The Dead Men's Song Part 6

When _Rubric_, a Chicago magazine venture of attractiveness, but doomed in advance to failure, published Allison's poem under the t.i.tle "On Board the Derelict," I detached three sets of the eight ill.u.s.trated and illuminated pages on which it was printed, had the sheets inlaid in hand-made paper and neatly bound. This was accomplished with the sage advice of my old playmate, Frank M. Morris, the bookman of Chicago. One of these volumes was made for Mr. Allison, (so that he would surely have at least one copy of his own poem), a second was for my bookish friend, James F. Joseph, then of Chicago and now of Indianapolis, and a third was for my own library. The mere fact that Allison was five years autographing my particular copy has no bearing whatever in this discussion, but leads me to say that I felt amply repaid in the end by this very handsome inscription on the fly-leaf:

This Volume, No. 1

of the limited private edition of "On Board the Derelict," is for the private delight of my dear friend,

Champion Ingraham Hitchc.o.c.k,

the publisher and designer thereof--appreciative guide, counselor and encourager of other excursions into "the higher alt.i.tudes,"--with all love and long memory

Christmas, 1906. YOUNG E. ALLISON.

Well, because "Derelict" was a delight and Allison my friend, I gave away _Rubrics_ by the score and, among others, saw that a copy went to Wallace Rice, literatus--and Chicago book reviewer--to whom I owe an everlasting debt of grat.i.tude for precious moments saved by good advice on modern stuff not to read. In presenting "Derelict," the _Rubric_ publishers left an impression that the poem had but then been completed[9] for its pages. I knew better; Wallace had read it before, in whole or in part and raised a question. It so worked upon me that later I decided to submit it to Allison himself. Sometimes we do things, and know not why, that have a very distinct later and wholly unexpected bearing upon situations, and when the opportunity for this volume arose, the memory that I had saved Allison's penciled reply came over me. A patient search had its reward. Here is the letter[10] written with the same old lead pencil on the same old spongy copy paper:

Louisville Feb. 22, 1902.

Dear Hitch:

My supposition is that the _Rubric_ folks misunderstood or have been misunderstood. The Dead Man's Song was first written about 10 years ago--3 verses--and Henry Waller set it to music & it was published in New York. The version for the song did not exhaust it in my mind and so I took it up every now & then for 4 or 5 years and finally completed it. A very lovely little girl who was visiting my wife helped me to decide whether I should write in one verse "a flimsy s.h.i.+ft" or "a filmy s.h.i.+ft" or other versions, and her opinion on "flimsy" decided me. She is the only person that ever had anything to do with it--_as far as I know_! What hypnotic influences were at work or what astral minds may have intervened, I know not. But I have always thought I did it all. It was not much to do, except for a certain 17th Century verbiage and grisly humor.

I am glad you still believe I wouldn't steal anybody else's brains any more than I would his money. Waller wrote splendid singing music to it which Eugene Cowles used to bellow beautifully.

With best love, as always, Y. E. A.

[9] See letter to "The New York Times Book Review".

[10] Reproduced in facsimile.

That this narrative may be complete, the articles and comment that appeared in _The New York Times Book Review_ are reproduced, together with a letter to the editor written by the author of this volume, which, neither acknowledged nor published by him, obtained wide circulation through _The Scoop_,[11] a magazine issued every Sat.u.r.day by The Press Club of Chicago.

It was quite characteristic of Allison to decline the very urgent requests of many friends to jump into the arena and make a claim for that which is his own creation and in coming to a negative decision, his reasons are probably best expressed in a letter to Henry A. Sampson, who himself writes poetry:

Yours of the 5th containing wormwood from the _N. Y. Times_ (and being the 11th copy received from loving friends) is here.

Jealous! Jealous! Just the acute development on your part of the ordinary professional jealousy. Merely because I have at last found my place amongst those solitary and dazzling poets, Homer and Shakespeare, who, also, it has been proved, did not write their own stuff, but found it all in folk lore and copied it down.

Well, d.a.m.n me, I can't help my own genius and do not care for its products because I can always make more, and I compose these things for my own satisfaction.

I, with Shakespeare and Homer, perceive the bitter inefficacy of fighting the scientific critics. Walt Mason saw the versification was artful instead of "bungling and crude," but the _Times_ critic knows a copy out of a "chanty book" when he sees it.

I envy your being unpublished. You do not have to bleed with me and Homer and Bill. I feel the desiccating effects of my own dishonor.

I grow distrustful. I wonder if _you_ wrote _your_ poems. You refused to publish. Were you, astute and keen reader of auguries, afraid of being found out? Who writes all these magnificent things that me and Homer and Bill couldn't and didn't write?

No, I don't owe it to my friends to settle this. I'd a sight rather plead guilty and accept indeterminate sentence than to waste time on my friends. I've got 'em or I haven't. And I want to convince enemies by a profound and dignified sneak.

From one who has had dirt done him.

MANTELLINI Louisville, Oct. 6, 1914.

[11] Issue of October 10, 1914.

SOME CLIPPINGS; _and_ A LETTER

The controversial comments on Allison's "Fifteen Men on the Dead Man's Chest," heretofore mentioned, appeared in _The New York Times Book Review_ of September 20, 1914, and October 4, 1914, while the inquiry that precipitated the discussion was published July 26. The printed matter, _verbatim et literatim_, and the matter not printed, are subjoined:

_July 26, 1914._

APPEALS TO READERS

EDWARD ALDEN.--Can some reader tell me if the verse or chorus of a pirate's song, which Robert Louis Stevenson recites several times in whole or in part in "Treasure Island," was original or quoted; and, if there are other verses, where they may be found? The lines as Stevenson gives them are:

Fifteen men on the dead man's chest, Yo-ho-ha and a bottle of rum; Drink and the devil had done for the rest, Yo-ho-ha and a bottle of rum.

_September 20, 1914._

ANSWERS FROM READERS

W. L.--The verse about which Edward Alden inquired in your issue of July 26. and which is quoted in Stevenson's "Treasure Island," is the opening stanza of an old song or chantey of West Indian piracy, which is believed to have originated from the wreck of an English buccaneer on a cay in the Caribbean Sea known as "The Dead Man's Chest." The cay was so named from its fancied resemblance to the old sailors' sea chest which held his scanty belongings. The song or chantey was familiar to deep-sea sailors many years ago. The song is copied from a very old sc.r.a.pbook, in which the author's name was not given. The verses[12] are as follows:

Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest.

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The mate was fixed by the bo'sun's pike An the bo'sun brained with a marlin spike.

And the cookie's throat was marked belike It had been clutched by fingers ten, And there they lay, all good dead men, Like break o' day in a boozin' ken-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of a whole s.h.i.+p's list, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Dead and bed.a.m.ned and their souls gone whist, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The skipper lay with his n.o.b in gore Where the scullion's axe his cheek had sh.o.r.e, And the scullion he was stabbed times four; And there they lay, and the soggy skies Dripped ceaselessly in upstaring eyes, By murk sunset and by foul sunrise-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Ten of the crew bore the murder mark, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

'Twas a cutla.s.s swipe or an ounce of lead, Or a gaping hole in a battered head, And the scuppers' glut of a rotting red; And there they lay, ay, d.a.m.n my eyes, Their lookouts clapped on Paradise, Their souls gone just the contrawise-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of 'em good and true, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Every man Jack could a' sailed with Old Pew, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

There was chest on chest of Spanish gold And a ton of plate in the middle hold, And the cabin's riot of loot untold-- And there they lay that had took the plum, With sightless eyes and with lips struck dumb, And we shared all by rule o' thumb-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

More was seen through the stern light's screen, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Chartings undoubt where a woman had been, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

A flimsy s.h.i.+ft on a bunker cot With a dirk slit sheer through the bosom spot And the lace stiff dry in a purplish rot-- Or was she wench or shuddering maid, She dared the knife and she took the blade-- Faith, there was stuff for a plucky Jade!

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the devil had done for the rest, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

We wrapped 'em all in a mainsail tight With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight, And we heaved 'em over and out of sight With a yo-heave-ho and a fare-ye-well, And a sullen plunge in a sullen swell, Ten fathoms along on the road to h.e.l.l-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!