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THE ANCIENT MARINER
COLERIDGE A SHAM AND A FRAUD
A Ghostly visit and its Consequences.
It was rather late on Saturday night, the
MAIL office was closed, the lights turned down
and our reporter was setting
PIPE IN MOUTH
reflecting on the eternal unfitness of things,
and endeavoring to recall some fragments of
a certain poem relating to ghostly visitations
generally, when the air grew chilly, as the
manner of a certain Chicago editor and the
light just about as dim as Ills perception of
his duties socially, morally and intellectually,
if that latter qualificatives adverb could be
made use of. A shudder
LIKE A CENTIPEDE
crept up the spinal column of the
lonely occupant
of the room and he was on the point of
lighting a match, for his pipe had gone out,
(perhaps he would have preferred doing so too,
had the door been handy) when his attention
was attracted by what appeared a somewhat
white colored London fog of no actual
location or dimensions, but spreading generally
between him and the desired means of
egress. So he did'nt light his pipe, but wished
he had'nt been
THINKING OF GHOSTS
just about that time. The fog
quietly
concentrated itself into an outline so that nightmare
was out of the question. Gradually
there was a complete figure standing in the
centre of the room, sufficiently distinct for
the following description: A tall frame with
LONG GRAY BEARD
and glittering eye were the principal characteristics.
For garments the apparation wore
a plug hat and very wide pantaloons, had a
purple complexion and his hand trembled
nervously, suggesting a very severe attack of
delirium tremens. His breath was not flame,
but the application of a match would have
rendered it so instanter, for the
AROMA OF BENZINE
was unequivocal. The pattern of his pants,
as one might observe, while standing at a
safe distance from his breath, was loud — so
loud indeed, that it doubtless caused the
vibration of the extremities above alluded
to.
They were what is popularly termed a
"check," and would have assuredly proved so
to any
YOUNG SPARK
ambitious for sartorial distinctions. His
ample frame was concealed (and it was very
fortunate) in a coat of a loud pattern also; his
collar, originally of paper, was torn off, and
his shirt was unbuttoned around his throat.
A bandanna hung from his coat tail pocket,
and the
NECK OF A BOTTLE
protruded from a similar receptacle in front.
The buttons were burst from his vest,
except one near the neck; twine filled the bill
below.
"You are a sweet-scented duck, any way;
how came you in here," were the first words
of greeting with which this somewhat adipose
apparation was saluted.
"D-do-you write for the MAIL?" was the
gruff inquiry.
"Certainly sir — pass your benzine this way
— you've given me chills, and, by Jove, you
shall pay the bills. That's rhyme and reason,"
but the spectre hesitated — in fact
appeared to
SUSPECT A RUSE
and sat down with one leg on the table and
the other on the chair, threatening a breach
in his nether garments. Utterly ignoring the
polite request to take a drink, he opened up
negotions thus:
"Did you write that history of the
GHOSTLY STEAMER
on the Calumet?" which being a piece of gross
and impertinent insinuation provoked the
retort,
"No, did you?"
His manner changed to one of extreme
gravity and he said, "they've left their
marks behind them." Then he said, "Do
you know me?" and was answered in the
negative.
"I am," said he, "the
ANCIENT MARINER."
Which was a very delightful communication
at that time of night considering the
excellent character that gentleman possessed
according to his biographer. It is not
absolutely astonishing, therefore, that the
reporter felt for his pistol, and was just about
to bellow "thieves," "murder" and "police."
He would assuredly have roused the neighborhood
had not the nocturnal visitant
reminded him that
"HE WAS A BLESSED GHOST,"
and as unsubstantial as the right wing of the
Court House, and harmless as the Times. This
was reassuring, and the reporter moved
toward the winnow, but he never reached it, for
the visitor produced about
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET OF MANUSCRIPT
written in a bold but rather illegible hand,
not unlike that affected by the night reporter
of a contemporary newspaper, but doubtless
possessing an incalculable amount of merit
Mistaking it at first for hieroglyphics, the
reporter said:
"You neglect, my unsubstantial friend, to
inform me that you are an Egyptian."
"I am an Anglo-Saxon," he replied, "and
have suffered at the hands of traducers many
a time and oft. There was one Coleridge who
MISREPRESENTED ME.
He has done Chicago a great and irreparable
injury too. I am a native of this glorious
city, and like Jimmy Woods, proud of the
title Chicagoan. They sell the most inflammable
benzine here for whisky, that can be
obtained within a radius of 300 miles of
Springfield. But for that
THE LOWER WORLD
would go out, and what would Hamlet's
father's torment amount to then?"
"You are certainly deserving of my
sincerest congratulations. What is that roll of
manuscript in your hand?"
"Have patience, sir. I perceive from reading
the MAIL that you are inclined to do
justice to all. Your accounts of
THE DISASTER
on the Calumet river have seen most accurate,
and you doubtless obtained them from
the captain of the phantom steamer. On
this consideration I would like you to publish
the true account of my voyage, and refute the
villainous misrepresentations of that
infamous English poetaster Coleridge. Will
you do it?"
"You bet. Give me your hieroglyphics. I'll
look them over, put a head on and send them
down."
"Well, I won't ask you to take a drink, but
I'll remember you
WHEN YOU DIE,
and join me," with which comforting intelligence
he quit the office. The reporter fell
asleep, but awaking early on Sunday morning,
found still in his hand the mysterious
document, which was precisely as follows:
THE ANCIENT MARINER'S TRUE HISTORY.
Yes, sir, we was three bully boys,
There was Jack and Tom and me,
And we resolved one afternoon
Ter go on a rousing spree.
We'd nary a cent among the crowd,
But we got some whisky on tick,
And we soon was afloat in a flat-bottomed boat
A sailing down the crick.
The wind was blowing from the east
When we our craft did launch;
Says Jack, who knew the compass best,
We'll cruise down the South Branch.
Now Jack I remark was good on a lark
And Tom was a rousing fellow,
With lungs like a calf, only stronger by half —
A mile off you could hear him bellow.
Jack turned his eye up toward the sky
To see the time of day,
And in place of a sail he hoisted the MAIL,
For he Knew that the MAIL had an excellent sale,
And our craft got under weigh.
Our craft sailed off from Clark street bridge,
When Jack with a knowing wink
Remarked, "Bill, I'm dry, so I guess I'll try
The effects of a good square drink."
And then before I had time to reply,
Tom also indulged in a drink.
The wind blew fair, and our bark being square,
Behaved like a noble ship.
And before we could tell where we was, by the smell,
We were passing Ogden's slip.
There was water around us everywhere —
Oh, Faugh! but didn't it stink!
It was black underneath, with a coating of blue
And unfit altogether to drink.
Placidly sailed we adown the creek,
Of danger did none of us dream,
When a terrible gale carried from us our sail,
And we drifted log-like on the stream.
But Jack with much courage seized hold of the grog,
Says he, "It's all in the boat."
In the wink of an eye half a bottle of rye
Disappeared down his cavernous throat,
And my prospect of getting the ghost of a drink
Appeared very dim and remote.
*
*
*
*
*
* *
The wind it strengthened to a gale;
Adown the stream it blew,
And we found ourselves in half an hour
Abreast of Healy's Slough;
Which scared the Captain awful bad,
But it didn't scare the crew.
The wind blew hard, the smell grew worse,
And the waves rose half an inch,
When Jack awoke with a horrible curse,
And inquired the cause of the stench.
The wind blew hard, the lively craft
Did toss, and pitch and roll,
But Jack was drunk and Tom he shrunk
From periling his soul.
"What, ho!" he cried, when we espied
A light we chanced to meet,
A voice of strength replied at length,
"It's Twenty-second street."
Away, away the billows roll,
Our craft obeys the wind,
The air was cut away before
And closed again behind;
But how on earth it happened so —,
De'il knows but never mind.
Says Tom, "I'm game for another bowl
If there you've any lush."
Says Jack, "You loon, you'll precious soon —"
O, says I, "You fellows hush."
Says Tom to me "You go to grass,"
Says I, "Now Tom, you stow it,
You're drunk already." "Yes; says he,
"By jingo, Bill, I know it."
With that he gets up in the boat,
And says, "You've used me ill, oh,
My name to save, I'll seek a grave
In yon foam-crested billow,
And since you won't jump overboard,
Heaven bless your soul, I will, oh!"
And afore I guessed what he were at,
Or thought what he had said,
He plunged his-self into the deep,
And left poor Jack and me to weep,
And log him down "drownded."
And he was found last winter year
Chuck full of whisky, still
But they squeezed him and got out a quart
Sure as my name is Bill.
But that ain't neither here nor there,
And I guess I'll finish my tale;
Let's see, I quitted when we was
A weathering of the gale.
Well I felt sad; Jack he felt mad;
Says he, "what a cussed fool
To drown hisself cause ne were drunk
In this yer dirty pool."
"Now, Jack," says I, "it's mighty queer
To call him such a name;
If you was only half as drunk,
By golly, you'd do the same."
"Well, Jack he never says a word,
But stands up in the boat,
He takes a good square drink, and then
Takes off his hat and coat
And plunges in, and tries to swim,
But bless him he couldn't float.
Alone, alone, they left me alone
In that there stinking crick,
If my feelings I'd spoke, in place of a joke,
I'd have called it a scandalous trick.
Alone, alone, all all alone
But one of that there three,
With only a coat and a hat in the boat,
And bottles for company.
Well, one bottle was full and so was I,
By golly, as full as a tick,
So I drank and drank till the storm went down
And I peacefully lay in the crick.
I went to sleep, and the next day
Awoke at twelve o'clock:
My gallant craft had jammed in a raft,
Not far from Bridgeport lock.
I guess my appearance when I arose,
A coroner's jury would shock.
But that aint neither here nor thar,
I scrambled to the land;
But my head were spinning round and round,
So I could hardly stand.
Well I jist lay throughout the day,
I was told by a couple of womens,
Who tuk me in and nessed me up,
'Cause I had the delerium tremens.
Well, I turned over quite a new leaf
As you're told, and become a saint,
And now in Heaven, the happiest cove
In that place, I'm blest if I aint.
But Tom and Jack, I haven't met,
Because they suicided;
They'd have turned up square and met me here,
If they'd only done as I did.
Now there's my story, my friends, and if
Mrs. Stowe your good name should assail,
Go straight to the office and have it set right,
At once, in the EVENING MAIL.
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