University of Virginia Library

10. X.
BOSTON.

A. W. TO HIS WIFE.

Dear Betsy: I write you this from Boston, “the
Modern Atkins,” as it is denomyunated, altho' I
skurcely know what those air. I'll giv you a kursoory
view of this city. I'll klassify the paragrafs
under seprit headins, arter the stile of those Emblems
of Trooth and Poority, the Washinton correspongdents:

COPPS' HILL.

The winder of my room commands a exileratin
view of Copps' Hill, where Cotton Mather, the
father of the Reformers and sich, lies berrid. There
is men even now who worship Cotton, and there is
wimin who wear him next their harts. But I do
not weep for him. He's bin ded too lengthy. I
aint goin to be absurd, like old Mr. Skillins, in our
naberhood, who is ninety-six years of age, and gets

drunk every 'lection day, and weeps Bitturly because
he haint got no Parents. He's a nice Orphan,
he is.

BUNKER HILL.

Bunker Hill is over yonder in Charleston. In
1776 a thrillin' dramy was acted out over there, in
which the “Warren Combination” played star parts.

MR. FANUEL.

Old Mr. Fanuel is ded, but his Hall is still into
full blarst. This is the Cradle in which the Goddess
of Liberty was rocked, my Dear. The Goddess
hasn't bin very well durin' the past few years, and
the num'ris quack doctors she called in didn't help
her any; but the old gal's physicians now are men
who understand their bisness, Major-generally speakin',
and I think the day is near when she'll be able
to take her three meals a day, and sleep nights as
comf'bly as in the old time.

THE COMMON.

It is here, as ushil; and the low cuss who called
it a Wacant Lot, and wanted to know why they

didn't ornament it with sum Bildins', is a onhappy
Outcast in Naponsit.

THE LEGISLATUR.

The State House is filled with Statesmen, but
sum of 'em wear queer hats. They buy 'em, I take
it, of hatters who carry on hat stores down stairs in
Dock Square, and whose hats is either ten years
ahead of the prevalin' stile, or ten years behind it
—jest as a intellectooal person sees fit to think
about it. I had the pleasure of talkin' with sevril
members of the legislatur. I told 'em the Eye of
1,000 ages was onto we American peple of to-day.
They seemed deeply impressed by the remark, and
wantid to know if I had seen the Grate Orgin?

HARVARD COLLEGE.

This celebrated institootion of learnin' is pleasantly
situated in the Bar-room of Parker's, in
School street, and has poopils from all over the
country.

I had a letter, yes'd'y, by the way, from our
mootual son, Artemus, Jr., who is at Bowdoin College

in Maine. He writes that he's a Bowdoin Arab.
& is it cum to this? Is this Boy, as I nurtered
with a Parent's care into his childhood's hour—is
he goin' to be a Grate American humorist? Alars!
I fear it is too troo. Why didn't I bind him out to
the Patent Travellin' Vegetable Pill Man, as was
struck with his appearance at our last County Fair,
& wanted him to go with him and be a Pillist?
Ar, these Boys—they little know how the old folks
worrit about 'em. But my father he never had no
occasion to worrit about me. You know, Betsy,
that when I fust commenced my career as a moral
exhibitor with a six-legged cat and a Bass drum, I
was only a simple peasant child—skurce 15 Sum-mers
had flow'd over my yoothful hed. But I had
sum mind of my own. My father understood this.
“Go,” he said—“go, my son, and hog the public!”
(he ment, “knock em,” but the old man was allus a
little given to slang). He put his withered han'
tremblinly onto my hed, and went sadly into the
house. I thought I saw tears tricklin' down his
venerable chin, but it might hav' been tobacker
jooce. He chaw'd.

LITERATOOR.

The Atlantic Monthly, Betsy, is a reg'lar visitor
to our westun home. I like it because it has got
sense. It don't print stories with piruts and honist
young men into 'em, making the piruts splendid
fellers and the honist young men dis'gree'ble idiots
—so that our darters very nat'rally prefer the
piruts to the honist young idiots; but it gives us
good square American literatoor. The chaps that
write for the Atlantic, Betsy, understand their bisness.
They can sling ink, they can. I went in and
saw'em. I told 'em that theirs was a high and holy
mission. They seemed quite gratified, and asked
me if I had seen the Grate Orgin.

WHERE THE FUST BLUD WAS SPILT

I went over to Lexington yes'd'y. My Boosum
hove with sollum emotions. "& this," I said to
a man who was drivin' a yoke of oxen, "this is
where our revolutionary forefathers asserted their
independence and spilt their Blud. Classic ground!"

"Wall," the man said, "it's good for white beans

and potatoes, but as regards raisin' wheat, t'ain't
worth a dam. But hav' you seen the Grate Orgin?”

THE POOTY GIRL IN SPECTACLES.

I returned in the Hoss Cars, part way. A pooty
girl in spectacles sot near me, and was tellin' a
young man how much he reminded her of a man
she used to know in Waltham. Pooty soon the
young man got out, and, smilin' in a seductiv' manner,
I said to the girl in spectacles, “Don't I remind
you of somebody you used to know?”

“Yes,” she said, “you do remind me of one man,
but he was sent to the penitentiary for stealin' a
Bar'l of mackril—he died there, so I conclood you
ain't him.” I didn't pursoo the conversation. I
only heard her silvery voice once more durin' the
remainder of the jerney. Turnin' to a respectable
lookin' female of advanced summers, she asked her
if she had seen the Grate Orgin.

We old chaps, my dear, air apt to forget that it
is sum time since we was infants, and et lite food.
Nothin' of further int'rist took place on the cars
excep' a colored gentleman, a total stranger to me,

asked if I'd lend him my diamond Brestpin to wear
to a funeral in South Boston. I told him I wouldn't
—not a purpuss.

WILD GAME.

Altho' fur from the prahayries, there is abundans
of wild game in Boston, such as quails, snipes, plover
and Props.

COMMON SKOOLS.

A excellent skool sistim is in vogy here. John
Slurk, my old pardner, has a little son who has
only bin to skool two months, and yet he exhibertid
his father's performin' Bear in the show all last
summer. I hope they pay partic'lar 'tention to
Spelin' in these Skools, because if a man can't Spel
wel he's of no 'kount.

SUMMIN' UP.

I ment to have allooded to the Grate Orgin in
this letter, but I haven't seen it. Mr. Reveer,
whose tavern I stop at, informed me that it can be
distinctly heard through a smoked glass in his nativ

[ILLUSTRATION]

The Editor of "The Bugle" is interrupted by Betsey Jane and her female warriors. See page 19.

[Description: 483EAF. Image of a group of angry women carrying upraised brooms stopping the editor of "The Bugle" from finishing his work, as a mob of men look on from the background.]

music, viz: “I am Lonely sints My Mother-in-law
Died”; “Dear Mother, What tho' the Hand that
Spanked me in my Childhood's Hour is withered
now?” &c. These song writers, by the way, air
doin' the Mother Business rather too muchly.