Now when the sea grew soft and still, and all the gale was o’er,

Sam Jackson made himself a raft, and paddled safe ashore.

For fear of fatal accidents—not knowin’ what might come,

He took a gun and matches, with a prudent cask of rum.

Now this island where he landed proved as merry as a fife,

For its indigents had ne’er beheld a white man in their life;

Such incidents as rum and guns they never yet had seen,

And likewise, in religion, they were awful jolly green.

But they had a dim tradition, from their ancestors, in course,

Which they had somehow derived from a very ancient source:

How that a god would come to them, and set the island right;

And how he should be orful tall, and likewise pearly white.

Now when they saw this Samuel approachin’ on his raft,

The news through all the island shades was quickly telegrapht,

How all their tribulations would speedily be past,

’Cos the long-expected sucker was invadin’ ’em at last.

Now when Sam Jackson stept ashore, as modest as you please,

Nine thousand bloomin’ savages received him on their knees;

He looked around in wonderment, regardin’ it as odd,

Not bein’ much accustomed to be worshipped as a god.

But he twigged the situation, and with a pleasin’ smile

Stretched out his hands, a-blessin’ all the natives of the isle;

He did it well, although his paws were bigger than a pan,

Because he was habitual a most politeful man.

So to return their manners, and nary-wise for fun,

He raised himself with dignity, and then fired off his gun:

So all allowed that he must be one of the heavenly chaps,

Since he went about with lightning and dispensed with thunderclaps.

They took him on their shoulders, and he let it go for good,

And went into their city in the which a temple stood,

And sot him on the altar, and made him their salams,

And brought him pleasant coco-nuts, with chickens, po and yams.

And from that day henceforward, in a captivating style,

He relegated, as he pleased, the natives of that isle;

And when an unbeliever rose—as now and then were some,

He cured their irreligion with a little taste of rum.

He settled all their business, and he did it very well,

So everything went booming like a blessed wedding bell;

Eleven lovely feminines attended to his wants,

And a guard of honour followed him to all his usual haunts.

Now what mortal men are made of, that they can’t put up with bliss,

I do not know, but this I know, that Sam got tired of this;

He wished that he was far away, again aboard a ship,

And all he thought of—night and day—was givin’ ’em the slip.

And so one night when all was still and every soul asleep,

He got into a good canoe and paddled o’er the deep,

But oh the row the natives made, when early in the morn

They came to worship Samuel, and found their god was gone!

Then Samuel travelled many days, but had the luck at last

To meet a brig from Boston where he shipped before the mast;

And he gave it as his sentiments, and no one thought it odd,

He was better off as sailor than when sailing as a god.

Now many years had flown away when Samuel was forgot,

There came a ship for pearl shell unto that lonely spot;

They went into the temple, and what do you suppose

They found the natives worshipping—a suit of Samuel’s clothes!

And this was the tradition of the people of the soil,

How once a great divinity had ruled upon their isle;

Four fathom tall, with eyes like fire, and such was their believin’,

One night he got upon the moon—and sailed away to Heaven!

    “Wall, it’s a fact,” cried Doolittle, “I’ll swear

    A rover ain’t contented anywhere;

    But if he is a real sailor slip,

    He’s happiest on the hull—aboard a ship—

    For there at times he has his tallest fun,

    Especially if ’tis a dandy one

    Where all is fine—O mateys, that’s the thing!”

    He raised his voice, and thus began to sing:

    (While up and down he merrily did prance)

    Unto the air of Dance, the Boatman, dance!

Where the rockiest Rocky Mountains interview the scornful skies,

And the sager kinds of sage-bush in the middle distance rise,

There the cultured eye descending from the dreamlike azure hill,

Lights in an æsthetic foreground on the town of Gloryville.

It was in the Middle Ages—’bout the end of Sixty-eight,

So I found the hoary legend written on an ancient slate—

That one Ezry Jenks prospecting, when he reached this blooming spot,

Thus uplifted to his pardner: “Glory! Moses, let us squat!”

Thus rebounded Moses Adams: “Glory was the foremost word

Which in the untrammelled silence of this wilderness was heard,

And I arnswer, dimly feelin’ like a prophet, grand and slow,

‘Glory kinder sounds like Money—up to glory let her go!’ ”

And this casual conversation in the year of Sixty-eight,

As if by an inspiration he recorded on a slate,

Which ’twas said in later ages—six weeks after—used to hang

As a curiositary in the principal shebang.

On the spot that very evening they perceived a beauteous gleam

From a grain of shining metal in a wild auriferous stream:

As their eyes remarked the symptom thus their tongues responsive spoke:

“In this undiscovered section there is pay-dirt, sure as smoke!”

Little boots or little shoes it to inform you how, like crows

To a carcase, folks came flying, and the town of Glory rose;

As in country schools the urchins cast each one a spittle-ball,

Till at last a monstrous paper fungus gathers on the wall.

’Long the road they built their cabins, in a vis-a-visual way,

As if each man to his neighbour kind of wished to have his say;

But ’twas also said that like two rows of teeth the houses grew,

Threatening uncommon danger to the stranger passing through.

Yes, for like the note of freedom sounded on Hibernia’s harp,

Every person in the party was a most uncommon sharp;

And it got to be a saying that from such an ornery cuss

As a regular Gloryvillin—oh, good Law deliver us!

First of all the pay-dirt vanished or became uncommon rare,

Then they wandered more than ever to the Cross and from the Square,

For when all resources failed them nary copper did they mind,

For they had fine-answering Genius, which is never left behind.

So they got incopperated as a city fair and grand,

Spreading memoirs of their splendour over many a distant land,

Mind I say in distant places—people near them knew

Into what unearthly beauty the great town of Glory grew.

Then they sent an ex-tra Governor over seas and far beyond,

Even unto distant Holland, loaded up with many a bond,

Splendidly engraved in London, having just the proper touch

Quite imposing—rather—for they did impose upon the Dutch.

And with every bond the Governor had a picture to bestow

Of the town of Gloryville a-bathing in the sunset’s glow;

This they had performed in Paris by an artist full of cheek,

Who was told to draw a city comme il faut dans l’Amérique.

The ideas of this artist were idead from long ago,

Out of scenery in an opera, “Cortez in the Mexico.”

Therefore all his work expanded with expensive fallacies:

Castles, towered walls, pavilions, real-estately palaces.

In the foreground lofty palm-trees, as if full of soaring love,

Bore up coco-nuts and monkeys to the smiling heaven above;

Jet-black Indian chieftains, at their feet too lovely girls were sighin,

With an elephant beyond them—here and there a casual lion.

You have seen in Pilgrim’s Progress the Celestial City stand

Like a hub in half a cart-wheel raying light o’er all the land.

Well, in that, it is the felloes of the wheel which cause the blaze;

So in Gloryville the fellows were the ones who made the rays.

When these views were well matured the Governor went to Amsterdam,

Where to Mynheer Schmuel Ganef first of all he made his slam:

At a glance each “saw” the other—at a glance they went aside,

And without a word of bother soon the plan was cut and dried.

For one hundred thousand dollars then the Governor at will

Gave away the full fee-simple of the town of Gloryville.

“Dat for you,” said Schmuel Ganef, “is, I dink, not much too much,

But I makesh de shtock a million ven I sells him to the Dutch.”

And the secret of his selling was upon the artful plan

Known to the police in Paris as the vol Américain,

Whereby he who does the spilling manages the man who’s spilt

Very nicely, for he makes him an accomplice in the guilt.

Even as of old great sages managed the Parisian fonds,

So in Amsterdam Heer Ganef peddled out his Glory bonds;

And to all he slyly whispered, “I will let you in de first

On de ground-floor—sell out quickly—for you know de ding may burst.”

Woe to you who live by thieving, though you be of rogues the chief,

Even the greatest will discover in due time his master-thief.

True, he “let them in,” and truly on the very bottom floor,

But was with the Gloryvillins in the cellar long before.

And to tell you how the biters all got bitten were in vain;

Here the Governor leaves my story, and he comes not in again.

I will pass to later ages, when all Gloryville, you bet,

Found itself extreme encumbered with an extra booming debt.

Those who sold the bonds had vanished, those who hadn’t held the town,

Little knew they of its glory over seas or great renown.

They had nothing of the fruitage, though, alas! they held the plant,

Nothing saw they of the picture, save, indeed, the Elephant.

He who had been in the background now came trampling to the fore;

Terribly he trampled on them, very awful was his roar!

Very dreadful is the silence when no human voice responds

To a legal requisition for the interest of our bonds.

But ere long a shrewd reflection unto Moses Adams came—

“Darned ef I’m a-gwine to suffer fur another party’s game;

Wings is given to muskeeters—like muskeeters men can fly;

Ef a strawberry-vine can travel with its roots, then why not I?”

Silently, in secret, Moses to himself a plan reveals,

Got a three-inch plank and sawed it into surreptitious wheels,

And when night in solemn mystery had succeeded unto day,

Put his hut and things on axles, and quite lonely drove away

To a place just over yonder by the old Coyote Road;

There, no more a man of glory, Moses Adams dropped his load,

And when resting from his labour and refreshing from his jug,

Having known a town called Julesberg, called his shanty Splendourbug.

On the following morn as usual in due time arose the sun,

And the Gloryvillins followed his example one by one;

While he smiled upon the city, as on other things beneath,

’Twas observed one snag was wanting in the double row of teeth.

Little said the Left-behinders, but they seemed to take the hint,

And each man surveyed his neighbour with a shrewd and genial squint;

All day long there was a sound of sawing timber up and down,

Seven more houses in the morning were a-wanting in the town.

And before the week departed all the town departed too,

Just like the swallows in the autumn to another soil they flew;

Only that, unlike the swallows which we hear of in the song,

When the Gloryvillins squandered each one took his nest along.

All except one ancient darkey, obstinate and blind and lame,

Who for want of wheels and credit could not follow up the game;

So the others had to leave him, which they did without regret,

Left him there without a copper—just one million deep in debt.

If you seek them you may find them comfortable as in a rug,

All of them at length established in the town of Splendourbug;

And the driver to the traveller as by Gloryville he goes,

Points him out, an ancient darkey who a million dollars owes.

          When Eagle Davis died,

          I was sittin’ by his side,

’Twas in Boston, Massachusetts; and he said to me, “Old boy!

          This climate—as you see—

          Isn’t quite the size for me;

Dead or livin’, take me back if you can to Ellanoy!”

          So I took him by the hand,

          But he’d just run out his sand,

And his breath was gone for ever—before a word would come;

          Then I and other three

          Together did agree

In a party for to travel and to funeralise him home.

          But Goshen Wheeler said,

          As he looked upon the dead,

Weepin’ mildly, “Just remark my observation what I say:

          That deceased, now glorious,

          Was in life a curious cuss,

And somethin’ unexpectable will happen on the way.

          “Frum the time that he was born

          Till he doubled round the Horn

Of Death, all his measurements and pleasurements were odd;

          And odd his line will be,

          As you’re registered to see,

Till his walnut case is underneath the gravel and the sod.”

          It was bitter winter weather

          When we all four got together

At the depôt with the coffin in an extra packin’ box;

          And a friend with good intent,

          A cask of whisky sent,

Just to keep our boats from wrackin’, as they say, upon the rocks.

          Then a ticket agent he

          Seein’ mournin’, says to me,

“Can I get the cards, or help you in your trouble, Mister Brown?”

          So with solemn words I said,

          As I pinted to the dead,

“There you’ll find, I guess, our pilgrimage and shrine is written down.”

          Then all night beneath the stars

          We sat grimly in the cars,

Sometimes sleepin’, sometimes thinkin’, sometimes drinkin’, till the dawn;

          And each man went in his turn

          To the baggage-crate to learn

If the box was keepin’ time with us, and how ’twas gettin’ on.

          Then all day beneath the sun

          Still the train went rushin’ on,

While we still kep’ as silent as grave-stones as we went:

          Playing euchre solemnly,

          Which we kinder did agree

With the stakes to build for Davis a decent monument.

          ’Bout once in every mile

          Some mourner took a smile,

But we did no other smilin’ as we travelled day or night;

          And once in every hour

          Some one went into the bower,

And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right.

          But when four days were past,

          Which we still were flyin’ fast,

Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,

          “Where we are it should be freezin’

          And our very breaths a-squeezin’,

Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmon pies.

          “Don’t you smell a rich perfume

          As of summer flowers in bloom?

’Tis magnolias a-peddled by yon humble coloured boy:

          Now, I never yet did know

          That the sweet mag-no-li-o

Grew in winter in the latitude of Northern Ellanoy.”

          Then said Ebenezer Dotton,

          “I behold a field of cotton,

And I wonder how in thunder such a veg’table got here.

          I don’t know how we’re fixed,

          But the climate’s getting mixed,

And it’s spilin’ very rapidly with warmness as I fear.”

          Spoke Mister Aaron Bland,

          “I perceive on yonder land

That sugar-cane is bloomin’, correctly, all in rows,

          And not to make allusions

          To Republican delusions,

But the niggers air a-gettin’ all around as thick as crows.”

          Still we sat there mighty glum

          Till along a fellow come.

And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means,

          Just inform us where we be?”

          “Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he,

“I reckon we air comin’ to the spot called New Or-leéns!”

          So we rushed all in a row,

          When we got to the depôt,

To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin’ at these transformation scenes;

          And we found out unexpected

          That the box had been directed

Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leéns!

          Without carin’ if I’d catch it,

          I straightway took a hatchet,

And busted off the cover without openin’ my mouth;

          And found a grand pianner

          Which we’d followed for our banner

All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South!

          Then I said, “I rather guess

          I can see into this mess,

And explain the startlin’ error which has given you such shocks.

          When that Boston fellow, he

          Asked the route I’d take of me,

I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.”

          Now Eagle Davis lies

          Beneath the Northern skies,

Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm;

          But I reckon if his spirit

          Should ever come to hear it,

He’ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm.