Out of the Hurly-Burly Part 8

The next morning Mr. Slimmer proceeded calmly to the office for the purpose of embalming in sympathetic verse the memories of other departed ones. As he came near to the establishment he observed a crowd of people in front of it, struggling to get into the door. Ascending some steps upon the other side of the street, he overlooked the crowd, and could see within the office the clerks selling papers as fast as they could handle them, while the mob pushed and yelled in frantic efforts to obtain copies, the presses in the cellar meanwhile clanging furiously.

Standing upon the curbstone in front of the office there was a long row of men, each of whom was engaged in reading _The Morning Argus_ with an earnestness that Mr. Slimmer had never before seen displayed by the patrons of that sheet. The bard concluded that either his poetry had touched a sympathetic chord in the popular heart, or that an appalling disaster had occurred in some quarter of the globe.

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He went around to the back of the office and ascended to the editorial rooms. As he approached the sanctum, loud voices were heard within. Mr.

Slimmer determined to ascertain the cause before entering. He obtained a chair, and placing it by the side door, he mounted and peeped over the door through the transom. There sat Colonel Bangs, holding _The Morning Argus_ in both hands, while the fringe which grew in a semicircle around the edge of his bald head stood straight out, until he seemed to resemble a gigantic gun-swab. Two or three persons stood in front of him in threatening att.i.tudes. Slimmer heard one of them say:

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"My name is McGlue, sir!--William McGlue! I am a brother of the late Alexander McGlue. I picked up your paper this morning, and perceived in it an outrageous insult to my deceased relative, and I have come around to demand, sir, WHAT YOU MEAN by the following infamous language:

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"'The death-angel smote Alexander McGlue, And gave him protracted repose; He wore a checked s.h.i.+rt and a Number Nine shoe, And he had a pink wart on his nose.

No doubt he is happier dwelling in s.p.a.ce Over there on the evergreen sh.o.r.e.

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 a cream-colored wart, nor a wart of any other color. It is a slander! It is 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 work of a miscreant in whom I reposed perfect confidence. He shall be punished 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 him was listening, "that the corpse hadn't a pink wart? I used to know a man named 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 to print this hideous stuff about my deceased son? Do you mean to say, Bangs, that it was not with your authority that your low comedian inserted with my advertis.e.m.e.nt the following scandalous burlesque?

Listen to this:

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"'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 p.u.s.s.y's tail and make her yowl, for fun.

The p.u.s.s.y's tail now stands out straight; the gun is laid aside; The monkey doesn't jump around since little Willie died.'

"The atrocious character of this libel will appear when I say that my son was twenty years old, and that he died of liver complaint."

"Infamous!--utterly infamous!" groaned the editor as he cast his eyes over 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 the gloom and to cheer the afflicted family with the resources of my art; and I certainly thought, that idea about the monkey would have that effect, 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.

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"W-w-well!" she said, in a voice broken by sobs, "wh-what d'you mean by publis.h.i.+ng 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-death in 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 they d-didn't bl-bleed him and b-blister him. It's a wicked falsehood, and you're a hard-hearted brute f-f-for printing it!"

"Madam, I shall go crazy!" exclaimed Bangs. "This is not my work. It is the work of a villain whom I will slay with my own hand as soon as he comes in. Madam, the miserable outcast shall die!"

"Strange! strange!" said Slimmer. "And this man told me to combine elevating sentiment with practical information. If the information concerning the squills and ipecac. is not practical, I have misunderstood the use of that word. And if young Smith didn't have four doctors, it was an outrage. He ought to have had them, and they ought to have excited his liver. Thus it is that human life is sacrificed to carelessness."

At this juncture the sheriff entered, his brow clothed with thunder. He had 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, so that 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 from your paper. A man who could trifle in this manner with the feelings of a parent is a savage and a scoundrel!"

As the sheriff went out, Colonel Bangs placed his head upon the table and groaned.

"Really," Mr. Slimmer said, "that person must be deranged. I tried, in his case, to put myself in his place, and to write as if I was one of the family, according to instructions. The verses are beautiful. That allusion to the grief of the aunt, particularly, seemed to me to be very happy. It expresses violent emotion with a felicitous combination of sweetness and force. These people have no soul--no appreciation of the beautiful in art."

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While the poet mused, hurried steps were heard upon the stairs, and in a moment a middle-aged man dashed in abruptly, and seizing the colonel's scattered hair, b.u.mped his prostrate head against the table three or four times with considerable force. Having expended the violence of his emotion in this manner, he held the editor's head down with one hand, shaking it occasionally by way of emphasis, and with the other hand seized the paper and said,

"You disgraceful old reprobate! You disgusting vampire! You h.o.a.ry-headed old ghoul! What d'you mean by putting such stuff as this in your paper about my deceased son? What d'you mean by printing such awful doggerel as this, you depraved and dissolute ink-slinger--you imbecile quill-driver, you!

"'Oh! bury Bartholomew out in the woods, In a beautiful hole in the ground, Where the b.u.mble-bees buzz and the woodp.e.c.k.e.rs 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 about slus.h.!.+ I'll enlighten your insane old intellect on the subject of singing woodp.e.c.k.e.rs! What do _you_ know about Jane and Artemas, you wretched buccaneer, you despicable butcher of the English language? Go out with a sled! I'll carry you out in a hea.r.s.e before I'm done with you, you deplorable lunatic!"

At the end of every phrase the visitor gave the editor's head a fresh knock against the table. When the exercise was ended, Colonel Bangs explained and apologized in the humblest manner, promising at the same time to give his a.s.sailant a chance to flog Mr. Slimmer, who was expected to arrive in a few moments.

"The treachery of this man," murmured the poet to the foreman, "is dreadful. Didn't he desire me to throw a glamour of poesy over commonplace details? But for that I should never have thought of alluding to woodp.e.c.k.e.rs and bugs, and other children of Nature. The man objects to the remarks about the sled. Can the idiot know that it was necessary to have a rhyme for 'bed'? Can he suppose that I could write poetry without rhymes? The man is a lunatic! He ought not to be at large!"

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Hardly had the indignant and energetic parent of Bartholomew departed when 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.