[L2] “The Walnut Coffin Papers.  The Second Chapter,” The Citizen Soldier, Sept. 27, 1843

In various parts and parcels, containing much matter for meditation, some fancy, and a good deal of sober truth, mingled with glimpses of the rise and origin of the Fogtown literati, together with a few views of these redoubtables, in all their present glory, being in fact, a true, copious and veracious account of

THE UPRISINGS OF THE COFFIN-MAKER'S 'PRENTICE.

THE SECOND CHAPTER.

The great meeting of the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin.

“Hear!  Hear!”

“Hear him by all means—hear the Grey Ham!”

“I rise, gentlemen, upon this occasion, (hiccup) I rise—silence—order—(pass that bottle, will ye?”)

“Why the devil can’t—can’t you (hiccup) be still?  D—n, who’s a-tryin’ to upset the table?”

“Hear him—hear the Phanyix of Amerikin Litterathur!”

“Who trod on my toe?  D—n—”

“Gentlemen, I’m a-goin’ to give you a song—the song of Moses crossin’ the red sea—”

The Lord (hiccup) has trium—trium—triumphed—”

“Pass the bottle, will you—I say, if you fling lemon peel in my eye again I’ll skin your d—n hide—(hiccup) I will—”

“Damn such a party!  Who soaked my cig—cig—ar—my ci-gar in the ice-tub—a cussed ungentlemanly trick!”

“Gentlemen, upon this occasion I rise, (hiccup,) I say, gentlemen, upon this occasion—”

“Hare him!  Hare the Grey Ham!  Hare the Phanyix o’ Amerikin Litteratur!”

Certainly the party was drunk.

Certainly the party was remarkably drunk.

The Spermaceti candles, standing along the table, flung a dismal light over upturned bottles, broken glasses, and highly drunken literati.

There was a little man drunk.  He had placed his Panama hat between his knees, and was shelling almonds on the crown with all his might.  He was very drunk.

There was a fat man drunk.  His roly poly face shone like a beacon, and his eyes went rolling about his head, while he very philosophically soaked his neighbor’s cigar in his champaigne.  Alas poor Sam!

The man who stood up at the head of the table was very much overcome.  I wish you could have seen him, standing at the head of the table, leaning his knuckles on the board, while his face was sunk between his shoulders, and his eyes kept winking at the lights, as though some practical joke was goin’ on between himself and the candles.

Certainly the party was drunk.  Very drunk.  It was—I am drunk, thou art drunk, he is drunk, we are drunk, you are drunk, they are drunk.  And we’re all drunk.

“Gentlemen,” cried the Man at the Head of the table, “upon this occasion I rise—who’s a-pullin’ the floor from under me?—upon this occasion I rise to—to—I say gentlemen I rise—hold that table still; it’s been to see Fanny Ellsler, for it’s a-performin’ the Cachuca—”

“Let me speak”—cried Peter the Professor—“Literati of Fogtown—the gentleman at the head of the table, our Porcine Father, the venerable Ham, would remark, that, that—excuse me, gentlemen, I—m—a slight pain in the kidneys—a stitch in the side—in the small of the back—I’m—I’m not exactly well—”

And with that he fell to the floor like a dead man.  That is a dead drunk man.

“Och!  Whillaloo!  Be all the snakes and toads Sint Patrick tuk out o’ Ireland in his portmantle, it’s drunk he is!  Docthur Cade how d’ye feel?  Mr. Spermaceti how’s your health?  Professor Peter where does it pain ye?  Venerable Ham an’ ye tuk bad all of a suddint?—”

“Pass the bottle,” growled Doctor Cade.  “Sam’s drunk; any man that says Sam looks like me, gold specs and all—lies!”

“The Lord has triumph—triumphed gloriously,” hiccuped Professor Sun.

“Gentlemen, has the lodge of the Walnut Coffin met—met,” began the venerable Ham, “met for this wild uproar?”  And here, as if a new idea struck him, he turned suddenly round, and asked Professor Sun’s abstract idea of soft crabs.

“Now, the hivens be our bed!” exclaimed Phelix Phillegrim, the little Irishman, the only sober man of the party.  “Won’t you hear me out at all, at all?”

A growling noise was heard under the table.

“Och!  Grizzle, is it there ye are, with yer keen eye and penethratin’ nose? Gentlemen, you say he’s under the table—he imagines he’s an English bull terrier, and—”

“Somebody’s bit my legs,” cried the Ham.  “I’d swear somebody bit my legs.”

“I’m the author of all the poets,” cried the voice of the prophet from under the table.  “I want to know whether an epic couldn’t be written on Spermaceti Sam’s face?  Sich fatness, sich roundness, sich fulness, sich—I say he’s a beacon.  Any man that says he aint a beacon, ’ill get bit.”

“Gintlemen, wid yer lave I’ll jist dhrop a word.  We have assimbled to form and combine the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin, cimposed o’ th’ literary magnates of Frogtown.  Our friend Ham, of the yaller kivered babe, is head of the order, with the title of Principal Grey Ham.”

“That’s me,” cried the chairman.  “I’m the grand noble Grey Ham—of the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin.”

“It’s kickin up a row yer afther all the time?  Be the hill of Howth, ye hairy bastes o’ th’ world, an’ yer not quiet as woodmice directhly, I’ll be the man to give you the taste of me shillaleh!  Whilaloo!  Will ye listen while I call over the names of the lodge?  First comes—

“FATHER HAM, Principal Grey Ham of the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin.

“PROFESSOR SUN, First Bombazine, etc.

“SPERMACETI SAM, First Spermaceti, etc.

And then, gintlemen, there’s a number o’ dignitaries which we can fill up at our leisure from the literary magnates of the great city of Frogtown.  Most worshipful Grey Ham, will ye state the object of this lodge?”

“Our object, gentlemen, is to celebrate my rise in the world, (hiccup)—to immortalize the walnut coffin from which I started, (hiccup)—to form a literary free masonry, combining all that’s great or beautiful in thought or (hiccup)—.  In short, I propose to commence a series of excursions through the country from Frogtown, with my Spermaceti, my Rumpus, my Peter Sun, and my Doctor Cade, as attendants, (hiccup)—and here’s to the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin!”

“Here’s to the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin!”

“And I—Phalix Phillegrim—will be the grand historiographer of these excursions, these doings of the Grand Lodge of the Walnut Coffin!”

“Aye, aye,—yes, yes,—hurrah—three cheers!”

It was funny to see the quiet look which Phillegrim gave, as he regarded the four-and-twenty drunken literati.

Poor Spermaceti had mounted the table.  He sat in the centre of the board, with his knees up to his chin, while his face looked out from between his legs, like a lantern between two posts.

Opposite sat Doctor Cade, regarding Sam with a sinister look.  Something was brewing—any one might have seen it.  So did Phillegrim—and therefore he dropped a little oil in the fire.

“Gintlemen,” he cried, “I rise to pay a distinguished compliment to our friend—the respectable Doctor Cade!  It’s a ganius he is from the sole of his head to the crown of his boots.  I might mintion, gintlemen, his celebrated works o’ merit, his dramey on Wat Tyler, his parody of the Ten Commandments—all are grand, but the grandest thing is, that his face bears a strong resimblance to our esteemed brother, Spermaceti Sam.”

“I’ll be d—d if it does!” cried Doctor Cade, springing on his feet.  “If I looked like him I’d cut my throat!  Look like him, indeed!  And has it come to this?”

“You do look like me,” cried Sam, leaning forward with a sea-sick movement.  “You’re a beacon, and I’m a beacon.  You wear gold specs—so do I.  We’re both good fellows.  We both look alike.  Hurrah for us!”

“Gentlemen!” shouted the Doctor, “this man has insulted me.  I demand satisfaction!”

“You shall have it!” cried the lodge of the Walnut Coffin.

“A duel!  A duel!” shouted Phillegrim.  “Let ’em fight with sacks!  Tie each one on ’em up in a coffee bag, and let ’em fight it out.”

“A duel with sacks!  Quite classic!” cried Professor Sun.

“Hurrah for the duel with coffee bags!” echoed the lodge.

In a few minutes coffee bags were procured.  The Doctor was tied in one, with his arms and head loose—so was Spermaceti.

The lodge gathered round, leaning against the wall for support.  I’ve seen many nice pictures, but this was the nicest of all.  There was Professor Sun holding up a chair, which he was firmly persuaded had taken too much liquor.  The great Ham laid hold of the table, which, according to his belief, was filled with a very improper desire to dance.  Rumpus Grizzle was praying in one corner.  He imagined himself at the battle of Bunker’s Hill, and was praying alternately for the success of the American, and the British arms.  Very corned was Grizzle.

The lodge, some twenty odd members, were clustered round.  Sam’s face was peeping from one sack—Doctor Cade’s from another; and Phillegrim acted as general second to both parties.

“Now, gintlemen, whin I give the word, rowl against one anither!  Rowl as hard as ye kin—bite, scratch, tear, fight!  Now gintlemen, are ye ready?  Rowl!”

“Have at thee, willin!” shouted the knight of the Spermaceti, making a plunge at Cade.

“This to thy heart!  Sack’s the word!” responded the knight of the gold specs.

“Och!  whilaloo!  Here’s the fine sport!  Rowl, ye bullies—rowl!  Now Cade’s on top o’ Sam!  Ah!  whilaloo!  Be jabers, Sam’s on top o’ Cade!  Rowl!  Pitch into him, Cade—give it to him, Sam!  Burn him alive with your face!  Och, gintlemen, is it not the fine sport?  There—there!  Cade’s doubled up in his coffee bag against the wall—Sam’s a burnin’ him to death with his face.  Look how they sprawl over the floore!  Whoop!  There they go!  Like two divils half crazy with the St. Vitus’ dance!  Rowl, rowl, I say rowl!  Go it, I say, while the bag lasts!  There, Cade’s got him by the teeth—och, he’s a bitin’ him!  Hark how he squelches!”

“Now, you fire fly, you torch, you Bardolph, does my face look like yours?  Say it does, and I’ll bite you to death!”

“No, it don’t—no, it don’t!  Let me up—your face does not look like mine.  Your face is wax—any body can mould it to their purposes.  Mine is spermaceti.  Let me up, Doctor.”

“The apology is not accepted—you’re not fit to carry guts to a bear.”

“You are.”

“Och gintlemen, they’ll kill one another!  Och its batin’ one another bad, they’re after now!”  “Let him up”—“Let my beacon up”—“Let Spermaceti up.”  “What the devil did you slap that candle in my eye!”  “You’re another.”  “You’re a puppy.”  “Take that will you.”  “O Lord look down upon these thy children.”  “D—n.”  “Hurrah.”  “Och Whillaloo here’s the po-leece!”

“And you’re a purty set of suckers”—cried a bluff hoarse voice as a muffled and great-coated watchman stood in the doorway—“Here’s a precious row!  Well if I ever—good graschus.  Chir-chir-chir—there goes my rattle!  Come along Charlies—here they are—now tramp,will ye?”

“Tramp?” echoed the Lodge.  “Tramp?  Tramp!  Where!”

“To the Watch house, my larkies.”