LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 223, 25 February 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

OBITUARY POETRY. ( Concluded.) ‘Really,’ Mr Slimmer said, ‘that person must be deranged. I tried, in his case, to put myself in his place, and to write as if I was one of the family, according to instructions. The verses are beautiful. That allusion to the grief of the aunt particularly seemed to me to be very happy. It expresses violent emotion, with a felicitous combination of sweetness and force. These people have no soul—no appreciation of the beautiful in art. ’ While the poet mused, hurried steps were heard upon the stairs, and in a moment a middle-aged man dashed in abruptly, and seeing the colonel’s scattered hair, bumped his prostrate head three or four times with considerable force. Having expended the violence of his emotion in this manner, he held the editor’s head down with one hand, shaking it occasionally by way of emphasis, and with the other hand seized the paper, and said, — ‘ You disgraceful old reprobate ! You disgusting vampire! You hoary-headed old ghoul! What d’you mean by putting such stuff as this in your paper about my deceased son ? What d’you mean by printing such awful doggrel as this, you depraved and dissolute ink-slinger—you imbecile quilldriver, you ! ‘ Oli ! bury Bartholomew out in the woods, In a beautiful hole in the ground, Where the humble-bees buzz and the woodpeckers sing, And the straddle-bugs tumble around; So that, in the winter, when the snow and the slush Have covered his last little bed, His brother Artemus can go out with Jane And visit the place with his sled. ‘ I teach you to talk about straddle bugs! I’ll instruct you about slush! I’ll enlighten your insane old intellect on the subject of singing woodpeckers! What do you know about Jane and Artemus, you wretched buccaneer, you despicable butcher of the English language? Go out with the sled! I’ll carry you out in a hearse before I’ve done with you, you deplorable lunatic. ’ At the end of every phrase the visitor gave the editor’s head a fresh knock against the table. When the exercise was ended, Colonel Bangs explained and apologised in the humblest manner, promising at the same time to give his assailant a chance to Hog Mr Slimmer, who was expected to arrive in a few moments, ‘ The treachery of this man, ’ murmured the poet to the foreman, ‘is dreadful. Didn't he require me to throw a glamour of poesy over commonplace details? But for that I should never have thought of alluding to woodpeckers and bugs, and other children of nature. The man objects to the remarks about the sled. Can the idiot know that it was necessary to have a rhyme for ‘bed!” Can he suppose that I could write poetry without rhyme? The man is a lunatic! He ought not to be at large!’ Hardly had the indignant and energetic parent of Bartholomew departed when a man with red hair and a ferocious glare in his eyes entered, carrying a club, and accompanied by a savage-looking dog. ‘ I want to sec the editor,’ he shouted. A ghastly pallor overspread the colonel’s face, and he said, ‘ The editor is not in,’ ‘Well, when will he be in, then?’ ‘ Not for week—for a month—for a year—for ever. He will never come in any more !’ screamed Bangs. ‘He has gone to South America, with the intention to remain there during the rest of his life. He has departed, lie has fled. If you want to see him you had better follow him to the equator. He will be glad to see you. 1 would advise you, as a friend, to take the next boat —to start at once.’ ‘ That is unfortunate,’ said the man, ‘ I came all the way from Delaware city for the purpose of battering him up a lot with this club. ’ ‘He will be sorry,’ said Bang, sarcastically. ‘He will regret missing you. I will write to him, and mention that you dropped in.’ ‘ My name is M‘Faddcn,’ said the man. ‘ I came to break the head of the man who wrote that obituarj poetry about my wife. If you don’t tell me who perpetrated the following, I’ll break yours for you. Where’s the man who wrote this ? Pay attention : ‘ Mrs M ‘Fadden has gone from this life ; She has left all its sorrows and cares ; She caught the rheumatics in both of her legs, While scrubbing the cellar and stairs. They put mustard plasters upon her in vain ; They bathed her in whisky and rum ; But Thursday her spirit departed, and left Her body entirely numb.'

‘ The man who held the late Mrs M‘Fadden up to the scorn of an unsympathetic world in that shocking manner,’ said the editor, *is named James B. Slimmer. He boards in Black street, fourth door from the corner. 1 would advise you to call on him and avenge Mrs M'Fadden’s wrongs with an intermixture of club and dog bites.’ ‘And this,’ sighed the poet outside the door, ‘is the man who told me to divert M‘Fadden’smind from the contemplation of the horrors of the tomb. It was this monster who counselled me to make the sunshine of M ‘Faddeu’a smiles burst through the tempest of M ‘Fadden’s tears. If the red-headed monster couldn’t smile over that allusion to whisky and rum, if those remarks about the rheumatism in her legs could not divert his mind from the horrors of the tomb, was it my fault? M‘Fadden grovels. He knows no more al tout poetry than a mule knows about the Shorter Catechism.’ The poet determined to leave before any more criticisms were made upon his perform - ances. He jumped down from his chair, and crept softly toward the back staircase. The story told by the foreman relates that Captain Bangs at the same instant resolved to escape any further persecution, and he moved off in the direction taken by the poet. The two met upon the landing, and the colonel was about to begin his quarrel with Slimmer, when an enraged old woman, who had been groping her way upstairs, suddenly plunged her umbrella at Bangs, and held him in a corner while she handed a copy of the Argus to Slimmer, and pointing to a certain stanza, asked him to read it aloud. He did so in a somewhat tremulous voice, and with frightened glances at the enraged colonel. The verse was as follows: Little Alexander’s dead; Jam him in a coflin, Don’t have as good a chance For a fun’ral often. Hush his body right around To the cemetery; Drop him in the sepulchre With his Uncle Jerry, The colonel’s assailant accompanied the recitation with such energetic remarks as these:— ‘ Oh, you willin ! D’you hear that, you wretch? What d’you mean by writin’ of my grandson in that way ? Take that, you serpiut! Oh, you wiper, you ! tryin’ to break a lone widder’s heart with such scand’lus lies as them ! There, you willin ! I kemmere to hammer Jyou with this here umbreller, you owdacious wiper, you ! Take that, and that, you wile, indecent, disgustin’ wagabone! When you know well enough that Aleck never had no Uncle Jerry, and never had no uncle in no sepulchre any how, you vile wretch you !’ When Mr Slimmer had concluded his portion of the entertainment, he left the colonel in the hands of the enemy and fled. He has not been seen in New Castle since that day, and it is supposed that he has returned to Sussex county for the purpose of continuing in private his dalliance with the muses. Colonel Bangs appears to have abandoned the idea of establishing a depai-tment of obituary poetry, and the Argus has resumed its accustomed aspect of dreaminess. I may fairly boast, however, that once during its career it pi'oduced a profound impression on the whole community.