Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 628
We changed horses every ten miles, all day long, and fairly flew over the hard, level road. We jumped out and stretched our legs every time the coach stopped, and so the night found us still vivacious and unfatigued.
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As the sun went down and the evening chill came on, we made preparation for bed. We stirred up the hard leather letter-sacks, and the knotty canvas bags of printed matter (knotty and uneven because of projecting ends and corners of magazines, boxes and books). We stirred them up and redisposed them in such a way as to make our bed as level as possible. And we did improve it, too, though after all our work it had an upheaved and billowy look about it, like a little piece of a stormy sea. Next we hunted up our boots from odd nooks among the mail-bags where they had settled, and put them on. Then we got down our coats, vests, pantaloons and heavy woolen shirts, from the arm-loops where they had been swinging all day, and clothed ourselves in them — for, there being no ladies either at the stations or in the coach, and the weather being hot, we had looked to our comfort by stripping to our underclothing, at nine o’clock in the morning. All things being now ready, we stowed the uneasy Dictionary where it would lie as quiet as possible, and placed the water canteen and pistols where we could find them in the dark. Then we smoked a final pipe, and swapped a final yarn; after which, we put the pipes, tobacco, and bag of coin in snug holes and caves among the mail-bags, and then fastened down the coach curtains all around and made the place as “dark as the inside of a cow,” as the conductor phrased it in his picturesque way. It was certainly as dark as any place could be — nothing was even dimly visible in it. And finally, we rolled ourselves up like silkworms, each person in his own blanket, and sank peacefully to sleep.
Whenever the stage stopped to change horses, we would wake up, and try to recollect where we were — and succeed — and in a minute or two the stage would be off again, and we likewise. We began to get into country, now, threaded here and there with little streams. These had high, steep banks on each side, and every time we flew down one bank and scrambled up the other, our party inside got mixed somewhat. First we would all be down in a pile at the forward end of the stage, nearly in a sitting posture, and in a second we would shoot to the other end, and stand on our heads. And we would sprawl and kick, too, and ward off ends and corners of mail-bags that came lumbering over us and about us; and as the dust rose from the tumult, we would all sneeze in chorus, and the majority of us would grumble, and probably say some hasty thing, like: “Take your elbow out of my ribs! — can’t you quit crowding?”
Every time we avalanched from one end of the stage to the other, the Unabridged Dictionary would come too; and every time it came it damaged somebody. One trip it “barked” the Secretary’s elbow; the next trip it hurt me in the stomach, and the third it tilted Bemis’s nose up till he could look down his nostrils — he said. The pistols and coin soon settled to the bottom, but the pipes, pipe-stems, tobacco, and canteens clattered and floundered after the Dictionary every time it made an assault on us, and aided and abetted the book by spilling tobacco in our eyes, and water down our backs.
Still, all things considered, it was a very comfortable night. It wore gradually away, and when at last a cold gray light was visible through the puckers and chinks in the curtains, we yawned and stretched with satisfaction, shed our cocoons, and felt that we had slept as much as was necessary. By and by, as the sun rose up and warmed the world, we pulled off our clothes and got ready for breakfast. We were just pleasantly in time, for five minutes afterward the driver sent the weird music of his bugle winding over the grassy solitudes, and presently we detected a low hut or two in the distance. Then the rattling of the coach, the clatter of our six horses’ hoofs, and the driver’s crisp commands, awoke to a louder and stronger emphasis, and we went sweeping down on the station at our smartest speed. It was fascinating — that old Overland stage-coaching.
* * * * *
LOST IN THE SNOW
THE NEXT MORNING it was still snowing furiously when we got away with our new stock of saddles and accoutrements. We mounted and started. The snow lay so deep on the ground that there was no sign of a road perceptible, and the snowfall was so thick that we could not see more than a hundred yards ahead, else we could have guided our course by the mountain ranges. The case looked dubious, but Ollendorff said his instinct was as sensitive as any compass, and that he could “strike a bee-line” for Carson City and never diverge from it. He said that if he were to straggle a single point out of the true line his instinct would assail him like an outraged conscience. Consequently we dropped into his wake happy and content. For half an hour we poked along warily enough, but at the end of that time we came upon a fresh trail, and Ollendorff shouted proudly:
“I knew I was as dead certain as a compass, boys! Here we are, right in somebody’s tracks that will hunt the way for us without any trouble. Let’s hurry up and join company with the party.”
So we put the horses into as much of a trot as the deep snow would allow, and before long it was evident that we were gaining on our predecessors, for the tracks grew more distinct. We hurried along, and at the end of an hour the tracks looked still newer and fresher — but what surprised us was, that the number of travelers in advance of us seemed to steadily increase. We wondered how so large a party came to be traveling at such a time and in such a solitude. Somebody suggested that it must be a company of soldiers from the fort, and so we accepted that solution and jogged along a little faster still, for they could not be far off now. But the tracks still multiplied, and we began to think the platoon of soldiers was miraculously expanding into a regiment — Ballou said they had already increased to five hundred! Presently he stopped his horse and said:
“Boys, these are our own tracks, and we’ve actually been circussing round and round in a circle for more than two hours, out here in this blind desert! By George, this is perfectly hydraulic!”
* * * * *
We seemed to be in a road, but that was no proof. We tested this by walking off in various directions — the regular snow-mounds and the regular avenues between them convinced each man that he had found the true road, and that the others had found only false ones. Plainly the situation was desperate. We were cold and stiff and the horses were tired. We decided to build a sage-brush fire and camp out till morning. This was wise, because if we were wandering from the right road and the snow-storm continued another day our case would be the next thing to hopeless if we kept on.
All agreed that a camp-fire was what would come nearest to saving us, now, and so we set about building it. We could find no matches, and so we tried to make shift with the pistols. Not a man in the party had ever tried to do such a thing before, but not a man in the party doubted that it could be done, and without any trouble — because every man in the party had read about it in books many a time and had naturally come to believe it, with trusting simplicity, just as he had long ago accepted and believed that other common book-fraud about Indians and lost hunters making a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together.
We huddled together on our knees in the deep snow, and the horses put their noses together and bowed their patient heads over us; and while the feathery flakes eddied down and turned us into a group of white statuary, we proceeded with the momentous experiment. We broke twigs from a sage-bush and piled them on a little cleared place in the shelter of our bodies. In the course of ten or fifteen minutes all was ready, and then, while conversation ceased and our pulses beat low with anxious suspense, Ollendorff applied his revolver, pulled the trigger and blew the pile clear out of the county! It was the flattest failure that ever was.
This was distressing, but it paled before a greater horror — the horses were gone! I had been appointed to hold the bridles, but in my absorbing anxiety over the pistol experiment I had unconsciously dropped them and the released animals had walked off in the storm. It was useless to try to follow them, for their footfalls could make no sound, and one could pass within two yards of the creatures and never see them. We gave them up without an effort at recovering them, and cursed the lying books that said horses would stay by their masters for protection and companionship in a distressful time like ours.
We were miserable enough, before; we felt still more forlorn, now. Patiently, but with blighted hope, we broke more sticks and piled them, and once more the Prussian shot them into annihilation. Plainly, to light a fire with a pistol was an art requiring practice and experience, and the middle of a desert at midnight in a snow-storm was not a good place or time for the acquiring of the accomplishment. We gave it up and tried the other. Each man took a couple of sticks and fell to chafing them together. At the end of half an hour we were thoroughly chilled, and so were the sticks. We bitterly execrated the Indians, the hunters, and the books that had betrayed us with the silly device, and wondered dismally what was next to be done. At this critical moment Mr. Ballou fished our four matches from the rubbish of an overlooked pocket. To have found four gold bars would have seemed poor and cheap good luck compared to this. One cannot think how good a match looks under such circumstances — or how lovable and precious, and sacredly beautiful to the eye. This time we gathered sticks with high hopes; and when Mr. Ballou prepared to light the first match, there was an amount of interest centered upon him that pages of writing could not describe. The match burned hopefully a moment, and then went out. It could not have carried more regret with it if it had been a human life. The next match simply flashed and died. The wind puffed the third one out just as it was on the imminent verge of success. We gathered together closer than ever, and developed a solicitude that was rapt and painful, as Mr. Ballou scratched our last hope on his leg. It lit, burned blue and sickly, and then budded into a robust flame. Shading it with his hands, the old gentleman bent gradually down and every heart went with him — everybody, too, for that matter — and blood and breath stood still. The flame touched the sticks at last, took gradual hold upon them — hesitated — took a stronger hold — hesitated again — held its breath five heartbreaking seconds, then gave a sort of human gasp, and went out.
Nobody said a word for several minutes. It was a solemn sort of silence; even the wind put on a stealthy, sinister quiet, and made no more noise than the falling flakes of snow. Finally a sad-voiced conversation began, and it was soon apparent that in each of our hearts lay the conviction that this was our last night with the living. I had so hoped that I was the only one who felt so. When the others calmly acknowledged their conviction, it sounded like the summons itself. Ollendorff said:
“Brothers, let us die together. And let us go without one hard feeling toward each other. Let us forget and forgive bygones. I know that you have felt hard toward me for turning over the canoe, and for knowing too much and leading you round and round in the snow — but I meant well; forgive me. I acknowledge freely that I have had hard feelings against Mr. Ballou for abusing me and calling me a logarithm, which is a thing I do not know what, but no doubt a thing considered disgraceful and unbecoming in America, and it has scarcely been out of my mind and has hurt me a great deal — but let it go; I forgive Mr. Ballou with all my heart and—”
* * * * *
My own remarks were of the same tenor as those of my comrades, and I know that the feelings that prompted them were heartfelt and sincere. We were all sincere, and all deeply moved and earnest, for we were in the presence of death and without hope. I threw away my pipe, and in doing it felt that at last I was free of a hated vice and one that had ridden me like a tyrant all my days. While I yet talked, the thought of the good I might have done in the world, and the still greater good I might now do, with these new incentives and higher and better aims to guide me if I could only be spared a few years longer, overcame me and the tears came again. We put our arms about each other’s necks and awaited the warning drowsiness that precedes death by freezing.
It came stealing over us presently, and then we bade each other a last farewell. A delicious dreaminess wrought its web about my yielding senses, while the snowflakes wove a winding sheet about my conquered body. Oblivion came. The battle of life was done.
* * * * *
I do not know how long I was in a state of forgetfulness, but it seemed an age. A vague consciousness grew upon me by degrees, and then came a gathering anguish of pain in my limbs and through all my body. I shuddered. The thought flitted through my brain, “this is death — this is the hereafter.”
Then came a white upheaval at my side, and a voice said, with bitterness:
“Will some gentleman be so good as to kick me behind?”
It was Ballou — at least it was a tousled snow image in a sitting posture, with Ballou’s voice.
I rose up, and there in the gray dawn, not fifteen steps from us, were the frame buildings of a stage-station, and under a shed stood our still saddled and bridled horses!
Chapter Twelve . THE “AFTER-MARK” OF AMERICAN HUMOR
THE LAST QUARTER of the Nineteenth Century — Bill Nye and the Inspired Idiots — Uncle Remus Brings Back Fairyland — Boston Still Boston.
IN THE PERIOD between the rise of Mark Twain to international eminence and the close of the century, American Humor was immensely influenced by the formulation of his thoughts and the model of his work. One may be pardoned the feeble facetiousness of calling it the “After-Mark” of American Humor. There appeared everywhere in American journalism writers whose style and method was fashioned in the mold that had been cast by Mark Twain, or developed and inspired by him from the work of his associates and predecessors. Of the writers who followed, a great many did little more than substitute a mannerism for originality, imitating, like a second-rate conjurer, a trick already invented. Others again contributed a fine talent and originality of their’own, while others still, such as Max Adeler, who had been writing before Mark Twain, found in the new era a new appreciation and a new opportunity. Thus much of Mark Twain’s peculiar technique was taken over by those writers, and here and there they even improved on it. Take, for example, the humor of self-depreciation — of making oneself the butt, the “goat,” the “easy-mark” — a form which Mark Twain developed as far back as his Roughing It, of 1872. We have, for example, the amusing passage in his description of his overland stagecoach journey, where he describes his meeting with Slade, the notorious desperado, afterwards hanged in Montana. At the moment of meeting, Slade was in an apparently mild mood and offered Mark Twain, or young Sam Clemens, a cup of coffee at the stage stopping place, or rather offered to give up in his favour the last available cup of coffee. “I thanked him,” writes Mark Twain, “and I drank it, but it gave me no comfort, for I could not feel sure that he would not feel sorry presently that he had given it away, and proceed to kill me to distract his thoughts from the loss.” Similarly, one recalls in Mark Twain’s Sketches his account of his (alleged) amiable idiocy as secretary to a Senator, as an agriculture correspondent and so on.
This rôle of the self-confessed idiot became a favorite pose of the succeeding humorists. It was especially the mode of Edgar Wilson Nye (1850-1896), the famous “Bill Nye” of a generation ago. Nye was a New Englander transported to the West to become the editor of the Laramie Boomerang in Wyoming. He had therefore all the claims and titles of a humorist. Nye gave lectures, along with Whitcomb Riley, and heightened the fun of them by his profound solemnity and gravity, enhanced by his bald head and his tall lean stature. His special line was the assumption of an inspired and enthusiastic idiocy. He speaks, for example, with great gusto of how a lecture audience had said, “Come again, we should like to see you in broad sword combat with a meridian of longitude.”
On the same basis is his cheering report on the American navy, written as if to allay all public apprehension:
The condition of our navy need not give rise to any serious apprehension. The yard in which it is placed at Brooklyn is enclosed by a high brick wall affording it ample protection. A man on board the Atlanta at anchor at Brooklyn is quite as safe as he would be at home. The guns on board the Atlanta are breechloaders; this is a great improvement on the old-style gun, because in former times in case of a naval combat the man who went outside the ship to load the gun while it was raining frequently contracted pneumonia.
There were so many of these “after-Mark” humorists and lecturers, so many worthy of mention that one would gladly speak of them all. But the list is too long. One can at least recall Charles Lewis, who signed himself M. Quad and wrote of the Lime Kiln Club, and Robert J. Burdette. The list of the writers of satirical and humorous verse, of necessity excluded from these pages, includes John Godbred Leland, the “Hans Breitman” of the Ballads, and still more celebrated Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley. The author of this book hopes some day to reward a suffering and grateful public with an account of the greatest pages of comic and supercomic verse in America. But meantime they must wait.
But the honor of extended citation can best be extended to “Max Adeler” (Charles Heber Clark, 1841-1915;- Even before the Civil War Max Adeler, as a journalist writer of fugitive pieces, had come before the American public and had found an audience before Mark Twain was known. But it was after the war that his sketches collected into books, such as his Out of the Hurly Burly (1874), gave him a vast notoriety. His work, like that of his contemporary — Bunner, author of Short Sixes — is marked by high literary form, keeps clean away from the artifices of bad spelling and make-believe rusticity, and is written for the educated rather than the illiterate world. In these terms Max Adeler found an enthusiastic reception in England.
