University of Virginia Library

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

werry sure there'll be no spoons missin' when he
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

do you expect will come of this kind of doin's?
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

they seem to be advancin' that way pretty often, I
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

at Washington (which place, I regret to say, is by
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

fight. We can't “reason” the matter with the foe.
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.