The Project Gutenberg eBook of Humour of the North, Edited by Lawrence J. Burpee

What, what, what,

What's the news from Swat?

Sad news,

Bad news,

Comes by the cable led

Through the Indian Ocean's bed,

Through the Persian Gulf, the Red

Sea and the Med-

Iterranean—he's dead;

The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Akhoond I mourn,

Who wouldn't?

He strove to disregard the message stern,

But he Ahkoodn't.

Dead, dead, dead;

Sorrow Swats!

Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,

Swats whom he had often led

Onward to a gory bed,

Or to victory,

As the case might be.

Sorrow Swats!

Tears shed,

Shed tears like water,

Your great Ahkoond is dead!

That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat!

Your great Ahkoond is not,

But lain 'mid worms to rot:

His mortal part alone, his soul was caught

(Because he was a good Ahkoond)

Up to the bosom of Mahound.

Though earthly walls his frame surround

(For ever hallowed be the ground!)

And sceptics mock the lowly mound

And say, "He's now of no Ahkoond!"

(His soul is in the skies!)

The azure skies that bend above his loved

Metropolis of Swat

He sees with larger, other eyes,

Athwart all earthly mysteries—

He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond

With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond

With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length

Its tower of strength,

Its sun had dimmed ere it had nooned;

Dead lies the great Ahkoond,

The great Ahkoond of Swat

Is not.

It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.

(Kind reader, although your

Knowledge of French is not first-class

Don't call that Amature.)

It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,

The which did warfare wage

On the dramatic works of this

And every other age.

It had a walking gentleman,

A leading juvenile,

First lady in book-muslin dressed,

With a galvanic smile;

Thereto a singing chambermaid,

Benignant heavy pa,

And oh, heavier still was the heavy vill-

Ain, with his fierce "Ha! ha!"

There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down—

Or up—to Boucicault

These amateurs weren't competent

(S. Wegg) to collar and throw.

And when the winter time came round—

"Season" 's a stagier phrase—

The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one

Of the Bard of Avon's plays.

'Twas As you Like It that they chose;

For the leading lady's heart

Was set on playing Rosalind,

Or some other page's part.

And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass.,

A stalwart, dry-goods clerk,

Was cast for Orlando, in which rôle

He felt he'd make his mark.

"I mind me," said the President

(All thoughtful was his face),

"When Orlando was taken by Thingummy

That Charles was played by Mace.

Charles hath not many lines to speak,

Nay, not a single length—

Oh, if find we can a Mussulman

(That is, a man of strength),

And bring him on the stage as Charles—

But, alas! it can't be did!"

"It can," replied the Treasurer;

"Let's get The Hunky Kid."

This Hunky Kid of whom they spoke

Belonged to the P. R.;

He always had his hair cut short,

And always had catarrh.

His voice was gruff, his language rough,

His forehead villainous low,

And 'neath his broken nose a vast

Expanse of jaw did show.

He was forty-eight about the chest,

And his fore-arm at the mid

Did measure twenty-one and a half—

Such was The Hunky Kid!

The Am. Dram. Ass., they have engaged

This pet of the P. R.;

As Charles the Wrestler he's to be

A bright, particular star.

And when they put the programme out,

Announce him thus they did:

Orlando ... Mr. Romeo Jones;

Charles ... Mr. T. H. Kid.

The night has come; the house is packed

From pit to gallery,

As those who through the curtain peep

Quake inwardly to see.

A squeak's heard in the orchestra,

As the leader draws across

Th' intestines of the agile cat

The tail of the noble hoss.

All is at sea behind the scenes.

Why do they fear and funk?

Alas, alas, The Hunky Kid

Is lamentably drunk!

He's in that most unlovely stage

Of half-intoxication

When men resent the hint they're tight

As a personal imputation!

"Ring up! ring up!" Orlando cried,

"Or we must cut the scene;

For Charles the Wrestler is imbued

With poisonous benzine,

And every moment gets more drunk

Than he before has been."

The wrestling scene has come and Charles

Is much disguised in drink;

The stage to him's an inclined plane,

The footlights make him blink,

Still strives he to act well his part

Where all the honour lies,

Though Shakespeare would not in his lines

His language recognise

Instead of "Come, where is this young——?"

This man of bone and brawn,

He squares himself and bellows, "Time!

Fetch your Orlandos on!"

"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man,"

Fair Rosalind said she,

As the two wrestlers in the ring

Grapple right furiously;

But Charles the Wrestler had no sense

Of dramatic propriety.

He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones

In Graeco-Roman style;

He got what they call a grapevine lock

On that leading juvenile;

He flung him into the orchestra,

And the man with the ophicleide,

On whom he fell, he just said—well,

No matter what—and died!

When once the tiger has tasted blood,

And found that it is sweet,

He has a habit of killing more

Than he can possibly eat.

And thus it was with The Hunky Kid.

In his homicidal blindness

He lifted his hand against Rosalind,

Not in the way of kindness.

He chased poor Celia off at L.,

At R. U. E. Le Beau,

And he put such a head upon Duke Fred,

In fifteen seconds or so,

That never one of the courtly train

Might his haughty master know.

And that's precisely what came to pass

Because the luckless carles

Belonging to the Am. Dram. Ass.

Cast The Hunky Kid for Charles!

Canto I—The Death-Bed Oath

It was some thirty years ago,

An evening calm and red,

When a gold-haired stripling stood beside

His father's dying-bed.

"Attend, my son," the sick man said,

"Unto my dying tones,

And swear eternal vengeance to

The accursed race of Jones.

For why? Just nineteen years ago

A girl sat by my side,

With cheek of rose and breast of snow,

My peerless, promised bride.

A viper by the name of Jones

Came in between us twain;

With honeyed words he stole away

My loved Belinda Jane.

For he was rich and I was poor,

And poets all are stupid

Who feign the god of Love is not

Cupidity, but Cupid.

Perchance 'tis well, for had I wed

That maid of dark-brown curls,

You had not been, or been, instead

Of boy, a pair of girls.

Now listen to me, Walter Smith;

Hie to yon plumber bold,

An thou would'st ease my dying pang,

His 'prentice be enrolled.

For Jones has houses many on

The fashionable squares,

And thou, perchance, may'st be called in

To see to the repairs.

Think on thy father's ravished love.

Recall thy father's ills,

Remember this, the death-bed oath,

Then, make out Jones's bills."

Canto II—The Young Avenger

Young Walter's to the plumber gone.

A boy with smut on nose,

Furnace and carpet-sack in hand,

With the journeyman he goes.

Now grown a journeyman himself,

In grimy hand he gripes

A candle-end, and 'neath the sink

Explores the frozen pipes.

His furnace portable he lights

With smoking wads of news-

Papers, and smiles to see within

The pot the solder fuse.

He gives his fiat: "They are froze

Down about sixteen feet;

If you want water ere July

You must dig up the street."

"Practical Plumber" now is he,

As witnesseth his sign,

And ready now to undertake

Repairs in any line.

One day a housemaid, as he sat

At the receipt of biz,

Came crying, "Ho, Sir Smith, Sir Smith,

Sir Jones's pipes is friz."

He girt his apron round his loins,

His tools took from the shelf,

And to the journeyman he said,

"I'll see to this myself."

"Would," said he, as he drew the bill,

"My father were alive;

Ten pounds of solder at ten cents,

$1.75!"

Canto III—The Traitor's Doom

The Jones had houses many on

The avenues and squares,

And hired the young Avenger Smith

To see to the repairs,

And Smith put faucets in, and cocks,

And meters, eke, and taps,

Connections, T-joints, sewer pipes,

Basins and water-traps;

He tore the walls and ripped the floors

To reach the pipes beyond,

And excavations in the street

And 'neath the side-walk yawned;

And daily as he entered up

The items in his book

The plumber's face wore a serene

And retrospective look.

And Jones would wring his hands and cry,

"Woe, woe, and utter woe!

Ah me! that taxes should be so high

And rents should be so low!"

Then he would give the Smith the house

As instalment on account

Of its repairs, and notes of hand

For the rest of the amount.

Canto IV—Avenged at Last

Now Smith had been for a dozen years

In the practical plumbing line,

And the bills of Smith did not grind slow,

And they ground extremely fine.

Terrace by terrace, house by house,

The lands of Jones he took,

And heavier still the balance was

Writ in that fatal book.

At last, no property nor cash

Had he, so he did fail,

And the avenging plumber locked

Him up in Ludlow Jail.

His heartless creditor he besought

For mercy in his need.

"Nay, nay, no mercy, lie and rot,"

Quoth he, "in jail, like Tweed.

For I have sworn avenged to be

On thee, thy kin and kith;

Rememberest thou Belinda Jane?

I am the son of Smith!!!"

A Venetian Merchant who was lolling in the lap of luxury was accosted upon the Rialto by a friend who had not seen him for many months. "How is this?" cried the latter. "When I last saw you your gaberdine was out at elbows, and now you sail in your own gondola." "True," replied the Merchant, "but since then I have met with serious losses, and been obliged to compound with my creditors for ten cents on the dollar."

An Elephant had been endeavouring to rive the bole of a knotted oak with his trunk, but the tree closed upon that member, detaining it, and causing the hapless Elphas Africanus intense pain. He shook the forest with his trumpeting, and all the beasts gathered around him. "Ah, ha, my friend," said a pert Chimpanzee, "you have got your trunk checked, I see." "My children," said a temperate Camel to her young, "let this awful example teach you to shun the bole." "Does it hurt much?" said a compassionate Gnu. "Ah, it does; it does; it must; I gnu it; I have been a mother myself." And while they were sympathising with him the unfortunate Elephant expired in great agony.

Moral.—The moral of the above is so plain as to need explanation. Talk is cheap.

As a Coroner was entering a saloon to see a man he beheld a careless boy, who was eating a Banana, cast the rind of the fruit upon the slippery stone sidewalk, but instead of chiding the urchin, smiled and passed on. As he was coming out of the saloon, having satisfied his thirst, he slipped on the peel of the Banana, and, falling, broke his neck; so that a rival coroner made the fees from the inquest.

A thirsty Rhinoceros, having to his great joy encountered a Dromedary in the desert of Sahara, besought the latter animal of his mercy to give him a drink, but the Dromedary refused, stating that he was holding the fluid for an advance. "Why," said he to the Rhinoceros, "did you not imitate my forethought and prudence, and take some heed to the morrow?" The Rhinoceros acknowledged the justice of the rebuke. Some time afterwards he met in an oasis the Dromedary, who had realised at the turn of the market and was now trying to cover his shorts. "For Heaven's sake," he gasped to the Rhinoceros, who was wallowing in the midst of a refreshing pool, "trust me for a nip." "When I was thirsty," replied the Rhinoceros, "you declined to stand the drinks, but I will give you a horn." So saying, he let the grateful sunlight into the Dromedary's innards.

A Hen who had saved a Tailor from drowning in a marine disaster that had cost several of his less fortunate companions their lives asked him his opinion of the theory of evolution. The grateful Tailor replied that he was himself an instance of the survival of the fittest; and the philosophical Fowl, remarking that it was vulgar to pun, walked off with much dignity to resume her interrupted occupation of hatching out a china nest-egg.

A famished Nightingale, who had been singing to very thin houses, chanced to encounter a Glow-worm at eventide and prepared to make upon him a light repast. The unfortunate Lampyris Splendidula besought the Songster, in the sacred name of Art, not to quench his vital spark, and appealed to his magnanimity. "The Nightingale who needlessly sets claw upon a Glow-worm," he said, "is a being whom it were gross flattery to term a Luscinia Philomela." The Bird, however, turned a deaf beak to these appeals and was about to douse the glim, when the Glow-worm cried out, "Beware, lest I give you the heartburn; remember how Herod and Luther died of a diet of Glow-worms," and while the Nightingale (who was by no means a bad bird at stomach) was considering these propositions, escaped, hanging out false lights to baffle his enemy's pursuit.

While a Centipede was painfully toiling over the Libyan Desert he was encountered by a barbaric Yak, who scornfully asked him how were his poor feet. The humble creature made no reply at the time, but some days later found the barbaric Yak taken in the nets of the hunter and almost devoured by insects, which fled at the approach of the Centipede. "Help, help, my good friend!" exclaimed the unfortunate beast. "I cannot move a muscle in these cruel toils, and the ravenous insects have devoured my delicate flesh." "Say you so?" responded the Centipede. "Can you really not defend yourself?" "Alas! how can I?" replied the Yak. "See you not how straitly I am bound?" "And is your flesh then so delicate?" "It is, though I say it who should not." "Then," said the Centipede, "I guess I'll take a bite myself."

A Newsboy was passing along the street, when he chanced to discover a purse of greenbacks. He was at first inclined to conceal it, but, repelling the unworthy suggestion, he asked a Venerable Man if it was his'n. The Venerable Man looked at it hurriedly, said it was, patted him on the head, gave him a quarter, and said he would yet be president. The Venerable Man then hastened away, but was arrested for having counterfeit bills in his possession, while the honest Newsboy played penny-ante with his humble quarter and ran it up to $2.62.

A Villager one frosty day found under a hedge a Snake almost dead with cold. Moved with compassion, and having heard that snake oil was good for the rheumatiz, he took it home and placed it on the hearth, where it shortly began to wake and crawl. Meanwhile, the Villager having gone out to keep an engagement with a man 'round the corner, the Villager's son (who had not drawn a sober breath for a week) entered, and, beholding the Serpent unfolding its plain, unvarnished tail, with the cry, "I've got 'em again!" fled to the office of the nearest Justice of the Peace, swore off and became an apostle of Temperance at $700 a week. The beneficent Snake next bit the Villager's mother-in-law so severely that death soon ended her sufferings—and his; then silently stole away, leaving the Villager deeply and doubly in its debt.

Moral.—A virtuous action is not always its only reward. A snake in the grass is worth two in the boot.

An Ostrich and a Hen chanced to occupy adjacent apartments, and the former complained loudly that her rest was disturbed by the cackling of her humble neighbour. "Why is it," she finally asked the Hen, "that you make such an intolerable noise?" The Hen replied, "Because I have laid an egg." "Oh no," said the Ostrich, with a superior smile, "it is because you are a Hen and don't know any better."

Moral.—The moral of the foregoing is not very clear, but it contains some reference to the Agitation for Female Suffrage.

Signora Mirandolina Rocca, who was the landlady of the house where the Club were lodging, was a widow, of about forty years of age, still fresh and blooming, with a merry dark eye, and much animation of features. Sitting usually in the small room which they passed on the way to their apartments, they had to stop to get their keys, or to leave them when they went out, and Buttons and Dick frequently stopped to have a little conversation. The rest, not being able to speak Italian, contented themselves with smiles; the Senator particularly, who gave the most beaming of smiles both on going and on returning. Sometimes he even tried to talk to her in his usual adaptation of broken English, spoken in loud tones to the benighted but fascinating foreigner. Her attention to Dick during his sickness increased the Senator's admiration, and he thought her one of the best, one of the most kind-hearted and sympathetic of beings.

One day, toward the close of their stay in Rome, the Senator was in a fix. He had not had any washing done since he came to the city. He had run through all his clean linen, and came to a dead stand. Before leaving for another place it was absolutely necessary to attend to this. But how? Buttons was off with the Spaniards; Dick had gone out on a drive. No one could help him, so he tried it himself. In fact, he had never lost confidence in his powers of making himself understood. It was still a fixed conviction of his that in cases of necessity any intelligent man could make his wants known to intelligent foreigners. If not, there is stupidity somewhere. Had he not done so in Paris and in other places?

So he rang and managed to make the servant understand that he wished to see the landlady. The landlady had always shown a great admiration for the manly, not to say gigantic charms of the Senator. Upon him she bestowed her brightest smile, and the quick flush on her face and heaving breast told that the Senator had made wild work with her too susceptible heart.

So now when she learned that the Senator wished to see her, she at once imagined the cause to be any thing and every thing except the real one. Why take that particular time, when all the rest were out? she thought. Evidently for some tender purpose. Why send for her? Why not come down to see her? Evidently because he did not like the publicity of her room at the Conciergerie.

She arrayed herself, therefore, in her brightest and her best charms; gave an additional flourish to her dark hair that hung wavingly and luxuriantly, and still without a trace of gray, over her forehead; looked at herself with her dark eyes in the glass to see if she appeared to the best advantage; and finally, in some agitation, but with great eagerness, she went to obey the summons.

Meantime the Senator had been deliberating how to begin. He felt that he could not show his bundle of clothes to so fair and fine a creature as this, whose manners were so soft and whose smile so pleasant. He would do anything first. He would try a roundabout way of making known his wishes, trusting to his own powers and the intelligence of the lady for a full and complete understanding. Just as he had come to this conclusion there was a timid knock at the door.

"E permesso?" said a soft, sweet voice, "se puo entrare?" and Signora Mirandolina Rocca advanced into the room, giving one look at the Senator, and then casting down her eyes.

But the Senator was in a quandary. What could he do? How begin? What gesture would be the most fitting for a beginning?

The pause began to be embarrassing. The lady, however, as yet was calm—calmer, in fact, than when she entered.

The Senator was dreadfully embarrassed. The lady was so fair in his eyes. Was this a woman who could contemplate the fact of soiled linen? Never.

Then, looking up, she saw the face of the Senator, all rosy red, turned toward her with a strange confusion and embarrassment in his eye; yet it was a kind eye—a soft, kind eye.

"Egli e forse innamorato di me," murmured the lady, gathering new courage as she saw the timidity of the other. "Che grandezza!" she continued, loud enough for the Senator to hear, yet speaking as if to herself. "Che bellezza! un galantuomo, certamente—e quest' e molto piacevole."

She glanced at the manly figure of the Senator with a tender admiration in her eye, which she could not repress, and which was so intelligible to the Senator that he blushed more violently than ever, and looked helplessly around him.

"E innamorato di me, senza dubio," said the Signora, "vergogna non vuol che si sapesse."

The Senator at length found voice. Advancing toward the lady he looked at her very earnestly, and as she thought very piteously held out both his hands, then smiled, then spread his hands apart, then nodded and smiled again, and said:

"Me—me—want—ha—hum—ah! You know—me—gentleman—hum—me——Confound the luck!" he added, in profound vexation.

The Senator turned his eyes all around, everywhere, in a desperate, half-conscious search for escape from an embarrassing situation.

"Signore noi ci siamo sole, nessuno ci senti," remarked the Signora encouragingly.

"Me want to tell you this!" burst forth the Senator. "Clothes—you know—washy—washy." Whereupon he elevated his eyebrows, smiled, and brought the tips of his fingers together.

"Io non so che cosa vuol dir mi, Illustrissimo," said the Signora, in bewilderment.

"You—you—you know. Ah? Washy? Hey? No, no," shaking his head, "not washy, but get washy."

She retreated a step. Whereupon the Senator at once fell back again in great confusion.

"Washy, washy," he repeated mechanically, as his mind was utterly vague and distrait.

"Non capisco. Ma quelle, balordaggini ed intormentimente, che sono si non segni manifesti d'amore?"

"The fact is this, marm," said he firmly, "I want to get my clothes washed somewhere. Of course you don't do it, but you can tell me, you know. Hm?"

"Madame," said he, feeling confident that she would understand that word at least, and thinking, too, that it might perhaps serve as a key to explain any other words which he might append to it, "my clothes—I want to get them washed—laundress—washy—soap and water—clean 'em all up—iron 'em—hang 'em out to dry. Ha?"

While saying this he indulged in an expressive pantomime. When alluding to his clothes he placed his hands against his chest, when mentioning the drying of them he waved them in the air. The landlady comprehended this. How not? When a gentleman places his hand on his heart, what is his meaning?

"O sottigliezza d'amore!" murmured she. "Che cosa cerca," she continued, looking up timidly but invitingly.

The Senator felt doubtful at this, and in fact a little frightened. Again he placed his hands on his chest to indicate his clothes; he struck that manly chest forcibly several times, looking at her all the time. Then he wrung his hands.

"Ah, Signore," said La Rocca, with a melting glance, "non è d'uopo di desperazione."

"Eppure, se Ella vuol sposarmi, non ce difficoltà," returned the other, with true Italian frankness.

The Senator had his arms outstretched to indicate the hanging-out process. Still, however, feeling doubtful if he were altogether understood, he thought he would try another form of pantomime. Suddenly he fell down on his knees, and began to imitate the action of a washer-woman over her tub, washing, wringing, pounding, rubbing.

"O gran' cielo!" cried the Signora, her pitying heart filled with tenderness at the sight of this noble being on his knees before her, and, as she thought, wringing his hands in despair. "O gran' cielo! Egli è innamorato di me non puo parlar Italiano e cosi non puo dirmelo."

Her warm heart prompted her, and she obeyed its impulse. What else could she do? She flung herself into his outstretched arms as he raised himself to hang out imaginary clothes on an invisible line.

The Senator was thunderstruck, confounded, bewildered, shattered, overcome, crushed, stupefied, blasted, overwhelmed, horror-stricken, wonder-smitten, annihilated, amazed, horrified, shocked, frightened, terrified, nonplussed, wilted, awe-struck, shivered, astounded, dumfounded. He did not even struggle. He was paralysed.

"Ah, carissimo," said a soft and tender voice in his ear, a low, sweet voice, "se veramenta me ami, saro lo tua carissima sposa——"

At that moment the door opened and Buttons walked in. In an instant he darted out. The Signora hurried away.

After a time he went with a pale and anxious face to see Buttons. That young man promised secrecy, and when the Senator was telling his story tried hard to look serious and sympathetic. In vain. The thought of that scene, and the cause of it, and the blunder that had been made overwhelmed him. Laughter convulsed him. At last the Senator got up indignantly and left the room.

But what was he to do now? The thing could not be explained. How could he get out of the house? He would have to pass her as she sat at the door.

He had to call on Buttons again and implore his assistance. The difficulty was so repugnant, and the matter so very delicate, that Buttons declared he could not take the responsibility of settling it. It would have to be brought before the Club.

The Club had a meeting about it, and many plans were proposed. The stricken Senator had one plan, and that prevailed. It was to leave Rome on the following day. For his part he had made up his mind to leave the house at once. He would slip out as though he intended to return, and the others could settle his bill, and bring with them the clothes that had caused all this trouble. He would meet them in the morning outside the gates of the city.

This resolution was adopted by all, and the Senator, leaving money to settle for himself, went away. He passed hurriedly out of the door. He dared not look. He heard a soft voice pronounce the word "Gioia!" He fled.

Now that one who owned the soft voice afterward changed her feelings so much toward her "gioia" that opposite his name in her house-book she wrote the following epithets: Birbone, Villano, Zolicaccio, Burberone, Gaglioffo, Meschino, Briconaccio, Anemalaccio.