  Andrew W. Kelley ("Parmenas Mix"), poet preËminent of life on a country newspaper, was born in the state of New York about 1852. When twenty years of age he left Schenectady, New York, for Tennessee, but in 1873 he settled at Franklin, Kentucky, where he spent the remainder of his life. He was associate editor of Opie Read's paper, The Patriot, for some time, but when that sheet died, he drifted from pillar to post until a kindly death discovered him. The gossips of the quiet little town of Franklin will to-day tell the enquirer for facts regarding Kelley's life that he was engaged to a New York girl, all things were ready for the celebration of the ceremony, when the bride-to-be suddenly changed her mind, and poor Parmenas Mix was thus started in the drunkard's path. He planned to go East for several years prior to his death, to seek his literary fortunes, but he sat in his room and dreamed his life away. Kelley died at Franklin, Kentucky, in 1885. He was buried in the potter's field, a pauper and an outcast, which condition was wholly caused by excessive drinking. The very place of his grave can only be guessed at to-day. Kelley wrote many poems, nearly all of which celebrated some phase of life on a country newspaper, but his masterpiece is The Old Scissors' Soliloquy, which was originally published in Scribner's Monthly—now The Century Magazine—for April, 1876. It appeared in the "Bric-a-Brac Department," illustrated with a single tail-piece sketch
THE OLD SCISSORS' SOLILOQUY [From Scribner's Monthly, April, 1876] I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,— The place is deserted and still,— To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white, To my left are the ink and the quill— Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint, And refuses to write with a pen; He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint, Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben. I love the old fellow—together for years We have managed the Farmer's Gazette, And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears But my duties are rather too heavy, I think, And I oftentimes envy the quill As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink While I'm slashing away with a will. But when I was new,—I remember it well, Though a score of long years have gone by,— The heaviest share of the editing fell On the quill, and I think with a sigh Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two From a neighboring editor's leader, Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew In behalf of the general reader. I am being paid off for my merriment then, For my master is wrinkled and gray, And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen Except when he wishes to say: "We are needing some money to run this machine, And subscribers will please to remit;" Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green, And so knotty it couldn't be split." He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter), And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find Head or tale to the most of his matter. The compositors plague him whenever they see The result of a luckless endeavor, But the darling old rascal just lays it to me, And I make no remonstrance whatever. Yes, I shoulder the blame—very little I care For the jolly compositor's jest, For I think of a head with the silvery hair That will soon, very soon be at rest. 'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us— His only emolument raiment and food, And—a pass, now and then, to the circus. Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright Of a lass with the freshness of clover Who used me to clip from her tresses one night A memorial lock for her lover. That dear little lock is still glossy and brown, But the lass is much older and fatter, And the youth—he's an editor here in the town— I'm employed on the staff of the latter. I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night— The place is deserted and still— The stars are abroad and the moon is in sight Through the trees on the brow of the hill. Clouds hurry along in undignified haste And the wind rushes by with a wail— Hello! there's a whooping big rat in the paste— How I'd like to shut down on his tail! LATE NEWS [From Scribner's Monthly, December, 1876] In the sanctum I was sitting, Engaged in thought befitting A gentleman of letters—dunning letters, by the way— When a seedy sort of fellow, Middle-aged and rather mellow, Ambled in and questioned loudly, "Well, sir, what's the news to-day?" Then I smiled on him serenely— On the stranger dressed so meanly— And I told him that the Dutch had taken Holland, sure as fate; And that the troops in Flanders, Both privates and commanders, Then the stranger, quite demurely, Said, "That's interesting, surely; Your facilities for getting news are excellent, that's clear; Though excuse me, sir, for stating That the facts you've been narrating Are much fresher than the average of items gathered here!" |
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