Artemus Ward his travels |
 | 1. | PART I.
MISCELLANEOUS. |
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 | Artemus Ward |  |
1. PART I.
MISCELLANEOUS.
1. I.
A WAR MEETING.
Our complaint just now is war meetin's. They've
bin havin' 'em bad in varis parts of our cheerful Republic,
and nat'rally we caught 'em here in Baldinsville.
They broke out all over us. They're better
attended than the Eclipse was.
I remember how people poured into our town last
Spring to see the Eclipse. They labored into a impression
that they couldn't see it to home, and so
they came up to our place. I cleared a very handsome
amount of money by exhibitin' the Eclipse to
'em, in an open-top tent. But the crowds is bigger
now. Posey County is aroused. I may say, indeed,
that the pra-hay-ories of Injianny is on fire.
Our big meetin' came off the other night, and our
old friend of the Bugle was elected Cheerman.
The Bugle-Horn of Liberty is one of Baldinsville's
most eminentest institootions. The advertisements
are well written, and the deaths and marriages are
Slinkers, is a polish'd, skarcastic writer. Folks in
these parts will not soon forgit how he used up the
Eagle of Freedom, a family journal published at
Snootville, near here. The controversy was about a
plank road. “The road may be, as our cotemporary
says, a humbug; but our aunt isn't bald-heded,
and we haven't got a one-eyed sister Sal! Wonder
if the Editor of the Eagle of Freedom sees it?”
This used up the Eagle of Freedom feller, because
his aunt's head does present a skinn'd appearance,
and his sister Sarah is very much one-eyed. For
a genteel home thrust, Mr. Slinkers has few ekals
He is a man of great pluck likewise. He has a fierce
nostril, and I b'lieve upon my soul, that if it wasn't
absolootly necessary for him to remain here and an-nounce
in his paper, from week to week, that “our
Gov'ment is about to take vig'rous measures to put
down the rebellion”—I b'lieve, upon my soul, this
illustris man would enlist as a Brigadier Gin'ral, and
git his Bounty.
I was fixin' myself up to attend the great war
man who was evijently from the city, and who wore
long hair, and had a wild expression into his eye.
In one hand he carried a port-folio, and his other paw
claspt a bunch of small brushes. My daughter introduced
him as Mr. Sweibier, the distinguished
landscape painter from Philadelphy.
“He is a artist, papa. Here is one of his masterpieces—a
young mother gazin' admirin'ly upon her
first-born,” and my daughter showed me a really
pretty picter, done in ile. “Is it not beautiful, papa?
He throws so much soul into his work.”
“Does he? does he?” said I—“well, I reckon I'd
better hire him to whitewash our fence. It needs it.
What will you charge, sir,” I continued, “to throw
some soul into my fence?”
My daughter went out of the room in very short
meeter, takin' the artist with her, and from the emphatical
manner in which the door slam'd, I concluded
she was summut disgusted at my remarks. She
closed the door, I may say, in italics. I went into
the closet and larfed all alone by myself for over
half an hour. I larfed so vi'lently that the preserve
which it aroused my Betsy, who came and opened
the door pretty suddent. She seized me by the few
lonely hairs that still linger sadly upon my barefooted
hed, and dragged me out of the closet, incidentally
obsarving that she didn't exactly see why
she should be compelled, at her advanced stage of
life, to open a assylum for sooperanooated idiots.
My wife is one of the best wimin on this continent,
altho' she isn't always gentle as a lamb, with mint
sauce. No, not always.
But to return to the war meetin'. It was largely
attended. The Editor of the Bugle arose and got
up and said the fact could no longer be disguised
that we were involved in a war. “Human gore,”
said he, “is flowin'. All able-bodied men should
seize a musket and march to the tented field. I repeat
it, sir, to the tented field.”
A voice—“Why don't you go yourself, you old
blowhard?”
“I am identified, young man, with a Arkymedian
leaver which moves the world,” said the Editor, wiping
lude, young man, to the press. Terms, two dollars
a year, invariably in advance. Job printing executed
with neatness and dispatch!” And with this
brilliant bust of elekance the editor introduced Mr. J
Brutus Hinkins, who is sufferin' from an attack of
College in a naberin' place. Mr. Hinkins said Washington
was not safe. Who can save our national
capeetle?
“Dan Setchell,” I said. “He can do it afternoons.
Let him plant his light and airy form onto
the Long Bridge, make faces at the hirelin' foe, and
they'll skedaddle! Old Setch can do it.”
“I call the Napoleon of Showmen,” said the Editor
of the Bugle—“I call that Napoleonic man,
whose life is adorned with so many noble virtues,
and whose giant mind lights up this warlike scene—
I call him to order.”
I will remark, in this connection, that the editor of
the Bugle does my job printing.
“You,” said Mr. Hinkins, “who live away from
the busy haunts of men do not comprehend the
magnitood of the crisis. The busy haunts of men
live in the busy haunts of men—that is to say, we
dwell, as it were, in the busy haunts of men.”
“I really trust that the gent'l'man will not fail to
say suthin' about the busy haunts of men, before he
sits down,” said I.
“I claim the right to express my sentiments here,
said Mr. Hinkins, in a slightly indignant tone, “and
I shall brook no interruption, if I am a Softmore.”
“You couldn't be more soft, my young friend,” I
observed, whereupon there was cries of “Order!
order!”
“I regret I can't mingle in this strife personally,”
said the young man.
“You might inlist as a liberty-pole,” said I in a
silvery whisper.
“But,” he added, “I have a voice, and that voice
is for war.” The young man then closed his speech
with some strikin' and original remarks in relation
to the star-spangled banner. He was followed by
the village minister, a very worthy man indeed, but
whose sermons have a tendency to make people sleep
pretty industriously.
“I am willin' to inlist for one,” he said.
“What's your weight, parson?” I asked.
“A hundred and sixty pounds,” he said.
“Well, you can inlist as a hundred and sixty
pounds of morphine, your dooty bein' to stand in
the hospitals arter a battle, and preach while the
surgical operations is bein' performed! Think how
much you'd save the Gov'ment in morphine.”
He didn't seem to see it; but he made a good
speech, and the editor of the Bugle rose to read the
resolutions, commencin' as follers:
Resolved, That we view with anxiety the fact that
there is now a war goin' on, and
Resolved, That we believe Stonewall Jackson
sympathizes with the secession movement, and that
we hope the nine-months men—
At this point he was interrupted by the sounds of
silvery footsteps on the stairs, and a party of wimin,
carryin' guns and led by Betsy Jane, who brandish'd
a loud and rattlin' umbereller, burst into the
room.
“Here,” cried I, “are some nine-months wimin!”
“Mrs. Ward,” said the editor of the Bugle—
demonstration?”
“It means,” said that remarkable female, “that
you men air makin' fools of yourselves. You air
willin' to talk and urge others to go to the wars, but
you don't go to the wars yourselves. War meetin's
is very nice in their way, but they don't keep Stonewall
Jackson from comin' over to Maryland and
helpin' himself to the fattest beef critters. What
we want is more cider and less talk. We want you
able-bodied men to stop speechifying, which don't
'mount to the wiggle of a sick cat's tail, and go to
fi'tin'; otherwise you can stay to home and take
keer of the children, while we wimin will go to the
wars!”
“Gentl'men,” said I, “that's my wife! Go in, old
gal!” and I throw'd up my ancient white hat in perfeck
rapters.
“Is this roll-book to be filled up with the names
of men or wimin'?” she cried.
“With men—with men!” and our quoty was
made up that very night.
There is a great deal of gas about these war
would be suthin' like the play of Hamlet with the
part of Othello omitted.
Still believin' that the Goddess of Liberty is about
as well sot up with as any young lady in distress
could expect to be, I am
Yours more'n anybody else's,
2. II.
THE DRAFT IN BALDINSVILLE.
If I'm drafted I shall resign.
Deeply grateful for the onexpected honor thus
confered upon me, I shall feel compeld to resign the
position in favor of sum more worthy person. Modesty
is what ails me. That's what's kept me
under.
I meanter-say, I shall hav to resign if I'm drafted
everywheres I've bin inrold. I must now, furrinstuns,
be inrold in upards of 200 different towns.
If I'd kept on travelin' I should hav eventooaly becum
a Brigade, in which case I could have held a
meetin' and elected myself Brigadeer-ginral quite
unanimiss. I hadn't no idea there was so mauy of
me before. But, serisly, I concluded to stop exhibitin',
and made tracks for Baldinsville.
My only daughter threw herself onto my boosum,
and said, “It is me, fayther! I thank the gods!”
She reads the Ledger.
“Tip us yer bunch of fives, old faker!” said Artemus,
Jr. He reads the Clipper.
My wife was to the sowin' circle. I knew she
and the wimin folks was havin' a pleasant time slanderin'
the females of the other sowin' circle (which
likewise met that arternoon, and was doubtless enjoyin'
theirselves ekally well in slanderin' the fustnamed
circle), and I didn't send for her. I allus like
to see people enjoy theirselves.
My son Orgustus was playin' onto a floot.
Orgustus is a ethereal cuss. The twins was bildin'
cob-houses in a corner of the kitchin'.
It'll cost some postage-stamps to raise this fam'ly,
and yet it 'ud go hard with the old man to lose any
lamb of the flock.
An old bachelor is a poor critter. He may have
hearn the skylark or (what's nearly the same thing)
Miss Kellogg and Carlotty Patti sing; he may
have hearn Ole Bull fiddle, and all the Dodworths
toot, an' yet he don't know nothin' about
music—the real, ginuine thing—the music of the
laughter of happy, well-fed children! And you may
ax the father of sich children home to dinner, feelin
goes away. Sich fathers never drop tin five-cent
pieces into the contribution box, nor palm shoe-pegs
off onto blind hosses for oats, nor skedaddle to
British sile when their country's in danger—nor do
anything which is really mean, I don't mean to
intimate that the old bachelor is up to little games
of this sort—not at all—but I repeat, he's a poor
critter. He don't live here; only stays. He ought
to 'pologize, on behalf of his parients, for bein' here
at all. The happy marrid man dies in good stile at
home, surrounded by his weeping wife and children.
The old bachelor don't die at all—he sort of rots
away, like a pollywog's tail.
My townsmen were sort o' demoralized. There
was a evident desine to ewade the Draft, as I
obsarved with sorrer, and patritism was below Par
—and Mar, too. [A jew desprit.] I hadn't no
sooner sot down on the piazzy of the tavoun than I
saw sixteen solitary hossmen, ridin' four abreast,
wendin' their way up the street.
“What's them? Is it calvary?”
“That,” said the landlord, “is the stage. Sixteen
able-bodied citizens has lately bo't the stage
line 'tween here and Scotsburg. That's them.
They're stage-drivers. Stage-drivers is exempt!”
I saw that each stage-driver carried a letter in his
left hand.
“The mail is hevy, to-day,” said the landlord.
“Gin'rally they don't have more'n half a dozen
letters 'tween 'em. To-day they've got one apiece!
Bile my lights and liver!”
“And the passengers?”
“There ain't any, skacely, now-days,” said the
landlord, “and what few there is, very much prefier
to walk, the roads is so rough.”
“And how ist with you?” I inquired of the editor
of the Bugle-Horn of Liberty, who sot near me.
“I can't go,” he sed, shakin' his head in a wise
way. “Ordinarily I should delight to wade in gore,
but my bleedin' country bids me stay at home. It
is imperatively necessary that I remain here for the
purpuss of announcin' from week to week, that our
Gov'ment is about to take vigorous measures to put
down the rebellion!”
I strolled into the village oyster-saloon, where I
found Dr. Schwazey, a leadin' citizen, in a state of
mind which showed that he'd bin histin' in more'n
his share of pizen.
“Hello, old Beeswax,” he bellered: “How's yer
grandmams? When you goin' to feed your stuffed
animils?”
“What's the matter with the eminent physician?”
I pleasantly inquired.
“This,” he said; “this is what's the matter. I'm
a habitooal drunkard! I'm exempt!”
“Jes' so.”
“Do you see them beans, old man?” and he pinted
to a plate before him. “Do you see 'em?”
“I do. They are a cheerful fruit when used
tempritly.”
“Well,” said he, “I hain't eat anything since last
week. I eat beans now because I eat beans then. I
never mix my vittles!”
“It's quite proper you should eat a little suthin'
once in a while,” I said. “It's a good idee to occasionally
instruct the stummick that it mustn't depend
excloosively on licker for its sustainance.”
“A blessin',” he cried; “a blessin' onto the hed of
the man what inwented beans. A blessin' onto his
hed!”
“Which his name is Silson! He's a first family
of Bostin,” said I.
This is a speciment of how things was goin' in my
place of residence.
A few was true blue. The schoolmaster was
among 'em. He greeted me warmly. He said I
was welkim to those shores. He said I had a massiv
mind. It was gratifyin', he said, to see that
great intelleck stalkin' in their midst onct more. I
have before had occasion to notice this schoolmaster.
He is evidently a young man of far more than ord'nary
talents.
The schoolmaster proposed we should git up a
mass meetin'. The meetin' was largely attended.
We held it in the open air, round a roarin' bonfire.
The schoolmaster was the first orator. He's
pretty good on the speak. He also writes well, his
composition bein' seldom marred by ingrammatticisms.
He said this inactivity surprised him. “What
Nihil fit—'
“Hooray for Nihil!” I interrupted. “Fellow-citizens,
let's giv three cheers for Nihil, the man
who fit!”
The schoolmaster turned a little red, but repeated
—“Nihil fit.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Nihil fit. He wasn't a
strategy feller.”
“Our venerable friend,” said the schoolmaster,
smilin' pleasantly, “isn't posted in Virgil.”
“No, I don't know him. But if he's a able-bodied
man he must stand his little draft.”
The schoolmaster wound up in eloquent style, and
the subscriber took the stand.
I said the crisis had not only cum itself, but it had
brought all its relations. It has cum, I said, with a
evident intention of makin' us a good long visit. It's
goin' to take off its things and stop with us. My
wife says so too. This is a good war. For those
who like this war, it's just such a kind of war as
they like. I'll bet ye. My wife says so too. If the
Federal army succeeds in takin' Washington, and
shall say it is strategy, and Washington will be safe.
And that noble banner, as it were—that banner, as
it were—will be a emblem, or rather, I should say,
that noble banner—as it were. My wife says so too.
[I got a little mixed up here, but they didn't notice
it. Keep mum.] Feller citizens, it will be a proud
day for this Republic when Washington is safe.
My wife says so too.
The editor of the Bugle-Horn of Liberty here
arose and said: “I do not wish to interrupt the
gentleman, but a important despatch has just bin
received at the telegraph office here. I will read it.
It is as follows: Gov'ment is about to take vigorous
measures to put down the rebellion!” [Loud applause.]
That, said I, is cheering. That's soothing. And
Washington will be safe. [Sensation.] Philadelphia
is safe. Gen. Patterson's in Philadelphia. But
my heart bleeds partic'ly for Washington. My wife
says so too.
There's money enough. No trouble about money.
They've got a lot of first-class bank-note engravers
no means safe) who turn out two or three cords of
money a day—good money, too. Goes well. These
bank-note engravers made good wages. I expect
they lay up property. They are full of Union sentiment.
There is considerable Union sentiment in
Virginny, more specially among the honest farmers
of the Shenandoah valley. My wife says so too.
Then it isn't money we want. But we do want
men, and we must have them. We must carry a
whirlwind of fire among the foe. We must crush
the ungrateful rebels who are poundin' the Goddess
of Liberty over the head with slung-shots, and
stabbin' her with stolen knives! We must lick 'em
quick. We must introduce a large number of first-class
funerals among the people of the South. Betsy
says so, too.
This war hain't been too well managed. We all
know that. What then? We are all in the same
boat—if the boat goes down, we go down with her.
Hence we must all fight. It ain't no use to talk now
about who caused the war. That's played out.
The war is upon us—upon us all—and we must all
When, in the broad glare of the noonday sun, a
speckled jackass boldly and maliciously kicks over a
peanut-stand, do we “reason” with him? I guess
not. And why “reason” with those other Southern
people who are tryin' to kick over the Republic?
Betsy, my wife, says so too.
The meetin' broke up with enthusiasm. We
shan't draft in Baldinsville if we can help it.
3. III.
THINGS IN NEW YORK.
The stoodent and connyseer must have noticed and
admired in varis parts of the United States of America,
large yeller hanbills, which not only air gems
of art in theirselves, but they troothfully sit forth
the attractions of my show—a show, let me here
obsarve, that contains many livin' wild animils,
every one of which has got a Beautiful Moral.
Them hanbils is sculpt in New York.
& I annoolly repair here to git some more on
'um;
&, bein' here, I tho't I'd issoo a Address to the
public on matters and things.
Since last I meyandered these streets, I have bin
all over the Pacific Slopes and Utah. I cum back
now, with my virtoo unimpared, but I've got to git
some new clothes.
Many changes has taken place, even durin' my
short absence, & sum on um is Sollum to contempulate.
Board, is bein' torn down. That house, which was
rendered memoriable by my livin' into it, is “parsin'
away! parsin' away!” But some of the timbers
will be made into canes, which will be sold to my
admirers at the low price of one dollar each. Thus
is changes goin' on continerly. In the New World
it is war—in the Old World Empires is totterin' &
Dysentaries is crumblin'. These canes is cheap at a
dollar.
Sammy Booth, Duane street, sculps my hanbills,
& he's a artist. He studid in Rome—State of New
York.
I'm here to read the proof-sheets of my hanbils as
fast as they're sculpt. You have to watch these ere
printers pretty close, for they're jest as apt to spel
a wurd rong as anyhow.
But I have time to look round sum & how do I
find things? I return to the Atlantic States after a
absence of ten months, & what State do I find the
country in? Why I don't know what State I find
it in. Suffice it to say, that I do not find it in the
State of New Jersey.
I find sum things that is cheerin', partic'ly the resolve
on the part of the wimin of America to stop
wearin' furrin goods.
I never meddle with my wife's things. She may
wear muslin from Greenland's icy mountins, and
bombazeen from Injy's coral strands, if she wants
to; but I'm glad to state that that superior woman
has peeled off all her furrin clothes and jumpt into
fabrics of domestic manufactur.
But, says sum folks, if you stop importin' things
you stop the revenoo. That's all right. We can
stand it if the Revenoo can. On the same principle
young men should continer to get drunk on French
brandy and to smoke their livers as dry as a corncob
with Cuby cigars because 4-sooth if they don't,
it will hurt the Revenoo! This talk 'bout the Revenoo
is of the bosh, boshy. One thing is tol'bly
certin—if we don't send gold out of the country we
shall have the consolation of knowing that it is in
the country. So I say great credit is doo the wimin
for this patriotic move—and to tell the trooth, the
wimin genrally know what they're 'bout. Of all
the blessins they're the soothinist. If there'd never
But I hope this move will lead to other moves
that air just as much needed, one of which is a
genral and therrer curtainment of expenses all round.
The fact is we air gettin' ter'bly extravagant, &
onless we paws in our mad career in less than two
years the Goddess of Liberty will be seen dodgin'
into a Pawn Broker's shop with the other gown
done up in a bundle, even if she don't have to Spout
the gold stars in her head-band. Let us all take
hold jintly, and live and dress centsibly, like our
forefathers, who know'd moren we do, if they warnt
quite so honest! (Suttle goaketh.)
There air other cheerin' signs. We don't, for
instuns, lack great Gen'rals, and we certinly don't
lack brave sojers—but there's one thing I wish we
did lack, and that is our present Congress.
I venture to say that if you sarch that earth all
over with a ten-hoss power mikriscope, you won't
be able to find such another pack of poppycock
gabblers as the present Congress of the United
States of America.
Gentlemen of the Senit & of the House, you've
sot there and draw'd your pay and made summer-complaint
speeches long enuff. The country at large,
incloodin' the undersined, is disgusted with you.
Why don't you show us a statesman—sumbody who
can make a speech that will hit the pop'lar hart
right under the Great Public weskit? Why don't
you show us a statesman who can rise up to the
Emergency, and cave in the Emergency's head?
Congress, you won't do. Go home, you mizzerable
devils—go home!
At a special Congressional 'lection in my district
the other day I delib'ritly voted for Henry Clay.
I admit that Henry is dead, but inasmuch as we
don't seem to have a live statesman in our National
Congress, let us by all means have a first-class
corpse.
Them who think that a cane made from the timbers
of the house I once boarded in is essenshal to
their happiness, should not delay about sendin' the
money right on for one.
And now, with a genuine hurrar for the wimin
who air goin' to abandin furrin goods, and another
and indulge in a little pleasant family-gossip.
My reported captur by the North American savijis
of Utah, led my wide circle of friends and
creditors to think that I had bid adoo to earthly
things and was a angel playin' on a golden harp.
Hents my rival home was onexpected.
It was 11, P. M., when I reached my homestid and
knockt a healthy knock on the door thereof.
A nightcap thrusted itself out of the front chamber
winder. (It was my Betsy's nightcap.) And a
voice said:
“Who is it?”
“It is a Man!” I answered, in a gruff vois.
“I don't b'lieve it!” she sed.
“Then come down and search me,” I replied.
Then resumin' my nat'ral voice, I said, “It is your
own A. W., Betsy! Sweet lady, wake! Ever of
thou!”
“Oh,” she said, “it's you, is it? I thought I
smelt something.”
But the old girl was glad to see me.
In the mornin' I found that my family were enter-tainin'
some startlin' water-falls and mountins, and I
morin suspected he had a hankerin' for my oldest
dauter.
“Mr. Skimmerhorn, father,” sed my dauter.
“Glad to see you, Sir!” I replied in a hospittle
vois. “Glad to see you.”
“He is an artist, father,” sed my child.
“A whichist?”
“An artist. A painter.”
“And glazier,” I askt. “Air you a painter and
glazier, sir?”
My dauter and wife was mad, but I couldn't help
it, I felt in a comikil mood.
“It is a wonder to me, Sir,” said the artist, “considerin'
what a wide-spread reputation you have,
that some of our Eastern managers don't secure
you.”
“It's a wonder to me,” said I to my wife, “that
somebody don't secure him with a chain.”
After breakfast I went over to town to see my
old friends. The editor of the Bugle greeted me
cordyully, and showed me the follerin' article he'd
the street:
“We have recently put up in our office an entirely
new sink, of unique construction—with two holes
through which the soiled water may pass to the new
bucket underneath. What will the hell-hounds of
The Advertiser say to this? We shall continue to
make improvements as fast as our rapidly-increasing
business may warrant. Wonder whether a
certain editor's wife thinks she can palm off a brass
watch-chain on this community for a gold one?”
“That,” says the Editor, “hits him whar he lives.
That will close him up as bad as it did when I wrote
an article ridicooling his sister, who's got a cock-eye.”
A few days after my return I was shown a young
man, who says he'll be Dam if he goes to the war.
He was settin' on a barrel, & was indeed a Loathsum
objeck.
Last Sunday I heard Parson Batkins preach, and
the good old man preached well, too, tho' his
prayer was ruther lengthy. The Editor of the
Bugle, who was with me, said that prayer would
make fifteen squares, solid nonparil.
I don't think of nothin' more to write about. So,
“B'leeve me if all those endearing young charms,”
&c., &c.
An objeck who says he won't go to the war. See page 39.
[Description: 483EAF. Image of a dejected man who sits on a cask in a bar, smoking and looking at the floor.]
4. IV.
IN CANADA.
I'm at present existin' under a monikal form of
Gov'ment. In other words I'm travelin' among the
crowned heds of Canady. They ai'n't pretty bad
people. On the cont'ry, they air exceedin' good
people.
Troo, they air deprived of many blessins. They
don't enjoy, for instans, the priceless boon of a war.
They haven't any American Egil to onchain, and
they hain't got a Fourth of July to their backs.
Altho' this is a monikal form of Gov'ment, I am
onable to perceeve much moniky. I tried to git a
piece in Toronto, but failed to succeed.
Mrs. Victoria, who is Queen of England, and has
all the luxuries of the markets, incloodin' game in
its season, don't bother herself much about Canady,
but lets her do 'bout as she's mighter. She, however,
gin'rally keeps her supplied with a lord, who's called
a Gov'ner Gin'ral. Sometimes the politicians of
politicians, and I expect they don't differ from our
politicians, some of em bein' gifted and talented
liars, no doubt.
The present Gov'ner Gin'ral of Canady is Lord
Monk. I saw him review some volunteers at Montreal.
He was accompanied by some other lords
and dukes and generals and those sort of things.
He rode a little bay horse, and his close wasn't any
better than mine. You'll always notiss, by the way,
that the higher up in the world a man is, the less
good harness he puts on. Hence Gin'ral Halleck
walks the streets in plain citizen's dress, while the
second lieutenant of a volunteer regiment piles all
the brass things he can find onto his back, and drags
a forty-pound sword after him.
Monk has been in the lord bisniss some time, and
I understand it pays, tho' I don't know what a lord's
wages is. The wages of sin is death and postage-stamps.
But this has nothing to do with Monk.
One of Lord Monk's daughters rode with him on
the field. She has golden hair, a kind good face
and wore a red hat. I should be very happy to have
Come and bring your knittin', Miss Monk. Mrs.
Ward will do the fair thing by you. She makes
the best slap-jacks in America. As a slap-jackist,
she has no ekal. She wears the Belt.
What the review was all about, I don't know. I
haven't a gigantic intelleck, which can grasp great
questions at onct. I am not a Webster or a Seymour.
I am not a Washington or a Old Abe. Fur from it.
I am not as gifted a man as Henry Ward Beecher.
Even the congregation of Plymouth Meetin'-House
in Brooklyn will admit that. Yes, I should think
so. But while I don't have the slitest idee as to
what the review was fur, I will state that the sojers
looked pooty scrumptious in their red and green
close.
Come with me, jentle reader, to Quebeck. Quebeck
was surveyed and laid out by a gentleman
who had been afflicted with the delirium tremens
from childhood, and hence his idees of things was a
little irreg'ler. The streets don't lead anywheres
in partic'ler, but everywheres in gin'ral. The city
is bilt on a variety of perpendicler hills, each hill
of stone walls, and arches, and citadels and things.
It is said no foe could ever git into Quebeck, and I
guess they couldn't. And I don't see what they'd
want to get in there for.
Quebeck has seen lively times in a warlike way.
The French and Britishers had a set-to there in 1759.
Jim Wolfe commanded the latters, and Jo. Montcalm
the formers. Both were hunky boys, and fit
nobly. But Wolfe was too many measles for Montcalm,
and the French was slew'd. Wolfe and
Montcalm was both killed. In arter years a common
monyment was erected by the gen'rous people
of Quebeck, aided by a bully Earl named George
Dalhouse, to these noble fellows. That was well
done.
Durin' the Revolutionary War B. Arnold made
his way, through dense woods and thick snows, from
Maine to Quebeck, which it was one of the hunkiest
things ever done in the military line. It would
have been better if B. Arnold's funeral had come
off immeditly on his arrival there.
One the Plains of Abraham there was onct some
demand for the bones of the slew'd on that there
occasion. But the real ginooine bones was long ago
carried off, and now the boys make a hansum thing
by cartin' the bones of hosses and sheep out there,
and sellin' em to intelligent American towerists.
Takin' a perfessional view of this dodge, I must say
that it betrays genius of a lorfty character.
It reminded me of a inspired feet of my own. I
used to exhibit a wax figger of Henry Wilkins,
the Boy Murderer. Henry had, in a moment of
inadvertence, killed his Uncle Ephram and walked
off with the old man's money. Well, this stattoo
was lost somehow, and not sposin' it would make
any particler difference I substitooted the full-grown
stattoo of one of my distinguished piruts for the Boy
Murderer. One night I exhibited to a poor but
honest audience in the town of Stoneham, Maine.
“This, ladies and gentlemen,” said I, pointing my
umbrella (that weapon which is indispensable to
every troo American) to the stattoo, “this is a life-like
wax figger of the notorious Henry Wilkins,
who in the dead of night murdered his Uncle Ephram
murderers for nephews. When a mere child this
Henry Wilkins was compelled to go to the Sunday-school.
He carried no Sunday-school book. The
teacher told him to go home and bring one. He
went and returned with a comic song-book. A
depraved proceedin'.”
“But,” says a man in the audience, “when you
was here before your wax figger represented Henry
Wilkins as a boy. Now, Henry was hung, and
yet you show him to us now as a full-grown man!
How's that?”
“The figger has growd, sir—it has growd,” I said.
I was angry. If it had been in these times I think
I should have informed agin him as a traitor to his
flag, and had him put in Fort Lafayette.
I say adoo to Quebeck with regret. It is old
fogyish, but chock full of interest. Young gentlemen
of a romantic turn of mind, who air botherin'
their heads as to how they can spend their father's
money, had better see Quebeck.
Altogether I like Canady. Good people and lots
of pretty girls. I wouldn't mind comin' over here
occurs, and provided further I could be allowed a
few star-spangled banners, a eagle, a boon of liberty,
etc.
Don't think I've skedaddled. Not at all. I'm
coming home in a week.
Let's have the Union restored as it was, if we can;
but if we can't, I'm in favor of the Union as it
wasn't. But the Union, anyhow.
Gentlemen of the editorial corpse, if you would
be happy be virtoous! I, who am the emblem of
virtoo, tell you so.
5. V.
THE NOBLE RED MAN.
The red man of the forest was form'ly a very respectful
person. Justice to the noble aboorygine
warrants me in sayin' that orrigernerly he was a
majestic cuss.
At the time Chris. arrove on these shores (I
allood to Chris. Columbus), the savajis was virtoous
and happy. They were innocent of secession, rum,
draw-poker, and sinfulness gin'rally. They didn't
discuss the slavery question as a custom. They had
no Congress, faro banks, delirium tremens, or Associated
Press. Their habits was consequently good.
Late suppers, dyspepsy, gas companies, thieves, ward
politicians, pretty waiter-girls, and other metropolitan
refinements, were unknown among them. No
savage in good standing would take postage-stamps.
You couldn't have bo't a coon skin with a barrel of
`em. The female Aboorygine never died of consumption,
because she didn't tie her waist up in whalebone
Lo! The poor Red man and a "pretty waiter girl." See page 48.
[Description: 483EAF. Image of a Native American drinking a mint julep, while being watched by a waitress.]
bounded, with naked feet, over hills and plains like
the wild and frisky antelope. It was a onlucky
moment for us when Chris. sot his foot onto these
'ere shores. It would have been better for us of the
present day if the injins had given him a warm meal
and sent him home ore the ragin' billers. For the
savages owned the country, and Columbus was a fillibuster.
Cortez, Pizarro, and Walker were one-horse
fillibusters—Columbus was a four-horse team
fillibuster, and a large yaller dog under the waggin.
I say, in view of, the mess we are makin' of things,
it would have been better for us if Columbus had
staid to home. It would have been better for the
show bisniss. The circulation of Vanity Fair
would be larger, and the proprietors would all have
boozum pins! Yes, sir, and perhaps a ten-pin alley.
By which I don't wish to be understood as intimatin'
that the scalpin' wretches who are in the
injin bisniss at the present day are of any account,
or calculated to make home happy, specially the
Sioxes of Minnesoty, who desarve to be murdered in
the first degree, and if Pope will only stay in St. Paul
and not go near 'em himself, I reckon they will be.
6. VI.
THE SERENADE.
Things in our town is workin'. The canal boat
“Lucy Ann” called in here the other day and reported
all quiet on the Wabash. The “Lucy Ann” has
adopted a new style of Binnakle light, in the shape
of a red-headed gal who sits up over the compass.
It works well.
The artist I spoke about in my larst has returned
to Philadelphy. Before he left I took his lily-white
hand in mine. I suggested to him that if he could
induce the citizens of Philadelphy to believe it
would be a good idea to have white winder-shutters
on their houses and white door-stones, he might
make a fortin. “It's a novelty,” I added, “and may
startle 'em at fust, but they may conclood to adopt
it.”
As several of our public men are constantly being
surprised with serenades, I concluded I'd be surprised
in the same way, so I made arrangements
they'd take to take me entirely by surprise with a
serenade. They said they'd overwhelm me with a unexpected
honor for seven dollars, which I excepted.
I wrote out my impromtoo speech severil days
beforehand, bein' very careful to expunge all ingramatticisms
and payin' particler attention to the
punktooation. It was, if I may say it without egitism,
a manly effort, but, alars! I never delivered it,
as the sekel will show you. I paced up and down
the kitcin speakin' my piece over so as to be entirely
perfeck. My bloomin' young daughter Sarah
Ann, bothered me summut by singin', “Why do
summer roses fade?”
“Because,” said I, arter hearin' her sing it about
fourteen times, “because it's their biz! Let 'em fade.”
“Betsy,” said I, pausin' in the middle of the
room and letting my eagle eye wander from the
manuscrip; “Betsy, on the night of this here serenade,
I desires you to appear at the winder dressed
in white, and wave a lily-white hankercher. D'ye
hear?”
“If I appear,” said that remarkable female, “I
and somebody will be scalded. One bald-heded old
fool will get his share.”
She refer'd to her husband. No doubt about it
in my mind. But for fear she might exasperate me
I said nothin'.
The expected night cum. At 9 o'clock precisely
there was sounds of footsteps in the yard, and the
Band struck up a lively air, which when they did
finish it, there was cries of “Ward! Ward!” I
stept out onto the portico. A brief glance showed
me that the assemblage was summut mixed. There
was a great many ragged boys, and there was
quite a number of grown-up persons evigently
under the affluence of the intoxicatin' bole. The
Band was also drunk. Dr. Schwazey, who was
holdin' up a post, seemed to be partic'ly drunk—so
much so that it had got into his spectacles, which
were staggerin' wildly over his nose. But I was in
for it, and I commenced:
“Feller Citizens: For this onexpected honor—”
Leader of the Band.—Will you give us our
money now, or wait till you git through?
To this painful and disgustin' interruption I paid
no attention.
“—for this onexpected honor I thank you.”
Leader of the Band.—But you said you'd give us
seven dollars if we'd play two choons.
Again I didn't notice him, but resumed as follows:
“I say I thank you warmly. When I look at this
crowd of true Americans, my heart swells—”
Dr. Schwazey.—So do I!
A voice.—We all do!
“—my heart swells—”
A voice.—Three cheers for the swells.
“We live,” said I, “in troublous times, but I
hope we shall again resume our former proud position,
and go on in our glorious career!”
Dr. Schwazey.—I'm willin' for one to go on in a
glorious career. Will you join me, fellow citizens,
in a glorious career? What wages does a man git
for a glorious career, when he finds himself?
“Dr. Schwazey,” said I sternly, “you are drunk.
You're disturbin' the meetin'.”
Dr. S.—Have you a banquet spread in the house?
I should like a rhynossyross on the half shell, or
roasted whole. Anything that's handy. Don't put
yourself out on my account.
At this pint the Band begun to make hidyous
noises with their brass horns, and a exceedingly ragged
boy wanted to know if there wasn't to be some
wittles afore the concern broke up? I didn't exactly
know what to do, and was just on the pint of
doin' it, when a upper winder suddenly opened and
a stream of hot water was bro't to bear on the disorderly
crowd, who took the hint and retired at
once.
When I am taken by surprise with another serenade,
I shall, among other arrangements, have a
respectful company on hand. So no more from me
to-day. When this you see, remember me.
7. VII.
A ROMANCE.—WILLIAM BARKER, THE YOUNG
PATRIOT
I.
“No, William Barker, you cannot have my daughter's
hand in marriage until you are her equal in
wealth and social position.”
The speaker was a haughty old man of some sixty
years, and the person whom he addressed was a fine-looking
young man of twenty-five.
With a sad aspect the young man withdrew from
the stately mansion.
II.
Six months later the young man stood in the presence
of the haughty old man.
“What! you here again?” angrily cried the old
man.
“Ay, old man,” proudly exclaimed William Barker.
“I am here, your daughter's equal and yours?”
The old man's lips curled with scorn. A derisive
upon the marble centre table an enormous roll of
greenbacks, William Barker cried—
“See! Look on this wealth. And I've tenfold
more! Listen, old man! You spurned me from your
door. But I did not despair. I secured a contract
for furnishing the Army of the—with beef—”
“Yes, yes!” eagerly exclaimed the old man.
“—and I bought up all the disabled cavalry
horses I could find—”
“I see! I see!” cried the old man. “And good
beef they make, too.”
“They do! they do! and the profits are immense.”
“I should say so!”
“And now, sir, I claim your daughter's fair hand!”
“Boy, she is yours. But hold! Look me in the
eye. Throughout all this have you been loyal?”
“To the core!” cried William Barker.
“And,” continued the old man, in a voice husky
with emotion, “are you in favor of a vigorous prosecution
of the war?”
“I am, I am!”
“Then, boy, take her! Maria, child, come hither.
and whatever our lot in life may be, let us all support
the Government!”
8. VIII.
A ROMANCE.—THE CONSCRIPT.
[Which may bother the reader a little unless he is familiar
with the music of the day.]
1. Chapter I.
Philander Reed struggled with spool-thread and
tape in a dry-goods store at Ogdensburgh, on the
St. Lawrence River, State of New York. He Rallied
Round the Flag, Boys, and Hailed Columbia
every time she passed that way. One day a regiment
returning from the war Came Marching Along,
bringing An Intelligent Contraband with them, who
left the South about the time Babylon was a-Fallin',
and when it was apparent to all well-ordered minds
that the Kingdom was Coming, accompanied by the
Day of Jubiloo. Philander left his spool-thread and
tape, rushed into the street, and by his Long-Tail
Blue, said, “Let me kiss him for his Mother.” Then,
with patriotic jocularity, he inquired, “How is your
Cudjo's Cave replied, “That poor Old Slave has
gone to rest, we ne'er shall see him more! But U.
S. G. is the man for me, or Any Other Man.” Then
he Walked Round.
“And your Master,” said Philander, “where is
he?”
“Massa's in the cold, cold ground—at least I hope
so!” said the gay contraband.
“March on, March on! all hearts rejoice!” cried
the Colonel, who was mounted on a Bob-tailed nag
—on which, in times of Peace, my soul, O Peace! he
had betted his money.
“Yaw,” said a German Bold Sojer Boy, “we
don't-fights-mit-Segel as much as we did.”
The regiment marched on, and Philander betook
himself to his mother's Cottage Near the Banks of
that Lone River, and rehearsed the stirring speech
he was to make that night at a war meeting.
“It's just before the battle, Mother,” he said, “and
I want to say something that will encourage Grant.”
2. Chapter II.—Mabel.
Mabel Tucker was an orphan. Her father, Dan
Tucker, was run over one day by a train of cars,
though he needn't have been, for the kind-hearted
engineer told him to Git Out of the Way.
Mabel early manifested a marked inclination for
the millinery business, and at the time we introduce
her to our readers she was Chief Engineer of a
Millinery Shop and Boss of a Sewing Machine.
Philander Reed loved Mabel Tucker, and Ever of
her was Fondly Dreaming; and she used to say,
“Will you love me Then as Now!” to which he
would answer that he would, and without the written
consent of his parents.
She sat in the parlor of the Cot where she was
Born, one Summer's eve, with pensive thought, when
Somebody came Knocking at the Door. It was
Philander. Fond Embrace and things. Thrilling
emotions. P. very pale and shaky in the legs. Also,
sweaty.
“Where hast thou been?” she said. “Hast been
gathering shells from youth to age, and then leaving
these Sadfulness?”
“Mabeyuel!” he cried, “Mabeyuel! They've
Drafted me into the Army!”
An Orderly Seargeant now appears and says,
“Come, Philander, let's be a marching;” and he tore
her from his embrace (P's) and marched the conscript
to the Examining Surgeon's office.
Mabel fainted in two places. It was worse than
Brothers Fainting at the Door.
3. Chapter III.—The Conscript.
Philander Reed hadn't three hundred dollars,
being a dead-broken Reed, so he must either become
one of the noble Band who are Coming, Father Abraham,
three hundred thousand more, or skeddadle
across the St. Lawrence River to the Canada Line.
As his opinions had recently undergone a radical
change, he chose the latter course, and was soon
Afloat, afloat, on the swift-rolling tide. “Row, brothers,
row,” he cried, “the stream runs fast, the
Seargeant is near, and the 'Zamination's past, and I'm
a able-bodied man.”
Landing he at once imprinted a conservative kiss
on the Canada Line, and feelingly asked himself,
“Who will care for Mother now? But I propose
to stick it out on this Line if it takes all Summer.”
4. Chapter IV.—The Meeting.
It was evening, it was. The Star of the Evening,
Beautiful Star, shone brilliantly, adorning the sky
with those Neutral tints which have characterized
all British skies ever since this War broke out.
Philander sat on the Canada Line, playing with
his Yardstick, and perhaps about to take the measure
of an unmade piece of calico; when Mabel, with
a wild cry of joy, sprang from a small-boat to his
side. The meeting was too much. They divided a
good square faint between them this time. At last
Philander found his utterance, and said, “Do they
think of me at Home, do they ever think of me?”
“No,” she replied, “but they do at the recruiting
office.”
“Ha! 'tis well.”
“Nay, dearest,” Mabel pleaded, “come home and
go to the war like a man! I will take your place in
heavier than a yardstick, but isn't it a rather more
manly weapon?”
“I don't see it,” was Philander's reply; “besides
this war isn't conducted accordin' to the Constitution
and Union. When it is—when it is, Mabeyuel, I
will return and enlist as a Convalescent!”
“Then, sir,” she said, with much American disgust
in her countenance, “then, sir, farewell!”
“Farewell!” he said, “and When this Cruel
War is Over, pray that we may meet again!”
“Nary!” cried Mabel, her eyes flashing warm fire,
—“nary! None but the Brave deserve the Sanitary
Fair! A man who will desert his country in its hour
of trial would drop Faro checks into the Contribution
Box on Sunday. I hain't Got time to tarry—I
hain't got time to stay!—but here's a gift at parting:
a White Feather: wear it into your hat!”
and She was Gone from his gaze, like a beautiful
dream.
Stung with remorse and mosquitoes, this miserable
young man, in a fit of frenzy, unsheathed his glittering
dry-goods scissors, cut off four yards (good measure)
Willow Tree. Requiescat in Tape. His stick drifted
to My Country 'tis of thee! and may be seen, in
connexion with many others, on the stage of any
New York theatre every night.
The Canadians won't have any line pretty soon.
The skedaddlers will steal it. Then the Canadians
won't know whether they're in the United States or
not, in which case they may be drafted.
Mabel married a Brigadier-General, and is happy.
9. IX.
A ROMANCE.—ONLY A MECHANIC.
In a sumptuously furnished parlor in Fifth Avenue,
New York, sat a proud and haughty belle.
Her name was Isabel Sawtelle. Her father was a
millionnaire, and his ships, richly laden, ploughed
many a sea.
By the side of Isabel Sawtelle, sat a young
man with a clear, beautiful eye, and a massive
brow.
“I must go,” he said, “the foreman will wonder
at my absence.”
“The foreman?” asked Isabel in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, the foreman of the shop where I work.”
“Foreman—shop—work! What! do you work?”
“Aye, Miss Sawtelle! I am a cooper!” and his
eyes flashed with honest pride.
“What's that?” she asked; “it is something
about barrels, isn't it!”
“It is!” he said, with a flashing nostril. “And
hogsheads.”
“Then go!” she said, in a tone of disdain—“go
away!”
“Ha!” he cried, “you spurn me then, because I
am a mechanic. Well, be it so! though the time
will come, Isabel Sawtelle,” he added, and nothing
could exceed his looks at this moment—“when you
will bitterly remember the cooper you now so cruelly
cast off! Farewell!”
Years rolled on. Isabel Sawtelle married a miserable
aristocrat, who recently died of delirium tremens.
Her father failed, and is now a raving maniac,
and wants to bite little children. All her brothers
(except one) were sent to the penitentiary for burglary,
and her mother peddles clams that are stolen
for her by little George, her only son that has his
freedom. Isabel's sister Bianca rides an immoral
spotted horse in the circus, her husband having long
since been hanged for murdering his own uncle on
his mother's side. Thus we see that it is always
best to marry a mechanic.
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
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
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
& 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
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,
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
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.]
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.
11. XI.
A MORMON ROMANCE—REGINALD GLOVERSON.
1. Chapter I.
THE MORMON'S DEPARTURE.
The morning on which Reginald Gloverson was
to leave Great Salt Lake City with a mule-train,
dawned beautifully.
Reginald Gloverson was a young and thrify Mormon,
with an interesting family of twenty young
and handsome wives. His unions had never been
blessed with children. As often as once a year he
used to go to Omaha, in Nebraska, with a mule-train
for goods: but although he had performed the
rather perilous journey many times with entire
safety, his heart was strangely sad on this particular
morning, and filled with gloomy forebodings.
The time for his departure had arrived. The
high-spirited mules were at the door, impatiently
among his weeping wives.
“Dearest ones,” he said, “I am singularly sad
at heart, this morning; but do not let this depress
you. The journey is a perilous one, but—pshaw!
I have always come back safely heretofore, and why
should I fear? Besides, I know that every night,
as I lay down on the broad starlit prairie, your
bright faces will come to me in my dreams, and
make my slumbers sweet and gentle. You, Emily,
with your mild blue eyes; and you, Henrietta, with
your splendid black hair; and you, Nelly, with
your hair so brightly, beautifully golden; and you,
Mollie, with your cheeks so downy; and you, Bet-sey,
with your wine-red lips—far more delicious,
though, than any wine I ever tasted—and you,
Maria, with your winsome voice; and you, Susan,
with your—with your—that is to say, Susan, with
your—and the other thirteen of you, each so good
and beautiful, will come to me in sweet dreams, will
you not, Dearestists?”
“Our own,” they lovingly chimed, “we will!”
“And so farewell!” cried Reginald. “Come to
you as can do it conveniently at once, for I must
away.”
He folded several of them to his throbbing breast,
and drove sadly away.
But he had not gone far when the trace of the
off-hind mule became unhitched. Dismounting, he
essayed to adjust the trace; but ere he had fairly
commenced the task, the mule, a singularly refractory
animal—snorted wildly, and kicked Reginald
frightfully in the stomach. He arose with difficulty,
and tottered feebly towards his mother's house,
which was near by, falling dead in her yard, with
the remark, “Dear Mother, I've come home to die!”
“So I see,” she said; “where's the mules?”
Alas! Reginald Gloverson could give no answer.
In vain the heart-stricken mother threw herself
upon his inanimate form, crying, “Oh, my son—
my son! only tell me where the mules are, and
then you may die if you want to.”
In vain—in vain! Reginald had passed on.
2. Chapter II.
FUNERAL TRAPPINGS.
The mules were never found.
Reginald's heart-broken mother took the body
home to her unfortunate son's widows. But before
her arrival she indiscreetly sent a boy to Bust the
news gently to the afflicted wives, which he did by
informing them, in a hoarse whisper, that their
“old man had gone in.”
The wives felt very badly indeed.
“He was devoted to me,” sobbed Emily.
“And to me,” said Maria.
“Yes,” said Emily, “he thought considerably of
you, but not so much as he did of me.”
“I say he did!”
“And I say he didn't!”
“He did!”
“He didn't!”
“Don't look at me, with your squint eyes!”
“Don't shake your red head at me!”
“Sisters!” said the black-haired Henrietta, “cease
strew flowers on his grave.”
“No you won't,” said Susan. “I, as his last wife,
shall strew flowers on his grave. It's my business
to strew!”
“You shan't, so there!” said Henrietta.
“You bet I will!” said Susan, with a tear-suffused
cheek.
“Well, as for me,” said the practical Betsy, “I
ain't on the Strew, much, but I shall ride at the
head of the funeral procession!”
“Not if I've been introduced to myself, you
won't,” said the golden-haired Nelly; “that's my
position. You bet your bonnet-strings it is.”
“Children,” said Reginald's mother, “you must
do some crying, you know, on the day of the funeral;
and how many pocket-handkerchers will it take
to go round? Betsy, you and Nelly ought to make
one do between you.”
“I'll tear her eyes out if she perpetuates a sob on
my handkercher!” said Nelly.
“Dear daughters-in-law,” said Reginald's mother,
“how unseemly is this anger. Mules is five hundred
boy had has been gobbled up by the red man. I
knew when my Reginald staggered into the door-yard
that he was on the Die, but if I'd only thunk
to ask him about them mules ere his gentle spirit
took flight, it would have been four thousand dollars
in our pockets, and no mistake! Excuse those
real tears, but you've never felt a parent's feelin's.”
“It's an oversight,” sobbed Maria. “Don't blame
us!”
3. Chapter III.
DUST TO DUST.
The funeral passed off in a very pleasant manner,
nothing occurring to mar the harmony of the occasion.
By a happy thought of Reginald's mother
the wives walked to the grave twenty a-breast,
which rendered that part of the ceremony thoroughly
impartial.
That night the twenty wives, with heavy hearts,
Reginald occupied those twenty respective couches
—Reginald would nevermore linger all night in
blissful repose in those twenty respective couches—
Reginald's head would nevermore press the twenty
respective pillows of those twenty respective couches
—never, nevermore!
In another house, not many leagues from the
House of Mourning, a gray-haired woman was weeping
passionately. “He died,” she cried, “he died
without sigerfyin', in any respect, where them mules
went to!”
4. Chapter IV.
MARRIED AGAIN.
Two years are supposed to elapse between the
third and fourth chapters of this original American
romance.
A manly Mormon, one evening, as the sun was
preparing to set among a select apartment of gold
for that matter the sun has a right to “set”
where it wants to, and so, I may add, has a hen
—a manly Mormon, I say, tapped gently at the
door of the mansion of the late Reginald Gloverson.
The door was opened by Mrs. Susan Gloverson.
“Is this the house of the widow Gloverson?”—
the Mormon asked.
“It is,” said Susan.
“And how many is there of she?” inquired the
Mormon.
“There is about twenty of her, including me,”
courteously returned the fair Susan.
“Can I see her?”
“You can.”
“Madam,” he softly said, addressing the twenty
disconsolate widows, “I have seen part of you before!
And although I have already twenty-five
wives, whom I respect and tenderly care for, I can
truly say that I never felt love's holy thrill till I saw
thee! Be mine—be mine!” he enthusiastically
cried, “and we will show the world a striking illustration
only a good deal more so—
Twenty-one hearts that beat as one!”
They were united, they were!
Gentle reader, does not the moral of this romance
show that—does it not, in fact, show that however
many there may be of a young widow woman, or
rather does it not show that whatever number of
persons one woman may consist of—well, never
mind what it shows. Only this writing Mormon
romances is confusing to the intellect. You try it
and see.
12. XII.
ARTEMUS WARD IN RICHMOND.
OLONZO WARD.
Afore I comments this letter from the late rebil
capitol I desire to cimply say that I hav seen a
low and skurrilus noat in the papers from a certin
purson who singes hisself Olonzo Ward, & sez he
is my berruther. I did once hav a berruther of
that name, but I do not recugnise him now. To
me he is wuss than ded! I took him from collige
sum 16 years ago and gave him a good situation
as the Bearded Woman in my Show. How did
he repay me for this kindness? He basely undertook
(one day while in a Backynalian mood on
rum & right in sight of the aujience in the tent)
to stand upon his hed, whareby he betray'd his
sex on account of his boots & his Beard fallin'
off his face, thus rooinin' my prospecks in that
town, & likewise incurrin' the seris displeasure
the feelin's of a intelligent public. I know no
such man as Olonzo Ward. I do not ever wish
his name breathed in my presents. I do not recognise
him. I perfectly disgust him.
RICHMOND.
The old man finds hisself once more in a Sunny
climb. I cum here a few days arter the city catterpillertulated.
My naburs seemed surprised & astonisht at
this darin' bravery onto the part of a man at my
time of life, but our family was never know'd to
quale in danger's stormy hour.
My father was a sutler in the Revolootion
War. My father once had a intervoo with Gin'ral
La Fayette.
He asked La Fayette to lend him five dollars,
promisin' to pay him in the Fall; but Lafy said
“he couldn't see it in those lamps.” Lafy was
French, and his knowledge of our langwidge was
a little shaky.
Immejutly on my 'rival here I perceeded to
the Spotswood House, and callin' to my assistans
runnin' hand, I put my ortograph on the Register,
and handin' my umbrella to a bald-heded
man behind the counter, who I s'posed was Mr.
Spotswood, I said, “Spotsy, how does she run?”
He called a cullud purson, and said,
“Show the gen'lman to the cowyard, and giv'
him cart number 1.”
“Isn't Grant here?” I said. “Perhaps Ulyssis
wouldn't mind my turnin' in with him.”
“Do you know the Gin'ral?” inquired Mr.
Spotswood.
“Wall, no, not 'zackly; but he'll remember me.
His brother-in-law's Aunt bought her rye meal of
my uncle Levi all one winter. My uncle Levi's
rye meal was—”
“Pooh! pooh!” said Spotsy, “don't bother
me,” and he shuv'd my umbrella onto the floor.
Obsarvin' to him not to be so keerless with that
wepin, I accompanid the African to my lodgins.
“My brother,” I sed, “air you aware that
you've bin 'mancipated? Do you realise how
glorus it is to be free? Tell me, my dear brother,
realise the great fact in all its livin' and holy
magnitood?”
He sed he would take some gin.
I was show'd to the cowyard and laid down
under a one-mule cart. The hotel was orful
crowded, and I was sorry I hadn't gone to the
Libby Prison. Tho' I should hav' slept comf'ble
enuff if the bed-clothes hadn't bin pulled off me
durin' the night, by a scoundrul who cum and
hitched a mule to the cart and druv it off. I
thus lost my cuverin', and my throat feels a little
husky this mornin.
Gin'ral Hulleck offers me the hospitality of the
city, givin' me my choice of hospitals.
He has also very kindly placed at my disposal
a small-pox amboolance.
UNION SENTIMENT.
There is raly a great deal of Union sentiment
in this city. I see it on ev'ry hand.
I met a man to-day—I am not at liberty to
tell his name but he is a old and inflooentooial
"I knew when my Reginald staggered into the dooryard that he was on the Die." See page 81.
[Description: 483EAF. Image of Reginald staggering into the garden as his wife watches from the doorway, smoking a corncob pipe.]
bin fightin' agin the Old Flag! Lor' bless me,
how sing'lar!” He then borrer'd five dollars of
me and bust into a flood of terrs.
Sed another (a man of standin and formerly a
bitter rebuel), “Let us at once stop this effooshun
of Blud! The Old Flag is good enuff for me.
Sir,” he added, “you air from the North! Have
you a doughnut or a piece of custard pie about
you?”
I told him no, but I knew a man from Vermont
who had just organized a sort of restaurant,
where he could go and make a very comfortable
breakfast on New England rum and cheese. He
borrowed fifty cents of me, and askin' me to
send him Wm. Lloyd Garrison's ambrotype as
soon as I got home, he walked off.
Said another, “There's bin a tremenduous Union
feelin' here from the fust. But we was kept down
by a rain of terror. Have you a dagerretype of
Wendell Phillips about your person? and will you
lend me four dollars for a few days till we air once
more a happy and united people.”
JEFF. DAVIS.
Jeff. Davis is not pop'lar here. She is regarded
as a Southern sympathiser. & yit I'm told he was
kind to his Parents. She ran away from 'em many
years ago, and has never bin back. This was showin'
'em a good deal of consideration when we refleck
what his conduck has been. Her captur in female
apparel confooses me in regard to his sex, & you see
I speak of him as a her as frekent as otherwise, & I
guess he feels so hisself.
R. LEE.
Robert Lee is regarded as a noble feller.
He was opposed to the war at the fust, and draw'd
his sword very reluctant. In fact, he wouldn't hav'
drawd his sword at all, only he had a large stock of
military clothes on hand, which he didn't want to
waste. He sez the colored man is right, and he will
at once go to New York and open a Sabbath
School for negro minstrels.
THE CONFEDERATE ARMY.
The surrender of R. Lee, J. Johnston and others
state. That army now consists of Kirby Smith, four
mules and a Bass drum, and is movin rapidly to'rds
Texis.
A PROUD AND HAWTY SUTHENER.
Feelin' a little peckish, I went into a eatin' house
to-day, and encountered a young man with long
black hair and slender frame. He didn't wear
much clothes, and them as he did wear looked on-healthy.
He frowned on me, and sed, kinder
scornful, “So, Sir—you come here to taunt us in
our hour of trouble, do you?”
“No,” said I, “I cum here for hash!”
“Pish-haw!” he sed sneerinly, “I mean you air
in this city for the purpuss of gloatin' over a fallen
peple. Others may basely succumb, but as for me,
I will never yield—never, never!”
“Hav' suthin' to eat!” I pleasantly suggested.
“Tripe and onions!” he sed furcely; then he
added, “I eat with you, but I hate you. You're a
low-lived Yankee!”
To which I pleasantly replied, “How'l you have
your tripe?”
“Fried, mudsill! with plenty of ham-fat!”
He et very ravenus. Poor feller! He had lived
on odds and ends for several days, eatin' crackers
that had bin turned over by revelers in the bread-tray
at the bar.
He got full at last, and his hart softened a little
to'ards me. “After all,” he sed, “you hav sum
peple at the North who air not wholly loathsum
beasts?”
“Well, yes,” I sed, “we hav' now and then a man
among us who isn't a cold-bluded scoundril. Young
man,” I mildly but gravely sed, “this crooil war is
over, and you're lickt! It's rather necessary for sumbody
to lick in a good square, lively fite, and in this
'ere case it happens to be the United States of
America. You fit splendid, but we was too many
for you. Then make the best of it, & let us all give
in and put the Republic on a firmer basis nor ever.
“I don't gloat over your misfortins, my young
fren'. Fur from it. I'm a old man now, & my
hart is softer nor it once was. You see my spectacles
is misten'd with suthin' very like tears. I'm
thinkin' of the sea of good rich Blud that has been
of our widders and orfuns North, and of your'n in
the South. I kin cry for both. B'leeve me, my
young fren', I kin place my old hands tenderly on
the fair yung hed of the Virginny maid whose lover
was laid low in the battle dust by a fed'ral bullet,
and say, as fervently and piously as a vener'ble sinner
like me kin say anythin', God be good to you,
my poor dear, my poor dear.”
I riz up to go, & takin' my yung Southern fren'
kindly by the hand, I sed, “Yung man, adoo! You
Southern fellers is probly my brothers, tho' you've
occasionally had a cussed queer way of showin' it!
It's over now. Let us all jine in and make a country
on this continent that shall giv' all Europe the cramp
in the stummuck ev'ry time they look at us! Adoo,
adoo!”
And as I am through, I'll likewise say adoo to
you, jentle reader, merely remarkin' that the Star-Spangled
Banner is wavin' round loose again, and
that there don't seem to be anything the matter
with the Goddess of Liberty beyond a slite cold.
13. XIII.
ARTEMUS WARD TO THE PRINCE OF WALES
Friend Wales,—You remember me. I saw you
in Canady a few years ago. I remember you too.
I seldim forgit a person.
I hearn of your marrige to the Printcis Alexandry,
& ment ter writ you a congratoolatory letter
at the time, but I've bin bildin a barn this summer,
& hain't had no time to write letters to folks. Excoos
me.
Numeris changes has tooken place since we met
in the body politic. The body politic, in fack, is
sick. I sumtimes think it has got biles, friend Wales.
In my country we've got a war, while your country,
in conjunktion with Cap'n Sems of the Alobarmy,
manetanes a nootrol position!
I'm fraid I can't write goaks when I sit about it.
Oh no, I guess not!
Yes, Sir, we've got a war, and the troo Patrit
has to make sacrifisses, you bet.
I have alreddy given two cousins to the war, & I
stand reddy to sacrifiss my wife's brother ruther 'n
not see the rebelyin krusht. And if wuss cums to
wuss I'll shed ev'ry drop of blud my able-bodid
relations has got to prosekoot the war. I think
sumbody oughter be prosekooted, & it may as well
be the war as any body else. When I git a goakin
fit onto me it's no use to try ter stop me.
You hearn about the draft, friend Wales, no
doubt. It causd sum squirmin', but it was fairly
conducted, I think, for it hit all classes. It is troo
that Wendill Phillips, who is a American citizen of
African scent, 'scaped, but so did Vallandiggum,
who is Conservativ, and who wus resuntly sent
South, tho' he would have bin sent to the Dry Tortoogus
if Abe had 'sposed for a minit that the Tortoogusses
would keep him.
We hain't got any daily paper in our town, but
we've got a female sewin' circle, which ansers the
same purpuss, and we wasn't long in suspents as to
who was drafted.
One young man who was drawd claimed to be
exemp because he was the only son of a widow'd
dead men was drafted, but whether their heirs will
have to pay 3 hundrid dollars a peace for 'em is a
question for Whitin', who 'pears to be tinkerin' up
this draft bizniss right smart. I hope he makes
good wages.
I think most of the conscrips in this place will
go. A few will go to Canady, stoppin' on their
way at Concord, N. H., where I understan there is
a Muslum of Harts.
You see I'm sassy, friend Wales, hittin' all sides;
but no offense is ment. You know I ain't a politician,
and never was. I vote for Mr. Union—that's
the only candidate I've got. I claim, howsever, to
have a well-balanced mind; tho' my idees of a well-balanced
mind differs from the idees of a partner I
once had, whose name it was Billson. Billson and
me orjanized a strollin' dramatic company, & we
played The Drunkard, or the Falling Saved, with a
real drunkard. The play didn't take particlarly,
and says Billson to me, Let's giv 'em some immoral
dramy. We had a large troop onto our hands,
consistin' of eight tragedians and a bass drum, but
hain't got a well-balanced mind. Says he, Yes, I
have, old hoss-fly (he was a low cuss)—yes, I have.
I have a mind, says he, that balances in any direction
that the public rekires. That's wot I calls a
well-balanced mind. I sold out and bid adoo to
Billson. He is now an outcast in the State of Vermont.
The miser'ble man once played Hamlet.
There wasn't any orchestry, and wishin' to expire
to slow moosic, he died playin' on a claironett himself,
interspersed with hart-rendin' groans, & such
is the world! Alars! alars! how onthankful we
air to that Providence which kindly allows us to
live and borrow money, and fail and do bizniss!
But to return to our subjeck. With our resunt
grate triumps on the Mississippi, the Father of
Waters (and them is waters no Father need feel
'shamed of—twig the wittikism?), and the cheerin'
look of things in other places, I reckon we shan't
want any Muslum of Harts. And what upon airth
do the people of Concord, N. H., want a Muslum
of Harts for? Hain't you got the State House
now? & what more do you want?
But all this is furrin to the purpuss of this note,
arter all. My objeck in now addressin' you is to
giv you sum adwice, friend Wales, about managin'
your wife, a bizniss I've had over thirty years experience
in.
You had a good weddin. The papers hav a
good deal to say about “vikins” in connexion tharewith.
Not knowings what that air and so I frankly
tells you, my noble lord dook of the throne, I
can't zackly say whether we had 'em or not. We
was both very much flustrated. But I never injoyed
myself better in my life.
Dowtless, your supper was ahead of our'n. As
regards eatin' uses Baldinsville was allers shaky.
But you can git a good meal in New York, & cheap
too. You can git half a mackril at Delmonico's or
Mr. Mason Dory's for six dollars, and biled pertaters
throw'd in.
As I sed, I manige my wife without any particler
trouble. When I fust commenst trainin' her I institooted
a series of experiments, and them as didn't
work I abanding'd. You'd better do similer.
Your wife may objeck to gittin' up and bildin' the
at once you may be able to overkum this prejoodiss.
I regret to obsarve that I didn't commence arly
enuff. I wouldn't have you s'pose I was ever
kicked out of bed. Not at all. I simply say, in
regard to bildin' fires, that I didn't commence arly
enuff. It was a ruther cold mornin' when I fust
proposed the idee to Betsy. It wasn't well re-ceived,
and I found myself layin' on the floor putty
suddent. I thought I git up and bild the fire myself.
Of course now you're marrid you can eat onions.
I allus did, and if I know my own hart, I allus
will. My daughter, who is goin' on 17 and is
frisky, says they's disgustin. And speakin of my
daughter reminds me that quite a number of young
men have suddenly discovered that I'm a very en-tertainin'
old feller, and they visit us frekently,
specially on Sunday evenins. One young chap—a
lawyer by habit—don't cum as much as he did.
My wife's father lives with us. His intelleck totters
a little, and he saves the papers containin' the
proceedins of our State Legislater. The old gen'l'man
well. He eats hash freely, which makes his voice
clear; but as he onfortnilly has to spell the most
of his words, I may say he reads slow. Wall,
whenever this lawyer made his appearance I would
set the old man a-readin the Legislativ' reports. I
kept the young lawyer up one night till 12 o'clock,
listenin to a lot of acts in regard to a draw-bridge
away orf in the east part of the State, havin' sent
my daughter to bed at half past 8. He hasn't bin
there since, and I understan' he says I go round
swindlin' the Public.
I never attempted to reorganize my wife but
once. I shall never attempt agin. I'd bin to a
public dinner, and had allowed myself to be betrayed
into drinkin' several people's healths; and
wishin' to make 'em as robust as possible, I continuerd
drinkin' their healths until my own became
affected. Consekens was, I presented myself at
Betsy's bedside late at night with consid'ble licker
concealed about my person. I had sumhow got
perseshun of a hosswhip on my way home, and rememberin'
sum cranky observations of Mrs.
lively, and, in a very loud woice, I said, “Betsy,
you need reorganizin'! I have cum, Betsy,” I
continued—crackin' the whip over the bed—“I
have cum to reorganize you! Ha-ave you per-ayed
to-night?”
* * * * * * * *
I dream'd that night that sumbody had laid a
hosswhip over me sev'ril conseckootiv times; and
when I woke up I found she had. I hain't drank
much of any thin' since, and if I ever have another
reorganizin' job on hand I shall let it out.
My wife is 52 years old, and has allus sustaned a
good character. She's a good cook. Her mother
lived to a vener'ble age, and died while in the act
of frying slap-jacks for the County Commissioners.
And may no rood hand pluk a flour from her toomstun!
We hain't got any picter of the old lady,
because she'd never stand for her ambrotipe, and
therefore I can't giv her likeness to the world
through the meejum of the illusterated papers; but
as she wasn't a brigadier-gin'ral, particerly, I don't
s'pose they'd publish it, any how.
It's best to give a woman consid'ble lee-way.
But not too much. A naber of mine, Mr. Roofus
Minkins, was once very sick with the fever, but his
wife moved his bed into the door-yard while she
was cleanin' house. I told Roofus this wasn't the
thing, 'specially as it was rainin' vi'lently; but he
said he wanted to giv his wife “a little lee-way.”
That was 2 mutch. I told Mrs. Minkins that her
Roofus would die if he staid out there into the
rain much longer; when she said, “it shan't be my
fault if he dies unprepared,” at the same time
tossin' him his mother's Bible. It was orful! I
stood by, however, and nussed him as well's I
could, but I was a putty wet-nuss, I tell you.
There's varis ways of managin' a wife, friend
Wales, but the best and only safe way is to let her
do jist about as she wants to. I 'dopted that
there plan sum time ago, and it works like a
charm.
Remember me kindly to Mrs. Wales, and good
luck to you both! And as years roll by, and accidents
begin to happen to you—among which I hope
there'll be Twins—you will agree with me that
any certinty of winnin'.
It may interest you to know that I'm prosperin'
in a pecoonery pint of view. I make 'bout as much
in the course of a year as a Cab'net offisser does, &
I understan' my bizniss a good deal better than sum
of 'em do.
Respecks to St. Gorge & the Dragon.
14. XIV.
AFFAIRS ROUND THE VILLAGE GREEN.
It isn't every one who has a village green to write
about. I have one, although I have not seen much
of it for some years past. I am back again, now.
In the language of the duke who went round with
a motto about him, “I am here!” and I fancy I am
about as happy a peasant of the vale as ever garnished
a melodrama, although I have not as yet
danced on my village green, as the melo-dramatic
peasant usually does on his. It was the case when
Rosina Meadows left home.
The time rolls by serenely now—so serenely that
I don't care what time it is, which is fortunate,
because my watch is at present in the hands of
those “men of New York who are called rioters.”
We met by chance, the usual way—certainly not by
appointment—and I brought the interview to a
close with all possible despatch. Assuring them
that I wasn't Mr. Greeley, particularly, and that he
had never boarded in the private family where I
watch, and begged they would distribute it judiciously
among the laboring classes, as I had seen the
rioters styled in certain public prints.
Why should I loiter feverishly in Broadway,
stabbing the hissing hot air with the splendid gold-headed
cane that was presented to me by the citizens
of Waukegan, Illinois, as a slight testimonial
of their esteem? Why broil in my rooms? You
said to me, Mrs. Gloverson, when I took possession
of those rooms, that no matter how warm it might
be, a breeze had a way of blowing into them, and
that they were, withal, quite countryfied; but I am
bound to say, Mrs. Gloverson, that there was
nothing about them that ever reminded me, in the
remotest degree, of daisies or new-mown hay.
Thus, with sarcasm, do I smash the deceptive
Gloverson.
Why stay in New York when I had a village
green? I gave it up, the same as I would an intricate
conundrum—and, in short, I am here.
Do I miss the glare and crash of the imperial
theroughfare? the milkman, the fiery, untamed
and those things? Yes, I do; and I can go on
missing 'em for quite a spell, and enjoy it.
The village from which I write to you is small.
It does not contain over forty houses, all told; but
they are milk-white, with the greenest of blinds, and
for the most part are shaded with beautiful elms
and willows. To the right of us is a mountain—to
the left a lake. The village nestles between. Of
course it does. I never read a novel in my life in
which the villages didn't nestle. Villages invariably
nestle. It is a kind of way they have.
We are away from the cars. The iron-horse, as
my little sister aptly remarks in her composition On
Nature, is never heard to shriek in our midst; and
on the whole I am glad of it.
The villagers are kindly people. They are rather
incoherent on the subject of the war, but not more
so, perhaps, than are people elsewhere. One citizen,
who used to sustain a good character, subscribed
for the Weekly New York Herald, a few
months since, and went to studying the military
maps in that well-known journal for the fireside. I
and he has mortgaged his farm. In a literary point
of view we are rather bloodthirsty. A pamphlet
edition of the life of a cheerful being, who slaughtered
his wife and child, and then finished himself,
is having an extensive sale just now.
We know little of Honoré de Balzac, and perhaps
care less for Victor Hugo. M. Claés's grand
search for the Absolute doesn't thrill us in the least;
and Jean Valjean, gloomily picking his way through
the sewers of Paris, with the spoony young man
of the name of Marius upon his back, awakens no
interest in our breasts. I say Jean Valjean picked
his way gloomily, and I repeat it. No man, under
those circumstances, could have skipped gaily. But
this literary business, as the gentleman who married
his colored chambermaid aptly observed, “is simply
a matter of taste.”
The store—I must not forget the store. It is an
object of great interest to me. I usually encounter
there, on sunny afternoons, an old Revolutionary
soldier. You may possibly have read about
“Another Revolutionary Soldier gone,” but this is
doesn't manifest the slightest intention of going.
He distinctly remembers Washington, of course;
they all do; but what I wish to call special attention
to, is the fact that this Revolutionary soldier is
one hundred years old, that his eyes are so good
that he can read fine print without spectacles—he
never used them, by the way—and his mind is perfectly
clear. He is a little shaky in one of his legs,
but otherwise he is as active as most men of forty-five,
and his general health is excellent. He uses
no tobacco, but for the last twenty years he has
drunk one glass of liquor every day—no more, no
less. He says he must have his tod. I had begun
to have lurking suspicions about this Revolutionary
soldier business, but here is an original Jacobs.
But because a man can drink a glass of liquor a
day, and live to be a hundred years old, my young
readers must not infer that by drinking two glasses
of liquor a day a man can live to be two hundred.
“Which, I meanter say, it doesn't follor,” as Joseph
Gargery might observe.
This store, in which may constantly be found
snuff in bladders, is a venerable establishment. As
long ago as 1814 it was an institution. The county
troops, on their way to the defence of Portland,
then menaced by British ships-of-war, were drawn
up in front of this very store, and treated at the
town's expense. Citizens will tell you how the
clergyman refused to pray for the troops, because
he considered the war an unholy one; and how a
somewhat eccentric person, of dissolute habits,
volunteered his services, stating that he once had
an uncle who was a deacon, and he thought
he could make a tolerable prayer, although it
was rather out of his line; and how he prayed so
long and absurdly that the Colonel ordered him
under arrest, but that even while soldiers stood
over him with gleaming bayonets, the reckless being
sang a preposterous song about his grandmother's
spotted calf, with its Ri-fol-lol-tiddery-i-do; after
which he howled dismally.
And speaking of the store, reminds me of a little
story. The author of “several successful comedies”
has been among us, and the store was anxious
store asked him.
“What do you follow, sir?” respectfully inquired
the tradesman.
“I occasionally write for the stage, sir.”
“Oh!” returned the tradesman, in a confused
manner.
“He means,” said an honest villager, with a
desire to help the puzzled tradesman out, “he means
that he writes the handbills for the stage drivers!”
I believe that story is new, although perhaps it is
not of an uproariously mirthful character; but one
hears stories at the store that are old enough,
goodness knows—stories which, no doubt, diverted
Methuselah in the sunny days of his giddy and
thoughtless boyhood.
There is an exciting scene at the store occasionally.
Yesterday an athletic peasant, in a state of
beer, smashed in a counter and emptied two tubs
of butter on the floor. His father—a white-haired
old man, who was a little boy when the Revolu
tionary war closed, but who doesn't remember
Washington much, came round in the evening and
considerable originality.” I will mention that this
same son once told me that he could lick me with
one arm tied behind him, and I was so thoroughly
satisfied he could, that I told him he needn't mind
going for a rope.
Sometimes I go a-visiting to a farm-house, on
which occasions the parlor is opened. The windows
have been close-shut ever since the last visitor was
there, and there is a dingy smell that I struggle as
calmly as possible with, until I am led to the banquet
of steaming hot biscuit and custard pie. If
they would only let me sit in the dear old-fashioned
kitchen, or on the door-stone—if they knew how
dismally the new black furniture looked—but, never
mind, I am not a reformer. No, I should rather
think not.
Gloomy enough, this living on a farm, you perhaps
say, in which case you are wrong. I can't exactly
say that I pant to be an agriculturist, but I
do know that in the main it is an independent,
calmly happy sort of life. I can see how the prosperous
farmer can go joyously a-field with the rise
over bounteous harvests and sleek oxen. And it
must be rather jolly for him on winter evenings to
sit before the bright kitchen fire and watch his rosy
boys and girls as they study out the charades in the
weekly paper, and gradually find out why my first
is something that grows in a garden, and my second
is a fish.
On the green hillside over yonder, there is a quivering
of snowy drapery, and bright hair is flashing
in the morning sunlight. It is recess, and the Seminary
girls are running in the tall grass.
A goodly seminary to look at outside, certainly,
although I am pained to learn, as I do on unprejudiced
authority, that Mrs. Higgins, the Principal, is
a tyrant, who seeks to crush the girls and trample
upon them; but my sorrow is somewhat assuaged
by learning that Skimmerhorn, the pianist, is perfectly
splendid.
Looking at these girls reminds me that I, too, was
once young—and where are the friends of my
youth? I have found one of 'em, certainly. I saw
him ride in the circus the other day on a bareback
yonder board-fence, in green, and blue, and red, and
yellow letters. Dashington, the youth with whom
I used to read the able orations of Cicero, and who,
as a declaimer on exhibition days, used to wipe the
rest of us boys pretty handsomely out—well, Dashington
is identified with the halibut and cod interest—drives
a fish-cart, in fact, from a certain town
on the coast, back into the interior. Hurbertson,
the utterly stupid boy—the lunkhead, who never
had his lesson—he's about the ablest lawyer a sister
State can boast. Mills is a newspaper man, and is
just now editing a Major-General down South.
Singlinson, the sweet-voiced boy, whose face was
always washed and who was real good, and who
was never rude—he is in the penitentiary for putting
his uncle's autograph to a financial document.
Hawkins, the clergyman's son, is an actor, and Williamson,
the good little boy who divided his bread
and butter with the beggar-man, is a failing merchant,
and makes money by it. Tom Slink, who
used to smoke short-sixes and get acquainted with
the little circus boys, is popularly supposed to be
Boston, where the beautiful but uncertain prop is
nightly tossed. Be sure, the Army is represented
by many of the friends of my youth, the most of
whom have given a good account of themselves
But Chalmerson hasn't done much. No, Chalmerson
is rather of a failure. He plays on the guitar
and sings love songs. Not that he is a bad man.
A kinder-hearted creature never lived, and they say
he hasn't yet got over crying for his little curly
haired sister who died ever so long ago. But he
knows nothing about business, politics, the world,
and those things. He is dull at trade,—indeed, it
is a common remark that “everybody cheats Chalmerson.”
He came to the party the other evening,
and brought his guitar. They wouldn't have him
for a tenor in the opera, certainly, for he is shaky in
his upper notes; but if his simple melodies didn't
gush straight from the heart, why were my trained
eyes wet? And although some of the girls giggled,
and some of the men seemed to pity him, I could
not help fancying that poor Chalmerson was nearer
heaven than any of us all!
15. XV.
AGRICULTURE.
The Barclay County Agricultural Society having
seriously invited the author of this volume to address
them on the occasion of their next annual Fair, he
wrote the President of that Society as follows:
June 12, 1865.
Dear Sir:—
I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of
your letter of the 5th inst., in which you invite me
to deliver an address before your excellent agricultural
society.
I feel flattered, and think I will come.
Perhaps, meanwhile, a brief history of my experience
as an agriculturalist will be acceptable; and
as that history no doubt contains suggestions of
value to the entire agricultural community, I have
concluded to write to you through the Press.
I have been an honest old farmer for some four
years.
My farm is in the interior of Maine. Unfortunately
Eleven miles is quite a distance to haul immense
quantities of wheat, corn, rye, and oats; but as I
hav'n't any to haul, I do not, after all, suffer much
on that account.
My farm is more especially a grass farm.
My neighbors told me so at first, and as an evidence
that they were sincere in that opinion, they
turned their cows on to it the moment I went off
“lecturing.”
These cows are now quite fat. I take pride in
these cows, in fact, and am glad I own a grass farm.
Two years ago I tried sheep-raising.
I bought fifty lambs, and turned them loose on
my broad and beautiful acres.
It was pleasant on bright mornings to stroll leisurely
out on to the farm in my dressing-gown,
with a cigar in my mouth, and watch those innocent
little lambs as they danced gaily o'er the hillside.
Watching their saucy capers reminded me
of caper sauce, and it occurred to me I should have
some very fine eating when they grew up to be
“muttons.”
My gentle shepherd, Mr. Eli Perkins, said, “We
must have some shepherd dogs.”
I had no very precise idea as to what shepherd
dogs were, but I assumed a rather profound look,
and said!
“We must, Eli. I spoke to you about this some
time ago!”
I wrote to my old friend, Mr. Dexter H. Follett,
of Boston, for two shepherd dogs. Mr. F. is not
an honest old farmer himself, but I thought he knew
about shepherd dogs. He kindly forsook far more
important business to accommodate, and the dogs
came forthwith. They were splendid creatures—
snuff-colored, hazel-eyed, long-tailed, and shapely-jawed.
We led them proudly to the fields.
“Turn them in, Eli,” I said.
Eli turned them in.
They went in at once, and killed twenty of my
best lambs in about four minutes and a half.
My friend had made a trifling mistake in the
breed of these dogs.
These dogs were not partial to sheep.
Eli Perkins was astonished, and observed:
“Waal! did you ever?”
I certainly never had.
There were pools of blood on the greensward,
and fragments of wool and raw lamb chops lay
round in confused heaps.
The dogs would have been sent to Boston that
night, had they not rather suddenly died that afternoon
of a throat-distemper. It wasn't a swelling
of the throat. It wasn't diphtheria. It was a violent
opening of the throat, extending from ear to
ear.
Thus closed their life-stories. Thus ended their
interesting tails.
I failed as a raiser of lambs. As a sheepist, I was
not a success.
Last summer Mr. Perkins said, “I think we'd
better cut some grass this season, sir.”
We cut some grass.
To me the new-mown hay is very sweet and nice.
The brilliant George Arnold sings about it, in beautiful
verse, down in Jersey every summer; so does
the brilliant Aldrich, at Portsmouth, N. H. And
of a ton of hay to-day. But new-mown hay is a
really fine thing. It is good for man and beast.
We hired four honest farmers to assist us, and I
ed them gaily to the meadows.
I was going to mow, myself.
I saw the sturdy peasants go round once ere I
dipped my flashing scythe into the tall green grass.
“Are you ready?” said E. Perkins.
“I am here!”
“Then follow us!”
I followed them.
Followed them rather too closely, evidently, for a
white-haired old man, who immediately followed
Mr. Perkins, called upon us to halt. Then in a low
firm voice he said to his son, who was just ahead
of me, “John, change places with me. I hain't got
long to live, anyhow. Yonder berryin' ground will
soon have these old bones, and it's no matter whether
I'm carried there with one leg off and ter'ble
gashes in the other or not! But you, John—you
are young.”
The old man changed places with his son. A
as he said, “Now, sir, I am ready!”
“What mean you, old man?” I said.
“I mean that if you continner to bran'ish that
blade as you have been bran'ishin' it, you'll slash
h— out of some of us before we're a hour older!”
There was some reason mingled with this white-haired
old peasant's profanity. It was true that I
had twice escaped mowing off his son's legs, and his
father was perhaps naturally alarmed.
I went and sat down under a tree. “I never
know'd a literary man in my life,” I overheard the
old man say, “that know'd anything.”
Mr. Perkins was not as valuable to me this season
as I had fancied he might be. Every afternoon he
disappeared from the field regularly, and remained
about some two hours. He said it was headache.
He inherited it from his mother. His mother was
often taken in that way, and suffered a great deal.
At the end of the two hours Mr. Perkins would
reappear with his head neatly done up in a large
wet rag, and say he “felt better.”
One afternoon it so happened that I soon followed
Artemus finds it pleasant strolling about his farm with dressing-gown and cigar.
[Description: 483EAF. Image of Artemus walking the farmland while dressed in his bathrobe and smoking a cigar.]
I heard a female voice energetically observe, “You
stop!” It was the voice of the hired girl, and she
added, “I'll holler for Mr. Brown!”
“Oh no, Nancy,” I heard the invalid E. Perkins
soothingly say, “Mr. Brown knows I love you.
Mr. Brown approves of it!”
This was pleasant for Mr. Brown!
I peered cautiously through the kitchen-blinds,
and, however unnatural it may appear, the lips of
Eli Perkins and my hired girl were very near together.
She said, “You shan't do so,” and he do-soed.
She also said she would get right up and go away,
and as an evidence that she was thoroughly
in earnest about it, she remained where she
was.
They are married now, and Mr. Perkins is troubled
no more with the headache.
This year we are planting corn. Mr. Perkins
writes me that “on accounts of no skare krows bein
put up krows cum and digged fust crop up but soon
got nother in. Old Bisbee who was frade youd cut
his sons leggs of Ses you bet go and stan up in feeld
keep way. this made Boys in store larf. no More
terday from
“respecful
“his letter.”
My friend Mr. D. T. T. Moore, of the Rural New
Yorker, thinks if I “keep on” I will get in the Poor
House in about two years.
If you think the honest old farmers of Barclay
County want me, I will come.
| Artemus Ward | |