."
"I was never better in my life. I went up stairs that way because I wastired."
"A very extraordinary effect of fatigue," I said.
"I say!" cried Bob, "don't say anything to your wife about it. There'sno use of getting up an excitement about nothing."
I went to bed convinced that something was wrong, and determined tocompel Bob to confess on the morrow what it was. After breakfast we satsmoking together on the porch, and then I remarked:
"Bob, I wish you to tell me plainly what you meant by that extraordinarycaper on the stairs last night. I think I ought to know. I don't want tomeddle with your private affairs, but it seems to me only the properthing for you to give me a chance to advise you if you are in trouble ofany kind. And then you know I am occupying just now a sort of a parentalrelation to you, and I want to overhaul you if you have been doinganything wrong."
"I don't mind explaining the matter to you," replied Bob. "It don'tamount to much, anyhow, but it's a little rough on a fellow, and I'drather not have the whole town discussing it."
"Well?"
"You know old Magruder's? Well, I went around there last night to seeBessie; and as it was a pleasant evening, we thought we would remain outon the porch. She sat in a chair near the edge, and I placed myself ather feet on one of the low wooden steps in front. We stayed theretalking about various things and having a pretty fair time, as a matterof course, until about nine o'clock, when I said I thought I'd have togo."
"You came home later, I think."
"Well, you know, some mutton-headed carpenter had been there during theday mending the rustic chairs on the porch, and he must have put hisglue-pot down on the spot where I sat, for when I tried to rise I foundI couldn't budge."
"You and Cooley's boy seem to have a fondness for that particular kindof adventure."
"Just so. And when I made an effort to get upon my feet, Bessie said,'Don't be in a hurry; it's early yet,' and I told her I believed I wouldstay a little while longer. So I sat there for about two hours, andduring the frightful gaps in the conversation I busied myself thinkinghow I could get away without appearing ridiculous. It hurts a man'schances if he makes himself ridiculous before a woman he is fond of. Soyou see I didn't know whether to ask Bessie to go in the house while Ipartially disrobed and went home in Highland costume, or whether togive one terrific wrench and then proceed down the yard backward. Icouldn't make up my mind; and as midnight approached, Bessie, who wasdreadfully sleepy, said, at last, in utter despair, she would have toexcuse herself for the rest of the evening."
"Then, you understand, I was nearly frantic, and I asked her suddenly ifshe thought her father would lend me his front steps for a few days. Shelooked sort of scared, and went in after old Magruder. When he cameout, I made him stoop down while I explained the situation to him. Helaughed and hunted up a hatchet and saw, and cut away the surroundingtimber, so that I came home with only about a square foot of wood on mytrousers. Very good of the old man, wasn't it, to smash up his steps inthat manner? And the reason why I kind of sidled up stairs was that Ifeared you'd see that wooden patch and want to know about it. That'sall. Queer sort of an affair, wasn't it?"
Then Mr. Parker darted off for the purpose of overtaking Miss Magruder,who at that moment happened to pass upon the other side of the street.
* * * * *
As Mr. Parker disappeared, Mrs. Adeler came out upon the porch from thehall, and placing her hand upon my shoulder, said,
"You are not going to publish that story of the attempt of the _Argus_to establish a department of obituary poetry, are you?"
"Of course I am. Why shouldn't I?"
"Don't you fear it might perhaps give offence? There are some people,you know, who think it right to accompany a notice of death with verses.Besides, does it seem precisely proper to treat such a solemn subject asdeath with so much levity?"
"My dear, the persons who use those ridiculous rhymes which sometimesappear in the papers for the purpose of parading their grief before thepublic cannot have very nice sensibilities."
"Are you sure of that? At any rate, is it not possible that a versewhich appears to you and me very silly may be the attempt of somebereaved mother to give in that forlorn fashion expression to her greatagony? I shouldn't like to ridicule even so wretched a cry from asuffering heart."
"The suggestion is creditable to your goodness. But I would like toretain the story of Slimmer's folly, and I'll tell you what I will do:I will publish your opinions upon the subject, so that those who readthe narrative may understand that the family of Adeler is not whollycareless of propriety." So here are the story and the protest; and thoseto whom the former is offensive may find what consolation can beobtained from the fact that the latter has been offered in advance ofany expression of opinion by indignant readers whose grief for thedeparted tends to run into rhyme.
Out of the Hurly-Burly; Or, Life in an Odd Corner Page 11