AN AMERICAN JOKE EXPLAINED.
We don't understand American institutions—that's a fact. We don't understand the American Press; which is one of the greatest of those institutions. Deficient in the sense of irony, we take the playful abandonment—the jocose mystification—of the American newspapers as simple statement. Hence multitudes of dull worthy people among us will receive the New York Tribune's account of the reception of the runaway convict, Mitchell, at New York as a prosaic and authentic narrative of that event. Had Greenacre, by some chance, escaped the gallows, they will be inclined to think, he too would have been hailed with enthusiasm and acclamation, as an accession to the worth and manhood of American citizenship. For Mitchell resembled the other chiefly in the circumstance of not having been hanged. He was no mere political non-conformist and unsuccessful opponent of the existing order of things, vulgarly and technically termed a rebel. He was a traitor in the vilest sense of the word: a malignant hater of the Queen and the country: the sort of traitor that mediæval justice contemplated when it sentenced the criminal so called to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. He was a sanguinary cruel caitiff; a dogged miscreant who not only preached pike massacres, but yelled and raved for sulphuric acid, which he would have had rascals to squirt into soldiers' eyes. Those, therefore, who are not up to American drollery will naturally be scandalised by the seemingly sympathetic description, given by the New York Tribune, of the advent of such a fellow amongst the freest and most enlightened people on earth. Says our facetious contemporary:—
"As the Prometheus came up the river, she was boarded by Messrs. Meagher and William Mitchell, the brother of the patriot. The meeting between these friends in sorrow and persecution was affecting in the extreme. Tears of joy were shed on both sides."
Tears which scalded the cheeks down which they flowed; being vitriolic. Without this comment—which would have spoiled the gravity of the burlesque—the Tribune proceeds:
"On nearing the wharf, the news of Mr. Mitchell's arrival spread like wildfire, and ships and piers were literally swarming with the immense throng who crowded to give him a freeman's welcome."
No doubt this is the naked truth. There are, unfortunately, a great many scoundrels and ruffians in New York who have an ardent admiration for a fellow scoundrel and ruffian. It is unnecessary that a New York journal should explain that these vagabonds are not Americans. But that explanation is requisite for our stolid readers, whom we will presently tell who the wretches really were. An individual of the noble and generous American nation would as soon think of hugging a rattle-snake or a copper-head, as of taking to his bosom the venomous and vitriol-squirting Mitchell.
As Mr. Mitchell and his companions proceeded to their destination—which, notwithstanding the impulsive nature of American moral feeling, was not the nearest pump—he experienced various honours, which the waggish reporter of his triumph enumerates with whimsical exaggeration—particularising "roar of artillery," "dense mass of human beings," the carriages that bore them, being "followed by the throng," his way resembling "the march of a conqueror"—not by any means such a march as that of a man who is drummed out of his regiment. His friends, the funny journalist avers, "were almost ready to take him from the vehicle, and carry him upon their shoulders," and he was "surrounded by a large number of the citizen-soldiery and Nanchan's band." Among these troops were the "Irish Rifles," whose weapon, of course, is the vitriol squirt—the "Mitchell Guard," the "Meagher Grenadiers," with "Cabbage Garden," probably, emblazoned on their colours; and sundry other regiments and guards, which—it was superfluous to inform the New Yorkers—were ragged and—black.
Here lies the point of the whole joke. Misled by a parcel of Uncle-Tom-foolery, we are apt to regard the coloured population of the States as an oppressed race. They are, indeed, shunned and disliked; but that is entirely by reason of their incorrigible villainy. They won't work, but they will squat on an estate, and if compelled to clear off and make room for industrious whites, they shoot the owner of the property from behind a hedge. Rescued from starvation consequent on their unthrift and laziness, they turn and curse the benefactor who feeds them. Such were they who shouted welcome to Mitchell; and only think how secure a people must feel in their republican liberty to permit a mob of savages to indulge in such a demonstration! This base and brutal multitude did not contain one American citizen. Their bands are stated to have played Irish melodies, "Star Spangled Banner," "Yankee Doodle," and other national airs. No, no. The ragamuffins hated the stars as well as the stripes too much; and they no more played "Yankee Doodle" than Mitchell sang "Rule Britannia." Their music may have included Irish melodies; but their other national airs were limited to the class comprising "Lucy Neal" and "Ole Dan Tucker." They were an assemblage of odious, miserable, ugly, degraded brutes, connecting links between mankind and the monkey. There was not a single Anglo-Saxon in the whole lot. In short, they were all—Niggers.