 | Sporting scenes and sundry sketches |  |
1. CLASSIC RHAPSODIES.
1. NO. I.
THE RAPTURE OF PROSERPINE.
A RHAPSODY, FROM OVID.
THE INFLICTION.
The thunderbolts of Jove had triumphed, and impious Typhæus
stretched his prostrate length along the groaning earth.
Glad Sicily was laid upon the conquered monster, to keep
him down; for Jupiter knew well enough there 'd be another
bloody fight, if ever he got up. Upon his hundred heads
rested alarmed old Ætna, covering all save a few long straggling
locks. The imposition of such heavy weight, of stone,
and wood, and water, bore not the vanquished foe, with dutiful
submission; bore not the inhumation, and thanked the
hand that buried him; but up against the blackened sky, ingrate,
from his rebellious bowels, belched such showers of
ashes, and clouds of smoke, mixed up with lava and lumps of
coke, that Ocean roared with fear, and Ætna's peaceful seats
reeled, and rolled, to and fro, with terror and dismay.
The God of Tartarus upstarted at the din, heard in his
house profound, all trembling, lest his roof should suddenly
be cracked, and dayling enter, and the ghosts get out, and he
be overwhelmed with suits for the escape. Up! up! thou
wary jailor! He harnessed his black steeds, into his chariot
sprang, shook the loose reins, cracked his long lash,—of cast
present,—and drove, impetuous, up to earth, to see
what in the d—l's name could be to pay.
Up to the regions of sunshine and day his coursers soon
galloped, running, with reckless leaps, their rude, rough way.
And now they stamp Trinacrian ground, and climb old ætna's
dizzy steep, and snuff the tainted air, and paw the yet warm
sulphur, wandering at will; while Pluto, far aloft, from peak
to peak springs anxious, thoughtful, surveying cracks, chasms,
and craters.
Within a bower, on Ida's side, the Cytherean goddess slept
—her cherished trysting place of old, when good Anchises
was a juvenal. The dusky form of Pluto, leaping over the
hills, threw its long shadow on the peaceful grove. The
shadow, and the form, dismal, and cold, and grim, awoke the
jealous queen, awoke to call her archer boy, with summons
quick and shrill. “Eros! my son! Cupid! fly quick!
Hither! come hither!”
Cupid was frolicking, down in a vale, busy, as usual, sticking
a pin in the breast of a captive beetle. He ran to his
mother, and buried his head in her bosom.
“If ever thou did'st love me, boy; if in thy gentle mother's
breast thou hast delight, and dreamy joy, pillowed, in
deep and balmy rest; be now my grateful Eros, my darling
avenger; our long insulted shrines are thirsting for vengeance
on Pluto's chill philosophy,—his haughty heart,—his stubborn
knee, that bends not—owns not woman, nor me;—thine
is the grace, to bring you reprobate to know, redeemed, a
Benedict's condition; to bid him at my footstool kneel, the
pangs of torturing love to feel, fearing, hoping, wishing. But
now, he treads the withering earth, secure in pride of regal
birth, and spurns the joys of woman's arms, rejects her love,
cold-hearted rip deserts for whiskey, rum, and flip, the eye,
the brow, the cheek, the lip, replete with happy heaven!
And shall we then confess, conquered, despised, our power is
less than haughty Pluto's? What! has high heaven confessed
a rape, and shall low Erebus escape, and we excuse
the duty which the brute owes! No! bring your bow and
arrows!
It was a goodly sight to see the queen of beauty, with
flushed and anxious face, hurry and help the god of love. It
was a goodly sound to hear, with voice subdued, but accents
clear, queen Venus cheer her son. “Shoot! till he feels
the glowing flame; shoot! for your mother's glorious fame;
shoot! for the honor of your name, love, and love's archery.”
“Your word is law, good mother,” said fun-loving Cupid,
unbuckling his quiver. “Your breath upon this arrow. I'll
do the business for the old bachelor in a twinkling. Speak
softly, on this barb, her name whom he shall love.”
The goddess kissed its point—the pain-and-pleasure-bearing
weapon—and smoothed its plume upon her billowy bosom.
The dart was keen, and strait, and truly balanced, and Paphia
approved it, and whispered, on its edge, the name of “Proserpine,”
and laid it in the rest.
There was a fixing, a bending, a tension, a pulling of a
bowstring, a twang, a slip, and a whiz through the air, and it
straight was all over with Pluto.
“Ha! ha! look! look! mamma, ha! ha!” Cupid laughed
heartily, seeing the arrow quivering in Pluto's heart, and
hearing him swear, “By Orcus! what a sudden stitch I've
got in my left side!” “The gentleman from Styx is stuck,”
pursued my lord of love, merry as a cricket; “the judge of
new care on his royal hands to manage.”
“Stop your nonsense, you monkey!” said Venus, hitting
the boy with her fan, “and bend your saucy knees, in love-suits
ever suppliant and successful, and wrestle with Olympus,
and move all gods to send the daughter of the wheat-and-indian
lady before his lovesick eyes? for if she be not seen,
our vengeance half is lost, and your great-uncle, there, will
soon go down to Erebus, not knowing whence or what the
pains that rack his frame.
“This cursed climate,” Pluto cried, deep sighing, to himself,
“delights not our condition; so rough, so raw, so cold,
and soon, again, so hot. I must be off, and seek in regions
more congenial, a steadier sky and heat more equable. This
long old giant here lies quietly enough, and I hope he'll not
raise such a rumpus again.—Alas! my side! my side!”
With such soliloquy, he nourished his deep wound, nor
knew the secret cause of his distress; knew not the subtle
venom that swelled his starting veins; knew not the glorious
agony from ordinary pains. His coursers feel the lash, burning
their trembling flanks. Now, onward, and away!—they
spring, they rear, they rush, bearing their sorrowful master.
And soon, before his wonder-smitten eyes, deep, dimpling,
pure, and cool, old Pergus lies, and lifts, upon his silver, crystal
wave, the songs of snowy swans, that wanton, lave their
spotless plumes, and swim, and swimming, sing, arch the
the proud neck, and curve the sounding wing. A grove, impervious,
crowns the lake, hanging above the cherished water,
and, sacred, guards with veil opaque the virgin revelry of
Ceres' daughter. There is she now, with her maidens, adjusting
her long hair, gazing into the mirror of that lake, and
humming to herself a sweet low tune. Her maidens, all
and buds, and blossoms, are mingled all together, in a confused
perplexing mass of beauty.
But O!the m istress of that troupe, how beautiful was she!
And that strange gazer on the group, how suddenly crazed
was he! Young Proserpine was flattered by Pluto's wild
confusion, and moved with more coquettish grace, and from
her eyes shot rays more brilliant, when, with half averted
head, she saw the royal stranger, bewildered by swans' songs,
and maidens' voices, rein up his coursers with a sudden
jerk, that brought them on their haunches. The dallying
breeze blew back the light transparent folds of her thin stola,
and played with her brown ringlets, and lifted up her necker-chief
from off her full deep bosom; up and down, up and
down, how heaved that beautiful bosom!
The kingly lover gazed, and drank the subtle poison;
drank and gazed, gazed and drank, and gazed and drank on
still. His parched tongue and lips refuse their usual function;
staring he sat, and dumb. So, bloodless, sits and stares, torn
from his ancient catacomb, the cold Egyptian mummy, uplifted
in his coffin, at feminine admirers at Scudder's, all
speechless, and dried up. His reins are on the grass, his
hands hang at his side, his eyes are dimmed and dark, his
mouth is stretched wide open, his head droops on his shoulder.
Strange languor o'ercomes him, fierce weakness consumes
him,—he wishes he was in Hell.
THE ABDUCTION.
Proserpine! Proserpine! hold! beware! temptation may
be too tempting! She little heeds the warning which Prudence,
in her ears, whispers and urges; but cheek, and eye,
up her flowers, and presses them closely together, and binds
them with the ends of her long flowing hair. And often, as
she binds them, she looks, with half shut eye, through the
meshes of her locks; and through her long, dark eyelashes,
the beams of a mellow dreamy eye, fall, broken, upon Pluto.
So, moonlight rays, through intertwining trees, sprinkle the
leafy ground, in yellow autumn. And now she scatters them
to the winds, and claps her empty hands, bending her bare
white arms; and now she gathers the woodrose gay, and
snatches the pale lily, and winds them with a willow wreath,
and presses them, all trembling, against her leaping heart,
and fawn-like, startled, flies, but archly she looks back and
peals in Pluto's ear a merry laugh. Her maidens, delighted,
encourage the flirtation, rejoicing in the grace and beauty of
their mistress.
His majesty looked like a natural fool, while loud the
echoed joy rang through the sacred grove. “I am seduced,”
thought he, “from principle and promise; from all my vows
of single blessedness; from my course of life, and love of
business! alas! I am seduced! She must go down to Erebus
with me, for certain.”
“Will you accept a violet, sir?” said Proserpine, O, how
meekly! and curtesying with well-put-on solemnity, as
she stood by the chariot, and lifting up the flower, exposed
her upturned throat, and deep, full, swelling bust, to Pluto's
glowing gaze. “Will you accept a violet, good sir?”
“Violate?” gasped the king of night, not knowing what
he said. “Yes, yes, my angel, yes, jump in;” and Pluto's
iron arm was on the maiden's cestus, and into the chariot
lifted her.
Away!—away!—What voice is that, shaking the trembling
is that, so long, so loud, so bitter? What goddess pleads
so piteously, and who is deaf to her prayer? Ye maidens
at Pergus, say, why do ye weep, beating your breasts, and
tearing your hair! Where, where is your mistress?
Lost Proserpina's shrieks no gentle pity moved in her
immortal ravisher. Upon his coursers' necks, abandoned,
lie the reins, for both his hands are needed, the maiden's cries
to stifle, and bind her active arms down, and keep her in
the chariot. The steeds dash on the accustomed way,
o'er hill and dale, swamp and marsh, “rocks, caves, lakes,
fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death,” the dreary road to
Tartarus.
“Oh! mother! mother! goddess Ceres!” besought the
struggling girl; “save your unhappy daughter.”
“Be quiet, love, you shall be queen of Hell, my bride, my
wife,” said Pluto, bending upon one knee, and still, with
equal zeal, encouraging his horses, each by name;—“To
reign is worth ambition, though in Hell; `better to reign in
Hell, than serve in Heaven,' ” pursued the seducer, quoting
his old friend Orpheus. “People may talk of the need of a
minister, Hymen, or flamen, to sanction a match, but believe
me, the doctrine's suspicious and sinister. A license to
marry? It is a mere catch—it's all in my eye—and so
says Fanny Wright—nay, Proserpine, I prithee, do not cry
so bitterly; these tears fall worse than idly.”
Tears, promises, and prayers, threats, flattery, and protestations—how
mingled all, and all how vain! The raptured
bride no consolation knew, for being made a queen against her
virgin will—none but the old man's wealth and extensive dominion—what
goddess or woman was ever so foolish but that
she would listen to reason?
“O! what a horrid beard!” said Proserpine, quite faintly
—“and then—your breath is so sulphureous,”—
“Fear not, my dearest, Saunders has just new honed my
razors—* * * * *—and then your majesty may rest assured,
there is no better seidlitz in the world than a good
draught of Lethe.”
But now they reached the realms of modest Cyane, cool,
chaste, immaculate nymph; the coursers' heated hoofs hiss
in her sacred fountain. An ancient nymph was she, of puritan
extraction, a rigid methodist, and censor stern of fleshly
weaknesses. Three thousand years had rolled over her virgin
head, yet had no wanton lip tasted her withered cheek.
Up, from the parting waves, ascended the cold nymph, and
chilled the raging team with sudden frost. The chariot stood
still.
“Who bars our way?” cried the imperial lover—“and stays
our happy nuptials?”
“'T is I forbid the banns,” said the lady of the lake, putting
her arms akimbo. “Have you never yet heard of an action
per quod, for running away with a woman? By G—d! This
is too much, a veteran monarch like you, not waiting to ask
for permission to sue, leaving old ætna, and steering for
Gretna, you, surely, are crazy, or else you are blue. Ah! my
poor girl, I pity your unhappy—”
“Pray, mind your own business, good madam,” said Proserpine,
sharply, but hiding her face with her hands.
The king of Orcus waited for no more, hearing with grim
delight the words of spite and passion blended. Upon the
yielding earth, with fierce and violent strength, he smote his
whipstock. Straightway there lay disclosed, precipitous, but
smooth, a turnpike new macadamised, leading down to the
kingdom. The adamantine gates shone dimly through the
welcome sound, fell the accustomed bark of trusty Cerberus.
“We'll soon be home, my love.”
“O! whither do you bear me? stay! curb your rushing
steeds! How dark!—stay!—stay!—I faint!—the air!—release
me!—in pity let me go!—let me go home to my
mother!”—
“Not to-night, Proserpine, not to-night.”
“When, when, in mercy—when?” shrieked the lost penitent.
“Never, Proserpine, never.”
THE INTRODUCTION.
“Infernal world, and thou, profoundest hell,
Receive thy new possessor,”
said the happy Pluto, bowing reverentially, as he drove through
the everlasting portals. “Down Cerberus, down. I give you
welcome, Proserpine, and joy, in your new dominion—back,
you bloody three mouthed cur—droop not, my gentle queen,
you will soon become accustomed to the change of air—we
are populous here, you see, but not crowded. This is the
Styx, and that little murmuring stream on the right, is Acheron.
The people down the river to the left, are ghosts waiting to
cross the ferry; but we, you perceive, dash right ahead,
through fire and water, without stopping for the boat. Here
we are in Tartarus proper. The individuals you see engaged
in different employments, are all persons of the highest consideration—I'll
soon introduce you—you'll be delighted—ah!
allow me to present to you Mr. Tantalus, the president of our
infernal Temperance Society—a very abstemious, self-denying
gentleman—drinks nothing—Mr. Tantalus, the queen of Orcus—you
the Misses Danaides—daughters of a king, my dear, and
eminent collaborators with Tantalus, in the liquid cause—deep
in the science of water power—Ladies, our new queen will
give out cards for a ball, as soon as she is rested from her
journey. Lord Sysiphus, my love—a great mineralogist.
Hippodamia, we must tax thy dutiful loyalty to set down that
water pitcher, and do us a few errands. Let our people hear
the news, and share their sovereign's joy. First see chief justice
Minos, and desire him to hasten to the palace to draw a
marriage settlement—carry Mr. Tantalus a bottle of hock—
tell him, I say he must drink it—set Ixion's wheel turning the
other way—drive the vultures from off old Tityus, and tell all
the souls to rest themselves and be happy; this is our royal
wedding-day, and our bridal shall be a jubilee, by the Styx!
Smack, went the whip, and on dashed the royal vehicle,
burning the tracks of its rapid course in lines of vivid lightning.
THE SUBMISSION.
Within an iron chamber, deep in the sombre palace, were
crouching three old women, sitting and spinning, sad, solemn,
sullen, sulky, scandalous. The threads those women spun,
were of no earthly texture; the hands that held that distaff,
were of no terrene mould, no mortal fingers they that shut
those bright edged scissors, opened and shut, and cut the
fated thread of human life. Mournfully, mysteriously, went
round your magic wheel, ye priestesses of Destiny, when Hell
received your mistress, rival, and queen. Why should gangrenous
jealousy corrupt the eternal Parcæ? Why pales their
sinking cheek, why fades their ancient eye, why falls their
proofs of recent lack of combs, and clean rain water!
Proserpine sleeps on Pluto's neck, and Erebus rejoices.
Now haste, the bridal bed bedeck, ye ghosts lift up your
voices; fill high with vinum Samium, and swell the glad
Epithalamium.
High on a throne, which carpenters far famed, on earth, of
yore, but now mechanic ghosts, had temporary raised upon a
hill, covered with carpets, Brussels and Ingrain, Pluto exalted
sat; by twelve steps raised to that good eminence; and,
from his seat, the summoned myriads of his realm surveyed,
Tartarean and Elysian. By his side, queenly, his bride sat
wondering at the shades, jostling, and for good places cager
pressing. As, when from senior's pews, the silken gowned
step glorious, and o'erspread the covered stage, on glad commencement-day—day
of relief from board with circles chalked,
and conic sections—solemn, grave Præses sits, and Latin
talks, and morals; in the body of the church, sound fans
incessant, beating the hot air; while youth, ingenuous, plies
the elbow.
The monarch, by the sight uplifted, slowly rose, and murmuring
plaudits rumbled through the crowd as he began to
speak. “Spirits and ghosts, our subjects dutiful”—but here,
a sudden clap of interposing thunder stopped the begun infliction,
announcing unexpectedly, a messenger from Jove.
Mercury knelt at the feet of the king, and handed him a letter.
Pale Proserpine trembled, while Pluto, muttering, broke
the seal, and swore, in a low tone—and loud Alecto laughed,
shaking her tied up snakes,—tied with white ribbons, for
the bridal—as o'er his royal shoulder, bending joyous, she
read the following epistle.
THE SUBMISSION.
“This a cursed bad business of yours about Proserpine.
Ceres is raising the very Old Nick, up here, and we shall
have no quiet until you let the girl go. I have had to promise
the old woman, that if her daughter has not eaten, since
you have had her,—you know what that means—you shall give
her up entirely, but if she has tasted food on your premises,
that—then—then she shall divide her time, half yearly, between
you and her mother. Come, now, that's an equitable
decision—don't appeal, you shall have the first six months,
my boy—
THE SUBMISSION.
“P. S. Send me a box of good pocket matches—I'm quite
out—how are you off for nectar? J.”
“She has eaten, she has eaten,” blabbed mean Ascalaphus,
young grey-eyed imp, delighted at the chance to do his master
service. “She has eaten, she has eaten, within the
Elysian fields; in the shadow of an arbor I was sitting,
when the queen, on her tiptoe stretching up, plucked a nectarine,
and ate it!”
Another peal of thunder! The snakes upon the heads of
the furies hissed and grinned, and Mercury flew back to heaven.
2. NO. II.
A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE.
BY M. T. CICERO.
I send the enclosed with an apology for not translating ALL
the Latin. My plea is, that some friend has miscellaneously
borrowed my dictionary. Don't expect, however, to be troubled
again, in this way, for I have written to Tully that he has
more time to study the people's American than I have to
figure out the Consul's Latin, and that the next chapter be all
in our vernacular.[1]
That is rather a lame excuse for a man who means to trot fair. What
is it but saying “my groom left the stable door open and somebody stole
my saddle?”—But what can WE do? will some of the legal branches of
our tree of knowledge let a small apple of advice fall into our lap? Seven
and sixpence we paid to a night-school-teacher to dig into one of our ministerial
imps, how to render an account current of the stuff into our vernacular.
We forbear to do more than to add the render—the get.
Here it is!
“Cicero in Elysium—heathen E—next door to—vide Virgil:—
Taking his comfort,
Porter, of all joys the gentle guardian,—
Times chronicler; magnificent and Spirit dear:—
Court, Chief, of Wagner and Old Whitenose, Justice of,
Master of horse, head Register of Turf,
And Jove knows what else not— * * * * *
—Taking the shine off every common chariot—
With such a drive—
L. L. D.—O. K., &c. &c. &c.
“Respectfully and profoundly,
“With sentiments of the highest consideration,
“Have the honor to be, &c.
“How much grief I have been cursed with, and how much enjoyment I
have been deprived of, both domestic and forensic”—then comes some
English—after that—“by that infernal break down of Grey Eagle on the
third heat, you being present and weeping—more Latin—`stadii functus
offico'—used up—then a little more English, to the word `course' inclusive,
then, in the first place read `IMPRIMIS'—which every body knows by
heart:—go on—`according to our fashion, my dear fellow.' The rest is
easy as losing a bet. Do you want to go on any thing privately? Put
up your currency. The dew will rust it. Peace, the swifest kind of horses
—a Westly Richards fowling piece of the last and most ample build, rod
and hooks lucky, and most of all a mistress true and beautiful be with you.”
That's pretty much the story. The note is rather familiar than modest.
But, as we said before, what can we do? Cicero writes, and we can't
lose a word of the letter. We shall call our next colt “Atticus,” after
ourselves.—Editors.
Portero, gaudiorum janitori
Temporum spiritui, magnifico, carissimo,
Stadiorum, Wagnerorum, Bostonium, gubernatori,
Equitum omnium magistro registroque
Splendorem abstrahenti omnibus loaferibus ordinariis
L. L. D.—O. K.—&c. &c. &c.
Salutem.
Quantum dolorem acceperim, et quanto fruetu sim privatus
et forensi et domestico,—Cato and Socrates who room with
me take on dreadfully about it,—Aquilæ canæ ab illa dirutione
infelicissima, tertio cursu, te prœsente flenteque, besides the
burst up of the match between Wagner and Boston, and old
Eclipse colting on his former laurels as though he was stadii
functus officio;—and not a heroic stallion to adjure by, on the
course, imprimis, pro nostra consuetudine existimare potes.
Next, all that I have to say, is, that I send you an account of
an old race that was run a little way out of town when I practised
law in Rome. It was just before Cataline abused my
patience so that I had to kick him out of the house. Sceleratus!
Snakes! Infernissimus! Fire and tow! Inter infernos!
I won seven thousand Aurei Denarii—none of your patent
refused to fork up. [Between you and me, that was the reason
I came down upon him in that “Quosque-TANDEM”
style so fulguriously. I rather used him up there. If Pluto
will let him come out, I'll go the same team against him again.
But he must plank the cash.] Pignus deponere, and then
back out or forget the name of the horse you bet on, and refuse
to let the stake-holder pay over—that's almost as bad as
going—through a friend—against your own nag—call him—
Deafaway—and hammering a tack into his hip bone on the
morning he is to start, and swearing at your trainer for letting
the nails fall out of his shoes upon the stable floor. Pax, equi
perceleririssimi, Westlei Ricardi ultimœ amplisimœque structuræ
bombarda, arundo, hami que fausti, et, maxime, amica sincera
et alma, tecum.
P.S. I have enclosed the documents, I speak of, to my
friend, J. Cypress, Jr., to translate for you. He knows my
“p's” and “q's,” and I don't want my hand to get familiar with
your devils.
P.P.S. Your Spirit comes here very irregularly. I wish
you would write a letter to the C. and Enquirer, and blow up
Amos Kendall, that Loco Foco postmaster. Pretty loco—not
to know better our locus in quo. If existing contracts go on
much more, I shall abandon all hopes of your ever getting a
permanent foothold on Elysian Turf.[2]
Cato sends his best
respects. If you see Colonel Johnson, tell him I've got a new
white hat that I want to bet on against any trifle that he will
run against its fly in a thunder-squall. Why don't he bring
out something? Are American horses good for nothing but
to make smoked beef for soldiers in Florida?—Pax, again,
tecum, et tuo Spiritu. Sing now this.
PSALMODIC SERVICE.
Air—“Nonne vides!”
The youthful charioteers with beating heart
Rush to the race; and panting scarcely bear
Th' extremes of feverish hope, and chilling fear;
Stoop to the reins, and lash with all their force;
The flying chariot kindling in its course.
And now alow and now aloft they fly,
As borne thro' air, and seem to touch the sky;
No stop; no stay; but clouds of dust arise
Spurned and cast backward on the followers' eyes;
The hindmost blows the foam upon the first.
Such is the love of praise, and honorable thirst.”
The Lupercal was past. The solemn priests, with vestals
bearing torches—fed from the flame that burned young
Romulus a king, swift rushing from a lupine mother—
majestic, paced the stones of Rome, that sang beneath their
glad retiracy, and, thirsty, sought the secret places of their
temples. “We've had enough of such revivals,” now quoth
youthful Curtius, descendant he direct—so his blood showed
forth, rich swelling in his neck veins—from him who leaped
his horse into that horrid gulf to save his country, filling the
gaping ditch, not with his body juvenile, but with his glowing
soul. Deep from his mother's breast, and pure, he sucked the
essence of the noble soul of daring Scævola. Mutius she called
him, as she staunched the crimson glory of his severed arm, the
hand cut off to throw into the teeth of a besieger of the walls
that held his Love.
Mount Palatine, Tarpeian Hill, Curia Hostilia, Esquiline
Place, Aventine Row, Viminal Square, and all the other building
lots laid out for private use at public expense, from Battery
to Tauri Caput, exjected their eye-rubbing sun-rivals.
into foam, so that he might see the race, and hold back
Sol at least two heats, and then have time to cool an easy jog
by nightfall, and light fierce Peleus down to the barnacled bedchamber
of expecting Thetis.
“Forum boarium”—Fly-market,—“Forum piscarium”—
Catharine-slip,—all punctured mutton, and flounders fast decaying—smiling
in death, like Patience on a monument, in
hope long lingering, for a Five-point bidder—threw out their
tainted stock, and in the dock most merciful, full fed the doubtful
eels. No proud Basilica contained a solitary dandy, in a
new coat unpaid for, strutting. No safe Comitium, with
threatened vengeance of “contempt of court,” held a pert lawyer,
boring the sick Subsellia. No Rostrum breasted out the
figure-head of orators. No bullock died, no dove was sacrificed
with riteful ceremonies. The fanes, altars, temples all,
and theatres were silent. The sacred groves let loose their
grasshoppers. Glad pedagogues discharged their scholars alphabetic,
and horse-hide flogged, in extacies, preferred to joy
of human flesh-cuts. Plebeians, patrons, orators, patricians,
knights, poets, freedmen, loafers, and logicians, homeborn,
Gallician, British slaves, and Afric—the city Prætor, the newly
appointed sub-treasury Quæstor, the tribunes of “the people”—office
seekers—and of the seven-hilled tyrant every
scrub shoemaker was afoot, and for the stadium panting. It
was a race-day, and notes were not protested. Every body
rose before daylight to be happy. Two capiases only were
issued to the Sheriff during twenty-four hours. Both of these,
however, were in actions on the case for felonious insinuation
by German liberti in paying bills of a fraudulent banking incorporation,
which Cataline had dinnered and suppered and drunk
through the Senate—for the amount of their by-bets as to who
rather be a bale of cotton, and walked over by all the niggers
in Louisiana, than to be handled and footed as they were after
the go was done—
“On sharp-cuf rails their ragged corduroy sat,
The conscious chesnut smoking with their fat.”
The ladies' stand was gemmed with pearls and brilliants,
early. Brightly Metella sparkled, lip-love full. Gently, with
languid goodness, fainting, repulsing, seemingly, with half-forgiving,
half-inviting eye-lashes, that fanned the air into a
poisonous deliciousness of agony, as it blew death of Love,
and love of Death, upon the unaccustomed eye-ball of the long-locked,
yellow-curled Ascanius in the next box—who dared
to bet a pair of gloves against her—sat, shone, killed—O!
sweetest murder!—the terrible Lueretia;—omnipotent in
Beauty, cruel Victress! gentle Tyrant! merciless happiness!
wearing Grief in one pitying ear, Heaven haughty in the
other!—rings—rings—Lorenzo;—everlasting circles of mad
idolatry, half hidden by careless tresses;—no other jewel
showing but a breast-bound ruby, that swelled out upon her
partly—by accident—unkerchiefed bosom, in the excitement
of the race;—nothing much—a strawberry—a rosebud. Proud
was the eye that on her bust might look and blench not. He
might gaze into the sun by summer noonday—Eagle challenger.
Such was a Roman's daughter—Woman and Goddess
mixed. Is the blood all lost? Are there no Deities
whom we of modern years may love and worship too. Is it
all—[3]
The eternal city gasped with hot anxiety. Not a newspaper
was published on that morn, except the “Bona Dea Ob
club laureate, was in the mouths of all, excluding thoughts of
trade in sugar and tobacco.[4] The laticlavium ruffled its broad
The Plebs communis, and the Turba sine nomine of sleepers
under stoops, communed with senators and knights, and eased
nobility of quickly bagged sestertia, by honest thimble-riggery.
Jove! how full the air and roads were! Bacchus turned out
his tigers before a pearl-silvered wagonett, built by Opifex &
Co., out of a monster oyster-shell, fresh captured from the
Lucrine lake. Not a horse was left in Rome. The lady
Abbess of the Convent of the Delphic oracle, drove, four-in-hand,
a team of wild-cats. Mercury lit upon an oak that over-looked
the course. Iris got up a shower and sat upon a rainbow.
Vulcan smuggled himself inside the track, under pretence
that he was a blacksmith, sent to shoe a colt who had
lost his slipper. Mars was seen fighting an Irishman, who
had got drunk on bad liquor. Ceres stretched up her auburn
flowing tresses in a neighboring corn-field on the hill-side.
Pan was pointing out the nags to her. All—aye, all—were
there; Gods, Mortals, and Infernals. Happy, happy Rome!
sole city worthy of such glorious company!
Pindar, the best poet in the world—whom Horace calls “inimitable”
—wrote his poems in praise of swift horses, and victorious riders. Hiero
was a king, and a gentleman, but he was not too proud to ride his own
matches. The first Olympic is addressed to him as a horseback-man, the
second to him as a charioteer. Quinctilian goes the craziest nonsense about
the Poet's Union—Olympic—Beacon—Pythian—Camden—Nemean—and
Trenton—Isthmian—course outpourings. Some of them are fair, that's a
fact. But I can't find the time set down in a single report. Time, or no
time, however, it would make some of our nags grit their teeth, to read the
odes in the original Greek.
One principal reason why our turf is so quiet, so deathlike, is that the
club dont elect a poet laureate, and people are ashamed, or dare not, mount
their own steeds.—The only exceptions are in the cases of an English
steeple-chase, and an Irish fox-hunt.—Let somebody come out with something
in the style of
“Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum”
horses onward, as though Burns' witches were after them. Then, then we
might be able to come home and say
“There was mounting 'mong boys of the Netherby clan
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;”
reined back his curving charger, before the admiring ladies, up to taw,
in front of the Judges' Stand. Now, instead of a chivalrous knight willing
to do to death for the cross that hangs upon his ladye-love's forehead, we
look upon the ghastly face of some pale boy, consumptive, blanket-sweated,
to bring him down to weight; or upon the black eye-very, and the white ivory
of an Abyssinian baboon licked into the shape of humanity, and pivotted
with tiny feet upon the back of a steed who neighs for a master. What
pretty execution would that babe do against helmet, cuirass and slashing
battle-axe! Knighthood! horsemanship! Bring up your horses! That's
a good cry, and enables one to say a thing or two in favor of modern racing.
It sounds like that “Quadrupedante” sentence I just now quoted from Virgil.
I heard it when Eclipse lost the first heat, and a man mounted him.
I knew that Purdy would win. I saw his eye. It was like a conqueror's.
I saw his seat. It was firm as Roman cement ten years old. He was
glued to the saddle. He was part of the horse. I saw a centaur that
once. His legs added two ribs to the glorious steed, but were adopted and
formed a happy strengthening plaster to the whole family circle. His left
hand felt the bit, and Eclipse looked back. His eyes, at a glance, told him
there was no mistake about that feel. Then there walked up to the starting
post, a dignified, fleet, and certain nag, as ever retrieved begun defeat,
bearing upon his back one whom we might have wished to have lived in
Pindar's time, but for the hope he will yet contrive to bring the Sun and
Moon together, get up a new Eclipse, and ride a triumph again.—Printcr's
Asmodeus.
3. CHAPTER II.
—“palmaque nobilis
Terrarum dominos evehit ad Deos.”
—Horace, Ode 1.
“Few people ritely estimate the furious luxuriaunce of an old fashioned
Romanne Course. Pitie 'tis, no Turffe Registrar chronicled the glorious
height of heates of those braue ages. Saue only the poetts did record
“evehit ad Deos,” or some suche loose reporte. Time, pedigree, enduraunce,
speede, be mostlie lost. Muche 'tis to be feared the begarlie
Monkes who should haue been burned wh hotte fire, haue erasede out
manie choice accomptes from the parchmente scroules of the triumphs at
the Campus Martius, whereon to rite their stupide missals, and haue little
lefte behinde saue imperfecte legendes. Yet euen from wolves, the halfe
eaten lambe torne, wh violent force uppone their guashing teeth dothe to
the hungrie exploarer of antique fatherre-lands taste like manna to a wandering
sinnere of Israel in the wilderness. Soe to a trew louer of a good
horse raice dothe fashion forthe for itsuelf a noble grace an auncieute charriott
struggle, albeit Monkish Latinne roll between, being, so to speeke,
the axle of the wheel.”
—Wink: ed. 1649, p. 46.
It was no common meeting. The sporting world of Rome,
and all its provinces, were on the Campus Martius. Spain
sent her jennets from her dark Moriscan stables, and her wild
mountain rovers flashed their long manes around the heads of
their safe-seated Guerillas. Gaul entered untrimmed fetlocks.
Brittania stamped the track with heavy cart-horse hoofs. Sarmatia
sweated, Dacia pranced upon the track. Greece stood
unsaddled in clear Spartan ribs, and trod, beside this simple
fit-out, magnificent in rich Corinthian adornment. Numidia
sent her wild eye-lightnings and Libya tramped the plain with
foaming teeth. Egypt entered Cleopatra,—Black Maria of
her mistress queen. Syrian, Babylonian, Median, Mesopotamian,
all, were there. Felix Arabia walked out her splendid
stallions, bitted by stately Bedouins. The Imaum of Muscat
glorified his country by the challenge of two lippers of the
Persian Gulf. Great Jupiter! what an anniversary!
The Course was free for all four-year-olds that never had
hub to hub of hind wheel; steeds unlimited in number,—the
parties litigant to draw for places.
The Prætor's trumpet blew a summon blast, and straight a
host of pawing combatants neighed at the starting post. The
Meta was scarcely seen for feather floaters. The Red, the
White, the Green, the Blue, the Golden and the Purple mountings
mingled sparklings of ambition for the glory of success.[5]
It was a goodly sight to see the foamy rush of the wave-breasted
steeds stopped on the instant into marble statue movement
by the stern muscles of their godlike drivers. First stood
Marcellus, with his followers in Blue, holding a pair of milk-white
colts from Elis, unbroken yet, but kind, great in their
name, the gift of a Greek girl, daughter of a happy hero
who bore away the wreath victorious at the last Olympic, and
died as he was crowned. 'T was said their sires were the
horses of the Sun, who in the last eclipse stole time and loved
their vein-swollen mothers. Hard upon him pressing, scarcely,
with desperate force, young Julius reined his four-in-hand
of dark-lashed Gypsies—true bred, fresh, fed with grain, and
groomed upon the meadows of the Nile, and signalled by their
nature, Green. Whose panting ardor steamed by his side?
'T was Sergius Cataline sending fire through his reins to the
fifth couple-leaders.[6]
Close by his side rushed all his band
of friends, traitors to Rome—pimps of intriguing Fulvia, rob
Cicero. Cassius and Cethegus, Lentulus and Curius, stood
each—in false conspiracy, urging ferocious warrior steeds to
aid their leader, and defeat the faction upon which Cicero had
bet with Cataline—in chariots side-armed with scythes, to cut
their adversaries' horses down. They flared in Red. Next
stood Gracchus, proud in his gorgeous family “Purple.”
Mark Antony shone in Gold behind six proud-necked bitchampers.
Last of all, a Knight, unknown, stood like a god,
with foot advanced upon his dashboard of pure pearl, grooming,
with skilful ease, three pair of coal-black ear-glistening
limb-tremblers, unable to stand still, and rolling fire from their
nostrils,[7] —himself and reins and harness all in brilliant white,
and sparkling steel. The ladies cried “behold Apollo!” as
they owned with beating hearts the heavenly grace of his
recognition of the shouts of commendation which went to the
skies from the hundred thousand throats;[8] and freely wagered
rings and bracelets upon the gallant stranger's triumph.
The sacred rites were celebrated, the lots were drawn, and
straight, obedient to the rules established, the factions took
their stations. The Master of the Lude dropped his white
waves of the raging combatants. Julius took the
lead, and “Green!” “Green!” was the cry. Hard behind
lashed Cataline, and all his faction. “Blue,” “purple,”
“white,” and “golden,” seemed to hang back to watch the
chance for a dash.
“Green!—Blue!—Purple!—Golden!” went up the shouts
from the friends of the different factions as they became involved
in dust, and locked each other's wheels. None cried
“Red,” for even the stable boys hated Cataline. “White!”
screamed Lucretia, although he lagged behind, and seemed to
fear. “White against the field.”
“You are a fool,” said Mrs. Cornelius Grab-us Agrip-onus,
who sat near her.
“The chiel's distraught,” quietly remarked an old Scotch
servant-woman behind,—brought out by the Cæsar,—“what'll
ye bet, my lassie?”
The baby which the slave had on her arm then set up a domestic
yell, and with the vociferations of the boy, and people
in the box—“I want to go home”—and “Turn her out”—
Lucretia's answer was lost. What cared she?
“The White!—look!”—shouted Lucretia; “see! he is
discounting lashes freely! His whip touches the flank of the
near side leader! He is in the melee! He gains! He is
ahead of all but Cataline!”
“I can't see, my dear, so plain as thee can,” said an African
Quakeress, whom the Spirit had moved to come from the
borders of the Red Sea to see this uncommon race,—“I can't
see, my dear, so well as thee, on account of the dust, but I
think, I mean, I fear thee is in love with that `White,'—his mistress,
likely,—but he'll burst his boiler, and smash his bank—
chariot I mean—before he gets to the first Meta.”
“Out on thee! for a foul witch!” replied Lucretia, very
quietly,—like all women,—and, suiting the action to the word,
laid, with impressive significance, the back of her hand upon
the fat lips of the prophetic Abyssinian. Faintness followed,
and the doorkeeper, with the utmost kindness, dragged out
the smitten slave. She never attended quaker meetings again.
Drs. Auger and Aruspex, and their students, dug her up
about a year afterwards, and one of them delivered a lecture
over her bones at the Museum on the interesting topic of Ourang
Outangs.
“White! white! white!” now vociferated the excited girl.
But none would bet her more, and the timid began to hedge—
hard work, too, to find a hedge to hide behind—for the noble
lady's shouts had reached the unknown's ear, and he was mad
with strength and skill.
Short time was there to bet or hedge; for the first meta[9]
was approached by such a troop of sweepstakers as never had
been seen before. Some honor-seeker must be dashed against
the horrid columns, dedicated to the gods, which marked the
turning point, or crushed between the antagonistic chariots.
Who must be thrown under prostrate horses! Who must
die? “On, white;” cried Cicero. “Whip, golden!”—
“Whip, green!” halloed some shoemaker's apprentices, and
laborers of Erinnys. “Steady, hold! White! white! for
the love of Heaven! hold and wait!” shrieked Lucretia.
Mark, mark, how impious Cataline and his crew let out their
horses of Marcellus! The noble youth had seen, and reining
hard, held back, and knew with horror, but determined
vengeance, Marcellus, cut in twain, his horses madly running
with half his body bleeding in his chariot. Upon the other
half, prone in the dust, crowned with rich auburn locks, and
eyes beautiful in death, the leaders of Mark Antony stumbled
and stopped. The cursed scythe of Lentulus cut his wheel-horses.
Cethegus, with his hubs of heavy steel, crushed in
his chariot sides, and Mark was tossed at least full fifty yards,
into the stall of an old woman who sold crabs, just outside the
track. “There's an end of that poor nigger,” sang out Cataline.
The “Green,”—unhappy Julius, green enough,—ran
against the marble column on the left, and smashed himself
into life eternal. Cethegus and Lentulus pressing on, got entangled
in their own snares, and cut each other. Off their
nags jumped, and struck their comrade Curius. It was curious
indeed to see how they leaped the barriers, and ran across the
field. The “Gracchus” then made a bold dash, but his unwilling
mare shyed, backed, and kicked at the sight of the
mixed up blood of dying men and horses, and whip nor spur
would make them move. None then remained but Cataline
and the unknown white knight. O! with what an agony of
anxiety did Lucretia cry, “Be wary of his cursed poisonous
sword-point!” “Kill him!” cried the master of the Lude—
“he rides foul, and murders!” “Kill him;”—“Stab him;”
cried the whole assembled multitude. The white knight
raised his whip,—with one end he lashed his streaming leaders,—with
the other, heavy loaded, he gave Mr. Cataline a
crack on the head, that tumbled him out of his vehicle. His
horses ran away just where they had a mind to. He fell into
muddy. Some thought he was a little drunk. The white
knight walked his horses over the course, as the waves walked
over the smitten Egyptians, treading upon the bodies of his
foes, and took the wreath of glory.
That night he married Lucretia.
The White Knight was the son of Cicero.
The four ancient companies were the Prasina, the Russata, the Alba
or Albata, and the Veneta; the Green, the Red, the White, the Sea Colored
or Sky Colored. This distinction was taken from the color of their liveries,
* * * Domitian added two new companies, the Golden and the Purple.”
—Kennett, R.
A.
“In ordinary reading we meet only with the Bigœ and the Quadrigœ;
but they sometimes had their Sejuges, Septemjuges, &c. Suetonius assures
us that when Nero was a performer in the Olympic game, he made
use of a `Decemjugis,' or chariot drawn with ten horses
together.”—Ib.
Collectumque premens volvit sub maribus ignem.”
Virg. Georgics.
was Circus Maximus, first built by Tarquin. The length of it was four
stadia, or furlongs, the breadth the like number of acres, with a trench of
ten foot deep, and as many broad, to receive the water; and seats enough
for one hundred and fifty thousand men. It was extremely adorned and
beautified by succeeding princes, particularly by Julius Cæsar, Augustus,
&c., and enlarged to such an extent as to be able to contain in their proper
seats, two hundred and sixty thousand spectators.”
—Kennett.
“Some moderns say 380,000. Its circumference was a mile.”
—Adams
Rom. Antiq.
Mem.—Kennett and Adams differ in their way and result of estimation
of length and breath.—
“There was at the one end of the cirque certaine barriers, id est places
barred or railed in, at which place the horses began the race; and at the
other end was the marke, whether the horses ran: it was called in Latin
Meta, and the barriers Carceres, a coercendo. Whence we say `a Carceribus
ad Metam,' that is, from the beginning to the ending.”—Cripp's
Roman Anthology, “printed by Iohn Litchfield, Printer to the famous
Vniversity, at Oxford, Ann. Dom. 1631.”
4. NO. III.
SUBTERRANEAN NEWS.
Dear Editor,—I was reading the fifth book of the æneid
one afternoon last week, after dining magnificently upon roast
pig and green peas, when, almost imperceptibly, and with a
sensation of gradual, languid, pleasant metamorphosis, I was,
in the body, taken out of the body, and transported to the unmonopolized
public lands of poetry and classic story. Animal
magnetism carried me over the track we flew. Cumœa received
me, ambitious pilgrim, seeking safe convoy and a passport
for travel through the interesting regions that own Pluto
for their king. I stood upon the margin of the sacred grove,
where grows the golden tree, whose branches are at once the
protection-papers and the pilot of the specially favored living,
to the country of ghosts and infernal gods. Mighty enterprise,
glorious riches of glowing incidents! What subterranean
treasures shall I glorify to the wondering upper air, if ever I
get back! “Pencillings by the way”—“Crayon Sketches”
—Trolloping “inklings” of a jaunt through Tartarus during
the year 1839. Shade of æneas, help me to break through
these cat-briars and blackberry bushes, that guard the entrance
to the sacred tree!
With this invocation I pressed boldly into the penetralia of
the wood. I readily discovered the individual who keeps
watch over the aureal vegetable, and expressed to her my desire
to go to Hell. My request was received with courtesy,
and the trusty watch-woman accompanied her acknowledgment
putting into my hand a sister branch of the bough which marshalled
the pious son of Anchises some thousand years ago.
I felt the god running through my veins as I touched the scion
of the tree of knowledge and power.
“I presume, sir, I need not show you the way,” said the
civil sybil; “you New-Yorkers are generally familiar with
the road; but if you should miss your track, the rod will direct
you. Follow the rod. The gold will keep you straight.”
I touched my hat to the old lady in acknowledgment of the
complimentary observation which she was pleased to express
touching my fellow-citizens, and bidding her good day, turned
to commence my journey.
Immediately the under-brush and matted trees fell apart,
disclosing a broad avenue of spiral green sward running down
into the earth at about an angle of thirty-two and a half degrees.
Down this declivity I walked, or rather was whirled
by a vehement power of centripetal locomotion, which soon
brought me to the boundary of the dusky empire. High,
higher than sight; far—farther than thought, stretched the
everlasting walls. Gloomily and fearfully the grand portals
frowned before me. The gates were swung wide open, but
old Cerberus was wide awake, and his three heads were
busily occupied in fighting a family quarrel in reference to a
bone which each appeared desirous to appropriate.
The moment he noticed me he saluted me with an ululatory
recognition, which made me somewhat doubt the sufficiency
of my nerves for the journey I had undertaken. I trembled
more especially, because in the hurry of my setting out I had
neglected to bring with me the customary viaticum to grease
and bribe his jaws. Moreover, one does not like to strike a
gentleman's dog, particularly when he is on a visit to him,
But the impetus of my progress was such, that there
was no time for adjustment of the difficulty. “I must settle
this business with Pluto,” said I to myself. Then I took
courage and thought of Hercules, who dragged the cur to
earth and back again; and raising my metal, no lightly-loaded
weapon, I got in readiness—a blow at the rushing whelp,
which, if it had been discharged in the proper direction, would
have probably made him a constellation alongside of his brother
Sirius. But, oh! wonder-working gold! the moment that the
treasure glittered in his eyes, the three-mouthed coward fawned
and grovelled at my feet, kissing the yellow rod, like a skinner
before a money-lender at a quarter before three.
“Charge! good dog,” said I, patting his heads successively,
to make sure of his good opinion when I should return; and
under these established terms of friendship, we separated. I
soon arrived at the east bank of the Styx, where I found innumerable
ghosts, walking up and down, and waiting their
turn to cross. The throng at this landing place reminded me
of the congregation at the Brooklyn ferry on a race day; only
the people were all on foot. My magic passport gained me
an easy opening through the multitude, most of whom seemed
to be Ethiopians and low Irish. Those who held themselves
more respectable stood back at a distance from the river, and
a few groups that I particularly noticed, appeared by their gestures,
and the occasional emphatic words which sruck my ear,
to be discussing some question about the monopoly of the
ferry. The doctrine of equal rights, however, was faithfully
regarded. No exclusive facilities for entering into the kingdom
were allowed. Every candidate was duly billeted, the
moment he arrived by the constables of the vestibule, and each
took turn according to the number of his ticket, without any
that was required was the paying for his ferriage. When I
arrived at the brink of the sluggish stream, the ferryman had
just put out with a cargo of small children. But on the instant
he caught a glimpse of the golden rod, he returned and
hurried out his passengers with fierce precipitation, forgetting,
in his haste, to pay back the ferriage he had received.
“Step in, step in, step in. Welcome to Erebus. Don't
see flesh and blood every day. Give us your fist. Where do
you hail from? Allow me to inhale once again the fragrance
of that—snuff, snuff—my soul! Over! Ov—a—re—no,
I beg your pardon, sir. You shall not be annoyed with any
of the greasy ghosts. A mere slip of the tongue—my calling.
I'll row you over alone with pleasure.”
I gave the hand of the veteran mariner a hearty grasp, and
at his beckoning, took a seat in the stern-sheets, and off he
put.
We had hardly got six yards from the bank, when a familiar
voice, a little way down the stream, assailed my ears
with a loud hilloa. I turned at the cry, and to my utter astonishment,
saw my old friend Jack Furnace, who had sailed
only ten days before for Liverpool, in perfect health, swinging
his hands above his head, and shouting.
“Mercy! protect us!” cried I. “Jack, is that you?
Charon, my dear boy, shove back and take him in.”
“That's contrary to law,” replied the old gentleman.
“Don't you see his ticket is numbered 11,251,956? There's
a whole army to cross before he can tread my plank.”
“You will most particularly oblige me, my esteemed friend,
if you will, in this single instance, suspend the operation of
the provisions of your charter. That gentleman, whose demise
I am thus suddenly called on to deplore, owes me a very
fortnight since, and I should be happy to get his order upon
his executors or administrators, to pay the amount to me out
of his assets. Poor Jack! What could have killed him?
Indeed, dear Charon, you must take him in. Allow me to
present to you this twig of my bough, as a trifling token of
my regard to your friendship, and the firmness of your adherence
to the established usages of your boat.”
“Don't mention this on the other side,” said the old man,
thrusting the argument into his pantaloons' pocket, with some
rapidity; at the same time bending and pretending to fix a
thole-pin and backing water. “Old Minos would have me
indicted, if he were to find out that in a single case bribery and
corruption had made me lose sight of the equal rights of the
ghosts. I should certainly be turned out of office.”
Jack jumped in about mid-ship, and, ghost as he was, nearly
swamped the ricketty craft with his irregular weight. He
was fat, puffed, and, strange for a shade, red-faced, and worse
and worse, was evidently inebriated. His marvellous appearance
excited very natural inquiry. His story was soon told.
He and the captain, crew, and passengers of the vessel he had
sailed in, had just got down from the bed of the Atlantic
Ocean. On the tenth day out at 4 A.M. sea time, they ran
upon a mountain of ice floating under water, and in five minutes
after, in a brisk flaw, foundered and went to the bottom.
Jack was at his wine at the time, when he was quite as unpleasantly
as unexpectedly called upon to change his liquor.
Jack's inclination always did use to be in favor of drinking
many bumpers rather than to submit to a single glass of brine.
I could not, therefore, help saying to him, that it must have
been rather mortifying to be subjected to the punishment imposed
upon people who want to keep sober, while he was giving
My suggestion did not seem to find favor with my—now—fellow-passenger,
and former fellow-sinner.
“No post mortem reflections, Jerry,” said Jack, mournfully;
“you're not Coroner—it's a bad business—bad—bad. I'm
very penitent. Cut off in my prime—no notice to quit—unhouselled—unanointed!—What
killed you my boy?”
“I'm not dead, Jack; I'm on a voyage of discovery—playing
Orpheus. Though I don't mean to pick up a wife here.
By-the-by—do you remember that thousand? Can't you give
me an order on your executors?”
“No money, Jerry—no money. Bursted. I'll give you a
deed, when we get across, for my New Brighton speculation,
and my City Lots in Kimakewahamaya. Have you got such
a thing as an obolus about you, to pay this old cock? what's
that? Gold! by Jove! I haven't seen such a piece of bullion
for—” And here my dear friend sprang up and dashed
at my magic branch.
“Sit down—sit down—you'll upset us—you'll be overboard;”
cried our oarsman. But the caution came too late.
Our whiffling skiff shivered quick from larboard to starboard,
dipping her gunnels into the water, and Jack lost his feet, and
then there was a splash, and the waters of the Styx closed over
the head of my unfortunate debtor.
“There he goes. Served him right. Just as I expected,”
remarked the philosophic boatman, as he kept pulling on.
“Stop! stop! Charon, back water! the man will be
drowned!”
“Drowned, will he? He was drowned this morning.
That's three kinds of liquor he's been in to-day;” and the
grim ferryman grinned.
“But he hasn't secured my debt; what will become of
him?”
“Go to the bottom, to be sure. Here's where I generally
lose such fellows. Just half way from shore. Call it `half
seas over hole.' Grand place for eels.”
“But my venerable Remex, consider my deep interest in
his fate.—Consider my thousand dollars. Can't you get him
up? How deep is it?”
“Never went down to see. Don't fret. He can't exundize
for as many years as he owes you dollars. When the
time comes, he'll float ashore t'other side, and take his trial
with the ghosts of people who have never been buried. Don't
you know it's the law that people that an't buried can't cross
the Styx for a thousand years?”
I remembered the statute as quoted by divers of the poets,
and yielded to the necessity of its requisitions.
Seeing me melancholy, the old man lit up a good-natured
smile.—“Come, cheer up,” said he, “cheer up. What's the
news on earth? How do parties get on in America? Glorious
country, that.—In danger, though—terrible danger!
Italian Opera—loco focoism—gambling in stocks—Animal
Magnetism—French legs—Irish heads—Maine mill sites—
Oregon building lots—phrenology—banks—brokers—twig
that snapping turtle! What are your politics?”
“Mine, sir? I am a federal democratic whig republican,
of the loco foco genus, conservative species, whole hog in the
abstract, and always ready to sacrifice personal opinion to the
judicious principles of public policy, rightly understood in reference
to the individual interests of the citizen. Those are
my sentiments, my friend. Permit me to inquire the state of
parties in Hell. Do the Whigs or Democrats rule the roast?
about the firemen. How does that department vote?”
“O, we have no people to put out fire here. We don't admit
them.—They're so uncertain. But we've had our own
time of it, nevertheless.—Pluto has had his hands full. Listen!
First, up gets a company of speculating ghosts, with not
an obolus among the whole lot of them, and whose turn
to cross hadn't come yet, and presents a petition to the throne,
for an act of incorporation under the title of “The Salamander
Styx Bridge, and Acheron Death and Trust Company,” with
banking privileges. As this was got up merely to raise the
price of building lots near Colonel Tantalus' pond, which they
had bought of Colonel Ixion at a high price with their promissory
notes, all the loafer ghosts that had sixpence cash in
their pockets, consulted and kicked. Free Trade and Sinners'
Rights Associations were formed in every part of Tartarus.
A special committee was sent up stairs for Fanny Wright.
They contrived to get off unobserved, and the first thing we
knew, down came the man giantess. The way she walked
over the sulphur was a caution. She throttled Cerberus, and
almost choked him with a copy of the “Emancipator,” and
strode on to the ferry. Seeing me half way across, she dashed
into the river and came after me like a shark—upset the boat
—tumbled me and six old women and a young Baptist minister
overboard, mounted the skiff, and sculled herself ashore.
Soon as she landed, she stole away my boat hook, stuck upon
its top her handkerchief, upon which was stamped, in indelible
red ink, the motto “Equal Rights and Free Ferries—now
and forever, one and inseparable.” The ghosts turned pale,
Acheron boiled, Tartarus trembled. Pluto came out, and took
off his hat, mistaking her for Minerva on a spree. Yielding
to the divine afflatus which possessed her he followed her
raised the watchword cry of “Reform,” and demanded that
he should abandon his Pagan notion of devotion to a single
wife, and that she should be made queen of Hell, No. 2.
Aschalaphus standing by, ran off, on hearing the negotiation, and
told Proserpine. Then there was the Devil to pay. Proserpine
started, in a rage, and brought out the Fates and Furies, and
rushed to the rescue of monogamy. Did you ever see women
fight?—Snakes! such a row! The people in Elysium heard
it, and came rushing in. Socrates and Adam Smith, Plato
and Malthus flew to the rescue, with cries of “turn her out!
turn her out!” “Order! Order!” sung out Pluto; but no
more order could be had than on the last night of a session of
Congress when Wise is speaking. Puff—puff—it's hot!”
“Well; how did you finally succeed in getting her out?”
“I can't say, my dear boy. Her ascent was as mysterious
as her advent. Both immense. Some think she's here yet.”
I am interrupted, my dear Editor. If you don't hear from
below before, I will tell you the rest of the adventure, next
time I write. Please consider this letter private.
| Sporting scenes and sundry sketches | |