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 good-heartedness 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 any body. 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!
