Somebody has said that in order to know a community, one must observe the
style of its funerals and know what manner of men they bury with most
ceremony. I cannot say which class we buried with most eclat in our
“flush times,” the distinguished public benefactor or the
distinguished rough—possibly the two chief grades or grand divisions
of society honored their illustrious dead about equally; and hence, no
doubt the philosopher I have quoted from would have needed to see two
representative funerals in Virginia before forming his estimate of the
people.
There was a grand time over Buck Fanshaw when he died. He was a
representative citizen. He had “killed his man”—not in
his own quarrel, it is true, but in defence of a stranger unfairly beset
by numbers. He had kept a sumptuous saloon. He had been the proprietor of
a dashing helpmeet whom he could have discarded without the formality of a
divorce. He had held a high position in the fire department and been a
very Warwick in politics. When he died there was great lamentation
throughout the town, but especially in the vast bottom-stratum of society.
On the inquest it was shown that Buck Fanshaw, in the delirium of a
wasting typhoid fever, had taken arsenic, shot himself through the body,
cut his throat, and jumped out of a four-story window and broken his neck—and
after due deliberation, the jury, sad and tearful, but with intelligence
unblinded by its sorrow, brought in a verdict of death “by the
visitation of God.” What could the world do without juries?
Prodigious preparations were made for the funeral. All the vehicles in
town were hired, all the saloons put in mourning, all the municipal and
fire-company flags hung at half-mast, and all the firemen ordered to
muster in uniform and bring their machines duly draped in black. Now—let
us remark in parenthesis—as all the peoples of the earth had
representative adventurers in the Silverland, and as each adventurer had
brought the slang of his nation or his locality with him, the combination
made the slang of Nevada the richest and the most infinitely varied and
copious that had ever existed anywhere in the world, perhaps, except in
the mines of California in the “early days.” Slang was the
language of Nevada. It was hard to preach a sermon without it, and be
understood. Such phrases as “You bet!” “Oh, no, I reckon
not!” “No Irish need apply,” and a hundred others,
became so common as to fall from the lips of a speaker unconsciously—and
very often when they did not touch the subject under discussion and
consequently failed to mean anything.
After Buck Fanshaw’s inquest, a meeting of the short-haired
brotherhood was held, for nothing can be done on the Pacific coast without
a public meeting and an expression of sentiment. Regretful resolutions
were passed and various committees appointed; among others, a committee of
one was deputed to call on the minister, a fragile, gentle, spiritual new
fledgling from an Eastern theological seminary, and as yet unacquainted
with the ways of the mines. The committeeman, “Scotty” Briggs,
made his visit; and in after days it was worth something to hear the
minister tell about it. Scotty was a stalwart rough, whose customary suit,
when on weighty official business, like committee work, was a fire helmet,
flaming red flannel shirt, patent leather belt with spanner and revolver
attached, coat hung over arm, and pants stuffed into boot tops. He formed
something of a contrast to the pale theological student. It is fair to say
of Scotty, however, in passing, that he had a warm heart, and a strong
love for his friends, and never entered into a quarrel when he could
reasonably keep out of it. Indeed, it was commonly said that whenever one
of Scotty’s fights was investigated, it always turned out that it
had originally been no affair of his, but that out of native
goodheartedness he had dropped in of his own accord to help the man who
was getting the worst of it. He and Buck Fanshaw were bosom friends, for
years, and had often taken adventurous “pot-luck” together. On
one occasion, they had thrown off their coats and taken the weaker side in
a fight among strangers, and after gaining a hard-earned victory, turned
and found that the men they were helping had deserted early, and not only
that, but had stolen their coats and made off with them! But to return to
Scotty’s visit to the minister. He was on a sorrowful mission, now,
and his face was the picture of woe. Being admitted to the presence he sat
down before the clergyman, placed his fire-hat on an unfinished manuscript
sermon under the minister’s nose, took from it a red silk
handkerchief, wiped his brow and heaved a sigh of dismal impressiveness,
explanatory of his business.
He choked, and even shed tears; but with an effort he mastered his voice
and said in lugubrious tones:
“Are you the duck that runs the gospel-mill next door?”
“Am I the—pardon me, I believe I do not understand?”
With another sigh and a half-sob, Scotty rejoined:
“Why you see we are in a bit of trouble, and the boys thought maybe
you would give us a lift, if we’d tackle you—that is, if I’ve
got the rights of it and you are the head clerk of the doxology-works next
door.”
“I am the shepherd in charge of the flock whose fold is next door.”
“The which?”
“The spiritual adviser of the little company of believers whose
sanctuary adjoins these premises.”
Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said:
“You ruther hold over me, pard. I reckon I can’t call that
hand. Ante and pass the buck.”
“How? I beg pardon. What did I understand you to say?”
“Well, you’ve ruther got the bulge on me. Or maybe we’ve
both got the bulge, somehow. You don’t smoke me and I don’t
smoke you. You see, one of the boys has passed in his checks and we want
to give him a good send-off, and so the thing I’m on now is to roust
out somebody to jerk a little chin-music for us and waltz him through
handsome.”
“My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered. Your
observations are wholly incomprehensible to me. Cannot you simplify them
in some way? At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope now.
Would it not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to categorical
statements of fact unencumbered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor
and allegory?”
Another pause, and more reflection. Then, said Scotty:
“I’ll have to pass, I judge.”
“How?”
“You’ve raised me out, pard.”
“I still fail to catch your meaning.”
“Why, that last lead of yourn is too many for me—that’s
the idea. I can’t neither trump nor follow suit.”
The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scotty leaned his head on
his hand and gave himself up to thought.
Presently his face came up, sorrowful but confident.
“I’ve got it now, so’s you can savvy,” he said.
“What we want is a gospel-sharp. See?”
“A what?”
“Gospel-sharp. Parson.”
“Oh! Why did you not say so before? I am a clergyman—a parson.”
“Now you talk! You see my blind and straddle it like a man. Put it
there!”—extending a brawny paw, which closed over the minister’s
small hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and
fervent gratification.
“Now we’re all right, pard. Let’s start fresh. Don’t
you mind my snuffling a little—becuz we’re in a power of
trouble. You see, one of the boys has gone up the flume—”
“Gone where?”
“Up the flume—throwed up the sponge, you understand.”
“Thrown up the sponge?”
“Yes—kicked the bucket—”
“Ah—has departed to that mysterious country from whose bourne
no traveler returns.”
“Return! I reckon not. Why pard, he’s dead!”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Oh, you do? Well I thought maybe you might be getting tangled some
more. Yes, you see he’s dead again—”
“Again? Why, has he ever been dead before?”
“Dead before? No! Do you reckon a man has got as many lives as a
cat? But you bet you he’s awful dead now, poor old boy, and I wish I’d
never seen this day. I don’t want no better friend than Buck
Fanshaw. I knowed him by the back; and when I know a man and like him, I
freeze to him—you hear me. Take him all round, pard, there
never was a bullier man in the mines. No man ever knowed Buck Fanshaw to
go back on a friend. But it’s all up, you know, it’s all up.
It ain’t no use. They’ve scooped him.”
“Scooped him?”
“Yes—death has. Well, well, well, we’ve got to give him
up. Yes indeed. It’s a kind of a hard world, after all, ain’t
it? But pard, he was a rustler! You ought to seen him get started once. He
was a bully boy with a glass eye! Just spit in his face and give him room
according to his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and
go in. He was the worst son of a thief that ever drawed breath. Pard, he
was on it! He was on it bigger than an Injun!”
“On it? On what?”
“On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight, you understand. He
didn’t give a continental for anybody. Beg your pardon,
friend, for coming so near saying a cuss-word—but you see I’m
on an awful strain, in this palaver, on account of having to cramp down
and draw everything so mild. But we’ve got to give him up. There ain’t
any getting around that, I don’t reckon. Now if we can get you to
help plant him—”
“Preach the funeral discourse? Assist at the obsequies?”
“Obs’quies is good. Yes. That’s it—that’s
our little game. We are going to get the thing up regardless, you know. He
was always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain’t going
to be no slouch—solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on
the hearse, and a nigger on the box in a biled shirt and a plug hat—how’s
that for high? And we’ll take care of you, pard. We’ll fix you
all right. There’ll be a kerridge for you; and whatever you want,
you just ’scape out and we’ll ’tend to it. We’ve
got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind, in No. 1’s house, and don’t
you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn, if you don’t sell a
clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard, for anybody that knowed
him will tell you that he was one of the whitest men that was ever in the
mines. You can’t draw it too strong. He never could stand it to see
things going wrong. He’s done more to make this town quiet and
peaceable than any man in it. I’ve seen him lick four Greasers in
eleven minutes, myself. If a thing wanted regulating, he warn’t a
man to go browsing around after somebody to do it, but he would prance in
and regulate it himself. He warn’t a Catholic. Scasely. He was down
on ’em. His word was, ‘No Irish need apply!’ But it didn’t
make no difference about that when it came down to what a man’s
rights was—and so, when some roughs jumped the Catholic bone-yard
and started in to stake out town-lots in it he went for ’em! And he
cleaned ’em, too! I was there, pard, and I seen it myself.”
“That was very well indeed—at least the impulse was—whether
the act was strictly defensible or not. Had deceased any religious
convictions? That is to say, did he feel a dependence upon, or acknowledge
allegiance to a higher power?”
More reflection.
“I reckon you’ve stumped me again, pard. Could you say it over
once more, and say it slow?”
“Well, to simplify it somewhat, was he, or rather had he ever been
connected with any organization sequestered from secular concerns and
devoted to self-sacrifice in the interests of morality?”
“All down but nine—set ’em up on the other alley, pard.”
“What did I understand you to say?”
“Why, you’re most too many for me, you know. When you get in
with your left I hunt grass every time. Every time you draw, you fill; but
I don’t seem to have any luck. Lets have a new deal.”
“How? Begin again?”
“That’s it.”
“Very well. Was he a good man, and—”
“There—I see that; don’t put up another chip till I look
at my hand. A good man, says you? Pard, it ain’t no name for it. He
was the best man that ever—pard, you would have doted on that man.
He could lam any galoot of his inches in America. It was him that put down
the riot last election before it got a start; and everybody said he was
the only man that could have done it. He waltzed in with a spanner in one
hand and a trumpet in the other, and sent fourteen men home on a shutter
in less than three minutes. He had that riot all broke up and prevented
nice before anybody ever got a chance to strike a blow. He was always for
peace, and he would have peace—he could not stand disturbances.
Pard, he was a great loss to this town. It would please the boys if you
could chip in something like that and do him justice. Here once when the
Micks got to throwing stones through the Methodis’ Sunday school
windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon and took
a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sunday school. Says
he, ‘No Irish need apply!’ And they didn’t. He was the
bulliest man in the mountains, pard! He could run faster, jump higher, hit
harder, and hold more tangle-foot whisky without spilling it than any man
in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard—it’ll please the boys
more than anything you could say. And you can say, pard, that he never
shook his mother.”
“Never shook his mother?”
“That’s it—any of the boys will tell you so.”
“Well, but why should he shake her?”
“That’s what I say—but some people does.”
“Not people of any repute?”
“Well, some that averages pretty so-so.”
“In my opinion the man that would offer personal violence to his own
mother, ought to—”
“Cheese it, pard; you’ve banked your ball clean outside the
string. What I was a drivin’ at, was, that he never throwed off on
his mother—don’t you see? No indeedy. He give her a house to
live in, and town lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and
took care of her all the time; and when she was down with the small-pox I’m
d——d if he didn’t set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your
pardon for saying it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly.
“You’ve treated me like a gentleman, pard, and I ain’t
the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think you’re white. I
think you’re a square man, pard. I like you, and I’ll lick any
man that don’t. I’ll lick him till he can’t tell himself
from a last year’s corpse! Put it there!” [Another fraternal
hand-shake—and exit.]
The obsequies were all that “the boys” could desire. Such a
marvel of funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia. The plumed hearse,
the dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags
drooping at half mast, the long, plodding procession of uniformed secret
societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines,
carriages of officials, and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted
multitudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for
years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display in
Virginia was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw’s funeral.
Scotty Briggs, as a pall-bearer and a mourner, occupied a prominent place
at the funeral, and when the sermon was finished and the last sentence of
the prayer for the dead man’s soul ascended, he responded, in a low
voice, but with feelings:
“AMEN. No Irish need apply.”
As the bulk of the response was without apparent relevancy, it was
probably nothing more than a humble tribute to the memory of the friend
that was gone; for, as Scotty had once said, it was “his word.”
Scotty Briggs, in after days, achieved the distinction of becoming the
only convert to religion that was ever gathered from the Virginia roughs;
and it transpired that the man who had it in him to espouse the quarrel of
the weak out of inborn nobility of spirit was no mean timber whereof to
construct a Christian. The making him one did not warp his generosity or
diminish his courage; on the contrary it gave intelligent direction to the
one and a broader field to the other.
If his Sunday-school class progressed faster than the other classes, was
it matter for wonder? I think not. He talked to his pioneer small-fry in a
language they understood! It was my large privilege, a month before he
died, to hear him tell the beautiful story of Joseph and his brethren to
his class “without looking at the book.” I leave it to the
reader to fancy what it was like, as it fell, riddled with slang, from the
lips of that grave, earnest teacher, and was listened to by his little
learners with a consuming interest that showed that they were as
unconscious as he was that any violence was being done to the sacred
proprieties!
