Chapter XLV: The Dead and Wounded

I have never yet been able to ascertain, authentically, all the exact particulars of the final catastrophe; but, basing an opinion upon the numerous "dispatches" I received from November, 1854, to February, 1855, the number of dead and wounded must have been considerable, if not more. I received scores of letters, during this last period mentioned, of which the annexed is a fair sample:

"G.P. BURNHAM, ESQ.

"DEAR SIR: I'm afraid the jig is up! There's a big hole in the
bottom somewhere, or I am mistaken. I _think_ the dance is
concluded; and if it isn't time to 'blow out the lights' and shut
down the gate, just let us know,--will you? Where's Bennett, and
Harry Williams, and Dr. Eben, and Childs, and Ad. White, and
Brackett, and Johnny Giles, and Uncle Alden, and Buckminster, and
Chickering, and Coffin, and Fussell, and Chenery, and Gilman, and
Hatch, and Jaques, and Barnum, and Southwick, and Packard, and
Balch, and Morton, and Plarsted, and Geo. White, _et id omne
genus_? Where are they all? _S-a-y!_

"What has become of Platt, and Miner, and Newell, and Hudson, and
Heffron, and Taggard, and Hill, and Swett, and M'Clintock, and Dr.
Kerr, and Devereux, and Thacher, and Haines, and Hildreth; and
Brown, and Smith, and Green, and _their_ allies? Are they dead, or
only 'kilt'? Let me know, if you can, I beseech you!

"'O, where, tell me where,' is my bonnie friend John Moore, and
mine ancient _frère_ Morse, and my loved chum Howard, and the wily
Butters? And where's Pedder--the immaculate Pedder? And Charley
Belcher, too, and bragging Cornish, and Billy Everett, and our good
neighbors Parkinson, and George, and Sol. Jewett, and President
Kimball, and know-nothing King, and the reverend Marsh, and
Pendletonian Pendleton of Pendleton Hill, and their satellites?
Have all departed, and left no _wreck_ behind? I reckon not!

"Seriously, friend B----, what does all this mean? Has the fever
passed by? Can't we offer another single prescription? Has the
_last_ man been heard from? Has there been found 'a balm in Gilead'
to heal the wounds of the afflicted sufferers? Is the thing
finished? Are they all cured? Did you say _all_? Dunder and blixen!
Is anybody hurt? What are we to do? '_Speak_, or die!'

"Where are the 'Committee,' and the 'Judges,' and the 'Trustees,'
and the 'Managers'? Where is the 'Society' whose name, 'like linked
sweetness long drawn out,' I haven't time to write? Where is _that_
balance in the _Treasurer's_ hands,'--and where is that functionary
himself? Did he ever exist at all? What has become of the premiums
that were _awarded_ at the last show in Boston? And when, in the
language of the enthusiastic Mr. Snooks (at the Statehouse in
1850), will that Association begin 'to be forever
perpetuated,'--eh?

"I have got on hand three hundred of the Shanghae devils! What can
I do with them? There is a neighbor of mine (a police-officer), who
has got stuck with a lot of 'Cochin' chickens, which he swears he
won't support this winter; and he has at last advertised them as
_stolen property_, in the faint hope, I suppose, that some 'green
'un' will come forward and claim them. You can't get rid of these
birds! It is useless to try to sell them; _you can't give them
away_; nobody will take them. You can't starve them, for they are
fierce and dangerous when aggravated, and will kick down the
strongest store-closet door; and you can't kill them, for they are
tough as rhinoceroses, and tenacious of life as cats. Ah! Burnham,
I have never forgiven the man who made me a present of my first
lot! Do you want what I've got left? Will you take them? How much
shall I pay you to receive them? Help me out, if you can.

"I am not aware that I ever committed any offence, that this
judgment should be thus visited upon _my_ poor head! I never sold
fowls for what they were _not_; I never cheated anybody, that I
know of; I do not remember ever having done any unjust act that
should bring down upon me this terrible vengeance. Yet I am now the
owner of nearly three hundred of these infernal, cursed, miserable
ghosts in 'feathered mail,' which I cannot get rid of! Tell me what
I shall do, and answer promptly.

"Yours, in distress,

"---- -- ----."

I have smiled over this document, so full of feeling and earnestness, so lively and touching in its recollections of the days when we went _chicken_-ing, long time ago! But I have never been able to reply fully to my ardent friend's numerous inquiries. I don't want those "three hundred Shanghae devils," though. I have now on hand _nine_ of them (only, thank Heaven!) myself; and that is quite enough for one farm, at the present current price of grain.

What has become of all the friends about whom my correspondent so carefully inquires, I don't know. Not _five_ of them are now _in_ the hen-trade, however; and there are not ten of them who got _out_ of the business with a whole skin, from the commencement.

The engine has collapsed its boiler. There was altogether too much steam crowded on, and the managers were not all "up to snuff." The dead and wounded and dying are now scattered throughout New England and New York State chiefly, and their moans can occasionally be heard, though their groans of repentance come too late to help them.

They recklessly invested their twenties, or fifties, or hundreds, and, in some instances, their thousands of dollars, in this hum, without any knowledge of the business, and without any consideration whatever, except the single aim to keep the bubble floating aloft until they could realize anticipated fortunes, on a larger or smaller scale, as the case might be. But the "cars have gone by," and they may now wait for another train. _Perhaps_ it will come!

Poor fellows! Poor, deluded, crazy, reckless dupes! You have had your fun, many of you, and you will now have the opportunity to reflect over the ruins that are piled up around you; while, for the time being, you may well exclaim, with the sulky and flunkey Moor,

"_Othello's occupation's_ GONE!"