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Literary
October 21, 1882
Democratic Messenger
Snow Hill, Worcester County, Maryland
What is this article about?
A jolly widower shares a humorous tale with an editor about his late wife's cremation in New Orleans, revealing that the company fraudulently used mule ashes instead of human remains, which he accepts due to her stubborn personality.
Clipping
OCR Quality
100%
Excellent
Full Text
The Wrong Ashes.
He was a jolly looking man, with a round corporation, a burgundy-tinted nose, and a general exterior of a contented mind, and as he entered the editorial den he offered us a good cigar, lit another, and said:
"How about this local cremation scheme?"
"Well, how yourself?"
"The fact is," said the stranger, reflectively, "I had a pretty tough experience with one of those cadaver roasting concerns once, and I thought maybe you might like to make an item of the facts so as to warn the people here in time."
"Fire away."
"Well, you see, it was in New Orleans. My wife died there, and as a cremation company was having a good deal of a boom there just then, she made me promise to have her spirit sent up through their flue, as it were. Said she thought it would be nice and melancholy for me to carry her ashes around with me wherever I went—in a vase you understand."
"And you complied?"
"Well, yep. It was her last wish, you know, and besides I thought it might be useful in kinder preparing her for the hereafter—but never mind that now. I sent the remains around to the company's office in a push-cart, got a receipt, saw Maria touched off, so to speak, and two days after that they returned me a beautiful majolica jar full of ashes, scented with forget-me-not, the stopper tied in with pink ribbon."
"That was pretty."
"Yes; I was very much pleased at first, but I had to keep the bottle out of sight after awhile, though, because people were all the time opening the jar, under the impression that it contained preserved ginger or chow-chow, or something."
"That must have been unpleasant."
"Unpleasant—well, I should smile—I mean I should weep. Why, actually, one day while I was living in New York, I came home and found a new servant girl polishing knives with the remains—just think of it."
"Terrible, sir, terrible!"
"But, what I was going to say was this. About a year after my wife was kindled—I mean cremated—I was in New Orleans again, and I happened to meet this superintendent of the refractory ore—I should say the corpse-burning furnace—at a banquet and he got so full that I had to see him home. On the way we stopped in a place or two for a steadier—you know how it is—and the result was that he got very communicative about his company—in fact, gave the whole business away."
"Did, eh."
"Yes, sir; he squarely owned up that they didn't burn up the bodies at all. He said they just dropped 'em through a hole in the bottom of the furnace, took 'em out the back way at night, and sold 'em to the medical students."
"Gracious! and the ashes?"
"Mule ashes, sir; nothing but mule ashes! They would just cut up some old mule carcass, the superintendent said, pitch in enough to make a bad smell, and then sell the ashes to the grief-stricken relatives at $25 a bottle—terribly cheeky, now, wasn't it."
"And all this time you had—"
"Had been carrying that old jar of mule ashes all over the country, just imagine how mean I felt."
"You threw it away then?"
"Well, no," said the widower, as he winked out of his left eye, "the more I studied over the matter the more I concluded that mule ashes weren't so much out of the way after all. You see, poor Maria was an awful stubborn woman—tremendous stubborn and—yes, I kinder thought mule ashes would do mighty near as well, all things considered."
He was a jolly looking man, with a round corporation, a burgundy-tinted nose, and a general exterior of a contented mind, and as he entered the editorial den he offered us a good cigar, lit another, and said:
"How about this local cremation scheme?"
"Well, how yourself?"
"The fact is," said the stranger, reflectively, "I had a pretty tough experience with one of those cadaver roasting concerns once, and I thought maybe you might like to make an item of the facts so as to warn the people here in time."
"Fire away."
"Well, you see, it was in New Orleans. My wife died there, and as a cremation company was having a good deal of a boom there just then, she made me promise to have her spirit sent up through their flue, as it were. Said she thought it would be nice and melancholy for me to carry her ashes around with me wherever I went—in a vase you understand."
"And you complied?"
"Well, yep. It was her last wish, you know, and besides I thought it might be useful in kinder preparing her for the hereafter—but never mind that now. I sent the remains around to the company's office in a push-cart, got a receipt, saw Maria touched off, so to speak, and two days after that they returned me a beautiful majolica jar full of ashes, scented with forget-me-not, the stopper tied in with pink ribbon."
"That was pretty."
"Yes; I was very much pleased at first, but I had to keep the bottle out of sight after awhile, though, because people were all the time opening the jar, under the impression that it contained preserved ginger or chow-chow, or something."
"That must have been unpleasant."
"Unpleasant—well, I should smile—I mean I should weep. Why, actually, one day while I was living in New York, I came home and found a new servant girl polishing knives with the remains—just think of it."
"Terrible, sir, terrible!"
"But, what I was going to say was this. About a year after my wife was kindled—I mean cremated—I was in New Orleans again, and I happened to meet this superintendent of the refractory ore—I should say the corpse-burning furnace—at a banquet and he got so full that I had to see him home. On the way we stopped in a place or two for a steadier—you know how it is—and the result was that he got very communicative about his company—in fact, gave the whole business away."
"Did, eh."
"Yes, sir; he squarely owned up that they didn't burn up the bodies at all. He said they just dropped 'em through a hole in the bottom of the furnace, took 'em out the back way at night, and sold 'em to the medical students."
"Gracious! and the ashes?"
"Mule ashes, sir; nothing but mule ashes! They would just cut up some old mule carcass, the superintendent said, pitch in enough to make a bad smell, and then sell the ashes to the grief-stricken relatives at $25 a bottle—terribly cheeky, now, wasn't it."
"And all this time you had—"
"Had been carrying that old jar of mule ashes all over the country, just imagine how mean I felt."
"You threw it away then?"
"Well, no," said the widower, as he winked out of his left eye, "the more I studied over the matter the more I concluded that mule ashes weren't so much out of the way after all. You see, poor Maria was an awful stubborn woman—tremendous stubborn and—yes, I kinder thought mule ashes would do mighty near as well, all things considered."
What sub-type of article is it?
Prose Fiction
Satire
What themes does it cover?
Death Mortality
Commerce Trade
What keywords are associated?
Cremation Fraud
Mule Ashes
Widower Story
New Orleans
Stubborn Wife
Literary Details
Title
The Wrong Ashes.
Key Lines
Mule Ashes, Sir; Nothing But Mule Ashes! They Would Just Cut Up Some Old Mule Carcass, The Superintendent Said, Pitch In Enough To Make A Bad Smell, And Then Sell The Ashes To The Grief Stricken Relatives At $25 A Bottle—Terribly Cheeky, Now, Wasn't It.
Had Been Carrying That Old Jar Of Mule Ashes All Over The Country, Just Imagine How Mean I Felt.
The More I Studied Over The Matter The More I Concluded That Mule Ashes Weren't So Much Out Of The Way After All. You See, Poor Maria Was An Awful Stubborn Woman—Tremendous Stubborn And—Yes, I Kinder Thought Mule Ashes Would Do Mighty Near As Well, All Things Considered.