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I am glad to say that the _Argus_ has been fully repaid for its attempts to beguile the judge into the use of bitters. The _Argus_ is in complete disgrace with all the people who attend our church. Some of the admirers of Rev. Dr. Hopkins, the clergyman, gave him a gold-headed cane a few days ago, and a reporter of the _Argus_ was invited to be present.
n.o.body knows whether the reporter was temporarily insane, or whether the foreman, in giving out the "copy," mixed it accidentally with an account of a patent hog-killing machine which was tried in Wilmington on that same day, but the appalling result was that the _Argus_ next morning contained this somewhat obscure but very dreadful narrative:
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"Several of Rev. Dr. Hopkins"s friends called upon him yesterday, and after a brief conversation the unsuspicious hog was seized by the hind legs and slid along a beam until he reached the hot-water tank. His friends explained the object of their visit, and presented him with a very handsome gold-headed butcher, who grabbed him by the tail, swung him around, slit his throat from ear to ear, and in less than a minute the carca.s.s was in the water. Thereupon he came forward and said that there were times when the feelings overpowered one, and for that reason he would not attempt to do more than thank those around him, for the manner in which such a huge animal was cut into fragments was simply astonishing. The doctor concluded his remarks, when the machine seized him, and in less time than it takes to write it the hog was cut into fragments and worked up into delicious sausage. The occasion will long be remembered by the doctor"s friends as one of the most delightful of their lives. The best pieces can be procured for fifteen cents a pound; and we are sure that those who have sat so long under his ministry will rejoice that he has been treated so handsomely."
The _Argus_ lost at least sixty subscribers in consequence of this misfortune, and on the following Sunday we had a very able and very energetic sermon from Dr. Hopkins upon "The Evil Influence of a Debauched Public Press." It would have made Colonel Bangs shiver to have heard that discourse. Lieutenant Smiley came home with us after church, and I am sorry to say he exulted over the st.u.r.dy blows given to the colonel.
"I haven"t any particular grudge against the man," he said, "but I don"t think he has treated me exactly fair. I sent him an article last Tuesday, and he actually had the insolence to return me the ma.n.u.script without offering a word of explanation."
"To what did the article refer?"
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"Why, it gave an account of a very singular thing that happened to a friend of mine, the son of old Commodore Watson. Once, when the commodore was about to go upon a voyage, he had a presentiment that something would occur to him, and he made a will leaving his son Archibald all his property on condition that, in case of his death, Archibald would visit his tomb and pray at it once every year. Archibald made a solemn vow that he would, and the commodore started upon his journey. Well, sir, the fleet went to the Fiji Islands, and while there the old man came ash.o.r.e one day, and was captured by the natives. They stripped him, laid him upon a gridiron, cooked him and ate him."
"That placed Archibald in a somewhat peculiar position?"
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"Imagine his feelings when he heard the news! How could he perform his vow? How could he pray at the commodore"s tomb? Would not the tomb, as it were, be very apt to prey upon him, to s.n.a.t.c.h him up and a.s.similate him? There seemed to be an imminent probability that it would. But he went. That n.o.ble-hearted young man went out to the islands in search of the savage that ate the commodore, and I have no doubt that he suffered upon the same gridiron."[1]
[1] I have reasons for believing that Smiley did not construct this story. I remember having seen it in a French newspaper long before I met the lieutenant, and I am sure he borrowed it from that or some other publication.
"You don"t mean to say that Bangs declined to publish that narrative?"
"He did, and he offered no explanation of his refusal."
"He is certainly a very incompetent person to conduct a newspaper. A man who would refuse to give such a story to a world which aches for amus.e.m.e.nt is worse than a blockhead."
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"By the way," said the lieutenant, changing the subject suddenly, "I hear Parker has taken a cla.s.s in the Sunday-school. He is sly--monstrous sly, sir. Miss Magruder teaches there, too. Parker seems to be determined to have her, and I hope he may be successful, but I don"t think he will be, I"m sorry to say."
It was evident that Smiley had not heard the news, and I did not enlighten him.
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"Some men have a fitness for that kind of work, and some haven"t. There was poor Bergner, a friend of mine. He took a cla.s.s in a Sunday-school at Carlisle while we were stationed there. The first Sunday he told the scholars a story about a boy named Simms. Simms, he said, had climbed a tree for the purpose of stealing apples, and he fell and killed himself.
"This," said Bergner, "conveys an impressive warning to the young. It teaches an instructive lesson which I hope will be heeded by all you boys. Bear in mind that if Simms had not gone into that tree he would probably now be alive and well, and he might have grown up to be a useful member of society. Remember this, boys," said Bergner, "and resolve firmly now that when you wish to steal apples you will do so in the only safe way, which is to stand on the ground and knock them down with a pole." A healthy moral lesson, wasn"t it? Somebody told the superintendent about it, and they asked Bergner to resign. Yes, a man has to have a peculiar turn for that kind of thing to succeed in teaching Sunday-school. I don"t know how Parker will make out."
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Then the lieutenant shook hands and left in order to catch the last boat for the fort.
"Mrs. Adeler," I said, as I lighted a fresh cigar, "we may regard it as a particularly fortunate thing that Smiley is not entrusted with the religious education of any number of American youth. Place the Sunday-schools of this land in the hands of Smiley and others like him, and in the next generation the country would be overrun with a race of liars."
I am not aware that Bob Parker has ever made any very serious attempt to write poetry for the public. Of course since he has been in love with the bewildering Magruder he has sometimes expressed his feelings in verse. But fortunately these breathings of pa.s.sion were not presented to a cold and heartless world; they were reserved for the sympathetic Magruder, who doubtless read them with delight and admiration, and locked them up in her writing-desk with Bob"s letters and other precious souvenirs. This, of course, is all right. Every lover writes what he considers poetry, and society permits such manifestations without insisting upon the confinement of the offenders in lunatic asylums. Bob, however, has constructed some verses which are not of a sentimental kind. Judge Pitman"s story of the illumination of Cooley"s nose suggested the idea which Bob has worked into rhyme and published in the _Argus_. As the poet has not been permitted to shine to any great extent in these pages as a literary person, it will perhaps be fair to reproduce his poem in the chapter which contains the account of Cooley"s misfortune. Here it is:
TIM KEYSER"S NOSE.
Tim Keyser lived in Wilmington; He had a monstrous nose, Which was a great deal redder than The very reddest rose, And was completely capable Of most terrific blows.
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He wandered down one Christmas day To skate upon the creek, And there, upon the smoothest ice, He slid around so quick That people were amazed to see Him do it up so slick.
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The exercise excited thirst; And so, to get a drink, He cut an opening in the ice And lay down on the brink.
He said, "I"ll dip my lips right in And suck it up, I think."
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And while his nose was thus immersed Six inches in the stream, A very hungry pickerel was Attracted by its gleam; And darting up, he gave a snap, And Keyser gave a scream.
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Tim Keyser then was well a.s.sured He had a splendid bite.
To pull his victim up he jerked And tugged with all his might; But that disgusting pickerel had The better of the fight.
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And just as Mr. Keyser thought His nose was cut in two, The pickerel gave its tail a twist And pulled Tim Keyser through, And he was scudding through the waves The first thing that he knew.
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Then onward swam that savage fish With swiftness toward its nest, Still chewing Mr. Keyser"s nose; While Mr. Keyser guessed What sort of policy would suit His circ.u.mstances best.
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Just then his nose was tickled with A spear of gra.s.s close by; Then came an awful sneeze, which knocked The pickerel into pi, And blew its bones, the ice and waves Two hundred feet on high!
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Tim Keyser swam up to the top A breath of air to take; And finding broken ice, he hooked His nose upon a cake, And gloried in a nose which could Such a concussion make.
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