Every day the huge CawanaLifted up its monstrous jaws;And it swallowed Langton Bennett,And digested Rufus Dawes.
Riled,I ween, was Philip Slingsby,Their untimely deaths to hear;For one author owed him money,And the other loved him dear.
"Listen now, sagacious Tyler,Whom the loafers all obey;What reward will Congress give me,If I take this pest away?"
Then sagacious Tyler answered,"You're the ring-tailed squealer! LessThan a hundred heavy dollarsWon't be offered you, I guess!
"And a lot of wooden nutmegsIn the bargain, too, we'll throw—Only you just fix the critter.Won't you liquor ere you go?"
Straightway leaped the valiant SlingsbyInto armour of Seville,With a strong Arkansas toothpickScrewed in every joint of steel.
"Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant,Come with me, as squire, I pray;Be the Homer of the battleWhich I go to wage to-day."
Sothey went along careeringWith a loud and martial tramp,Till they neared the Snapping TurtleIn the dreary Swindle Swamp.
But when Slingsby saw the water,Somewhat pale, I ween, was he."If I come not back, dear Bryant,Tell the tale to Melanie!
"Tell her that I died devoted,Victim to a noble task!Han't you got a drop of brandyIn the bottom of your flask?"
As he spoke, an alligatorSwam across the sullen creek;And the two Columbians started,When they heard the monster shriek;
For a snout of huge dimensionsRose above the waters high,And took down the alligator,As a trout takes down a fly.
"'Tarnal death! the Snapping Turtle!"Thus the squire in terror cried;But the noble Slingsby straightwayDrew the toothpick from his side.
"Farethee well!" he cried, and dashingThrough the waters, strongly swam:Meanwhile, Cullen Bryant, watching,Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram.
Sudden from the slimy bottomWas the snout again upreared,With a snap as loud as thunder,—And the Slingsby disappeared.
Like a mighty steam-ship foundering,Down the monstrous vision sank;And the ripple, slowly rolling,Plashed and played upon the bank.
Still and stiller grew the water,Hushed the canes within the brake;There was but a kind of coughingAt the bottom of the lake.
Bryant wept as loud and deeplyAs a father for a son—"He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby,And the brandy's nearly done!"
In atrance of sickening anguish,Cold and stiff, and sore and damp,For two days did Bryant lingerBy the dreary Swindle Swamp;
Always peering at the water,Always waiting for the hourWhen those monstrous jaws should openAs he saw them ope before..
Still in vain;—the alligatorsScrambled through the marshy brake,And the vampire leeches gailySucked the garfish in the lake.
But the Snapping Turtle neverRose for food or rose for rest,Since he lodged the steel depositIn the bottom of his chest.
Only always from the bottomSounds of frequent coughing rolled,Just as if the huge CawanaHad a most confounded cold.
Onthe bank lay Cullen Bryant,As the second moon arose,Gouging on the sloping greenswardSome imaginary foes;
When the swamp began to tremble,And the canes to rustle fast,As though some stupendous bodyThrough their roots were crushing past.
And the waters boiled and bubbled,And, in groups of twos and threes,Several alligators bounded,Smart as squirrels, up the trees.
Then a hideous head was lifted,With such huge distended jaws,That they might have held GoliathQuite as well as Rufus Dawes.
Paws of elephantine thicknessDragged its body from the bay,And it glared at Cullen BryantIn a most unpleasant way.
Then it writhed as if in torture,And it staggered to and fro;And its very shell was shakenIn the anguish of its throe:
Andits cough grew loud and louder,And its sob more husky thick!For, indeed, it was apparentThat the beast was very sick.
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Till,at last, a spasmy vomitShook its carcass through and through,And as if from out a cannon,All in armour Slingsby flew.
Bent and bloody was the bowieWhich he held within his grasp;And he seemed so much exhaustedThat he scarce had strength to gasp—
"Gouge him, Bryant! darn ye, gouge him!Gouge him while he's on the shore!"Bryant's thumbs were straightway buriedWhere no thumbs had pierced before.
Right from out their bony socketsDid he scoop the monstrous balls;And, with one convulsive shudder,Dead the Snapping Turtle falls!
****
"Post the tin, sagacious Tyler!"But the old experienced file,Leering first at Clay and Webster,Answered, with a quiet smile—
"Sinceyou dragged the 'tarnal critturFrom the bottom of the ponds,Here's the hundred dollars due you,All in Pennsylvanian Bonds!"
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[Thestory of Mr Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel, is this: A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effrontery to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to fragments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it with salt, and despatched it to a packet bound for New Orleans. Suspicions having been excited, he was seized and tried before Judge Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. The ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting detail, as to her connection with Colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a Mr Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admission that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a de-tail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal-murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was "entitled to the sympathyof a jury of his country," as "a young man just entering into life,whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted." Colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, whichoccupied more than a year from the date of conviction, the sentence of death was ratified by Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.]
And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knotwas tied,And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside;"Let's go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear;I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff'sodious leer.
Thejailer and the hangmen, they are waiting both forme,—I cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee!Oh, how I loved thee, dearest! They say that I amwild,That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand ofher child;
They say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halvesThe carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves.They say that I am stern of mood, because, like saltedbeef,I packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him 'primetariff;'
Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled JohnBull,And clear a small percentage on the sale at Liverpool;It may be so, I do not know—these things, perhaps,may be;But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee!
Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space isours,—Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch—I guess there's goodtwo hours.We'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping worldat bay,For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day!"
Theclock is ticking onward,It nears the hour of doom,And no one yet hath enteredInto that ghastly room.
The jailer and the sheriff,They are walking to and fro:And the hangman sits upon the steps,And smokes his pipe below.
In grisly expectationThe prison all is bound,And, save expectoration,You cannot hear a sound.
The turnkey stands and ponders,—,His hand upon the bolt,—"In twenty minutes more, I guess,'Twill all be up with Colt!"
But see, the door is opened!Forth comes the weeping bride;The courteous sheriff lifts his hat,And saunters to her side,—
"I beg your pardon, Mrs C.,But is your husband ready?""Iguess you'd better ask himself,"Replied the woeful lady.
The clock is ticking onward,The minutes almost run,The hangman's pipe is nearly out,'Tis on the stroke of one.
At every grated window,Unshaven faces glare;There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee,And Lynch, of Delaware;
And Batter, with the long black beard,Whom Hartford's maids know well;And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach,The pride of New Rochelle;
Elkanah Nutts, from Tarry Town,The gallant gouging boy;And 'coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hillsThat frown o'er modern Troy;
Young Julep, whom our Willis loves,Because, 'tis said, that heOne morning from a bookstall filchedThe tale of "Melanie;"
And Skunk, who fought his country's fightBeneath the stripes and stars,—All thronging at the windows stood,And gazed between the bars.
Thelittle hoys that stood behind(Young thievish imps were they!)Displayed considerablenousOn that eventful day;
For bits of broken looking-glassThey held aslant on high,And there a mirrored gallows-treeMet their delighted eye. *
* A fact.
The clock is ticking onward;Hark! Hark! it striketh one!Each felon draws a whistling breath,"Time's up with Colt! he's done
The sheriff looks his watch again,Then puts it in his fob,And turns him to the hangman,—"Get ready for the job."
The jailer knocketh loudly,The turnkey draws the bolt,And pleasantly the sheriff says,"We're waiting, Mister Colt!"
No answer! no! no answer!All's still as death within;The sheriff eyes the jailer,The jailer strokes his chin.
"Ishouldn't wonder, Nahum, ifIt were as you suppose."The hangman looked unhappy, andThe turnkey blew his nose.
They entered. On his palletThe noble convict lay,—The bridegroom on his marriage-bed,But not in trim array.
His red right hand a razor held,Fresh sharpened from the hone,And his ivory neck was severed,And gashed into the bone.
****
And when the lamp is lightedIn the long November days,And lads and lasses mingleAt the shucking of the maize;
When pies of smoking pumpkinUpon the table stand,And bowls of black molassesGo round from hand to hand;
When slap-jacks, maple-sugared,Are hissing in the pan,And cider, with a dash of gin,Foams in the social can;
Whenthe goodman wets his whistle,And the goodwife scolds the child;And the girls exclaim convulsively,"Have done, or I'll be riled!"
When the loafer sitting next themAttempts a sly caress,And whispers, "O! you 'possum,You've fixed my heart, I guess!"
With laughter and with weeping,Then shall they tell the tale,How Colt his foeman quartered,And died within the jail.
[Illustration: 056]
[Beforethe following poem, which originally appeared in 'Fraser's Magazine,' could have reached America, intelligence was received in this country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, to any one who observed the state of public manners in America, that such occurrencesmusthappen, sooner or later. The Americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an American work on American manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer'sownproduction; and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amusing satire, by an American, of his countrymen's foibles!]
The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took thechair;On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck wasthere.With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in hischeekHis quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster roseto speak.
Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,And like a free American upon the floor he spat;Then turning round to Clay, He said, and wiped his manlychin,"What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter'sskin?"
"Youngman," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick ofTennessee;Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gougerhe;He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at thechairs,And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife hebears.
"Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so longand thin,Has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within."But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar'sheart,—"Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!"
Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked towardthe chair;He saw the stately stripes and stars,—our country's flagwas there!His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor hesprang,Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke hisfirst harangue.
"Whosold the nutmegs made of wood—the clocks thatwouldn't figure?Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlastingnigger?For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'llkickThat man, I guess, though nothing less than 'coon-facedColonel Slick!"
The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild,—his very beardwaxed blue,—His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seatbelow—He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,—
"Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried,with ire elate;"Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip myweight!Oh! 'tarnal death, I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, andyour chaffing,—Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them withoutlaughing!"
Hisknife he raised—with, fury crazed, he sprang acrossthe hall;He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:He never stopped to look or think if he the deed shoulddo,But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollarflew.
They met—they closed—they sank—they rose,—in vainyoung Dollar strove—For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate ColoneldroveHis bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground theyrolled,And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked ineach other's hold.
With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggledand they thrust,—The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon thedust;He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sankand died,Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.
Thusdid he fall within the hall of Congress, that braveyouth;The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and oftruth;And still among the statesmen throng at Washington theytellHow nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.
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"Youngchaps, give ear, the case is clear. You, SilasFixings, youPay Mister Nehemiali Dodge them dollars as you're due.You are a bloody cheat,—you are. But spite of all yourtricks, itIs not in you Judge Lynch to do. No! nohow you canfix it!"
Thusspake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama'sforum,Around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench beforehim;And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stoodbeneath,Still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked histeeth.
It was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was theair,A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er hischair;All naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat,Like an old senator of Rome that simple Archon sat.
"A bloody cheat?—Oh, legs and feet!" in wrath youngSilas cried;And springing high into the air, he jerked his quidaside."No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelingstrifle,As long as Silas Fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle."
"If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, "you'll very,soon have ease;I'll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please;What are your weapons?—knife or gun?—at both I'mpretty spry!""Oh! 'tarnal death, you're spry, you are?" quoth Silas;"so am I!"
Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shadesof time,And they have sought that forest dark at morning's earlyprime;Lynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with afriend,And half the town in glee came down to see that contest'send.
They led their men two miles apart, they measured outthe ground;A belt of that, vast wood it was, they notched the treesaround;Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neitherknewWhere he should seek his wagered foe, how get him intoview.
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Withstealthy tread, and stooping head,from tree to tree they passed,They crept beneath the crackling furze, theyheld their rifles fast:
Hour passed on hour, the noonday sunsmote fiercely down, but yetNo sound to the expectant crowd proclaimedthat they had met.
And now the sun was going down, when,hark! a rifle's crack!Hush—hush! another strikes the air,—andall their breath draw back,—Then crashing on through bush and briar,the crowd from either sideRush in to see whose rifle sure with bloodthe moss has dyed.
Wearywith watching up and down, brave Lynch con-ceived a plan,An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man;He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by;Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat letfly.It fell; up sprang young Silas,—he hurled his gunaway;Lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where helay.
The bullet pierced his manly breast—yet, valiant to thelast,Young Fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail *cast.
* The Yankee substitute for thechapeau de soie.
With tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the spacebetween,And stabbed the air as stabs in grim Macbeth the youngerKean:Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched himon the ground,Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drewround.
Theyhailed him with triumphant cheers—in him eachloafer sawThe bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law;And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at hisease,—That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his owndecrees.
They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell,And gum-trees wave above his grave—that tree he lovedso well;And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights arelong and damp;But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary 'PossumSwamp.
[Rapidlyas oblivion does its work nowadays, the burst of amiable indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of Boz'sNotescan scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the "stranger," and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember Boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. We hope we have done justice to the bitterness and "immortal hate" of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. When will Americans cease to justify the ridicule of Europe, by bearing rebuke, or even misrepresentation, calmly as a great nation should?]
Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's pulingchild,Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thouhast reviled;Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie,Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by;Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained andcreaking ship,Thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-soddenlip;
When amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's ex-piring shade,Fromthe bagman's berth above thee comes the bountifulcascade,Better than upon the Broadway thou shouldst be at noon-day seen,Smirking like a Tracy Tupman with a Mantalini mien,With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest,Worse than even P. Willis for an evening party drest!
We received thee warmly—kindly—though we knew thouwert a quiz,Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of Phiz!Much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorse-less spellsOf that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlast-ing Nells.When you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and allthat sort of thing,Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked hissling;
And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the manyhundreds nearNot one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear.Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of senseWe engaged the place in Park Street at a ruinous expense;Even our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre-scriptive right,And deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful night.
Clustersof uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool,Saw thee desperately plunging through, the perils of LaPoule:And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of thetune,—"Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't He foot it like a'coon?"Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-grogs?Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored aNewman Noggs;
And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there thento blame,To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milkthey came.Did the hams of old Virginny find no favour in thineeyes?Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought ofpumpkin pies?Could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn?Did not all our cakes rebuke thee, Johnny, waffle, dander,corn?
Could not all our care and coddling teach, thee how todraw it mild?Well, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right! Wespoilt the child!You,forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broad-est hintsOf your own peculiar losses by American reprints.Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung;Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth;you, I guess, may holdyour tongue.
Downpour throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hardas pickled salmon,That, I s'pose, you call free trading,—I pronounce it uttergammon.No, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soonhave seenThat a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green;That we never will surrender useful privateering rights,Stoutly won at glorious Bunker's Hill, and other famousfights;
That we keep our native dollars for our native scribblinggents,And on British manufacture only waste our straggling cents;Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump of these a fewFor the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you.
I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the Falls,I have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls;But "a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace,Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmasgeese.As for"old familiar faces," looking through the misty air,Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw yourChuckster there.
One familiar face, however, you will very likely see,If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee,Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch,In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, Lynch.Half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood,Would, I strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good.
Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever didbefore,Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor,Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at thechairs,Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife hebears,—Why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain,And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws hischain.
All these things the judge shall teach thee of the landthou hast reviled;Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's pulingchild!
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Once—'twaswhen I lived at Jena—At a Wirthshous' door I sat;And in pensive contemplationAte the sausage thick and fat'Ate the kraut that never sourerTasted to my lips than here;Smoked my pipe of strong canaster,Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer;Gazed upon the glancing river,Gazed upon the tranquil pool,Whencethe silver-voiced Undine,When the nights were calm and cool,As the Baron Fouqué tells us,Rose from out her shelly grot,Casting glamour o'er the waters,Witching that enchanted spot.
From the shadow which the coppiceFlings across the rippling stream,Did I hear a sound of music—Was it thought or was it dream?There, beside a pile of linen,Stretched along the daisied sward,Stood a young and blooming maiden—'Twas her thrush-like song I heard.
Evermore within the eddyDid she plunge the white chemise;And her robes were losely gatheredRather far above her knees;Then my breath at once forsook me,For too surely did I deemThat I saw the fair UndineStanding in the glancing stream—And I felt the charm of knighthood;And from that remembered day,Every evening to the WirthshausTook I my enchanted way.
Shortlyto relate my story,Many a week of summer longCame I there, when beer-o'ertaken,With my lute and with my song;Sang in mellow-toned sopranoAll my love and all my woe,Till the river-maiden answered,Lilting in the stream below:—"Fair Undine! sweet Undine!Dost thou love as I love thee?""Love is free as running water,"Was the answer made to me.
Thus, in interchange seraphic,Did I woo my phantom fay,Till the nights grew long and chilly,Short and shorter grew the day;Till at last—'twas dark and gloomy,Dull and starless was the sky,And my steps were all unsteady,For a little flushed was I,—To the well-accustomed signalNo response the maiden gave;But I heard the waters washing,And the moaning of the wave.
Vanishedwas my own Undine,All her linen, too, was gone;And I walked about lamentingOn the river bank alone.Idiot that I was, for neverHad I asked the maiden's name.Was it Lieschen—was it Gretchen?Had she tin, or whence she came?So I took my trusty meerschaum,And I took my lute likewise;Wandered forth in minstrel fashion,Underneath the louring skies;Sang before each comely Wirthshaus,Sang beside each purling stream,That same ditty which I chantedWhen Undine was my theme,Singing, as I sang at Jena,When the shifts were hung to dry,"Fair Undine! young Undine!Dost thou love as well as I?"