THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR
[Before the following poem, which originally appeared in 'Fraser's Magazine,' could have reached America, intelligence was received in this country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, to any one who observed the state of public manners in America, that such occurrences must happen, sooner or later. The Americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an American work on American manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer's own production; and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amusing satire, by an American, of his countrymen's foibles!]
The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the
chair;
On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was
there.
With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his
cheek
His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose
to speak.
Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,
And like a free American upon the floor he spat;
Then turning round to Clay, He said, and wiped his manly
chin,
"What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's
skin?"
"Young man," quoth Clay, "avoid the way of Slick of
Tennessee;
Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger
he;
He chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the
chairs,
And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he
bears.
"Avoid that knife. In frequent strife its blade, so long
and thin,
Has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within."
But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's
heart,—
"Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty smart!"
Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward
the chair;
He saw the stately stripes and stars,—our country's flag
was there!
His heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he
sprang,
Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his
first harangue.
"Who sold the nutmegs made of wood—the clocks that
wouldn't figure?
Who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark—the everlasting
nigger?
For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity I'll
kick
That man, I guess, though nothing less than 'coon-faced
Colonel Slick!"
The Colonel smiled—with frenzy wild,—his very beard
waxed blue,—
His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew;
He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat
below—
He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,—
"Oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried,
with ire elate;
"Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my
weight!
Oh! 'tarnal death, I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, and
your chaffing,—
Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without
laughing!"
His knife he raised—with, fury crazed, he sprang across
the hall;
He cut a caper in the air—he stood before them all:
He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should
do,
But spinning sent the President, and on young Dollar
flew.
They met—they closed—they sank—they rose,—in vain
young Dollar strove—
For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate Colonel
drove
His bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they
rolled,
And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in
each other's hold.
With fury dumb—with nail and thumb—they struggled
and they thrust,—
The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon the
dust;
He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank
and died,
Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side.
Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave
youth;
The bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of
truth;
And still among the statesmen throng at Washington they
tell
How nobly Dollar gouged his man—how gallantly he fell.
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