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                            _HUMOUR SERIES_

              -------------------------------------------

                         EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS




                         THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           ALREADY ISSUED


                           _FRENCH HUMOUR_
                           _GERMAN HUMOUR_
                           _ITALIAN HUMOUR_
                           _AMERICAN HUMOUR_
                           _DUTCH HUMOUR_
                           _IRISH HUMOUR_
                           _SPANISH HUMOUR_
                           _RUSSIAN HUMOUR_




[Illustration: “SHE SHRILLY OBSERVES ‘THOMAS JEFFERSON, COME RIGHT INTO
THE HOUSE THIS MINIT.’” _See page 130._]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                  THE
                           HUMOUR OF AMERICA




    SELECTED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION
    AND INDEX OF
    AMERICAN HUMORISTS, BY
    JAMES BARR. ILLUSTRATIONS
    BY C. E. BROCK

                                              [Illustration: decoration]




                 THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
                    PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
                        CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
                    153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
                                 1909.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CONTENTS.

                                -------


                                                          PAGE

          NOTE                                              xi

          MY DOG—_Bill Nye_                                  1

          KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE—_James Whitcomb Riley_           4

          BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE—_Eugene Field_             8

          THE NICE PEOPLE—_H. C. Bunner_                    12

          THE EUREKY RAT-TRAP—C. B. Lewis (“_M Quad_”)      24

          THE SCHOOL EXAMINATION—_George Washington         28
            Cable_

          “WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW?”—_John G. Saxe_       35

          THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD—_Robert          38
            Jones Burdette_

          SPEECH ON THE BABIES—_Samuel L. Clemens_          44
            (“_Mark Twain_”)

          ON CYCLONES—_Bill Nye_                            49

          OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS THE HONOUR TO BE—_R. H.     51
            Newell_ (“_Orpheus C. Kerr_”)

          YAWCOB STRAUSS—_Charles Follen Adams_             61

          THE MINISTER’S WOOING—_Harriet Beecher Stowe_     63

          ALBINA MCLUSH—_Nathaniel Parker Willis_           73

          A LONG TIME AGO—_John Barr_                       77

          THE PROFESSOR UNDER CHLOROFORM—_Oliver            82
            Wendell Holmes_

          OUR TRAVELLED PARSON—_Will Carleton_              85

          A RAILROAD “RECUSSANT”—_L. Gaylord Clark_         91

          AN UNMARRIED FEMALE—_Marietta Holley_             93

          THE COURTIN’—_James Russell Lowell_              103

          THE WONDERFUL TAR-BABY STORY—_Joel Chandler      108
            Harris_

          POMONA’S NOVEL—_Frank R. Stockton_               111

          TEMPEST IN A TUB—_J. M. Bailey_                  128

          THE STOUT GENTLEMAN—_Washington Irving_          131

          MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN—_Charles Dudley Warner_    144

          THE QUAKER COQUETTE—_Charles Graham Halpine_     156

          CAT-FISHING—_W. L. Alden_                        158

          CAPTAIN STICK AND TONY—_Johnson T. Hooper_       162

          “ITEMS” FROM THE PRESS OF INTERIOR               166
            CALIFORNIA—_Ambrose Bierce_ (“_Dod Grile_”)

          AN AVALANCHE OF DRUGS                            168

          MUSIC—_Ambrose Bierce_ (“_Dod Grile_”)           174

          MAXIMS—_Benjamin Franklin_                       175

          MODEL OF A LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION OF A         176
            PERSON YOU ARE UNACQUAINTED WITH—_Benjamin
            Franklin_

          ECHO-SONG—_Thos. Bailey Aldrich_                 176

          COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS—_Samuel L. Clemens_     179
            (“_Mark Twain_”)

          THE OWL-CRITIC—_Jas. T. Fields_                  187

          ANNIHILATES AN OBERLINITE—_Petroleum V.          191
            Nasby_

          AN ECONOMICAL PROJECT—_Benjamin Franklin_        193

          MISS MEHETABEL’S SON—_Thos. Bailey Aldrich_      199

          PECK’S BAD BOY—_George W. Peck_                  216

          THE BRITISH KNOCK—_William Austin_               221

          A CAPTIVE MAIDEN                                 225

          MRS. PARTINGTON IN COURT—_Benjamin Penhallon     227
            Shillaber_ (“_Mrs. Partington_”)

          THE MUSIC-GRINDERS—_Oliver Wendell Holmes_       228

          MISS CRUMP’S SONG—_Augustus Baldwin              232
            Longstreet_

          A POLYGLOT BARBER—_Samuel S. Cox_                238

          AT THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY—_Robert Barr_ (“_Luke    243
            Sharp_”)

          HANS BREITMANN’S BARTY—_Charles Godfrey          250
            Leland_

          OUR NEW BEDSTEAD—_Frederick Swartout Cozzens_    253

          A QUILTING—_Sam Slick_                           259

          A PATENTED CHILD—_W. L. Alden_                   265

          A TALK ABOUT TEA—_Frederick S. Cozzens_          269

          OLD AUNT MARY’S—_James Whitcomb Riley_           273

          A PETITION OF THE LEFT HAND—_Benjamin            275
            Franklin_

          WOMEN’S FASHIONS—_Nathaniel Ward_                277

          THE NEWSBOY—_Joseph C. Neal_                     281

          THE BOYS AROUND THE HOUSE—_C. B. Lewis_ (“_M     285
            Quad_”)

          MR. DOTY MAD—_Eugene Field_                      287

          OUR TWO OPINIONS—_Eugene Field_                  289

          ONE OF MR. WARD’S BUSINESS LETTERS—_Artemus      291
            Ward_

          THE SHOWMAN’S COURTSHIP—_Artemus Ward_           292

          YE PEDAGOGUE—_John Godfrey Saxe_                 295

          SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES—_Robert J.           298
            Burdette_

          MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE—_Nathaniel        300
            Hawthorne_

          GOING TO CALIFORNIA—_Benjamin Penhallow          316
            Shillaber_ (“_Mrs. Partington_”)

          “ROUGHING IT”—_Samuel L. Clemens_ (“_Mark        318
            Twain_”)

          THE HEAD-WRITER—_C. B. Lewis_ (“_M Quad_”)       322

          PELEG W. PONDER; OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A    326
            SIDE—_Joseph C. Neal_

          THE SHAKERS—_Artemus Ward_                       332

          “EARLY RISING”—_John G. Saxe_                    340

          HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO SIMPSON’S BAR—_Bret      342
            Harte_

          THE BREACH OF PROMISE CASE—_Ralph Keeler_        362

          EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF—_Benjamin Franklin_          373

          THE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER—_Samuel L. Clemens_      373
            (“_Mark Twain_”)

          A VISIT TO BRIGHAM YOUNG—_Artemus Ward_          380

          DUET FOR THE BREAKFAST-TABLE—_Charles Graham     385
            Halpine_

          KITTY ANSWERS—_William Dean Howells_             387

          PUCK—_James Whitcomb Riley_                      395

          THE REVENGE OF ST. NICHOLAS—_James K.            396
            Paulding_

          AN APHORISM AND A LECTURE—_Oliver Wendell        412
            Holmes_

          APHORISMS—_Thoreau_                              419

          AN ENGLISH FUNERAL—_William Austin_              420

          A LOST CHILD                                     420

          AMONG THE SPIRITS—_Artemus Ward_                 422

          POETRY AND THE POET—_H. C. Bunner_               426

          A NEW SYSTEM OF ENGLISH GRAMMAR—“_John           427
            Phœnix_”

          BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF AMERICAN HUMORISTS         437




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                 NOTE.


WHEN the unfortunate man standing on the scaffold was asked by a
spectator to make a speech, he said that, considering the interesting
programme which had been prepared by their good friend the Sheriff, he
could not hope to say anything likely to amuse them. The compiler of a
book of humour may recognise a like anxiety on the part of the public to
push on to the principal attraction. There arises on his mental vision
the eager face of the book-buyer, as he hurriedly skims over the leaves
at the commencement of the volume, to find the end of the introduction
and the beginning of the humour.

Once upon a time when I was young—in fact, more than eighteen months
ago—I wrote an introduction to a volume of American humorous verse. It
didn’t say much, but it covered a great deal of space, and looked
imposing. The few statements made, however, have risen up and smitten me
night and day, and I have never to this moment been able to get away
from them. After the volume had been before the public for a few months,
I made an everlasting resolve to abstain from all theories, deductions,
speculations, prophecies, warnings, and prognostications in regard to
any and every humour, whether American or British, new or old, known or
unknown. It occurred to me that a new and delightful feature might be
added to a book of humour if the reader were permitted the privilege of
forming his own conclusions and choosing for himself his favourite among
the authors. No doubt many a man has been forced, sorely against his
will, to acknowledge, theoretically, the irresistibility of certain
writers’ humour, and to spend the best part of his life in trying to see
something funny in the writers’ work. No such hopeless task will be
imposed by this volume. The different authors included between the
covers of this book will speak for themselves. They need no bush.

But instead of writing an introduction for no one to read I have thought
it better to arrange a biographical index of American and Canadian
humorous writers, giving such pertinent particulars of each author’s
life and work as may be of value to the student of American literature.
This index will be found at the end of the volume. It comes, it is
hoped, within reasonable distance of completeness, and although in the
majority of cases the data given is of a broad and general kind, still
it is sufficiently explicit to set the student in the way of finding for
himself the chief characteristics and work of the different authors.
This index, to the best of my knowledge, is the first of its kind that
has been arranged, and should at least prove of benefit to any
unfortunate compiler who in future ages is asked to prepare a volume of
humorous extracts from American authors. The job is a big one now. What
it will be if America continues to produce “funny” men at the rate she
has done for the past hundred years it is impossible to imagine.

In conclusion, I gladly acknowledge my indebtedness for particulars of
the works of many writers to Mr. Oscar Fay Adams’ valuable little work,
_Handbook of American Authors_. The dates which appear in this book are
chiefly taken from Appleton’s _Dictionary of American Biography_.

                                                                   J. B.




------------------------------------------------------------------------


                         THE HUMOUR OF AMERICA.

                               ----------




                               _MY DOG._

[Illustration: “KOSCIUSKO AND I FROLICKED AROUND.”]


I HAVE owned quite a number of dogs in my life, but they are all dead
now. Last evening I visited my dog cemetery—just between the gloaming
and the shank of the evening. On the biscuit-box cover that stands at
the head of a little mound fringed with golden rod and pickle bottles,
the idler may still read these lines, etched in red chalk by a trembling
hand—

                           LITTLE KOSCIUSKO,
                       .........NOT DEAD.........
                            BUT JERKED HENCE
                              BY REQUEST.
                                S. Y. L.
                            (SEE YOU LATER.)

I do not know why he was called Kosciusko. I do not care. I only know
that his little grave stands out there while the gloaming gloams and the
soughing winds are soughing.

Do you ask why I am alone here and dogless in this weary world?

I will tell you, anyhow. It will not take long, and it may do me good:
Kosciusko came to me one night in winter, with no baggage, and
unidentified.

When I opened the door he came in as though he had left something in
there by mistake and had returned for it.

He stayed with us two years as a watch-dog. In a desultory way, he was a
good watch-dog. If he had watched other people with the same unrelenting
scrutiny with which he watched me, I might have felt his death more
keenly than I do now.

The second year that little Kosciusko was with us, I shaved off a full
beard one day while down town, put on a clean collar and otherwise
disguised myself, intending to surprise my wife.

Kosciusko sat on the front porch when I returned. He looked at me as a
cashier of a bank does when a newspaper man goes in to get a
suspiciously large cheque cashed. He did not know me. I said,
“Kosciusko, have you forgotten your master’s voice?”

He smiled sarcastically, showing his glorious wealth of mouth, but still
sat there as though he had stuck his tail into the door-steps and
couldn’t get it out.

So I waived the formality of going in at the front door, and went around
to the portcullis, on the off side of the house, but Kosciusko was there
when I arrived. The cook, seeing a stranger lurking around the
manor-house, encouraged Kosciusko to come and gorge himself with a part
of my leg, which he did. Acting on this hint I went to the barn.

I do not know why I went to the barn, but somehow there was nothing in
the house that I wanted. When a man wants to be by himself there is no
place like a good, quiet barn for thought. So I went into the barn,
about three feet prior to Kosciusko.

Noticing the stairway, I ascended it in an aimless kind of way, about
four steps at a time. What happened when we got into the haymow I do not
now recall, only that Kosciusko and I frolicked around there in the hay
for some time. Occasionally I would be on the top, and then he would
have all the delegates, until finally I got hold of a pitchfork, and
freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell. I wrapped myself up in an old
horse-net and went into the house. Some of my clothes were afterwards
found in the hay, and the doctor pried a part of my person out of
Kosciusko’s jaws, but not enough to do me any good.

I have owned, in all, eleven dogs, and they all died violent deaths, and
went out of the world totally unprepared to die.

                                                             _Bill Nye._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE._

[Illustration: Knee-Deep in June._ “LAY OUT THERE AND TRY TO SEE JES’
HOW LAZY YOU KIN BE!”]

                                   I.

                  TELL you what I like the best—
                      ’Long about knee-deep in June,
                      ’Bout the time strawberries melts
                      On the vines—some afternoon
                  Like to jes’ git out and rest,
                      And not work at nothin’ else!

                                  II.

                  Orchard’s where I’d ruther be—
                  Needn’t fence it in fer me!
                    Jes’ the whole sky overhead,
                      And the whole airth underneath—
                      Sorto’ so’s a man kin breathe
                    Like he ort, and kindo’ has
                  Elbow-room to keerlessly
                    Sprawl out len’thways on the grass,
                      Where the shadders thick and soft
                    As the kivvers on the bed
                      Mother fixes in the loft
                  Allus, when they’s company!

                                  III.

                  Jes’ a sorto’ lazein’ there—
                    S’ lazy, ’at you peek and peer
                      Through the wavin’ leaves above,
                      Like a feller ’ats in love
                    And don’t know it, ner don’t keer.
                    Ever’thing you hear and see
                      Got some sort o’ interest—
                      Maybe find a bluebird’s nest
                    Tucked up there conveenently
                    Fer the boys ’ats apt to be
                    Up some other apple tree!
                  Watch the swallers skootin’ past
                  ’bout as peert as you could ast;
                    Er the Bobwhite raise and whiz
                    Where some other’s whistle is.

                                  IV.

                  Ketch a shadder down below,
                  And look up to find the crow;
                  Er a hawk away up there,
                  ’Pearantly froze in the air!—
                    Hear the old hen squawk, and squat
                    Over every chick she’s got,
                  Suddent-like!—And she knows where
                    That air hawk is, well as you!—
                    You jes’ bet yer life she do!—
                      Eyes a-glittering like glass
                      Waitin’ till he makes a pass!

                                   V.

                 Pee-wees’ singin’, to express
                   My opinion, ’s second class,
                 Yit you’ll hear ’em more er less;
                   Sapsucks gettin’ down to biz,
                 Weedin’ out the lonesomeness;
                   Mr. Bluejay, full o’ sass,
                     In those base-ball clothes o’ his,
                 Sportin’ ’round the orchard jes’
                 Like he owned the premises!
                   Sun out in the field kin sizz,
                 But flat on yer back, I guess,
                   In the shade’s where glory is!
                     That’s jes’ what I’d like to do
                     Stiddy fer a year er two!

                                  VI.

                 Plague! ef they aint sompin’ in
                 Work ’at kindo’ goes agin
                 My convictions!—’long about
                   Here in June especially!—
                   Under some old apple tree
                     Jes’ a-restin’ through and through,
                 I could git along without
                     Nothin’ else at all to do
                     Only jes’ a-wishin’ you
                 Was a-gettin’ there like me,
                 And June was eternity!

                                  VII.

                    Lay out there and try to see
                    Jes’ how lazy you kin be!—
                  Tumble round and souse yer head
                In the clover-bloom, er pull
                    Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes,
                    And peek through it at the skies,
                    Thinkin’ of old chums ’ats dead,
                      Maybe, smilin’ back at you
                In betwixt the beautiful
                      Clouds o’ gold and white and blue!—
                    Month a man kin railly love—
                    June, you know, I’m talkin’ of!

                                 VIII.

                   March ain’t never nothin’ new!—
                   Aprile’s altogether too
                   Brash fer me! and May—I jes’
                   ’Bominate its promises,—
                     Little hints o’ sunshine and
                     Green around the timber-land—
                   A few blossoms, and a few
                   Chip-birds, and a sprout er two—
                   Drap asleep, and it turns in
                   ’Fore daylight and snows agin!—
                   But when June comes—Clear my throat
                     With wild honey! Rench my hair
                   In the dew! and hold my coat!
                   Whoop out loud! and throw my hat!—
                   June wants me and I’m to spare!
                   Spread them shadders anywhere,
                   I’ll git down and waller there,
                     And obleeged to you at that!

                                                 _James Whitcomb Riley._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE_.


THE members of the Boston Commercial Club are charming gentlemen. They
are now the guests of the Chicago Commercial Club, and are being shown
every attention that our market affords. They are a fine-looking lot,
well-dressed and well-mannered, with just enough whiskers to be
impressive without being imposing.

“This is a darned likely village,” said Seth Adams last evening.
“Everybody is rushin’ ’round an’ doin’ business as if his life depended
on it. Should think they’d git all tuckered out ’fore night, but I’ll be
darned if there ain’t just as many folks on the street after nightfall
as afore. We’re stoppin’ at the Palmer tavern; an’ my chamber is up so
all-fired high, that I can count all your meetin’-house steeples from
the winder.”

Last night five or six of these Boston merchants sat around the office
of the hotel, and discussed matters and things. Pretty soon they got to
talking about beans: this was the subject which they dwelt on with
evident pleasure.

“Waal, sir,” said Ephraim Taft, a wholesale dealer in maple-sugar and
flavoured lozenges, “you kin talk ’bout your new-fashioned dishes an’
high-falutin’ vittles; but, when you come right down to it, there ain’t
no better eatin’ than a dish o’ baked pork ’n’ beans.”

“That’s so, b’ gosh!” chorussed the others.

“The truth o’ the matter is,” continued Mr. Taft, “that beans is good
for everybody,—’t don’t make no difference whether he’s well or sick.
Why, I’ve known a thousand folks—waal, mebbe not quite a thousand;
but,—waal, now, jest to show, take the case of Bill Holbrook: you
remember Bill, don’t ye?”

“Bill Holbrook?” said Mr. Ezra Eastman; “why, of course I do! Used to
live down to Brimfield, next to the Moses Howard farm.”

“That’s the man,” resumed Mr. Taft. “Waal, Bill fell sick,—kinder moped
round, tired like, for a week or two, an’ then tuck to his bed. His
folks sent for Dock Smith,—ol’ Dock Smith that used to carry round a
pair o’ leather saddlebags,—gosh, they don’t have no sech doctors
nowadays! Waal, the dock, he come; an’ he looked at Bill’s tongue, an’
felt uv his pulse, an’ said that Bill had typhus fever. Ol’ Dock Smith
was a very careful, conserv’tive man, an’ he never said nothin’ unless
he knowed he was right.

“Bill began to git wuss, an’ he kep’ a-gittin’ wuss every day. One
mornin’ ol’ Dock Smith sez, ‘Look a-here, Bill, I guess you’re a goner:
as I figger it, you can’t hol’ out till nightfall.’

“Bill’s mother insisted on a con-sul-tation bein’ held; so ol’ Dock
Smith sent over for young Dock Brainerd. I calc’late that, next _to_ ol’
Dock Smith, young Dock Brainerd was the smartest doctor that ever lived.

“Waal, pretty soon along come Dock Brainerd; an’ he an’ Dock Smith went
all over Bill, an’ looked at his tongue, an’ felt uv his pulse, an’ told
him it was a gone case, an’ that he had got to die. Then they went off
into the spare chamber to hold their con-sul-tation.


[Illustration: “SARY SAT DOWN BY THE BED, AN’ FED THEM BEANS INTO
BILL.”]


“Wall, Bill he lay there in the front room a-pantin’ an’ a-gaspin’, an’
a wond’rin’ whether it wuz true. As he wuz thinkin’, up comes the girl
to git a clean tablecloth out of the clothes-press, an’ she left the
door ajar as she come in. Bill he gave a sniff, an’ his eyes grew more
natural like: he gathered together all the strength he had, and he
raised himself up on one elbow, and sniffed again.

“‘Sary,’ says he, ‘wot’s that a-cookin’?’

“‘Beans,’ says she; ‘beans for dinner.’

“‘Sary,’ says the dyin’ man, ‘I must hev a plate uv them beans!’

“‘Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!’ says she; ‘if you wuz to eat any o’ them
beans, it’d kill ye!’

“‘If I’ve got to die,’ says he, ‘I’m goin’ to die happy: fetch me a
plate uv them beans.’

“Wall, Sary she pikes off to the doctors.

“‘Look a-here,’ says she; ‘Mr. Holbrook smelt the beans cookin’, an’ he
says he’s got to have a plate uv ’em. Now, what shall I do about it?’

“‘Waal, doctor,’ says Dock Smith, ‘what do you think ’bout it?’

“‘He’s got to die anyhow,’ says Dock Brainerd; ‘an’ I don’t suppose the
beans’ll make any diff’rence.’

“‘That’s the way I figger it,’ says Dock Smith; ‘in all my practice I
never knew of beans hurtin’ anybody.’

“So Sary went down to the kitchen, an’ brought up a plateful of hot
baked beans. Dock Smith raised Bill up in bed, an’ Dock Brainerd put a
piller under the small of Bill’s back. Then Sary sat down by the bed,
an’ fed them beans into Bill until Bill couldn’t hold any more.

“‘How air you feelin’ now?’ asked Dock Smith.

“Bill didn’t say nuthin’: he jest smiled sort uv peaceful like, an’
closed his eyes.

“‘The end hez come,’ said Dock Brainerd sof’ly; ‘Bill is dyin’.’

“Then Bill murmured kind o’ far-away like (as if he was dreamin’), ‘I
ain’t dyin’: I’m dead an’ in heaven.’

“Next mornin’ Bill got out uv bed, an’ done a big day’s work on the
farm, an’ he hain’t hed a sick spell since. Them beans cured him! I tell
you, sir, that beans is,” etc.

                                                         _Eugene Field._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _THE NICE PEOPLE._


“THEY certainly are nice people,” I assented to my wife’s observation,
using the colloquial phrase with a consciousness that it was anything
but “nice” English, “and I’ll bet that their three children are better
brought up than most of——”

“_Two_ children,” corrected my wife.

“Three, he told me.”

“My dear, she said there were _two_.”

“He said three.”

“You’ve simply forgotten. I’m _sure_ she told me they had only two—a boy
and a girl.”

“Well, I didn’t enter into particulars.”

“No dear, and you couldn’t have understood him. Two children.”

“All right,” I said; but I did not think it was all right. As a
near-sighted man learns by enforced observation to recognise persons at
a distance when the face is not visible to the normal eye, so the man
with a bad memory learns, almost unconsciously, to listen carefully and
report accurately. My memory is bad; but I had not had time to forget
that Mr. Brewster Brede had told me that afternoon that he had three
children, at present left in the care of his mother-in-law, while he and
Mrs. Brede took their summer vacation.

“Two children,” repeated my wife; “and they are staying with his aunt
Jenny.”

“He told me with his mother-in-law,” I put in. My wife looked at me with
a serious expression. Men may not remember much of what they are told
about children; but any man knows the difference between an aunt and a
mother-in-law.

“But don’t you think they’re nice people?” asked my wife.

“Oh, certainly,” I replied; “only they seem to be a little mixed up
about their children.”


[Illustration: “SEATED THEMSELVES OPPOSITE US AT TABLE.”]


“That isn’t a nice thing to say,” returned my wife.

I could not deny it.

                  *       *       *       *       *

And yet the next morning, when the Bredes came down and seated
themselves opposite us at table, beaming and smiling in their natural,
pleasant, well-bred fashion, I knew, to a social certainty, that they
_were_ “nice” people. He was a fine-looking fellow in his neat
tennis-flannels, slim, graceful, twenty-eight or thirty years old, with
a Frenchy-pointed beard. She was “nice” in all her pretty clothes, and
she herself was pretty with that type of prettiness which out-wears most
other types—the prettiness that lies in a rounded figure, a dusky skin,
plump, rosy cheeks, white teeth, and black eyes. She might have been
twenty-five; you guessed that she was prettier than she was at twenty,
and that she would be prettier still at forty.

And nice people were all we wanted to make us happy in Mr. Jacobus’s
summer boarding-house on the top of Orange Mountain. For a week we had
come down to breakfast each morning, wondering why we wasted the
precious days of idleness with the company gathered around the Jacobus
board. What joy of human companionship was to be had out of Mrs. Tabb
and Miss Hoogencamp, the two middle-aged gossips from Scranton, Pa.,—out
of Mr. and Mrs. Biggle, an indurated head-bookkeeper and his prim and
censorious wife,—out of old Major Halkit, a retired business man, who,
having once sold a few shares on commission, wrote for circulars of
every stock company that was started, and tried to induce every one to
invest who would listen to him? We looked around at those dull faces,
the truthful indices of mean and barren minds, and decided that we would
leave that morning. Then we ate Mrs. Jacobus’s biscuits, light as
Aurora’s cloudlets, drank her honest coffee, inhaled the perfume of the
late azaleas with which she decked her table, and decided to postpone
our departure one more day. And then we wandered out to take our morning
glance at what we called “our view”; and it seemed to us as if Tabb and
Hoogencamp, and Halkit and the Biggles could not drive us away in a
year.

I was not surprised when, after breakfast, my wife invited the Bredes to
walk with us to “our view.” The Hoogencamp-Biggle-Tabb-Halkit contingent
never stirred off Jacobus’s verandah; but we both felt that the Bredes
would not profane that sacred scene. We strolled slowly across the
fields, passed through the little belt of wood, and as I heard Mrs.
Brede’s little cry of startled rapture, I motioned to Brede to look up.

“By Jove!” he cried; “heavenly!”

We looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteen miles of
billowing green, to where, far across a far stretch of pale blue, lay a
dim purple line that we knew was Staten Island. Towns and villages lay
before us and under us; there were ridges and hills, uplands and
lowlands, woods and plains, all massed and mingled in that great silent
sea of sunlit green. For silent it was to us, standing in the silence of
a high place—silent with a Sunday stillness that made us listen, without
taking thought, for the sound of bells coming up from the spires that
rose above the tree-tops—the tree-tops that lay as far beneath us as the
light clouds were above us that dropped great shadows upon our heads and
faint specks of shade upon the broad sweep of land at the mountain’s
foot.

“And so that is _your_ view?” asked Mrs. Brede, after a moment; “you are
very generous to make it ours too.”

Then we lay down on the grass, and Brede began to talk in a gentle
voice, as if he felt the influence of the place. He had paddled a canoe,
in his earlier days, he said, and he knew every river and creek in that
vast stretch of landscape. He found his landmarks, and pointed out to us
where the Passaic and the Hackensack flowed, invisible to us, hidden
behind great ridges that in our sight were but combings of the green
waves upon which we looked down, and yet on the further side of those
broad ridges and rises were scores of villages—a little world of country
life, lying unseen under our eyes.

“A good deal like looking at humanity,” he said; “there is such a thing
as getting so far above our fellow-men that we see only one side of
them.”

Ah, how much better was this sort of talk than the chatter and gossip of
the Tabb and the Hoogencamp—than the Major’s dissertations upon his
everlasting circulars! My wife and I exchanged glances.

“Now, when I went up the Matterhorn,” Mr. Brede began.

“Why, dear,” interrupted his wife; “I didn’t know you ever went up the
Matterhorn.”

“It—it was five years ago,” said Mr. Brede hurriedly; “I—I didn’t tell
you—when I was on the other side, you know—it was rather dangerous—well,
as I was saying—it looked—oh, it didn’t look at all like this.”

A cloud floated overhead, throwing its great shadow over the field where
we lay. The shadow passed over the mountain’s brow, and reappeared far
below, a rapidly decreasing blot; flying eastward over the golden green.
My wife and I exchanged glances once more.

Somehow the shadow lingered over us all. As we went home, the Bredes
went side by side along the narrow path, and my wife and I walked
together.

“_Should you think_,” she asked me, “that a man would climb the
Matterhorn the very first year he was married?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” I answered evasively; “this isn’t the first
year I have been married, not by a good many, and I wouldn’t climb
it—for a farm.”

“You know what I mean?” she said.

I did.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When we reached the boarding-house, Mr. Jacobus took me aside.

“You know,” he began his discourse, “my wife, she used to live in N’
York!”

I didn’t know; but I said, “Yes.”

“She says the numbers on the streets runs criss-cross like.
Thirty-four’s on one side o’ the street, an’ thirty-five’s on t’other.
How’s that?”

“That is the invariable rule, I believe.”

“Then—I say—these here new folk that you ’n’ your wife seems so mighty
taken up with—d’ye know anything about ’em?”

“I know nothing about the character of your boarders, Mr. Jacobus,” I
replied, conscious of some irritability. “If I choose to associate with
any of them——”

“Jess so—jess so!” broke in Jacobus. “I hain’t nothin’ to say ag’inst
yer sosherbil’ty. But do ye _know_ them?”

“Why, certainly not,” I replied.

“Well—that was all I wuz askin’ ye. Ye see, when _he_ come here to take
the rooms—you wasn’t here then—he told my wife that he lived at number
thirty-four in his street. An’ yistiddy _she_ told her that they lived
at number thirty-five. He said he lived in an apartment-house. Now,
there can’t be no apartment-house on two sides of the same street, kin
they?”

“What street was it?” I inquired wearily.

“Hunderd’n’ twenty-first street.”

“Maybe,” I replied, still more wearily. “That’s Harlem. Nobody knows
what people will do in Harlem.”

I went up to my wife’s room.

“Don’t you think it queer?” she asked me.

“I think I’ll have a talk with that young man to-night,” I said, “and
see if he can give some account of himself.”

“But, my dear,” my wife said gravely, “_she_ doesn’t know whether
they’ve had the measles or not.”

“Why, Great Scott!” I exclaimed, “they must have had them when they were
children.”

“Please don’t be stupid,” said my wife. “I meant _their_ children.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

After dinner that night—or rather after supper, for we had dinner in the
middle of the day at Jacobus’s—I walked down the long verandah to ask
Brede, who was placidly smoking at the other end, to accompany me on a
twilight stroll. Half-way down I met Major Halkit.

“That friend of yours,” he said, indicating the unconscious figure at
the further end of the house, “seems to be a queer sort of a Dick. He
told me that he was out of business, and just looking round for a chance
to invest his capital. And I’ve been telling him what an everlasting big
show he had to take stock in the Capitoline Trust Company—starts next
month—four million capital; I told you all about it. ‘Oh, well,’ he
says, ‘let’s wait and think about it.’ ‘Wait!’ says I; ‘the Capitoline
Trust Company won’t wait for _you_, my boy. This is letting you in on
the ground floor,’ says I; ‘and it’s now or never.’ ‘Oh, let it wait,’
says he. I don’t know what’s in-_to_ the man.”

“I don’t know how well he knows his own business, Major,” I said as I
started again for Brede’s end of the verandah. But I was troubled none
the less. The Major could not have influenced the sale of one share of
stock in the Capitoline Company. But that stock was a great investment;
a rare chance for a purchaser with a few thousand dollars. Perhaps it
was no more remarkable that Brede should not invest than that I should
not; and yet it seemed to add one circumstance more to the other
suspicious circumstances.

                  *       *       *       *       *

When I went upstairs that evening, I found my wife putting her hair to
bed—I don’t know how I can better describe an operation familiar to
every married man. I waited until the last tress was coiled up, and then
I spoke.

“I’ve talked with Brede,” I said, “and I didn’t have to catechise him.
He seemed to feel that some sort of explanation was looked for, and he
was very outspoken. You were right about the children—that is, I must
have misunderstood him. There are only two; but the Matterhorn episode
was simple enough. He didn’t realise how dangerous it was until he had
got so far into it that he couldn’t back out; and he didn’t tell her,
because he’d left her here, you see; and under the circumstances——”

“Left her here!” cried my wife. “I’ve been sitting with her the whole
afternoon, sewing, and she told me that he left her at Geneva, and came
back and took her to Basle, and the baby was born there. Now I’m sure,
dear, because I asked her.”

“Perhaps I was mistaken when I thought he said she was on this side of
the water,” I suggested with bitter, biting irony.

“You poor dear, did I abuse you?” said my wife. “But do you know Mrs.
Tabb said that _she_ didn’t know how many lumps of sugar he took in his
coffee. Now that seems queer, doesn’t it?”

It did. It was a small thing; but it looked queer, very queer.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The next morning it was clear that war was declared against the Bredes.
They came down to breakfast somewhat late, and as soon as they arrived
the Biggles swooped up the last fragments that remained on their plates,
and made a stately march out of the dining-room. Then Miss Hoogencamp
arose and departed, leaving a whole fish-ball on her plate. Even as
Atalanta might have dropped an apple behind her to tempt her pursuer to
check his speed, so Miss Hoogencamp left that fish-ball behind her, and
between her maiden self and Contamination.

We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before the Bredes
appeared. We talked it over, and agreed that we were glad that we had
not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony.

After breakfast it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus
household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their pipes
and cigars, where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat under a
trellis covered with a grape vine that had borne no grapes in the memory
of man. This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that pleasant
summer morning, shielded from us two persons who were in earnest
conversation in the straggling, half-dead flower-garden at the side of
the house.

“I don’t want,” we heard Mr. Jacobus say, “to enter in no man’s
_pry_-vacy; but I do want to know who it may be, like, that I hev in my
house. Now what I ask of _you_—and I don’t want you to take it as in no
ways _personal_—is, hev you your merridge-licence with you?”

“No,” we heard the voice of Mr. Brede reply. “Have you yours?”

I think it was a chance shot, but it told all the same. The Major (he
was a widower), and Mr. Biggle and I looked at each other; and Mr.
Jacobus, on the other side of the grape-trellis, looked at—I don’t know
what—and was as silent as we were.

Where is _your_ marriage-licence, married reader? Do you know? Four men,
not including Mr. Brede, stood or sat on one side or the other of that
grape-trellis, and not one of them knew where his marriage-licence was.
Each of us had had one—the Major had had three. But where were they?
Where is _yours_? Tucked in your best-man’s pocket; deposited in his
desk, or washed to a pulp in his white waistcoat (if white waistcoats be
the fashion of the hour), washed out of existence—can you tell where it
is? Can you—unless you are one of those people who frame that
interesting document and hang it upon their drawing-room walls?

Mr. Brede’s voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like
five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds—

“Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it? I
shall leave by the six o’clock train. And will you also send the waggon
for my trunks?”

“I hain’t said I wanted to hev ye leave——” began Mr. Jacobus; but Brede
cut him short.

“Bring me your bill.”

“But,” remonstrated Jacobus, “ef ye ain’t——”

“Bring me your bill!” said Mr. Brede.

                  *       *       *       *       *

My wife and I went out for our morning’s walk. But it seemed to us, when
we looked at “our view,” as if we could only see those invisible
villages of which Brede had told us—that other side of the ridges and
rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the heights
of human self-esteem. We meant to stay out until the Bredes had taken
their departure; but we returned just in time to see Pete, the Jacobus
darkey, the blacker of boots, the brusher of coats, the general
handy-man of the house, loading the Bredes’ trunks on the Jacobus
waggon.

And, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came Mrs. Brede, leaning on
Mr. Brede’s arm as though she were ill; and it was clear that she had
been crying—there were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes.

My wife took a step towards her.

“Look at that dress, dear,” she whispered; “she never thought anything
like this was going to happen when she put _that_ on.”

It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow-striped
affair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow-striped silk of the same
colour—maroon and white; and in her hand she held a parasol that matched
her dress.

“She’s had a new dress on twice a day,” said my wife; “but that’s the
prettiest yet. Oh, somehow—I’m _awfully_ sorry they’re going!”

But going they were. They moved towards the steps. Mrs. Brede looked
towards my wife, and my wife moved towards Mrs. Brede. But the
ostracised woman, as though she felt the deep humiliation of her
position, turned sharply away, and opened her parasol to shield her eyes
from the sun. A shower of rice—a half-pound shower of rice—fell down
over her pretty hat and her pretty dress, and fell in a splattering
circle on the floor, outlining her skirts, and there it lay in a broad,
uneven band, and bright in the morning sun.


[Illustration: “MRS. BREDE WAS IN MY WIFE’S ARMS.”]


Mrs. Brede was in my wife’s arms, sobbing as if her young heart would
break.

“Oh, you poor, dear, silly children!” my wife cried, as Mrs. Brede
sobbed on her shoulder; “why _didn’t_ you tell us?”

“W-w-we didn’t want to be t-t-taken for a b-b-b-b-bridal couple,” sobbed
Mrs. Brede; “and we d-d-didn’t _dream_ what awful lies we’d have to
tell, and all the aw-aw-ful mixed-up mess of it. Oh, dear, dear, dear!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Pete!” commanded Mr. Jacobus, “put back them trunks. These folks stays
here’s long’s they wants ter. Mr. Brede”—he held out a large, hard
hand—“I’d orter ’ve known better,” he said; and my last doubt of Mr.
Brede vanished as he shook that grimy hand in manly fashion.

The two women were walking off toward “our view,” each with an arm about
the other’s waist—touched by a sudden sisterhood of sympathy.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Brede, addressing Jacobus, Biggle, the Major, and
me, “there is a hostelry down the street where they sell honest New
Jersey beer. I recognise the obligations of the situation.”

We five men filed down the street, and the two women went toward the
pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded the forehead of the great hill.
On Mr. Jacobus’s verandah lay a spattered circle of shining grains of
rice. Two of Mr. Jacobus’s pigeons flew down and picked up the shining
grains, making grateful noises far down in their throats.

                                                         _H. C. Bunner._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _THE EUREKY RAT-TRAP._

[Illustration: “I TAKE GREAT PLEASURE IN PRESENTING TO YOUR ATTENTION
THE EUREKY RAT-TRAP.”]


HE boarded the boat at a landing about a hundred miles above Vicksburg,
having two dilapidated but bulky-looking satchels as luggage. He said he
was bound to “Orleans,” and when the clerk told him what the fare would
be he uttered a long whistle of amazement, and inquired—

“Isn’t that pooty steep?”

“Regular figure, sir,” replied the clerk.

“Seems like a big price for just riding on a boat,” continued the
stranger.

“Come, I’m in a hurry,” said the clerk.

“That’s the lowest figure, eh?” inquired the stranger.

“Yes—that’s the regular fare.”

“No discount to a regular traveller?”

“We make no discount from that figure.”

“Ye wouldn’t take half of it in trade?”

“I want your fare at once, or we will have to land you!”

“Don’t want a nice rat-trap, do ye, stranger?” inquired the passenger.
“One which sets herself, works on scientific principles, allus ready,
painted a nice green, wanted by every family, warranted to knock the
socks off’n any other trap ever invented by mortal man?”

“No, sir; I want the money!” replied the clerk in emphatic tones.

“Oh, wall, I’ll pay; of course I will,” said the rat-trap man; “but
that’s an awful figger for a ride to Orleans, and cash is cash these
days.”

He counted out the fare in ragged shin-plasters, wound a shoe-string
around his wallet and replaced it, and then unlocked one of the satchels
and took out a wire rat-trap. Proceeding to the cabin, he looked the
ground over, and then waltzing up to a young lady who sat on a sofa
reading, he began—

“I take great pleasure in presenting to your attention the Eureky
rat-trap, the best trap ever invented. It sets——”

“Sir!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet.

“Name’s Harrington Baker,” he went on, turning the trap around on his
outstretched hand, “and I guarantee this trap to do more square killing
among rats than——”

She gave him a look of scorn and contempt, and swept grandly away; and
without being the least put out he walked over to a bald-headed man who
had tilted his chair back and fallen asleep.

“Fellow-mortal, awakest and gaze upon the Eureky rat-trap,” said the
stranger, as he laid his hand on the shiny pate of the sleeper.

“Wh—who—what!” exclaimed the Bald-head, opening his eyes and flinging
his arms around.

“I take this opportunity to call your attention to my Eureky rat-trap,”
continued the new passenger; “the noblest Roman of them all. Try one,
and you will use no other. It is constructed on——”

“Who in thunder do you take me for?” exclaimed the bald-headed man at
this point. “What in blazes do I want of your rat-trap?”

“To ketch rats!” humbly replied the stranger; “to clear yer premises of
one of the most obnoxious pests known to man. I believe I am safe in
saying that this ’ere——”

“Go away, sir—go away; or I’ll knock your blamed head off!” roared the
Bald-head. “When I want a rat-trap I shan’t patronise travelling
vagabonds! Your audacity in daring to put your hand on my head and wake
me up deserves a caning!”

“Then you don’t want a rat-trap?”

“No, SIR!” yelled Bald-head.

“I’ll make you one mighty cheap.”

“I’ll knock you down, sir!” roared Bald-head, looking around for his
cane.

“Oh, wall, I ain’t a starvin’, and it won’t make much difference if I
don’t sell to you!” remarked the stranger, and he backed off and left
the cabin for the promenade deck.

An old maid sat in the shadow of the Texas, embroidering a slipper, and
the rat-trap man drew a stool up beside her and remarked—

“Madam, my name is Baker, and I am the inventor of the Eureky rat-trap,
a sample copy of which I hold here on my left hand, and I think I can
safely say that——”

“Sir, this is unpardonable!” she exclaimed, pushing back.

“I didn’t have an introduction to ye, of course,” he replied, holding
the trap up higher: “but business is business, you know. Let me sell you
a Eureky trap, and make ye happy for life; I warrant this trap to——”

“Sir, I shall call the captain!” she interrupted, turning pale with
rage.

“Does _he_ want a trap?” eagerly inquired the man.

“Such impudence deserves the horsewhip!” screamed the old maid, backing
away.

The rat-trap man went forward and found a northern invalid, who was so
far gone that he could hardly speak above a whisper.

“Ailing, eh?” queried the trapper.

The invalid nodded.

“Wall, I won’t say that my Eureky rat-trap will cure ye,” continued the
man; “but this much I do say, and will swear to on a million Bibles,
that it climbs the ridge-pole over any immortal vermin-booster ever yet
set before——”

The captain came up at this juncture, and informed the inventor that he
must quit annoying passengers.

“But some of ’em may want one o’ my Eureky traps,” protested the man.

“Can’t help it; this is no place to sell traps.”

“But this is no scrub trap—none o’ your humbugs, got up to swindle the
hair right off of an innocent and confiding public.”

“You hear me—put that trap up!”

“I’ll put it up, of course; but then I’ll leave it to yerself if it
isn’t rather Shylocky in a steamboat to charge me the reg’lar figger to
Orleans, and then stop me from passing my Eureky rat-trap out to the
hankerin’ public?”

                                            _C. B. Lewis_ (“_M. Quad._”)




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _THE SCHOOL EXAMINATION._


THE bell tapped, and they came forth to battle. There was the line,
there was the leader. The great juncture of the day was on him. Was not
here the State’s official eye? Did not victory hover overhead? His
reserve, the darling regiment, the flower of his army, was dressing for
the final charge. There was Claude. Next him, Sidonie!—and Étienne, and
Madelaine, Henri and Marcelline,—all waiting for the word—the words—of
eight syllables! Supreme moment! Would any betray? Banish the thought!
Would any fail?

He waited an instant while two or three mothers bore out great armfuls
of slumbering or fretting infancy, and a number of young men sank down
into the vacated chairs. Then he stepped down from the platform, drew
back four or five yards from the class, opened the spelling-book,
scanned the first word, closed the book with his finger at the place,
lifted it high above his head, and cried—

“Claude! Claude, my brave scholar, always perfect, ah you ready?” He
gave the little book a half whirl round, and dashed forward towards the
chosen scholar, crying as he came—

“In-e-rad-i-ca-bility!”

Claude’s face suddenly set in a stony vacancy, and with his eyes staring
straight before him he responded—

“I-n, in-, e, inerad-, r-a-d, rad-, inerad-, ineraddy-, ineradica-, c-a,
ca, ineradica-, ineradicabili-, b-i-elly- billy, ineradicabili-,
ineradicabili-, t-y, ty, ineradicability.”

“Right! Claude, my boy! my always good scholar, right!” The master drew
back to his starting-place as he spoke, re-opened the book, shut it
again, lifted it high in the air, cried, “Madelaine, my dear chile,
prepare!” whirled the book and rushed upon her with—

“In-de-fat-i-ga-bil-ly-ty!”

Madelaine turned to stone, and began—

“I-n, een, d-e, de-, inde-, indefat-, indefat—fat—f-a-t, fat, indefat,
indefatty, i, ty, indefati-, indefatiga-, g-a, ga, indefatiga-,
indefatigabilly, b-i-elly, billy, indefatigabili-, t-y, ty,
indefatigability.”

“O, Madelaine, my chile, you make yo’ teacher proud! prah-ood, my
chile!” Bonaventure’s hand rested a moment tenderly on her head as he
looked first towards the audience and then towards the stranger. Then he
drew off for the third word. He looked at it twice before he called it.
Then—

“Sidonie! ah! Sidonie, be ready! be prepared! fail not yo’ humble
school-teacher! In-com——” He looked at the word a third time, and then
swept down upon her; “In-com-pre-hen-si-ca-_bility_!”

Sidonie flinched not nor looked upon him, as he hung over her with the
spelling-book at arm’s reach above them; yet the pause that followed
seemed to speak dismay, and throughout the class there was a silent
recoil from something undiscovered by the master. But an instant later
Sidonie had chosen between the two horns of her agonising dilemma, and
began—

“I-n, een, c-o-m, cawm, eencawm, eencawmpre, p-r-e, pre, eencawmpre,
eencawmprehen, prehen, haich-e-n, hen, hen, eencawmprehensi, s-i, si,
eencawmprehensi-, bil——”

“Ah! Sidonie! stop! _Arretez!_ Si-do-nie-e-e-e! Oh!
listen—_écoutez_—Sidonie, my dear!” The master threw his arms up and
down in distraction, then suddenly faced the visitor. “Sir, it was my
blame! I spoke the word without adequate distinction!
Sidonie—_maintenant_—now!” But a voice in the audience interrupted with—

“_Assoiez-vous la_, Chat-oué! seet down yondeh!” And at the potent voice
of Maximian Roussel the offender was pushed silently into the seat he
had risen from, and Bonaventure gave the word again.

“In-com-pre-hen-si-ca-bil-i-ty!” And Sidonie, blushing like fire,
returned to the task.

“I-n, een——” She bit her lips and trembled.

“Right! _Right!_ Tremble not, my Sidonie! fear naught! yo’ loving
school-teacher is at thy side!” But she trembled like a red leaf as she
spelled on—“Haich-e-n, hen, eencawmprehen, eencawmprehensi, s-i, si,
eencawmprehensi-, eencawmprehensi-billy-t-y, ty, incomprehensibility!”

The master dropped his hands and lifted his eyes in speechless despair.
As they fell again upon Sidonie her own met them. She moaned, covered
her face with her hands, burst into tears, ran to her desk, and threw
her hands and face upon it, shaking with noiseless sobs and burning red
to the nape of her perfect neck. All Grande Pointe rose to its feet.

“Lost!” cried Bonaventure in a heart-broken voice. “Every thing lost!
Farewell, chil’run!” He opened his arms towards them, and with one dash
all the lesser ones filled them. They wept. Tears welled from
Bonaventure’s eyes; and the mothers of Grande Pointe dropped again into
their seats and silently added theirs.

The next moment all eyes were on Maximian. His strong figure was mounted
on a chair, and he was making a gentle, commanding gesture with one hand
as he called: “Seet down! Seet down, all han’!” and all sank down,
Bonaventure in a mass of weeping and clinging children. ’Mian too
resumed his seat, at the same time waving to the stranger to speak.

“My friends,” said the visitor, rising with alacrity, “I say when a man
makes a bargain, he ought to stick to it!” He paused for them—as many as
could—to take in the meaning of his English speech, and, it may be,
expecting some demonstration of approval; but dead silence reigned, all
eyes on him save Bonaventure’s and Sidonie’s. He began again: “A
bargain’s a bargain!” And Chat-oué nodded approvingly and began to say
audibly, “Yass;” but ’Mian thundered out—

“_Taise toi_, Chat-oué! Shot op!” And the silence was again complete,
while the stranger resumed—


[Illustration: “HE OPENED HIS ARMS, AND WITH ONE DASH ALL THE LESSER
ONES FILLED THEM.”]


“There was a plain bargain made.” He moved a step forward and laid the
matter off on the palm of his hand. “There was to be an examination! The
school was not to know; but if one scholar should make one mistake the
schoolhouse was to be closed and the schoolmaster sent away. Well,
there’s been a mistake made, and I say a bargain’s a bargain.” Dead
silence still. The speaker looked at ’Mian. “Do you think they
understand me?”

“Dey meck out,” said ’Mian, and shut his firm jaws.

“My friends,” said the stranger once more, “some people think
education’s a big thing, and some think it ain’t. Well, sometimes it is,
and sometimes it ain’t. Now, here’s this man”—he pointed down to where
Bonaventure’s dishevelled crown was drooping to his knees—“claims to
have taught over thirty of your children to read. Well, what of it? A
man can know how to read, and be just as no account as he was before. He
brags that he’s taught them to talk English. Well, what does that prove?
A man _might_ speak English and starve to death. He claims, I am told,
to have taught some of them to write. But I know a man in the
penitentiary that can write; he wrote too much.”

Bonaventure had lifted his head, and was sitting with his eyes upon the
speaker in close attention. At this last word he said—

“Ah! sir! too true, too true ah yo’ words; nevertheless, their cooelty!
’Tis not what is print’ _in_ the books, but what you learn _through_ the
books!”

“Yes; and so you hadn’t never ought to have made the bargain you made;
but, my friends, a bargain’s a bargain, and the teacher’s——” He paused
invitingly, and an answer came from the audience. It was Catou who rose
and said—

“Naw, sah. Naw; he don’t got to go!” But again ’Mian thundered—

“_Taise toi_, Catou. Shot op!”

“I say,” continued the stranger, “the mistake’s been made. _Three_
mistakes have been made!”

“Yass!” roared Chat-oué, leaping to his feet and turning upon the
assemblage a face fierce with triumph. Suspense and suspicions were past
now; he was to see his desire on his enemy. But instantly a dozen men
were on their feet—St. Pierre, Catou, Bonaventure himself, with a
countenance full of pleading deprecation, and even Claude, flushed with
anger.

“Naw, sah! Naw, sah! Waun meesteck?”

“Seet down, all han’!” yelled ’Mian; “all han’ seet dahoon!” Only
Chat-oué took his seat, glancing upon the rest with the exultant look of
one who can afford to yield ground.

“The first mistake,” resumed the stranger, addressing himself especially
to the risen men still standing, and pointing to Catou, “the first
mistake was in the kind of bargain you made.” He ceased, and passed his
eyes around from one to another until they rested for an instant on the
bewildered countenance of Chat-oué. Then he turned again upon the
people, who had sat down, and began to speak with the exultation of a
man that feels his subject lifting him above himself.

“I came out here to show up that man as a fraud. But what do I find?—A
poor, unpaid, half-starved man that loves his thankless work better than
his life, teaching what not one school-master in a thousand can teach:
teaching his whole school four better things than were ever printed in
any school-book—how to study, how to think, how to value knowledge, and
to love one another and mankind. What you’d ought to have done was to
agree that such a school should keep open, and such a teacher should
stay, if jest one, one lone child should answer one single book-question
right! But, as I said before, a bargain’s a bargain——Hold on, there! Sit
down! You shan’t interrupt me again!” Men were standing up on every
side; there was a confusion and a loud buzz of voices. “The second
mistake,” the stranger made haste to cry, “was thinking the teacher gave
out that last word right. He gave it wrong! And the third mistake,” he
shouted against the rising commotion, “was thinking it was spelt wrong.
_She spelt it right!_ And a bargain’s a bargain!—the school-master
stays!”


[Illustration: “SEIZING HER HANDS IN HIS AS SHE TURNED TO FLY.”]


He could say no more; the rumble of voices suddenly burst into a cheer.
The women and children laughed and clapped their hands,—Toutou his feet
also,—and Bonaventure, flirting the leaves of a spelling-book till he
found the place, looked, cried “In-com-pre-hen-_sibility_!” wheeled and
dashed upon Sidonie, seizing her hands in his as she turned to fly, and
gazed speechlessly upon her, with the tears running down his face.
Feeling a large hand upon his shoulder, he glanced around and saw ’Mian
pointing him to his platform and desk. Thither he went. The stranger had
partly restored order. Every one was in his place. But what a change!
What a gay flutter throughout the old shed! Bonaventure seemed to have
bathed in the fountain of youth. Sidonie, once more the school’s
queen-flower, sat calm, with just a trace of tears adding a subtle
something to her beauty.

“Chil’run, beloved chil’run,” said Bonaventure, standing once more by
his desk, “yo’ school-teacher has the blame of the sole mistake; and,
sir, gladly, oh, gladly, sir, would he always have the blame rather than
any of his beloved school-chil’run!”

                                              _George Washington Cable._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     “_WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW?_”

                             [Illustration]


                              A MADRIGAL.

                   I KNOW a girl with teeth of pearl,
                     And shoulders white as snow;
                       She lives,—ah! well,
                       I must not tell,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   Her sunny hair is wondrous fair,
                   And wavy in its flow;
                       Who made it less
                       One little tress,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   Her eyes are blue (celestial hue!)
                   And dazzling in their glow;
                       On whom they beam
                       With melting gleam,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   Her lips are red and finely wed,
                   Like roses ere they blow;
                       What lover sips
                       Those dewy lips,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   Her fingers are like lilies fair,
                   When lilies fairest grow;
                       Whose hand they press
                       With fond caress,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   Her foot is small, and has a fall
                   Like snowflakes on the snow;
                       And where it goes
                       Beneath the rose,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   She has a name, the sweetest name
                   That language can bestow.
                       ’Twould break the spell
                       If I should tell,—
                   Wouldn’t you like to know?

                   _John G. Saxe._

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                  _THE ARTLESS PRATTLE OF CHILDHOOD._

                             [Illustration]


WE always did pity a man who does not love childhood. There is something
morally wrong with such a man. If his tenderest sympathies are not
awakened by their innocent prattle, if his heart does not echo their
merry laughter, if his whole nature does not reach out in ardent longing
after their pure thoughts and unselfish impulses, he is a sour, crusty,
crabbed old stick, and the world full of children has no use for him. In
every age and clime the best and noblest men loved children. Even wicked
men have a tender spot left in their hardened hearts for little
children. The great men of the earth love them. Dogs love them. Kamehame
Kemokimodahroah, the King of the Cannibal Islands, loves them. Rare and
no gravy. Ah, yes, we all love children.

And what a pleasure it is to talk with them! Who can chatter with a
bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-witted little darling, anywhere from
three to five years, and not appreciate the pride which swells a
mother’s breast when she sees her little ones admired? Ah, yes, to be
sure.

One day—ah, can we ever cease to remember that dreamy, idle, summer
afternoon—a lady friend, who was down in the city on a shopping
excursion, came into the sanctum with her little son, a dear little
tid-toddler of five bright summers, and begged us to amuse him while she
pursued the duties which called her down town. Such a bright boy; so
delightful it was to talk to him. We can never forget the blissful
half-hour we spent booking that prodigy up in his centennial history.

“Now, listen, Clary,” we said—his name was Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon
de Marchemont Caruthers—“and learn about George Washington.”

“Who’s he?” inquired Clarence, etc.

“Listen,” we said; “he was the father of his country.”

“Whose country?”

“Ours—yours and mine; the confederated union of the American people,
cemented with the life-blood of the men of ’76 poured out upon the
altars of our country as the dearest libation to liberty that her
votaries can offer.”

“Who did?” asked Clarence.

There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that very few people
possess. Now most people would have grown impatient, and lost their
temper, when little Clarence asked so many irrelevant questions, but we
did not. We knew that, however careless he might appear at first, we
could soon interest him in the story, and he would be all eyes and ears.
So we smiled sweetly—that same sweet smile which you may have noticed on
our photographs. Just the faintest ripple of a smile breaking across the
face like a ray of sunlight, and checked by lines of tender sadness,
just before the two ends of it pass each other at the back of the neck.
And so, smiling, we went on.

“Well, one day George’s father——”

“George who?” asked Clarence.

“George Washington. He was a little boy then, just like you. One day his
father——”

“Whose father?” demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of
interest.

“George Washington’s—this great man we were telling you of. One day
George Washington’s father gave him a little hatchet for a——”

“Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child interrupted with a gleam of
bewitching intelligence. Most men would have betrayed signs of
impatience, but we didn’t. We know how to talk to children, so we went
on.

“George Washington. His——”

“Who gave him the little hatchet?”

“His father. And his father——”

“Whose father?”

“George Washington’s.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, George Washington. And his father told him——”

“Told who?”

“Told George.”

“Oh, yes, George.”

And we went on, just as patient and as pleasant as you could imagine. We
took up the story right where the boy interrupted; for we could see that
he was just crazy to hear the end of it. We said—

“And he told him that——”

“Who told him what?” Clarence broke in.

“Why, George’s father told George.”

“What did he tell him?”

“Why, that’s just what I’m going to tell you. He told him——”

“Who told him?”

“George’s father. He——”

“What for?”

“Why, so he wouldn’t do what he told him not to do. He told him——”

“George told him?” queried Clarence.

“No, his father told George——”

“Oh!”

“Yes; told him that he must be careful with the hatchet——”

“Who must be careful?”

“George must.”

“Oh!”

“Yes; must be careful with the hatchet——”

“What hatchet?”

“Why, George’s.”

“Oh!”

“Yes; with the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop it in the
cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night. So George went round
cutting everything he could reach with his hatchet. At last he came to a
splendid apple tree, his father’s favourite, and cut it down and——”

“Who cut it down?”

“George did.”

“Oh!”

“——but his father came home and saw it the first thing, and——”

“Saw the hatchet?”

“No; saw the apple tree. And he said, ‘Who has cut down my favourite
apple tree?’”

“What apple tree?”

“George’s father’s. And everybody said they didn’t know anything about
it, and——”

“Anything about what?”

“The apple tree.”

“Oh!”

“——and George came up and heard them talking about it——”

“Heard who talking about it?”

“Heard his father and the men.”

“What was they talking about?”

“About this apple tree.”

“What apple tree?”

“The favourite apple tree that George cut down.”

“George who?”

“George Washington.”

“Oh!”

“So George came up and heard them talking about it, and he——”

“What did he cut it down for?”

“Just to try his little hatchet.”

“Whose little hatchet?”

“Why, his own; the one his father gave him.”

“Gave who?”

“Why, George Washington.”

“Who gave it to him?”

“His father did.”

“Oh!”

“So George came up and he said, ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. I——’”

“Who couldn’t tell a lie?”

“Why, George Washington. He said, ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. It
was——’”

“His father couldn’t?”

“Why, no; George couldn’t.”

“Oh, George? Oh yes.”

“‘—it was I cut down your apple tree. I did——’”

“His father did?”

“No, no. It was George said this.”

“Said he cut his father?”

“No, no, no; said he cut down his apple tree.”

“George’s apple tree?”

“No, no; his father’s.”

“Oh!”

“He said——”

“His father said?”

“No, no, no; George said, ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it with my
little hatchet.’ And his father said, ‘Noble boy, I would rather lose a
thousand trees than have you tell a lie.’”

“George did?”

“No; his father said that.”

“Said he’d rather have a thousand apple trees?”

“No, no, no; said he’d rather lose a thousand apple trees than——”

“Said he’d rather George would?”

“No; said he’d rather he would than have him lie.”

“Oh, George would rather have his father lie?”

We are patient, and we love children, but if Mrs. Caruthers, of Arch
Street, hadn’t come and got her prodigy at this critical juncture, we
don’t believe all Burlington could have pulled us out of that snarl. And
as Clarence Fitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down
the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a father
named George, and he told him to cut down an apple tree, and he said
he’d rather tell a thousand lies than cut down one apple tree.

                                                _Robert Jones Burdette._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        _SPEECH ON THE BABIES._


    [At the banquet, in Chicago, given by the army of the Tennessee to
    their first commander, General U. S. Grant, November 1879. The
    fifteenth regular toast was “The Babies—as they comfort us in our
    sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities.”]

I LIKE that. We have not all had the good fortune to be ladies. We have
not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works
down to the babies, we stand on common ground. It is a shame that for a
thousand years the world’s banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as if
he didn’t amount to anything. If you will stop and think a minute—if you
will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married life, and
recontemplate your first baby—you will remember that he amounted to a
good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that
little fellow arrived at family headquarters you had to hand in your
resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere
body-servant, and you had to stand around too. He was not a commander
who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You
had to execute his orders whether it was possible or not. And there was
only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was the
double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and
disrespect, and the bravest of you didn’t dare say a word. You could
face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow for
blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and
twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were
sounding in your ears, you set your faces toward the batteries and
advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his
war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the
chance too. When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw
out any side remarks about certain services being unbecoming an officer
and a gentleman? No. You got up and _got_ it. When he ordered his
pap-bottle, and it was not warm, did you talk back? Not you. You went to
work and _warmed_ it. You even descended so far in your menial office as
to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was
right—three parts water to one of milk, and a touch of sugar to modify
the colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccoughs. I
can taste the stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went
along! Sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old
saying, that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels
are whispering to him. Very pretty, but too thin—simply wind on the
stomach, my friends. If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual
hour, two o’clock in the morning, didn’t you rise up promptly and
remark, with a mental addition which would not improve a Sunday-school
book _much_, that that was the very thing you were about to propose
yourself?


[Illustration: “ROCK-A-BY BABY IN THE TREE-TOP.”]


Oh! you were under good discipline, and as you went fluttering up and
down the room in your undress uniform, you not only prattled undignified
baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to
_sing_!—“Rock-a-by baby in the tree-top,” for instance. What a spectacle
for an army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for the neighbours,
too; for it is not everybody within a mile around that likes military
music at three in the morning. And when you had been keeping this sort
of thing up two or three hours, and your little velvet-head intimated
that nothing suited him like exercise and noise, what did you do? (“Go
on!”) You simply _went_ on until you dropped in the last ditch. The idea
that a _baby_ doesn’t _amount_ to anything! Why, _one_ baby is just a
house and a front yard full by itself. _One_ baby can furnish more
business than you and your whole Interior Department can attend to. He
is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of lawless activities. Do what
you please, you can’t make him stay on the reservation. Sufficient unto
the day is one baby. As long as you are in your right mind don’t you
ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a permanent riot, and there ain’t
any real difference between triplets and an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognise the importance of
the babies. Think what is in store for the present crop! Fifty years
from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still
survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic
numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our
increase. Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political
leviathan—a _Great Eastern_. The cradled babies of to-day will be on
deck. Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract
on their hands.

Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in the land are some
which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred things, if we could
know which ones they are. In one of these cradles the unconscious
Farragut of the future is at this moment teething—think of it!—and
putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but perfectly
justifiable profanity over it, too. In another the future renowned
astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a languid
interest—poor little chap!—and wondering what has become of that other
one they call the wet-nurse. In another the future great historian is
lying—and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission is
ended. In another the future president is busying himself with no
profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his
hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some
60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to
grapple with that same old problem a second time. And in still one more
cradle, somewhere under the flag, the future illustrious
commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with his
approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole
strategic mind at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his
big toe into his mouth—an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the
illustrious guest of this evening turned _his_ entire attention to some
fifty-six years ago; and if the child is but a prophecy of the man,
there are mighty few who will doubt that he _succeeded_.

                                   _Samuel L. Clemens_ (“_Mark Twain_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        [Illustration: Cyclones]




                             _ON CYCLONES._


I DESIRE to state that my position as United States cyclonist for this
judicial district is now vacant. I resigned on the 9th day of September,
A.D. 1884.

I have not the necessary personal magnetism to look a cyclone in the eye
and make it quail. I am stern and even haughty in my intercourse with
men, but when a Manitoba simoon takes me by the brow of my pantaloons
and throws me across township 28, range 18, west of the 5th principal
meridian, I lose my mental reserve and become anxious and even taciturn.
For thirty years I had yearned to see a grown-up cyclone, of the
ring-tail-puller variety, mop up the green earth with huge forest trees
and make the landscape look tired. On the 9th day of September, A.D.
1884, my morbid curiosity was gratified.

As the people came out into the forest with lanterns and pulled me out
of the crotch of a basswood tree with a “tackle and fall,” I remember I
told them I didn’t yearn for any more atmospheric phenomena.

The old desire for a hurricane that could blow a cow through a
penitentiary was satiated. I remember when the doctor pried the bones of
my leg together, in order to kind of draw my attention away from the
limb, he asked me how I liked the fall style of zephyr in that locality.

I said it was all right, what there was of it. I said this in a tone of
bitter irony.

Cyclones are of two kinds—viz., the dark maroon cyclone, and the iron
grey cyclone with pale green mane and tail. It was the latter kind I
frolicked with on the above-named date.

My brother and I were riding along in the grand old forest, and I had
just been singing a few bars from the opera of “Whoop ’em up, Lizzie
Jane,” when I noticed that the wind was beginning to sough through the
trees. Soon after that I noticed that I was soughing through the trees
also, and I am really no slouch of a sougher either when I get started.

The horse was hanging by the breeching from the bough of a large
butternut tree, waiting for some one to come and pick him.

I did not see my brother at first, but after a while he disengaged
himself from a rail fence, and came where I was hanging, wrong end up,
with my personal effects spilling out of my pockets. I told him that as
soon as the wind kind of softened down, I wished he would go and pick
the horse. He did so, and at midnight a party of friends carried me into
town on a stretcher. It was quite an ovation. To think of a torchlight
procession coming out way out there into the woods at midnight, and
carrying me into town on their shoulders in triumph! And yet I was once
a poor boy!

It shows what may be accomplished by any one if he will persevere and
insist on living a different life.

The cyclone is a natural phenomenon, enjoying the most robust health. It
may be a pleasure for a man with great will power and an iron
constitution to study more carefully into the habits of the cyclone, but
as far as I am concerned, individually, I could worry along some way if
we didn’t have a phenomenon in the house from one year’s end to another.

As I sit here, with my leg in a silicate of soda corset, and watch the
merry throng promenading down the street, or mingling in the giddy
torchlight procession, I cannot repress a feeling toward a cyclone that
almost amounts to disgust.

                                                             _Bill Nye._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




               _OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS THE HONOUR TO BE._

                                     WASHINGTON, D.C., _March 20, 1861_.


JUDGE not by appearances, for appearances are very deceptive,—as the old
lady cholerically remarked when one, who was really a virgin unto forty,
blushingly informed her that she was “just twenty-five this month.”

Though you find me in Washington now, I was born of respectable parents,
and gave every indication, in my satchel and apron days, of coming to
something better than this.

Slightly northward of the Connecticut river, where a pleasant little
conservative village mediates between two opposition hills, you may
behold the landscape on which my infantile New England eyes first traced
the courses of future railroads.

Near the centre of this village in the valley, and a little back from
its principal road, stood the residence of my worthy sire, and a very
pretty residence it was. From the frequent addition of a new upper room
here, a new dormer window there, and an innovating skylight elsewhere,
the roof of the mansion had gradually assumed an alpine variety of juts
and peaks somewhat confusing to behold. Local tradition related that, on
a certain showery occasion, a streak of lightning was seen to descend
upon that roof, skip vaguely about from one peak to another, and finally
slink ignominiously down the water-pipe, as though utterly disgusted
with its own inability to determine, where there were so many, which
peak it should particularly perforate.

Such was the house in which I came to life a certain number of years
ago, entering the world like a human exclamation point between two of
the angriest sentences of a September storm, and adding materially to
the uproar prevailing at the time.

Next to my parents, the person I can best remember, as I look back, was
our family physician. A very obese man was he, with certain
sweet-oiliness of manner, and never put out of patience. I think I can
see him still, as he arose from his chair after a profound study of the
case before him, and wrote a prescription so circumlocutory in its
effect that it sent a servant half-a-mile to his friend the druggist for
articles she might have found in her own kitchen, _aqua pumpaginis_ and
sugar being the sole ingredients required.

The doctor had started business in our village as a veterinary surgeon,
but as the entire extent of his practice for six months in that line was
a call to mend one of Colt’s revolvers, he finally turned his attention
to the ailings of his fellows, and wrought many cures with sugar and
water latinised.

At first, my father did not patronise the new doctor, having very little
faith in the efficacy of sugar and water, without the addition of
certain other composites often seen in bottles; but the doctor’s neat
speech at a Sunday-school festival won his heart at last. The festival
was held near a series of small water-falls just out of the village, and
the doctor, who was an invited guest, was called upon for a few
appropriate remarks. In compliance with the demand, he made a speech of
some compass, ending with a peroration that is still quoted in my native
place. He pointed impressively to the water-falls, and says he—

“All the works of nature is somewhat beautiful, with a good moral. Even
them cataracts,” says he sagely, “have a moral, and seems eternally
whispering to the young, that ‘those what err falls.’”

The effect of this happy illustration was very pleasing, my boy;
especially with those who prefer morality to grammar; and after that the
physician had the run of all the pious families—our own included.

It was a handsome compliment this worthy man paid me when I was about
six months old. Having just received from my father the amount of his
last bill, he was complacent to the last degree, and felt inclined to do
the handsome thing. He patted my head as I sat upon my mother’s lap, and
says he—

“How beautiful is babes! So small and yet so much like human beings,
only not so large. This boy,” says he fatly, looking down at me, “will
make a noise in the world yet. He has a long head, a very long head.”

“Do you think so?” says my father.

“Indeed I do,” says the doctor. “The little fellow,” says he in a sudden
fit of abstraction, “has a long head, a very long head—and it’s as thick
as it is long.”


[Illustration: “AND IT’S AS THICK AS IT IS LONG.”]


There was some coolness between the doctor and my father after that, and
on the following Sunday my mother refused to look at his wife’s new
bonnet in church.

So far as I can trace back, we never had a literary character in our
family, save a venerable aunt of mine, on my mother’s side, who
commenced her writing career by refusing to contribute to the Sunday
papers, and subsequently won much fame as the authoress of a set of
copy-books. When this gifted relative found herself acquiring a
reputation she came in state to visit us, and so disgusted my very
practical father, by wearing slipshod gaiters, inking her right-hand
thumb-nail every morning, calling all things by European names, and
insisting upon giving our oldest plough-horse the romantic and literary
title of “Lord Byron,” that my exasperated parent incurred a most
tremendous prejudice against authorship, and vowed, when she went away,
that he never would invite her presence again.

I was only twenty years old at that time, and the novelty of my aunt’s
conduct had a rather infatuating effect upon me. With the perversity
often observable in youngsters before they have seen much of the world,
I became deeply interested in my literary relative as soon as my father
began speaking contemptuously of her pursuits, and it took very little
time to invest me with a longing and determination to be a writer.

Thenceforth I wore negligent linen; frequently rested my head upon the
forefinger of my right hand, with a lofty and abstracted air; assumed an
expression of settled and mysterious gloom when at church, and suffered
my hair to grow long and uncombed.

My bearing during this period of infatuation could hardly fail to
attract considerable attention in our village, and there were two
opinions about me. One was that I had been jilted; the other that I was
likely to become a vagabond and an actor. My father inclined to the
former, and left me, as he thought, to get over my disappointment in the
natural way.

My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, when I formed the
acquaintance of the editor of the _Lily of the Valley_, who permitted me
to mope in his office now and then, and soothed my literary inflammation
by allowing me to write “puffs” for the village milliner.

While looking over some old magazines in the _Lily_ office one day, I
found in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon American
literature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were but
weak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing as a Distinctly
American Poem, _sui generis_, had not yet been produced.


[Illustration: “IN THE SOLITUDE OF MY ROOM, THAT NIGHT, I WOOED THE
ABORIGINAL MUSE.”]


This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankee
blood, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not only distinctively
American, but of such a character that only America could have produced
it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the aboriginal muse,
and two days thereafter the _Lily of the Valley_ contained my
distinctive American poem of

                  “THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER.”

                 To Lake Aghmoogenegamook,
                   All in the State of Maine,
                 A man from Wittequergaugaum came
                   One evening in the rain.

                 “I am a traveller,” said he,
                   “Just started on a tour,
                 And go to Nomjamskillicook
                   To-morrow morn at four.”

                 He took a tavern bed that night,
                   And with the morrow’s sun,
                 By way of Sekledobskus went,
                   With carpet-bag and gun.

                 A week passed on; and next we find
                   Our native tourist come,
                 To that sequestered village called
                   Genasagarnagum.

                 From thence he went to Absequoit,
                   And there—quite tired of Maine—
                 He sought the mountains of Vermont,
                   Upon a railroad train.

                 Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State,
                   Was his first stopping-place,
                 And then Skunk’s Misery displayed
                   Its sweetness and its grace.

                 By easy stages then he went
                   To visit Devil’s Den;
                 And Scrabble Hollow, by the way
                   Did come within his ken.

                 Then, _viâ_ Nine Holes and Goose Green,
                   He travelled through the State,
                 And to Virginia, finally,
                   Was guided by his fate.

                 Within the Old Dominion’s bounds,
                   He wandered up and down,
                 To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced,
                   To-morrow at Hell Town.

                 At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week,
                   Till friends from Bull Ring came,
                 And made him spend the day with them,
                   In hunting forest game.

                 Then with his carpet-bag in hand,
                   To Dog Town next he went;
                 Though stopping at Free Negro Town,
                   Where half a day he spent.

                 From thence into Negationburg
                   His route of travel lay,
                 Which having gained, he left the State
                   And took a southward way.

                 North Carolina’s friendly soil
                   He trod at fall of night,
                 And, on a bed of softest down,
                   He slept at Hell’s Delight.

                 Morn found him on the road again,
                   To Slouchy Level bound;
                 At Bull’s Tail, and Lick Lizzard, too,
                   Good provender he found.

                 But the plantations near Burnt Coat
                   Were even finer still,
                 And made the wondering tourist feel
                   A soft, delicious thrill.

                 At Tear Shirt, too, the scenery
                   Most charming did appear,
                 With Snatch It in the distance far
                   And Purgatory near.

                 But spite of all these pleasant scenes
                   The tourist stoutly swore
                 That home is brightest after all,
                   And travel is a bore.

                 So back he went to Maine straightway.
                   A little wife he took;
                 And now is making nutmegs at
                   Moosehicmagunticook.

In his note introductory of this poem the editor of the _Lily_ affirmed
that I had named none but veritable localities (which was strictly
true), and ventured the belief that the composition would remind his
readers of Goldsmith. Upon which his scorpion contemporary in the next
village observed that there was rather more smith than gold about the
poem.

Up to the time when this poem appeared in print, I had succeeded in
concealing from my father the nature of my incidental occupation; but
now he must know all.

He _did_ know all; and the result was that he gave me ten dollars, and
sent me to New York to look out for myself.

“It’s the only thing that will save him,” says he to my mother; “and I
must either send him off or expect to see him sink by degrees to
editorship and begin wearing disgraceful clothes.”

I went to New York; I became private secretary and speech-scribe to an
unscrupulous and, therefore, rising politician, and now I am in
Washington.

I had a certain postmastership in my eye when I first came hither; but
war’s alarms indicate that I may do better as an amateur hero.

                                   _R. H. Newell_ (“_Orpheus C. Kerr_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _YAWCOB STRAUSS._

[Illustration: “BUT VEN HE VASH ASLEEP IN PED, SO QUIET AS A MOUSE.”]


               I HAF von funny leedle poy,
                  Vot gomes schust to mine knee;
               Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
                 As efer you dit see.
               He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings,
                 In all barts of der house;
               But vot off dot? he vas mine son,
                 Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

               He gets der measles und der mumbs,
                 Und eferyding dot’s oudt;
               He sbills mine glass of lager bier,
                 Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.
               He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese,—
                 Dot vas der roughest chouse;
               I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy
                 But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

               He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
                 Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
               To make der schticks to beat it mit,——
                 Mine gracious, dot vos drue!
               I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
                 He kicks oup sooch a touse:
               But never mind; der poys vas few
                 Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.

               He asks me questions, sooch as dese:
                 Who baints mine nose so red?
               Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
                 Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
               Und where der plaze goes vrom der lamp
                 Vene’er der glim I douse.
               How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
                 To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?

               I somedimes dink I schall go vild
                 Mit sooch a grazy poy,
               Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
                 Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
               But ven he vash asleep in ped,
                 So quiet as a mouse,
               I prays der Lord, “Dake anyding,
                 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.”

                                                 _Charles Follen Adams._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        _THE MINISTER’S WOOING._


“WAL, the upshot on’t was, they fussed and fuzzled and wuzzled till
they’d drinked up all the tea in the tea-pot; and then they went down
and called on the parson, and wuzzled him all up talkin’ about this,
that, and t’other that wanted lookin’ to, and that it was no way to
leave everything to a young chit like Huldy, and that he ought to be
lookin’ about for an experienced woman.

“The parson, he thanked ’em kindly, and said he believed their motives
was good, but he didn’t go no further.

“He didn’t ask Mis’ Pipperidge to come and stay there and help him, nor
nothin’ o’ that kind; but he said he’d attend to matters himself. The
fact was, the parson had got such a likin’ for havin’ Huldy ’round, that
he couldn’t think o’ such a thing as swappin’ her off for the Widder
Pipperidge.

“‘But,’ he thought to himself, ‘Huldy is a good girl; but I oughtn’t to
be a leavin’ everything to her—it’s too hard on her. I ought to be
instructin’ and guidin’ and helpin’ of her; ’cause ’tain’t everybody
could be expected to know and do what Mis’ Carryl did;’ and so at it he
went; and Lordy massy! didn’t Huldy hev a time on’t when the minister
began to come out of his study, and wanted to ten ’round and see to
things? Huldy, you see, thought all the world of the minister, and she
was ’most afraid to laugh; but she told me she couldn’t, for the life of
her, help it when his back was turned, for he wuzzled things up in the
most singular way. But Huldy, she’d jest say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and get him
off into his study, and go on her own way.

“‘Huldy,’ says the minister one day, ‘you ain’t experienced out doors;
and when you want to know anything, you must come to me.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ said Huldy.

“‘Now, Huldy,’ says the parson, ‘you must be sure to save the turkey
eggs, so that we can have a lot of turkeys for Thanksgiving.’

“‘Yes, sir,’ says Huldy; and she opened the pantry-door, and showed him
a nice dishful she’d been a savin’ up. Wal, the very next day the
parson’s hen-turkey was found killed up to old Jim Scroggs’s barn. Folks
say Scroggs killed it; though Scroggs, he stood to it he didn’t; at any
rate, the Scroggses, they made a meal on’t, and Huldy, she felt bad
about it ’cause she’d set her heart on raisin’ the turkeys; and says
she, ‘Oh, dear! I don’t know what I shall do, I was just ready to set
her.’

“‘Do, Huldy?’ says the parson: ‘why, there’s the other turkey, out there
by the door; and a fine bird, too, he is.’

“Sure enough, there was the old tom-turkey a-struttin’ and a-sidlin’,
and a-quitterin’, and a-floutin’ his tail feathers in the sun, like a
lively young widower, all ready to begin life over again.

“‘But,’ says Huldy, ‘you know _he_ can’t set on eggs.’

“‘He can’t? I’d like to know why,’ says the parson. ‘He _shall_ set on
eggs, and hatch ’em too.’

“‘Oh, doctor!’ says Huldy, all in a tremble; ’cause, you know, she
didn’t want to contradict the minister, and she was afraid she should
laugh—‘I never heard that a tom-turkey would set on eggs.’


[Illustration: “SHE FOUND OLD TOM A-SKIRMISHIN’ WITH THE PARSON.”]


“‘Why, they ought to,’ said the parson, getting quite ’arnest. ‘What
else be they good for? You just bring out the eggs, now, and put ’em in
the nest, and I’ll make him set on ’em.’

“So, Huldy, she thought there weren’t no way to convince him but to let
him try: so she took the eggs out, and fixed ’em all nice in the nest;
and then she come back and found old Tom a-skirmishin’ with the parson
pretty lively, I tell ye. Ye see, old Tom, he didn’t take the idee at
all; and he flopped and gobbled, and fit the parson: and the parson’s
wig got ’round so that his cue stuck straight out over his ear, but he’d
got his blood up. Ye see, the old doctor was used to carryin’ his p’ints
o’ doctrine; and he hadn’t fit the Arminians and Socinians to be beat by
a tom-turkey; and finally he made a dive and ketched him by the neck in
spite o’ his floppin’, and stroked him down, and put Huldy’s apron
’round him.

“‘There, Huldy,’ he says, quite red in the face, ‘we’ve got him now;’
and he travelled off to the barn with him as lively as a cricket.

“Huldy came behind, just chokin’ with laugh, and afraid the minister
would look ’round and see her.

“‘Now, Huldy, we’ll crook his legs, and set him down,’ says the parson,
when they got him to the nest; ‘you see he is getting quiet, and he’ll
set there all right.’

“And the parson, he sot him down; and old Tom, he sot there solemn
enough and held his head down all droopin’, lookin’ like a rail pious
old cock, as long as the parson sot by him.

“‘There: you see how still he sets,’ says the parson to Huldy.

“Huldy was ’most dyin’ for fear she should laugh. ‘I’m afraid he’ll get
up,’ says she, ‘when you do.’

“‘Oh no, he won’t!’ says the parson, quite confident. ‘There, there,’
says he, layin’ his hands on him as if pronouncin’ a blessin’.

“But when the parson riz up, old Tom, he riz up too, and began to march
over the eggs.

“‘Stop, now!’ says the parson. ‘I’ll make him get down agin; hand me
that corn-basket; we’ll put that over him.’

“So he crooked old Tom’s legs, and got him down agin; and they put the
corn-basket over him, and then they both stood and waited.

“‘That’ll do the thing, Huldy,’ said the parson.

“‘I don’t know about it,’ says Huldy.

“‘Oh yes, it will, child; I understand,’ says he.

“Just as he spoke, the basket riz right up and stood, and they could see
old Tom’s long legs.

“‘I’ll make him stay down, confound him,’ says the parson, for you see,
parsons is men, like the rest on us, and the doctor had got his spunk
up.

“‘You jist hold him a minute, and I’ll get something that’ll make him
stay, I guess;’ and out he went to the fence, and brought in a long,
thin, flat stone, and laid it on old Tom’s back.

“‘Oh, my eggs!’ says Huldy. ‘I’m afraid he’s smashed ’em!’

“And sure enough, there they was, smashed flat enough under the stone.

“‘I’ll have him killed,’ said the parson. ‘We won’t have such a critter
’round.’

“Wal, next week, Huldy, she jist borrowed the minister’s horse and
side-saddle, and rode over to South Parish to her Aunt Bascome’s,—Widder
Bascome’s, you know, that lives there by the trout-brook,—and got a lot
o’ turkey eggs o’ her, and come back and set a hen on ’em, and said
nothin’; and in good time there was as nice a lot o’ turkey-chicks as
ever ye see.

“Huldy never said a word to the minister about his experiment, and he
never said a word to her; but he sort o’ kep’ more to his books, and
didn’t take it on him to advise so much.

“But not long arter he took it into his head that Huldy ought to have a
pig to be a fattin’ with the buttermilk.

“Mis’ Pipperidge set him up to it; and jist then old Tom Bigelow, out to
Juniper Hill, told him if he’d call over he’d give him a little pig.

“So he sent for a man, and told him to build a pig-pen right out by the
well, and have it all ready when he came home with his pig.

“Huldy said she wished he might put a curb round the well out there,
because, in the dark sometimes, a body might stumble into it; and the
parson said he might do that.

“Wal, old Aikin, the carpenter, he didn’t come till ’most the middle of
the arternoon; and then he sort o’ idled, so that he didn’t get up the
well-curb till sundown; and then he went off, and said he’d come and do
the pig-pen next day.

“Wal, arter dark, Parson Carryl, he driv into the yard, full chizel,
with his pig.

“‘There, Huldy, I’ve got you a nice little pig.’

“‘Dear me!’ says Huldy; ‘where have you put him?’

“‘Why, out there in the pig-pen, to be sure.’

“‘Oh, dear me!’ says Huldy, ‘that’s the well-curb—there ain’t no pig-pen
built,’ says she.

“‘Lordy massy!’ says the parson; ‘then I’ve thrown the pig in the well!’

“Wal, Huldy, she worked and worked, and finally she fished piggy out in
the bucket, but he was as dead as a door-nail; and she got him out o’
the way quietly, and didn’t say much; and the parson he took to a great
Hebrew book in his study.

“Arter that the parson set sich store by Huldy that he come to her and
asked her about everything, and it was amazin’ how everything she put
her hand to prospered. Huldy planted marigolds and larkspurs, pinks and
carnations, all up and down the path to the front door; and trained up
mornin’ glories and scarlet runners round the windows. And she was
always gettin’ a root here, and a sprig there, and a seed from somebody
else; for Huldy was one o’ them that has the gift, so that ef you jist
give ’em the leastest of anything they make a great bush out of it right
away; so that in six months Huldy had roses and geraniums and lilies,
sich as it would take a gardener to raise.

“Huldy was so sort o’ chipper and fair spoken, that she got the hired
men all under her thumb: they come to her and took her orders jist as
meek as so many calves; and she traded at the store, and kep’ the
accounts, and she had her eyes everywhere, and tied up all the ends so
tight that there wa’n’t no gettin’ ’round her. She wouldn’t let nobody
put nothin’ off on Parson Carryl ’cause he was a minister. Huldy was
allers up to anybody that wanted to make a hard bargain, and, afore he
knew jist what he was about, she’d got the best end of it, and everybody
said that Huldy was the most capable girl they ever traded with.

“Wal, come to the meetin’ of the Association, Mis’ Deakin Blodgett, and
Mis’ Pipperidge come callin’ up to the parson’s all in a stew, and
offerin’ their services to get the house ready, but the doctor, he jist
thanked ’em quite quiet, and turned ’em over to Huldy; and Huldy she
told ’em that she’d got everything ready, and showed ’em her pantries,
and her cakes, and her pies, and her puddin’s, and took ’em all over the
house; and they went peekin’ and pokin’, openin’ cupboard doors, and
lookin’ into drawers; and they couldn’t find so much as a thread out o’
the way, from garret to cellar, and so they went off quite discontented.
Arter that the women set a new trouble a-brewin’. They begun to talk
that it was a year now since Mis’ Carryl died; and it r’ally wasn’t
proper such a young gal to be stayin’ there, who everybody could see was
a-settin’ her cap for the minister.

“Mis’ Pipperidge said, that so long as she looked on Huldy as the hired
gal, she hadn’t thought much about it; but Huldy was railly takin’ on
airs as an equal, and appearin’ as mistress o’ the house in a way that
would make talk if it went on. And Mis’ Pipperidge she driv’ ’round up
to Deakin Abner Snow’s, and down to Mis’ ’Lijah Perry’s, and asked them
if they wasn’t afraid that the way the parson and Huldy was a-goin’ on
might make talk. And they said they hadn’t thought on’t before, but now,
come to think on’t, they was sure it would; and they all went and talked
with somebody else, and asked them if they didn’t think it would make
talk. So come Sunday, between meetin’s there warn’t nothin’ else talked
about; and Huldy saw folks a-noddin’ and a-winkin’, and a-lookin’ arter
her, and she begun to feel drefful sort o’ disagreeable. Finally Mis’
Sawin, she says to her, ‘My dear, didn’t you never think folk would talk
about you and the minister?’


[Illustration: “‘NO; WHY SHOULD THEY?’ SAYS HULDY.”]


“‘No; why should they?’ says Huldy, quite innocent.

“‘Wal, dear,’ says she, ‘I think it’s a shame; but they say you’re
tryin’ to catch him, and that it’s so bold and improper for you to be
courtin’ of him right in his own house,—you know folks will talk,—I
thought I’d tell you, ’cause I think so much of you,’ says she.

“Huldy was a gal of spirit, and she despised the talk, but it made her
drefful uncomfortable; and when she got home at night she sat down in
the mornin’-glory porch, quite quiet, and didn’t sing a word.

“The minister he had heard the same thing from one of his deakins that
day; and when he saw Huldy so kind o’ silent, he says to her, ‘Why don’t
you sing, my child?’

“He hed a pleasant sort o’ way with him, the minister had, and Huldy had
got to likin’ to be with him; and it all come over her that perhaps she
ought to go away; and her throat kind o’ filled up so she couldn’t
hardly speak; and, says she, ‘I can’t sing to-night.’

“Says he, ‘You don’t know how much good your singin’ has done me, nor
how much good you have done me in all ways, Huldy. I wish I knew how to
show my gratitude.’

“‘Oh, sir!’ says Huldy, ‘_is_ it improper for me to be here?’

“‘No, dear,’ says the minister, ‘but ill-natured folks will talk; but
there is one way we can stop it, Huldy—if you’ll marry me. You’ll make
me very happy, and I’ll do all I can to make you happy. Will you?’

“Wal, Huldy never told me just what she said to the minister; gals never
does give you the particulars of them ’are things jist as you’d like
’em—only I know the upshot, and the hull on’t was, that Huldy she did a
consid’able lot o’ clear starchin’ and ironin’ the next two days; and
the Friday o’ next week the minister and she rode over together to Dr.
Lothrop’s, in Oldtown; and the doctor, he jist made ’em man and wife.”

                                                _Harriet Beecher Stowe._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            _ALBINA McLUSH._

[Illustration: “I PRESSED THE COOL, SOFT FINGERS TO MY LIPS.”]


I HAVE a passion for fat women. If there is anything I hate in life, it
is what dainty people call a _spirituelle_. Motion—rapid motion—a smart,
quick, squirrel-like step, a pert, voluble tone—in short, a lively
girl—is my exquisite horror. I would as lief have a _diable petit_
dancing his infernal hornpipe on my cerebellum as to be in a room with
one. I have tried before now to school myself into liking these parched
peas of humanity. I have followed them with my eyes, and attended to
their rattle till I was as crazy as a fly in a drum. I have danced with
them, and romped with them in the country, and perilled the salvation of
my “white tights,” by sitting near them at supper. I swear off from this
moment. I do. I won’t—no—hang me if ever I show another small, lively,
_spry_ woman a civility.

Albina McLush is divine. She is like the description of the Persian
beauty by Hafiz: “Her heart is full of passion, and her eyes are full of
sleep.” She is the sister of Lurly McLush, my old college chum, who, as
early as his sophomore year, was chosen president of the Dolcefarniente
Society, no member of which was ever known to be surprised at
anything—(the college law of rising before breakfast excepted). Lurly
introduced me to his sister one day, as he was lying upon a heap of
turnips, leaning on his elbow with his head in his hand, in a green lane
in the suburbs. He had driven over a stump, and been tossed out of his
gig, and I came up just as he was wondering how in the d—l’s name he got
there. Albina sat quietly in the gig, and when I was presented,
requested me, with a delicious drawl, to say nothing about the
adventure—“it would be so troublesome to relate it to everybody!” I
loved her from that moment. Miss McLush was tall, and her shape, of its
kind, was perfect. It was not a fleshy one exactly, but she was large
and full. Her skin was clear, fine-grained and transparent; her temples
and forehead perfectly rounded and polished, and her lips and chin
swelling into a ripe and tempting pout, like the cleft of a burst
apricot. And then her eyes—large, languid, and sleepy—they languished
beneath their long, black fringes as if they had no business with
daylight—like two magnificent dreams, surprised in their jet embryos by
some bird-nesting cherub. Oh! it was lovely to look into them!

She sat usually upon a _fauteuil_, with her large, full arm embedded in
the cushion, sometimes for hours without stirring. I have seen the wind
lift the masses of dark hair from her shoulders, when it seemed like the
coming to life of a marble Hebe—she had been motionless so long. She was
a model for a goddess of sleep; as she sat with her eyes half-closed,
lifting up their superb lips slowly as you spoke to her, and dropping
them again with the deliberate motion of a cloud, when she had murmured
out her syllable of assent. Her figure, in a sitting posture, presented
a gentle declivity from the curve of her neck to the instep of the small
round foot lying on its side upon the ottoman. I remember a fellow
bringing her a plate of fruit one evening. He was one of your lively
men—a horrid monster, all right angles and activity. Having never been
accustomed to hold her own plate, she had not well extracted her whole
fingers from her handkerchief before he set it down in her lap. As it
began slowly to slide towards her feet, her hand relapsed into the
muslin folds, and she fixed her eyes upon it with a kind of indolent
surprise, drooping her lids gradually, till, as the fruit scattered over
the ottoman, they closed entirely, and a liquid jet line was alone
visible through the heavy lashes. There was an imperial indifference in
it worthy of Juno.

Miss McLush rarely walks. When she does it is with the deliberate
majesty of a Dido. Her small, plump feet melt to the ground like
snow-flakes, and her figure sways to the indolent motion of her limbs
with a glorious grace and yieldingness quite indescribable. She was
idling slowly up the Mall one evening, just at twilight, with a servant
at a short distance behind her, who, to while away the time between her
steps, was employing himself in throwing stones at the cows feeding upon
the common. A gentleman, with a natural admiration for her splendid
person, addressed her. He might have done a more eccentric thing.
Without troubling herself to look at him, she turned to her servant and
requested him, with a yawn of desperate _ennui_, to knock that fellow
down! John obeyed his orders; and, as his mistress resumed her lounge,
picked up a new handful of pebbles, and tossing one at the nearest cow,
loitered lazily after.

Such supreme indolence was irresistible. I gave in—I who never before
could summon energy to sigh—I to whom a declaration was but a synonym
for perspiration—I—who had only thought of love as a nervous complaint,
and of women but to pray for a good deliverance—I—yes—I knocked under.
Albina McLush! thou wert too exquisitely lazy. Human sensibilities
cannot hold out for ever.

I found her one morning sipping her coffee at twelve, with her eyes wide
open. She was just from the bath, and her complexion had a soft, dewy
transparency, like the cheek of Venus rising from the sea. It was the
hour, Lurly had told me, when she would be at the trouble of thinking.
She put away with her dimpled forefinger, as I entered, a cluster of
rich curls that had fallen over her face, and nodded to me like a
water-lily swaying to the wind when its cup is full of rain. “Lady
Albina,” said I, in my softest tone, “how are you to-day?”

“Beltina,” said she, addressing her maid in a voice as clouded and rich
as a south wind on an Æolian, “how am I to-day?”

The conversation fell into short sentences, and the dialogue became
monologue. I entered upon my declaration with the assistance of Beltina,
who supplied her mistress with cologne. I kept her attention alive
through the incipient circumstances. Symptoms were soon told. I came to
the avowal. Her hand lay reposing on the arm of the sofa, half buried in
a muslin _foulard_. I took it up. I pressed the cool, soft fingers to my
lips—unforbidden. I rose and looked into her eyes for confirmation.
Delicious creature! she was asleep.

I never have had courage to renew the subject. Miss McLush seems to have
forgotten it altogether. Upon reflection, too, I am convinced she would
not survive the excitement of the ceremony, unless, indeed, she should
sleep between the responses and the prayer. I am still devoted, however,
and if there should come a war or an earthquake, or if the millennium
should commence, as it is expected, in 1833, or if anything happens that
can keep her waking so long, I shall deliver a declaration abbreviated
for me by a scholar friend of mine, which he warrants may be articulated
in fifteen minutes—without fatigue.

                                              _Nathaniel Parker Willis._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _A LONG TIME AGO._

       (FROM ACT I. OF “THE WHITE FEATHER.” A RED INDIAN COMEDY.)


_Owosco._ Here, here, enough of this nonsense! Why should you sing about
that which you think peculiar to yourselves, when, as a matter of fact,
all tribes, nations, and classes are alike?

_Wanda._ But are you sure all are alike?

_Owosco._ Certainly. We are all tarred with the same stick.

                                _Sings_:

                      The same black tar,
                        By the same black stick,
                      No matter who we are,
                        Is laid on thick.
                      If poor, we’re marred,
                        If rich, we kick,
                      But we’re all of us tarred
                        With the same black stick.

     If successful in our enterprise, our ways are never scanned,
       We’re applauded by the populace, and praised by every tongue.
     But if a fell disaster crown the efforts we have planned,
       Our methods are at once condemned by old as well as young.

                                 _All._

                      The same black tar,
                        By the same black stick,
                      No matter who we are,
                        Is laid on thick.
                        If poor, we’re marred,
                      If rich, we kick,
                        But we’re all of us tarred
                      With the same black stick.

_Owosco_ (_derisively_). Ah! here comes our worthy apology for a chief.

_Otsiketa._ And our equally worthy medicine man.

_Owosco._ They make a gay old couple. The one is about as useful as the
other.


[Illustration: “OLD CHIEF (TO MEDICINE MAN): ‘WHAT SHALL I SAY TO THESE
YOUNG MEN?’”] (_Enter Old Chief, closely followed by Medicine Man, both
old and ugly._)

                           _Old Chief sings_:

             I’m chief of the tribe of the Wa-wa-ta-see,
             As savage a savage as savage can be;
             I’ve scalped and I’ve murdered full many a foe—

                               _Owosco._

              Yes, yes; but that happened a long time ago.

                                 _All._

            Long, long ago, we had wars in the land,
            And pillage and bloodshed on every hand;
            With knife and with arrow, with war-club and bow,
            We defended our country a long time ago.

                              _Old Chief._

           In love-making nonsense I never took part;
           Neither war-club nor squaw ever conquered my heart;
           I forcibly reaped, but I never would sow—

                               _Owosco._

              Yes, yes; but that happened a long time ago.

                                 _All._

           Long, long ago, we had wonderful chiefs,
           Who gathered in scalp-locks as farmers do sheaves.
           Much rather they’d fight than a-courting they’d go—
           But that happened, thank goodness, a long time ago.

                              _Old Chief._

           Young men, in my day, courted war’s cutting claws,
           Nor wasted their time making love to the squaws;
           Such fooling as that in those days did not go—

                               _Owosco._

              Yes, yes; but that happened a long time ago.

                                 _All._

              What wonders the men were a long time ago,
              How thankful we are that it now isn’t so!
              Every day for amusement a-killing they’d go,
              In the fearful, the awful, the long time ago.

_Otsiketa._ Say, old fellow, you must have been a great chap beyond all
our memories!

_Owosco._ I say, old chap, where did you ever manage to store all your
scalps?

_Old Chief_ (_to Medicine Man_). What shall I say to these young men?
They’re getting very inquisitive!

_Medicine Man._ I should not answer them. The proper thing to do is to
assume a dignified silence.

                              _Both sing._

                When we’re attacked at any point,
                  Our knavery to hide,
                We get ourselves behind a wall
                  Of silence dignified,
                A wall without a hole or chink,
                Behind it all is black as ink,
                Where we’re obscure from those who think
                  Into our past to pry.
                When at our deeds they wish to peek,
                And interviewers mild and meek,
                Attempt to make this couple speak,
                  They might as well not try.

                            _Medicine Man._

                       I never eased a human ill,

                              _Old Chief._

                          I never struck a blow;

                                _Both._

                  The potency of club or pill
                    We neither of us know.
                  But when our youth would question us,
                    We assume a lofty pride,
                  And wrap us up in a solemn cloak
                    Of silence dignified.

                                                            _John Barr._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   _THE PROFESSOR UNDER CHLOROFORM._

[Illustration: “‘PROFESSOR,’ I SAID, ‘YOU ARE INEBRIATED.’”]


YOU haven’t heard about my friend the Professor’s first experiment in
the use of anæsthetics, have you?

He was mightily pleased with the reception of that poem of his about the
chaise. He spoke to me once or twice about another poem of similar
character he wanted to read me, which I told him I would listen to and
criticise.

One day, after dinner, he came in with his face tied up, looking very
red in the cheeks, and heavy about the eyes. “Hy ’r’ ye?” he said, and
made for an arm-chair, in which he placed first his hat and then his
person, going smack through the crown of the former, as neatly as they
do the trick at the circus.

The Professor jumped at the explosion as if he had sat down on one of
those small _calthrops_ our grandfathers used to sow round in the grass
when there were Indians about,—iron stars, each ray a rusty thorn an
inch and a half long,—stick through moccasins into feet,—cripple ’em on
the spot, and give ’em lock-jaw in a day or two.

At the same time he let off one of those big words which lie at the
bottom of the best man’s vocabulary, but perhaps never turn up in his
life,—just as every man’s hair _may_ stand on end, but in most men it
never does. After he had got calm, he pulled out a sheet or two of
manuscript, together with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he had
just been writing an introduction or prelude to the main performance. A
certain suspicion had come into my mind that the Professor was not quite
right, which was confirmed by the way he talked; but I let him begin.

This is the way he read it:

                    “PRELUDE.

             “I’m the fellah that tole one day
             The tale of the won’erful one-hoss shay.
             Wan’ to hear another? Say,—
             Funny, wasn’t it? Made _me_ laugh,—
             I’m too modest, I am, by half,—
             Made me laugh ’s _though I sh’d split_,—
             Cahn’ a fellah like fellah’s own wit?—
             Fellah’s keep sayin’, ‘Well, now, that’s nice,
             Did it once, but cahn’ do it twice,’—
             Dön’ you believe thee ’z no more fat;
             Lots in the kitch’n ’z good ’z that.
             Fus’-rate throw, ’n’ no mistake,—
             Han’ us the props for another shake;
             Know I’ll try, ’n’ guess I’ll win;
             Here sh’ goes for hit ’m ag’in!”

Here I thought it necessary to interpose. “Professor,” I said, “you are
inebriated. The style of what you call your ‘Prelude’ shows that it was
written under cerebral excitement. Your articulation is confused. You
have told me three times in succession, in exactly the same words, that
I was the only true friend you had in the world that you would unbutton
your heart to. You smell distinctly and decidedly of spirits.” I spoke
and paused; tender but firm.

Two large tears orbed themselves beneath the Professor’s lids,—in
obedience to the principles of gravitation celebrated in that delicious
bit of bladdery bathos, “The very law that moulds a tear,” with which
the _Edinburgh Review_ attempted to put down Master George Gordon when
that young man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous. One of
these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its
balance,—slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,—swelled
again,—rolled down a little further,—stopped,—moved on,—and at last fell
on the back of the Professor’s hand. He held it up for me to look at,
and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine.

I couldn’t stand it,—I always break down when folks cry in my face,—so I
hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him kindly what
was the matter with him, and what made him smell so dreadfully strong of
spirits. Upset his alcohol lamp,—he said,—and spilt the alcohol on his
legs. That was it. But what had he been doing to get his head into such
a state—had he really committed an excess? What was the matter? Then it
came out that he had been taking chloroform to have a tooth out, which
had left him in a very queer state, in which he had written the
“Prelude” given above, and under the influence of which he evidently was
still.

                                                _Oliver Wendell Holmes._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        _OUR TRAVELLED PARSON._

[Illustration: “I HANDED HIM THE TICKET, WITH A LITTLE BOW OF
DEFERENCE.”]


FOR twenty years and over, our good parson had been toiling,

To chip the bad meat from our hearts, and keep the good from spoiling;

But suddenly he wilted down, and went to looking sickly,

And the doctor said that something must be put up for him quickly.

So we kind o’ clubbed together, each according to his notion,

And bought a circular ticket, in the lands across the ocean;

Wrapped some pocket-money in it—what we thought would easy do him—

And appointed me committee-man, to go and take it to him.

I found him in his study, looking rather worse than ever;

And told him ’twas decided that his flock and he should sever.

Then his eyes grew big with wonder, and it seemed almost to blind ’em,

And some tears looked out o’ window, with some others close behind ’em!

But I handed him the ticket, with a little bow of deference,

And he studied quite a little ere he got the proper reference,

And then the tears that waited—great unmanageable creatures—

Let themselves quite out o’ window, and came climbing down his features.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I wish you could ha’ seen him when he came back, fresh and glowing,

His clothes all worn and seedy, and his face all fat and knowing;

I wish you could ha’ heard him, when he prayed for us who sent him,

Paying back with compound int’rest every dollar that we’d lent him!

’Twas a feast to true believers—’twas a blight on contradiction—

To hear one just from Calvary talk about the crucifixion;

’Twas a damper on those fellows who pretended they could doubt it,

To have a man who’d been there stand and tell ’em all about it!

Why every foot of Scripture, whose location used to stump us,

Was now regularly laid out with the different points o’ compass;

When he undertook a subject, in what nat’ral lines he’d draw it!

He would paint it out so honest that it seemed as if you saw it.

And the way he went for Europe! oh, the way he scampered through it!

Not a mountain but he clim’ it—not a city but he knew it;

There wasn’t any subject to explain, in all creation,

But he could go to Europe, and bring back an illustration!

So we crowded out to hear him, quite instructed and delighted;

’Twas a picture-show, a lecture, and a sermon—all united;

And my wife would rub her glasses, and serenely pet her Test’ment,

And whisper, “That ere ticket was a splendid good investment.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Now, after six months’ travel, we was most of us all ready

To settle down a little, so’s to live more staid and steady;

To develop home resources, with no foreign cares to fret us,

Using house-made faith more frequent; but our parson wouldn’t let us!

To view the same old scenery, time and time again he’d call us—

Over rivers, plains, and mountains he would any minute haul us;

He slighted our soul-sorrows, and our spirits’ aches and ailings,

To get the cargo ready for his regular Sunday sailings!

Why, he’d take us off a-touring, in all spiritual weather,

Till we at last got home-sick and sea-sick all together!

And “I wish to all that’s peaceful,” said one free-expressioned brother,

“That the Lord had made one cont’nent, an’ then never made another!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Sometimes, indeed, he’d take us into old, familiar places,

And pull along quite nat’ral, in the good old Gospel traces:

But soon my wife would shudder, just as if a chill had got her,

Whispering, “Oh, my goodness gracious! he’s a-takin’ to the water!”

And it wasn’t the same old comfort, when he called around to see us;

On some branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree us;

All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronise us,

And with oft-repeated stories still endeavours to surprise us.

                  *       *       *       *       *

And the sinners got to laughing; and that finally galled and stung us,

To ask him, wouldn’t he kindly once more settle down among us?

Didn’t he think that more home produce would improve our soul’s
    digestions?

They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the questions.

I found him in his garden, trim an’ buoyant as a feather;

He shook my hand, exclaiming, “This is quite Italian weather!

How it ’minds me of the evenings when, your distant-hearts caressing,

Upon my dear good brothers, I invoked God’s choicest blessing!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

I went and told the brothers, “No; I cannot bear to grieve him;

He’s so happy in his exile, it’s the proper place to leave him.

I took that journey to him, and right bitterly I rue it;

But I cannot take it from him; if _you_ want to, go and do it.”

Now a new restraint entirely seemed next Sunday to enfold him,

                  *       *       *       *       *

And he looked so hurt and humbled, that I knew that they had told him.

Subdued-like was his manner, and some tones were hardly vocal;

But every word and sentence was pre-eminently local!

Still, the sermon sounded awkward, and we awkward felt who heard it;

’Twas a grief to see him steer it—’twas a pain to hear him word it.

“When I was abroad”—was maybe half-a-dozen times repeated;

But that sentence seemed to choke him, and was always uncompleted.

As weeks went on, his old smile would occasionally brighten,

But the voice was growing feeble, and the face began to whiten;

He would look off to the eastward, with a wistful, weary sighing,

And ’twas whispered that our pastor in a foreign land was dying.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The coffin lay ’mid garlands, smiling sad as if they knew us;

The patient face within it preached a final sermon to us;

Our parson _had_ gone touring—on a trip he’d long been earning—

In that wonderland, whence tickets are not issued for returning!

O tender, good heart-shepherd! your sweet smiling lips, half-parted,

Told of scenery that burst on you, just the minute that you started!

Could you preach once more among us, you might wander, without fearing;

You could give us tales of glory that we’d never tire of hearing!

                                                        _Will Carleton._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _A RAILROAD “RECUSSANT.”_


A FRIEND of ours, sojourning during the past summer in one of the
far-off “shore-towns” of Massachusett’s Bay, was not a little amused one
day at the querulous complainings of “one” of the “oldest inhabitants”
against railroads; his experience in which consisted in having seen the
end of one laid out, and at length the cars running upon it. Taking out
his old pipe, on a pleasant summer afternoon, and looking off upon the
ocean, and the ships far off and out at sea with the sun upon their
sails, he said: “_I_ don’t think much o’ railroads: they aint no kind o’
_justice_ into ’em. Neöw what kind o’ justice is it, when railroads
takes one man’s upland and carts it over in wheel-barrers onto another
man’s _ma’sh_? What kind o’ ’commodation be they? You can’t go when you
_want_ to go; you got to go when the bell rings, or the noisy whistle
blows. I tell yeöw it’s payin’ tew much for the whistle. Ef you live a
leetle ways off the dee-pot, you got to pay to _git_ to the railroad;
and ef you want to go any wheres else ’cept just to the eend on it, you
got to pay to go a’ter you git _there_. What kind o’ ’commodation is
_that_? Goin’ round the country tew, murderin’ folks, runnin’ over
cattle, sheep, and hogs, and settin’ fire to bridges, and every now and
then burnin’ up the woods. Mrs. Robbins, down to Cod-p’int, says—and she
ought to know, for she’s a pious woman, and belongs to the lower
church—she says to me, no longer ago than day-’fore yesterday, that
she’d be cuss’d if she didn’t _know_ that they sometimes run over
critters _a-purpose_. They did a likely shoat o’ her’n, and never paid
for’t, ’cause they was a ‘corporation,’ they said. What kind o’
’commodation is that? Besides, now I’ve lived here, clus to the dee-pot,
ever sence the road started to run, and seen ’em go out and come in; but
_I_ never could see that they went so d—d _fast_, nuther!”


[Illustration: “I DON’T THINK MUCH O’ RAILROADS.”]


                                                     _L. Gaylord Clark._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _AN UNMARRIED FEMALE._

[Illustration: “BETSEY HAIN’T HANDSOME.”]


I SUPPOSE we are about as happy as the most of folks, but as I was
sayin’ a few days ago to Betsey Bobbet, a neighbourin’ female of
ours—“Every station-house in life has its various skeletons. But we ort
to try to be contented with that spear of life we are called on to
handle.” Betsey hain’t married, and she don’t seem to be contented. She
is awful opposed to wimmin’s rights—she thinks it is wimmin’s only spear
to marry, but as yet she can’t find any man willin’ to lay holt of that
spear with her. But you can read in her daily life, and on her eager,
willin’ countenance, that she fully realises the sweet words of the
poet, “While there is life there is hope.”

Betsey hain’t handsome. Her cheek-bones are high, and she bein’ not much
more than skin and bone they show plainer than they would if she was in
good order. Her complexion (not that I blame her for it) hain’t good,
and her eyes are little and sot way back in her head. Time has seen fit
to deprive her of her hair and teeth, but her large nose he has kindly
suffered her to keep, but she has got the best white ivory teeth money
will buy; and two long curls fastened behind each ear, besides frizzles
on the top of her head; and if she wasn’t naturally bald, and if the
curls was the colour of her hair, they would look well. She is awful
sentimental; I have seen a good many that had it bad, but of all the
sentimental creeters I ever did see, Betsey Bobbet is the
sentimentalest; you couldn’t squeeze a laugh out of her with a cheeze
press.

As I said, she is awful opposed to wimmin’s havin’ any right, only the
right to get married. She holds on to that right as tight as any single
woman I ever see, which makes it hard and wearyin’ on the single men
round here.

For take the men that are the most opposed to wimmin’s havin’ a right,
and talk the most about its bein’ her duty to cling to man like a vine
to a tree, they don’t want Betsey to cling to them, they _won’t let_ her
cling to ’em. For when they would be a-goin’ on about how wicked it was
for wimmin to vote—and it was her only spear to marry, says I to ’em,
“Which had you ruther do, let Betsey Bobbet cling to you or let her
vote?” and they would every one of ’em quail before that question. They
would drop their heads before my keen grey eyes—and move off the
subject.

But Betsey don’t get discourajed. Every time I see her she says in a
hopeful, wishful tone, “That the deepest men of minds in the country
agree with her in thinkin’ that it is wimmin’s duty to marry and not to
vote.” And then she talks a sight about the retirin’ modesty and dignity
of the fair sect, and how shameful and revoltin’ it would be to see
wimmin throwin’ ’em away, and boldly and unblushin’ly talkin’ about law
and justice.

Why, to hear Betsey Bobbet talk about wimmin’s throwin’ their modesty
away, you would think if they ever went to the political pole, they
would have to take their dignity and modesty and throw ’em against the
pole, and go without any all the rest of their lives.

Now I don’t believe in no such stuff as that. I think a woman can be
bold and unwomanly in other things besides goin’ with a thick veil over
her face, and a brass-mounted parasol, once a year, and gently and
quietly dropping a vote for a Christian President, or a religious and
noble-minded pathmaster.

She thinks she talks dreadful polite and proper. She says, “I was
cameing,” instead of “I was coming;” and “I have saw,” instead of “I
have seen;” and “papah” for paper, and “deah” for dear. I don’t know
much about grammer, but common sense goes a good ways. She writes the
poetry for the _Jonesville Augur_, or “_Augah_,” as she calls it. She
used to write for the opposition paper, the _Jonesville Gimlet_, but the
editer of the _Augur_, a long-haired chap, who moved into Jonesville a
few months ago, lost his wife soon after he come there, and sence that
she has turned Dimocrat, and writes for his paper stiddy. They say that
he is a dreadful big feelin’ man, and I have heard—it came right
straight to me—his cousin’s wife’s sister told it to the mother-in-law
of one of my neighbour’s brother’s wife, that he didn’t like Betsey’s
poetry at all, and all he printed it for was to plague the editer of the
_Gimlet_, because she used to write for him. I myself wouldn’t give a
cent a bushel for all the poetry she can write. And it seems to me, that
if I was Betsey, I wouldn’t try to write so much. Howsumever, I don’t
know what turn I should take if I was Betsey Bobbet; that is a solemn
subject, and one I don’t love to think on.

I never shall forget the first piece of her poetry I ever see. Josiah
Allen and I had both on us been married goin’ on a year, and I had
occasion to go to his trunk one day, where he kept a lot of old papers,
and the first thing I laid my hand on was these verses. Josiah went with
her a few times after his wife died, on 4th of July or so, and two or
three camp meetin’s, and the poetry seemed to be wrote about the time
_we_ was married. It was directed over the top of it, “Owed to Josiah,”
just as if she were in debt to him. This was the way it read—


                            “OWED TO JOSIAH.

                “Josiah, I the tale have hurn,
                 With rigid ear, and streaming eye,
                 I saw from me that you did turn,
                 I never knew the reason why.
                      Oh, Josiah,
                      It seemed as if I must expiah.

                 Why did you,—oh, why did you blow
                 Upon my life of snowy sleet,
                 The fiah of love to fiercest glow,
                 Then turn a damphar on the heat?
                      Oh, Josiah,
                      It seemed as if I must expiah.

                 I saw thee coming down the street,
                 _She_ by your side in bonnet bloo;
                 The stuns that grated ’neath thy feet,
                 Seemed crunching on my vitals too.
                      Oh, Josiah,
                      It seemed as if I must expiah.

                 I saw thee washing sheep last night,
                 On the bridge I stood with marble brow,
                 The waters raged, thou clasped it tight,
                 I sighed, ‘should both be drownded now’—
                      I thought, Josiah,
                      Oh happy sheep to thus expiah.”

I showed the poetry to Josiah that night after he came home, and told
him I had read it. He looked awful ashamed to think I had seen it, and,
says he, with a dreadful sheepish look, “The persecution I underwent
from that female can never be told; she fairly hunted me down. I hadn’t
no rest for the soles of my feet. I thought one spell she would marry me
in spite of all I could do, without givin’ me the benefit of law or
gospel.” He see I looked stern, and he added, with a sick lookin’ smile,
“I thought one spell,” to use Betsey’s language, “I was a gonah.”

I didn’t smile. Oh no, for the deep principle of my sect was reared up.
I says to him, in a tone cold enough to almost freeze his ears, “Josiah
Allen, shet up; of all the cowardly things a man ever done, it is goin’
round braggin’ about wimmin likin’ ’em, and follerin’ ’em up. Enny man
that’ll do that is little enough to crawl through a knot hole without
rubbing his clothes.” Says I, “I suppose you made her think the moon
rose in your head and set in your heels. I daresay you acted foolish
enough round her to sicken a snipe, and if you makes fun of her now to
please me, I let you know you have got holt of the wrong individual.


[Illustration: “I SHOWED THE POETRY TO JOSIAH THAT NIGHT.”]


“Now,” says I, “go to bed;” and I added, in still more freezing accents,
“for I want to mend your pantaloons.” We gathered up his shoes and
stockin’s and started off to bed, and we hain’t never passed a word on
the subject sence. I believe when you disagree with your pardner, in
freein’ your _mind_ in the first on’t, and then not to be a-twittin’
about it afterwards. And as for bein’ jealous, I should jest as soon
think of bein’ jealous of a meetin’-house as I should of Josiah. He is a
well principled man. And I guess he wasn’t fur out o’ the way about
Betsey Bobbet, though I wouldn’t encourage him by lettin’ him say a word
on the subject, for I always make it a rule to stand up for my own sect;
but when I hear her go on about the editer of the _Augur_, I can believe
anything about Betsey Bobbet.

She came in here one day last week. It was about ten o’clock in the
mornin’. I had got my house slick as a pin, and my dinner under way (I
was goin’ to have a biled dinner, and a cherry puddin’ biled, with sweet
sass to eat on it), and I sot down to finish sewin’ up the breadth of my
new rag carpet. I thought I would get it done while I hadn’t so much to
do, for it bein’ the 1st of March I knew sugarin’ would be comin’ on,
and then cleanin’-house time, and I wanted it to put down jest as soon
as the stove was carried out in the summer kitchin. The fire was
sparklin’ away, and the painted floor a-shinin’ and the dinner a-bilin’,
and I sot there sewin’ jest as calm as a clock, not dreamin’ of no
trouble, when in came Betsey Bobbet.

I met her with outward calm, and asked her set down and lay off her
things. She sot down, but she said she couldn’t lay off her things. Says
she, “I was comin’ down past, and I thought I would call and let you see
the last numbah of the _Augah_. There is a piece in it concernin’ the
tariff that stirs men’s souls. I like it evah so much.”

She handed me the paper, folded so I couldn’t see nothin’ but a piece of
poetry by Betsey Bobbet. I see what she wanted of me, and so I dropped
my breadths of carpetin’ and took hold of it, and began to read it.

“Read it audible, if you please,” says she. “Especially the precious
remahks ovah it; it is such a feast for me to be a sittin’ and heah it
reheahsed by a musical vorce.”

Says I, “I spose I can rehearse it if it will do you any good,” so I
began as follows:—

    “It is seldom that we present to the readers of the _Augur_ (the
    best paper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem
    like the following. It may be, by the assistance of the _Augur_
    (only twelve shillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in
    exchange), the name of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty
    pinnacle of fame’s towering pillow. We think, however, that she
    could study such writers as Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper, with profit
    both to herself and to them.

                                                  “EDITOR OF THE AUGUR.”


Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of the _Augah_ has no need
to advise me to read Tuppah, for he is indeed my most favourite authar.
You have devorhed him, haven’t you, Josiah Allen’s wife?”

“Devoured who?” says I, in a tone pretty near as cold as a cold icicle.

“Mahten, Fahqueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” says she.

“No, mom,” says I shortly; “I hain’t devoured Martin Farquhar Tupper,
nor no other man. I hain’t a cannibal.”

“Oh! you understand me not; I meant, devorhed his sweet, tender lines.”

“I hain’t devoured his tenderlines, nor nothin’ relatin’ to him,” and I
made a motion to lay the paper down, but Betsey urged me to go on, and
so I read—


                      “GUSHINGS OF A TENDAH SOUL.

                     “Oh let who will,
                      Oh let who can,
                      Be tied onto
                      A horrid male man.

                      Thus said I ’ere
                      My tendah heart was touched,
                      Thus said I ’ere
                      My tendah feelings gushed.

                      But oh a change
                      Hath swept ore me,
                      As billows sweep
                      The ‘deep blue sea.’

                      A voice, a noble form,
                      One day I saw;
                      An arrow flew,
                      My heart is nearly raw.

                      His first pardner lies
                      Beneath the turf,
                      He is wandering now,
                      In sorrow’s briny surf.

                      Two twins, the little
                      Deah cherub creechahs,
                      Now wipe the teahs
                      From off his classic feachahs.

                      Oh sweet lot, worthy
                      Angel arisen,
                      To wipe teahs
                      From eyes like hisen.”

“What think you of it?” says she, as I finished readin’.

I looked right at her most a minute with a majestic look. In spite of
her false curls, and her new white ivory teeth, she is a humbly critter.
I looked at her silently while she sot and twisted her long yellow
bunnet-strings, and then I spoke out. “Hain’t the editer of the _Augur_
a widower with a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she with a happy look.

Then says I, “If the man hain’t a fool, he’ll think you are one.”

“Oh!” says she, and she dropped her bunnet-strings, and clasped her long
bony hands together in her brown cotton gloves, “Oh, we ahdent soles of
genious have feelin’s, you cold, practical natures know nuthing of, and
if they did not gush out in poetry we should expiah. You may as well try
to tie up the gushing catarack of Niagara with a piece of welting cord,
as to tie up the feelin’s of an ahdent sole.”

“Ardent sole!” says I coldly. “Which makes the most noise, Betsey
Bobbet, a three-inch brook, or a ten-footer? which is the tearer? which
is the roarer? deep waters run stillest. I have no faith in feelin’s
that stalk round in public in mournin’ weeds. I have no faith in such
mourners,” says I.

“Oh, Josiah’s wife, cold, practical female being, you know me not; we,
are sundered as fah apart as if you was sitting on the North Pole, and I
was sitting on the South Pole. Uncongenial being, you know me not.”

“I may not know you, Betsey Bobbet, but I do know decency, and I know
that no munny would tempt me to write such stuff as that poetry and send
it to a widower with twins.”

“Oh!” says she, “what appeals to the tendah feelin’ heart of a single
female woman more than to see a lonely man who has lost his relict? And
pity never seems so much like pity as when it is given to the deah
little children of widowehs. And,” says she, “I think moah than as
likely as not, this soaring sole of genious did not wed his affinity,
but was united to a mere woman of clay.”

“Mere woman of clay!” says I, fixin’ my spektacles upon her in a most
searchin’ manner. “Where will you find a woman, Betsey Bobbet, that
hain’t more or less clay? And affinity, that is the meanest word I ever
heard; no married woman has any right to hear it. I’ll excuse you, bein’
a female; but if a man had said it to me, I’d holler to Josiah. There is
a time for everything, and the time to hunt affinity is before you are
married; married folks hain’t no right to hunt it,” says I sternly.

“We kindred soles soah above such petty feelings, we soah far above
them.”

“I hain’t much of a soarer,” says I, “and I don’t pretend to be; and to
tell you the truth,” says I, “I am glad I hain’t.”

“The Editah of the _Augah_,” says she, and she grasped the paper offen
the stand, and folded it up, and presented it at me like a spear, “the
Editah of this paper is a kindred sole, he appreciates me, he
undahstands me, and will not our names in the pages of this very papah
go down to posterety togathah?”

Then says I, drove out of all patience with her, “I wish you was there
now, both of you. I wish,” says I, lookin’ fixedly on her, “I wish you
was both of you in posterity now.”

                                                      _Marietta Holley._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            _THE COURTIN’._

[Illustration: “AN’ ON HER APPLES KEP’ TO WORK, PARIN’ AWAY LIKE
MURDER.”]


               GOD makes sech nights, all white an’ still
                   Fur’z you can look or listen,
               Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
                 All silence an’ all glisten.

               Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
                 An’ peeked in thru’ the winder;
               An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
                 ’Ith no one nigh to hender.

               A fireplace filled the room’s one side
                 With half a cord o’ wood in—
               There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died)
                 To bake ye to a puddin’.

               The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
                 Towards the pootiest, bless her,
               An’ leetle flames danced all about
                 The chiny on the dresser.

               Again the chimbley crook-necks hung,
                 An’ in amongst ’em rusted
               The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
                 Fetched back from Concord busted.

               The very room, coz she was in,
                 Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
               An’ she looked full ez rosy again
                 Ez the apples she was peelin’.

               ’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom come to look
                 On sech a blessed cretur;
               A dogrose blushin’ to a brook
                 Ain’t modester nor sweeter.

               He was six foot o’ man, A1,
                 Clean grit an’ human natur’;
               None couldn’t quiker pitch a ton,
                 Nor dror a furrer straighter.

               He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
                 He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
               Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells—
                 All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

               But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
                 All crinkly like curled maple;
               The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
                 Ez a south slope in Ap’il.

               She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing
                 Ez hisn in the choir:
               My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring
                 She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

               An’ she’d blush scarlet, right in prayer,
                 When her new meetin’-bunnet
               Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
                 O’ blue eyes sot upon it.

               Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_!
                 She seemed to’ve gut a new soul,
               For she felt sartain-sure he’d come,
                 Down to her very shoe-sole.

               She heered a foot, and knowed it tu,
                 A-rasping on the scraper,—
               All ways to once her feelin’s flew,
                 Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

               He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat
                 Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
               His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat,
                 But hern went pity Zekle.

               An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk
                 Ez though she wished him furder
               An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
                 Parin’ away like murder.

               “You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
                 “Wall ... no ... I come dasignin’”—
               “To see my Ma? she is sprinklin’ clo’es
                 Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

               To say why gals act so or so,
                 Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;
               Mebbe to mean _yes_ an’ say _no_
                 Comes nateral to women.

               He stood a spell on one foot first,
                 Then stood a spell on t’other,
               An’ on which one he felt the wust
                 He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

               Says he, “I’d better call agin;”
                 Says she, “Think likely, Mister;”
               Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
                 An’.... Wal, he up an’ kist her.

               When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
                 Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
               All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips,
                 An’ teary roun’ the lashes.

               For she was jes’ the quiet kind
                 Whose naturs never vary,
               Like streams that keep a summer mind
                 Snow-hid in Jenooary.

               The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
                 Too tight for all expressin’,
               Tell mother see how metters stood,
                 And gin ’em both her blessin’.

               Then her red come back like the tide
                 Down to the Bay o’ Fundy;
               An’ all I know is they was cried
                 In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.

                                                 _James Russell Lowell._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                    _THE WONDERFUL TAR-BABY STORY._

[Illustration: “‘MAWNIN’!’ SEZ BRER RABBIT, SEZEE.”]


“DIDN’T the fox never catch the rabbit, uncle Remus?” asked the little
boy the next evening.

“He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you bawn—brer fox did. One day
after brer rabbit fool him wid dat calamus root, brer fox went ter wuk
en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a
contrapshun what he call a tar-baby, en he tuck dish yere tar-baby en he
sot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer ter see wat
de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze
bimeby here come brer rabbit pacin’ down de road—lippity-clippity,
clippity-lippity—dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer fox, he lay low. Brer
rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de tar-baby, en den he fotch up
on his behime legs like he wuz ’stonished. De tar-baby, she sot dar, she
did, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘Mawnin’!’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.

“Tar-baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘How duz zo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez brer rabbit, sezee.

“Brer fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de tar-baby, she ain’t
sayin’ nuthin’.

‘How you come on, den? Is you deaf?’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ’kaze if
you is, I kin holler louder,’ sezee.

“Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘Youer stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says brer rabbit, sezee, ’en I’m
gwineter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a gwineter do,’ sezee.

“Brer fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but tar-baby ain’t
sayin’ nuthin’.

“‘I’m gwineter larn you howter talk ter ’specttubble fokes ef hit’s de
las’ ack,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en
tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.

“Tar-baby stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.

“Brer rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de tar-baby, she keep on sayin’
nuthin’ twel presently brer rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en
blip he tuck ’er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his
merlasses jug. His fis’ struck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt ’im.

“But tar-baby, she stay still, en brer fox, he lay low.

“‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you agin,’ sez brer rabbit,
sezee, en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid de udder han’, en dat stuck.
Tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en brer fox, he lay low.

‘Tu’n me loose, fo’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez brer
rabbit, sezee, but de tar-baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt
on, en den brer rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way.

“Brer fox, he lay low. Den brer rabbit squall out dat ef de tar-baby
don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er cranksided. En den he butted, en his
head got stuck. Den brer fox, he santered fort’, lookin’ des ez
innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.

“‘Howdy, brer rabbit,’ sez brer fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up
dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft twel he
couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I ’speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, brer
rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no
skuse,’ sez brer fox, sezee.”

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had
been told.

“Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, en den
agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B’ar come along en loosed ’im—some say
he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”

                                                 _Joel Chandler Harris._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _POMONA’S NOVEL._

[Illustration]


IT was in the latter part of August of that year that it became
necessary for some one in the office in which I was engaged to go to St.
Louis to attend to important business. Everything seemed to point to me
as the fit person, for I understood the particular business better than
any one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did not altogether like
to do it. I went home, and Euphemia and I talked over the matter far
into the regulation sleeping hours.

There were very good reasons why we should go (for of course I would not
think of taking such a journey without Euphemia). In the first place it
would be of advantage to me, in my business connection, to take the
trip, and then it would be such a charming journey for us. We had never
been west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country we would see
would be new to us. We would come home by the great lakes and Niagara,
and the prospect was delightful to both of us. But then we would have to
leave Rudder Grange for at least three weeks, and how could we do that?

This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Who could take care of
our garden, our poultry, our horse and cow, and all their complicated
belongings? The garden was in admirable condition. Our vegetables were
coming in every day in just that fresh and satisfactory
condition—altogether unknown to people who buy vegetables—for which I
had laboured so faithfully, and about which I had had so many cheerful
anticipations. As to Euphemia’s chicken-yard,—with Euphemia away,—the
subject was too great for us. We did not even discuss it. But we would
give up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of this most
desirable excursion, if we could but think of some one who would come
and take care of the place while we were gone. Rudder Grange could not
run itself for three weeks.

We thought of every available person. Old John would not do. We did not
feel that we could trust him. We thought of several of our friends; but
there was, in both our minds, a certain shrinking from the idea of
handing over the place to any of them for such a length of time. For my
part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge than any one else;
but then, Pomona was young and a girl. Euphemia agreed with me that she
would rather trust her than any one else, but she also agreed in regard
to the disqualifications. So when I went to the office the next morning,
we had fully determined to go on the trip, if we could find some one to
take charge of our place while we were gone. When I returned from the
office in the afternoon I had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time I
had no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere very much with
my own interests. We were to start in two days. If in that time we could
get any one to stay at the place, very well; if not, Pomona must assume
the charge. We were not able to get any one, and Pomona did assume the
charge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt when we were
obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangement was exactly what we
wanted, and now that there was no help for it, our consciences were
easy.

We felt sure that there would be no danger to Pomona. Lord Edward would
be with her, and she was a young person who was extraordinarily well
able to take care of herself. Old John would be within call in case she
needed him, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house at night.
Pomona herself was more than satisfied with the plan.

We made out, the night before we left, a long and minute series of
directions for her guidance in household, garden, and farm matters, and
directed her to keep a careful record of everything noteworthy that
might occur. She was fully supplied with all the necessaries of life,
and it has seldom happened that a young girl has been left in such a
responsible and independent position as that in which we left Pomona.
She was very proud of it. Our journey was ten times more delightful than
we had expected it would be, and successful in every way; and yet
although we enjoyed every hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on
our way home than we became so wildly anxious to get there that we
reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we had written that we would
be home on Thursday. We arrived early in the afternoon and walked up
from the station, leaving our baggage to be sent in the express-waggon.
As we approached our dear home we wanted to run, we were so eager to see
it.

There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch; the gate was
locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; that was locked too. Just then I
noticed a placard on the fence; it was not printed, but the lettering
was large, apparently made with ink and a brush. It read—

                             TO BE SOLD
                                  FOR TAXES.

We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turned pale.

“What does this mean?” said I. “Has our landlord——?”

I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose that the place might
pass away from us. We were not yet ready to buy it. But I did not put
the thought in words. There was a field next to our lot, and I got over
the fence and helped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence. This
was more difficult, but we accomplished it without thinking much about
its difficulties; our hearts were too full of painful apprehensions. I
hurried to the front door; it was locked. All the lower windows were
shut. We went around to the kitchen. What surprised us more than
anything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had _he_ been sold?

Before we reached the back part of the house Euphemia said she felt
faint and must sit down. I led her to a tree near by, under which I had
made a rustic chair. The chair was gone. She sat on the grass, and I ran
to the pump for some water. I looked for the bright tin dipper which
always hung by the pump. It was not there. But I had a travelling-cup in
my pocket, and as I was taking it out I looked around me. There was an
air of bareness over everything. I did not know what it all meant, but I
know that my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handle and began
to pump.

At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep bark in the
direction of the barn, and then furiously around the corner came Lord
Edward.

Before I had filled the cup he was bounding about me. I believe the glad
welcome of the dog did more to revive Euphemia than the water. He was
delighted to see us, and in a moment up came Pomona, running from the
barn. Her face was radiant too. We felt relieved. Here were two friends
who looked as if they were neither sold nor ruined.

Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and before I could put a
question to her she divined the cause. Her countenance fell.

“You know,” said she, “you said you wasn’t comin’ till to-morrow. If you
only _had_ come then—I was goin’ to have everything just exactly
right—an’ now you had to climb in——”

And the poor girl looked as if she might cry, which would have been a
wonderful thing for Pomona to do.

“Tell me one thing,” said I. “What about—those taxes?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she cried. “Don’t think another minute about
that. I’ll tell you all about it soon. But come in first, and I’ll get
you some lunch in a minute.”

We were somewhat relieved by Pomona’s statement that it was “all right”
in regard to the tax-poster, but we were very anxious to know all about
the matter. Pomona, however, gave us little chance to ask her any
questions.

As soon as she had made ready our lunch she asked us, as a particular
favour, to give her three-quarters of an hour to herself, and then, said
she, “I’ll have everything looking just as if it was to-morrow.”

We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a great disappointment
to her to be taken thus unawares, and we remained in the dining-room
until she appeared, and announced that she was ready for us to go about.
We availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemia hurried to
the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps toward the garden and barn. As I
went out I noticed that the rustic chair was in its place, and passing
the pump I looked for the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about the
chair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.

“Would you rather,” said she, “hear it altogether, when you come in, or
have it in little bits, head and tail, all of a jumble?”

I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, and she was so
anxious to get to her chickens that she said she would much rather wait
and hear it altogether. We found everything in perfect order,—the garden
was even free from weeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been
for that cloud on the front fence, I should have been happy enough.
Pomona had said it was all right, but she could not have paid the
taxes—however, I would wait; and I went to the barn.

When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, she called me and said she
was in a hurry to hear Pomona’s account of things. So I went in, and we
sat on the side porch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing some
sheets of foolscap paper, took her seat on the upper step.

“I wrote down the things of any account what happened,” said she, “as
you told me to, and while I was about it, I thought I’d make it like a
novel. It would be jus’ as true, and p’r’aps more amusin’. I suppose you
don’t mind?”

No, we didn’t mind. So she went on.

“I haven’t got no name for my novel. I intended to think one out
to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And I don’t read the first
chapters, for they tell about my birth and my parent-age, and my early
adventures. I’ll just come down to what happened to me while you was
away, because you’ll be more anxious to hear about that. All that’s
written here is true, jus’ the same as if I told it to you, but I’ve put
it into novel language because it seems to come easier to me.”

And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinary tones, as if
the “novel language” demanded it, she began to read—

“‘Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithful friend. Thus was I
left alone. None but two dogs to keep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing
kine and water-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-gal repast,
I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collections of the past and
also foresights into the future. That night was a me-mor-able one. I
slept soundly until the break of morn, but had the events transpired
which afterward occur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me no tongue
can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened. Soon after breakfast the
vener-able John came to bor-row some ker-o-sene oil and a half a pound
of sugar, but his attempt was foil-ed. I knew too well the in-sid-i-ous
foe. In the very out-set of his vil-li-an-y I sent him home with a empty
can. For two long days I wan-der-ed amid the ver-dant pathways of the
garden and to the barn, whenever and anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I
ere neg-lect the fowlery. No cloud o’er-spread this happy peri-od of my
life. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon, although I saw it not.

“‘It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on the morning of a
Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mind the ques-ti-on what to do with
the butter and the veg-et-ables. Here was butter, and here was green
corn and limabeans and trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use. And
here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in the field, for as my
employer had advis-ed and order-ed, I had put the steed to grass. And
here was a waggon, none too new, which had it the top taken off, or even
the curtains roll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-sed vendor. With the
truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load the waggon——’”

“Oh, Pomona,” interrupted Euphemia, “you don’t mean to say that you were
thinking of doing anything like that?”

“Well, I was just beginning to think of it,” said Pomona. “But, of
course, I couldn’t have gone away and left the house. And you’ll see I
didn’t do it.” And then she continued her novel. “‘But while my thoughts
were thus employ-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter——’”

At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting into laughter. Pomona did
not seem at all confused, but went on with her reading.

“‘I hurried to the door, and, look-ing out, I saw a waggon at the gate.
Re-pair-ing there, I saw a man. Said he, “Wilt open the gate?” I had
fasten-ed up the gates and remov-ed every stealable ar-ticle from the
yard.’”

Euphemia and I looked at each other. This explained the absence of the
rustic seat and the dipper.

“‘Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-ful fri-end, the dog,
for he it was, roam with me through the grounds, while the fi-erce
bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-on within. Then said I, quite bold unto
him, “No. I let in no man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are now
from home. What do you want?” Then says he, as bold as brass, “I’ve come
to put the light-en-ing rods upon the house. Open the gate.” “What
rods?” says I. “The rods as was order-ed,” says he. “Open the gate.” I
stood and gaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beck mask. I
knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer, he would put up rods,
and ever so many more than was wanted, and likely, too, some miser-able
trash that would attract the light-en-ing, instead of keep-ing it off.
Then, as it would spoil the house to take them down, they would be kept,
and pay demand-ed. “No, sir,” says I. “No light-en-ing rods upon this
house whilst I stand here,” and with that I walk-ed away, and let Lord
Edward loose. The man he storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed
fire. He would e’en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the dog he
did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away to feed the fowls;
but when I did return, I saw a sight which froze the blood with-in my
veins——’”

“The dog didn’t kill him?” cried Euphemia.

“Oh, no, ma’am!” said Pomona. “You’ll see that that wasn’t it. At one
cor-ner of the lot, in front, a base boy, who had accompa-ni-ed this man
was bang-ing on the fence with a long stick, and thus attrack-ing to
hisself the rage of Lord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a
light-en-ing rodder had brought a lad-der to the other side of the
house, up which he had now as-cend-ed, and was on the roof. What horrors
fill-ed my soul! How my form trembl-ed! This,” continued Pomona, “is the
end of the novel,” and she laid her foolscap pages on the porch.

Euphemia and I exclaimed, with one voice, against this. We had just
reached the most exciting part, and, I added, we had heard nothing yet
about that affair of the taxes.

“You see, sir,” said Pomona, “it took me so long to write out the
chapters about my birth, my parentage, and my early adventures, that I
hadn’t time to finish up the rest. But I can tell you what happened
after that jus’ as well as if I had writ it out.” And so she went on,
much more glibly than before, with the account of the doings of the
lightning-rod man.


[Illustration: “AND HE COMES DOWN AS LOW AS HE COULD.”]


“There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin’ his old rods and
hammerin’ away for dear life. He’d brought his ladder over the side
fence, where the dog, a-barkin’ and plungin’ at the boy outside,
couldn’t see him. I stood dumb for a minute, and then I know’d I had
him. I rushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied it to the
bull-dog’s collar, an’ dragged him out and fastened him to the bottom
rung of the ladder. Then I walks over to the front fence with Lord
Edward’s chain, for I knew that if he got at that bull-dog there’d be
times, for they’d never been allowed to see each other yet. So says I to
the boy, ‘I’m goin’ to tie up the dog, so you needn’t be afraid of his
jumpin’ over the fence,’—which he couldn’t do, or the boy would have
been a corpse for twenty minutes, or maybe half-an-hour. The boy kinder
laughed, and said I needn’t mind, which I didn’t. Then I went to the
gate and I clicked to the horse which was standin’ there, an’ off he
starts, as good as gold, an’ trots down the road. The boy, he said
somethin’ or other pretty bad an’ away he goes after him; but the horse
was a-trottin’ real fast, an’ had a good start.”

“How on earth could you ever think of doing such things?” said Euphemia.
“That horse might have upset the waggon and broken all the
lightning-rods, besides running over I don’t know how many people.”

“But you see, ma’am, that wasn’t my look-out,” said Pomona. “I was
a-defendin’ the house, and the enemy must expect to have things happen
to him. So then I hears an awful row on the roof, and there was the man
just coming down the ladder. He’d heard the horse go off, and when he
got about half-way down an’ caught a sight of the bull-dog, he was
madder than ever you seed a lightnin’-rodder in all your born days.
‘Take that dog off of there!’ he yelled at me. ‘No, I won’t,’ says I. ‘I
never see a girl like you since I was born,’ he screams at me. ‘I guess
it would ’a’ been better fur you if you had,’ says I; an’ then he was so
mad he couldn’t stand it any longer, and he comes down as low as he
could, and when he saw just how long the rope was—which was pretty
short—he made a jump, and landed clear of the dog. Then he went on
dreadful because he couldn’t get at his ladder to take it away; and I
wouldn’t untie the dog, because if I had he’d ’a’ torn the tendons out
of that fellow’s legs in no time. I never see a dog in such a boiling
passion, and yet never making no sound at all but blood-curdlin’ grunts.
An’ I don’t see how the rodder would ’a’ got his ladder at all if the
dog hadn’t made an awful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It
just missed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to the other end
of it, and began pulling it away, dog and all. ‘Look-a-here,’ says I,
‘we can fix him now;’ and so he cooled down enough to help me, and I
unlocked the front door, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder in,
dog and all; an’ then I shut the door as tight as it would go an’ untied
the end of the rope, an’ the rodder pulled the ladder out while I held
the door to keep the dog from follerin’, which he came pretty near
doin’, anyway. But I locked him in, and then the man began stormin’
again about his waggon; but when he looked out an’ see the boy comin’
back with it—for somebody must ’a’ stopped the horse—he stopped stormin’
and went to put up his ladder ag’in. ‘No, you don’t,’ says I; ‘I’ll let
the big dog loose next time, and if I put him at the foot of your
ladder, you’ll never come down.’ ‘But I want to go and take down what I
put up,’ he says; ‘I ain’t a-goin’ on with this job.’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘you
ain’t; and you can’t go up there to wrench off them rods and make
rain-holes in the roof, neither.’ He couldn’t get no madder than he was
then, an’ fur a minute or two he couldn’t speak, an’ then he says, ‘I’ll
have satisfaction for this.’ An’ says I, ‘How?’ An’ says he, ‘You’ll see
what it is to interfere with a ordered job.’ An’ says I, ‘There wasn’t
no order about it;’ an’ says he, ‘I’ll show you better than that;’ an’
he goes to his waggon an’ gits a book, ‘There,’ says he, ‘read that.’
‘What of it?’ says I; ‘there’s nobody of the name of Ball lives here.’
That took the man kinder back, and he said he was told it was the only
house on the lane, which I said was right, only it was the next lane he
oughter ’a’ gone to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder
in his waggon and went off. But I was not altogether rid of him. He left
a trail of his baleful presence behind him.

“That horrid bull-dog wouldn’t let me come into the house! No matter
what door I tried, there he was, just foamin’ mad. I let him stay till
nearly night, and then went and spoke kind to him; but it was no good.
He’d got an awful spite ag’in me. I found something to eat down cellar,
an’ I made a fire outside an’ roasted some corn and potatoes. That night
I slep’ in the barn. I wasn’t afraid to be away from the house, for I
knew it was safe enough, with that dog in it, and Lord Edward outside.
For three days, Sunday an’ all, I was kep’ out of this here house. I got
along pretty well with the sleepin’ and the eatin’, but the drinkin’ was
the worst. I couldn’t get no coffee or tea; but there was plenty of
milk.”

“Why didn’t you get some man to come and attend to the dog?” I asked.
“It was dreadful to live in that way.”

“Well, I didn’t know no man that could do it,” said Pomona. “The dog
would ’a’ been too much for old John, and besides, he was mad about the
kerosene. Sunday afternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson and their
little girl in a push-waggon, come here, and I told ’em you was gone
away; but they says they would stop a minute, and could I give them a
drink; an’ I had nothin’ to give it them but an old chicken-bowl that I
had washed out, for even the dipper was in the house, an’ I told ’em
everything was locked up, which was true enough, though they must ’a’
thought you was a queer kind of people; but I wasn’t a-goin’ to say
nothin’ about the dog, fur, to tell the truth, I was ashamed to do it.
So as soon as they’d gone, I went down into the cellar,—and it’s lucky
that I had the key for the outside cellar door,—and I got a piece of fat
corn-beef and the meat axe. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in,
with the axe in one hand and the meat in the other. The dog might take
his choice. I know’d he must be pretty nigh famished, for there was
nothin’ that he could get at to eat. As soon as I went in, he came
runnin’ to me; but I could see he was shaky on his legs. He looked a
sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed the meat. He was all right
then.”

“Oh, my!” said Euphemia, “I am so glad to hear that. I was afraid you
never got in. But we saw the dog—is he as savage yet?”

“Oh, no!” said Pomona; “nothin’ like it.”

“Look here, Pomona,” said I, “I want to know about those taxes. When do
they come into your story?”

“Pretty soon, sir,” said she, and she went on—

“After that, I know’d it wouldn’t do to have them two dogs so that
they’d have to be tied up if they see each other. Just as like as not
I’d want them both at once, and then they’d go to fightin’, and leave me
to settle with some blood-thirsty lightnin’-rodder. So, as I know’d if
they once had a fair fight and found out which was master, they’d be
good friends afterwards, I thought the best thing to do would be to let
’em fight it out, when there was nothin’ else for ’em to do. So I fixed
up things for the combat.”

“Why, Pomona!” cried Euphemia, “I didn’t think you were capable of such
a cruel thing.”

“It looks that way, ma’am, but really it ain’t,” replied the girl. “It
seemed to me as if it would be a mercy to both of ’em to have the thing
settled. So I cleared away a place in front of the wood-shed and
unchained Lord Edward, and then I opened the kitchen door and called the
bull. Out he came, with his teeth a-showin’, and his blood-shot eyes,
and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin’ from the mount’in blast, he
made one bounce for the big dog, and oh! what a fight there was! They
rolled, they gnashed, they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips
a-flyin’ all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip in a minute
or two; but he didn’t, for the bull stuck to him like a burr, and they
was havin’ it, ground and lofty, when I hears some one run up behind me,
and turnin’ quick, there was the ’piscopalian minister. ‘My! my! my!’ he
hollers, ‘what an awful spectacle! Ain’t there no way of stoppin’ it?’
‘No, sir,’ says I, and I told him how I didn’t want to stop it and the
reason why. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘where’s your master?’ and I told him how
you was away. ‘Isn’t there any man at all about?’ says he. ‘No,’ says I.
‘Then,’ says he, ‘if there’s nobody else to stop it, I must do it
myself.’ An’ he took off his coat. ‘No,’ says I, ‘you keep back, sir. If
there’s anybody to plunge into that erena, the blood be mine;’ an’ I put
my hand, without thinkin’, ag’in his black shirt-bosom, to hold him
back; but he didn’t notice, bein’ so excited. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘jist wait
one minute, and you’ll see that bull’s tail go between his legs. He’s
weakenin’.’ An’ sure enough, Lord Edward got a good grab at him, and was
a-shakin’ the very life out of him, when I run up and took Lord Edward
by the collar. ‘Drop it!’ says I; an’ he dropped it, for he know’d he’d
whipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog, he trotted
off with his tail a-hangin’ down. ‘Now then,’ says I, ‘them dogs will be
bosom friends for ever after this.’ ‘Ah me!’ says he, ‘I’m sorry indeed
that your employer, for who I’ve always had a great respect, should
allow you to get into such bad habits.’

“That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mighty quick, that you was
the last man in the world to let me do anything like that, and that if
you’d ’a’ been here, you’d ’a’ separated them dogs, if they’d a-chawed
your arms off; that you was very particular about such things, and that
it would be a pity if he was to think you was a dog-fightin’ gentleman,
when I’d often heard you say that, now you was fixed and settled, the
one thing you would like most would be to be made a vestryman.”

I sat up straight in my chair.

“Pomona!” I exclaimed. “You didn’t tell him that?”

“That’s what I said, sir, for I wanted him to know what you really was;
an’ he says, ‘Well, well, I never knew that. It might be a very good
thing. I’ll speak to some of the members about it. There’s two vacancies
now in our vestry.’”

I was crushed; but Euphemia tried to put the matter into the brightest
light.

“Perhaps it may all turn out for the best,” she said, “and you may be
elected, and that would be splendid. But it would be an awfully funny
thing for a dog-fight to make you a vestryman.”

I could not talk on this subject. “Go on, Pomona,” I said, trying to
feel resigned to my shame, “and tell us about that poster on the fence.”

“I’ll be to that almost right away,” she said.

“It was two or three days after the dog-fight that I was down at the
barn, and happenin’ to look over to old John’s, I saw that tree-man
there. He was a-showin’ his book to John, and him and his wife and all
the young ones was a-standin’ there, drinkin’ down them big peaches and
pears as if they was all real. I know’d he’d come here ag’in, for them
fellers never gives you up; and I didn’t know how to keep him away, for
I didn’t want to let the dogs loose on a man what, after all, didn’t
want to do no more harm than to talk the life out of you. So I just
happened to notice, as I came to the house, how kind of desolate
everything looked, and I thought perhaps I might make it look worse, and
he wouldn’t care to deal here. So I thought of putting up a poster like
that, for nobody whose place was a-goin’ to be sold for taxes would be
likely to want trees. So I run in the house, and wrote it quick and put
it up. And sure enough, the man he come along soon, and when he looked
at that paper and tried the gate, an’ looked over the fence an’ saw the
house all shut up an’ not a livin’ soul about,—for I had both the dogs
in the house with me,—he shook his head an’ walked off, as much as to
say, ‘If that man had fixed his place up proper with my trees, he
wouldn’t ’a’ come to this!’ An’ then, as I found the poster worked so
good, I thought it might keep other people from comin’ a-botherin’
around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin’ to be sure and take it
down before you came.”

As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposed that Pomona
should postpone the rest of her narrative until evening. She said that
there was nothing else to tell that was very particular; and I did not
feel as if I could stand anything more just now, even if it was very
particular.

When we were alone, I said to Euphemia—

“If we ever have to go away from this place again——”

“But we won’t go away,” she interrupted, looking up to me with as bright
a face as she ever had; “at least not for a long, long, long time to
come. And I’m _so_ glad you’re to be a vestryman.”

                                                    _Frank R. Stockton._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _TEMPEST IN A TUB._

[Illustration: “MINUS A HOOP.”]


IT was all about a wash-tub. Mrs. Villiers had loaned Mrs. Ransom her
wash-tub. This was two weeks ago last Monday. When Mrs. Villiers saw it
again, which was the next morning, it stood on her backstoop, minus a
hoop. Mrs. Villiers sent over to Mrs. Ransom’s a request for the hoop,
couched in language calculated to impugn Mrs. Ransom’s reputation for
carefulness. Mrs. Ransom lost no time in sending back word that the tub
was all right when it was sent back; and delicately intimated that Mrs.
Villiers had better sweep before her own door first, whatever that might
mean. Each having discharged a Christian duty to each other, further
communication was immediately cut off; and the affair was briskly
discussed by the neighbours, who entered into the merits and demerits of
the affair with unselfish zeal. Heaven bless them! Mrs. Ransom clearly
explained her connection with the tub by charging Mr. Villiers with
coming home drunk as a fiddler the night before Christmas. This bold
statement threatened to carry the neighbours over in a body to Mrs.
Ransom’s view, until Mrs. Villiers remembered, and promptly chronicled
the fact, that the Ransoms were obliged to move away from their last
place because of non-payment of rent. Here the matter rested among the
neighbours, leaving them as undecided as before. But between the two
families immediately concerned the fire burned as luridly as when first
kindled. It was a constant skirmish between the two women, from early
morning until late at night. Mrs. Ransom would glare through her blinds
when Mrs. Villiers was in the yard, and murmur between her clenched
teeth—

“Oh, you hussy!”

And, with that wonderful instinct which characterises the human above
the brute animal, Mrs. Villiers understood that Mrs. Ransom was thus
engaged, and, lifting her nose at the highest angle compatible with the
safety of her spinal cord, would sail around the yard as triumphantly as
if escorted by a brigade of genuine princes.

And then would come Mrs. Villiers’s turn at the window with Mrs. Ransom
in the yard, with a like satisfactory and edifying result.

When company called on Mrs. Villiers, Mrs. Ransom would peer from behind
her curtains and audibly exclaim—

“Who’s that fright, I wonder?”

And when Mrs. Ransom was favoured with a call, it was Mrs. Villiers’s
blessed privilege to be at the window and audibly observe—

“Where was that clod dug up from?”

Mrs. Ransom has a little boy named Tommy, and Mrs. Villiers has a
similar sized son, who struggles under the cognomen of Wickliffe Morgan;
and it will happen, because these two children are too young to grasp
fully the grave responsibilities of life—it will happen, I repeat, that
they will come together in various respects. If Mrs. Ransom is so
fortunate as to first observe one of these cohesions, she promptly steps
to the door, and, covertly waiting until Mrs. Villiers’s door opens, she
shrilly observes—“Thomas Jefferson, come right into this house this
minute! How many times have I told you to keep away from that Villiers
brat?”

“_Villiers brat!_” What a stab that is! What subtle poison it is
saturated with! Poor Mrs. Villiers’s breath comes thick and hard; her
face burns like fire, and her eyes almost snap out of her head. She has
to press her hand to her heart as if to keep that organ from bursting;
there is no relief from the dreadful throbbing and the dreadful pain.
The slamming of Mrs. Ransom’s door shuts out all hope of succour. But it
quickens Mrs. Villiers’s faculties, and makes her so alert, that when
the two children come together again, which they very soon do, she is
first at the door. Now is the opportunity to heap burning coals on the
head of Mrs. Ransom. She heaps them.

“Wickliffe Morgan! what are you doing out there with that Ransom imp? Do
you want to catch some disease? Come in here before I skin you.” And the
door slams shut, and poor Mrs. Ransom, with trembling form and bated
breath and flashing eyes, clinches her fingers, and glares with
tremendous wrath over the landscape.

And in the absence of any real, tangible information as to the loss of
that hoop, this is perhaps the very best that can be done on either
side.

                                                         _J. M. Bailey._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _THE STOUT GENTLEMAN._

                           A TALE OF MYSTERY.


[Illustration: “IT WAS A RAINY SUNDAY.” “I’ll cross it, though it blast
me!”—_Hamlet._]


IT was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November. I had been
detained in the course of a journey by a slight indisposition, from
which I was recovering, but I was still feverish, and was obliged to
keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town of Derby. A wet
Sunday in a country inn! whoever has had the luck to experience one can
alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements;
the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the
window in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had
been placed completely out of reach of all amusement. The windows of my
bedroom looked out among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys; while those
of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I know of
nothing more calculated to make a man sick of this world than a
stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that
had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys; in one corner was a
stagnant pool of water surrounding an island of muck; there were several
half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a
miserable, crestfallen cock, drenched out of all life and spirit; his
drooping tail matted as it were into a single feather, along which the
water trickled from his back. Near the cart was a half-dozing cow,
chewing the cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of
vapour rising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the
loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window,
with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to
a dog-house hard by uttering something every now and then between a bark
and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards
through the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself;
everything, in short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of
hard-drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle, and
making a riotous noise over their liquor.

I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room soon became
insupportable. I abandoned it and sought what is technically called the
traveller’s room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for the
accommodation of a class of wayfarers called travellers or riders; a
kind of commercial knights-errant who are incessantly scouring the
kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only
successors, that I know of at the present day, to the knights-errant of
yore. They lead the same kind of roving, adventurous life, only changing
the lance for a whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat of
mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicating the charms of
peerless beauty, they rove about spreading the fame and standing of some
substantial tradesman or manufacturer, and are ready at any time to
bargain in his name; it being the fashion nowadays to trade instead of
fight with one another. As the room of the Hostel, in the good old
fighting times, would be hung round at night with the armour of wayworn
warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions, and yawning helmets; so the
traveller’s room is garnished with the harnessing of their successors;
with box-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oilcloth-covered
hats.

I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with, but was
disappointed, there were, indeed, two or three in the room, but I could
make nothing of them. One was just finishing his breakfast, quarrelling
with his bread and butter, and huffing the waiter; another buttoned on a
pair of gaiters, with many execrations at “Boots” for not having cleaned
his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and
looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass; they all
appeared infected by the weather, and disappeared, one after the other,
without exchanging a word.

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people picking their
way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-leg high, and dripping
umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the streets became silent. I
then amused myself with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite;
who, being confined to the house, for fear of wetting their Sunday
finery, played off their charms at the front windows to fascinate the
chance tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a
vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from without to
amuse me.

What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I was sadly nervous
and lonely; and everything about an inn seemed calculated to make a dull
day ten times duller. Old newspapers smelling of beer and tobacco smoke,
and which I had already read half-a-dozen times. Good-for-nothing books,
that were worse than the rainy weather. I bored myself to death with an
old volume of the _Lady’s Magazine_. I read all the commonplace names of
ambitious travellers scrawled on the panes of glass; the eternal
families of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Jacksons, and the
Johnsons, and all the other sons; and I deciphered several scraps of
fatiguing inn-window poetry that I have met with in all parts of the
world.

The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly, ragged, spongy
clouds drifted heavily along in the air; there was no variety even in
the rain; it was one dull, continued, monotonous patter, patter, patter;
excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the idea of a brisk
shower, from the rattlings of the drops upon a passing umbrella. It was
quite _refreshing_ (if I may be allowed a hackneyed phrase of the day)
when in the course of the morning a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled
through the street, with outside passengers stuck all over it, cowering
under cotton umbrellas; and seethed together, and reeking with the
steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins.

The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of vagabond
boys and vagabond dogs, with the carroty-headed hostler and the
nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race that
infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach
again whirled on its way; the boy, and dog, and hostler, and Boots,
all slunk back again to their holes; and the street again became
silent, and the rain continued to rain on. In fact there was no hope
of its clearing up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine
hostess’s tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face and
rubbing her paws over her ears; and on referring to the almanac, I
found a direful prediction from the top of the page to the bottom
through the whole month, “expect—much—rain—about—this—time.”

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would never creep
by. The very ticking of the clock became irksome. At length the
stillness of the house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly
after I heard the voice of a waiter at the bar, “The Stout Gentleman in
No. 13 wants his breakfast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs;
the eggs not to be too much done.”

In such a situation as mine every incident is of importance. Here was a
subject of speculation presented to my mind, and ample exercise for my
imagination. I am prone to paint pictures to myself, and on this
occasion I had some material to work upon. Had the guest upstairs been
mentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or
merely as the gentleman in No. 13, it would have been a perfect blank to
me. I should have thought nothing of it. But “the Stout Gentleman!”—the
very name had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gave the
size, it embodied the personage to my mind’s eye, and my fancy did the
rest. “He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; in all probability
therefore he was advanced in life; some people expanding as they grow
old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his own room, he must be a
man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity of early
rising; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman.”


[Illustration: “THE STOUT GENTLEMAN HAD BEEN RUDE TO HER.”]


There was another violent ringing; the Stout Gentleman was impatient for
his breakfast. He was evidently a man of importance, “well-to-do in the
world,” accustomed to be promptly waited upon, of a keen appetite, and a
little cross when hungry. “Perhaps,” thought I, “he may be some London
alderman; or who knows but he may be a member of Parliament?”

The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short interval of silence; he
was doubtless making the tea. Presently there was a violent ringing, and
before it could be answered, another ringing, still more violent. “Bless
me! what a choleric old gentleman!” The waiter came down in a huff. The
butter was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham was too salt. The
Stout Gentleman was evidently nice in his eating. One of those who eat
and growl and keep the waiter on the trot, and live in a state militant
with the household.

The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was a brisk,
coquettish woman; a little of a shrew, and something of a slammerkin,
but very pretty withal; with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews are
apt to have. She rated the servants roundly for their negligence in
sending up so bad a breakfast; but said not a word against the Stout
Gentleman; by which I clearly perceived he must be a man of consequence;
entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a country inn. Other
eggs and ham and bread and butter were sent. They appeared to be more
graciously received; at last there was no further complaint, and I had
not made many turns about the traveller’s room when there was another
ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir, and an inquest about the
house. “The Stout Gentleman wanted the _Times_ or the _Chronicle_
newspaper.” I set him down, therefore, for a whig; or rather, from his
being so absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of
being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man. “Who knows,”
thought I, “but it is Hunt himself?”

My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter who was this
Stout Gentleman that was making all this stir, but I could get no
information. Nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords of bustling
inns seldom trouble their heads about the names of their transient
guests. The colour of a coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough
to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman, or the
short gentleman; or the gentleman in black, or the gentleman in snuff
colour; or, as in the present instance, the Stout Gentleman; a
designation of the kind once hit on answers every purpose, and saves all
further inquiry.

Rain—rain—rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! no such thing as putting a
foot out of doors, and no occupation or amusement within. By-and-by I
heard some one walking overhead. It was in the Stout Gentleman’s room.
He evidently was a large man by the heaviness of his tread; and an old
man from his wearing such creaking soles. “He is doubtless,” thought I,
“some rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now taking
exercise after breakfast.”

I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that were stuck
about the mantelpiece. The _Lady’s Magazine_ had become an abomination
to me; it was as tedious as the day itself. I wandered out, not knowing
what to do, and ascended again to my room. I had not been there long
when there was a squall from a neighbouring bedroom. A door opened and
slammed violently; a chambermaid that I had remarked for a ruddy,
good-humoured face, went downstairs in a violent flurry. The Stout
Gentleman had been rude to her.

This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a moment. This
unknown personage could not be an old gentleman; for old gentlemen are
not apt to be so obstreperous to chambermaids. He could not be a young
gentleman; for young gentlemen are not apt to inspire such indignation.
He must be a middle-aged man, and confoundedly ugly into the bargain, or
the girl would not have taken the matter in such terrible dudgeon. I
confess I was sorely puzzled. In a few minutes I heard the voice of my
landlady. I caught a glance of her as she came tramping upstairs, her
face glowing, her cap flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way.

“She’d have no such doings in her house, she’d warrant. If gentlemen did
spend their money freely, it was no rule. She’d have no servant-maids of
hers treated in that way, when they were about their work, that’s what
she wouldn’t.”

As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all with pretty
women, I slunk back into my room, and partly closed the door; but my
curiosity was too much excited not to listen. The landlady marched
intrepidly to the enemy’s citadel and entered it with a storm. The door
closed after her. I heard her voice in high windy clamour for a moment
or two. Then it gradually subsided, like a gust of wind in a garret.
Then there was a laugh; then I heard nothing more. After a little while
my landlady came out with an odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap,
which was a little on one side. As she went downstairs I heard the
landlord ask her what was the matter; she said, “Nothing at all—only the
girl’s a fool!” I was more than ever perplexed what to make of this
unaccountable personage, who could put a good-natured chambermaid in a
passion, and send away a termagant landlady in smiles. He could not be
so old, nor cross, nor ugly either.

I had to go to work at his picture again, and to paint him entirely
different. I now set him down for one of those Stout Gentlemen that are
frequently met with swaggering about the doors of country inns. Moist,
merry fellows, in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted
by malt liquors. Men who have seen the world, and been sworn at
Highgate. Who are used to tavern life; up to all the tricks of tapsters,
and knowing in the ways of sinful publicans. Free livers on a small
scale, who call all the waiters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with
the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port or a glass of
negus after dinner.

The morning wore away in forming these and similar surmises. As fast as
I wove one system of belief, some movement of the unknown would
completely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again into confusion.
Such are the solitary operations of a feverish mind. I was, as I have
said, extremely nervous, and the continual meditation on the concerns of
this invisible personage began to have its effects—I was getting a fit
of fidgets.

Dinner-time came. I hoped the Stout Gentleman might dine in the
traveller’s room, and that I might at length get a view of his person;
but no—he had dinner served in his own room. What could be the meaning
of this solitude and mystery? He could not be a radical; there was
something too aristocratical in thus keeping himself apart from the rest
of the world, and condemning himself to his own dull company throughout
a rainy day. And then too he lived too well for a discontented
politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit
over his wine like a jolly friend of good living.

Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end, for he could not
have finished his first bottle before I could faintly hear him humming a
tune, and on listening I found it to be “God Save the King.” ’Twas plain
then he was no radical, but a faithful subject; one that grew loyal over
his bottle, and was ready to stand by his king and constitution when he
could stand by nothing else. But who could he be? My conjectures began
to run wild. Was he not some personage of distinction travelling
_incog._? “God knows!” said I, at my wit’s end; “it maybe one of the
royal family for aught I know, for they are all Stout Gentlemen!”

The weather continued rainy. The mysterious person kept his room, and,
as far as I could judge, his chair; for I did not hear him move. In the
meantime, as the day advanced, the traveller’s room began to be
frequented. Some who had just arrived came in buttoned up in box coats;
others came home who had been dispersed about the town. Some took their
dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different mood, I should
have found entertainment in studying this peculiar class of men. There
were two, especially, who were regular wags of the road, and up to all
the standing jokes of travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say
to the waiting-maid, whom they called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen
other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly
at their own waggery. My mind, however, had become completely engrossed
by the Stout Gentleman. He had kept my fancy in chase during a long day,
and it was not now to be diverted from the scent.

The evening gradually wore away. The travellers read the papers two or
three times over. Some drew around the fire, and told long stories about
their horses, about their adventures, their over-turns, and
breakings-down. They discussed the credits of different merchants and
different inns, and the two wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty
chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passed as they were quietly
taking what they called their “nightcaps,”—that is to say, strong
glasses of brandy and water with sugar, or some other mixture of the
kind; after which they one after another rang for “boots” and the
chambermaids, and walked up to bed in old shoes, cut down into
marvellously uncomfortable slippers.

There was only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied, plethoric
fellow, with a very large sandy head. He sat by himself, with a glass of
port wine negus and a spoon, sipping and stirring until nothing was left
but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep, bolt upright in his chair, with
the empty glass standing before him; and the candle seemed to fall
asleep too, for the wick grew long and black and cabbaged at the end,
and dimmed the little light that remained in the chamber.

The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around hung the shapeless
and almost spectral box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried
in deep sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the
deep-drawn breathing of the sleeping toper, and the dripping of the
rain, drop—drop—drop, from the eaves of the house.

The church bells chimed midnight. All at once the Stout Gentleman began
to walk overhead, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There was
something extremely awful in all this—especially to me in my state of
nerves. These ghastly great-coats, these guttural breathings, and the
creaking footsteps of the mysterious being. His steps grew fainter and
fainter, and at length died away. I could bear it no longer; I was wound
up to the desperation of a hero of romance. “Be he who or what he may,”
said I to myself, “I’ll have a sight of him!” I seized a chamber candle
and hurried up to No. 13. The door stood ajar. I hesitated—I entered—the
room was deserted. There stood a large, broad-bottomed elbow-chair at a
table, on which was an empty tumbler and a _Times_ newspaper, and the
room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese.

The mysterious stranger had evidently but just retired. I turned off to
my room sorely disappointed. As I went along the corridor I saw a large
pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of a
bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to the unknown; but it would not do
to disturb so redoubtable a personage in his den; he might discharge a
pistol or something worse at my head. I went to bed therefore, and lay
awake half the night in a terribly nervous state; and even when I fell
asleep I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the Stout
Gentleman and his wax-topped boots.

I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by some stir and
bustle in the house, which I could not at first comprehend; until
getting more awake, I found there was a mail coach starting from the
door. Suddenly there was a cry from below: “The gentleman has forgot his
umbrella; look for the gentleman’s umbrella in No. 13.”

I heard an immediate scamper of a chambermaid along the passage, and a
shrill reply, as she ran, “Here it is! here’s the gentleman’s umbrella!”


[Illustration: “THAT WAS ALL I EVER SAW OF THE STOUT GENTLEMAN.”]


The mysterious stranger then was on the point of setting off. This was
the only chance I should ever have of knowing him. I sprang out of bed,
scrambled to the window, snatched aside the curtains, and just caught a
glimpse of the rear of a person getting in at the coach-door. The skirts
of a brown coat parted behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disc
of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed. “All right,” was the word;
the coach whirled off—and that was all I ever saw of the Stout
Gentleman.

                                                    _Washington Irving._




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                        _MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN._

                              SECOND WEEK.


NEXT to deciding when to start your garden, the most important matter
is, what to put in it. It is difficult to decide what to order for
dinner on a given day: how much more oppressive is it to order in a lump
an endless vista of dinners, so to speak! For, unless your garden is a
boundless prairie (and mine seems to me to be that when I hoe it on hot
days), you must make a selection, from the great variety of vegetables,
of those you will raise in it; and you feel rather bound to supply your
own table from your own garden, and to eat only as you have sown.

I hold that no man has a right (whatever his sex, of course) to have a
garden to his own selfish uses. He ought not to please himself, but
every man to please his neighbour. I tried to have a garden that would
give general moral satisfaction. It seemed to me that nobody could
object to potatoes (a most useful vegetable); and I began to plant
them freely. But there was a chorus of protest against them. “You
don’t want to take up your ground with potatoes,” the neighbours said:
“you can buy potatoes” (the very thing I wanted to avoid doing is
buying things). “What you want is the perishable things that you
cannot get fresh in the market.”—“But what kind of perishable things?”
A horticulturist of eminence wanted me to sow lines of strawberries
and raspberries right over where I had put my potatoes in drills. I
had about five hundred strawberry-plants in another part of my garden;
but this fruit-fanatic wanted me to turn my whole patch into vines and
runners. I suppose I could raise strawberries enough for all my
neighbours; and perhaps I ought to do it. I had a little space
prepared for melons,—musk-melons,—which I showed to an experienced
friend. “You are not going to waste your ground on musk-melons?” he
asked. “They rarely ripen in this climate thoroughly, before frost.”
He had tried for years without luck. I resolved not to go into such a
foolish experiment. But, the next day, another neighbour happened in.
“Ah! I see you are going to have melons. My family would rather give
up anything else in the garden than musk-melons,—of the nutmeg
variety. They are the most grateful things we have on the table.” So
there it was. There was no compromise: it was melons or no melons, and
somebody offended in any case. I half resolved to plant them a little
late, so that they would, and they wouldn’t. But I had the same
difficulty about string-beans (which I detest), and squash (which I
tolerate), and parsnips, and the whole round of green things.

I have pretty much come to the conclusion that you have got to put your
foot down in gardening. If I had actually taken counsel of my friends, I
should not have had a thing growing in the garden to-day but weeds. And
besides, while you are waiting, Nature does not wait. Her mind is made
up. She knows just what she will raise; and she has an infinite variety
of early and late. The most humiliating thing to me about a garden is
the lesson it teaches of the inferiority of man. Nature is prompt,
decided, inexhaustible. She thrusts up her plants with a vigour and
freedom that I admire; and the more worthless the plant, the more rapid
and splendid its growth. She is at it early and late, and all night;
never tiring, nor showing the least sign of exhaustion.

“Eternal gardening is the price of liberty,” is a motto that I should
put over the gateway of my garden, if I had a gate. And yet it is not
wholly true; for there is no liberty in gardening. The man who
undertakes a garden is relentlessly pursued. He felicitates himself
that, when he gets it once planted, he will have a season of rest and of
enjoyment in the sprouting and growing of his seeds. It is a green
anticipation. He has planted a seed that will keep him awake nights,
drive rest from his bones, and sleep from his pillow. Hardly is the
garden planted, when he must begin to hoe it. The weeds have sprung up
all over it in a night. They shine and wave in redundant life. The docks
have almost gone to seed; and their roots go deeper than conscience.
Talk about the London Docks!—the roots of these are like the sources of
the Aryan race. And the weeds are not all. I awake in the morning (and a
thriving garden will wake a person up two hours before he ought to be
out of bed), and think of the tomato-plants,—the leaves like fine
lace-work, owing to black bugs that skip around, and can’t be caught.
Somebody ought to get up before the dew is off (why don’t the dew stay
on till after a reasonable breakfast?) and sprinkle soot on the leaves.
I wonder if it is I. Soot is so much blacker than the bugs, that they
are disgusted, and go away. You can’t get up too early if you have a
garden. You must be early due yourself, if you get ahead of the bugs. I
think that, on the whole, it would be best to sit up all night, and
sleep day-times. Things appear to go on in the night in the garden
uncommonly. It would be less trouble to stay up than it is to get up so
early.


[Illustration: “WHEN THEY BREAK INTO THE GARDEN.”]


I have been setting out some new raspberries, two sorts,—a silver and a
gold colour. How fine they will look on the table next year in a
cut-glass dish, the cream being in a ditto pitcher! I set them four and
five feet apart. I set my strawberries pretty well apart also. The
reason is, to give room for the cows to run through when they break into
the garden,—as they do sometimes. A cow needs a broader track than a
locomotive; and she generally makes one. I am sometimes astonished to
see how big a space in a flower-bed her foot will cover. The raspberries
are called Doolittle and Golden Cap. I don’t like the name of the first
variety, and, if they do much, shall change it to Silver Top. You never
can tell what a thing named Doolittle will do. The one in the Senate
changed colour, and got sour. They ripen badly,—either mildew, or rot on
the bush. They are apt to Johnsonise,—rot on the stem. I shall watch the
Doolittles.


                              FOURTH WEEK.


[Illustration: “THESE TWO SAT AND WATCHED MY VIGOROUS COMBATS WITH THE
WEEDS.”]


ORTHODOXY is at a low ebb. Only two clergymen accepted my offer to come
and help hoe my potatoes for the privilege of using my vegetable
total-depravity figure about the snake-grass, or quack-grass, as some
call it; and those two did not bring hoes. There seems to be a lack of
disposition to hoe among our educated clergy. I am bound to say that
these two, however, sat and watched my vigorous combats with the weeds,
and talked most beautifully about the application of the snake-grass
figure. As, for instance, when a fault or sin showed on the surface of a
man, whether if you dug down, you would find that it ran back and into
the original organic bunch of original sin within the man. The only
other clergyman who came was from out of town,—a half Universalist, who
said he wouldn’t give twenty cents for my figure. He said that the
snake-grass was not in my garden originally, that it sneaked in under
the sod, and that it could be entirely rooted out with industry and
patience. I asked the Universalist-inclined man to take my hoe and try
it; but he said he hadn’t time, and went away.

But, _jubilate_, I have got my garden all hoed the first time! I feel as
if I had put down the rebellion. Only there are guerillas left here and
there, about the borders and in corners, unsubdued,—Forrest docks, and
Quantrell grass, and Beauregard pig-weeds. This first hoeing is a
gigantic task: it is your first trial of strength with the
never-sleeping forces of Nature. Several times, in its progress, I was
tempted to do as Adam did, who abandoned his garden on account of the
weeds. (How much my mind seems to run upon Adam, as if there had been
only two really moral gardens,—Adam’s and mine!) The only drawback to my
rejoicing over the finishing of the first hoeing is, that the garden now
wants hoeing the second time. I suppose, if my garden were planted in a
perfect circle, and I started round it with a hoe, I should never see an
opportunity to rest. The fact is, that gardening is the old fable of
perpetual labour: and I, for one, can never forgive Adam Sisyphus, or
whoever it was, who let in the roots of discord. I had pictured myself
sitting at eve, with my family, in the shade of twilight, contemplating
a garden hoed. Alas! it is a dream not to be realised in this world.

My mind has been turned to the subject of fruit and shade trees in a
garden. There are those who say that trees shade the garden too much,
and interfere with the growth of the vegetables. There may be something
in this: but when I go down the potato rows, the rays of the sun
glancing upon my shining blade, the sweat pouring from my face, I should
be grateful for shade. What is a garden for? The pleasure of man. I
should take much more pleasure in a shady garden. Am I to be sacrificed,
broiled, roasted, for the sake of the increased vigour of a few
vegetables? The thing is perfectly absurd. If I were rich, I think I
would have my garden covered with an awning, so that it would be
comfortable to work in it. It might roll up and be removable, as the
great awning of the Roman Coliseum was,—not like the Boston one, which
went off in a high wind. Another very good way to do, and probably not
so expensive as the awning, would be to have four persons of foreign
birth carry a sort of canopy over you as you hoed. And there might be a
person at each end of the row with some cool and refreshing drink.
Agriculture is still in a very barbarous stage. I hope to live yet to
see the day when I can do my gardening, as tragedy is done, to slow and
soothing music, and attended by some of the comforts I have named. These
things come so forcibly into my mind sometimes as I work, that perhaps,
when a wandering breeze lifts my straw hat, or a bird lights on a near
currant-bush and shakes out a full-throated summer-song, I almost expect
to find the cooling drink and the hospitable entertainment at the end of
the row. But I never do. There is nothing to be done but to turn round,
and hoe back to the other end.

Speaking of those yellow squash-bugs, I think I disheartened them by
covering the plants so deep with soot and wood-ashes that they could not
find them; and I am in doubt if I shall ever see the plants again. But I
have heard of another defence against the bugs. Put a fine wire-screen
over each hill, which will keep out the bugs, and admit the rain. I
should say that these screens would not cost much more than the melons
you would be likely to get from the vines if you bought them; but then
think of the moral satisfaction of watching the bugs hovering over the
screen, seeing, but unable to reach the tender plants within. That is
worth paying for.

I left my own garden yesterday, and went over to where Polly was getting
the weeds out of one of her flower-beds. She was working away at the bed
with a little hoe. Whether women ought to have the ballot or not (and I
have a decided opinion on that point, which I should here plainly give,
did I not fear that it would injure my agricultural influence), I am
compelled to say that this was rather helpless hoeing. It was patient,
conscientious, even pathetic hoeing; but it was neither effective nor
finished. When completed, the bed looked somewhat as if a hen had
scratched it: there was that touching unevenness about it. I think no
one could look at it and not be affected. To be sure, Polly smoothed it
off with a rake, and asked me if it wasn’t nice; and I said it was. It
was not a favourable time for me to explain the difference between
puttering hoeing, and the broad, free sweep of the instrument, which
kills the weeds, spares the plants, and loosens the soil without leaving
it in holes and hills. But, after all, as life is constituted, I think
more of Polly’s honest and anxious care of her plants than of the most
finished gardening in the world.


                              SIXTH WEEK.

Somebody has sent me a new sort of hoe, with the wish that I should
speak favourably of it, if I can consistently. I willingly do so, but
with the understanding that I am to be at liberty to speak just as
courteously of any other hoe which I may receive. If I understand
religious morals, this is the position of the religious press with
regard to bitters and wringing-machines. In some cases, the
responsibility of such a recommendation is shifted upon the wife of the
editor or clergyman. Polly says she is entirely willing to make a
certificate, accompanied with an affidavit, with regard to this hoe; but
her habit of sitting about the garden-walk, on an inverted flower-pot,
while I hoe, somewhat destroys the practical value of her testimony.

As to this hoe, I do not mind saying that it has changed my view of the
desirableness and value of human life. It has, in fact, made life a
holiday to me. It is made on the principle that man is an upright,
sensible, reasonable being, and not a grovelling wretch. It does away
with the necessity of the hinge in the back. The handle is seven and a
half feet long. There are two narrow blades, sharp on both edges, which
come together at an obtuse angle in front; and as you walk along with
this hoe before you, pushing and pulling with a gentle motion, the weeds
fall at every thrust and withdrawal, and the slaughter is immediate and
widespread. When I got this hoe, I was troubled with sleepless mornings,
pains in the back, kleptomania with regard to new weeders; when I went
into my garden, I was always sure to see something. In this disordered
state of mind and body I got this hoe. The morning after a day of using
it I slept perfectly and late. I regained my respect for the eighth
commandment. After two doses of the hoe in the garden the weeds entirely
disappeared. Trying it a third morning, I was obliged to throw it over
the fence, in order to save from destruction the green things that ought
to grow in the garden. Of course this is figurative language. What I
mean is, that the fascination of using this hoe is such that you are
sorely tempted to employ it upon your vegetables after the weeds are
laid low and must hastily withdraw it to avoid unpleasant results. I
make this explanation because I intend to put nothing into these
agricultural papers that will not bear the strictest scientific
investigation; nothing that the youngest child cannot understand and cry
for; nothing that the oldest and wisest men will not need to study with
care.

I need not add, that the care of a garden with this hoe becomes the
merest pastime. I would not be without one for a single night. The only
danger is, that you may rather make an idol of the hoe, and somewhat
neglect your garden in explaining it, and fooling about with it. I
almost think that, with one of these in the hands of an ordinary
day-labourer, you might see at night where he had been working.

Let us have peas. I have been a zealous advocate of the birds. I have
rejoiced in their multiplication. I have endured their concerts at four
o’clock in the morning without a murmur. Let them come, I said, and eat
the worms, in order that we, later, may enjoy the foliage and the fruits
of the earth. We have a cat, a magnificent animal, of the sex which
votes (but not a pole-cat),—so large and powerful that, if he were in
the army, he would be called Long Tom. He is a cat of fine disposition,
the most irreproachable morals I ever saw thrown away in a cat, and a
splendid hunter. He spends his nights, not in social dissipation, but in
gathering in rats, mice, flying-squirrels, and also birds. When he first
brought me a bird, I told him that it was wrong, and tried to convince
him, while he was eating it, that he was doing wrong; for he is a
reasonable cat, and understands pretty much everything except the
binomial theorem and the time down the cycloidal arc. But with no
effect. The killing of birds went on to my great regret and shame.

The other day I went to my garden to get a mess of peas. I had seen, the
day before, that they were just ready to pick. How I had lined the
ground, planted, hoed, bushed them! The bushes were very fine—seven feet
high, and of good wood. How I had delighted in the growing, the blowing,
the podding! What a touching thought it was that they had all podded for
me! When I went to pick them, I found the pods all split open, and the
peas gone. The dear little birds, who are so fond of the strawberries,
had eaten them all. Perhaps there were left as many as I planted: I did
not count them. I made a rapid estimate of the cost of the seed, the
interest of the ground, the price of labour, the value of the bushes,
the anxiety of weeks of watchfulness. I looked about me on the face of
Nature. The wind blew from the south so soft and treacherous! A thrush
sang in the woods so deceitfully! All Nature seemed fair. But who was to
give me back my peas? The fowls of the air have peas; but what has man?

I went into the house. I called Calvin (that is the name of our cat,
given him on account of his gravity, morality, and uprightness. We never
familiarly call him John). I petted Calvin. I lavished upon him an
enthusiastic fondness. I told him that he had no fault; that the one
action that I had called a vice was an heroic exhibition of regard for
my interests. I bade him go and do likewise continually. I now saw how
much better instinct is than mere unguided reason. Calvin knew. If he
had put his opinion into English (instead of his native catalogue), it
would have been: “You need not teach your grandmother to suck eggs.” It
was only the round of Nature. The worms eat a noxious something in the
ground. The birds eat the worms. Calvin eats the birds. We eat—no, we do
not eat Calvin. There the chain stops. When you ascend the scale of
being, and come to an animal that is, like ourselves, inedible, you have
arrived at a result where you can rest. Let us respect the cat, he
completes an edible chain.

I have little heart to discuss methods of raising peas. It occurs to me
that I can have an iron pea-bush, a sort of trellis, through which I
could discharge electricity at frequent intervals, and electrify the
birds to death when they alight; for they stand upon my beautiful bush,
in order to pick out the peas. An apparatus of this kind, with an
operator, would cost, however, about as much as the peas. A neighbour
suggests that I might put up a scarecrow near the vines, which would
keep the birds away. I am doubtful about it: the birds are too much
accustomed to seeing a person in poor clothes in the garden to care much
for that. Another neighbour suggests that the birds do not open the
pods; that a sort of blast, apt to come after rain, splits the pods, and
the birds then eat the peas. It may be so. There seems to be complete
unity of action between the blast and the birds. But good neighbours,
kind friends, I desire that you will not increase, by talk, a
disappointment which you cannot assuage.

                                                _Charles Dudley Warner._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _THE QUAKER COQUETTE._

[Illustration: “DEAR COY COQUETTE, BUT ONCE WE MET.”]


             DEAR coy coquette, but once we met—
                 But once, and yet ’twas once too often,
             Plunged unawares in silvery snares,
               All vain my prayers her heart to soften;
             Yet seems so true her eyes of blue,
               Veined lids and longest lashes under,
             Good angels dwelt therein, I felt,
               And could have knelt in reverent wonder.

             Poor heart, alas! what eye could pass
               The auburn mass of curls caressing
             Her pure white brow, made regal now
               By this simplicity of dressing.
             Lips dewy, red as Cupid’s bed
               Of rose-leaves shed on Mount Hymettus,
             With balm imbued they might be wooed,
               But ah! coy prude, she will not let us.

             No jewels deck her radiant neck—
               What pearl could reck its hue to rival?
             A pin of gold—the fashion old—
               A ribbon-fold, or some such trifle;
             And—beauty chief! the lily’s leaf
               In dark relief sets off the whiteness
             Of all the breast not veiled and pressed
               Beneath her collar’s Quaker tightness.

             And milk-white robes o’er snowier globes
               As Roman maids are drawn by Gibbon,
             With classic taste are gently braced
               Around her waist beneath a ribbon;
             And thence unrolled in billowy fold
               Profuse and bold—a silken torrent—
             Not hide, but dim each rounded limb,
               Well-turned, and trim, and plump, I warrant.

             Oh, Quaker maid, were I more staid,
               Or you a shade less archly pious;
             If soberest suit from crown to boot
               Could chance uproot your Quaker bias,
             How gladly so, in weeds of woe,
               From head to toe my frame I’d cover,
             That in the end the convert “friend”
               Might thus ascend—a convert lover.

                                                _Charles Graham Halpin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             _CAT-FISHING._


MANY and ingenious are the remedies that have been proposed for
nocturnal cats, but none of them seem to have proved thoroughly
successful. It was pointed out not very long ago that the extirpation of
all fences which run in a direction parallel, or nearly parallel, with
the Equator, would exempt cats from electrical difficulties in their
internal organs, and would thus hush the cries that now render night
hideous; but there is a practical difficulty in dispensing with these
fences. Another remedy, which is a certain cure for nocturnal cats, is
suggested by the fact that cats cannot live at a greater elevation than
13,000 feet above the sea. If we build our back fences 13,500 feet high,
not a cat will scale their lofty summits; but the labour and expense of
constructing fences of this height would be so great as to forbid their
erections by persons with small incomes. Mere palliatives, such as
bootjacks and lumps of coal, never accomplished any lasting benefits;
they may discourage an occasional cat, but his place will instantly be
filled. With all their habitual caution, cats are bold, and will often
rush in where an average angel would fear to tread. To deal effectually
with them is a task which calls for the highest form of inventive
genius, combined with patience and a reckless indifference to Mr.
Bergh’s opinions.


[Illustration: “THE YOUNG MAN BECAME GREATLY FASCINATED WITH HIS NEW
OCCUPATION.”]


The young man in West Thirty-fifth Street who lately introduced
cat-fishing as a manly and beneficent sport, can scarcely be said to
have devised an absolute specific for cats, but he has unquestionably
contributed to lessen the number of cats in his immediate vicinity.
Early last fall a vast area of cats, accompanied with marked depression
of the spirits of the inhabitants of West Thirty-fifth Street,
overspread that unfortunate region. After a thorough trial of most of
the popular remedies, a young man residing on the block between Fifth
and Sixth Avenues, and who may be called—not necessarily for
publication, but as a guarantee of good faith—by the name of Thompson,
hit upon the idea of angling for cats. To the end of a strong blue-fish
line he affixed a salmon hook, baited with delicate morsels of meat. At
first this hook, deftly dropped from the back window, was permitted to
lie on top of the back fence. The first cat that passed over the fence
would investigate the bait, and finding it apparently free from fraud,
would begin to eat it. A slight pull at the line would usually fix the
hook in the cat’s mouth, and the angler would haul in his prey and knock
it on the head. It frequently happened, however, that the cat would not
be successfully “struck,” and would escape and warn his associates to
beware of concealed hooks. Moreover, the angler had his bait gorged,
upon one occasion, by a tramp, who had climbed the fence with a view to
gaining access to the kitchen; and though the game was successfully
landed in the second-storey back room, and, after being goffed with a
sword-bayonet, he had so much difficulty in subsequently disposing of
the body that he dreaded a repetition of the incident. He therefore
altered his methods of angling, and adopted a modified style of
fly-fishing.

This latter sport was carried on with the aid of a long bamboo
fishing-pole. The hook was baited as before, but instead of being
permitted to lie on the top of the fence, was suffered to dangle in the
air, about two feet above it. As soon as a cat perceived the bait, he
assumed with the intense self-conceit characteristic of his race, that
it was a supernatural recognition of his extraordinary merits, and could
be fearlessly appropriated. In order to seize it he was, of course,
compelled to leap upwards, and it was very seldom that he failed to hook
himself. By this plan, not only was the necessity of “striking” the cat
obviated, but the danger that the bait would be seized by tramps was
greatly lessened, while the excitement and interest of the sport were
increased.

The young man became greatly fascinated with his new occupation, and
having effected an arrangement with a popular French restaurant, was
enabled to dispose of his game easily and profitably. On moonlight
nights, when the late fall cats were in season, he often caught a string
of from three to four dozen during a single night,—many of these
weighing ten or fifteen pounds each. So few cats escaped after having
once leaped at the bait, that no general suspicion of the deadly nature
of apparently aerial meat was disseminated among the feline population
of the neighbourhood. Before the winter was over cats had become so
scarce that the sportsman was seriously contemplating the necessity of
artificially stocking the back fences of Thirty-fifth Street, when an
unfortunate accident brought his beneficent occupation to a sudden end.
An old gentleman, residing in a house in Thirty-sixth Street, the
backyard of which adjoined the fence where the young man practised his
sport, noticed one evening that something attached to a string was
dangling over his back fence. As he had a pretty daughter, he
immediately suspected that it was a surreptitious note, and stole softly
out to seize and confiscate it. Mounting on a barrel he clutched the
supposed note, and was instantly hooked. The tackle was strong, and he
would perhaps have been landed had not the hook torn out when he was
about forty feet from the ground. After he had recovered from his
injuries caused by the fall, and the weakness consequent upon the
amputation of his legs, he showed so much annoyance at the so-called
outrage which had been inflicted upon him, that the young man, who was a
person of most delicate feelings, promised to give up cat-fishing. Of
course, had the old gentleman been thoroughly gaffed, he would not have
fallen, and perhaps the young man felt that his failure to properly gaff
him was an inexcusable error, which really called for his graceful
retirement from cat-fishing.

This example ought to bear fruit. At a very small expense for tackle,
any resident of this city who occupies a back room can secure excellent
sport, and at the same time can render a great service to humanity by
reducing the number of cats. The sport ought speedily to become a very
popular one, and there can be but little doubt that in time cat-fishing
will rival trout-fishing in the estimation of American sportsmen.

                                                          _W. L. Alden._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _CAPTAIN STICK AND TONY._


OLD Captain Stick was a remarkably precise old gentleman and
conscientiously just man. He was, too, very methodical in his habits,
one of which was to keep an account in writing of the conduct of his
servants, from day to day. It was a sort of account-current, and he
settled by it every Saturday afternoon. No one dreaded these hebdomadal
balancings more than Tony, the boy of all-work, for the captain was
generally obliged to write a receipt, for a considerable amount, across
his shoulders.

One settling afternoon, the captain, accompanied by Tony, was seen
“toddling” down to the old stable, with his little account book in one
hand and a small rope in the other. After they had reached the “Bar of
Justice,” and Tony had been properly “strung up,” the captain proceeded
to state his accounts as follows:—

“Tony, _Dr._

“_Sabbath_, to not half blacking my boots, etc., five stripes.

“_Tuesday_, to staying four hours at mill longer than necessary, ten
stripes.

“_Wednesday_, to not locking the hall door at night, five stripes.

“_Friday_, to letting the horse go without water, five stripes.

“Total, twenty-five stripes.

“Tony, _Cr._

“_Monday_, by first-rate day’s work in the garden, ten stripes.

“Balance due, fifteen stripes.”

The balance being thus struck, the captain drew his cowhide and
remarked——“Now, Tony, you black scamp, what say you, you lazy villain,
why I shouldn’t give you fifteen lashes across your back, as hard as I
can draw?”

“Stop, ole mass,” said Tony; “dar’s de work in de garden, sir—dat ought
to tek some off.”

“You black dog,” said the captain, “haven’t I given you the proper
credit of ten stripes for that? Come, come!”

“Please, ole massa,” said Tony, rolling his eyes about in agony of
fright—“dar’s—you forgot—dar’s de scourin ob de floor—ole missus say
nebber been scour as good before.”

“Soho, you saucy rascal,” quoth Captain Stick, “you’re bringing in more
offsets, are you? Well, now, there!” Here the captain made an entry upon
his book. “You have a credit of five stripes, and the balance must be
paid.”

“Gor a mity, massa, don’t hit yet—dar’s sumpen else—oh, Lord! please
don’t—yes, sir—got um now—ketchin de white boy and fetchin’ um to ole
missus, what trow rock at de young duck.”

“That’s a fact,” said the captain; “the outrageous young vagabond—that’s
a fact, and I’ll give you credit of _ten_ stripes for it. I wish you had
brought him to _me_. Now, we’ll settle the balance.”

[Illustration: “‘STOP, OLE MASS,’ SAID TONY; ‘DAR’S DE WORK IN DE
GARDEN, SIR.’”]

“Bress de Lord, ole massa,” said Tony, “_dat’s all_.” Tony grinned
extravagantly. The captain adjusted his tortoise-shell spectacles with
great exactness, held the book close to his eyes, and ascertained that
the fact was as stated by Tony. He was not a little irritated.

“You swear off the account, you infernal rascal—you swear off the
account, do you?”

“All de credit is fair, ole massa,” answered Tony.

“Yes, but”—said the disappointed captain—“but—but,”—still the captain
was sorely puzzled how to give Tony a _few licks_ anyhow; “but——” An
idea popped into his head.

“_Where’s my costs_, you incorrigible, abominable scoundrel? You want to
swindle me, do you, out of my costs, you black deceitful rascal? And,”
added Captain Stick, chuckling as well at his own ingenuity as the
perfect justice of the sentence, “I enter judgment against you for
costs—ten stripes,” and forthwith administered the stripes and satisfied
the judgment. “Ki’ nigger!” said Tony, “ki’ nigger! What dis judgmen’
for coss ole massa talk ’bout. Done git off ’bout not blackin’ de boot,
git off ’bout stayin’ long time at de mill, and ebery ting else, but dis
judgmen’ for coss gim me de debbil. Bress God, nigger must keep out ob
de ole stable, or, I’ll tell you what, dat _judgmen’ for coss_ make e
back feel mighty warm, for true!”

                                                    _Johnson T. Hooper._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




            “_ITEMS” FROM THE PRESS OF INTERIOR CALIFORNIA._

[Illustration]


A LITTLE bit of romance has just transpired to relieve the monotony of
our metropolitan life. Old Sam Choggins, whom the editor of this paper
has so often publicly thrashed, has returned from Mud Springs with a
young wife. He is said to be very fond of her, and the way he came to
get her was this:

Some time ago we courted her, but finding she was “on the make” threw
her off, after shooting her brother and two cousins. She vowed revenge,
and promised to marry any man who would horsewhip us. This Sam agreed to
undertake, and she married him on that promise.

We shall call on Sam to-morrow with our new shot-gun, and present our
congratulations in the usual form.—_Hangtown Gibbet._

                  *       *       *       *       *

There was considerable excitement in the street yesterday, owing to the
arrival of Bust-Head Dave, formerly of this place, who came over on the
stage from Pudding Springs. He was met at the hotel by Sheriff Knogg,
who leaves a large family, and whose loss will be universally deplored.

Dave walked down the street to the bridge, and it reminded one of old
times to see the people go away as he heaved in view. It was not through
any fear of the man, but from knowledge that he had made a threat (first
published in this paper) to clean out the town. Before leaving the place
Dave called at our office to settle for a year’s subscription
(invariably in advance), and was informed, through a chink in the logs,
that he might leave his dust in the tin cup at the well.

Dave is looking very much larger than at his last visit just previous to
the funeral of Judge Dawson. He left for Injun Hill at five o’clock
amidst a good deal of shooting at rather long range, and there will be
an election for sheriff as soon as a stranger can be found who will
accept the honour.—_Yankee Flat Advertiser._

                  *       *       *       *       *

The superintendent of the May Davis Mine requests us to state that the
custom of pitching Chinamen and Injuns down the shaft will have to be
stopped, as he has resumed work in the mine. The old well-huck of Jo.
Bowman’s is just as good, and is more centrally located.—_New Jerusalem
Courier._

                  *       *       *       *       *

A stranger wearing a stove-pipe hat arrived in town yesterday, putting
up at the Nugget House. The boys are having a good time with that hat
this morning, and the funeral will take place at two o’clock.—_Spanish
Camp Flag._

There is some dispute about land titles at Little Bilk Bar. About
half-a-dozen cases were temporarily decided Wednesday, but it is
supposed the widows will renew the litigation. The only proper way to
prevent these vexatious law-suits is to hang the Judge of the County
Court.—_Cow County Outcropper._

                                       _Ambrose Bierce_ (_“Dod Grile”)._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        _AN AVALANCHE OF DRUGS._

[Illustration “THE JUDGE WAS GRATIFIED TO FIND THAT HIS HAIR HAD
RETURNED.”]


I HAVE been the victim of a somewhat singular persecution for several
weeks past. When we came here to live, Judge Pitman was partially bald.
Somebody induced him to apply to his head a hair restorative made by a
Chicago man named Pulsifer. After using this liquid for a few months the
judge was gratified to find that his hair had returned; and as he
naturally regarded the remedy with admiration, he concluded that it
would be simply fair to give expression to his feelings in some form. As
I happened to be familiar with all the facts of the case, the judge
induced me to draw up a certificate affirming them over my signature.
This he mailed to Pulsifer. I have not yet ceased to regret the weakness
which permitted me to stand sponsor for Judge Pitman’s hair. Of course,
Pulsifer immediately inserted the certificate, with my name and
residence attached to it, in half the papers in the country, as a
displayed advertisement, beginning with the words, “_Hope for the
bald-headed; the most remarkable cure on record_,” in the largest
capital letters.

I have had faith in advertising since that time; and Pulsifer had
confidence in it too, for he wrote to me to know what I would take to
get him up a series of similar certificates of cures performed by his
other patent medicines. He had a Corn Salve which dragged a little in
its sales, and he was prepared to offer me a commission if I would write
him a strong letter to the effect that six or eight frightful corns had
been eradicated from my feet with his admirable preparation. He was in a
position also to do something handsome if I could describe a few
miraculous cures that had been effected by his Rheumatic Lotion, or if I
would name certain ruined stomachs which had, as it were, been born
again through the influence of Pulsifer’s Herb Bitters; and from the
manner in which he wrote, I think he would have taken me into
partnership if I had consented to write an assurance that his Ready
Relief had healed a bad leg of eighteen years standing, and that I could
never feel that my duty was honourably performed until he sent me a
dozen bottles more for distribution among my friends whose legs were in
that defective and tiresome condition. I was obliged to decline
Pulsifer’s generous offer.

I heard with singular promptness from other medical men. Fillemup &
Killem forwarded some of their Hair Tonic, with a request for me to try
it on any bald heads I happened to encounter, and report. Doser & Co.
sent on two packages of their Capillary Pills, with a suggestion to the
effect that if Pitman lost his hair again he would get it back finally
by following the enclosed directions. I also heard from Brown & Bromley,
the agents for Johnson’s Scalp Awakener. They sent me twelve bottles for
distribution among my bald friends. Then Smith & Smithson wrote to say
that a cask of their Vesuvian Wash for the hair would be delivered in my
cellar by the Express Company; and a man called on me from Jones,
Butler, & Co., with a proposition to pump out my vinegar barrel, and
fill it with Balm of Peru for the gratuitous use of the afflicted in the
vicinity.

But this persecution was simply unalloyed felicity when compared with
the suffering that came in other forms. I will not attempt to give the
number of the letters I received. I cherish a conviction that the mail
received at our post-office doubled the first week after Judge Pitman’s
cure was announced to a hairless world. I think every bald-headed man in
the Tropic of Cancer must have written to me at least twice upon the
subject of Pulsifer’s Renovator and Pitman’s hair. Persons dropped me a
line to inquire if Pitman’s baldness was hereditary; and if so, if it
came from his father’s or his mother’s side. One man, a phrenologist,
sent on a plaster head mapped out into town-lots, with a suggestion that
I should ink over the bumps that had been barest and most fertile in the
case of Pitman. He said he had a little theory which he wanted to
demonstrate. A man in San Francisco wrote to inquire if my Pitman was
the same Pitman who came out to California in 1849 with a bald head; and
if he was, would I try to collect two dollars Pitman had borrowed from
him in that year? The superintendent of a Sunday-school in Vermont
forwarded eight pages of foolscap covered with an argument supporting
the theory that it was impious to attempt to force hair to grow upon a
head which had been made bald, because, although Elisha was bald, we
find no record in the Bible that he used renovator of any kind. He
warned Pitman to beware of Absalom’s fate, and to avoid riding mules out
in the woods. A woman in Snyder County, Pennsylvania, sent me a poem
inspired by the incident, and entitled “Lines on the Return of Pitman’s
Hair.” A party in Kansas desired to know whether I thought Pulsifer’s
Renovator could be used beneficially by a man who had been scalped. Two
men in New Jersey wrote, in a manner totally irrelevant to the subject,
to inquire if I could get each of them a good hired girl.

I received a confidential letter from a man who was willing to let me
into a “good thing” if I had five hundred dollars cash capital. Mrs.
Singerly, of Frankford, related that she had shaved her dog, and shaved
him too close, and she would be relieved if I would inform her if the
Renovator would make hair grow on a dog. A devoted mother in Rhode
Island said her little boy had accidentally drank a bottle of the stuff,
and she would go mad unless I could assure her that there was no danger
of her child having his stomach choked up with hair. And over eleven
hundred boys inquired what effect the Renovator would have on the growth
of whiskers which betrayed an inclination to stagnation.


[Illustration: “SOME BALD-HEADED MISCREANT WOULD STOP ME IN THE MIDST OF
THE DANCE.”]


But the visitors were a more horrible torment. Bald men came to see me
in droves. They persecuted me at home and abroad. If I went to church,
the sexton would call me out during the prayers to see a man in the
vestibule who wished to ascertain if Pitman merely bathed his head or
rubbed the medicine in with a brush. When I went to a party, some
bald-headed miscreant would stop me in the midst of the dance to ask if
Pitman’s hair began to grow in the full of the moon or when it was new.
While I was being shaved, some one would bolt into the shop and insist,
as the barber held me by the nose, upon knowing whether Pitman wore
ventilators in his hat. If I attended a wedding, as likely as not a
bare-headed outlaw would stand by me at the altar and ask if Pitman ever
slept in nightcaps; and more than once I was called out of bed at night
by wretches who wished to learn, before they left the town, if I thought
it hurt the hair to part it behind.

It became unendurable. I issued orders to the servants to admit to the
house no man with a bald head. But that very day a stranger obtained
admission to the parlour; and when I went down to see him, he stepped
softly around, closed all the doors mysteriously, and asked me, in a
whisper, if any one could hear us. Then he pulled off a wig; and handing
me a microscope, he requested me to examine his scalp and tell him if
there was any hope. I sent him over to see Pitman; and I gloat over the
fact that he bored Pitman for two hours with his baldness.

I am sorry now that I ever wrote anything upon the subject of his hair.
A bald Pitman, I know, is less fascinating than a Pitman with hair; but
rather than have suffered this misery, I would prefer a Pitman without
an eye-winker, or fuzz enough on him to make a camel’s-hair pencil. But
I shall hardly give another certificate of cure in any event. If I
should see a patent medicine man take a mummy which died the year Joseph
was sold into Egypt, and dose it until it kicked off its rags and danced
the polka mazurka while it whistled the tune, I would die at the stake
sooner than acknowledge the miracle on paper. Pitman’s hair winds me up
as far as medical certificates are concerned.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                _MUSIC._

[Illustration: “ENDING BY SHINNING UP A TREE.”]


A WILD cat was listening with rapt approval to the melody of distant
hounds tracking a remote fox.

“Excellent! _bravo_!” she exclaimed at intervals. “I could sit and
listen all day to the like of that. I am passionately fond of music.
_Ong core!_”

Presently the tuneful sounds drew near, whereupon she began to fidget,
ending by shinning up a tree, just as the dogs burst into view below
her, and stifling their songs upon the body of their victim before her
eyes—which protruded.

“There is an indefinable charm,” said she—“a subtle and tender spell—a
mystery—a conundrum, as it were—in the sounds of an unseen orchestra.
This is quite lost when the performers are visible to the audience.
Distant music (if any) for your obedient servant!”

                                       _Ambrose Bierce_ (“_Dod Grile._”)




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               _MAXIMS._


NEVER spare the parson’s wine, nor the baker’s pudding.

A house without woman or firelight, is like a body without soul or
sprite.

Kings and bears often worry their keepers.

Light purse, heavy heart.

He’s a fool that makes his doctor his heir.

Ne’er take a wife till thou hast a house (and a fire) to put her in.

To lengthen thy life lessen thy meals.

He that drinks fast pays slow.

He is ill-clothed who is bare of virtue.

Beware of meat twice boil’d, and an old foe reconcil’d.

The heart of a fool is in his mouth, but the mouth of a wise man is in
his heart.

He that is rich need not live sparingly, and he that can live sparingly
need not be rich.

He that waits upon fortune is never sure of a dinner.

                                                    _Benjamin Franklin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




 _MODEL OF A LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION OF A PERSON YOU ARE UNACQUAINTED
                                 WITH._

                                                 PARIS, _April 2, 1777_.


SIR,—The bearer of this, who is going to America, presses me to give him
a letter of recommendation, though I know nothing of him, not even his
name. This may seem extraordinary, but I assure you it is not uncommon
here. Sometimes, indeed, one unknown person brings another equally
unknown, to recommend him; and sometimes they recommend one another! As
to this gentleman, I must refer you to himself for his character and
merits, with which he is certainly better acquainted than I can possibly
be. I recommend him, however, to those civilities which every stranger,
of whom one knows no harm, has a right to; and I request you will do him
all the favour that, on further acquaintance, you shall find him to
deserve. I have the honour to be, etc.

                                                    _Benjamin Franklin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              _ECHO-SONG_.

[Illustration: “WHO CAN SAY WHERE ECHO DWELLS?”]


                                   I.

                 WHO can say where Echo dwells?
                   In some mountain-cave methinks,
                   Where the white owl sits and blinks;
                 Or in deep sequestered dells,
                 Where the foxglove hangs its bells,
                               Echo dwells.
                                 Echo!
                                   Echo!

                                  II.

                     Phantom of the crystal air,
                       Daughter of sweet mystery!
                       Here is one has need of thee;
                     Lead him to thy secret lair,
                     Myrtle brings he for thy hair—
                                   Hear his prayer—
                                     Echo!
                                       Echo!

                                  III.

                    Echo, lift thy drowsy head,
                      And repeat each charmëd word
                      Thou must needs have overheard
                    Yestere’en ere, rosy-red,
                    Daphne down the valley fled—
                                Words unsaid,
                                  Echo!
                                    Echo!

                                  IV.

                   Breathe the vows she since denies!
                     She hath broken every vow;
                   What she would she would not now—
                   Thou didst hear her perjuries.
                   Whisper, whilst I shut my eyes,
                               Those sweet lies,
                                 Echo!
                                   Echo!

                                                _Thomas Bailey Aldrich._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      _COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS._


COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS was in his “library,” which was his
“drawing-room,” and was also his “picture gallery,” and likewise his
“workshop.” Sometimes he called it by one of these names, sometimes by
another, according to occasion and circumstance. He was constructing
what seemed to be some kind of a frail mechanical toy, and was
apparently very much interested in his work. He was a white-headed man
now, but otherwise he was as young, alert, buoyant, visionary, and
enterprising as ever. His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly
knitting and thinking, with a cat asleep in her lap. The room was large,
light, and had a comfortable look—in fact, a home-like look—though the
furniture was of a humble sort, and not over-abundant, and the
knick-knacks and things that go to adorn a living-room not plenty and
not costly. But there were natural flowers, and there was an abstract
and unclassifiable something about the place which betrayed the presence
in the house of somebody with a happy taste and an effective touch.

Even the deadly chromos on the walls were somehow without offence; in
fact, they seemed to belong there, and to add an attraction to the
room—a fascination, anyway; for whoever got his eye on one of them was
like to gaze and suffer till he died—you have seen that kind of
pictures. Some of these terrors were landscapes, some libelled the sea,
some were ostensible portraits, all were crimes. All the portraits were
recognisable as dead Americans of distinction, and yet, through
labelling, added by a daring hand, they were all doing duty here as
“Earls of Rossmore.” The newest one had left the works as Andrew
Jackson, but was doing its best now as “Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore,
Present Earl.” On one wall was a cheap old railroad map of Warwickshire.
This had been newly labelled, “The Rossmore Estates.” On the opposite
wall was another map, and this was the most imposing decoration of the
establishment, and the first to catch a stranger’s attention, because of
its great size. It had once borne simply the title SIBERIA; but now the
word “FUTURE” had been written in front of that word. There were other
additions, in red ink—many cities, with great populations set down,
scattered over the vast country at points where neither cities nor
populations exist to-day. One of these cities, with population placed at
1,500,000, bore the name “Libertyorloffskoizalinski,” and there was a
still more populous one, centrally located and marked “Capitol,” which
bore the name “Freedomslovnaivenovich.”

The mansion—the Colonel’s usual name for the house—was a rickety old
two-storey frame of considerable size, which had been painted, some time
or other, but had nearly forgotten it. It was away out in the ragged
edge of Washington, and had once been somebody’s country place. It had a
neglected yard around it, with a paling fence that needed straightening
up, in places, and a gate that would stay shut. By the door-post were
several modest tin signs. “Col. Mulberry Sellers, Attorney-at-Law and
Claim Agent,” was the principal one. One learned from the others that
the Colonel was a Materialiser, a Hypnotiser, a Mind-cure dabbler, and
so on. For he was a man who could always find things to do.

A white-headed negro man, with spectacles and damaged white cotton
gloves, appeared in the presence, made a stately obeisance, and
announced—

“Marse Washington Hawkins, suh.”

“Great Scott! Show him in, Dan’l, show him in.”


[Illustration: “A STOUTISH, DISCOURAGED-LOOKING MAN.”]


The Colonel and his wife were on their feet in a moment, and the
next moment were joyfully wringing the hands of a stoutish,
discouraged-looking man, whose general aspect suggested that he was
fifty years old, but whose hair swore to a hundred.

“Well, well, well, Washington, my boy, it _is_ good to look at you
again. Sit down, sit down, and make yourself at home. There now—why, you
look perfectly natural; ageing a little, just a little, but you’d have
known him anywhere, wouldn’t you, Polly?”

“Oh, yes, Berry, he’s _just_ like his pa would have looked if he’d
lived. Dear, dear, where have you dropped from? Let me see, how long is
it since——”

“I should say it’s all of fifteen years, Mrs. Sellers.”

“Well, well, how time does get away with us. Yes, and oh, the changes
that——”

There was a sudden catch of her voice and a trembling of the lip, the
men waiting reverently for her to get command of herself and go on; but,
after a little struggle, she turned away with her apron to her eyes, and
softly disappeared.

“Seeing you made her think of the children, poor thing—dear, dear,
they’re all dead but the youngest. But banish care, it’s no time for it
now—on with the dance, let joy be unconfided, is my motto—whether
there’s any dance to dance or any joy to unconfide, you’ll be the
healthier for it every time—every time, Washington—it’s my experience,
and I’ve seen a good deal of this world. Come, where have you
disappeared to all these years, and are you from there now, or where are
you from?”

“I don’t quite think you would ever guess, Colonel. Cherokee Strip.”

“My land!”

“Sure as you live.”

“You can’t mean it. Actually _living_ out there?”

“Well, yes, if a body may call it that; though it’s a pretty strong term
for ’dobies and jackass rabbits, boiled beans and slap-jacks,
depression, withered hopes, poverty in all its varieties——”

“Louise out there?”

“Yes, and the children.”

“Out there now?”

“Yes, I couldn’t afford to bring them with me.”

“Oh, I see—you had to come—claim against the Government. Make yourself
perfectly easy—I’ll take care of that.”

“But it isn’t a claim against the Government.”

“No? Want to be a postmaster? _That’s_ all right. Leave it to me. I’ll
fix it.”

“But it isn’t postmaster—you’re all astray yet.”

“Well, good gracious, Washington, why don’t you come out and tell me
what it is? What do you want to be so reserved and distrustful with an
old friend like me for? Don’t you reckon I can keep a se——”

“There’s no secret about it—you merely don’t give me a chance to——”

“Now, look here, old friend, I know the human race; and I know that when
a man comes to Washington, I don’t care if it’s from heaven, let alone
Cherokee Strip, it’s because he _wants_ something. And I know that as a
rule he’s not going to get it; that he’ll stay and try for another thing
and won’t get that; the same luck with the next and the next and the
next; and keeps on till he strikes bottom, and is too poor and ashamed
to go back, even to Cherokee Strip; and at last his heart breaks and
they take up a collection and bury him. There—don’t interrupt me, I know
what I’m talking about. Happy and prosperous in the Far West, wasn’t I?
_You_ know that. Principal citizen of Hawkeye, looked up to by
everybody, kind of an autocrat, actually a kind of an autocrat,
Washington. Well, nothing would do but I must go as Minister to St.
James’s, the Governor and everybody insisting, you know, and so at last
I consented—no getting out of it, _had_ to do it, so here I came. _A day
too late_, Washington. Think of that—what little things change the
world’s history—yes, sir, the place had been filled. Well, there I was,
you see. I offered to compromise and go to Paris. The President was very
sorry and all that, but that place, you see, didn’t belong to the West,
so there I was again. There was no help for it, so I had to stoop a
little—we all reach the day some time or other when we’ve got to do
that, Washington, and it’s not a bad thing for us, either, take it by
and large all around—I had to stoop a little and offer to take
Constantinople, Washington, consider this—for it’s perfectly true—within
a month I _asked_ for China; within another month I _begged_ for Japan;
one year later I was away down, down, down, supplicating with tears and
anguish for the bottom office in the gift of the Government of the
United States—Flint-picker in the cellars of the War Department. And by
George I didn’t get it.”

“Flint-picker?”

“Yes. Office established in the time of the Revolution, last century.
The musket-flints for the military posts were supplied from the capitol.
They do it yet; for although the flint-arm has gone out and the forts
have tumbled down, the decree hasn’t been repealed—been overlooked and
forgotten, you see—and so the vacancies where old Ticonderoga and others
used to stand still get their six quarts of gun-flints a year just the
same.”

Washington said musingly after a pause:

“How strange it seems—to start for Minister to England at twenty
thousand a year and fail for flint-picker at——”

“Three dollars a week. It’s human life, Washington—just an epitome of
human ambition, and struggle, and the outcome; you aim for the palace
and get drowned in the sewer.”

There was another meditative silence. Then Washington said, with earnest
compassion in his voice—

“And so, after coming here, against your inclination, to satisfy your
sense of patriotic duty and appease a selfish public clamour, you get
absolutely nothing for it.”

“Nothing?” The Colonel had to get up and stand, to get room for his
amazement to expand. “_Nothing_, Washington? I ask you this: to be a
Perpetual Member and the _only_ Perpetual Member of a Diplomatic Body
accredited to the greatest country on earth—do you call that nothing?”

It was Washington’s turn to be amazed. He was stricken dumb; but the
wide-eyed wonder, the reverent admiration expressed in his face, were
more eloquent than any words could have been. The Colonel’s wounded
spirit was healed, and he resumed his seat, pleased and content. He
leaned forward and said, impressively—

“What was due to a man who had become for ever conspicuous by an
experience without precedent in the history of the world?—a man made
permanently and diplomatically sacred, so to speak, by having been
connected, temporarily, through solicitation, with every single
diplomatic post in the roster of this government, from Envoy
Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Court of St. James all
the way down to Consul to a guano rock in the Straits of Sunda—salary
payable in guano—which disappeared by volcanic convulsion the day before
they got down to my name in the list of applicants. Certainly something
august enough to be answerable to the size of this unique and memorable
experience was my due, and I got it. By the common voice of this
community, by acclamation of the people, that mighty utterance which
brushes aside laws and legislation, and from whose decrees there is no
appeal, I was named Perpetual Member of the Diplomatic Body,
representing the multifarious sovereignties and civilisations of the
globe near the republican court of the United States of America. And
they brought me home with a torchlight procession.”

“It is wonderful, Colonel—simply wonderful.”

“It’s the loftiest official position in the whole earth.”

“I should think so—and the most commanding.”

“You have named the word. Think of it. I frown, and there is war; I
smile, and contending nations lay down their arms.”

“It is awful. The responsibility, I mean.”

“It is nothing. Responsibility is no burden to me; I am used to it; have
always been used to it.”

“And the work—the work! Do you have to attend all the sittings?”

“Who, I? Does the Emperor of Russia attend the conclaves of the
governors of the provinces? He sits at home and indicates his pleasure.”

Washington was silent a moment, then a deep sigh escaped him.

“How proud I was an hour ago; how paltry seems my little promotion now!
Colonel, the reason I came to Washington is—I am Congressional Delegate
from Cherokee Strip!”

The Colonel sprang to his feet and broke out with prodigious enthusiasm—

“Give me your hand, my boy—this is immense news! I congratulate you with
all my heart. My prophecies stand confirmed. I always said it was in
you. I always said you were born for high distinction and would achieve
it. You ask Polly if I didn’t.”

Washington was dazed by this most unexpected demonstration.

“Why, Colonel, there’s nothing _to_ it. That little, narrow, desolate,
unpeopled, oblong streak of grass and gravel, lost in the remote wastes
of the vast continent—why, it’s like representing a billiard table—a
discarded one.”

“Tut-tut, it’s a great, it’s a staving preferment, and just opulent with
influence here.”

“Shucks, Colonel, I haven’t even a vote.”

“That’s nothing, you can make speeches.”

“No, I can’t. The population only two hundred——”

“That’s all right, that’s all right——”

“And they hadn’t any right to elect me; we’re not even a territory,
there’s no Organic Act, the government hasn’t any official knowledge of
us whatever.”

“Never mind about that; I’ll fix that. I’ll rush the thing through, I’ll
get you organised in no time.”

“_Will_ you, Colonel?—it’s _too_ good of you; but it’s just your old
sterling self, the same old, ever-faithful friend,” and the grateful
tears welled up in Washington’s eyes.

“It’s just as good as done, my boy, just as good as done. Shake hands.
We’ll hitch teams together, you and I, and we’ll make things hum!”

                                   _Samuel L. Clemens_ (“_Mark Twain_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _THE OWL-CRITIC._


                       A LESSON TO FAULT-FINDERS.

        “WHO stuffed that white owl?” No one spoke in the shop:
        The barber was busy, and he couldn’t stop;
        The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
        The _Daily_, the _Herald_, the _Post_, little heeding.
        The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
        Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
                      And the barber kept on shaving.

        “Don’t you see, Mister Brown,”
        Cried the youth, with a frown,
        “How wrong the whole thing is,
        How preposterous each wing is,
        How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is—
        In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck ’tis?
        I make no apology;
        I’ve learned owl-eology.
        I’ve passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
        And cannot be blinded to any deflections
        Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
        To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
        Mister Brown! Mister Brown!
        Do take that bird down,
        Or you’ll soon be the laughing-stock all over the town!”
                      And the barber kept on shaving.

        “I’ve _studied_ owls,
        And other night fowls,
        And I tell you
        What I know to be true:
        An owl cannot roost
        With his limbs so unloosed;
        No owl in this world
        Ever had his claws curled,
        Ever had his legs slanted,
        Ever had his bill canted,
        Ever had his neck screwed
        Into that attitude.
        He can’t do it, because
        ’Tis against all bird-laws.
        Anatomy teaches,
        Ornithology preaches
        An owl has a toe
        That _can’t_ turn out so!
        I’ve made the white owl my study for years,
        And to see such a job almost moves me to tears.
        Mister Brown, I’m amazed
        You should be so gone crazed
        As to put up a bird
        In that posture absurd!
        To _look_ at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
        The man who stuffed _him_ don’t half know his business!”
                      And the barber kept on shaving.

        “Examine those eyes.
        I’m filled with surprise
        Taxidermists should pass
        Off on you such poor glass;
        So unnatural they seem
        They’d make Audubon scream,
        And John Burroughs laugh
        To encounter such chaff.
        Do take that bird down;
        Have him stuffed again, Brown!”
                      And the barber kept on shaving.

        “With some sawdust and bark
        I would stuff in the dark
        An owl better than that,
        I could make an old hat
        Look more like an owl
        Than that horrid fowl,
        Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
        In fact, about _him_ there’s not one natural feather.”


[Illustration: “THE OWL, VERY GRAVELY, GOT DOWN FROM HIS PERCH.”]


          Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
          The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
          Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
          (Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
          And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
          “Your learning’s at fault _this_ time, any way;
          Don’t waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
          I’m an owl; you’re another. Sir critic, good-day!”
                        And the barber kept on shaving.

                                                       _Jas. T. Fields._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      _ANNIHILATES AN OBERLINITE._

[Illustration]

                                                           COLUMBUS, O.,
                                                     _June the 21, ’62_.


I WUZ onto my way to Columbus to attend the annooal gatherin uv the
fatheful at that city, a dooty I hev religusly performed fer over 30
yeres. Ther wuz but wun seet vakent in the car, and onto that I sot
down. Presently a gentleman carryin uv a karpit bag, sot down beside me,
and we towunst commenst conversashen. After discussin the crops, the
wether, et settry, I askt wher he resided.

“In Oberlin,” sez he.

“Oberlin!” shreekt I. “Oberlin! wher Ablishnism runs rampant—wher a
nigger is 100 per cent. better ner a white man—wher a mulatto is a obgik
uv pitty on account uv hevin white blood. Oberlin! that stonest the
Dimekratik prophets, and woodent be gathered under Vallandygum’s wings
as a hen hawk gathereth chickens, at no price—Oberlin, that gives all
the profits uv her college to the support uv the underground ralerode——”

“But,” sez he.

“Oberlin,” continyood I, “that reskoos niggers, and sets at defians the
benifisent laws fer takin on em back to their kind and hevenly-minded
masters—Oberlin——”

“My jentle frend,” sez he, “Oberlin don’t do nuthin uv the kind. Yoo’ve
bin misinformed. Oberlin respex the laws, and hez now a body uv her
galyent sons in the feeld a fightin to manetane the Constooshn.”

“A fightin to manetane the Constooshn,” retordid I. “My frend” (and I
spoke impressively), “no Oberlin man is a doin any sich thing. Oberlin
never fit for no Constooshn. Oberlin commenst this war, Oberlin wuz the
prime cause uv all the trubble. Wat wuz the beginnin uv it. Our Suthrin
brethrin wantid the territories—Oberlin objectid. They wantid Kansas fer
ther blessid instooshn—Oberlin agin objecks. They sent colonies with
muskits and sich, to hold the terrytory—Oberlin sent 2 thowsand armed
with Bibles and Sharp’s rifles—two instooshns Dimocrisy cood never stand
afore—and druv em out. They wantid Breckinridge fer President—Oberlin
refused and elektid Linkin. Then they seceded, and why is it that they
still hold out?”

He made no anser.

“Becoz,” continyood I, transfixin him with my penetratin gaze, “Oberlin
won’t submit. We mite 2-day hev peese, ef Oberlin wood say to Linkin,
‘Resine!’ and to Geff Davis, ‘Come up higher!’ When I say Oberlin,
understand it ez figgerative fer the entire Ablishn party, uv wich
Oberlin is the fountin hed. There’s wher the trubble is. Our Suthern
brethren wuz reasonable. So long ez the dimocrisy controld things, and
they got all they wanted, they wuz peeceable. Oberlin ariz—the dimocrisy
wuz beet down, and they riz up agin it.”

Jest eggsactly 80-six yeres ago, akordin to Jayneses almanac, a work
wich I perooz annually with grate delite, the Amerykin Eagle (whose
portrate any wun who possessis a 5 cent peece kin behold) wuz born, the
Goddis uv Liberty bein its muther, the Spirit uv Freedom its sire, Tomas
Gefferson actin ez physician on the occasion. The proud bird growd ez
tho it slept on guano—its left wing dipt into the Pasific, its rite into
the Atlantic, its beek thretened Kanady, while his magestik tale cast a
shadder ore the Gulf. Sich wuz the Eagle up to March, ’61. Wat is his
condishn now? His hed hangs, his tale droops, ther’s no strength in his
talons. Wat’s the trubble? Oberlin. He hed bin fed on nigger fer yeres,
and hed thrived on the diet. Oberlin got the keepin uv him—she withholds
his nateral food—and onless Oberlin is whaled this fall, down goes the
Eagle.

                                                   _Petroleum V. Nasby._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        _AN ECONOMICAL PROJECT._

               _To the Authors of the Journal of Paris._


MESSIEURS,—You often entertain us with accounts of new discoveries.
Permit me to communicate to the public, through your paper, one that has
lately been made by myself, and which I conceive may be of great
utility.

I was the other evening in a grand company, where the new lamp of
Messrs. Quinquet and Lange was introduced and much admired for its
splendour; but a general inquiry was made, whether the oil it consumed
was not in proportion to the light it afforded, in which case there
would be no saving in the use of it. No one present could satisfy us in
that point, which all agreed ought to be known, it being a very
desirable thing to lessen, if possible, the expense of lighting our
apartments, when every other article of family expense was so much
augmented.

I was pleased to see this general concern for economy, for I love
economy exceedingly.

I went home, and to bed, three or four hours after midnight, with my
head full of the subject. An accidental sudden noise waked me about six
in the morning, when I was surprised to find my room filled with light;
and I imagined at first that a number of those lamps had been brought
into it; but, rubbing my eyes, I perceived the light came in at the
windows. I got up and looked out to see what might be the occasion of
it, when I saw the sun just rising above the horizon, from whence he
poured his rays plentifully into my chamber, my domestic having
negligently omitted, the preceding evening, to close the shutters.

I looked at my watch, which goes very well, and found that it was but
six o’clock; and still thinking it something extraordinary that the sun
should rise so early, I looked into the almanac, where I found it to be
the hour given for his rising on that day. I looked forward, too, and
found he was to rise still earlier every day till towards the end of
June; and that at no time in the year he retarded his rising so long as
till eight o’clock. Your readers who, with me, have never seen any signs
of sunshine before noon, and seldom regarded the astronomical part of
the almanac, will be as much astonished as I was, when they hear of his
rising so early, and especially when I assure them, _that he gives light
as soon as he rises_. I am convinced of this. I am certain of my fact.
One cannot be more certain of any fact. I saw it with my own eyes. And,
having repeated this observation the three following mornings, I found
always precisely the same result.


[Illustration: “WHEN I SPEAK OF THIS DISCOVERY TO OTHERS.”]


Yet so it happens that when I speak of this discovery to others, I can
easily perceive by their countenances, though they forbear expressing it
in words, that they do not quite believe me. One, indeed, who is a
learned natural philosopher, has assured me that I must certainly be
mistaken as to the circumstance of the light coming into my room; for it
being well known, as he says, that there could be no light abroad at
that hour, it follows that none could enter from without, and that of
consequence, my windows being accidentally left open, instead of letting
in the light, had only served to let out the darkness; and he used many
ingenious arguments to show me how I might, by that means, have been
deceived. I owned that he puzzled me a little, but he did not satisfy
me; and the subsequent observations I made, as above mentioned,
confirmed me in my first opinion.

This event has given rise in my mind to several serious and important
reflections. I consider that if I had not been awakened so early in the
morning I should have slept six hours longer by the light of the sun,
and in exchange have lived six hours the following night by
candle-light; and the latter being a much more expensive light than the
former, my love of economy induced me to muster up what little
arithmetic I was master of, and to make some calculations, which I shall
give you, after observing that utility is, in my opinion, the test of
value in matters of invention, and that a discovery which can be applied
to no use, or is not good for something, is good for nothing.

I took for the basis of my calculation the supposition that there are
100,000 families in Paris, and that these families consume in the night
half a pound of _bougies_, or candles, per hour. I think this is a
moderate allowance, taking one family with another; for though I believe
some consume less, I know that many consume a great deal more. Then
estimating seven hours per day, as the medium quantity between the time
of the sun’s rising and ours, he rising during the six following months
from six to eight hours before noon, and there being seven hours of
course per night in which we burn candles, the account will stand thus:—

    In the six months between the 20th of March and the 20th of
    September there are—

   Nights                                                         183

   Hours of each night in which we burn candles                     7

                                                                   ——

   Multiplication gives for the total number of hours            1281

   These 1281 hours multiplied by 100,000, the
     number of inhabitants, give                          128,100,000

   One hundred twenty-eight millions and one
     hundred thousand hours, spent at Paris by
     candle-light, which, at half a pound of wax           64,050,000
     and tallow per hour, gives the weight of

   Sixty-four millions and fifty thousand of pounds,
      which, estimating the whole at the medium
     price of thirty sols the pound, makes the sum
     of ninety-six millions and seventy-five thousand      96,075,000
       _livres tournois_

An immense sum! that the city of Paris might save every year, by the
economy of using sunshine instead of candles.

If it should be said that people are apt to be obstinately attached to
old customs, and that it will be difficult to induce them to rise before
noon, consequently my discovery can be of little use; I answer, _Nil
desperandum_. I believe all who have common sense, as soon as they have
learned from this paper that it is daylight when the sun rises, will
contrive to rise with him; and to compel the rest, I would propose the
following regulations:—

First. Let a tax be laid of a louis per window on every window that is
provided with shutters to keep out the light of the sun.

Second. Let the same salutary operation of police be made use of, to
prevent our burning candles, that inclined us last winter to be more
economical in burning wood; that is, let guards be placed in the shops
of the wax and tallow chandlers, and no family be permitted to be
supplied with more than one pound of candles per week.

Third. Let guards also be posted to stop all the coaches, etc., that
would pass the street after sunset, except those of physicians,
surgeons, and midwives.

Fourth. Every morning, as soon as the sun rises, let all the bells in
every church be set ringing; and if that is not sufficient, let cannon
be fired in every street, to wake the sluggards effectually, and make
them open their eyes to see their true interest.

All the difficulty will be in the first two or three days, after which
the reformation will be as natural and easy as the present irregularity,
for _ce n’est que le premier pas qui coûte_. Oblige a man to rise at
four in the morning, and it is more than probable he will go willingly
to bed at eight in the evening; and, having had eight hours sleep, he
will rise more willingly at four in the morning following. But this sum
of ninety-six millions and seventy-five thousand livres is not the whole
of what may be saved by my economical project. You may observe that I
have calculated upon only one-half of the year, and much may be saved in
the other, though the days are shorter. Besides, the immense stock of
wax and tallow left unconsumed during the summer will probably make
candles much cheaper for the ensuing winter, and continue them cheaper
as long as the proposed reformation shall be supported.

For the great benefit of this discovery, thus freely communicated and
bestowed by me on the public, I demand neither place, pension, exclusive
privilege, nor any other reward whatever. I expect only to have the
honour of it. And yet I know there are little envious minds who will, as
usual, deny me this, and say that my invention was known to the
ancients, and perhaps they may bring passages out of old books in proof
of it. I will not dispute with these people that the ancients knew not
the sun would rise at certain hours—they possibly had, as we have,
almanacs that predicted it—but it does not follow thence that they knew
_he gave light as soon as he rose_. This is what I claim as my
discovery. If the ancients knew it, it might have been long since
forgotten, for it certainly was unknown to the moderns, at least to the
Parisians, which to prove I need use but one plain, simple argument.
They are as well instructed, judicious, and prudent a people as exist
anywhere in the world, all professing, like myself, to be lovers of
economy; and, from the many heavy taxes required from them by the
necessities of the state, have surely an abundant reason to be
economical. I say it is impossible that so sensible a people, under such
circumstances, should have lived so long by the smoky, unwholesome, and
enormously expensive light of candles, if they had really known that
they might have had as much pure light of the sun for nothing.

                                                    _Benjamin Franklin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        _MISS MEHETABEL’S SON._


A MAN with a passion for _bric-à-brac_ is always stumbling over antique
bronzes, intaglios, mosaics, and daggers of the time of Benvenuto
Cellini; the bibliophile finds creamy vellum folios and rare Alduses and
Elzevirs waiting for him at unsuspected bookstalls; the numismatist has
but to stretch forth his palm to have priceless coins drop into it. My
own weakness is odd people, and I am constantly encountering them. It
was plain I had unearthed a couple of very queer specimens at Bayley’s
Four Corners. I saw that a fortnight afforded me too brief an
opportunity to develop the richness of both, and I resolved to devote my
spare time to Mr. Jaffrey alone, instinctively recognising in him an
unfamiliar species.

My professional work in the vicinity of Greenton left my evenings and
occasionally an afternoon unoccupied; these intervals I purposed to
employ in studying and classifying my fellow-boarder. It was necessary,
as a preliminary step, to learn something of his previous history, and
to this end I addressed myself to Mr. Sewell that same night.

“I do not want to seem inquisitive,” I said to the landlord, as he was
fastening up the bar, which, by the way, was the _salle à manger_ and
general sitting-room. “I do not want to seem inquisitive, but your
friend Mr. Jaffrey dropped a remark this morning at breakfast
which—which was not altogether clear to me.”

“About Mehetabel?” asked Mr. Sewell uneasily.

“Yes.”

“Well, I wish he wouldn’t!”

“He was friendly enough in the course of conversation to hint to me that
he had not married the young woman, and seemed to regret it.”

“No, he didn’t marry Mehetabel.”

“May I inquire _why_ he didn’t marry Mehetabel?”

“Never asked her. Might have married the girl forty times. Old Elkin’s
daughter over at K——, she’d have had him quick enough. Seven years off
and on, he kept company with Mehetabel, and then she died.”

“And he never asked her?”

“He shilly-shallied. Perhaps he didn’t think of it. When she was dead
and gone, then Silas was struck all of a heap,—and that’s all about it.”

Obviously Mr. Sewell did not intend to tell me anything more, and
obviously there was more to tell. The topic was plainly disagreeable to
him for some reason or other, and that unknown reason of course piqued
my curiosity.

As I had been absent from dinner and supper that day, I did not meet Mr.
Jaffrey again until the following morning at breakfast. He had recovered
his bird-like manner, and was full of a mysterious assassination that
had just taken place in New York, all the thrilling details of which
were at his fingers’ ends. It was at once comical and sad to see this
harmless old gentleman, with his naïve, benevolent countenance, and his
thin hair flaming up in a semicircle like the foot-lights at a theatre,
revelling in the intricacies of the unmentionable deed.

“You come up to my room to-night,” he cried with horrid glee, “and I’ll
give you my theory of the murder. I’ll make it as clear as day to you
that it was the detective himself who fired the three pistol-shots.”

It was not so much the desire to have this point elucidated as to make a
closer study of Mr. Jaffrey that led me to accept his invitation.

Mr. Jaffrey’s bedroom was in an L of the building, and was in no way
noticeable except for the numerous files of newspapers neatly arranged
against the blank spaces of the walls, and a huge pile of old magazines
which stood in one corner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and
threatening each instant to topple over like the Leaning Tower at Pisa.
There were green paper shades at the windows, some faded chintz valances
about the bed, and two or three easy-chairs covered with chintz. On a
black walnut shelf between the windows lay a choice collection of
meerschaum and brierwood pipes.

Filling one of the chocolate-coloured bowls for me, and another for
himself, Mr. Jaffrey began prattling; but not about the murder, which
appeared to have flown out of his mind. In fact, I do not remember that
the topic was even touched upon, either then or afterwards.

“Cosy nest this,” said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacently over the
apartment. “What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an
open wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out
of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and
bluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring.
In summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit trees
under the window; so I have singing birds all the year round. I take it
very easy here, I can tell you, summer and winter. Not much society.
Tobias is not, perhaps, what one would term a great intellectual force,
but he means well. He’s a realist, believes in coming down to what he
calls ‘the hard pan;’ but his heart is in the right place, and he’s very
kind to me. The wisest thing I ever did in my life was to sell out my
grain business over at K——, thirteen years ago, and settle down at the
Corners. When a man has made a competency, what does he want more?
Besides, at that time an event occurred which destroyed any ambition I
may have had,—Mehetabel died.”

“The lady you were engaged to?”

“N-o, not precisely engaged. I think it was quite understood between us,
though nothing had been said on the subject. Typhoid,” added Mr.
Jaffrey, in a low tone.

For several minutes he smoked in silence, a vague, troubled look playing
over his countenance. Presently this passed away, and he fixed his grey
eyes speculatively upon my face.

“If I had married Mehetabel,” said Mr. Jaffrey, slowly, and then he
hesitated.

I blew a ring of smoke into the air, and, resting my pipe on my knee,
dropped into an attitude of attention.

“If I had married Mehetabel, you know, we should have had—ahem!—a
family.”

“Very likely,” I assented, vastly amused at this unexpected turn.

“A boy!” exclaimed Mr. Jaffrey, explosively.

“By all means, certainly, a son.”

“Great trouble about naming the boy. Mehetabel’s family want him named
Elkanah Elkins, after her grandfather; I want him named Andrew Jackson.
We compromise by christening him Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey.
Rather a long name for such a short little fellow,” said Mr. Jaffrey,
musingly.

“Andy isn’t a bad nickname,” I suggested.

“Not at all. We call him Andy in the family. Somewhat fractious at
first,—colic and things. I suppose it is right, or it wouldn’t be so;
but the usefulness of measles, mumps, croup, whooping-cough, scarlatina,
and fits is not visible to the naked eye. I wish Andy would be a model
infant, and dodge the whole lot.”

This supposititious child, born within the last few minutes, was clearly
assuming the proportions of a reality to Mr. Jaffrey. I began to feel a
little uncomfortable. I am, as I have said, a civil engineer, and it is
not strictly in my line to assist at the births of infants, imaginary or
otherwise. I pulled away vigorously at the pipe and said nothing.

“What large blue eyes he has,” resumed Mr. Jaffrey, after a pause; “just
like Hetty’s; and the fair hair, too, like hers. How oddly certain
distinctive features are handed down in families! sometimes a mouth,
sometimes a turn of the eyebrow. Wicked little boys, over at K——, have
now and then derisively advised me to follow my nose. It would be an
interesting thing to do. I should find my nose flying about the world,
turning up unexpectedly here and there, dodging this branch of the
family and reappearing in that, now jumping over one great-grandchild to
fasten itself upon another, and never losing its individuality. Look at
Andy. There’s Elkanah Elkin’s chin to the life. Andy’s chin is probably
older than the Pyramids. Poor little thing,” he cried, with a sudden,
indescribable tenderness, “to lose his mother so early!”

And Mr. Jaffrey’s head sunk upon his breast, and his shoulders slanted
forward, as if he were actually bending over the cradle of the child.

The whole gesture and attitude was so natural that it startled me. The
pipe slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor.

“Hush!” whispered Mr. Jaffrey, with a deprecating motion of his hand.
“Andy’s asleep!”

He rose softly from the chair, and, walking across the room on tiptoe,
drew down the shade at the window through which the moonlight was
streaming. Then he returned to his seat, and remained gazing with
half-closed eyes into the drooping embers.

I refilled my pipe and smoked in profound silence, wondering what would
come next. But nothing came next. Mr. Jaffrey had fallen into so brown a
study, that, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when I wished him
good-night and withdrew, I do not think he noticed my departure. I am
not what is called a man of imagination; it is my habit to exclude most
things not capable of mathematical demonstration; but I am not without a
certain psychological insight, and I think I understood Mr. Jaffrey’s
case.

I could easily understand how a man with an unhealthy, sensitive nature,
overwhelmed by sudden calamity, might take refuge in some forlorn place
like this old tavern, and dream his life away. To such a man—brooding
for ever on what might have been, and dwelling only in the realm of his
fancies—the actual world might indeed become as a dream, and nothing
seem real but his illusions.

I daresay that thirteen years of Bayley’s Four Corners would have its
effect upon me; though instead of conjuring up golden-haired children of
the Madonna, I should probably see gnomes and kobolds and goblins
engaged in hoisting false signals and misplacing switches for midnight
express trains.

“No doubt,” I said to myself that night, as I lay in bed, thinking over
the matter, “this once possible but now impossible child is a great
comfort to the old gentleman,—a greater comfort, perhaps, than a real
son would be. Maybe Andy will vanish with the shades and mists of night,
he’s such an unsubstantial infant; but if he doesn’t, and Mr. Jaffrey
finds pleasure in talking to me about his son, I shall humour the old
fellow. It wouldn’t be a Christian act to knock over his harmless
fancy.”


[Illustration: “MR. JAFFREY WHISPERED TO ME.”]


I was very impatient to see if Mr. Jaffrey’s illusion would stand the
test of daylight. It did. Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey was, so
to speak, alive and kicking the next morning. On taking his seat at the
breakfast-table, Mr. Jaffrey whispered to me that Andy had had a
comfortable night.

“Silas!” said Mr. Sewell, sharply, “what are you whispering about?”

Mr. Sewell was in an ill humour; perhaps he was jealous because I had
passed the evening in Mr. Jaffrey’s room; but surely Mr. Sewell could
not expect his boarders to go to bed at eight o’clock every night, as he
did. From time to time during the meal Mr. Sewell regarded me unkindly
out of the corner of his eye, and in helping me to the parsnips he
poniarded them with quite a suggestive air. All this, however, did not
prevent me from repairing to the door of Mr. Jaffrey’s snuggery when
night came.

“Well, Mr. Jaffrey, how’s Andy this evening?”

“Got a tooth!” cried Mr. Jaffrey, vivaciously.

“No!”

“Yes, he has! Just through. Gave the nurse a silver dollar. Standing
reward for first tooth.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to express surprise that an infant a day
old should cut a tooth, when I suddenly recollected that Richard III.
was born with teeth.

Feeling myself to be on unfamiliar ground, I suppressed my criticism. It
was well I did so, for in the next breath I was advised that half a year
had elapsed since the previous evening.

“Andy’s had a hard six months of it,” said Mr. Jaffrey, with the
well-known narrative air of fathers. “We’ve brought him up by hand. His
grandfather, by the way, was brought up by the bottle”—and brought down
by it, too, I added mentally, recalling Mr. Sewell’s account of the old
gentleman’s tragic end.

Mr. Jaffrey then went on to give me a history of Andy’s first six
months, omitting no detail however insignificant or irrelevant. This
history I would in turn inflict upon the reader, if I were only certain
that he is one of those dreadful parents who, under the ægis of
friendship, bore you at a street-corner with that remarkable thing which
Freddy said the other day, and insist on singing to you at an evening
party the Iliad of Tommy’s woes.

But to inflict this _enfantillage_ upon the unmarried reader would be an
act of wanton cruelty. So I pass over that part of Andy’s biography,
and, for the same reason, make no record of the next four or five
interviews I had with Mr. Jaffrey. It will be sufficient to state that
Andy glided from extreme infancy to early youth with astonishing
celerity,—at the rate of one year per night, if I remember correctly;
and—must I confess it?—before the week came to an end, this invisible
hobgoblin of a boy was only little less of a reality to me than to Mr.
Jaffrey.

At first I had lent myself to the old dreamer’s whim with a keen
perception of the humour of the thing; but by-and-by I found I was
talking and thinking of Miss Mehetabel’s son as though he were a
veritable personage. Mr. Jaffrey spoke of the child with such an air of
conviction!—as if Andy were playing among his toys in the next room, or
making mud-pies down in the yard. In these conversations, it should be
observed, the child was never supposed to be present, except on that
single occasion when Mr. Jaffrey leaned over the cradle. After one of
our séances I would lie awake until the small hours, thinking of the
boy, and then fall asleep only to have indigestible dreams about him.
Through the day, and sometimes in the midst of complicated calculations,
I would catch myself wondering what Andy was up to now! There was no
shaking him off; he became an inseparable nightmare to me; and I felt
that if I remained much longer at Bayley’s Four Corners I should turn
into just such another bald-headed, mild-eyed visionary as Silas
Jaffrey.

Then the tavern was a gruesome old shell anyway, full of unaccountable
noises after dark,—rustlings of garments along unfrequented passages,
and stealthy footfalls in unoccupied chambers overhead. I never knew of
an old house without these mysterious noises.

Next to my bedroom was a musty, dismantled apartment, in one corner of
which, leaning against the wainscot, was a crippled mangle, with its
iron crank tilted in the air like the elbow of the late Mr. Clem
Jaffrey. Sometimes,

              “In the dead vast and middle of the night,”

I used to hear sounds as if some one were turning that rusty crank on
the sly. This occurred only on particularly cold nights, and I conceived
the uncomfortable idea that it was the thin family ghosts, from the
neglected graveyard in the cornfield, keeping themselves warm by running
each other through the mangle. There was a haunted air about the whole
place that made it easy for me to believe in the existence of a phantasm
like Miss Mehetabel’s son, who, after all, was less unearthly than Mr.
Jaffrey himself, and seemed more properly an inhabitant of this globe
than the toothless ogre who kept the inn, not to mention the silent
witch of Endor that cooked our meals for us over the bar-room fire.

In spite of the scowls and winks bestowed upon me by Mr. Sewell, who let
slip no opportunity to testify his disapprobation of the intimacy, Mr.
Jaffrey and I spent all our evenings together—those long autumnal
evenings, through the length of which he talked about the boy, laying
out his path in life, and hedging the path with roses. He should be sent
to the High School at Portsmouth, and then to college; he should be
educated like a gentleman, Andy.

“When the old man dies,” said Mr. Jaffrey, rubbing his hands gleefully,
as if it were a great joke, “Andy will find that the old man has left
him a pretty plum.”

“What do you think of having Andy enter West Point when he’s old
enough?” said Mr. Jaffrey, on another occasion. “He needn’t necessarily
go into the army when he graduates; he can become a civil engineer.”

This was a stroke of flattery so delicate and indirect, that I could
accept it without immodesty.

There had lately sprung up on the corner of Mr. Jaffrey’s bureau a small
tin house, Gothic in architecture, and pink in colour, with a slit in
the roof, and the word “Bank” painted on one façade. Several times in
the course of an evening Mr. Jaffrey would rise from his chair, without
interrupting the conversation, and gravely drop a nickel through the
scuttle of the bank. It was pleasant to observe the solemnity of his
countenance as he approached the edifice, and the air of triumph with
which he resumed his seat by the fireplace. One night I missed the tin
bank. It had disappeared, deposits and all. Evidently there had been a
defalcation on rather a large scale. I strongly suspected that Mr.
Sewell was at the bottom of it; but my suspicion was not shared by Mr.
Jaffrey, who, remarking my glance at the bureau, became suddenly
depressed. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I have failed to instil into
Andrew those principles of integrity—which—which——” And the old
gentleman quite broke down.

Andy was now eight or nine years old, and for some time past, if the
truth must be told, had given Mr. Jaffrey no inconsiderable trouble.
What with his impishness and his illnesses, the boy led the pair of us a
lively dance. I shall not soon forget the anxiety of Mr. Jaffrey the
night Andy had the scarlet fever,—an anxiety which so affected me that I
actually returned to the tavern the following afternoon earlier than
usual, dreading to hear the little spectre was dead, and greatly
relieved on meeting Mr. Jaffrey on the door-step with his face wreathed
in smiles. When I spoke to him of Andy, I was made aware that I was
inquiring into a case of scarlet fever that had occurred the year
before!

It was at this time, towards the end of my second week at Greenton, that
I noticed what was probably not a new trait,—Mr. Jaffrey’s curious
sensitiveness to atmospherical changes. He was as sensitive as a
barometer. The approach of a storm sent his mercury down instantly. When
the weather was fair he was hopeful and sunny, and Andy’s prospects were
brilliant. When the weather was overcast and threatening he grew
restless and despondent, and was afraid the boy wasn’t going to turn out
well.

On the Saturday previous to my departure, which had been fixed for
Monday, it had rained heavily all the afternoon, and that night Mr.
Jaffrey was in an unusually excitable and unhappy frame of mind. His
mercury was very low indeed.

“That boy is going to the dogs just as fast as he can go,” said Mr.
Jaffrey, with a woful face. “I can’t do anything with him.”

“He’ll come out all right, Mr. Jaffrey. Boys will be boys. I wouldn’t
give a snap for a lad without animal spirits.”

“But animal spirits,” said Mr. Jaffrey, sententiously, “shouldn’t saw
off the legs of the piano in Tobias’s best parlour. I don’t know what
Tobias will say when he finds it out.”

“What, has Andy sawed off the legs of the old spinet?” I returned,
laughing.

“Worse than that.”

“Played upon it, then?”

“No, sir. He has lied to me!”

“I can’t believe that of Andy.”

“Lied to me, sir,” repeated Mr. Jaffrey, severely. “He pledged me his
word of honour that he would give over his climbing. The way that boy
climbs sends a chill down my spine. This morning, notwithstanding his
solemn promise, he shinned up the lightning-rod attached to the
extension, and sat astride the ridge-pole. I saw him, and he denied it!
When a boy you have caressed and indulged and lavished pocket-money on
lies to you, and _will_ climb, then there’s nothing more to be said.
He’s a lost child.”

“You take too dark a view of it, Mr. Jaffrey. Training and education are
bound to tell in the end, and he has been well brought up.”

“But I didn’t bring him up on a lightning-rod, did I? If he is ever
going to know how to behave, he ought to know now. To-morrow he will be
eleven years old.”

The reflection came to me that if Andy had not been brought up by the
rod, he had certainly been brought up by the lightning. He was eleven
years old in two weeks!

I essayed to tranquillise Mr. Jaffrey’s mind, and to give him some
practical hints on the management of youth, with that perspicacious
wisdom which seems to be the peculiar property of bachelors and elderly
maiden ladies.

“Spank him,” I suggested, at length.

“I will!” said the old gentleman.

“And you’d better do it at once!” I added, as it flashed upon me that in
six months Andy would be a hundred and forty-three years old!—an age at
which parental discipline would have to be relaxed.

The next morning, Sunday, the rain came down as if determined to drive
the quicksilver entirely out of my poor friend. Mr. Jaffrey sat bolt
upright at the breakfast-table, looking as woe-begone as a bust of
Dante, and retired to his chamber the moment the meal was finished. As
the day advanced, the wind veered round to the north-east, and settled
itself down to work. It was not pleasant to think, and I tried not to
think, what Mr. Jaffrey’s condition would be if the weather did not mend
its manners by noon; but so far from clearing off at noon, the storm
increased in violence, and as night set in the wind whistled in a
spiteful falsetto key, and the rain lashed the old tavern as if it were
a balky horse that refused to move on. The windows rattled in the
worm-eaten frames, and the doors of remote rooms, where nobody ever
went, slammed-to in the maddest way. Now and then the tornado, sweeping
down the side of Mount Agamenticus, bowled across the open country and
struck the ancient hostelry point-blank.

Mr. Jaffrey did not appear at supper. I knew he was expecting me to come
to his room as usual, and I turned over in my mind a dozen plans to
evade seeing him that night.


[Illustration: “AN ATROCIOUS WINK.”]


The landlord sat at the opposite side of the chimney-place, with his eye
upon me. I fancy he was aware of the effect of this storm on his other
boarder; for at intervals, as the wind hurled itself against the exposed
gable, threatening to burst in the windows, Mr. Sewell tipped me an
atrocious wink, and displayed his gums in a way he had not done since
the morning after my arrival at Greenton. I wondered if he suspected
anything about Andy. There had been odd times during the past week when
I felt convinced that the existence of Miss Mehetabel’s son was no
secret to Mr. Sewell.

In deference to the gale, the landlord sat up half-an-hour later than
was his custom. At half-past eight he went to bed, remarking that he
thought the old pile would stand till morning.

He had been absent only a few minutes when I heard a rustling at the
door. I looked up and beheld Mr. Jaffrey standing on the threshold, with
his dress in disorder, his scant hair flying, and the wildest expression
on his face.

“He’s gone!” cried Mr. Jaffrey.

“Who? Sewell! Yes, he just went to bed.”

“No, not Tobias,—the boy!”

“What, run away?”

“No,—he is dead! He has fallen off a step-ladder in the red chamber and
broken his neck!”

Mr. Jaffrey threw up his hands with a gesture of despair and
disappeared. I followed him through the hall, saw him go into his own
apartment, and heard the bolt of the door drawn to. Then I returned to
the bar-room and sat for an hour or two in the ruddy glow of the fire,
brooding over the strange experience of the last fortnight.

On my way to bed I paused at Mr. Jaffrey’s door, and, in a lull of the
storm, the measured respiration within told me that the old gentleman
was sleeping peacefully.

Slumber was coy with me that night. I lay listening to the soughing of
the wind and thinking of Mr. Jaffrey’s illusion. It had amused me at
first with its grotesqueness; but now the poor little phantom was dead.
I was conscious that there had been something pathetic in it all along.
Shortly after midnight the wind sunk down, coming and going fainter and
fainter, floating around the eaves of the tavern with a gentle,
murmurous sound, as if it were turning itself into soft wings to bear
away the spirit of a little child.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps nothing that happened during my stay at Bayley’s Four Corners
took me so completely by surprise as Mr. Jaffrey’s radiant countenance
the next morning. The morning itself was not fresher or sunnier. His
round face literally shone with geniality and happiness. His eyes
twinkled like diamonds, and the magnetic light of his hair was turned on
full. He came into my room while I was packing my valise. He chirped and
prattled and carolled, and was sorry I was going away,—but never a word
about Andy. However, the boy had probably been dead several years then!

The open waggon that was to carry me to the station stood at the door;
Mr. Sewell was placing my case of instruments under the seat, and Mr.
Jaffrey had gone up to his room to get me a certain newspaper containing
an account of a remarkable shipwreck on the Auckland Islands. I took the
opportunity to thank Mr. Sewell for his courtesies to me, and to express
my regret at leaving him and Mr. Jaffrey.

“I have become very much attached to Mr. Jaffrey,” I said; “he is a most
interesting person; but that hypothetical boy of his, that son of Miss
Mehetabel’s——”

“Yes, I know!” interrupted Mr. Sewell, testily, “fell off a step-ladder
and broke his dratted neck. Eleven year old, wasn’t he? Always does,
jest at that point. Next week Silas will begin the whole thing over
again if he can get anybody to listen to him.”

“I see; our amiable friend is a little queer on that subject.”

Mr. Sewell glanced cautiously over his shoulder, and, tapping himself
significantly on the forehead, said in a low voice—

“Room to let. Unfurnished!”

                                                _Thomas Bailey Aldrich._

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            PECK’S BAD BOY.

[Illustration: “PA TAKING HIS DEGREE.”]


“SAY, are you a Mason, or a Nodfellow, or anything?” asked the bad boy
of the grocery man, as he went to the cinnamon bag on the shelf and took
out a long stick of cinnamon bark to chew.

“Why, yes, of course I am; but what set you to thinking of that?” asked
the grocery man, as he went to the desk and charged the boy’s father
with a half-pound of cinnamon.

“Well, do the goats bunt when you nishiate a fresh candidate?”

“No, of course not. The goats are cheap ones, that have no life, and we
muzzle them, and put pillows over their heads, so they can’t hurt
anybody,” says the grocery man, as he winked at a brother Oddfellow who
was seated on a sugar barrel, looking mysterious. “But why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothin’, only I wish me and my chum had muzzled our goat with a
pillow. Pa would have enjoyed his becoming a member of our lodge better.
You see, Pa had been telling us how much good the Masons and Oddfellers
did, and said we ought to try and grow up good so we could jine the
lodges when we got big; and I asked Pa if it would do any hurt for us to
have a play lodge in my room, and purtend to nishiate, and Pa said it
wouldn’t do any hurt. He said it would improve our minds and learn us to
be men. So my chum and me borried a goat that lives in a livery stable.
Say, did you know they keep a goat in a livery stable so the horses
won’t get sick? They get used to the smell of the goat, and after that
nothing can make them sick but a glue factory. You see my chum and me
had to carry the goat up to my room when Ma and Pa was out riding, and
he blatted so we had to tie a handkerchief around his nose, and his feet
made such a noise on the floor that we put some baby’s socks on his
hoofs.

“Well, my chum and me practised with that goat until he could bunt the
picture of a goat every time. We borried a bock beer sign from a saloon
man and hung it on the back of a chair, and the goat would hit it every
time. That night Pa wanted to know what we were doing up in my room, and
I told him we were playing lodge, and improving our minds; and Pa said
that was right, there was nothing that did boys of our age half so much
good as to imitate men, and store by useful nollidge. Then my chum asked
Pa if he didn’t want to come up and take the grand bumper degree, and Pa
laffed and said he didn’t care if he did, just to encourage us boys in
innocent pastime that was so improving to our intellex. We had shut the
goat up in a closet in my room, and he had got over blatting; so we took
off the handkerchief, and he was eating some of my paper collars and
skate straps. We went upstairs, and told Pa to come up pretty soon and
give three distinct raps, and when we asked him who comes there he must
say, ‘A pilgrim, who wants to join your ancient order and ride the
goat.’ Ma wanted to come up, too, but we told her if she come in it
would break up the lodge, cause a woman couldn’t keep a secret, and we
didn’t have any side-saddle for the goat. Say, if you never tried it,
the next time you nishiate a man in your Mason’s lodge you sprinkle a
little kyan pepper on the goat’s beard just afore you turn him loose.
You can get three times as much fun to the square inch of goat. You
wouldn’t think it was the same goat. Well, we got all fixed and Pa
rapped, and we let him in and told him he must be blindfolded, and he
got on his knees a laffing, and I tied a towel around his eyes, and then
I turned him around and made him get down on his hands also, and then
his back was right towards the closet sign, and I put the bock beer sign
right against Pa’s clothes. He was a laffing all the time, and said we
boys were as full of fun as they made ’em, and we told him it was a
solemn occasion, and we wouldn’t permit no levity, and if he didn’t stop
laffing we couldn’t give him the grand bumper degree. Then everything
was ready, and my chum had his hand on the closet door, and some kyan
pepper in his other hand, and I asked Pa in low bass tones if he felt as
though he wanted to turn back, or if he had nerve enough to go ahead and
take the degree. I warned him that it was full of dangers, as the goat
was loaded for bear, and told him he yet had time to retrace his steps
if he wanted to. He said he wanted the whole bizness, and we could go
ahead with the menagerie. Then I said to Pa that if he had decided to go
ahead, and not blame us for the consequences, to repeat after me the
following: ‘Bring forth the Royal Bumper and let him Bump.’

“Pa repeated the words, and my chum sprinkled the kyan pepper on the
goat’s moustache, and he sneezed once and looked sassy, and then he see
the lager beer goat rearing up, and he started for it just like a
crow-catcher, and blatted. Pa is real fat, but he knew he got hit, and
he grunted and said, ‘What you boys doin’?’ and then the goat gave him
another degree, and Pa pulled off the towel and got up and started for
the stairs, and so did the goat; and Ma was at the bottom of the stairs
listening, and when I looked over the banisters Pa and Ma and the goat
were all in a heap, and Pa was yelling murder, and Ma was screaming
fire, and the goat was blatting, and sneezing, and bunting, and the
hired girl came into the hall and the goat took after her, and she
crossed herself just as the goat struck her and said, ‘Howly mother,
protect me!’ and went down stairs the way we boys slide down hill, with
both hands on herself, and the goat reared up and blatted, and Pa and Ma
went into their room and shut the door, and then my chum and me opened
the front door and drove the goat out. The minister, who comes to see Ma
every three times a week, was just ringing the bell, and the goat
thought he wanted to be nishiated too, and gave him one for luck, and
then went down the side walk, blatting, and sneezing, and the minister
came in the parlour and said he was stabbed, and then Pa came out of his
room with his suspenders hanging down, and he didn’t know the minister
was there, and he said cuss words, and Ma cried and told Pa he would go
to the bad place sure, and Pa said he didn’t care, he would kill that
kussid goat afore he went, and I told Pa the minister was in the
parlour, and he and Ma went down and said the weather was propitious for
a revival, and it seemed as though an outpouring of the spirit was about
to be vouchsafed, and none of them sot down but Ma, cause the goat
didn’t hit her, and while they were talking relidgin with their mouths,
and kussin’ the goat inwardly, my chum and me adjourned the lodge, and I
went and stayed with him all night, and I haven’t been home since. But I
don’t believe Pa will lick me, ’cause he said he would not hold us
responsible for the consequences. He ordered the goat hisself, and we
filled the order, don’t you see? Well, I guess I will go and sneak in
the back way, and find out from the hired girl how the land lays. She
won’t go back on me, ’cause the goat was not loaded for hired girls. She
just happened to get in at the wrong time. Good-bye, sir. Remember and
give your goat kyan pepper in your lodge.”

                                                       _George W. Peck._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




[Illustration: THE BRITISH KNOCK]


                                             LONDON, _October 30, 1802_.

I HAVE lately made a most important discovery which has disclosed one of
the great secrets of English rank. You, in the United States, knowing
nothing of this, will consider the following authentic history of rank a
singular curiosity.

They have confined the several species of man within such definite
limits, in this country, that the moment they hear a knocking at the
doors, they can tell you whether it be a servant, a postman, a milkman,
a half or whole gentleman, a very great gentleman, a knight, or a
nobleman.

A servant is bound to lift the knocker once; should he usurp a
nobleman’s knock he would hazard his situation. A postman knocks twice,
very loudly. A milkman knocks once, at the same time sending forth an
artificial noise, not unlike the yell of an American Indian. A mere
gentleman usually knocks three times, moderately; a terrible fellow
feels authorised to knock thrice, very loudly, generally adding to these
two or three faint knocks, which seem to run into each other; but there
is considerable art in doing this elegantly, therefore it is not always
attempted; but it is a valuable accomplishment. A stranger who should
venture at an imitation would undoubtedly be taken for an upstart. A
knight presumes to give a _double knock_, that is six raps, with a few
faint ones at the end. I have not yet ascertained the various
peculiarities which distinguish the degrees between the baronet and the
nobleman; but this I know too well, that a nobleman, at any time of
night, is allowed to knock so long and loud, that the whole
neighbourhood is frequently disturbed; and although fifty people may be
deprived of their night’s rest, there is no redress at law or at equity.
Nor have I learned how long and loud a prince of the blood presumes to
knock, though doubtless he might knock an hour or two by way of
distinction.

You may hold your sides if you please, but I assure you I am perfectly
serious. These people are so tenacious of their prerogative, that a
true-blooded Englishman goes near to think it a part of British liberty.
Indeed, I am convinced I could place certain Englishmen in a situation,
in which, rather than knock at a door but once, they would fight a duel
every day in the week. Good heavens, how would a fine gentleman appear
if obliged to knock but once at the door of a fashionable lady to whose
party he had been invited, while at the same moment a number of his
everyday friends, passing by, might observe the circumstance! I cannot
conceive of a more distressing occurrence. The moment he entered the
room the eyes of the whole company would be turned on him; he would
believe himself disgraced for ever, he would feel himself annihilated,
for all his imaginary consequence, without which an Englishman feels
himself to be nothing, would have forsaken him.

You may imagine it a very easy matter to pass from the simple _rap_ of
the servant to that of the nobleman; but let me inform you these little
monosyllables stand in the place of Alpine mountains, which neither
vinegar nor valour can pass. Hercules and Theseus, those vagabond but
respectable bullies, who govern by personal strength instead of a
standing army, would have hesitated an enterprise against these raps.
They have, by prescription, risen nearly to the dignity of Common Law,
of which strangers as well as natives are bound to take notice. I was
lately placed in a pleasant position through ignorance of this. Soon
after my arrival I received an invitation to dine with a gentleman, and
in my economical way, with the greatest simplicity, I gave one
reasonable rap; after a considerable time a servant opened the door and
asked me _what I wanted_! I told him Mr. ——. He replied “His _master_
has company, but will see if he can be spoken with.” In the meantime I
was left in the entry. Presently Mr. —— came, who, a little mortified,
began to reprove the servant; but it appeared in the sequel he was
perfectly right, for on telling Mr. —— “_I knocked but once_,” he burst
into a laugh, and said he would explain that at dinner.

Should an honest fellow, ignorant of the consequences of these raps,
come to London in search of a place, and unfortunately knock at a
gentleman’s door, after the manner of noblemen, it might prejudice him
as much as a prayer-book once prejudiced a certain person in
Connecticut. The anecdote is this:—

A young adventurer, educated Church-of-England-wise, on going forth to
seek his fortune, very naturally put his prayer-book in his pocket.
Wandering within the precincts of Connecticut, he offered his service to
a farmer, who, after asking him a thousand questions (a New England
custom), gave him employment; but in the evening, the unlucky
prayer-book being discovered, he fairly turned the poor wight out of
doors to get a lodging where he could.

You know the Connecticut _Blue Laws_ made it death for a priest, meaning
a clergyman of the Church of England, to be found within that State.
Thank heaven, those days are past. “God, liberty, and toleration,”
whether a man prefers a prayer-book to the missal, or the Koran to a
prayer-book, or a single rap at a door to the noise of a dozen.

                                                                  Adieu.


N.B.—You must keep this letter a profound secret, as we have certain
gentlemen on our side of the Atlantic who would, in imitation of the
noblemen here, disturb their neighbours.

                                                       _William Austin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _A CAPTIVE MAIDEN._

[Illustration: “WHILE PITMAN SEIZED THE SUFFERER BY ONE ARM, I GRASPED
THE OTHER.”]


IT is extremely probable that we shall lose our servant-girl. She was
the victim of a very singular catastrophe a night or two since, in
consequence of which she has acquired a prejudice against the house of
Adeler. We were troubled with dampness in our cellar, and in order to
remove the difficulty we got a couple of men to come and dig the earth
out to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches, and fill it in with a
cement and mortar floor. The material was, of course, very soft, and the
workmen laid boards upon the surface, so that access to the furnace and
the coal-bin was possible. That night, just after retiring, we heard a
woman screaming for help; but after listening at the open window, we
concluded that Cooley and his wife were engaged in an altercation, and
so we paid no more attention to the noise. Half-an-hour afterwards there
was a violent ring at the front door bell, and upon going to the window
again I found Pitman standing upon the door-step below. When I spoke to
him he said—

“Max,”—the judge is inclined sometimes, especially during periods of
excitement, to be unnecessarily familiar,—“there’s somethin’ wrong in
your cellar. There’s a woman down there screechin’ and carryin’ on like
mad. Sounds ’s if somebody’s a-murderin’ her.”

I dressed and descended; and securing the assistance of Pitman, so that
I would be better prepared in the event of burglars being discovered, I
lighted a lamp and we went into the cellar.

There we found the maid-servant standing by the refrigerator, knee-deep
in the cement, and supporting herself with the handle of a broom, which
was also half-submerged. In several places about her were air-holes
marking the spot where the milk-jug, the cold veal, the Lima beans, and
the silver-plated butter-dish had gone down. We procured some additional
boards, and while Pitman seized the sufferer by one arm I grasped the
other. It was for some time doubtful if she would come to the surface
without the use of more violent means, and I confess that I was half
inclined to regard with satisfaction the prospect that we would have to
blast her loose with gunpowder. After a desperate struggle, during which
the girl declared that she would be torn in pieces, Pitman and I
succeeded in getting her safely out, and she went upstairs with half a
barrel of cement on each leg, declaring that she would leave the house
in the morning.

The cold veal is in there yet. Centuries hence some antiquarian will
perhaps grub about the spot whereon my cottage once stood, and will blow
that cold veal out in a petrified condition, and then present it to a
museum as the fossil remains of some unknown animal. Perhaps, too, he
will excavate the milk-jug and the butter-dish, and go about lecturing
upon them as utensils employed in bygone ages by a race of savages
called “The Adelers.” I should like to be alive at the time to hear that
lecture. And I cannot avoid the thought that if our servant had been
completely buried in the cement, and thus carefully preserved until the
coming of that antiquarian, the lecture would be more interesting, and
the girl more useful than she is now. A fossilised domestic servant of
the present era would probably astonish the people of the twenty-eighth
century.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      _MRS. PARTINGTON IN COURT._


“I TOOK my knitting-work and went up into the gallery,” said Mrs.
Partington, the day after visiting one of the city courts; “I went up
into the gallery, and, after I had adjusted my specs, I looked down into
the room, but I couldn’t see any courting going on. An old gentleman
seemed to be asking a good many impertinent questions,—just like some
old folks,—and people were sitting around making minuets of the
conversation. I don’t see how they made out what was said, for they all
told different stories. How much easier it would be to get along if they
were all made to tell the same story! What a sight of trouble it would
save the lawyers! The case, as they call it, was given to the jury, but
I couldn’t see it, and a gentleman with a long pole was made to swear
that he’d keep an eye on ’em, and see that they didn’t run away with it.
Bimeby in they came agin, and then they said somebody was guilty of
something, who had just said he was innocent, and didn’t know nothing
about it no more than the little baby that had never subsistence. I come
away soon afterwards; but I couldn’t help thinking how trying it must be
to sit there all day, shut out from the blessed air!”

                                          _Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber_
                                                  _(“Mrs. Partington”)._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _THE MUSIC-GRINDERS._

[Illustration: “IT’S HARD TO MEET SUCH PRESSING FRIENDS, IN SUCH A
LONELY SPOT.”]


              THERE are three ways in which men take
                One’s money from his purse,
              And very hard it is to tell
                Which of the three is worse;
              But all of them are bad enough
                To make a body curse.

              You’re riding out some pleasant day,
                And counting up your gains;
              A fellow jumps from out a bush,
                And takes your horse’s reins,
              Another hints some words about
                A bullet in your brains.

              It’s hard to meet such pressing friends,
                In such a lonely spot;
              It’s very hard to lose your cash,
                But harder to be shot;
              And so you take your wallet out,
                Though you would rather not.

              Perhaps you’re going out to dine,—
                Some odious creature begs
              You’ll hear about the cannon-ball
                That carried off his pegs,
              And says it is a dreadful thing
                For men to lose their legs.

              He tells you of his starving wife,
                His children to be fed,
              Poor little lovely innocents,
                All clamorous for bread,—
              And so you kindly help to put
                A bachelor to bed.

              You’re sitting on your window-seat,
                Beneath a cloudless moon;
              Your hear a sound that seems to wear
                The semblance of a tune,
              As if a broken fife should strive
                To drown a cracked bassoon.

              And nearer, nearer still, the tide
                Of music seems to come;
              There’s something like a human voice,
                And something like a drum;
              You sit in speechless agony,
                Until your ear is numb.

              Poor “Home, sweet home” should seem to be
                A very dismal place;
              Your “Auld Acquaintance” all at once
                Is altered in the face;
              Their discords sting through Burns and Moore,
                Like hedgehogs dressed in lace.

              You think they are crusaders, sent
                From some infernal clime,
              To pluck the eyes of Sentiment,
                And dock the tail of Rhyme,
              To crack the voice of Melody,
                And break the legs of Time.

              But hark! the air again is still,
                The music all is ground,
              And silence, like a poultice, comes
                To heal the blows of sound;
              It cannot be,—it is,—it is,—
                A hat is going round!

              No! pay the dentist when he leaves
                A fracture in your jaw,
              And pay the owner of the bear
                That stunned you with his paw,
              And buy the lobster that has had
                Your knuckles in his claw;

              But, if you are a portly man,
                Put on your fiercest frown,
              And talk about a constable
                To turn them out of town;
              Then close your sentence with an oath,
                And shut the window down!

              And, if you are a slender man,
                Not big enough for that,
              Or if you cannot make a speech
                Because you are a flat,
              Go very quietly and drop
                A button in the hat!

                                                _Oliver Wendell Holmes._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _MISS CRUMP’S SONG._


MISS CRUMP was inexorable. She declared that she was entirely out of
practice. “She scarcely ever touched the piano;” “Mamma was always
scolding her for giving so much of her time to French and Italian, and
neglecting her music and painting; but she told mamma the other day that
it really was so irksome to her to quit Racine and Dante, and go to
thrumming upon the piano, that, but for the obligations of filial
obedience, she did not think she should ever touch it again.”

Here Mrs. Crump was kind enough, by the merest accident in the world, to
interpose, and to relieve the company from farther anxiety.

“Augusta, my dear,” said she, “go and play a tune or two; the company
will excuse your hoarseness.”

Miss Crump rose immediately at her mother’s bidding, and moved to the
piano, accompanied by a large group of smiling faces.

“Poor child,” said Mrs. Crump, as she went forward, “she is frightened
to death. I wish Augusta could overcome her diffidence.”

Miss Crump was educated in Philadelphia; she had been taught to sing by
Madame Piggisqueaki, who was a pupil of Ma’m’selle Crokifroggietta, who
had sung with Madame Catalani; and she had taken lessons on the piano
from Seignor Buzzifussi, who had played with Paganini.

She seated herself at the piano, rocked to the right, then to the left,
leaned forward, then backward, and began. She placed her right hand
about midway the keys, and her left about two octaves below it. She now
put off to the right in a brisk canter up the treble notes, and the left
after it. The left then led the way back, and the right pursued it in
like manner. The right turned, and repeated its first movement; but the
left outran it this time, hopped over it, and flung it entirely off the
track. It came in again, however, behind the left on its return, and
passed it in the same style. They now became highly incensed at each
other, and met furiously on the middle ground. Here a most awful
conflict ensued for about the space of ten seconds, when the right
whipped off all of a sudden, as I thought, fairly vanquished. But I was
in the error against which Jack Randolph cautions us; “it had only
fallen back to a stronger position.” It mounted upon two black keys, and
commenced the note of a rattlesnake. This had a wonderful effect upon
the left, and placed the doctrine of “snake charming” beyond dispute.
The left rushed furiously towards it repeatedly, but seemed invariably
panic-struck when it came within six keys of it, and as invariably
retired with a tremendous roaring down the bass keys.

It continued its assaults, sometimes by the way of the naturals,
sometimes by the way of the sharps, and sometimes by a zigzag through
both; but all its attempts to dislodge the right from its stronghold
proving ineffectual, it came close up to its adversary, and expired.

Any one, or rather no one, can imagine what kind of noises the piano
gave forth during the conflict. Certain it is, no one can describe them,
and, therefore, I shall not attempt it. The battle ended, Miss Augusta
moved as though she would have arisen, but this was protested against by
a number of voices at once.

“One song, my dear Aurelia,” said Miss Small; “you must sing that sweet
little French air you used to sing in Philadelphia, and which Madame
Piggisqueaki was so fond of.”

Miss Augusta looked pitifully at her mamma, and her mamma looked “sing”
at Miss Augusta; accordingly, she squared herself for a song.


[Illustration: “SOME VERY CURIOUS SOUNDS, WHICH APPEARED TO PROCEED FROM
THE LIPS OF MISS AUGUSTA.”]


She brought her hands to the campus this time in fine style, and they
seemed now to be perfectly reconciled to each other. They commenced a
kind of colloquy; the right whispering treble very softly, and the left
responding bass very loudly. The conference had been kept up until I
began to desire a change of the subject, when my ear caught,
indistinctly, some very curious sounds, which appeared to proceed from
the lips of Miss Augusta; they seemed to be compounded of a dry cough, a
grunt, a hiccough, and a whisper; and they were introduced, it appeared
to me, as interpreters between the right and the left.

Things progressed in this way for about the space of fifteen seconds,
when I happened to direct my attention to Mr. Jenkins, from
Philadelphia. His eyes were closed, his head rolled gracefully from side
to side; a beam of heavenly complacency rested upon his countenance; and
his whole man gave irresistible demonstration that Miss Crump’s music
made him feel good all over. I had just turned from the contemplation of
Mr. Jenkins’ transports, to see whether I could extract from the
performance anything intelligible, when Miss Crump made a fly-catching
grab at half-a-dozen keys in a row and at the same instant she fetched a
long, dunghill-cock crow, at the conclusion of which she grabbed as many
keys with her left. This came over Jenkins like a warm bath, and over me
like a rake of bamboo briers.

My nerves had not recovered from this shock before Miss Augusta repeated
the movement, and accompanied it with a squall of a pinched cat. This
threw me into an ague fit; but, from respect to the performer, I
maintained my position.

She now made a third grasp with the right, boxed the faces of six keys
in a row with the left, and at the same time raised one of the most
unearthly howls that ever issued from the throat of a human being. This
seemed the signal for universal uproar and destruction. She now threw
away all her reserve, and charged the piano with her whole force. She
boxed it, she clawed it, she raked it, she scraped it. Her neck-vein
swelled, her chin flew up, her face flushed, her eye glared, her bosom
heaved; she screamed, she howled, she yelled, cackled, and was in the
act of dwelling upon the note of a screech-owl, when I took the St.
Vitus’s dance, and rushed out of the room. “Good Lord,” said a
bystander, “if this be her _singing_, what must her _crying be_!” As I
reached the door I heard a voice exclaim, “By heavens! she’s the most
enchanting performer I ever heard in my life!” I turned to see who was
the author of this ill-timed compliment, and who should it be but Nick
Truck, from Lincoln, who seven years before was dancing “Possum up the
Gumtree” in the chimney-corner of his father’s kitchen. Nick had entered
the counting-room of a merchant in Charleston some five or six years
before, had been sent out as supercargo of a vessel to Bordeaux, and
while the vessel was delivering one cargo and taking in another, had
contracted a wonderful relish for French music.

As for myself, I went home in convulsions; took sixty drops of laudanum,
and fell asleep. I dreamed that I was in a beautiful city, the streets
of which intersected each other at right angles; that the birds of the
air and the beasts of the forest had gathered there for battle, the
former led on by a Frenchman, the latter by an Italian; that I was
looking on their movements towards each other, when I heard the cry of
“Hecate is coming!” I turned my eye to the north-east, and saw a female
flying through the air toward the city, and distinctly recognised in her
the features of Miss Crump. I took the alarm, and was making my escape,
when she gave command for the beasts and birds to fall on me. They did
so, and, with all the noises of the animal world, were in the act of
tearing me to pieces, when I was waked by the stepping of Hall, my
room-mate, into bed.

“Oh, my dear sir,” exclaimed I, “you have waked me from a horrible
dream. What o’clock is it?”

“Ten minutes after twelve,” said he.

“And where have you been to this late hour?”

“I have just returned from the party.”

“And what kept you so late?”

“Why, I disliked to retire while Miss Crump was playing.”

“In mercy’s name!” said I, “is she playing yet?”

“Yes,” said he; “I had to leave her playing at last.”

“And where was Jenkins?”

“He was there, still in ecstasies, and urging her to play on.”

“And where was Truck?”

“He was asleep.”

“And what was she playing?”

“An Italian——”

Here I swooned, and heard no more.

                                          _Augustus Baldwin Longstreet._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _A POLYGLOT BARBER._

[Illustration]


MY first tonsorial experience is in a barber shop of the old town of
Prinkipo. Most of the barbers are polyglotically inclined. My particular
barber is either a Greek, a Maltese, a Sclav, a Bulgarian, or a
Montenegrin. It is impossible at first to tell his native tongue. He has
French glibly. He speaks a “leetle Inglis,” and understands less. He is
well up in Italian, as many of the families in this vicinage are. He had
some knowledge of Spanish, as kindred to the Italian. This extraordinary
learning always gives me a shudder, and especially when under his razor
or shears. Being a stranger on the island, and having no very pronounced
national features, it was equally difficult for him to ascertain my
nationality, except by inquisition long and pitiless. All I could do was
to arm myself with the affirmatives and negatives of various languages.
With these I made myself complaisant, to save my face from bloodshed. My
first conversation with this artist confirmed the general reputation as
to the gossipy quality of the Barber of Seville. He had all the gossip
of the isles, including its languages. The conversation ran somewhat
after this style—

Barber: “You have been here long?”

I reply in Bohemian, “_Ne!_”

He easily understood that.

“You are here for your health?”

I reply in Danish, affirmatively and negatively, “_Ja!_” “_Nei,
minherre!_” “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.” This puzzled him.

“An army gentleman, perhaps?”

I reply in German, “_Nein, mein herr_.”

“Oh, then you are a navy officer?”

Having in view my position as admiral of the launch, I reply in
Hungarian; because, _lucus a non lucendo_, Hungary is an inland country,
and, like our own, without a navy.

“_Igen!_” “Yes.”

“Your vessel is at Constantinople?”

Remembering that there was an Italian emigrant named Christopher
Columbus of naval renown, I reply: “_Si, signore_.”

“You will bring your vessel to Prinkipo?”

Ah! here was my opportunity. It is the modern Greek in which I reply:
“_Nae vevayos_.”

He is thunderstruck. It is evidently his mother-tongue. Likely he has a
Polish father; who knows? When he asks me in French—

“Will your vessel touch at Athens?”

I respond in Polish, “_Tak!_” “No.” And then, with some hesitation, I
add the French word, “_peut-être_.” “Perhaps.”

“You will visit Egypt?”

“_Sim, senhor._” This is Portuguese for “Yes, sir.”

The gesture or the manner with which these responses are made encourages
him, for he immediately asks whether I have ever been in Alabania. I
have no negative or affirmative in any of the languages of the Adriatic.
My Dalmatian servitor, Pedro, is absent, and my next best affirmative is
in Russian.

“_Do prawda._” Perhaps, being affiliated with the Sclav, he understands
this language.

“You have never been in Egypt?”

As the pine and the palm are associated in my mind, and having connected
the Polar midnight sun with the Pyramids of the Pharaohs, I respond in
Swedish, making it intense—

“_Ja!_” adding a little affirmative in Roumanian, to give intensity to
the remark, “_Gie_.”

After a pause in the conversation he resumes. He believes that he has my
nationality fixed. He surmises that I am from some Balkan province, and
he asks—

“Have you been in Roumelia, Bulgaria, Servia, Montenegro, and
Herzegovina?”

Knowing that I could not answer this truthfully, and not being able to
answer it partially, I give him back in Roumanian an emphatic negative—

“_Na canna, bucca._”

“You have been quite a traveller!”

This suggests the Chinese as the fitting language for the affirmative,
and I say—

“_She!_”

Having no reference to Haggard’s novel, for it was not then out. To make
the “_she_” expressive I add another affirmative, which I had carefully
studied while boarding with the Chinese Legation in Washington.

“_Ta Jin!_”

“You like the Chinese, Monsieur?”

Having succeeded so well with the Chinese, I answer promptly in the
negative—

“_Puh!_”

This monosyllable disgusts him. His subordinates gather around the chair
where I was being shaved, interested in this composite conversation. The
artist then asks if I had visited Jerusalem. Here was my great
breakdown. Notwithstanding I had represented a Hebrew community in New
York, with more synagogues than Jerusalem had in the time of Solomon, I
was at a loss for a Hebrew affirmative. Happy thought! I respond
promptly in the Arabic tongue, with its guttural peculiarity—

“_Na’am._”

It sounded to me after I uttered it like profanity, and I fell back as
gracefully as I could, waiting for the next attack, and equipped with a
Japanese expletive.

“You like Constantinople?”

I respond in a sweet Japanese accent—

“_Sama, san!_”

“How long have you been in Constantinople?”

I give it to him in English—

“I arrived there in the year 1851—thirty-six years ago.”

“_Mon Dieu!—mon Dieu!—mon Dieu!_” he exclaims, “Have you lived there
ever since that time?”

“_Beaucoup, Monsieur!_”

He has not yet learned my nationality. I am afraid every moment that he
will strike America. It comes—

“Perhaps you have been in America?”

“Wa’al, yaas, I guess!”

He could not understand this, for he had not been educated at Robert
College, nor had he abided in Vermont. I ask him in French which America
he means. He says—

“South America. I have a cousin of my wife’s there, and I would like to
know how the country looks.”

“_Le nom du cousin de votre femme?_” I ask.

“Pierre Moulka Pari Michipopouli. He is like you, Monsieur—quite a
traveller.”

Then began a fusillade of questions and rattling replies.

“You have lived in Paris, Monsieur?”

“_Jamais!_” “Never.” “Been to Genoa?” “_Si, Signore._” “Ah, you are
English, are you not?” With the intense Turkish negative I respond,
“_Yok!_” “French?” “_Non._” “German?” “_Nein._” “Sclav?” “_Nee._”
“Italian?” “_No, Signore._” “Ah! Espagnol? You look like one.”

“Pardon, Monsieur, I am not.”

“Well,” said he, taking breath, “will you tell me, Monsieur, where you
do come from?”

“Don’t you remember the only nation in the world where the barber is as
good as a king?” I said proudly.

“Oh, Switzerland. _Sapristi! Corpo de Bacco!_”

Understanding that last remark perfectly, I offer him a cigarette, and
say, “No, I am not Swiss.”

“Brazeel?” “_Jamais._”

The way that barber rubs the unguent into my hairless scalp and hirsute
beard shows that he is a disappointed man.

The next time I visit the shop I receive marked attention. The hands all
rise up. They pick up the earth in a Turkish _salaam_. They distribute
it in courtesy to the American minister, whom they have meanwhile
discovered. As I have been frequently turned away from the doors of our
American Congress after twenty-five years’ service, because I did not
act or look like a member, so I was unrecognised here, by the “_Oi
Barberoi_,” as having no national characterisation. America was the last
race or people to which this Greek barber assigned me.

                                                        _Samuel S. Cox._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _AT THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY._


“YIS, sur. It’s many a wan av yure countrymin Oi’ve taken over the
Causeway, sur.”

“How do you know what countryman I am?”

“Thrust me fur knowing the American accent, sur.”

“I haven’t the American accent. You have it. Go to New York if you don’t
believe me.”

“There’s many an Oirishman there, I’m tould, sur.”

“More than in Dublin.”

“De ye tell me thot, sur? Well, sur, Oi took Gineral Grant himsilf over
the Causeway, and a foine mawn he was. An’ Gineral Sheridan, too, sur.
Many’s the great mawn Oi’ve taken over the Causeway, sur.”

“Besides me?”

“Well, sur, ye may be the greatest av thim all, sur; fur, as Oi’ve often
noticed, them that’s laste like it is sometimes bether than they look,
sur.”

“True. So we won’t pursue _that_ subject any further.”

“Oi took the Duke av Connaught himsilf down this very road, sur, an’ do
you know what he says to me, sur? He says, ‘Pat,’ says he, ‘have ye had
anything to ate the day?’ ‘Saving yer presence, sur,’ says Oi, ‘except a
bite at breakfast’—an’ before the words were out of my mout’, says the
Duke to me, says he, ‘Sit down wid us,’ says he; an’ no sooner said than
done, and Oi had moy lunch with the Duke av Connaught. De ye moind
_thot_, now?”

“That was a great honour—for the Duke.”

“It was—what’s that, sur? It was a great honour fur _me_, sur.”

“Just depends on how a man looks at it. If you think it was a great
honour for you, it was.”

“An’ Oi’ve taken great professors over the Causeway, sur—min that knew
more in wan minute, sur, than you and Oi wud know in all our loives,
sur. An’ they’ve tould me that this was the greatest soight in the whole
wurrold.”

“Curious how education develops the power of lying.”

“Loying is it, sur? Don’t you know that there’s nothing in the whole
wurrold loike the Goiant’s Causeway, sur?”

“What for? For mud?”

“The road _is_ a troifle muddy at this toime av the year, sur. It’s not
many comes to see it in the winther toime, sur; indade, yure the first
wan this week. There’s a power av rain in the nort’ av Oireland in the
winter toime, sur.”

“How much further away is this Causeway?”

“Is it the Causeway, sur? But a troifle, sur. Ye’ll see it the minute we
turn that bit av rock, sur. Sure an’ begorra it’s well worth the walk,
for there is no place that is as noted as the Causeway, sur.”

“Yes. They told me about it at Derry. That’s why I came.”

“De ye mane to say, sur, that ye niver heard av the Goiant’s Causeway
till ye came to Derry? Well, sur, Oi’ve taken tins av thousands av
people over this ground, sur, and yure the first wan that iver tould me
he never heard av the Causeway. Where were ye brought up, sur?”

“I’m a Belfast man.”

“De ye mane thot? Troth! Oi don’t think the professors are the biggest
loiers, saving yer prisince, sur.”

“Where’s your old Causeway? We’re round that rock now.”

“Where’s the Causeway is it, sur? Where should it be but just before yer
two eyes?”

“You don’t mean that foundation, do you?”

“What foundation, sur?”

“Looks like as if a building society had started a big stone tabernacle,
and went bankrupt when the foundation was laid.”

“The greatest min in this wurrold, sur, tould me that——”

“Never mind what the greatest men said. _Is_ that the Causeway? That’s
what I want settled.”

“It is, sur.”

“Let’s get back.”

“Back, is it, sur? Troth, ye’r not there yet. Divil a fut will Oi go
back till ye’ve seen what ye paid for, sur.”

“All right, I’ll go on—under protest—merely to please you, you know.”

“Oi’m afraid ye’r hard to plaze yersilf, sur. It’s wan av the siven
wondhers av the wurrold, sur.”

“That people come here? It _is_ a wonder, as you say. I’ll bet they
don’t come a second time.”

“Now, beggin’ ye’r pardon, ye’r wrong there, sur. Not the sickond toime,
but the twintieth toime have Oi known educated min to come, sur. And the
aftener a man av sinse sees it, sur, the more wondherful he thinks it.
Now, sur, ye’r fut is on the smaller Causeway, and be careful how you
stip, fur it’s moighty slippery undherfut. There are three Causeways,
sur, the Great Causeway bein’ in the centhre, and that we’ll come to in
a minute, sur.”

“What is it used for?”

“The Causeway, is it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s used for nothin’ at all, sur.”

“Then why did they go to all this expense?”

“What expinse, sur?”

“The building of it.”

“Be all the powers, sur, it’s surely not running through your hid that
the Goiant’s Causeway was built by the hand av man, sur!”

“How was it built, then? By contract?”

“Oi see plainly Oi’ll hay to begin at the beginnin’ wid you, sur. It was
built by a mighty convulsion av nathure, sur.”

“Oh, yes, I remember reading about it in the papers at the time. It was
the beginning of the Irish troubles.”

“It was at the beginning av toime, sur. Professor Gneiss, av Edinburgh,
tould me its origin was volcanic, and that——”

“Oh, you can’t believe what a professor says. Was _he_ there?”

“He was not.”

“Well, then!”

“If you, sur, will excuse the liberty Oi’ll take, sur, in recommending
you to kape silence fur a few minutes, sur, ye’ll know a good dale more
whin ye lave here than ye did whin ye came, sur.”

“All right; go ahead.”

“These columns, sur, are basaltic.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a term used by Professor Gneiss. Now Oi’ll call ye’r attention to
the ind av this column. That we call octagon, meaning eight-sided, as ye
can see. And if yer measure the eight sides, sur, yer’ll foind them the
same to a hair’s breadth.”

“And yet you say nobody chiselled it?”

“Oi do, sur.”

“You evidently think I’ll believe anything. But no matter. Go on, go
on.”

“Now, if ye’ll notice, around this octagon are eight other pillars,
forming an octagon group, as we call thim here, sur, all the columns
being aqual in size. Now, sur, if ye follow me here, ye will see a
septagon column, from the Latin word maning siven, and around that there
are siven columns.”

“Is there any sixtogon one?”

“There is not, sur.”

“It’s a sort of seven-by-eight Causeway then?”

“There, sur, Oi tould ye ye would slip down, sur. A man broke his leg
there once. Are ye hurt, sur?”

“Not in the least.”

“Thank the powers for that, sur! Oi always notice that the quieter a man
kapes, the more attention he can pay to his futin’.”

“And you’re paid to do the talking, too. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Now, sur, ye see from here the Great Causeway. Isn’t that a grand
soight, sur?”

“Well, that depends on what you call a——”

“Oh! tare an’ ’owns, sur, ye’ve kilt yerself entoirely this toime. Don’t
attempt to roise, sur, till Oi get down to ye. Dear! dear!! Are ye badly
hurt, sur?”


[Illustration: “‘DON’T ATTEMPT TO ROISE, SUR, TILL OI GET DOWN TO YE.’”]


“Groggy, but still in the ring. Say, are my trousers——”

“They _are_ torn a little, sur, Oi regret to say.”

“Why the Old Harry didn’t you tell me this place was so slippery? Do you
want to break a man’s neck over this Causeway of yours?”

“Sure, sur, Oi warned ye the very first afgo. Beggin’ your pardon, sur,
if ye’d pay as much attintion to ye’r fut as you do to your tongue——”

“Who’s been doing all the talking? Have I opened my mouth since we
started? Well, now that we’re down here, what’s there to see?”

“Ye see these columns, sur. They’re the tallest in the Causeway. Ye can
see their formation now, sur. They’re all in short lengths of three or
four feet, and every joint is a perfect ball and socket wan.”

“What’s the object of the ball and socket?”

“Ah, who can tell that, sur?”

“Hadn’t the professor some pet fiction about it?”

“He _did_ say, sur——”

“I was sure of it.”

“——That it was on account of the uneven cooling of the lava. Now, look
at this, sur. This is—_be_ careful, sur. Ye were nearly aff that toime
again. This is the Goiant’s Wishin’ Chair. If ye sit down here, ye can
have three wishes, sur.”

“I won’t sit down.”

“Have ye nothing to wish, sur?”

“No. All I wanted was to meet the biggest liar in the world, but I don’t
need to wish for that now.”

“Then ye’ve met him, sur. Well, Oi suppose ye like company, sur?”

“Anything else to be seen around here?”

“Do ye see those basaltic columns on the face av the cliff, sur? That’s
the Goiant’s Organ, sur.”

“Who plays on it?”

“Well, sur, the storms do. When the wind comes dhriving in from the
Atlantic, and the waves lash up the Causeway, they do be sayin’ that
whin the timpast is at its hoight all the grand tones av an organ can be
heard comin’ from thim pipes.”

“Good enough. That’s worth the money. Here you are. I must be going now
to catch my train. Good-bye.”

“Here’s a very dacent mon, sur, that sells picturs av the Causeway.”

“I don’t care for any.”

“They’re very chape, sur.”

“I want to forget the Causeway.”

“Then good-bye, sur, an’ thank ye, sur.”

“Good-bye.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Guide (to the Picture-seller): “De ye see thot mon sprawlin’ over
the Causeway? Well, thot’s the dombdest fule Oi iver tuk over these
racks. Oi wouldn’t take that mon over the Causeway agin fur all the
money in the North av Oireland. De ye mind _thot_ now?”

                                         _Robert Barr_ (“_Luke Sharp_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _HANS BREITMANN’S BARTY._


                  HANS BREITMANN gife a barty;
                    Dey had biano-blayin’,
                  I felled in lofe mit a ’Merican frau,
                    Her name vas Madilda Yane.
                  She hat haar as prown ash a pretzel,
                    Her eyes vas himmel-plue,
                  Und vhen dey looket indo mine,
                    Dey shplit mine heart in dwo.


[Illustration: “VENT SHPINNEN’ ROUND UND ROUND.”]


                 Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
                   I vent dere you’ll pe pound;
                 I valtzet mit Madilda Yane,
                   Und vent shpinnen’ round und round.
                 De pootiest Fraulein in de house,
                   She vayed ’pout dwo hoondred pound,
                 Und every dime she gife a shoomp
                   She make de vindows sound.

                 Hans Breitmann gife a barty,
                   I dells you it cost him dear;
                 Dey rolled in more ash sefen kecks
                   Of foost-rate lager beer.
                 Und vhenefer dey knocks de shpicket in
                   De Deutschers gifes a cheer;
                 I dinks dat so vine a barty
                   Nefer coom to a het dis year.

                 Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
                   Dere all vas Souse and Brouse,
                 Vhen de sooper comed in, de gompany
                   Did make demselfs to house;
                 Dey ate das Brot and Gensy broost,
                   De Bratwurst and Braten vine,
                 Und vash der Abendessen down
                   Mit four parrels of Neckarwein.

                 Hans Breitmann gife a barty;
                   Ve all cot troonk ash bigs.
                 I poot mine mout’ to a parrel of beer,
                   Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs;
                 Und den I gissed Madilda Yane.
                   Und she shlog me on de kop,
                 Und de gompany vighted mit daple-lecks
                   Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop.

                 Hans Breitmann gife a barty—
                   Vhere ish dot barty now?
                 Vhere ish de lofely golden cloud
                   Dot float on de moundain’s prow?
                 Vhere ish de himmelstrahlende stern—
                   De shtar of de shpirit’s light?
                 All goned afay mit de lager beer—
                   Afay in de Ewigkeit.

                                               _Charles Godfrey Leland._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _OUR NEW BEDSTEAD._

[Illustration: “WE HAD TO TURN OUT EVERY HOUR.”]


I HAVE bought me a new patent bedstead, to facilitate early rising,
called a “wake-up.” It is a good thing to rise early in the country.
Even in the winter time it is conducive to health to get out of a warm
bed by lamplight; to shiver into your drawers and slippers; to wash your
face in a basin of ice-flakes; and to comb out your frigid hair with an
uncompromising comb, before a frosty looking-glass. The only difficulty
about it lies in the impotence of human will. You will deliberate about
it and argue the point. You will indulge in specious pretences, and lie
still with only the tip end of your nose outside the blankets; you will
pretend to yourself that you _do_ intend to jump out in a few minutes;
you will tamper with the good intention, and yet indulge in the
delicious luxury. To all this the “wake-up” is inflexibly and
triumphantly antagonistic. It is a bedstead with a clock scientifically
inserted in the head-board. When you go to bed you wind up the clock,
and point the index-hand to that hour on the dial at which you wish to
rise in the morning. Then you place yourself in the hands of the
invention and shut your eyes.

You are now, as it were, under the guardianship of King Solomon and
Doctor Benjamin Franklin. There is no need to recall those beautiful
lines of the poet’s—

              “Early to bed and early to rise,
               Will make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

Science has forestalled them. The “wake-up” is a combination of hard
wood, hinges, springs, and clock-work, against sleeping late o’
mornings. It is a bedstead with all the beautiful vitality of a
flower—it opens with the dawn. If, for instance, you set the hand
against six o’clock in the morning, at six the clock at the bed’s head
solemnly strikes a demi-twelve on its sonorous bell. If you pay no
attention to the monitor, or idly, dreamily endeavour to compass the
coherent sequence of sounds, the invention, within the succeeding two
minutes, drops its tail-board and lets down your feet upon the floor.
While you are pleasantly defeating this attempt upon your privacy by
drawing up your legs within the precincts of the blankets, the virtuous
head-board and the rest of the bed suddenly rise up in protest; and the
next moment, if you do not instantly abdicate, you are launched upon the
floor by a blind elbow that connects with the crank of an eccentric,
that is turned by a cord that is wound around a drum, that is moved by
an endless screw, that revolves within the body of the machinery. So
soon as you are turned out, of course, you waive the balance of the nap
and proceed to dress.

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, contemplatively, after the grimy machinists
had departed, “this machine is one of the most remarkable evidences of
progress the ingenuity of man has yet developed. In this bedstead we see
a host of cardinal virtues made practical by science. To rise early one
must possess courage, prudence, self-denial, temperance, and fortitude.
The cultivation of these virtues, necessarily attended with a great deal
of trouble, may now be dispensed with, as this engine can entirely set
aside, and render useless, a vast amount of moral discipline. I have no
doubt in a short time we shall see the finest attributes of the human
mind superseded by machinery. Nay, more; I have very little doubt that,
as a preparatory step in this great progress, we shall have physical
monitors of cast-iron and wheel-work to regulate the ordinary routine of
duty in every family.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she did not precisely understand what I meant.

“For instance,” said I, in continuation, “we dine every day; as a
general thing, I mean. Now sometimes we eat too much, and how easy, how
practicable it would be to regulate our appetites by a banquet-dial. The
subject, having had the superficial area of his skull and the cubic
capacity of his body worked out respectively by a licensed craniologist
and by a licensed corporalogist, gets from each a certificate, which
certificates are duly registered in the county clerk’s office. From the
county clerk he received a permit, marked, we will say, ten.”

“Not ten pounds, I hope,” said Mrs. S.

“No, my dear,” I replied, “ten would be the average of his capacity. We
will now suppose the chair, in which the subject is seated at dinner,
rests upon a pendulous platform, over a delicate arrangement of levers,
connected with an upright rod, that runs through the section of table in
front of his plate, and this rod, we will suppose, is toothed into a
ratchet-wheel, that moves the index of the banquet-dial. You will see at
once that, as he hangs balanced in this scale, any absorption of food
would be instantly indicated by the index. All then he is called upon to
do is to watch the dial until the hand points to ‘ten,’ and then stop
eating.”

“But,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “suppose he shouldn’t be half through?”

“Oh!” said I, “that would not make any difference. When the dial says he
has had enough, he must quit.”

“But,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “suppose he _would not_ stop eating?”

“Then,” said I, “the proper way to do would be to inform against him,
and have him brought immediately before a justice of the peace, and if
he did not at once swear that he had eaten within his limits, fine him,
and seize all the victuals on his premises.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. S., “you would have a law to regulate it, then?”

“Of course,” said I, “a statute—a statutory provision, or provisionary
act. Then, the principle once being established, you see how easily and
beautifully we could be regulated by the simplest motive powers. All the
obligations we now owe to society and to ourselves could be dispensed
with, or rather transferred to, or vested in, some superior machine, to
which we would be accountable by night and day. Nay, more than that,
instead of sending representatives to legislate for us, how easy it
would be to construct a legislature of bronze and wheel-work—an
incorruptible legislature. I would suggest a hydraulic or pneumatic
congress as being less liable to explode, and more easily graduated than
one propelled by steam simply. All that would be required of us then
would be to elect a state engineer annually, and he, with the assistance
of a few underlings, could manage the automata as he pleased.”

“I do not see,” replied Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “how that would be an
improvement upon the present method, from all I hear.”

This unexpected remark of Mrs. S. surprised me into silence for a
moment, but immediately recovering, I answered, that a hydraulic or
pneumatic legislature would at least have this advantage—it would
construct enactments for the State at, at least, one-fiftieth part of
the present expense, and at the same time do the work better and
quicker.

“Now, my dear,” said I, as I wound up the ponderous machinery with a
huge key, “as you are always an early riser, and as, of course, you will
be up before seven o’clock, I will set the indicator at that hour, so
that you will not be disturbed by the progress of science. It is getting
to be very cold, my dear, but how beautiful the stars are to-night. Look
at Orion and the Pleiades! Intensely lustrous in the frosty sky.”

The sensations one experiences in lying down upon a complication of
mechanical forces are somewhat peculiar if they are not entirely novel.
I once had the pleasure, for one week, of sleeping over the boiler of a
high-pressure Mississippi steamboat; and, as I knew in case of a blow up
I should be the first to hear of it, I composed my mind as well as I
could under the circumstances. But this reposing upon a bed of statics
and dynamics, with the constant chirping and crawling of wheel-work at
the bed’s head, with a thought now and then of the inexorable iron elbow
below, and an uncertainty as to whether the clock itself might not be
too fast, or too slow, caused me to be rather reflective and watchful
than composed and drowsy.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the lucent stars in their blue depths, and the
midnight moon, now tipping the Palisades with a fringe of silver fire,
and was thinking how many centuries that lovely light had played upon
those rugged ridges of trap and basalt, and so finally sinking from the
reflective to the imaginative, and from the imaginative to the
indistinct, at last reached that happy state of half consciousness,
between half asleep and asleep, when the clock in the machine woke up,
and suddenly struck eight. Of course I knew it was later, but I could
not imagine why it should at all, as I presumed the only time of
striking was in the morning by way of signal. As Mrs. S. was sound
asleep, I concluded not to say anything to her about it; but I could not
help thinking what an annoyance it would be if the clock should keep on
striking the hours during the night. In a little while the bedclothes
seemed to droop at the foot of the bed, to which I did not pay much
attention, as I was just then engaged listening to the drum below, that
seemed to be steadily engaged in winding up its rope and preparing for
action. Then I felt the upper part of the patent bedstead rising up, and
then I concluded to jump out, just as the iron elbow began to utter a
cry like unto the cry of a steel Katydid, and did jump, but was
accidentally preceded by the mattress, one bolster, two pillows, ditto
blankets, a brace of threadbare linen sheets, one coverlid, the baby,
one cradle (overturned), and Mrs. Sparrowgrass. To gather up these
heterogeneous materials of comfort required some little time, and, in
the meanwhile, the bedstead subsided. When we retired again, and were
once more safely protected from the nipping cold, although pretty well
cooled, I could not help speaking of the perfect operation of the
bedstead in high terms of praise, although, by some accident, it had
fulfilled its object a little earlier than had been desirable. As I am
very fond of dilating upon a pleasant theme, the conversation was
prolonged until Mrs. Sparrowgrass got sleepy, and the clock struck nine.
Then we had to turn out again. We had to turn out every hour during the
long watches of the night for that wonderful epitome of the age of
progress.

When the morning came we were sleepy enough, and the next evening we
concluded to replace the “wake-up” with a common, old-fashioned
bedstead. To be sure I had made a small mistake the first night, in not
setting the “_indicator_” as well as the _index_ of the dial. But what
of that? Who wants his rest, that precious boon, subjected to
contingencies? When we go to sleep, and say our prayers, let us wake up
according to our natures, and according to our virtues; some require
more sleep, some less; we are not mere bits of mechanism after all; who
knows what world we may chance to wake up in? For my part, I have
determined not to be a humming-top, to be wound up and to run down, just
like that very interesting toy one of the young Sparrowgrassii has just
now left upon my table, minus a string.

                                           _Frederick Swartout Cozzens._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             _A QUILTING._


I MUST tell you, however, of a quilting which I did not share with Mr.
Sibthorpe, though I wished for him many times during the afternoon. It
was held at the house of a very tidy neighbour, a Mrs. Boardman, the
neatness of whose dwelling and its outworks I have often admired in
passing. She invited all the neighbours, and, of course, included my
unworthy self, although I had never had any other acquaintance than that
which may be supposed to result from John and Sophy’s having boarded
with her for some time. The walking being damp, an ox cart was sent
round for such of the guests as had no “team” of their own, which is our
case as yet. This equipage was packed with hay, over which was disposed,
by way of _musnud_, a blue and white coverlet; and by this arrangement
half-a-dozen goodly dames, including myself, found reclining room, and
were carried at a stately pace to Mrs. Boardman’s. Here we found a
collection of women busily occupied in preparing the quilt, which you
may be sure was a curiosity to me. They had stretched the lining on a
frame, and were now laying fleecy cotton on it with much care; and I
understood from several aside remarks, which were not intended for the
ear of our hostess, that a due regard for etiquette required that this
laying of the cotton should have been performed before the arrival of
the company, in order to give them a better chance for finishing the
quilt before tea, which is considered a point of honour.


[Illustration: “CARRIED AT A STATELY PACE.”]


However, with so many able hands at work, the preparations were soon
accomplished. The “bats” were smoothly disposed, and now consenting
hands on either side

               Induced a splendid cover, green and blue,
                            Yellow and red,

wherein stars and garters, squares and triangles, figured in every
possible relation to each other, and produced, on the whole, a very
pretty mathematical piece of work, on which the eyes of Mrs. Boardman
rested with no small amount of womanly pride.

Now needles were in requisition, and every available space round the
frame was filled by a busy dame.

Several of the company, being left-handed, or rather, ambidextrous (no
unusual circumstance here), this peculiarity was made serviceable at the
corners, where common seamstresses could only sew in one direction,
while these favoured individuals could turn their double power to double
account. This beginning of the solid labour was a serious time. Scarcely
a word was spoken beyond an occasional request for the thread, or an
exclamation at the snapping of a needle. This last seemed of no
unfrequent occurrence, as you may well suppose, when you think of the
thickness of the materials, and the necessity for making at least
tolerably short stitches. I must own that the most I could accomplish
for the first hour was the breaking of needles, and the pricking of my
fingers in the vain attempt to do as I was bid, and take my stitches
“clear through.”

By-and-by it was announced that it was time to roll—and all was bustle
and anxiety. The frame had to be taken apart at the corners, and two of
the sides rolled several times with much care, and at this diminished
surface we began again with renewed spirit. Now all tongues seemed
loosened. The evidence of progress had raised everybody’s spirits, and
the strife seemed to be who should talk fastest without slackening the
industry of her fingers. Some held _tête-à-tête_ communications with a
crony in an undertone; others discussed matters of general interest more
openly; and some made observations at nobody in particular, but with a
view to the amusement of all. Mrs. Vining told the symptoms of each of
her five children through an attack of the measles; Mrs. Keteltas gave
her opinion as to the party most worthy of blame in a late separation in
the village; and Miss Polly Mittles said she hoped the quilt would not
be “scant of stitches, like a bachelor’s shirt.”

Tea-time came before the work was completed, and some of the more
generous declared they would rather finish it before tea. These offers
fell rather coldly, however, for a real tea-drinker does not feel very
good-humoured just before tea.

So Mr. Boardman drove four stout nails in the rafters overhead,
corresponding in distance with the corners of the quilt, and the frame
was raised and fastened to these, so as to be undisturbed, and yet out
of the way during the important ceremony that was to succeed.

Is it not well said that “Necessity is the mother of invention”?

A long table was now spread, eked out by boards laid upon carpenters’
“horses,” and this was covered with a variety of table-cloths, all
shining clean, however, and carefully disposed. The whole table array
was equally various, the contributions, I presume, of several
neighbouring log-houses. The feast spread upon it included every variety
that ever was put upon a tea-table; from cake and preserves to pickles
and raw cabbage cut up in vinegar.

Pies there were, and custards and sliced ham, and cheese, and three or
four kinds of bread. I could do little besides look, and try to guess
out the dishes. However, everything was very good, and our hostess must
have felt complimented by the attention paid to her various delicacies.

The cabbage, I think, was rather the favourite; vinegar being one of the
rarities of a settler’s cabin.

I was amused to see the loads of cake and pie that accumulated upon the
plates of the guests.

When all had finished, most of the plates seemed full. But I was told
afterwards that it was not considered civil to decline any one kind of
food, though your hostess may have provided a dozen. You are expected at
least to try each variety. But this leads to something which I cannot
think very agreeable.

After all had left the table, our hostess began to clear it away, that
the quilt might be restored to its place; and, as a preliminary, she
went all round to the different plates, selecting such pieces of cake as
were but little _bitten_, and paring off the half-demolished edges with
a knife, in order to replace them in their original circular position in
the dishes. When this was accomplished, she assiduously scraped from the
edges of the plates the scraps of butter that had escaped demolition,
and wiped them back on the remains of the pat. This was doubtless a
season of delectation to the economical soul of Mrs. Boardman; you may
imagine its effects upon the nerves of your friend. Such is the
influence of habit! The good woman doubtless thought she was performing
a praiseworthy action, and one in no wise at variance with her usual
neat habits; and if she could have peeped into my heart, and there have
read the resolutions I was tacitly making against breaking bread again
under the same auspices, she would have pitied or despised such a
lamentable degree of pride and extravagance. So goes this strange world.

The quilt was replaced, and several good housewives seated themselves at
it, determined to “see it out.” I was reluctantly compelled to excuse
myself, my inexperienced fingers being pricked to absolute rawness. But
I have since ascertained that the quilt was finished that evening, and
placed on Mrs. Boardman’s best bed immediately; where indeed I see it
every time I pass the door, as it is not our custom to keep our handsome
things in the background. There were some long stitches in it, I know,
but they do not show as far as the road; so the quilt is a very great
treasure, and will probably be kept as an heirloom.

I have some thoughts of an attempt in the “patchwork” line myself. One
of the company at Mrs. Boardman’s remarked that the skirt of the French
cambric dress I wore would make a “splendid” quilt. It is a temptation,
certainly.

                                                            _Sam Slick._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _A PATENTED CHILD._

[Illustration]


THE town of Sussex, Pennsylvania, has lately been profoundly stirred by
an extraordinary and romantic lawsuit. The case was an entirely novel
one, and no precedent bearing upon it is to be found in the common or
statute law. While it is necessarily a matter of great interest to the
legal profession, its romantic side cannot fail to attract the attention
of persons of all ages and every kind of sex. In fact, it is destined to
be one of the most celebrated cases in the annals of American
jurisprudence.

Some time last winter a lady whom we will call Mrs. Smith, who kept a
boarding-house in Sussex, took her little girl, aged four, with her to
make a call on Mrs. Brown, her near neighbour. Mrs. Brown was busy in
the kitchen, where she received her visitor with her usual cordiality.
There was a large fire blazing in the stove, and while the ladies were
excitedly discussing the new bonnet of the local Methodist minister’s
wife, the little girl incautiously sat down on the stove hearth. She was
instantly convinced that the hearth was exceedingly hot, and on loudly
bewailing the fact, was rescued by her mother and carried home for
medical treatment. A few days later Mrs. Smith burst in great excitement
into the room of a young law student, who was one of her boarders, and
with tears and lamentations disclosed to him the fact that her child was
indelibly branded with the legend, “Patented, 1872.” These words in
raised letters had happened to occupy just that part of the stove-hearth
on which the child had seated herself, and being heated nearly to red
heat they had reproduced themselves on the surface of the unfortunate
child.

The law student entered into the mother’s sorrow with much sympathy, but
after he had in some degree calmed her mind he informed her that a
breach of law had been committed. “Your child,” he remarked, “has never
been patented, but she is marked ‘Patented, 1872.’ This is an
infringement of the statute. You falsely represent by that brand that a
child for whom no patent was issued is patented. This false
representation is forgery, and subjects you to penalty made and provided
for that crime.”

Mrs. Smith was, as may be supposed, greatly alarmed at learning this
statement, and her first impulse was to beg the young man to save her
from a convict’s cell. With a gravity suited to the occasion, he
explained the whole law of patents. He told her that had she desired to
patent the child, she should have either constructed a model of it or
prepared accurate drawings, with specifications showing distinctly what
parts of the child she claimed to have invented. This model or these
drawings she should have forwarded to the Patent Office, and she would
then have received in due time a patent—provided, of course, the child
was really patentable—and would have been authorised to label it
“Patented.” “Unfortunately,” he pursued, “it is now too late to take
this course, and we must boldly claim that a patent was issued, but that
the record was destroyed during the recent fire in the Patent Office.”

This suggestion cheered the spirits of Mrs. Smith, but they were again
dashed by the further remarks of the young man. He reminded her that the
child might find it very inconvenient to be patented. “If we claim,” he
went on to say, “that she has been regularly patented, it follows that
the ownership of the patent, including the child herself, belongs to
you, and will pass at your death into the possession of your heirs.
Holding the patent, they can prevent any husband taking possession of
the girl by marriage, and they can sell, assign, transfer, and set over
the patent right and the accompanying girl to any purchaser. If she is
sold to a speculator or to a joint-stock company, she will find her
position a most unpleasant one; and to sum up the case, madam, either
your child is patented or she is not. If she is not patented, you are
guilty of forgery. If she is patented, she is an object of barter and
sale, or in other words a chattel.”

This was certainly a wretched state of things, and Mrs. Smith, to ease
her mind, began to abuse Mrs. Brown, whose stove had branded the
unfortunate little girl. She loudly insisted that the whole fault rested
with Mrs. Brown, and demanded to know if the latter could not be
punished. The young man, who was immensely learned in the law, thereupon
began a new argument. He told her that where there is a wrong there
must, in the nature of things, be a remedy. “Mrs. Brown, by means of her
stove, has done you a great wrong. In accordance with the maxim, _Qui
facit per alium facit per se_, Mrs. Brown, and not the stove, is the
party from whom you must demand redress. She has wickedly and
maliciously, and at the instigation of the devil, branded your child,
and thus rendered you liable for an infringement of the patent law. It
is my opinion, madam, that an action for assault and an action for libel
will both lie against Mrs. Brown, and ‘_semble_’ that there is also
ground for having her indicted for procurement of forgery.” Finally,
after much further argument, the young man advised her to apply to a
magistrate and procure the arrest and punishment of Mrs. Brown.

Accordingly, Mrs. Smith applied to the Mayor, who, after vainly trying
to comprehend the case, and to find out what was the precise crime
alleged against Mrs. Brown, compromised the matter by unofficially
asking the lady to appear before him. When both the ladies were in court
Mrs. Smith, prompted by the clerk, put her complaint in the shape of a
charge that Mrs. Brown had branded the youthful Smith girl. The latter
was then marked “Exhibit A,” and formally put in evidence, and both
complainant and defendant told their respective stories.

The result was that the court, in a very able and voluminous opinion,
decided that nobody was guilty of anything, but that, with a view of
avoiding the penalty of infringing the patent law, the mother must apply
to Congress for a special act declaring the child regularly and legally
patented.

If Congress finds time to attend to this important matter, little Miss
Smith will be the first girl ever patented in this country, and the
legal profession will watch with unflagging interest the law-suits to
which in future any infringement of the patent may lead.

                                                          _W. L. Alden._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _A TALK ABOUT TEA._

[Illustration: “OUR LEARNED FRIEND, DR. BUSHWHACKER.”]


“SIR,” said our learned friend, Dr. Bushwhacker, “we are indebted to
China for the four principal blessings we enjoy. Tea came from China,
the compass came from China, printing came from China, and gunpowder
came from China—thank God! China, sir, is an old country, a very old
country. There is one word, sir, we got from China that is oftener in
the mouths of American people than any other word in the language. It is
_cash_, sir, cash! That we derive from the Chinese. It is the name, sir,
of the small brass coin they use, the coin with a square hole in the
middle. And then look at our Franklin; he drew the lightning from the
skies with his kite; but who invented the kite, sir? The long-tailed
Chinaman, sir. Franklin had no invention; he never would have invented a
kite or a printing-press. But he could use them, sir, to the best
possible advantage, sir; he had no genius, sir, but he had remarkable
talent and industry.

“Then, sir, we got our umbrella from China. The first man that carried
an umbrella, in London, in Queen Anne’s reign, was followed by a mob.
That is only one hundred and fifty years ago. We get the art of making
porcelain from China. Our ladies must thank the Celestials for their
tea-pots.

“Queen Elizabeth never saw a tea-pot in her life. In 1664 the East India
Company brought two pounds two ounces of tea as a present for his
Majesty King Charles the Second. In 1667 they imported one hundred
pounds of tea.

“Then, sir, rose the reign of scandal. Queen scandal, sir! Then, sir,
rose the intolerable race of waspish spinsters who sting reputations and
defame humanity over their dyspeptic cups. Then, sir, the astringent
principle of the herb was communicated to the heart, and domestic
troubles were brewed and fomented over the tea-table. Then, sir, the age
of chivalry was over, and women grew acrid and bitter; then, sir, the
first temperance society was founded, and high duties were laid upon
wines, and in consequence they distilled whisky instead, which made
matters a great deal better, of course; and all the abominations, all
the difficulties of domestic life, all the curses of living in a country
village; the intolerant canvassing of character, reputation, piety; the
nasty, mean, prying spirit; the uncharitable, defamatory, gossiping,
tale-bearing, whispering, unwomanly, unchristianlike behaviour of those
who set themselves up for patterns over their vile decoctions, sir,
arose with the introduction of tea. Yes, sir; when the wine-cup gave
place to the tea-cup, then the devil, sir, reached his culminating
point.

“The curiosity of Eve was bad enough; but, sir, when Eve’s curiosity
becomes sharpened by turgid tonics, and scandal is added to
inquisitiveness, and innuendo supplies the place of truth, and an
imperfect digestion is the pilot instead of charity; then, sir, we must
expect to see human nature vilified, and levity condemned, and good
fellowship condemned, and all good men, from Washington down, damned by
Miss Tittle, and Miss Tattle, and the widow Blackleg, and the whole host
of tea-drinking conspirators against social enjoyment.”

Here Dr. Bushwhacker grew purple with eloquence and indignation. We
ventured to remark that he had spoken of tea “as a blessing” at first.

“Yes, sir,” responded Dr. Bushwhacker, shaking his bushy head, “that
reminds one of Doctor Pangloss. Yes, sir, it is a blessing, but like all
other blessings it must be used _temperately_, or else it is a curse!
China, sir,” continued the doctor, dropping the oratorical and taking up
the historical; “China, sir, knows nothing of perspective, but she is
great in pigments. Indian ink, sir, is Chinese, so are vermilion and
indigo; the malleable properties of gold, sir, were first discovered by
this extraordinary people; we must thank them for our gold leaf. Gold is
not a pigment, but roast pig is, and Charles Lamb says the origin of
roast pig is Chinese; the beautiful fabric we call silk, sir, came from
the Flowery Nation, so did embroidery, so did the game of chess, so did
fans. In fact, sir, it is difficult to say what we have not derived from
the Chinese. Cotton, sir, is our great staple, but they wove and spun,
long staple and short staple, yellow cotton and white cotton, before
Columbus sailed out of the port of Palos in the _Santa Maria_.”

                                                 _Frederick S. Cozzens._




------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration: _OLD AUNT MARY’S._]


           WASN’T it pleasant, O brother mine,
           In those old days of the lost sunshine
           Of youth—when the Saturday’s chores were through,
           And the “Sunday’s wood” in the kitchen, too,
           And we went visiting, “me and you,”
                                    Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?
           It all comes back so clear to-day!
           Though I am as bald as you are grey—
           Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
           We patter along in the dust again,
           As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
                                    Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

           We cross the pasture, and through the wood
           Where the old grey snag of the poplar stood,
           Where the hammering “red-heads” hopped awry,
           And the buzzard “raised” in the “clearing” sky,
           And lolled and circled, as we went by
                                    Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

           And then in the dust of the road again;
           And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
           And the long highway, with sunshine spread
           As thick as butter on country bread,
           Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead,
                                    Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

           Why, I see her now in the open door,
           Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o’er
           The clapboard roof!—and her face—ah, me!
           Wasn’t it good for a boy to see—
           And wasn’t it good for a boy to be
                                    Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

           And oh, my brother, so far away,
           This is to tell you she waits to-day
           To welcome us:—Aunt Mary fell
           Asleep this morning, whispering, “Tell
           The boys to come!”  And all is well
                                    Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

                                                 _James Whitcomb Riley._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     _A PETITION OF THE LEFT HAND._

          TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE SUPERINTENDENCY OF EDUCATION.


I ADDRESS myself to all the friends of youth, and conjure them to direct
their compassionate regards to my unhappy fate, in order to remove the
prejudices of which I am the victim. There are twin sisters of us; and
the two eyes of man do not more resemble, nor are capable of being upon
better terms with each other, than my sister and myself, were it not for
the partiality of our parents, who make the most injurious distinctions
between us. From my infancy I have been led to consider my sister as a
being of a more elevated rank. I was suffered to grow up without the
least instruction, while nothing was spared in her education.

She had masters to teach her writing, drawing, music, and other
accomplishments; but if by chance I touched a pencil, a pen, or a
needle, I was bitterly rebuked; and more than once I have been beaten
for being awkward, and wanting a graceful manner. It is true, my sister
associated me with her upon some occasions; but she always made a point
of taking the lead, calling upon me only from necessity, or to figure by
her side.

But conceive not, sirs, that my complaints are instigated merely by
vanity. No; my uneasiness is occasioned by an object much more serious.
It is the practice in our family, that the whole business of providing
for its subsistence falls upon my sister and myself. If any
indisposition should attack my sister,—and I mention it in confidence
upon this occasion, that she is subject to the gout, the rheumatism, and
cramp, without making mention of other accidents,—what would be the fate
of our poor family?

Must not the regret of our parents be excessive, at having placed so
great a difference between sisters who are so perfectly equal? Alas! we
must perish from distress; for it would not be in my power even to
scrawl a suppliant petition for relief, having been obliged to employ
the hand of another in transcribing the request which I have now the
honour to prefer to you.

Condescend, sirs, to make my parents sensible of the injustice of an
exclusive tenderness, and of the necessity of distributing their care
and affection among all their children equally. I am, with a profound
respect, sirs, your obedient servant,

                                                          THE LEFT HAND.
                                                    _Benjamin Franklin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _WOMEN’S FASHIONS._


SHOULD I not keepe promise in speaking a little to Women’s fashions,
they would take it unkindly. I was loath to pester better matter with
such stuffe; I rather thought it meet to let them stand by themselves,
like the _Quæ Genus_ in the Grammar, being Deficients, or Redundants,
not to be brought under any Rule: I shall therefore make bold for this
once, to borrow a little of their loose-tongued Liberty, and misspend a
word or two upon their long-wasted, but short-skirted patience; a little
use of my stirrup will doe no harme.

                 _Ridentem dicere verum, quid prohibet?

             Gray Gravity itselfe can well beteam,
             That Language be adapted to the Theme.
             He that to Parrots speaks, must parrotize;
             He that instructs a foole, may act th’ unwise._

It is known more then enough, that I am neither Nigard, nor Cinick, to
the due bravery of the true Gentry: if any man mislikes a bully ’mong
drossock more than I, let him take her for his labour! I honour the
woman that can honour her selfe with her attire: a good Text alwayes
deserves a fair Margent: I am not much offended if I see a trimme, far
trimmer than she that wears it: in a word, whatever Christianity or
Civility will allow, I can afford with _London_ measure: but when I
heare a nugiperous Gentledame inquire what dresse the Queen is in this
week: what the nudiustertian fashion of the court; I meane the very
newest: with egge to be in it in all haste, what ever it be; I look at
her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the product of a quarter of a
cypher, the epitome of nothing, fitter to be kickt, if shee were of a
kickable substance, than either honour’d or humour’d.

To speak moderately, I truly confesse, it is beyond the ken of my
understanding to conceive, how those women should have any true grace,
or valuable vertue, that have so little wit, as to disfigure
themselves with such exotick garbes, as not only dismantles their
native lovely lustre, but trans-clouts them into gant bar-geese,
ill-shapen-shotten-shell-fish, Egyptian hyeroglyphicks, or at the best
into French flurts of the pastery, which a proper English-woman should
scorne with her heels; it is no marvell they weare drailes on the
hinder part of their heads, having nothing as it seems in the fore
part, but a few Squirril’s brains to help them frisk from one
ill-favor’d fashion to another.

        _These whimm-Crown’d shees, these fashion-fansying wits,
        Are empty thin-brained shells, and fiddling Kits._

The very troublers and impoverishers of mankind, I can hardly forbear to
commend to the world a saying of a Lady living sometime with the Queen
of _Bohemia_. I know not where shee found it, but it is a pitty it
should be lost.

  _The World is full of care, much like unto a bubble;
  Women and care, and care and women, and women and care and trouble._

The Verses are even enough for such odde pegma’s. I can make myselfe
sicke at any time, with comparing the dazling splender wherewith our
Gentlewomen were embellished in some former habits, with the goosdom
wherewith they are now surcingled and debauched. Wee have about five or
six of them in our Colony; if I see any of them accidentally, I cannot
cleanse my phansie of them for a moneth after. I have been a solitary
widdower almost twelve yeares, purposed lately to make a step over to my
Native Country for a yoke fellow; but when I consider how women there
have tripe-wifed themselves with their cladments, I have no heart to the
voyage, least their nauseous shapes and the Sea, should work too sorely
upon my stomach. I speak sadly; me thinkes it should breake the hearts
of Englishmen to see so many goodly Englishwomen imprisoned in French
Cages, peering out of their hood-holes for some men of mercy to help
them with a little wit, and no body relieves them.

It is a more common than convenient saying, that nine Taylors make a
man; it were well if nineteene could make a woman to her minde; if
Taylors were men indeed, well furnished, but with meer morall
principles, they would disdain to be led about like Apes, by such mymick
Marmosets. It is a most unworthy thing, for men that have bones in them,
to spend their lives in making fidle-cases for futilous women’s
phansies; which are the very pettitoes of infirmity, the gyblets of
perquisquilian toyes. I am so charitable to think, that most of that
mystery would worke the cheerfuller while they live, if they might bee
well discharged of the tyring slavery of mis-trying women; it is no
little labour to be continually putting up English-women into
Out-landish caskes; who if they be not shifted anew, once in a few
moneths, grow too sowre for their Husbands. What this Trade will answer
for themselves when God shall take measure of Taylors’ consciences is
beyond my skill to imagine. There was a time when

              _The joyning of the Red-Rose with the White,
              Did set our State into a Damask plight._

But now our Roses are turned to _Flore de lices_, our Carnations to
Tulips, our Gilliflowers to Dayzes, our City Dames, to indenominable
Quæmalry of overturcas’d things. Hee that makes Coates for the Moone had
need take measure every noone; and he that makes for women, as often, to
keepe them from Lunacy.

I have often heard divers Ladies vent loud feminine complaints of the
wearisome varieties and chargeable changes of fashions! I marvell
themselves preferre not a Bill of redresse. I would _Essex_ Ladies would
lead the Chore, for the honour of their County and persons; or rather
the thrice honourable Ladies of the Court, whom it best beseemes; who
may wel presume of a _Le Roy le Veult_ from our sober King, a _Les
Seigneurs ont Assentus_ from our prudent Peers, and the like _Assentus_
from our considerate, I dare not say wife-worne Commons! who I believe
had much rather passe one such Bill, than pay so many Taylors’ Bills as
they are forced to doe.

Most deare and unparallel’d Ladies, be pleased to attempt it; as you
have the precellency of the women of the world for beauty and feature;
so assume the honour to give, and not take Law from any, in matter of
attire; if ye can transact so faire a motion among yourselves
unanimously I dare say, they that most renite, will least repent. What
greater honour can your Honours desire, than to build a Promontory
president to all foraigne Ladies, to deserve so eminently at the hands
of all the English Gentry present and to come; and to confute the
opinion of all the wise men in the world; who never thought it possible
for women to doe so good a work?

If any man think I have spoken rather merrily than seriously, he is much
mistaken. I have written what I write with all the indignation I can,
and no more than I ought. I confesse I veer’d my tongue to this kinde of
Language _de industria_ though unwillingly, supposing those I speak to
are uncapable of grave and rationall arguments.

I desire all Ladies and Gentlewomen to understand that all this while I
intend not such as through necessary modesty to avoyd morose
singularity, follow fashions slowly, a flight shot or two off, showing
by their moderation that they rather draw countermont with their hearts,
than put on by their examples.

I point my pen only against the light-heel’d beagles that lead the chase
so fast, that they run all civility out of breath, against these
Ape-headed pullets, which invent Antique foole-fangles, meerly for
fashion and novelty sake.

                                                       _Nathaniel Ward._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             _THE NEWSBOY._

[Illustration: “I WISH YOU, SIR, TO CONTROL YOUR NEWSBOYS.”]


“IS this the office of the _National Pop-gun and Universal Valve
Trumpet_?” inquired Sapid in sepulchral tones.

“Hey—what? Oh!—yes,” gruffly replied the clerk, as he scrutinised the
applicant.

“It is, is it?” was the response.

“H—umpse;” heaving a porcine affirmative, much in use in the city of
brotherly love.

“I am here to see the editor, on business of importance,” slowly and
solemnly articulated Sapid. There must have been something
professionally alarming in this announcement, if an opinion may be
formed from the effect it produced.

“Editor’s not come down yet, is he, Spry?” inquired the clerk, with a
cautionary wink at the paste-boy.

“Guess he ain’t more nor up yet,” said Spry; “the mails was late last
night.”

“I’ll take a seat till he does come,” observed Sapid, gloomily.

Spry and the clerk laid their heads together in the most distant corner
of the little office.

“Has he got a stick?” whispered one.

“No, and he isn’t remarkable big, nuther.”

“Any bit of paper in his hand—does he look like State House and a libel
suit? It’s a’most time—not had a new suit for a week.”

“Not much; and, as we didn’t have any scrouger in the _Gun_ yesterday,
perhaps he wants to have somebody tickled up himself. Send him in.”

St. Sebastian Sockdolager, Esq., the editor of _The National Pop-gun and
Universal Valve Trumpet_, sat at a green table, elucidating an idea by
the aid of a steel pen and whity-brown paper, and therefore St.
Sebastian Sockdolager did not look up when Mr. Sapid entered the
sanctum. The abstraction may, perhaps, have been a sample of literary
stage effect; but it is certain that the pen pursued the idea with the
speed and directness of a steeple-chase, straight across the paper, and
direful was the scratching thereof. The luckless idea being at last
fairly run down and its brush cut off, Mr. Sockdolager threw himself
back into his chair with a smile of triumph.

“Tickletoby,” said he, rumpling his hair into heroic expansiveness.

“What?” exclaimed Sapid, rather nervously.

“My dear sir, I didn’t see you—a thousand pardons! Pray what can be done
for you in our line?”

“Sir, there is a nuisance——”

“Glad of it, sir; _The Gun_ is death on a nuisance. We circulate ten
thousand deaths to any sort of a nuisance every day, besides the weekly
and the country edition. We are a regular smash-pipes in that
line—surgical, surgical to this community—we are at once the knife and
the sarsaparilla to human ills, whether financial, political, or
social.”

“Sir, the nuisance I complain of lies in the circulation—in its mode and
manner.”

“Bless me,” said Sockdolager, with a look of suspicion, “you are too
literal in your interpretations. If your circulation is deranged, you
had better try Brandreth, or the Fluid Extract of Quizembob.”

“It is not my circulation, but yours, that makes all the trouble. I
never circulate—I can’t without being insulted.”

“Really, mister, I can’t say that this is clearly comprehensible to
perception. Not circulate! Are you below par in the money article; or in
what particular do you find yourself in the condition of ‘no go’? Excuse
my facetiæ and be brief, for thought comes tumbling, bumping, booming——”
and Sockdolager dipped his pen in the ink.

Mr. Sappington Sapid unravelled the web of his miseries. “I wish you,
sir, to control your newsboys—to dismiss the saucy, and to write an
article which shall make ’em ashamed of themselves. I shall call on
every editor in the city, sir, and ask the same—a combined expression
for the suppression of iniquity. We must be emancipated from this new
and growing evil, or our liberties become a farce, and we are squashed
and crushed in a way worse than fifty tea-taxes.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Whatcheecallem; it can’t be done—it would be suicidal,
with the sharpest kind of a knife. Whatcheecallem, you don’t understand
the grand movement of the nineteenth century—you are not up to snuff as
to the vital principle of human progression—the propulsive force has not
yet been demonstrated to your benighted optics. The sun is up, sir; the
hill-tops of intellect glow with its brightness, and even the level
plain of the world’s collective mediocrity is gilded by its beams; but
you, sir, are yet in the foggy valley of exploded prejudice, poking
along with a tuppenny-ha’penny candle—a mere dip. Suppress sauciness!
why, my dear bungletonian, sauciness is the discovery of the age—the
secret of advancement! We are saucy now, sir, not by the accident of
constitution—temperament has nothing to do with it. We are saucy by
calculation, by intention, by design. It is cultivated, like our
whiskers, as a superadded energy to our other gifts. Without sauciness,
what is a newsboy? what is an editor? what are revolutions? what are
people? Sauce is power. Sauce is spirit, independence, victory,
everything. It is, in fact,—this sauce, or ‘sass,’ as the vulgar have
it,—steam to the great locomotive of affairs. Suppress, indeed! No, sir;
you should regard it as part of your duty as a philanthropist and as a
patriot to encourage this essence of superiority in all your countrymen;
and I’ve a great mind to write you an article on that subject instead of
the other, for this conversation has warmed up my ideas so completely
that justice will not be done to the community till they, like you, are
enlightened on this important point.”

St. Sebastian Sockdolager, now having a leading article for _The
National Pop-gun and Universal Valve Trumpet_ clearly in his mind, was
not a creature to be trifled with. An editor in this paroxysm, however
gentle in his less inspired moments, cannot safely be crossed, or even
spoken to. It is not wise to call him to dinner, except through the
keyhole; and to ask for “more copy,” in general a privileged demand, is
a risk too fearful to be encountered. St. Sebastian’s eye became fixed,
his brow corrugated, his mouth intellectually ajar.

“But, sir, the nuisance,” said Sappington.

“Don’t bother!” was the impatient reply, and the brow of St. Sebastian
Sockdolager grew black as his own ink.

“The boys, sir, the boys!—am I to be worried out of my life and soul?”

The right hand of St. Sebastian Sockdolager fell heavily upon the huge
pewter inkstand—the concatenation of his ideas had been broken—he half
raised himself from his chair and glanced significantly from his visitor
to the door. “Mizzle!” said he, in a hoarse, suppressed whisper.

The language itself was unintelligible—the word might have been
Chaldaic, for all that Sapid knew to the contrary; but there are
situations in which an interpreter is not needed, and this appeared to
be one of them. Sapid never before made a movement so swiftly
extemporaneous.

He intends shortly to try whether the Grand Jury is a convert to the new
doctrine of sauciness.

                                                       _Joseph C. Neal._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      _THE BOYS AROUND THE HOUSE._


SURELY you must have seen a boy of eight or ten years of age get ready
for bed? His shoe-strings are in a hard knot, and after a few vain
efforts to unlace them he rushes after a case-knife and saws each string
in two. One shoe is thrown under the table, the other behind the stove,
his jacket behind the door, and his stockings are distributed over as
many chairs as they will reach.

The boy doesn’t slip his pants off; he struggles out of them, holding a
leg down with his foot and drawing his limbs out after many stupendous
efforts. While doing this his hands are clutched into the bedclothes,
and by the time he is ready to get into bed the quilts and sheets are
awry and the bed is full of humps and lumps. His brother has gone
through the same motions, and both finally crawl into bed. They are good
boys, and they love each other, but they are hardly settled on their
backs when one cries out—

“Hitch along!”

“I won’t!” bluntly replies the other.

“Ma, Bill’s got more’n half the bed!” cries the first.

“Hain’t either, ma!” replies Bill.

There is a moment of silence, and then the first exclaims—

“Get yer feet off’n me!”

“They hain’t touching you!” is the answer.

“Yes they be, and you’re on my pillar, too!”

“Oh! my stars, what a whopper! You’ll never go to heaven!”

The mother looks into the bedroom and kindly says—

“Come, children, be good, and don’t make your mother any trouble.”

“Well,” replies the youngest, “if Bill ’ll tell me a bear story ’ll go
to sleep.”

The mother withdraws, and Bill starts out—

“Well, you know, there was an old bear who lived in a cave. He was a big
black bear. He had eyes like coals of fire, you know, and when he looked
at a feller he——”

“Ma, Bill’s scaring me!” yells Henry, sitting on end.

“Oh, ma! that’s the awfullest story you ever heard!” replies Bill.

“Hitch along, I say!” exclaims Henry.

“I am along!” replies Bill.

“Get yer knee out’n my back!”

“Hain’t anywhere near ye!”

“Gimme some cloze!”

“You’ve got more’n half now!”

“Come, children, do be good and go to sleep,” says the mother, entering
the room and arranging the clothes.

They doze off after a few muttered words, to preserve the peace until
morning, and it is popularly supposed that an angel sits on each
bed-post to sentinel either curly head during the long, dark hours.

“Ho-hum!” yawns Bill.

“Ho-hum!” yawns Henry.

It is morning, and they crawl out of bed. After four or five efforts
they get into their pants, and then reach out for stockings.

“I know I put mine right down here by this bed!” exclaims Bill.

“And I put mine right there by the end of the bureau!” adds Henry.

They wander around, growling and jawing, and the mother finally finds
the stockings. Then comes the jackets. They are positive that they hung
them on the hooks, and boldly charge that some maliciously wicked person
removed them. And so it goes until each one is finally dressed, washed,
and ready for breakfast, and the mother feels such a burden off her mind
that she can endure what follows their leaving the table—a good
half-hour’s hunt after their hats, which they “positively hung up,” but
which are at last found under some bed, or stowed away behind the
woodbox.

                                               _C. B. Lewis (“M Quad”)._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            _MR. DOTY MAD._


MR. HENRY K. DOTY, one of the most prominent citizens, and the leading
hide and pelt dealer in the North-West, has just returned from a
European tour. He has been absent about four months; and in that time he
has made a visit to every European country, and has become thoroughly
acquainted with the customs, manners, and languages of the different
people. He spent about seventy-five thousand dollars on the trip; but
this could not be called an extravagant sum when one takes into
consideration the superb paintings, statuary, and other works of virtue
that he brought back with him. In Paris, upon the Roo de Rivoly alone,
he purchased fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of pictures; and in
Brussels he bought several thousand dollars’ worth of those elegant
carpets from which that city derives its name. Mr. Doty says that he was
well treated everywhere except in England. He is specially bitter
against Mr. Phelps, our representative at the court of St. James.

“This man Phelps,” says he, “is a little, dried-up, snobbish Vermont
lawyer, with a soul no bigger than a huckleberry. I dyed my moustache,
and put on my dress-suit and my twenty-thousand-dollar diamond
bosom-pin, and called to see him. A fine specimen he is to represent our
wealth and culture! I don’t believe his clothes cost more than twenty
dollars a suit.

“‘I suppose I ought to call on the queen,’ says I.

“He didn’t say anything; and I continued, ‘Would you mind introducing
me?’

“‘Really, Mr. Doty,’ says he, ‘I do not feel like presenting an entire
stranger to her Majesty.’

“‘Oh! you needn’t be scared,’ says I, ‘for I carry as big a letter of
credit as any American in London; and when it comes to culture, and that
sort of thing, I can knock the socks off any of your lords and
marqueezies.’

“Well, will you believe it? he had the impudence to shove a printed list
of questions at me.

“‘You will have to answer these on oath before I can tell you whether I
can present you to her Majesty,’ says he.

“I was as mad as a Texas steer. Here are some of the questions: ‘Did you
ever have a grandfather? and if so, what was his vocation?’ ‘Have you
contracted the toothbrush habit?’ ‘Are you addicted to the use of the
double negative?’ ‘Spell phthisis, strychnine, pneumonia?’ Fine
questions these to put to a gentleman worth a cool million! I told him
to go to —— with his queen; and I’m going to have my private secretary
write a letter to the President, complaining of Phelps, and demanding
that he be discharged.”

                                                         _Eugene Field._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _OUR TWO OPINIONS._


               US two wuz boys when we fell out,—
                 Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;
               Don’t rec’lect what ’t wuz about,
                 Some small deeff’rence, I’ll allow.
               Lived next neighbours twenty years,
                 A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim,—
               _He_ havin’ _his_ opinyin uv _me_,
                 ’nd _I_ havin’ _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

               Grew up together ’nd wouldn’t speak,
                 Courted sisters, ’nd marr’d ’em, too;
               ’tended same meetin’-house oncet a week,
                 A-hatin’ each other through ’nd through!
               But when Abe Linkern asked the West
                 F’r soldiers, we answered,—me ’nd Jim,—
               _He_ havin’ _his_ opinyin uv _me_,
                 ’nd _I_ havin’ _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

               But down in Tennessee one night
                 Ther wuz sound uv firin’ fur away,
               ’nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight
                 With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex’ day;
               ’nd as I wuz thinkin’ uv Lizzie ’nd home
                 Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim,—
               _He_ havin’ _his_ opinyin uv _me_,
                 ’nd _I_ havin’ _my_ opinyin uv _him_.


[Illustration: “US TWO SHUCK HANDS.”]


               Seemed like we knew ther wuz goin’ to be
                 Serious trouble f’r me ’nd him;
               Us two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me,
                 But never a word from me or Jim!
               He went _his_ way ’nd _I_ went _mine_,
                 ’nd into the battle’s roar went we,—
               _I_ havin’ _my_ opinyin uv Jim,
                 ’nd _he_ havin’ _his_ opinyin uv _me._

               Jim never come back from the war again,
                 But I hain’t forgot that last, last night
               When, waitin’ f’r orders, us two men
                 Made up ’nd shuck hands, afore the fight.
               ’nd after it all, it’s soothin’ to know
                 That here _I_ be ’nd yonder’s Jim,—
               _He_ havin’ _his_ opinyin uv _me_,
                 ’nd _I_ havin’ _my_ opinyin uv _him_.

                                                         _Eugene Field._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                 _ONE OF MR. WARD’S BUSINESS LETTERS._


To the Editor of the ——.

SIR—I’m movin along—slowly along—down tords your place. I want you
should rite me a letter, sayin how is the show bizniss in your place. My
show at present consists of three moral Bares, a Kangaroo (a amoozin
little Raskal—’twould make you larf yerself to deth to see the little
cuss jump up and squeal) wax figgers of G. Washington Gen. Tayler, John
Bunyan Capt. Kidd and Dr. Webster in the act of killin Dr. Parkman,
besides several miscellanyus moral wax statoots of celebrated piruts &
murderers, &c., ekalled by few & exceld by none. Now Mr. Editor, scratch
orf a few lines sayin how is the show bizness down to your place. I
shall hav my hanbills dun at your offiss. Depend upon it. I want you
should git my hanbills up in flamin stile. Also git up a tremenjus
excitemunt in yr. paper ’bowt my onparaleld Show. We must fetch the
public sumhow. We must wurk on their feelins. Cum the moral on ’em
strong. If its a temprance community tell ’em I sined the pledge fifteen
minits arter Ise born, but on the contery ef your peple take their tods,
say Mister Ward is as Jenial a feller as we ever met, full of
conwiviality, & the life an sole of the Soshul Bored. Take, don’t you?
If you say anythin abowt my show say my snaiks is as harmliss as the
new-born Babe. What a interestin study it is to see a zewological animal
like a snaik under perfeck subjecshun! My kangaroo is the most larfable
little cuss I ever saw. All for 15 cents. I am anxyus to skewer your
infloounce. I repeet in regard to them hanbills that I shall git ’em
struck orf up to your printin offiss. My perlitercal sentiments agree
with yourn exackly. I know thay do, becawz I never saw a man whoos
didn’t.

                          Respectively yures,

                                                                A. WARD.

P.S.—You scratch my back & Ile scratch your back.

                                                         _Artemus Ward._


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _THE SHOWMAN’S COURTSHIP._


THARE was many affectin ties which made me hanker arter Betsy Jane. Her
father’s farm jined our’n; their cows and our’n squencht their thurst at
the same spring; our old mares both had stars in their forrerds; the
measles broke out in both famerlies at nearly the same period; our
parients (Betsy’s and mine) slept reglarly every Sunday in the same
meetin house, and the nabers used to obsarve, “How thick the Wards and
Peasleys air!” It was a surblime site, in the Spring of the year, to see
our sevral mothers (Betsy’s and mine) with their gowns pin’d up so thay
couldn’t sile ’em, affecshunitly Bilin sope together & aboozin the
nabers.

Altho I hankerd intensly arter the objeck of my affecshuns, I darsunt
tell her of the fires which was rajin in my manly Buzzom. I’d try to do
it but my tung would kerwollup up agin the roof of my mowth & stick
thar, like deth to a deseast Afrikan, or a country postmaster to his
offiss, while my hart whanged agin my ribs like a old-fashioned wheat
Flale agin a barn door.

’Twas a carm still nite in Joon. All nater was husht and nary zeffer
disturbed the sereen silens. I sot with Betsy Jane on the fense of her
farther’s pastur. We’d bin rompin threw the woods, kullin flours &
drivin the woodchuck from his Native Lair (so to speak) with long
sticks. Wall we sot thar on the fense, a swingin our feet two and fro,
blushin as red as the Baldinsville skool house when it was fust painted,
and lookin very simple, I make no doubt. My left arm was ockepied in
ballunsin myself on the fense, while my rite was woundid luvinly round
her waste.


[Illustration: “I CLEARED MY THROAT AND TREMBLINLY SED, ‘BETSY, YOU’RE A
GAZELLE.’”]


I cleared my throat and tremblinly sed, “Betsy, you’re a Gazelle.”

I thought that air was putty fine. I waitid to see what effeck it would
hav upon her. It evidently didn’t fetch her, for she up and sed—

“You’re a sheep!”

Sez I, “Betsy, I think very muchly of you.”

“I don’t b’leeve a word you say—so there now cum!” with which
obsarvashun she hitched away from me.

“I wish thar was winders to my Sole,” said I, “so that you could see
some of my feelins. There’s fire enuff in here,” said I, strikin my
buzzum with my fist, “to bile all the corn beef and turnips in the
naberhood. Versoovius and the Critter ain’t a circumstans!”

She bowd her hed down and commenst chawin the strings to her sun bonnet.

“Ar could you know the sleeplis nites I worry threw with on your
account, how vittles has seized to be attractiv to me, & how my lims has
shrunk up, you wouldn’t dowt me. Gase on this wastin form and these ’ere
sunken cheeks——”

I should have continnered on in this strane probly for sum time, but
unfortnitly I lost my ballunse and fell over into the pastur kersmash,
tearin my close and seveerly damagin myself ginerally.

Betsy Jane sprung to my assistance in dubble quick time and dragged me
4th. Then drawin herself up to her full hite, she said:

“I won’t listen to your noncents no longer. Jes say rite strate out what
you’re drivin at. If you mean gettin hitched, I’M IN!”

I considered that air enuff for all practical purpusses, and we
proceeded immejitly to the parson’s, and was made 1 that very nite.

(Notiss to the Printer. Put some stars here.)

                  *       *       *       *       *

I’ve parst threw many tryin ordeels sins then, but Betsy Jane has bin
troo as steel. By attendin strickly to bizniss I’ve amarsed a handsum
Pittance. No man on this footstool can rise & git up & say I ever
knowinly injered no man or wimmin folks, while all agree that my Show is
ekalled by few and exceld by none, embracin as it does a wonderful
colleckshun of livin wild Beests of Pray, snaix in grate profushun, a
endliss variety of life-size wax figgers, & the only traned kangaroo in
Ameriky—the most amoozin little cuss ever introjuced to a discriminatin
public.

                                                         _Artemus Ward._


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            _YE PEDAGOGUE._

                                A BALLAD

[Illustration: “AND STRAP YE URCHINS WELLE.”]


                                   I.

                 RIGHTE learnéd is ye Pedagogue,
                   Fulle apt to reade and spelle,
                 And eke to teache ye parts of speeche,
                   And strap ye urchins welle.

                                  II.

                  For as ’tis meete to soake ye feete,
                    Ye ailinge heade to mende;
                  Ye younker’s pate to stimulate,
                    He beats ye other ende!

                                  III.

                 Righte lordlie is ye Pedagogue,
                   As any turbaned Turke;
                 For welle to rule ye District Schoole,
                   It is no idle worke.

                                  IV.

                   For oft Rebellion lurketh there,
                     In breaste of secrete foes,
                   Of malice fulle, in waite to pulle
                     Ye Pedagogue his nose!

                                   V.

                Sometimes he heares with trembling feares
                  Of ye ungodlie rogue
                On mischiefe bent, with felle intent
                  To licke ye Pedagogue!

                                  VI.

                 And if ye Pedagogue be smalle,
                   When to ye battell led,
                 In such a plighte, God sende him mighte
                   To break ye rogue his heade!

                                  VII.

                 Daye after daye, for little paye,
                   He teacheth what he can,
                 And bears ye yoke, to please ye folke,
                   And ye committee-man.

                                 VIII.

                Ah! many crosses hath he borne,
                  And many trials founde,
                Ye while he trudged ye district through,
                  And boarded rounde and rounde!

                                  IX.

                   Ah! many a steake hath he devoured,
                     That, by ye taste and sighte,
                   Was in disdaine, ’twas very plaine,
                     Of Daye his patent righte!

                                   X.

                     Fulle solemn is ye Pedagogue,
                       Amonge ye noisy churls,
                     Yet other while he hath a smile
                       To give ye handsome girls;

                                  XI.

             And one,—ye fayrest mayde of all,—
               To cheere his wayninge life,
             Shall be, when Springe ye flowers shall bringe,
               Ye Pedagogue his wife!

                                                    _John Godfrey Saxe._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     _SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES._


STRANGERS visiting the beautiful city of Burlington have not failed to
notice that one of the handsomest young men they meet is very bald, and
they fall into the usual error of attributing this premature baldness to
dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man, one of the most
exemplary Bible-class scholars in the city, went to a Baptist sociable
out in West Hill one night about two years ago. He escorted three
charming girls, with angelic countenances and human appetites, out to
the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, and then found he
had left his pocket-book at home, and a deaf man that he had never seen
before at the cashier’s desk. The young man with his face aflame, bent
down, and said softly—

“I am ashamed to say I have no change with——”

“Hey——?” shouted the cashier.

“I regret to say,” the young man repeated in a little louder key, “that
I have unfortunately come away without any change to——”

“Change two?” chirped the old man. “Oh, yes; I can change five if you
want it.”

“No,” the young man explained in a terrible penetrating whisper, for
half-a-dozen people were crowding up behind him, impatient to pay their
bills and get away, “I don’t want any change, because——”

“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried gleefully. “’Bleeged to
ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Taint often we get such generous donations. Pass
over your bill.”

“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no funds——”

“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing tired of the
conversation, and noticing the long line of people waiting with money in
their hands; “but I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle, and
move on.”

“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no money——”

“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t care when you go; you
must pay, and let these other people come up.”

“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink into
the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the three
girls he had treated, were giggling and chuckling audibly.

“Owe money?” the cashier said; “of course you do; 2.75 dollars.”

“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his pockets inside
out, and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf
man understand. And then he had to shriek his full name three times,
while his ears fairly rung with the half-stifled laughter that was
breaking out all around him; and he had to scream out where he worked,
and roar when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deaf man to
understand him until some of the church members came up to see what the
uproar was, and, recognising their young friend, made it all right with
the cashier. And the young man went out into the night and clubbed
himself, and shred his locks away ontil he was as bald as an egg.

                                                   _Robert J. Burdette._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   _MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE._


A YOUNG fellow, a tobacco pedler by trade, was on his way from
Morristown, where he had dealt largely with the Deacon of the Shaker
settlement, to the village of Parker’s Falls, on Salmon River. He had a
neat little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each
side-panel, and an Indian chief, holding a pipe and a golden
tobacco-stalk, on the rear. The pedler drove a smart little mare, and
was a young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the
worse liked by the Yankees; who, as I have heard them say, would rather
be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he beloved
by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favour he used to court
by presents of the best smoking tobacco in his stock; knowing well that
the country lassies of New England are generally great performers on
pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedler
was inquisitive, and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the
news and anxious to tell it again.

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco pedler, whose name
was Dominicus Pike, had travelled seven miles through a solitary piece
of woods, without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little
grey mare. It being nearly seven o’clock, he was as eager to hold a
morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to reach the morning paper. An
opportunity seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigar with a
sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a man coming over the brow of a
hill, at the foot of which the pedler had stopped his green cart.
Dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a
bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled with a
weary, yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had started in the
freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do
the same all day.

“Good morning, mister,” said Dominicus, when within speaking distance.
“You go a pretty good jog. What’s the latest news at Parker’s Falls?”

The man pulled the broad brim of a grey hat over his eyes, and answered
rather sullenly that he did not come from Parker’s Falls, which, as
being the limit of his own day’s journey, the pedler had naturally
mentioned in his inquiry.

“Well, then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s have the latest news where
you did come from. I’m not particular about Parker’s Falls. Any place
will answer.”


[Illustration: “AT LAST MOUNTING ON THE STEP OF THE CART, HE WHISPERED
IN THE EAR OF DOMINICUS.”]


Being thus importuned, the traveller—who was as ill-looking a fellow as
one would desire to meet in a solitary piece of woods—appeared to
hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news, or
weighing the expediency of telling it. At last mounting on the step of
the cart, he whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though he might have
shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heard him—

“I do remember one little trifle of news,” said he. “Old Mr.
Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in his orchard, at eight
o’clock last night, by an Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to a
branch of a St. Michael’s pear-tree, where nobody would find him till
the morning.”

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated, the stranger
betook himself to his journey again with more speed than ever, not even
turning his head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar and
relate all the particulars. The pedler whistled to his mare and went up
the hill, pondering on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had
known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of long-nines,
and a great deal of pig-tail, ladies’ twist, and fig tobacco. He was
rather astonished at the rapidity with which the news had spread.
Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the murder
had been perpetrated only at eight o’clock the preceding night; and yet
Dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, when in all
probability poor Mr. Higginbotham’s own family had just discovered his
corpse hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree. The stranger on foot must
have worn seven-league boots to travel at such a rate.

“Ill news flies fast, they say,” thought Dominicus Pike; “but this beats
railroads. The fellow ought to be hired to go express with the
President’s message.”

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a
mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence; so that our friend did
not hesitate to introduce the story at every tavern and country store
along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish wrappers among at
least twenty horrified audiences. He found himself invariably the first
bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered with questions that he
could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became quite a
respectable narrative. He met with one piece of corroborative evidence.
Mr. Higginbotham was a trader; and a former clerk of his, to whom
Dominicus related the facts, testified that the old gentleman was
accustomed to return home through the orchard about nightfall with the
money and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. The clerk
manifested but little grief at Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe, hinting,
what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings with him, that he was
a crusty old fellow, as close as a vice. His property would descend to a
pretty niece, who was now keeping school in Kimballton.

What with telling the news for the public good and driving bargains for
his own, Dominicus was so much delayed on the road that he chose to put
up at a tavern, about five miles short of Parker’s Falls. After supper,
lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room, and
went through the story of the murder, which had grown so fast that it
took him half-an-hour to tell. There were as many as twenty people in
the room, nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. But the twentieth
was an elderly farmer, who had arrived on horseback a short time before,
and was now seated in a corner smoking his pipe. When the story was
concluded he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair right in front
of Dominicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing out the vilest
tobacco-smoke the pedler had ever smelt.

“Will you make affidavit,” demanded he in the tone of a country justice
taking an examination, “that old Squire Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was
murdered in his orchard the night before last, and found hanging on his
great pear-tree yesterday morning?”

“I tell the story as I heard it,” answered Dominicus, dropping his
half-burnt cigar. “I don’t say that I saw the thing done, so I can’t
take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that way.”

“But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “that if Squire Higginbotham was
murdered the night before last, I drank a bottle of bitters with his
ghost this morning. Being a neighbour of mine he called me into his
store as I was riding by and treated me, and then asked me to do a
little business for him on the road. He didn’t seem to know any more
about his own murder than I did.”

“Why, then, it can’t be a fact!” exclaimed Dominicus Pike.

“I guess he’d have mentioned if it was,” said the old farmer, and he
removed his chair back to the corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in
the mouth.

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham! The pedler had no
heart to mingle in the conversation any more, but comforted himself with
a glass of gin and water and went to bed, where, all night long, he
dreamt of hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree. To avoid the old
farmer (whom he so detested that his suspension would have pleased him
better than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus rose in the grey of the
morning, put the little mare into the green cart, and trotted swiftly
away towards Parker’s Falls. The fresh breeze, the dewy road, and the
pleasant summer dawn revived his spirits, and might have encouraged him
to repeat the old story had there been anybody awake to hear it. But he
met neither ox-team, light waggon, chaise, horseman, nor foot-traveller,
till just as he crossed Salmon River a man came trudging down to the
bridge with a bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick.

“Good morning, mister,” said the pedler, reining in his mare; “if you
come from Kimballton or that neighbourhood maybe you can tell me the
real facts about the affair of old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow
actually murdered two or three nights ago by an Irishman and a nigger?”

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe at first that the
stranger himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. On hearing this sudden
question the Ethiopian appeared to change his skin, its yellow hue
becoming a ghastly white, while shaking and stammering he thus replied—

“No! no! There was no coloured man! It was an Irishman that hanged him
last night at eight o’clock. I came away at seven! His folks can’t have
looked for him in the orchard yet.”

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken when he interrupted himself, and
though he seemed weary enough before, continued his journey at a pace
which would have kept the pedler’s mare on a sharp trot. Dominicus
stared after him in great perplexity. If the murder had not been
committed till Tuesday night, who was the prophet that had foretold it,
in all its circumstances, on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham’s
corpse were not yet discovered by his own family, how came the mulatto,
at above thirty miles distance, to know that he was hanging in the
orchard, especially as he had left Kimballton before the unfortunate man
was hanged at all? These ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger’s
surprise and terror, made Dominicus think of raising a hue and cry after
him, as an accomplice in the murder, since a murder, it seemed, had
really been perpetrated.

“But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedler. “I don’t want his black
blood on my head; and hanging the nigger won’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham.
Unhang the old gentleman! It’s a sin, I know; but I should hate to have
him come to life a second time, and give me the lie!”

With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove into the street of Parker’s
Falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a village as three
cotton factories and a slitting-mill can make it. The machinery was not
in motion, and but a few of the shop doors unbarred, when he alighted in
the stable-yard of the tavern, and made it his first business to order
the mare four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was to impart
Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the ostler. He deemed it advisable,
however, not to be too positive as to the date of the direful fact, and
also to be uncertain whether it was perpetrated by an Irishman and a
mulatto, or by the son of Erin alone. Neither did he profess to relate
it on his own authority, or that of any other person; but mentioned it
as a report generally diffused.

The story ran through the town like fire among girdled trees, and became
so much the universal talk that nobody could tell whence it originated.
Mr. Higginbotham was as well known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of
the place, being part-owner of the slitting-mill, and a considerable
stockholder in the cotton factories. The inhabitants felt their own
prosperity interested in his fate. Such was the excitement that the
_Parker’s Falls Gazette_ anticipated its regular day of publication, and
came out with half a form of blank paper and a column of double pica
emphasised with capitals, and headed HORRID MURDER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM!
Among other dreadful details, the printed account described the mark of
the cord round the dead man’s neck, and stated the number of thousand
dollars of which he had been robbed. There was much pathos also about
the affliction of his niece, who had gone from one fainting fit to
another, ever since her uncle was found hanging on the St. Michael’s
pear-tree with his pockets inside out. The village poet likewise
commemorated the young lady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of a ballad.
The select-men held a meeting, and in consideration of Mr.
Higginbotham’s claims on the town, determined to issue handbills
offering a reward of five hundred dollars for the apprehension of his
murderers and the recovery of the stolen property.

Meanwhile the whole population of Parker’s Falls, consisting of
shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factory girls, mill-men and
school-boys, rushed into the street, and kept up such a terrible
loquacity as more than compensated for the silence of the cotton
machines, which refrained from their usual din out of respect to the
deceased. Had Mr. Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his
untimely ghost would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Dominicus,
in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions, and, mounting
on the town pump, announced himself as the bearer of the authentic
intelligence which had caused so wonderful a sensation. He immediately
became the great man of the moment, and had just began a new edition of
the narrative with a voice like a field-preacher when the mail stage
drove into the village street. It had travelled all night, and must have
shifted horses at Kimballton at three in the morning.

“Now we shall hear all the particulars,” shouted the crowd.

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, followed by a thousand
people; for if any man had been minding his own business till then, he
now left it at sixes and sevens to hear the news. The pedler, foremost
in the race, discovered two passengers, both of whom had been startled
from a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of a mob. Every
man assailed them with separate questions all propounded at once. The
couple were struck speechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a
young lady.

“Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us the particulars about old
Mr. Higginbotham!” bawled the mob. “What is the coroner’s verdict? Are
the murderers apprehended? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s niece come out of her
fainting fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!”

The coachman said not a word, except to swear awfully at the ostler for
not bringing him a fresh team of horses. The lawyer inside had generally
his wits about him even when asleep; the first thing he did, after
learning the cause of the excitement, was to produce a large red
pocket-book. Meanwhile, Dominicus Pike, being an extremely polite young
man, and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story as
glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the lady out of the coach. She was a
fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a button, and had such a
sweet, pretty mouth, that Dominicus would almost as lieves have heard a
love-tale from it as a tale of murder.

“Gentlemen and ladies,” said the lawyer to the shopkeepers, the
mill-men, and the factory girls, “I can assure you that some
unaccountable mistake, or more probably, a wilful falsehood, maliciously
contrived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’s credit, has excited this singular
uproar. We passed through Kimballton at three o’clock this morning, and
most certainly should have been informed of the murder, had any been
perpetrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham’s own
oral testimony in the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit of his
in the Connecticut courts, which was delivered me from that gentleman
himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock last evening.”

So saying the lawyer exhibited the date and signature of the note, which
irrefragably proved, either that this perverse Mr. Higginbotham was
alive when he wrote it, or—as some deemed the more probable case of two
doubtful ones—that he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue
to transact it even after his death. But unexpected evidence was
forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the pedler’s
explanations, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and put her
curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern door, making a modest
signal to be heard.

“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’s niece.”


[Illustration: “I AM MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S NIECE.”]


A wondering murmur passed through the crowd on beholding her so rosy and
bright, the same unhappy niece whom they had supposed, on the authority
of the _Parker’s Falls Gazette_, to be lying at death’s door in a
fainting fit. But some shrewd fellow had doubted all along whether a
young lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old
uncle.

“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, “that this strange
story is quite unfounded, as to myself; and I believe I may affirm it to
be equally so in regard to my dear uncle Higginbotham. He has the
kindness to give me a home in his house, though I contribute to my
support by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morning to spend
the vacation of commencement week with a friend, about five miles from
Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs,
called me to his bedside, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents to pay
my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses. He then laid
his pocket-book under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to
take some biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the road. I feel
confident, therefore, that I left my beloved relative alive, and trust
that I shall find him so on my return.”

The young lady curtsied at the close of her speech, which was so
sensible, and well-worded, and delivered with such grace and propriety,
that everybody thought her fit to be Preceptress of the best Academy in
the State. But a stranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was
an object of abhorrence at Parker’s Falls, and that a thanksgiving had
been proclaimed for his murder, so excessive was the wrath of the
inhabitants on learning their mistake. The mill-men resolved to bestow
public honours on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating whether to tar and
feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at the
town pump, on the top of which he had declared himself the bearer of the
news. The select-men, by the advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting
him for a misdemeanour in circulating unfounded reports, to the great
disturbance of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicus
either from mob law or a court of justice but an eloquent appeal made by
the young lady in his behalf. Addressing a few words of heartfelt
gratitude to his benefactress, he mounted the green cart and drove out
of town under a discharge of artillery from the school-boys, who found
plenty of ammunition in the neighbouring clay-pits and mud-holes. As he
turned his head, to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. Higginbotham’s
niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty-pudding, hit him slap in the
mouth, giving him a most grim aspect. His whole person was so
bespattered with the like filthy missiles that he had almost a mind to
ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town pump,
for, though not meant in kindness, it would have been a deed of charity.

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the mud, an emblem
of all stains of undeserved opprobrium, was easily brushed off when dry.
Being a funny rogue, his heart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain
from a hearty laugh at the uproar which his story excited. The handbills
of the select-men would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds in the
State. The paragraph in the _Parker’s Falls Gazette_ would be reprinted
from Maine to Florida, and perhaps form an item in the London
newspapers; and many a miser would tremble for his money-bag and life,
on learning the catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler meditated
with much fervour on the charms of the young school-mistress, and swore
that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like an angel as Miss
Higginbotham, while defending him from the wrathful populace at Parker’s
Falls.

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having all along
determined to visit that place, though business had drawn him out of the
most direct road from Morristown. As he approached the scene of the
supposed murder, he continued to revolve the circumstances in his mind,
and was astonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. Had
nothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller it
might have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow man was evidently
acquainted either with the report or the fact; and there was a mystery
in his dismayed and guilty look on being abruptly questioned. When to
this singular combination of incidents it was added that the rumour
tallied with Mr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of life; and that
he had an orchard, and a St. Michael’s pear-tree, near which he always
passed at nightfalls, the circumstantial evidence appeared so strong
that Dominicus doubted whether the autograph produced by the lawyer, or
even the niece’s direct testimony, ought to be equivalent. Making
cautious inquiry along the road, the pedler further learned that Mr.
Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of doubtful character, whom
he had hired without a recommendation, on the score of economy.

“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pike aloud, on reaching
the top of a lonely hill, “if I believe old Higginbotham is unhanged,
till I see him with my own eyes, and hear it from his own mouth! And as
he’s a real shaver, I’ll have the minister or some other responsible man
for an endorser.”

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton
turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. His
little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback, who
trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the
toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. Dominicus was acquainted
with the toll-man, and while making change, the usual remarks on the
weather passed between them.

“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whip-lash to bring it
down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have not seen anything of
old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?”

“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gate just before you
drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk.
He’s been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale there.
The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me; but
to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ and jogged on, for
wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o’clock.”

“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.

“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does,”
continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myself to-night, he’s more like
a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood.”

The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just
discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. He seemed to
recognise the rear of Mr. Higginbotham; and through the evening shadows,
and amid the dust from the horse’s feet, the figure appeared dim and
unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly
moulded of darkness and grey light. Dominicus shivered.

“Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world, by way of
Kimballton turnpike,” thought he.

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in
the rear of the grey old shadow, till the latter was concealed by a bend
of the road. On reaching this point the pedler no longer saw the man on
horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far
from a number of stores and two taverns, clustered around the
meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall and a gate, the
boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard; further still, a
mowing-field, and, last of all, a house. These were the premises of Mr.
Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been
left in the background by the Kimballton turnpike, and Dominicus knew
the place; and the little mare stopped short by instinct, for he was not
conscious of tightening the reins.

“For the soul of me I cannot get by this gate,” said he, trembling. “I
never shall be my own man again till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is
hanging on the St. Michael pear-tree!”

He leaped from the cart, gave the reins a turn round the gate-post, and
ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing
behind. Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep
stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before,
till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated
pear-tree. One great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk
across the path and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. But
something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!


[Illustration: “HE RUSHED FORWARD, PROSTRATED A STURDY IRISHMAN WITH THE
BUTT END OF HIS WHIP.”]


The pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of
peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valour on this awful
emergency. Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a
sturdy Irishman with the butt end of his whip, and found—not indeed
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a
halter round his neck—the old, identical Mr. Higginbotham.

“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus tremulously, “you’re an honest man,
and I’ll take your word for it. Have you been hanged or not?”

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the
simple machinery by which this coming event was made to cast its shadow
before. Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr.
Higginbotham; two of them successively lost courage and fled, each
delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in
the act of perpetration when a champion, blindly obeying the call of
fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of
Dominicus Pike.

It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedler into high
favour, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty school-mistress, and
settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the
interest. In due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favours
by dying a Christian death, in bed, since which melancholy event
Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton and established a large
tobacco factory in my native village.

                                                  _Nathaniel Hawthorne._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _GOING TO CALIFORNIA._


“DEAR me!” exclaimed Mrs. Partington sorrowfully, “how much a man will
bear, and how far he will go, to get the soddered dross, as Parson
Martin called it when he refused the beggar a sixpence, for fear it
might lead him into extravagance! Everybody is going to California and
Chagrin arter gold. Cousin Jones and the three Smiths have gone; and Mr.
Chip, the carpenter, has left his wife and seven children, and a blessed
old mother-in-law, to seek his fortin, too. This is the strangest yet,
and I don’t see how he could have done it; it looks so ongrateful to
treat Heaven’s blessings so lightly. But there we are told that the love
of money is the root of all evil, and how true it is! for they are now
rooting arter it, like pigs arter ground-nuts. Why, it is a perfect
money mania among everybody!”


[Illustration: “AS SHE PENSIVELY WATCHED A SMALL MUG OF CIDER.”]


And she shook her head doubtingly, as she pensively watched a small mug
of cider, with an apple in it, simmering by the winter fire. She was
somewhat fond of drink made in this way.

                                          _Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber_
                                                  (“_Mrs. Partington_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            “_ROUGHING IT._”


ANOTHER night of alternate tranquillity and turmoil. But morning came
by-and-by. It was another glad awakening to fresh breezes, vast expanses
of level greensward, bright sunlight, an impressive solitude utterly
without visible human beings or human habitations, and an atmosphere of
such amazing magnifying properties that trees that seemed close at hand
were more than three miles away. We resumed undress uniform, climbed
a-top of the flying coach, dangled our legs over the side, shouted
occasionally at our frantic mules, merely to see them lay their ears
back and scamper faster, tied our hats on to keep our hair from blowing
away, and levelled an outlook over the world-wide carpet about us for
things new and strange to gaze at. Even at this day it thrills me
through and through to think of the life, the gladness and the wild
sense of freedom, that used to make the blood dance in my veins on those
fine overland mornings!

Along about an hour after breakfast we saw the first prairie-dog
villages, the first antelope, and the first wolf. If I remember rightly,
this latter was the regular _cayote_ (pronounced ky-_o_-te) of the
farther deserts. And if it _was_, he was not a pretty creature or
respectable either, for I got well acquainted with his race afterward,
and can speak with confidence. The cayote is a long, slim, sick- and
sorry-looking skeleton, with a grey wolf-skin stretched over it, a
tolerably bushy tail that for ever sags down with a despairing
expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a
long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has a
general slinking expression all over. The cayote is a living, breathing
allegory of want. He is _always_ hungry. He is always poor, out of luck,
and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas
would desert him for a velocipede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that
even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his
face is apologising for it. And he is _so_ homely!—so scrawny, and
ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful. When he sees you he lifts his lip
and lets a flash of his teeth out, and then turns a little out of the
course he was pursuing, depresses his head a bit, and strikes a long,
soft-footed trot through the sage-brush, glancing over his shoulder at
you, from time to time, till he is about out of easy pistol range, and
then he stops and takes a deliberate survey of you; he will trot fifty
yards and stop again—another fifty and stop again; and finally the grey
of his gliding body blends with the grey of the sagebrush, and he
disappears. All this is when you make no demonstration against him; but
if you do, he develops a livelier interest in his journey, and instantly
electrifies his heels, and puts such a deal of real estate between
himself and your weapon that by the time you have raised the hammer you
see that you need a minié rifle, and by the time you have got him in
line you need a rifled cannon, and by the time you have “drawn a bead”
on him you see well enough that nothing but an unusually long-winded
streak of lightning could reach him where he is now. But if you start a
swift-footed dog after him, you will enjoy it ever so much—especially if
it is a dog that has a good opinion of himself, and has been brought up
to think he knows something about speed. The cayote will go swinging
gently off on that deceitful trot of his, and every little while he will
smile a fraudful smile over his shoulder that will fill that dog
entirely full of encouragement and worldly ambition, and make him lay
his head still lower to the ground, and stretch his neck further to the
front, and pant more fiercely, and stick his tail out straighter behind,
and move his furious legs with a yet wilder frenzy, and leave a broader
and broader, and higher and denser cloud of desert sand smoking behind,
and marking his long wake across the level plain! And all this time the
dog is only a short twenty feet behind the cayote, and to save the soul
of him he cannot understand why it is that he cannot get perceptibly
closer; and he begins to get aggravated, and it makes him madder and
madder to see how gently the cayote glides along and never pants or
sweats or ceases to smile; and he grows still more and more incensed to
see how shamefully he has been taken in by an entire stranger, and what
an ignoble swindle that long, calm, soft-footed trot is; and next he
notices that he is getting fagged, and that the cayote actually has to
slacken speed a little to keep from running away from him—and _then_
that town-dog is mad in earnest, and he begins to strain and weep and
swear, and paw the sand higher than ever, and reach for the cayote with
concentrated and desperate energy. This “spurt” finds him six feet
behind the gliding enemy, and two miles from his friends. And then, in
the instant that a wild new hope is lighting up his face, the cayote
turns and smiles blandly upon him once more, and with a something about
it which seems to say: “Well, I shall have to tear myself away from you,
bub—business is business, and it will not do for me to be fooling along
this way all day”—and forthwith there is a rushing sound, and the sudden
splitting of a long crack through the atmosphere, and behold that dog is
solitary and alone in the midst of a vast solitude!

It makes his head swim. He stops and looks all around; climbs the
nearest sand-mound, and gazes into the distance; shakes his head
reflectively, and then, without a word, he turns and jogs along back to
his train, and takes up a humble position under the hindmost waggon, and
feels unspeakably mean, and looks ashamed, and hangs his tail at
half-mast for a week. And forasmuch as a year after that, whenever there
is a great hue and cry after a cayote, that dog will merely glance in
that direction without emotion, and apparently observe to himself, “I
believe I do not wish any of the pie.”

The cayote lives chiefly in the most desolate and forbidding deserts,
along with the lizard, the jackass-rabbit, and the raven, and gets an
uncertain and precarious living, and earns it. He seems to subsist
almost wholly on the carcasses of oxen, mules, and horses that have
dropped out of emigrant trains and died, and upon windfalls of carrion,
and occasional legacies of offal bequeathed to him by white men who have
been opulent enough to have something better to butcher than condemned
army bacon. He will eat anything in the world that his first cousins,
the desert-frequenting tribes of Indians, will, and they will eat
anything they can bite. It is a curious fact that these latter are the
only creatures known to history who will eat nitroglycerine and ask for
more if they survive.

The cayote of the deserts beyond the Rocky Mountains has a peculiarly
hard time of it, owing to the fact that his relations, the Indians, are
just as apt to be the first to detect a seductive scent on the desert
breeze, and follow the fragrance to the late ox it emanated from, as he
is himself; and when this occurs he has to content himself with sitting
off at a little distance watching those people strip off and dig out
everything edible, and walk off with it. Then he and the waiting ravens
explore the skeleton and polish the bones. It is considered that the
cayote, and the obscene bird, and the Indian of the desert, testify
their blood kinship with each other in that they live together in the
waste places of the earth on terms of perfect confidence and friendship,
while hating all other creatures and yearning to assist at their
funerals. He does not mind going a hundred miles to breakfast, and a
hundred and fifty to dinner, because he is sure to have three or four
days between meals, and he can just as well be travelling and looking at
the scenery as lying around doing nothing and adding to the burdens of
his parents.

We soon learned to recognise the sharp, vicious bark of the cayote as it
came across the murky plain at night to disturb our dreams among the
mail-sacks; and remembering his forlorn aspect and his hard fortune,
made shift to wish him the blessed novelty of a long day’s good luck and
a limitless larder the morrow.

                                   _Samuel L. Clemens_ (“_Mark Twain_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           _THE HEAD-WRITER._

[Illustration: “‘AND YOU NOTICE MY CORPULENT BUILD?’”]


IT was early in the morning when I heard a great puffing and blowing on
the stairs, and pretty soon footsteps sounded in the hall, and a woman’s
voice said—

“Now, John Quincy, you want to look as smart as you can!”

The next moment the door opened, and a big fat woman and a small thin
boy came into the room. She gave her dress a shake, snatched the boy’s
hat off, and then, looking at me, she inquired—

“Is the head-writer in?”

“He is, madam,” I replied.

“Be you him?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, as she sat down on a chair and fanned herself
with her handkerchief; “I like to have never got upstairs.”

I smiled and nodded.

“You see that boy thar?” she inquired after a while.

“Your son, I suppose?” I answered; “nice-looking lad.”

“Yes, he’s smart as a fox. There isn’t a thing he don’t know. Why, he
isn’t but eight, and he composes poetry, writes letters, and plays tunes
on the fiddle!”

“You ought to be proud of him,” I said.

“Wall, we kinder hope he’ll turn out well,” she answered. “Come up here,
John Quincy, and speak that piece about that boy who stood on the busted
deck.”

“I won’t!” replied the boy in a positive tone.

“He’s a little bashful, you see,” giving me an apologetical smile. “He’s
rid fourteen miles this morning, and he doesn’t feel well, anyhow; I
shouldn’t wonder if he was troubled with worums.”

“Worms be blowed!” replied John Quincy, chewing away at his hat.

“He’s awful skeard when he’s among strangers,” she went on; “but he’ll
git over it in a short time. What I cum in for was to see if you
wouldn’t take him and make a head-writer of him.”

“I don’t want to be a durned old bald-headed head-writer!” said John
Quincy, picking his teeth with my scissors.

“The young never knows what’s good for ’em,” she went on. “He wants to
be a preacher, or a great lawyer, or a big doctor; but he seems to take
to writing, and we thought we’d make a head-writer of him. I don’t
sopose he’d earn over five or six dollars and board a week for the first
year, but I’ve bin told that Gen’ral Jackson didn’t get half that when
he begun.”

“Madam,” I commenced, as she stopped for breath, “I’d like to take the
boy. He looks as smart as a steel trap, and no doubt he’ll turn out a
great man.”

“Then you’ll take him?”

“If you agree as to terms.”

“What is them ter-ums?”

“You see my left eye is out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, your son can never become a great writer unless you put his left
eye out. If you will think back you will remember that you never saw a
great writer whose left eye was not out. This is a matter of economy. A
one-eyed writer only needs half as much light as a man with two eyes,
and he isn’t half so apt to discover hair-pins in his butter, and
buttons in his oyster soup. The best way to put his eye out is to jab a
red-hot needle into it.”

“Good grashus!” she exclaimed.

“And you observe that I am bald-headed? You may think that my baldness
results from scalp disease, but such is not the case. When a head-writer
is bothered to get an idea he scratches his head. Scratching the hair
wouldn’t do any good; it’s the scalp he must agitate. The hair is
therefore pulled out with a pair of pincers, in order that a man can get
right down to the scalp at once, and save time.”

“Can that be possible?”

“All this is strictly true, madam. You also observe that one of my legs
is shorter than the other. Without an explanation on my part you would
attribute this to some accident. Such is not the case. Every head-writer
is located in the fourth storey of the office, and his left leg is
shortened three inches to enable him to run up and down stairs. You will
have to have a doctor unjoint your son’s leg at the hip, saw it off to
the proper length, and then hook it back in its place.”

“Did I ever hear the likes!” she exclaimed.

“And you also observe, madam, that two of my front teeth are gone. You
might think they decayed, but such was not the case. They were knocked
out with a crowbar in order to enable me to spit ten feet. According to
a law enacted at the last Session of Congress, any head-writer who can’t
spit ten feet is not entitled to receive Congressional reports free of
postage.”

“Can it be so?” she said, her eyes growing larger every moment.

“And you notice my corpulent build?” I went on; “you might think this
the result of high-living, but it is not. Every head-writer of any
prominence has one of these big stomachs on him. They are all members of
a secret society, and they tell each other outside of the lodge-room in
this way: I am naturally very tall and thin, but I had to conform to the
rules. They cut a hole in my chest and filled me out by stuffing in dry
Indian meal. It took two bushels and a peck, and then it lacked a
little, and they had to fill up with oatmeal. Now then, madam, you see
what your son must go through with, and I leave you to judge whether you
will have him learn the head-writer’s trade or not. I like the looks of
the boy very much, and if you desire to——”

“I guess we’ll go hum!” she exclaimed, lifting herself off the chair. “I
kinder want him to be a head-writer, and yit I think I ought to have a
little more talk with his father, who wants him to git to be boss in a
saw-mill. I’m ’bleged to you, and if we conclude to have him——”

“Yes, bring him right in, day or night. The first thing will be to
unhinge his left leg and——!”

But they were out in the hall, and I heard John Quincy remark:
“Head-writer be blowed!”

                                             _C. B. Lewis_ (“_M Quad_”).




------------------------------------------------------------------------




         _PELEG W. PONDER; OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE._

[Illustration: “HE DON’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK.”]


IT is a curious thing—an unpleasant thing—a very embarrassing sort of
thing—but the truth must be told—if not at all times, at least
sometimes; and truth now compels the declaration that Peleg W. Ponder,
whose character is here portrayed, let him travel in any way, cannot
arrive at a conclusion. He never had one of his own. He scarcely knows a
conclusion, even if he should chance to see one belonging to other
people, and, as for reaching a result, he would never be able to do it,
if he could stretch like a giraffe. Results are beyond his compass. And
his misfortune is, perhaps, hereditary, his mother’s name having been
Mrs. Perplexity Ponder, whose earthly career came to an end while she
was in dubitation as to which of the various physicians of the place
should be called in. If there had been only one doctor in the town,
Perplexity Ponder might have been saved. But there was many—and what
could Perplexity do in such a case?

Ponder’s father was run over by a waggon, as he stood debating with
himself, in the middle of the road, whether he should escape forward or
retreat backward. There were two methods of extrication, and between
them both old Ponder became a victim. How then could their worthy son,
Peleg, be expected to arrive at a conclusion? He never does.

Yet, for one’s general comfort and particular happiness, there does not
appear to be any faculty more desirable than the power of “making up the
mind.” Right or wrong, it saves a deal of wear and tear; and it prevents
an infinite variety of trouble. Commend us to the individual who chooses
upon propositions like a nutcracker—whose promptness of will has a
sledge-hammer way with it, and hits nails continually on the head.
Genius may be brilliant—talent commanding! but what is genius, or what
is talent, if it lack that which we may call the clinching faculty—if it
hesitates, veers, and flutters—suffers opportunities to pass, and
stumbles at occasion? To reason well is much, no doubt, but reason loses
the race if it sits in meditation on the fence when competition rushes
by.

Under the best of circumstances, something must be left to hazard. There
is a chance in all things. No man can so calculate odds in the affairs
of life as to ensure a certainty. The screws and linchpins necessary to
our purpose have not the inflexibility of fate; yet they must be trusted
at some degree of risk. Our candle may be put out by a puff of wind on
the stair, let it be sheltered ever so carefully. Betsy is a good cook,
yet beefsteaks have been productive of strangulation. Does it then
follow from this that we are never to go to bed, except in the dark, and
to abstain from breaking our fast until dinner is announced?

One may pause and reflect too much. There must be action, conclusion,
result, or we are a failure, to all intents and purposes—a
self-confessed failure—defunct from the beginning. And such was the case
with Peleg W. Ponder, who never arrived at a conclusion, or contrived to
reach a result. Peleg is always “stumped”—he “don’t know what to
think”—he “can’t tell what to say”—an unfinished gentleman, with a mind
like a dusty garret, full, as it were, of rickety furniture, yet nothing
serviceable—broken-backed chairs—three-legged tables—pitchers without
handles—cracked decanters and fractured looking-glasses—that museum of
mutilations in which housewifery rejoices, under the vague but never
realised hope that these things may eventually “come in play.” Peleg’s
opinions lie about the workshop of his brains, in every stage of
progress but the last—chips, sticks, and sawdust enough, but no article
ready to send home.

Should you meet Peleg in the street with “Good morning, Peleg—how do you
find yourself to-day?”

“Well—I don’t know exactly—I’m pretty—no, not very—pray, how do you do
yourself?”

Now if a man does not know exactly, or nearly, how he is after being up
for several hours, and having had abundant time to investigate the
circumstances of his case, it is useless to propound questions of
opinion to such an individual. It is useless to attempt it with Peleg.
“How do you do?” puzzles him—he is fearful of being too rash, and of
making a reply which might not be fully justified by after-reflection.
His head may be about to ache, and he has other suspicious feelings.

“People are always asking me how I do, and more than half the time I
can’t tell. There’s a good many different sorts of ways of feeling
betwixt and between ‘Very sick, I thank you,’ and ‘Half-dead, I’m
obliged to you;’ and people won’t stop to hear you explain the matter.
They want to know right smack, when you don’t know right smack yourself.
Sometimes you feel things a-coming, and just after you feel things
a-going. And nobody’s exactly prime all the while. I ain’t, anyhow—I’m
kinder so just now, and I’m sorter t’other way just after. Then, some
people tell you that you look very well, when you don’t feel very
well—how then?”

At table Peleg is not exactly sure what he will take; and sits looking
slowly up and down the board, deliberating what he would like, until the
rest of the company have finished their repast, there being often
nothing left which suits Peleg’s hesitating appetite.

Peleg has never married—not that he is averse to the connubial state—on
the contrary, he has a large share of the susceptibilities, and is
always partially in love. But female beauty is so various. At one time
Peleg is inclined to believe that perfection lies in queenly dignity—the
majesty of an empress fills his dreams; and he looks down with disdain
on little people. He calls them “squabs” in derogation. But anon, in a
more domestic mood, he thinks of fireside happiness and quiet bliss,
declining from the epic poetry of loveliness to the household wife, who
might be disposed to bring him his slippers, and to darn the hole in his
elbow. When in the tragic vein he fancies a brunette; and when the
sunshine is on his soul, blue eyes are at a premium. Should woman
possess the slightness of a sylph, or should her charms be of the more
solid architecture? Ought her countenance to beam in smiles, or will
habitual pensiveness be the more interesting? Is sparkling brilliancy to
be preferred to gentle sweetness?

“If there wasn’t so many of them, I shouldn’t be so bothered,” said
Peleg; “or if they all looked alike, a man couldn’t help himself. But
yesterday I wanted this one; to-day, I want that one; and to-morrow I’ll
want t’other one; and how can I tell, if I should get this, or that, or
t’other, that it wouldn’t soon be somebody else that I really wanted?
That’s the difficulty. It always happens so with me. When the lady’s
most courted, and thinks I ought to speak out, then I begin to be
skeered, for fear I’ve made a mistake, and have been thinking I loved
her, when I didn’t. Maybe it’s not the right one—maybe she won’t
suit—maybe I might do better—maybe I had better not venture at all. I
wish there wasn’t so many ‘maybe’s’ about everything, especially in such
affairs. I’ve got at least a dozen unfinished courtships on hand
already.”

But all this happened a long time ago; and Peleg has gradually lost
sight of his fancy for making an addition to his household. Not that he
has concluded, even yet, to remain a bachelor. He would be alarmed at
the bare mention of such an idea. He could not consent to be shelved in
that decisive manner. But he has subsided from active “looking around”
in pursuit of his object, into that calm, irresponsible submissiveness,
characteristic of the somewhat elderly bachelor, which waits until she
may chance to present herself spontaneously, and “come along” of her own
accord. “Some day—some day,” says Peleg; “it will happen some day or
other. What’s the use of being in a hurry?”

Peleg W. Ponder’s great object is now ambition. His personal affairs are
somewhat embarrassed by his lack of enterprise, and he hankers greatly
for an office. But which side to join? Ay, there’s the rub! Who will
purvey the loaf and fish? for whom shall Peleg shout?

Behold him as he puzzles over the returns of the State elections,
labouring in vain to satisfy his mind as to the result of the
presidential contest. Stupefied by figures—perplexed by contradictory
statements—bothered by the general hurrah; what can Peleg do?

“Who’s going to win? That’s all I want to know,” exclaims the vexed
Peleg. “I don’t want to waste my time a-blowing out for the wrong
person, and never get a thank’e. What’s the use of that? There’s
Simpkins—says I, Simpkins, says I, which is the party that can’t be
beat? And Simpkins turns up his nose and tells me every fool knows
that—it’s his side—so I hurrah for Simpkins’ side as hard as I can. But
then comes Timpkins—Timpkins’ side is t’other side from Simpkins’
side—and Timpkins offers to bet me three levies that his side is the
side that can’t be beat. Hurrah! says I, for Timpkins’ side!—and then I
can’t tell which side.”

“As for the newspapers, that’s worse still. They not only crow all
round, but they cipher it out so clear that both sides must win, if
there’s any truth in the ciphering-book; which there isn’t about
election time. What’s to be done? I’ve tried going to all the
meetings—I’ve hurrahed for everybody—I’ve been in all the processions,
and I sit a little while every evening in all sorts of headquarters.
I’ve got one kind of documents in one pocket, and t’other kind of
documents in t’other pocket; and as I go home at night I sing one sort
of song as loud as I can bawl half of the way, and try another sort of
song the rest of the way, just to split the difference and show my
impartiality. If I only had two notes—a couple of ’em—how nice it would
be!

“But the best thing that can be done now, I guess, as my character is
established both ways, is to turn in quietly till the row is all over.
Nobody will miss me when they are all so busy; and afterwards, when we
know all about it, just look for Peleg W. Ponder as he comes down the
street, shaking people by the hand, and saying how we have used them up.
I can’t say so now, or I would, for I am not perfectly sure yet which is
‘we’ or which is ‘them.’ Time enough when the election is over.”

It will thus be seen that Ponder is a remarkable person. Peter Schlemihl
lost his shadow and became memorably unhappy in consequence; but what
was his misfortune when compared with that of the man who has no side?
What are shadows if weighed against sides? And Peleg is almost afraid
that he never will be able to get a side, so unlucky has he been
heretofore. He begins to dread that both sides may be defeated; and
then, let us ask, what is to become of him? Must he stand aside?

                                                       _Joseph C. Neal._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             _THE SHAKERS._


THE Shakers is the strangest religious sex I ever met.

I’D hearn tell of ’em and I’d seen ’em, with their broad brim’d hats and
long wastid coats; but I’d never cum into immejit contack with ’em and
I’d sot ’em down as lackin intelleck, as I’d never seen ’em to my
Show—leastways, if they cum they was disgised in white peple’s close, so
I didn’t know ’em.

But in the Spring of 18— I got swampt in the exterior of New York State,
one dark and stormy night, when the winds Blue pityusly, and I was
forced to tie up with the Shakers.

I was toilin threw the mud, when in the dim vister of the futer I
obsarved the gleams of a taller candle. Tiein a hornet’s nest to my off
hoss’s tail to kinder encourage him, I soon reached the place. I knockt
at the door, which it was opened unto me by a tall, slick-faced, solum
lookin individooal, who turn’d out to be a Elder.

“Mr. Shaker,” sed I, “you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to
speak, and he axes shelter of you.”

“Yay,” sed the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another Shaker
bein sent to put my hosses and waggin under kiver.

A solum female, lookin sumwhat like a last year’s beanpole stuck into a
long meal bag, cum in and axed me was I athurst and did I hunger? to
which I urbanely anserd “a few.” She went orf and I endeverd to open a
conversashun with the old man.

“Elder, I spect?” sed I.

“Yay,” he sed.

“Helth’s good, I reckon?”

“Yay.”

“What’s the wages of a Elder, when he understans his bizness—or do you
devote your sarvices gratooitus?”

“Yay.”

“Stormy night, sir.”

“Yay.”

“If the storm continners there’ll be a mess underfoot, hay?”

“Yay.”

“It’s onpleasant when there’s a mess underfoot?”

“Yay.”

“If I may be so bold, kind sir, what’s the price of that pecooler kind
of weskit you wear, incloodin trimmins?”

“Yay!”

I pawsd a minit, and then, thinkin I’d be faseshus with him and see how
that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, bust into a harty larf, and
told him that as a _yayer_ he had no livin ekal.

He jumpt up as if Bilin water had bin squirted into his ears, groaned,
rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed: “You’re a man of sin!” He
then walkt out of the room.

Jest then the female in the meal bag stuck her hed into the room and
statid that refreshments awaited the weary travler, and I sed if it was
vittles she ment the weary travler was agreeable, and I follered her
into the next room.

I sot down to the table and the female in the meal bag pored out sum
tea. She sed nothin, and for five minutes the only live thing in that
room was a old wooden clock, which tickt in a subdood and bashful manner
in the corner. This dethly stillness made me oneasy, and I determined to
talk to the female or bust. So sez I, “Marrige is agin your rules, I
bleeve, marm?”

“Yay.”

“The sexes liv strickly apart, I spect?”

“Yay.”

“It’s kinder singler,” sez I, puttin on my most sweetest look and
speakin in a winnin voice, “that so fair a made as thou never got
hitched to some likely feller.” [N.B.—She was upards of 40 and homely as
a stump fence, but I thawt I’d tickil her.]

“I don’t like men!” she sed, very short.

“Wall, I dunno,” sez I, “they’re a rayther important part of the
populashun. I don’t scarcely see how we could git along without ’em.”

“Us poor wimin folks would git along a grate deal better if there was no
men!”

“You’ll excoos me, marm, but I don’t think that air would work. It
wouldn’t be regler.”

“I’m afraid of men!” she sed.

“That’s onnecessary, marm. _You_ ain’t in no danger. Don’t fret yourself
on that pint.”

“Here, we’re shot out from the sinful world. Here, all is peas. Here, we
air brothers and sisters. We don’t marry and consekently we hav no
domestic difficulties. Husbans don’t abooze their wives—wives don’t
worrit their husbans. There’s no children here to worrit us. Nothin to
worrit us here. No wicked matrimony here. Would thow like to be a
Shaker?”

“No,” sez I, “it ain’t my stile.”

I had now histed in as big a load of pervishuns as I could carry
comfortable, and, leanin back in my cheer, commenst pickin my teeth with
a fork. The female went out, leavin me all alone with the clock. I
hadn’t sot thar long before the Elder poked his hed in at the door.
“You’re a man of sin!” he sed, and groaned and went away.

Direckly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick lookin
gals as I ever met. It is troo they was dressed in meal bags like the
old one I’d met previsly, and their shiny, silky har was hid from sight
by long white caps, sich as I spose female Josts wear; but their eyes
sparkled like diminds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin
enuff to make a man throw stuns at his granmother, if they axed him to.
They commenst clearin away the dishes, castin shy glances at me all the
time. I got excited. I forgot Betsy Jane in my rapter, and sez I, “My
pretty dears, how air you?”

“We air well,” they solumly sed.

“Whar’s the old man?” sed I, in a soft voice.

“Of whom dost thow speak—Brother Uriah?”

“I mean the gay and festiv cuss who calls me a man of sin. Shouldn’t
wonder if his name was Uriah.”

“He has retired.”

“Wall, my pretty dears,” sez I, “let’s have sum fun. Let’s play puss in
the corner. What say?”

“Air you a Shaker, sir?” they axed.

“Wall, my pretty dears, I havn’t arrayed my proud form in a long weskit
yit, but if they was all like you perhaps I’d jine ’em. As it is, I’m a
Shaker pro-temporary.”

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a leetle
skeery. I tawt ’em Puss in the corner and sich like plase, and we had a
nice time, keepin quiet of course so the old man shouldn’t hear. When we
broke up, sez I, “My pretty dears, ear I go you hav no objections, hav
you, to a innersent kiss at partin?”


[Illustration: “‘YAY,’ THEY SED, AND I YAY’D.”]


“Yay,” they sed, and I _yay’d_.

I went up stairs to bed. I spose I’d been snoozin half a hour when I was
woke up by a noise at the door. I sot up in bed, leanin on my elbers and
rubbin my eyes, and I saw the follerin picter: The Elder stood in the
doorway, with a taller candle in his hand. He hadn’t no wearin appeerel
on except his night close, which fluttered in the breeze like a Seseshun
flag. He sed, “You’re a man of sin!” then groaned and went away.

I went to sleep agin, and drempt of runnin orf with the pretty little
Shakeresses, mounted on my Californy Bar. I thawt the Bar insisted on
steerin strate for my dooryard in Baldinsville, and that Betsy Jane cum
out and giv us a warm recepshun with a panfull of bilin water. I was
woke up arly by the Elder. He sed refreshments was reddy for me down
stairs. Then sayin I was a man of sin, he went groanin away.

As I was goin threw the entry to the room where the vittles was, I cum
across the Elder and the old female I’d met the night before, and what
d’ye spose they was up to? Huggin and kissin like young lovers in their
gushingist state. Sez I, “My Shaker frends, I reckon you’d better
suspend the rules, and git marrid!”

“You must excoos Brother Uriah,” sed the female; “he’s subjeck to fits,
and hain’t got no command over hisself when he’s into ’em.”

“Sartinly,” sez I, “I’ve bin took that way myself frequent.”

“You’re a man of sin!” sed the Elder.

Arter breakfust my little Shaker frends cum in agin to clear away the
dishes.

“My pretty dears,” sez I, “shall we _yay_ agin?”

“Nay,” they sed, and I _nay’d_.

The Shakers axed me to go to their meetin, as they was to hav sarvices
that mornin, so I put on a clean biled rag and went. The meetin house
was as neat as a pin. The floor was white as chalk and smooth as glass.
The Shakers was all on hand, in clean weskits and meal bags, ranged on
the floor like milingtery companies, the mails on one side of the room,
and the females on tother. They commenst clappin their hands and singin
and dancin. They danced kinder slow at fust, but as they got warmed up
they shaved it down very brisk, I tell you. Elder Uriah, in particler,
exhiberted a right smart chance of spryness in his legs, considerin his
time of life, and as he cum a double shuffle near where I sot, I
rewarded him with a approvin smile and said, “Hunky boy! Go it, my gay
and festiv cuss.”

“You’re a man of sin!” he said, continnering his shuffle.

The Sperret, as they called it, then moved a short fat Shaker to say a
few remarks. He sed they was Shakers, and all was ekal. They was the
purest and seleckest peple on the yearth. Other peple was sinful as they
could be, but Shakers was all right. Shakers was all goin kerslap to the
Promist Land, and nobody want goin to stand at the gate to bar ’em out,
if they did they’d git run over.

The Shakers then danced and sung agin, and arter they was threw, one of
’em axed me what I thawt of it.

Sez I, “What does it siggerfy?”

“What?” sez he.

“Why this jumpin up and singin? This long weskit bizniss, and this
anty-matrimony idee? My frends, you air neat and tidy. Your lands is
flowin with milk and honey. Your brooms is fine, and your apple sass is
honest. Wehn a man buys a kag of apple sass of you he don’t find a grate
many shavins under a few layers of sass—a little Game I’m sorry to say
sum of my New Englan ancesters used to practiss. Your garding seeds is
fine, and if I should sow ’em on the rock of Gibralter probly I should
raise a good mess of garding sass. You air honest in your dealins. You
air quiet and don’t distarb nobody. For all this I givs you credit. But
your religion is small pertaters, I must say. You mope away your lives
here in single retchidness, and as you air all by yourselves nothing
ever conflicts with your pecooler idees, except when Human Nater busts
out among you, as I understan she sumtimes do. [I give Uriah a sly wink
here, which made the old feller squirm like a speared Eel.] You wear
long weskits and long faces, and lead a gloomy life indeed. No
children’s prattle is ever hearn around your harthstuns—you air in a
dreary fog all the time, and you treat the jolly sunshine of life as
tho’ it was a thief, drivin it from your doors by them weskits, and meal
bags, and pecooler noshuns of yourn. The gals among you, sum of which
air as slick pieces of caliker as I ever sot eyes on, air syin to place
their heds agin weskits which kiver honest, manly harts, while you old
heds fool yerselves with the idee that they air fulfillin their mishun
here, and air contented. Here you air, all pend up by yerselves, talkin
about the sins of a world you don’t know nothin of. Meanwhile said world
continners to resolve round on her own axeltree onct in every 24 hours,
subjeck to the Constitution of the United States, and is a very plesant
place of residence. It’s a unnatral, onreasonable, and dismal life
you’re leadin here. So it strikes me. My Shaker friends, I now bid you a
welcome adoo. You hav treated me exceedin well. Thank you kindly, one
and all.”

“A base exhibiter of depraved monkeys and onprincipled wax works!” sed
Uriah.

“Hello, Uriah,” sez I, “I’d most forgot you. Wall, look out for them
fits of yourn, and don’t catch cold and die in the flour of your youth
and beauty.”

And I resoomed my jerney.

                                                         _Artemus Ward._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           “_EARLY RISING._”


          “GOD bless the man who first invented sleep!”
            So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:
          And bless him also that he didn’t keep
            His great discovery to himself; nor try
          To make it—as the lucky fellow might—
          A close monopoly by patent right.

          Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep
            (I really can’t avoid the iteration);
          But blast the man with curses loud and deep,
            Whate’er the rascal’s name, or age, or station,
          Who first invented, and went round advising,
          That artificial cut-off—Early Rising!

          “Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,”
            Observes some solemn sentimental owl.
          Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
            But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
          Pray, just inquire about his rise and fall,
          And whether larks have any beds at all!

          “The time for honest folks to be abed”
            Is in the morning, if I reason right;
          And he who cannot keep his precious head
            Upon his pillow till it’s fairly light,
          And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
          Is up to knavery; or else—he drinks.

          Thomson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said
            It was a glorious thing to _rise_ in season;
          But then he said it—lying—in his bed,
            At ten o’clock A.M.—the very reason
          He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
          His preaching wasn’t sanctioned by his practice.

          ’Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,—
            Awake to duty, and awake to truth,—
          But when, alas! a nice review we take
            Of our best deeds and days, we find in sooth,
          The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
          Are those we passed in childhood or asleep!

          ’Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile
            For the soft visions of the gentle night;
          And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
            To live as only in the angels’ sight,
          In sleep’s sweet realm so cosily shut in,
          Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin.

          So, let us sleep, and give the Maker praise,—
            I like the lad who, when his father thought
          To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase
            Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
          Cried, “Served him right! it’s not at all surprising;
          The worm was punished, sir, for early rising.”

                                                         _John G. Saxe._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                _HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO SIMPSON’S BAR._


IT had been raining in the valley of Sacramento. The North Fork had
overflowed its banks and Rattlesnake Creek was impassable.

The few boulders that had marked the summer ford at Simpson’s Crossing
were obliterated by a vast sheet of water stretching to the foothills.
The up stage was stopped at Granger’s; the last mail had been abandoned
in the _tules_, the rider swimming for his life.

“An area,” remarked the _Sierra Avalanche_ with pensive local pride, “as
large as the State of Massachusetts is now under water.”

Nor was the weather any better in the foothills.

The mud lay deep on the mountain road; waggons that neither physical
force nor moral objurgation could move from the evil ways into which
they had fallen, encumbered the track, and the way to Simpson’s Bar was
indicated by broken-down teams and hard swearing.

And farther on, cut-off and inaccessible, rained upon and bedraggled,
smitten by high winds and threatened by high water, Simpson’s Bar, on
the eve of Christmas Day, 1862, clung like a swallow’s nest to the rocky
entablature and splintered capitals of Table Mountain, and shook in the
blast.

As night shut down on the settlement, a few lights gleamed through the
mist from the windows of cabins on either side of the highway now
crossed and gullied by lawless streams and swept by marauding winds.

Happily most of the population were gathered at Thompson’s store,
clustered around a red-hot stove, at which they silently spat in some
accepted sense of social communion that perhaps rendered conversation
unnecessary.

Indeed most methods of diversion had long since been exhausted on
Simpson’s Bar; high water had suspended the regular occupations on gulch
and on river, and a consequent lack of money and whisky had taken the
zest from most illegitimate recreation.

Even Mr. Hamlin was fain to leave the Bar with fifty dollars in his
pocket—the only amount actually realised of the large sums won by him in
the successful exercise of his arduous profession.

“Ef I was asked,” he remarked somewhat later—“ef I was asked to pint out
a purty little village where a retired sport as didn’t care for money
could exercise hisself frequent and lively, I’d say Simpson’s Bar; but
for a young man with a large family depending on his exertions, it don’t
pay.”

As Mr. Hamlin’s family consisted mainly of female adults, this remark is
quoted rather to show the breadth of his humour than the exact extent of
his responsibilities.

Howbeit, the unconscious objects of this satire sat that evening in the
listless apathy begotten of idleness and lack of excitement.

Even the sudden splashing of hoofs before the door did not arouse them.

Dick Bullen alone paused in the act of scraping out his pipe, and lifted
his head; but no other one of the group indicated any interest in, or
recognition of, the man who entered.

It was a figure familiar enough to the company, and known in Simpson’s
Bar as “The Old Man.”

A man of perhaps fifty years, grizzled and scant of hair, but still
fresh and youthful of complexion. A face full of ready, but not very
powerful sympathy, with a chameleon-like aptitude for taking on the
shade and colour of contiguous moods and feelings.

He had evidently just left some hilarious companions, and did not at
first notice the gravity of the group, but clapped the shoulder of the
nearest man jocularly, and threw himself into a vacant chair.

“Jest heard the best thing out, boys! Ye know Smiley, over yar—Jim
Smiley—funniest man in the Bar? Well, Jim was jest telling the richest
yarn about——”

“Smiley’s a —— fool,” interrupted a gloomy voice.

“A particular —— skunk,” added another, in sepulchral accents.

A silence followed these positive statements.

The Old Man glanced quickly around the group. Then his face slowly
changed.

“That’s so,” he said reflectively, after a pause; “certainly a sort of a
skunk and suthin’ of a fool. In course.”

He was silent for a moment, as in painful contemplation of the
unsavouriness and folly of the unpopular Smiley.

“Dismal weather, ain’t it?” he added, now fully embarked on the current
of prevailing sentiment. “Mighty rough papers on the boys, and no show
for money this season. And to-morrow’s Christmas.”

There was a movement among the men at this announcement, but whether of
satisfaction or disgust was not plain.

“Yes,” continued the Old Man in the lugubrious tone he had within the
last few moments unconsciously adopted—“yes, Christmas, and to-night’s
Christmas-eve. Ye see, boys, I kinder thought—that is, I sorter had an
idee, jest passin like you know—that may be ye’d all like to come over
to my house to-night and have a sort of tear round. But I suppose, now,
you wouldn’t? Don’t feel like it, may be?” he added, with anxious
sympathy, peering into the faces of his companions.

“Well, I don’t know,” responded Tom Flynn, with some cheerfulness.
“P’r’aps we may. But how about your wife, Old Man? What does she say to
it?”

The Old Man hesitated.

His conjugal experience had not been a happy one, and the fact was known
to Simpson’s Bar.

His first wife, a delicate, pretty little woman, had suffered keenly and
secretly from the jealous suspicions of her husband, until one day he
invited the whole Bar to his house to expose her infidelity.

On arriving, the party found the shy, _petite_ creature quietly engaged
in her household duties, and retired abashed and discomfited.

But the sensitive woman did not easily recover from the shock of this
extraordinary outrage.

It was with difficulty she regained her equanimity sufficiently to
release her lover from the closet in which he was concealed, and escape
with him.

She left a boy of three years to comfort her bereaved husband.

The Old Man’s present wife had been his cook. She was large, loyal, and
aggressive.

Before he could reply, Joe Dimmick suggested with great directness that
it was the “Old Man’s house,” and that, invoking the Divine Power, if
the case were his own, he would invite who he pleased, even if in so
doing he imperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil, he further
remarked, should contend against him vainly.

All this delivered with a terseness and vigour lost in this necessary
translation.

“In course. Certainly. Thet’s it,” said the Old Man with a sympathetic
frown. “Thar’s no trouble about thet. It’s my own house, built every
stick on it myself. Don’t you be afeared o’ her, boys. She may cut up a
trifle rough—ez wimmin do—but she’ll come round.”

Secretly the Old Man trusted to the exultation of liquor and the power
of a courageous example to sustain him in such an emergency.

As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simpson’s Bar, had not
spoken. He now took his pipe from his lips.

“Old Man, how’s that yer Johnny gettin’ on? Seems to me he didn’t look
so peart the last time I seed him on the bluff heavin’ rocks at
Chinamen. Didn’t seem to take much interest in it. Thar was a gang of
’em by yar yesterday—drownded out up the river—and I kinder thought o’
Johnny, and how he’d miss ’em! May be now, we’d be in the way ef he was
sick?”

The father, evidently touched not only by this pathetic picture of
Johnny’s deprivation, but by the considerate delicacy of the speaker,
hastened to assure him that Johnny was better, and that a “little fun
might ’liven him up.”

Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying, “I’m ready. Lead the
way, Old Man: here goes,” himself led the way with a leap, a
characteristic howl, and darted out into the night.

As he passed through the outer room he caught up a blazing brand from
the hearth.

The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closely following and
elbowing each other, and before the astonished proprietor of Thompson’s
grocery was aware of the intention of his guests, the room was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of wind their temporary
torches were extinguished, and only the red brands dancing and flitting
in the gloom like drunken will-o’-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts.

Their way led up Pine Tree Cañon, at the head of which a broad, low
bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountainside.

It was the home of the Old Man, and the entrance to the tunnel in which
he worked, when he worked at all.

Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicate deference to their
host, who came up panting in the rear.

“P’r’aps ye’d better hold on a second out yer, whilst I go in and see
thet things is all right,” said the Old Man, with an indifference he was
far from feeling.

The suggestion was graciously accepted, the door opened and closed on
the host, and the crowd, leaning their backs against the wall, and
cowering under the eaves, waited and listened.

For a few moments there was no sound but the dripping of water from the
eaves, and the stir and rustle of wrestling boughs above them.

Then the men became uneasy, and whispered suggestion and suspicion
passed from the one to the other.

“Reckon she’s caved in his head the first lick!”

“Decoyed him inter the tunnel, and barred him up, likely.”

“Got him down, and sittin’ on him.”

“Prob’ly biling suthing to heave on us; stand clear the door, boys!”

For just then the latch clicked, the door slowly opened, and a voice
said—

“Come in out o’ the wet.”

The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of his wife. It was the
voice of a small boy, its weak treble broken by that preternatural
hoarseness which only vagabondage and the habit of premature
self-assertion can give.

It was the face of a small boy that looked up at theirs—a face that
might have been pretty and even refined, but that it was darkened by
evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard experience from without.

He had a blanket around his shoulders, and had evidently just risen from
his bed.

“Come in,” he repeated, “and don’t make no noise. The Old Man’s in there
talking to mar,” he continued, pointing to an adjacent room which seemed
to be a kitchen, from which the Old Man’s voice came in deprecating
accents.

“Let me be,” he added, querulously to Dick Bullen, who had caught him
up, blanket and all, and was affecting to toss him into the fire; “let
go o’ me, you d—d old fool, d’ye hear?”

Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the ground with a smothered
laugh, while the men, entering quietly, ranged themselves around a long
table of rough boards which occupied the centre of the room.

Johnny then gravely proceeded to a cupboard, and brought out several
articles which he deposited on the table.


[Illustration: “‘NOW WADE IN, AND DON’T BE AFEARED.’”]


“Thar’s whisky and crackers, and red herons and cheese.” He took a bite
of the latter on his way to the table. “And sugar.” He scooped up a
mouthful _en route_ with a small and very dirty hand. “And terbacker.
Thar’s dried appils too on the shelf, but I don’t admire ’em. Appils is
swellin’. Thar,” he continued; “now wade in, and don’t be afeared. I
don’t mind the old woman. She don’t b’long to me. S’long.”

He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcely larger than a
closet, partitioned off from the main apartment, and holding in its dim
recess a small bed.

He stood there a moment looking at the company, his bare feet peeping
from the blanket, and nodded.

“Hello, Johnny! You ain’t goin’ to turn in agin, are ye?” said Dick.

“Yes, I are,” responded Johnny, decidedly.

“Why, wot’s up, old fellow?”

“I’m sick.”

“How sick?”

“I’ve got a fevier. And childblains. And roomatiz,” returned Johnny, and
vanished within. After a moment’s pause, he added in the dark,
apparently from under the bedclothes—“And biles!”

There was an embarrassing silence. The men looked at each other and at
the fire.

Even with the appetising banquet before them, it seemed as if they might
again fall into the despondency of Thompson’s grocery, when the voice of
the Old Man, incautiously lifted, came deprecatingly from the kitchen.

“Certainly! Thet’s so. In course they is. A gang o’ lazy drunken
loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen’s the ornariest of all. Didn’t hev no
more sabe than to come round yar with sickness in the house and no
provision. Thet’s what I said: ‘Bullen,’ sez I, ‘it’s crazy drunk you
are, or a fool,’ sez I, ‘to think o’ such a thing.’ ‘Staples,’ I sez,
‘be you a man, Staples, and ’spect to raise h—ll under my roof and
invalids lyin’ round?’ But they would come—they would. Thet’s wot you
must ’spect o’ such trash as lays round the Bar.”

A burst of laughter from the men followed this unfortunate exposure.

Whether it was overheard in the kitchen, or whether the Old Man’s irate
companion had just then exhausted all other modes of expressing her
contemptuous indignation, I cannot say, but a back door was suddenly
slammed with great violence.

A moment later and the Old Man reappeared, haply unconscious of the
cause of the late hilarious outburst, and smiled blandly.

“The old woman thought she’d jest run over to Mrs. McFadden’s for a
sociable call,” he explained, with jaunty indifference, as he took a
seat at the board.

Oddly enough, it needed this untoward incident to relieve the
embarrassment that was beginning to be felt by the party, and their
natural audacity returned with their host.

I do not propose to record the convivialities of that evening. The
inquisitive reader will accept the statement that the conversation was
characterised by the same intellectual exaltation, the same cautious
reverence, the same fastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision,
and the same logical and coherent discourse somewhat later in the
evening, which distinguish similar gatherings of the masculine sex in
more civilised localities, and under more favourable auspices.

No glasses were broken in the absence of any; no liquor was uselessly
spilt on floor or table in the scarcity of that article.

It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted.

“Hush,” said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand.

It was the querulous voice of Johnny from his adjacent closet.

“Oh, dad.”

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he
reappeared.

“His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,” he explained, “and he wants
rubbin’.”

He lifted the demijohn of whisky from the table and shook it. It was
empty.

Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the
others.

The Old Man examined their contents, and said, hopefully—

“I reckon that’s enough; he don’t need much. You hold on all o’ you for
a spell, and I’ll be back;” and vanished in the closet with an old
flannel shirt and the whisky.

The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was
distinctly audible:—

“Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?”

“Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it’s most powerful from
yer to yer. Rub yer, dad.”

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny—

“Hevin’ a good time out yer, dad?”

“Yes, sonny.”

“To-morrer’s Chrismiss, ain’t it?”

“Yes, sonny. How does she feel now?”

“Better. Rub a little furder down. Wot’s Chrismiss, anyway? Wot’s it all
about?”

“Oh, it’s a day.”

This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a
silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again—

“Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to
everybody Chrismiss, and then she just waded inter you. She sez thar’s a
man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o’
Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things
to chillern—boys likes me. Puts ’em in their butes! Thet’s what she
tried to play upon me. Easy now, pop; whar are you rubbin’ to—thet’s a
mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn’t she, jest to
aggrewate me and you? Don’t rub thar——Why, dad!”

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of
the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct.

Johnny’s voice, too, was lowered as he went on—

“Don’t you take on now, fur I’m gettin’ all right fast. Wot’s the boys
doin’ out thar?”

The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through.

His guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few
silver coins in a lean buckskin purse on the table.

“Bettin’ on suthin’,—some little game or ’nother. They’re all right,” he
replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing.

“I’d like to take a hand and win some money,” said Johnny, reflectively,
after a pause.

The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that
if Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel he’d have
lots of money, etc., etc.

“Yes,” said Johnny, “but you don’t. And whether you strike it or I win
it, it’s about the same. It’s all luck. But it’s mighty cur’o’s about
Chrismiss—ain’t it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?”

Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his
guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man’s reply was
so low as to be inaudible beyond the room.

“Yes,” said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, “I’ve heard
o’ him before. Thar, that’ll do, dad. I don’t ache near so bad as I did.
Now wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now,” he added in a muffled
whisper, “sit down yer by me till I go asleep.”

To assure himself of obedience, he disengaged one hand from the blanket,
and grasping his father’s sleeve, again composed himself to rest.

For some moments the Old Man waited patiently.

Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his curiosity, and
without moving from the bed, he cautiously opened the door with his
disengaged hand, and looked into the main room.

To his infinite surprise it was dark and deserted.

But even then a smouldering log on the hearth broke, and by the
upspringing blaze he saw the figure of Dick Bullen sitting by the dying
embers.

“Hello!”

Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily towards him.

“Whar’s the boys?” said the Old Man.

“Gone up the cañon on a little _pasear_. They’re coming back for me in a
minit. I’m waitin’ round for ’em. What are you starin’ at, Old Man?” he
added with a forced laugh; “do you think I’m drunk?”

The old man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick’s eyes
were humid and his face flushed.

He loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned, shook himself,
buttoned up his coat and laughed.

“Liquor ain’t so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don’t you git up,” he
continued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from
Johnny’s hand. “Don’ you mind manners. Sit jist whar you be; I’m goin’
in a jiffy. Thar, that’s them now.”

There was a low tap at the door.

Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded “good night” to his host, and
disappeared.

The Old Man would have followed him but for the hand that still
unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it; it
was small, weak, and emaciated. But perhaps because it was small, weak,
and emaciated, he changed his mind, and drawing his chair closer to the
bed, rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency
of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered and faded
before his eyes, reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him—asleep.

Meantime, Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions.

“Are you ready?” said Staples.

“Ready!” said Dick; “what’s the time?”

“Past twelve,” was the reply; “can you make it?—it’s nigh on fifty
miles, the round trip hither and yon.”

“I reckon,” returned Dick, shortly. “Whar’s the mare?”

“Bill and Jack’s holdin’ her at the crossin’.”

“Let ’em hold on a minit longer,” said Dick.

He turned and re-entered the house softly.

By the light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that the door
of the little room was open.

He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in.

The Old Man had fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet
thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled
over his eyes.

Beside him, on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in
a blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp
with perspiration.

Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his
shoulder into the deserted room.

Everything was quiet.

With a sudden resolution he parted his huge moustaches with both hands,
and stooped over the sleeping boy.

But even as he did so a mischievous blast, lying in wait, swooped down
the chimney, rekindling the hearth, and lit up the room with a shameless
glow, from which Dick fled in bashful terror.

His companions were already waiting for him at the crossing.

Two of them were struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen
bulk, which, as Dick came nearer, took the semblance of a great yellow
horse.

It was the mare.

She was not a pretty picture.

From her Roman nose to her rising haunches, from her arched spine,
hidden by the stiff _machillas_ of a Mexican saddle, to her thick,
straight, bony legs, there was not a line of equine grace.

In her half-blind but wholly vicious white eyes, in her protruding under
lip, in her monstrous colour, there was nothing but ugliness and vice.

“Now then,” said Staples, “stand cl’ar of her heels, boys, and up with
you. Don’t miss your first holt of her mane, and mind ye get your off
stirrup quick. Ready!”

There was a leap, a scrambling struggle, a bound, a wild retreat of the
crowd, a circle of flying hoofs, two springless leaps that jarred the
earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of
Dick somewhere in the darkness.

“All right!”

“Don’t take the lower road back onless you’re hard pushed for time!
Don’t hold her in down hill! We’ll be at the ford at five. G’lang!
Hoopa! Mula! Go!”

A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, a clatter in the
rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Sing, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, O Muse, of chivalrous
men! the sacred quest, the doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, the
fearsome ride and gruesome perils of the flower of Simpson’s Bar! Alack!
she is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking brute and
swaggering, ragged rider, and I must fain follow him, in prose, afoot!

It was one o’clock; and yet he had only gained Rattlesnake Hill. For in
that time Jovita had rehearsed to him all her imperfections and
practised all her vices.

Thrice had she stumbled.

Twice had she thrown up her Roman nose in a straight line with the
reins, and resisting bit and spur, struck out madly across country.

Twice had she reared, and, rearing, fallen backward; and twice had the
agile Dick, unharmed, regained his seat before she found her vicious
legs again.

And a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill, was Rattlesnake
Creek.

Dick knew that here was the crucial test of his ability to perform his
enterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his knees well into her flanks,
and changed his defensive tactics to brisk aggression.

Bullied and maddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill.

Here the artful Richard pretended to hold her in with ostentatious
objurgation and well-feigned cries of alarm.

It is unnecessary to add that Jovita instantly ran away.

Nor need I state the time made in the descent; it is written in the
chronicles of Simpson’s Bar.

Enough that in another moment, as it seemed to Dick, she was splashing
on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake Creek.

As Dick expected, the momentum she had acquired carried her beyond the
point of balking; and holding her well together for a mighty leap, they
dashed into the middle of the swiftly-flowing current.

A few moments of kicking, wading, and swimming, and Dick drew a long
breath on the opposite bank.

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain was tolerably level.

Either the plunge in Rattlesnake Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or
the art which led to it had shown her the superior wickedness of her
rider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus energy in wanton
conceits.

Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; once she shied, but it
was from a new freshly-painted meeting-house at the crossing of the
county road.

Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits, patches of freshly-springing
grasses flew from beneath her rattling hoofs.

She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice she coughed slightly, but
there was no abatement of her strength or speed.

By two o’clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun the descent to the
plain.

Ten minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and
passed by a “man on a Pinto hoss”—an event sufficiently notable for
remark.

At half-past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a great shout.

Stars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of
the plain, rose two spires, a flag-staff, and a straggling line of black
objects.

Dick jingled his spurs and swung his _riata_, Jovita bounded forward,
and in another moment they swept into Tuttleville, and drew up before
the wooden piazza of “The Hotel of All Nations.”

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly a part of this
record.

Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had been handed over to
a sleepy hostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasant consciousness,
Dick sallied out with the bar-keeper for a tour of the sleeping town.

Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and gambling-houses; but,
avoiding these, they stopped before several closed shops, and by
persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused the proprietors from
their beds, and made them unbar the doors of their magazines and expose
their wares.

Sometimes they were met by curses, but oftener by interest and some
concern in their needs, and the interview was invariably concluded by a
drink.

It was three o’clock before this pleasantry was given over, and with a
small water-proof bag of india-rubber strapped on his shoulders, Dick
returned to the hotel.

But here he was waylaid by Beauty—Beauty opulent in charms, affluent in
dress, persuasive in speech, and Spanish in accent!

In vain she repeated the invitation in “Excelsior,” happily scorned by
all Alpine-climbing youth, and rejected by this child of the Sierras—a
rejection softened in this instance by a laugh and his last gold coin.

And then he sprang to the saddle and dashed down the lonely street and
out into the lonelier plain, where presently the lights, the black line
of houses, the spires and the flag-staff sank into the earth behind him
again and were lost in the distance.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold, the outlines of
adjacent landmarks were distinct, but it was half-past four before Dick
reached the meeting-house and the crossing of the country road.

To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and more circuitous
road, in whose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlock deep at every bound.

It was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five miles more; but
Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it with her usual blind,
unreasoning fury, and a half-hour later reached the long level that led
to Rattlesnake Creek.

Another half-hour would bring him to the creek.

He threw the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare, chirruped to her
and began to sing.

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would have unseated a less
practised rider.

Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped from the bank, and at
the same time from the road before her arose a shadowy horse and rider.

“Throw up your hands,” commanded this second apparition with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sink under him.

He knew what it meant, and was prepared.

“Stand aside, Jack Simpson, I know you, you d—d thief. Let me pass,
or——”

He did not finish the sentence.

Jovita rose straight in the air with a terrific bound, throwing the
figure from her bit with a single shake of her vicious head, and charged
her deadly malevolence down on the impediment before her.

An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman rolled over in the road,
and the next moment Jovita was a hundred yards away.

But the good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet, dropped
helplessly at his side.

Without slackening his speed he shifted the reins to his left hand.

But a few moments later he was obliged to halt and tighten the
saddle-girths that had slipped in the onset.

This in his crippled condition took some time.

He had no fear of pursuit, but looking up he saw that the eastern stars
were already paling, and that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly
whiteness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky.

Day was upon him.

Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot the pain of his
wound, and mounting again dashed on towards Rattlesnake Creek.

But now Jovita’s breath came broken by gasps, Dick reeled in his saddle,
and brighter and brighter grew the sky.

Ride, Richard; run, Jovita; linger, O day!

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears.

Was it exhaustion from loss of blood, or what?

He was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and did not recognise
his surroundings.

Had he taken the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek?


[Illustration: “WAS THIS RATTLESNAKE CREEK?”]


It was.

But the brawling creek he had swum a few hours before had risen, more
than doubled its volume, and now rolled a swift and resistless river
between him and Rattlesnake Hill.

For the first time that night Richard’s heart sank within him.

The river, the mountain, the quickening east swam before his eyes.

He shut them to recover his self-control.

In that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process, the little
room at Simpson’s Bar, and the figures of the sleeping father and son,
rose upon him.

He opened his eyes widely, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and saddle,
bound his precious pack tightly to his shoulders, grasped the bare
flanks of Jovita with his bared knees, and, with a shout, dashed into
the yellow water.

A cry rose from the opposite bank as the head of a man and horse
struggled for a few moments against the battling current, and then were
swept away, amid uprooted trees and whirling driftwood.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Old Man started and awoke.

The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flickering
in its socket, and somebody was rapping at the door.

He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the dripping half-naked
figure that reeled against the door-post.

“Dick?”

“Hush! Is he awake yet?”

“No,—but Dick——?”

“Dry up, you old fool! Get me some whisky _quick_!”

The Old Man flew and returned with—an empty bottle!

Dick would have sworn, but his strength was not equal to the occasion.

He staggered, caught at the handle of the door, and motioned to the Old
Man.

“Thar’s suthin’ in my pack yer for Johnny. Take it off. I can’t.”

The Old Man unstrapped the pack and laid it before the exhausted man.

“Open it, quick!”

He did so with trembling fingers.

It contained only a few poor toys—cheap and barbaric enough, goodness
knows, but bright with paint and tinsel.

One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievably ruined by
water; and on the other, ah me! there was a cruel spot.

“It don’t look like much, that’s a fact,” said Dick ruefully.... “But
it’s the best we could do.... Take ’em, Old Man, and put ’em in his
stocking, and tell him—tell him, you know—hold me, Old Man.”

The Old Man caught at his sinking figure.

“Tell him,” said Dick, with a weak little laugh—“tell him Sandy Claus
has come.”

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn, with one arm
hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Claus came to Simpson’s Bar and
fell fainting on the first threshold.

The Christmas dawn came slowly after, touching the remoter peaks with
the rosy warmth of ineffable love.

And it looked so tenderly on Simpson’s Bar that the whole mountain, as
it caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.

                                                           _Bret Harte._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     _THE BREACH OF PROMISE CASE._


AMOS DIXON had not been long gone from the elegant house when Miss
Sophia Garr, caparisoned in a jaunty hat and a ready-made cloak, sallied
forth on a little business of her own.

She took the nearest way to Montgomery Street, and proceeded almost to
the head of that thoroughfare. Ascending a very wide flight of steps,
she turned to the right, and went up a narrower flight; turning again to
the left, she went up a narrower flight still. Without pausing to take
breath, Miss Sophia proceeded, by the help of the skylight, to read the
names on a whole army of doors. Making nearly the whole circuit of the
long hall, she arrived finally at a door which seemed to meet with her
approval, for she nodded her head, knocked, and walked briskly in.

“What a horrid-looking man!” she said, as she threw herself upon a
well-worn lounge, and breathed heavily.

“What an ugly old vixen!” replied the gentleman thus apostrophised,
looking up from the desk at which he sat writing.

“Hem!” rejoined Miss Sophia, eyeing him wickedly, and still labouring
for her breath, after her unwonted exertion.

“Well, madam?”

“How dare you, sir—but this is Mr. Beanson, no doubt?”

“Yes, madam.”

“I called, sir,” pronounced Miss Garr, in an angry tone, “to have you
explain to me explicitly, and without reservation, what constitutes a
breach of promise.”

Now two different persons had been harassing Mr. Beanson that very
morning with unpaid bills. Yet it was a characteristic of this
remarkable man that all his greatest troubles were in the future—that
undiscovered country of his first brief, and the presidency. He was
possessed of a wonderful talent at apprehending evil; and he had not
heard Miss Sophia this long without exerting it. He thought instantly of
the snares laid for unsuspecting young men by designing females, and did
not grow calmer as his visitor repeated—

“Come, sir; you profess to be a lawyer, if you are not. Can you tell me,
sir?”

“M—madam, I don’t know you!” exclaimed Mr. Beanson, feeling very much
confused, but looking, as he always did, very aggressive.

“I found your card in my card-case, and I want to know, sir, what
constitutes a breach of promise.”

“Madam, I tell you I don’t know you _at all_!”

“But did you not leave your card in my card-case at Mrs. Clayton’s?”

“I did, madam, but that does not constitute a breach of promise; and I
warn you now,” said Mr. Beanson, raising his voice and his forefinger,
and shaking both at her simultaneously, “I warn you now, madam, that you
cannot ground an action for breach of promise on a little skilful
advertising!”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Mr. Beanson observed a sudden and marked change coming over the features
of his visitor, and took it for the herald of her discomfiture and his
own triumph.

“What do I mean?” iterated Mr. Beanson. “I mean, madam, that in this
latter stage of juridical enlightenment a man cannot be held for breach
of promise, or prosecuted for breach of promise, by a woman whom he
never saw before in his life—and, for that matter, never wishes to see
again—just because he put his business card in her card-case.” Here the
speaker, seeing the remarkable effect of his philippic, launched himself
upon his feet, the better to enjoy the ovation he was preparing for
himself. As he undoubled his exceeding length before Sophia, he had the
satisfaction of seeing the additional effect he was producing, even
apart from his oratory. It was the very yellow jaundice of tones in
which Mr. Beanson concluded—

“No, madam, you would not get any intelligent court in the land, in
these premises, to find cause of action. It was nothing but a skilful
advertisement—in short, an act of commercial and legal genius. You, I
suppose, would make it a crime punishable by marriage with such as you.
The thing is simply ridiculous! Madam, I have done. Have you?”

Mr. Beanson resumed his seat triumphantly, and eyed the astonished Garr
with an expression that made his head look older than common.

Miss Sophia could not have interrupted the foregoing forensic display if
she had tried. In her bewilderment she was mutely deciding whether she,
Sophia Garr, or all the men were going stark mad. George Lang had
offered himself to Amelia, after being accepted by herself. Then this
impudent red-headed wretch—whom she had never attempted to marry—either
he or she was certainly crazy. The question was too complicated for a
prompt decision.

The two had sat for some moments, glaring at each other, in profound
silence, when Miss Garr suddenly exclaimed, “You long-waisted vagabond,
shut up!”

This might have been effectual in a contest with a person of her own
sex; since it might have shocked into silence or proved an _Ultima
Thule_ of feminine virulence. When, however, Mr. Beanson, having taken
some time to consider, remembered that he was not talking at all when he
was requested to “shut up,” the thing struck him as laughable.
Accordingly Mr. Beanson laughed—laughed loud and long, till Mr. Beanson
had laughed out all the fun there was in the occurrence, and some of his
own anger to boot.

“Now, madam,” said he facetiously, “I am prepared to part with you.”

Miss Garr was more angry than ever.

“I say, madam, I am prepared to part with you. I will not detain you
further.”

“You ugly, hateful, impudent wretch!” remarked Sophia, finding speech at
last. “You may insult me here as much as you please, since I am without
a protector; but you shall not drive me away till you have answered my
question. I would as soon marry a keg of nails as you, sir; so you may
set your mind at rest! It is somebody else that my outraged feelings are
interested in—somebody else of more consequence than you, though I
verily believe he is as big a villain——”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Beanson, as any other drowning man might have done
before he was swallowed up by any other flood.

“Do you suppose, sir, I would walk all the way here from Folsome Street,
and up these interminable stairs, and then go away, without knowing what
constitutes a breach of promise? I would have you know, sir, that my
case is urgent.”

“Then you did not intend to prosecute me at all?” asked Mr. Beanson,
opening his eyes very wide.

“Have I not told you once? Would I prosecute a keg of nails, you ninny?”

As strange as it may seem, a bland smile, which spread over the entire
face of Mr. Beanson, was the result of this last poisoned arrow of Miss
Garr. The _ignis fatuus_ of his first brief was again rising over the
marshes of his present embarrassments. “Well, well, madam,” rejoined Mr.
Beanson, “I will do anything in the world to serve you. Who is it, by
the way, that you wish to prosecute?”

“I don’t know as that is any of your business at present, sir; I first
want an answer to the question I have asked about forty times: What
constitutes a breach of promise?”

“To tell the truth, madam, there are so many conditions to a breach of
promise that an abstract definition of it would not do the least good in
the world; and I could not give one without consulting my books—but do
you absolutely insist on mentioning no names?”

“I do, sir.”

“Will you state the case, then, without names?”

“You must see, sir, that my natural delicacy revolts against any
revelations to strangers.”

“Why, madam, counsellor and client should never be strangers. Besides,
you must be aware that a breach of promise depends on so many things. As
I have said before, there are so many conditions that we cannot proceed
at all unless you answer certain questions; such as, for instance,
whether you—I mean the lady, the plaintiff, in fact—has any proof of a
promise, express or implied.”

Miss Garr looked about the room in silent uncertainty.

“Have you—I mean, has the lady—for example, any witnesses—any one who
has heard the defendant that is to be,” pursued Mr. Beanson, in the
language of the future, “express or imply a promise?”

She could not say that the lady had.

“Had she any letters to show which contained a promise either expressed
or implied?”

“The lady,” responded Miss Garr mysteriously; “the lady has not.”

“Has the plaintiff been injured in any way by the defendant?”

“Yes, grossly.”

“Ah, then, I begin to see a case. Set the damages heavy—set the damages
heavy. By-the-bye, is the defendant rich?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Mr. Beanson, rubbing his hands. “We will make the villain
suffer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beanson. Fifty thousand dollars will be little enough.
Thank you, Mr. Beanson.” And Miss Garr actually shook hands with Mr.
Beanson on the spot.

“Hem, ah! what was—the—nature of—these injuries—that you say the
defendant had inflicted upon you—the lady, I should say, the plaintiff?”

Miss Garr feigned an uneasy look.

“Must I tell?” she demanded, dropping her eyes.

“I am sorry, madam, it is absolutely necessary, since the whole case
seems to hang upon that injury, or those injuries alone.”

“Well, then,” said Sophia, riveting her maidenly orbs meekly upon a
broken coal-scuttle; “well, then, sir, he kissed her in the dark!”

“Is that all?”

“Is it not enough, sir?”

“It might have been enough,” replied Mr. Beanson, in the stumbling
innocence which had been the bane of his life; “it might have been
enough, madam, for the defendant, or for the plaintiff even, but it is
hardly enough to ground an action of breach of promise upon.”

Miss Garr was angry; Mr. Beanson puzzled; and both were silent. If he
had seen a possible chance of securing his first brief in any other way,
Mr. Archibald Beanson would most certainly have dismissed Sophia
instanter.

Running his long fingers inanely through his red hair, “Madam!” he said
at last, “I think I shall be obliged to consult Bishop on Marriage.”

“Now look here, sir,” observed Miss Sophia, wrapping her ready-made
cloak tighter around her, “if you keep on, I shall lose my patience and
my good manners. Who in the world wants to consult the bishop on
marriage? An ordinary minister, or even a justice of the peace, will do
me. I am not proud, sir.”

Mr. Beanson, trying to look learned, succeeded in looking confused.
Undoubling himself again—this time with abstruse deliberation—he went to
a meagre bookcase, and returned to his desk. “It was this book,” said
he, “that I had reference to—‘Bishop on Marriage and Divorce!’”

“Well, now you begin to get sensible,” remarked Miss Garr, in a tone and
manner which, expressed in words, would have read, “I grant your pardon,
sir, for your trivial mistake about ministers and bishops.”

Mr. Beanson opened the book, and, glancing over the table of contents,
his eye rested on the heading of a chapter, which read thus—“Want of
age.”

In his utter helplessness, Archibald looked up again at Sophia and
asked, “Is there any want of age in the parties?”

“Now look here, sir; I did not come here to be insulted. You think I do
not understand your irony. I would have you to know that I do.”

“I asked that question,” said Mr. Beanson, soothingly, “with all due
reverence for your age. This is the first time you have openly
acknowledged that you are the plaintiff in the contemplated suit. I have
known it all along, however; and I therefore assure you that the
question about age was suggested wholly by my ignorance as to the other
party—the defendant.”

Mr. Beanson, without perusing the commentary on this speech written in
the face of his client, now glanced his eye back to the table of
contents again. The question suggested this time seemed to that astute
pundit an honest one, and based on sufficient grounds. “Want of mental
capacity,” he read. “That’s it,” he exclaimed.

“There may be a want of mental capacity in one of the parties. Do you
think the defence would make that out?” inquired Mr. Beanson.

“It might be,” replied Miss Garr, still pursuing the thought into which
she had been drifted, and in which she had gradually drowned some of her
indignation at the unsuspecting Archibald. Lang’s late conduct may have
been dictated by insanity—proposing to Amelia after engaging himself to
her, Sophia Garr! “Really, Mr. Beanson, it might be.”

“Indeed, madam? Then we must guard against that!”

The client looked inquiringly at the lawyer, who was for a moment
wrapped in a mute study. “Can the defence, madam,” demanded Mr. Beanson
at last, “can—can they prove that you have ever been in Stockton, or any
private insane asylum?”

Here the reader who has visited the Sandwich Islands may pause to
congratulate himself. Remembering the crater of Mauna Loa, he will have
a more vivid idea of Miss Garr’s feelings than anything but that molten
sea of lava could possibly suggest. Sophia jumped indignantly to her
feet, and poured a tide of epithets, so seething-hot, over the head of
the astonished Archibald, that for a moment he succumbed before it,
blank and still as some patriarchal porpoise, lava-cooked and cast upon
the beach of Hawaii.


[Illustration: “‘YOU WRETCH!’”]


“You wretch!” was the comparatively calm peroration of Miss Garr,
“you—you horrid wretch! I have a mind to sue you for slander. How dare
you put such a stigma on my character when you know, or ought to know,
that George Lang is the one that is insane!”

“Oh, ah! George Lang, my employer?” exclaimed Mr. Beanson, coming to
life. “That’s the gentleman you would prosecute. Well, now!”

To the intense astonishment of Archibald an increasing bitterness of
manner succeeded, and he said, “If you are not insane, madam, you are
certainly in your dotage. Why, look at this desk, here! Every one of
these papers is a deed made out by order of the gentleman you would rob.
Go along with your breach of promise! The court would send you to an
asylum as sure as guns!”

Mr. Beanson’s face grew brighter as his indignation grew, and his entire
head was girt about with an unwonted appearance of youth. Sophia’s rough
handling, like sandpaper upon an antique bust, had rubbed some of the
yellow mould away—had lifted that mysterious veil woven by the semblance
of years, and had opened up to her eyes and ours, the perfect glories of
Mr. Beanson’s Golden Age.

“You came here, no doubt, madam,” continued Archibald, with no such
interruption as the foregoing paragraph; “in fact, I feel sure, madam,
you came here to prevail on me to enter into a plot against my only
present employer, and may be (here Mr. Beanson was very bitter in the
curl of his lip and his general tone), may be?—no, I am sure, too, that
you would attempt to marry me at last, as a meet punishment for being
your accomplice. Oh! I see it in your eye, madam; you need not deny it!”

Miss Garr, at one time or another, since she had read Mr. Beanson’s name
on his card, might have thought vaguely of “prospecting” him for a
husband, in case of the failure of all other claims; but to do her
justice, it was only ineffable rage that Archibald saw in her eye, as he
repeated—though Sophia had not attempted to speak—“You need not deny it,
for I tell you I see it in your eye! and as for Mr. Lang, I am doing his
notary business, and a great deal of it, too, especially of late. He is
selling hosts of property—hosts of property, madam, in the name and with
the written consent of the Claytons. Why, the very heaviest sale is to
be made to-day. Now what does this mutual confidence presuppose? Madam,”
said Mr. Beanson, rising and assuming an air of mock politeness, “if you
were as sure that you are sane, as I am that he is going to marry the
daughter of Mrs. Clayton, you would not have taken up so much of my
valuable time from Mr. Lang’s business. But, madam, this is the door,”
concluded Mr. Beanson with an urbane wave of the hand, as he resumed his
seat and began silently to arrange the papers before him.

Miss Sophia, white with rage, did not stir or speak.

Involuntarily the hands of Mr. Beanson paused in the labours they had
undertaken, and fell heavily, one on each side of his chair, almost to
the floor. As he sat and gazed at the still shape before him, the idea
of the ghost in _Hamlet_ was suddenly suggested to the fertile mind of
Mr. Beanson. This was not a remarkable conception, taken apart from its
consequences; yet Mr. Beanson, forgetting the matter of gender, not only
congratulated himself on the aptness of the allusion, though not
expressed in words, but actually chuckled, and at last, laughed
outright, as an encouragement to his own genius.

Had it not been for this fatal laugh, Miss Garr could have spoken, and
her speech might have been terrible. But something came perversely up
into her throat. Turning briskly upon her heel, she darted through the
door to be in advance of her own tears; and she and the first brief of
Mr. Archibald Beanson disappeared together.

                                                         _Ralph Keeler._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF._


                                THE BODY
                                   OF
                           BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
                    (LIKE THE COVER OF AN OLD BOOK,
                         ITS CONTENTS TORN OUT,
                AND STRIPT OF ITS LETTERING AND GILDING)
                       LIES HERE FOOD FOR WORMS;
                 YET THE WORK ITSELF SHALL NOT BE LOST,
             FOR IT WILL (AS HE BELIEVED) APPEAR ONCE MORE
                                IN A NEW
                      AND MORE BEAUTIFUL EDITION,
                         CORRECTED AND AMENDED
                                   BY
                              THE AUTHOR.

                                                    _Benjamin Franklin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                       _THE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER._


ONE of these fellows was about seventy, or upwards, and had a bald head
and very grey whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a
greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed
into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses—no, he only had one. He had
an old long-tailed blue jeans coat, with slick brass buttons, flung over
his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags.

The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After
breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out
was that these chaps didn’t know one another.

“What got you into trouble?” says the bald-head to t’other chap.

“Well, I’d been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth—and
it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it—but I
stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act
of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and
you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I
told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out _with_
you. That’s the whole yarn—what’s yourn?”

“Well, I’d ben a-runnin’ a little temperance revival thar, ’bout a week,
and was the pet of the women-folks, big and little, for I was makin’ it
mighty warm for the rummies, I _tell_ you, and takin’ as much as five or
six dollars a night—ten cents a head, children and niggers free—and
business a growin’ all the time; when somehow or another a little report
got around, last night, that I had a way of puttin’ in my time with a
private jug, on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin’, and told
me the people was getherin’ on the quiet, with their dogs and horses,
and they’d be along pretty soon and give me ’bout half-an-hour’s start,
and then run me down, if they could; and if they got me they’d tar and
feather me, and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn’t wait for no
breakfast—I warn’t hungry.”

“Old man,” says the young one, “I reckon we might double-team it
together; what do you think?”

“I ain’t undisposed. What’s your line—mainly?”

“Jour printer, by trade; do a little in patent medicines;
theatre-actor—tragedy, you know; take a turn at mesmerism and phrenology
when there’s a chance; teach singing geography school for a change;
sling a lecture, sometimes—oh, I do lots of things—most anything that
comes handy, so it ain’t work. What’s your lay?”

“I’ve done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin’ on o’
hands is my best holt—for cancer, and paralysis, and sich things; and I
k’n tell a fortune pretty good, when I’ve got somebody along to find out
the facts for me. Preachin’s my line, too; and workin’ camp meetin’s;
and missionaryin’ around.”

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh
and says—

“Alas!”

“What’re you alassin’ about?” says the bald-head.

“To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded
down into such company.” And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with
a rag.

“Dern your skin, ain’t the company good enough for you?” says the
bald-head, pretty pert and uppish.

“Yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it’s as good as I deserve; for who
fetched me so low, when I was so high? _I_ did myself. I don’t blame
_you_, gentlemen—far from it; I don’t blame anybody. I deserve it all.
Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know—there’s a grave
somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it’s always done, and take
everything from me—loved ones, property, everything—but it can’t take
that. Some day I’ll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken
heart will be at rest.” He went on a-wiping.

“Drot your pore broken heart,” says the bald-head; “what are you heaving
your pore broken heart at _us_ f’r? _We_ hain’t done nothing.”

“No, I know you haven’t. I ain’t blaming you, gentlemen. I brought
myself down—yes, I did it myself. It’s right I should suffer—perfectly
right—I don’t make any moan.”

“Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?”

“Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes—let it pass—’tis
no matter. The secret of my birth——”

“The secret of your birth? Do you mean to say——”

“Gentlemen,” says the young man, very solemn, “I will reveal it to you,
for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!”

Jim’s eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too.
Then the bald-head says: “No! you can’t mean it?”

“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled
to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure
air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father
dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the
title and estates—the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal
descendant of that infant—I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and
here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by
the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the
companionship of felons on a raft!”

Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but
he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t be much comforted; said if we
was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most
anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we
ought to bow, when we spoke to him, and say, “Your Grace,” or “My Lord,”
or “Your Lordship”—and he wouldn’t mind it if we called him plain
“Bridgewater,” which he said was a title, anyway, and not a name; and
one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for
him he wanted done.

Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood
around and waited on him, and says, “Will yo’ Grace have some o’ dis, or
some o’ dat?” and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to
him.

But the old man got pretty silent, by-and-by—didn’t have much to say,
and didn’t look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going
on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind. So, along
in the afternoon, he says—

“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorry for you, but you
ain’t the only person that’s had troubles like that.”

“No?”

“No, you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s ben snaked down
wrongfully out’n a high place.”

“Alas!”

“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret of his birth.” And by
jings, _he_ begins to cry.

“Hold! What do you mean?”

“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, still sort of sobbing.

“To the bitter death!” He took the old man by the hand and squeezed it,
and says, “The secret of your being: speak!”


[Illustration: “‘BILGEWATER, I AM THE LATE DAUPHIN!’”]


“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!”

You bet you Jim and me stared, this time. Then the duke says—

“You are what?”

“Yes, my friend, it is too true—your eyes is lookin’ at this very moment
on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of Looy the
Sixteen and Marry Antonette.”

“You! At your age! No! You mean you’re the late Charlemagne; you must be
six or seven hundred years old, at the very least.”

“Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung
these grey hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see
before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin’, exiled,
trampled-on, and sufferin’ rightful King of France.”

Well, he cried and took on so, that me and Jim didn’t know hardly what
to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and proud we’d got him with us, too.
So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort
_him_. But he said it warn’t no use, nothing but to be dead and done
with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel
easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his
rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him
“Your Majesty,” and waited on him first at meals, and didn’t set down in
his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me set to majestying him,
and doing this and that and t’other for him, and standing up till he
told us we might set down. This done him heaps of good, and so he got
cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of soured on him, and didn’t
look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king
acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke’s great-grandfather
and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by
_his_ father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but
the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by-and-by the king says—

“Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time, on this h-yer
raft, Bilgewater, and so what’s the use o’ your bein’ sour? It’ll only
make things oncomfortable. It ain’t my fault I warn’t born a duke, it
ain’t your fault you warn’t born a king—so what’s the use to worry? Make
the best o’ things the way you find ’em, says I—that’s my motto. This
ain’t no bad thing that we’ve struck here—plenty grub and an easy
life—come, give us your hand, Duke, and less all be friends.”

The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took away
all the uncomfortableness, and we felt mighty good over it, because it
would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the
raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody
to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others.

It didn’t take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn’t no
kings nor dukes, at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But I
never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it’s the best way;
then you don’t have no quarrels, and don’t get into no trouble. If they
wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn’t no objections, ‘long as
it would keep peace in the family; and it warn’t no use to tell Jim, so
I didn’t tell him. If I never learnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt
that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them
have their own way.

                                   _Samuel L. Clemens_ (“_Mark Twain_”).
                                            (_From “Huckleberry Finn_.”)




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      _A VISIT TO BRIGHAM YOUNG._

[Illustration: “‘WILTIST THOU NOT TARRY HEAR IN THE PROMIST LAND?’”]


IT is now goin on 2 (too) yeres, as I very well remember, since I
crossed the Planes for Kaliforny, the Brite land of Jold. While crossin
the Planes all so bold I fell in with sum noble red men of the forest
(N.B. This is rote Sarcastical. Injins is Pizin, whar ever found), which
thay Sed I was their Brother, & wantid for to smoke the Calomel of Peace
with me. Thay than stole my jerkt beef, blankits, etsettery, skalpt my
orgin grinder & scooted with a Wild Hoop. Durin the Cheaf’s techin
speech he sed he shood meet me in the Happy Huntin Grounds. If he duz
thare will be a fite. But enuff of this ere. _Reven Noose Muttons_, as
our skoolmaster who has got Talent into him, cussycally obsarves.

I arrove at Salt Lake in doo time. At Camp Scott there was a lot of U.S.
sojers, hosstensibly sent out thare to smash the mormins but really to
eat Salt vittles & play poker & other beautiful but sumwhat onsartin
games. I got acquainted with sum of the officers. Thay lookt putty
scrumpshus in their Bloo coats with brass buttings onto um & ware very
talented drinkers, but so fur as fitin is consarned I’d willingly put my
wax figgers agin the hull party.

My desire was to exhibit my grate show in Salt Lake City, so I called on
Brigham Yung, the grate mogull amung the mormins, and axed his permishun
to pitch my tent and onfurl my banner to the gintle breezis. He lookt at
me in a austeer manner for a few minits, and sed—

“Do you bleeve in Solomon, Saint Paul, the immaculateness of the Mormin
Church and the Latter-day Revelashuns?”

Sez I, “I’m on it!” I make it a pint to git along plesunt, tho I didn’t
know what under the Son the old feller was drivin at. He sed I mite
show.

“You air a marrid man, Mister Yung, I bleeve?” sez I, preparin to rite
him som free parsis.

“I hev eighty wives, Mister Ward. I sertinly am marrid.”

“How do you like it as far as you hev got?” sed I.

He sed “middlin,” and axed me wouldn’t I like to see his famerly, to
which I replide that I wouldn’t mind minglin with the fair Seck &
Barskin in the winnin smiles of his interestin wives. He accordingly tuk
me to his Scareum. The house is powerful big & in an exceedin large room
was his wives and children, which larst was squawkin and hollerin enuff
to take the roof rite orf the house. The wimin was of all sizes and
ages. Sum was pretty & sum was plane—sum was helthy and sum was on the
Wayne—which is verses, tho sich was not my intentions, as I don’t ’prove
of puttin verses in Proze rittins, tho ef occashun requires I can jerk a
Poim ekal to any of them Atlantic Munthly fellers.

“My wives, Mister Ward,” sed Yung.

“Your sarvant, marms,” sed I, as I sot down in a cheer which a red-heded
female brawt me.

“Besides these wives you see here, Mister Ward,” sed Yung, “I hav eighty
more in varis parts of this consecrated land which air Sealed to me.”

“Which,” sez I, gittin up & starin at him.

“Sealed, Sir! sealed.”

“Whare bowts?” sez I.

“I sed, Sir, that they was sealed!” He spoke in a traggerdy voice.

“Will they probly continner on in that stile to any great extent, Sir,”
I axed.

“Sir,” sed he, turnin as red as a biled beet, “don’t you know that the
rules of our Church is that I, the Profit, may hev as meny wives as I
wants?”

“Jes so,” I sed. “You are old pie, ain’t you?”

“Them as is Sealed to me—that is to say, to be mine when I wants um—air
at present my sperretooul wives,” sed Mister Yung.

“Long may thay wave!” sez I, seein I shood git into a scrape ef I didn’t
look out.

In a privit conversashun with Brigham I learnt the follerin fax:—It
takes him six weeks to kiss his wives. He don’t do it only onct a yere,
& sez it is wuss nor cleanin house. He don’t pretend to know his
children, thare is so many of um, tho they all know him. He sez about
every child he meats call him Par, and he takes it for grantid it is so.
His wives air very expensive. They allers want suthin & ef he don’t buy
it for um they set the house in a uproar. He sez he don’t have a minit’s
peace. His wives fite amung theirselves so much that he has bilt a fitin
room for thare speshul benefit, & when too of em get into a row he has
em turned loose into that place, whare the dispoot is settled a cordin
to the rules of the London prize ring. Sumtimes thay abooz hisself
individooally. Thay hev pulled the most of his hair out at the roots &
he wares meny a horrible scar upon his body, inflicted with mop-handles,
broomsticks and sich. Occashunly they git mad & scald him with bilin hot
water. When he got eny waze cranky thay’d shut him up in a dark closit,
previsly whippin him arter the stile of muthers when thare orfsprings
git onruly. Sumtimes when he went in swimmin thay’d go to the banks of
the Lake and steal all his close, thereby compellin him to sneek home by
a sircootius rowt, drest in the Skanderlus stile of the Greek Slaiv. “I
find that the keers of a marrid life way hevy onto me,” sed the Profit,
“& sumtimes I wish I’d remained singel.” I left the Profit and startid
for the tavern whare I put up to. On my way I was overtuk by a lurge
krowd of Mormons, which they surrounded me & statid that they were goin
into the Show free.

“Wall,” sez I, “ef I find a individooal who is goin’ round lettin folks
into his show free, I’ll let you know.”

“We’ve had a Revelashun biddin us go into A. Ward’s Show without payin
nothin!” thay showtid.

“Yes,” hollered a lot of femaile Mormonesses, ceasin me by the cote
tales & swingin me round very rapid, “we’re all goin in free! So sez the
Revelashun!”

“What’s Old Revelashun got to do with my show?” sez I, gittin putty
rily. “Tell Mister Revelashun,” sed I, drawin myself up to my full hite
and lookin round upon the ornery krowd with a prowd & defiant mean,
“tell Mister Revelashun to mind his own bizness, subject only to the
Konstitushun of the United States!”

“Oh now let us in, that’s a sweet man,” sed several femailes, puttin
thare arms rownd me in lovin stile. “Becum 1 of us. Becum a Preest & hav
wives Sealed to you.”

“Not a Seal!” sez I, startin back in horror at the idee.

“Oh stay, Sir, stay,” sed a tall gawnt femaile, ore whoos hed 37 summirs
must hev parsd, “stay, & I’ll be your Jentle Gazelle.”

“Not ef I know it, you won’t,” sez I. “Awa, you skanderlus femaile, awa!
Go & be a Nunnery!” That’s what I sed, jes so.

“& I,” sed a fat chunky femaile, who must hev wade more than too hundred
lbs., “I will be your sweet gidin Star!”

Sez I, “Ile bet two dollers and a half you won’t!” Whare ear I may Rome
Ile still be troo 2 thee, Oh Betsy Jane! [N.B. Betsy Jane is my wife’s
Sir naime.]

“Wiltist thou not tarry hear in the Promist Land?” sed several of the
miserabil critters.

“Ile see you all essenshally cussed be 4 I wiltist!” roared I, as mad as
I cood be at thare infernul noncents. I girded up my Lions & fled the
Seen. I packt up my duds & left Salt Lake, which is a 2nd Soddum and
Germorrer, inhabitid by as theavin & onprincipled a set of retchis as
ever drew Breth in any spot on the Globe.

                                                         _Artemus Ward._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                    _DUET FOR THE BREAKFAST-TABLE._

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.


                  THOU art my love! I have none other,
                    But only thee—but only thee.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

                Now, Charles, do stop this silly bother,
                  And drink your tea—your cooling tea.

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

               Your eyes are diamonds, gems refined,
                 Your teeth are pearl, your hair is gold.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

                  Oh, nonsense now! I know you’ll find
                    Your cutlets cold—exceeding cold.

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

                  Where’er thou art, my passions burn;
                    I envy not the monarch’s crown.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

               Put some hot water in the urn,
                 And toast this bread, and toast it brown.

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

              Had I Golconda’s wealth, I say
                ’Twere thine at will—’twere thine at will.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

                 Then let me have a cheque to pay
                   The dry-goods bill—that tedious bill!

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

                 Oh, heed it not, my trembling flower;
                   If want should press us, let it come.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

                    And, apropos, the bill for flour;
                      Is quite a sum—an unpaid sum.

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

                 So rich in love, so rich in joy,
                   No change our cup of bliss can spill.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

               Now do be quiet! You destroy
                 My cambric frill—my well-starched frill.

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

                 Ha! senseless, soulless, loveless girl,
                   To sympathy and passion dead!

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

                  A moment since I was your “pearl,”
                    Your “only love”—at least you said.

                           ROMANTIC HUSBAND.

                 I spoke it in the bitter jest
                   Of one his own deep sadness scorning.

                             SENSIBLE WIFE.

                 Well, candour is at all times best;
                   I wish you, sir, a fair good morning!

                                               _Charles Graham Halpine._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            _KITTY ANSWERS._


IT was dimmest twilight when Kitty entered Mrs. Ellison’s room, and sank
down on the first chair in silence.

“The Colonel met a friend at the St. Louis, and forgot about the
expedition, Kitty,” said Fanny, “and he only came in half-an-hour ago.
But it’s just as well; I know you’ve had a splendid time. Where’s Mr.
Arbuton?”

Kitty burst into tears.

“Why, has anything happened to him?” cried Mrs. Ellison, springing
towards her.

“To him? No! What should happen to _him_?” Kitty demanded, with an
indignant accent.

“Well, then, has anything happened to _you_?”

“I don’t know if you can call it _happening_. But I suppose you’ll be
satisfied now, Fanny. He’s offered himself to me.”

Kitty uttered the last words with a sort of violence, as if, since the
fact must be stated, she wished it to appear in the sharpest relief.

“Oh, dear!” said Mrs. Ellison, not so well satisfied as the successful
match-maker ought to be. So long as it was a marriage in the abstract,
she had never ceased to desire it; but as the actual union of Kitty and
this Mr. Arbuton, of whom, really, they knew so little, and of whom, if
she searched her heart, she had as little liking as knowledge, it was
another affair. Mrs. Ellison trembled at her triumph, and began to think
that failure would have been easier to bear. Were they in the least
suited to each other? Would she like to see poor Kitty chained for life
to that impassive egotist, whose very merits were repellent, and whose
modesty even seemed to convict and snub you? Mrs. Ellison was not able
to put the matter to herself with moderation, either way; doubtless she
did Mr. Arbuton injustice now.

“Did you accept him?” she whispered feebly.

“Accept him?” repeated Kitty. “No!”

“Oh, dear!” again sighed Mrs. Ellison, feeling that this was scarcely
better, and not daring to ask further.

“I’m dreadfully perplexed, Fanny,” said Kitty, after waiting for the
questions which did not come, “and I wish you’d help me think.”

“I will, darling. But I don’t know that I’ll be of much use. I begin to
think I’m not very good at thinking.”

Kitty, who longed chiefly to get the situation more distinctly before
herself, gave no heed to this confession, but went on to rehearse the
whole affair. The twilight lent her its veil; and in the kindly
obscurity she gathered courage to face all the facts, and even to find
what was droll in them.

“It was very solemn, of course, and I was frightened; but I tried to
keep my wits about me, and _not_ to say yes, simply because that was the
easiest thing. I told him that I didn’t know,—and I don’t; and that I
must have time to think,—and I must. He was very ungenerous, and said he
had hoped I had already had time to think; and he couldn’t seem to
understand, or else I couldn’t very well explain, how it had been with
me all along.”

“He might certainly say you had encouraged him,” Mrs. Ellison remarked,
thoughtfully.

“Encouraged him, Fanny? How can you accuse me of such indelicacy?”

“Encouraging isn’t indelicacy. The gentlemen _have_ to be encouraged, or
of course they’d never have any courage. They’re so timid, naturally.”

“I don’t think Mr. Arbuton is very timid. He seemed to think that he had
only to ask as a matter of form, and I had no business to say anything.
What has he ever done for me? And hasn’t he often been intensely
disagreeable? He oughtn’t to have spoken just after overhearing what he
did. It was horrid to do so. He was very obtuse, too, not to see that
girls can’t always be so certain of themselves as men, or, if they are,
don’t know they are as soon as they’re asked.”

“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Ellison, “that’s the way with girls. I do
believe that most of them—when they’re young like you, Kitty—never think
of marriage as the end of their flirtations. They’d just like the
attentions and the romance to go on for ever, and never turn into
anything more serious; and they’re not to blame for that, though they
_do_ get blamed for it.”

“Certainly,” assented Kitty eagerly, “that’s it; that’s just what I was
saying; that’s the very reason why girls must have time to make up their
minds. _You_ had, I suppose.”

“Yes, two minutes. Poor Dick was going back to his regiment, and stood
with his watch in his hand. I said no, and called after him to correct
myself. But, Kitty, if the romance had happened to stop without his
saying anything, you wouldn’t have liked that either, would you?”

“No,” faltered Kitty; “I suppose not.”

“Well, then, don’t you see? That’s a great point in his favour. How much
time did you want, or did he give you?”

“I said I should answer before we left Quebec,” answered Kitty, with a
heavy sigh.

“Don’t you know what to say now?”

“I can’t tell. That’s what I want you to help me think out.”

Mrs. Ellison was silent for a moment before she said, “Well, then, I
suppose we shall have to go back to the very beginning.”

“Yes,” assented Kitty, faintly.

“You did have a sort of fancy for him the first time you saw him, didn’t
you?” asked Mrs. Ellison coaxingly, while forcing herself to be
systematic and coherent, by a mental strain of which no idea can be
given.

“Yes,” said Kitty, yet more faintly, adding, “but I can’t tell just what
sort of a fancy it was. I suppose I admired him for being handsome and
stylish, and for having such exquisite manners.”

“Go on,” said Mrs. Ellison; “and after you got acquainted with him?”

“Why, you know we’ve talked that over once already, Fanny.”

“Yes, but we oughtn’t to skip anything now,” replied Mrs. Ellison, in a
tone of judicial accuracy, which made Kitty smile.

But she quickly became serious again, and said, “Afterwards I couldn’t
tell whether to like him or not, or whether he wanted me to. I think he
acted very strangely for a person in—love. I used to feel so troubled
and oppressed when I was with him. He seemed always to be making himself
agreeable under protest.”

“Perhaps that was just your imagination, Kitty.”

“Perhaps it was; but it troubled me just the same.”

“Well, and then?”

“Well, and then after that day of the Montgomery expedition he seemed to
change altogether, and to try always to be pleasant, and to do
everything he could to make me like him. I don’t know how to account for
it. Ever since then he’s been extremely careful of me, and behaved—of
course without knowing it—as if I belonged to him already. Or maybe I’ve
imagined that too. It’s very hard to tell what has really happened the
last two weeks.”

Kitty was silent, and Mrs. Ellison did not speak at once. Presently she
asked, “Was his acting as if you belonged to him disagreeable?”

“I can’t tell. I think it was rather presuming. I don’t know why he did
it.”

“Do you respect him?” demanded Mrs. Ellison.

“Why, Fanny, I’ve always told you that I did respect some things in
him.”

Mrs. Ellison had the facts before her, and it rested upon her to sum
them up, and do something with them. She rose to a sitting posture, and
confronted her task.

“Well, Kitty, I’ll tell you. I don’t really know what to think. But I
can say this: if you liked him at first, and then didn’t like him, and
afterwards he made himself more agreeable, and you didn’t mind his
behaving as if you belonged to him, and you respected him, but after all
didn’t think him fascinating——”

“He _is_ fascinating—in a kind of way. He was, from the beginning. In a
story his cold, snubbing, putting-down ways would have been perfectly
fascinating.”

“Then why didn’t you take him?”

“Because,” answered Kitty, between laughing and crying, “it isn’t a
story, and I don’t know whether I like him.”

“But do you think you might get to like him?”

“I don’t know. His asking brings all the doubts I ever had of him, and
that I’ve been forgetting the past two weeks. I can’t tell whether I
like him or not. If I did, shouldn’t I trust him more?”

“Well, whether you are in love or not, I’ll tell you what you _are_,
Kitty,” cried Mrs. Ellison, provoked with her indecision, and yet
relieved that the worst, whatever it was, was postponed thereby for a
day or two.

“What?”

“You’re——”

But at this important juncture the colonel came lounging in, and Kitty
glided out of the room.

“Richard,” said Mrs. Ellison, seriously, and in a tone implying that it
was the colonel’s fault, as usual, “you know what has happened, I
suppose?”

“No, my dear, I don’t; but no matter: I will presently, I daresay.”

“Oh, I wish for once you wouldn’t be so flippant. Mr. Arbuton has
offered himself to Kitty.”

Colonel Ellison gave a quick, sharp whistle of amazement, but trusted
himself to nothing more articulate.

“Yes,” said his wife, responding to the whistle, “and it makes me
perfectly wretched.”

“Why, I thought you liked him.”

“I didn’t _like_ him; but I thought it would be an excellent thing for
Kitty.”

“And won’t it?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know?”

“No.”

The colonel was silent, while Mrs. Ellison stated the case in full, and
its pending uncertainty. Then he exclaimed vehemently as if his
amazement had been growing upon him. “This is the most astonishing thing
in the world! Who would ever have dreamt of that young iceberg being in
love?”

“Haven’t I _told_ you all along he was?”

“Oh yes, certainly! but that might be taken either way, you know. You
would discover the tender passion in the eye of a potato.”

“Colonel Ellison,” said Fanny, with sternness, “why do you suppose he’s
been hanging about us for the last four weeks? Why should he have stayed
in Quebec? Do you think he pitied _me_, or found _you_ so very
agreeable?”

“Well, I thought he found us just tolerable, and was interested in the
place.”

Mrs. Ellison made no direct reply to this pitiable speech, but looked a
scorn which, happily for the colonel, the darkness hid. Presently she
said that bats did not express the blindness of men, for any bat could
have seen what was going on.

“Why,” remarked the colonel, “I did have a momentary suspicion that day
of the Montgomery business; they both looked very confused when I saw
them at the end of that street, and neither of them had anything to say;
but that was accounted for by what you told me afterwards about his
adventure. At the time I didn’t pay much attention to the matter. The
idea of his being in love seemed too ridiculous.”

“Was it ridiculous for you to be in love with me?”

“No; and yet I can’t praise my condition for its wisdom, Fanny.”

“Yes! that’s _like_ men. As soon as one of them is safely married, he
thinks all the love-making in the world has been done for ever, and he
can’t conceive of two young people taking a fancy to each other.”

“That’s something so, Fanny. But granting—for the sake of argument
merely—that Boston has been asking Kitty to marry him, and she doesn’t
know whether she wants him, what are we to do about it? _I_ don’t like
him well enough to plead his cause; do you? When does Kitty think she’ll
be able to make up her mind?”

“She’s to let him know before we leave.”

The colonel laughed. “And so he’s to hang about here on uncertainties
for two whole days! That _is_ rather rough on him. Fanny, what made you
so eager for this business?”

“Eager? I _wasn’t_ eager.”

“Well, then,—reluctantly acquiescent?”

“Why, she’s so literary and that.”

“And what?”

“How insulting! Intellectual, and so on; and I thought she would be just
fit to live in a place where everybody is literary and intellectual.
That is, I thought that, if I thought anything.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “you may have been right on the whole, but I
don’t think Kitty is showing any particular force of mind, just now,
that would fit her to live in Boston. My opinion is, that it’s
ridiculous for her to keep him in suspense. She might as well answer him
first as last. She’s putting herself under a kind of obligation by her
delay. I’ll talk to her——”

“If you do, you’ll kill her. You don’t know how she’s wrought up about
it.”

“Oh, well, I’ll be careful of her sensibilities. It’s my duty to speak
with her. I’m here in the place of a parent. Besides, don’t I know
Kitty? I’ve almost brought her up.”

“Maybe you’re right. You’re all so queer that perhaps you’re right. Only
do be careful, Richard. You must approach the matter very delicately,
indirectly, you know. Girls are different, remember, from young men, and
you mustn’t be blunt. Do manœuvre a little, for once in your life.”

“All right, Fanny; you needn’t be afraid of my doing anything awkward or
sudden. I’ll go to her room pretty soon, after she is quieted down, and
have a good, calm, old, fatherly conversation with her.”

The colonel was spared this errand; for Kitty had left some of her
things on Fanny’s table, and now came back for them with a lamp in her
hand. Her averted face showed the marks of weeping; the corners of her
firm-set lips were downward bent, as if some resolutions which she had
taken were very painful. This the anxious Fanny saw; and she made a
gesture to the colonel which any woman would have understood to enjoin
silence, or, at least, the utmost caution and tenderness of speech. The
colonel summoned his _finesse_ and said, cheerily, “Well, Kitty, what’s
Boston been saying to you?”

Mrs. Ellison fell back upon her sofa as if shot, and placed her hands
over her face.

Kitty seemed not to hear her cousin. Having gathered up her things, she
bent an unmoved face and an unseeing gaze full upon him, and glided from
the room without a word.

“Well, upon my soul,” cried the colonel, “this is a pleasant,
nightmarist, sleep-walking, Lady-Macbethish, little transaction.
Confound it, Fanny! this comes of your wanting me to manœuvre. If you’d
let me come straight _at_ the subject, like a _man_——”

“_Please_, Richard, don’t say anything more now,” pleaded Mrs. Ellison
in a broken voice. “You can’t help it, I know; and I must do the best I
can, under the circumstances. Do go away for a little while, darling! Oh
dear!”

                                                 _William Dean Howells._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                _PUCK_.


              OH, it was Puck! I saw him yesternight
              Swung up betwixt a phlox-top and the rim
              Of a low crescent moon that cradled him,
              Whirring his rakish wings with all his might,
              And pursing his wee mouth, that dimpled white
              And red, as though some dagger keen and slim
              Had stung him there, while ever faint and dim
              His eerie warblings piped his high delight;
              Till I, grown jubilant, shrill answer made,
              At which, all suddenly, he dropped from view;
              And peering after, ’neath the everglade,
              What was it, do you think, I saw him do?
              I saw him peeling dewdrops with a blade
              Of starshine sharpened on his bat-wing shoe.

                                  _James Whitcomb Riley_.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                     _THE REVENGE OF ST. NICHOLAS._


                        A TALE FOR THE HOLYDAYS.


EVERYBODY knows that in the famous city of New York, whose proper name
is New Amsterdam, the excellent St. Nicholas—who is worth a dozen St.
George’s and dragons to boot, and who, if every tub stood on its right
bottom, would be at the head of the seven champions of Christendom—I
say, everybody knows the excellent St. Nicholas, in holyday times, goes
about among the people in the middle of the night, distributing all
sorts of toothsome and becoming gifts to the good boys and girls in this
his favourite city. Some say that he comes down the chimneys in a little
Jersey waggon; others, that he wears a pair of Holland skates, with
which he travels like the wind; and others, who pretend to have seen
him, maintain that he has lately adopted a locomotive, and was once
actually detected on the _Albany_ railroad. But this last assertion is
looked upon to be entirely fabulous, because St. Nicholas has too much
discretion to trust himself in such a new-fangled jarvie; and so I leave
this matter to be settled by whomsoever will take the trouble. My own
opinion is that his favourite mode of travelling is on a canal, the
motion and speed of which aptly comport with the philosophic dignity of
his character. But this is not material, and I will no longer detain my
readers with extraneous and irrelevant matters, as is too much the
fashion with our statesmen, orators, biographers, and story-tellers.

It was in the year one thousand seven hundred and sixty, or sixty-one,
for the most orthodox chronicles differ in this respect; but it was a
very remarkable year, and it was called _annus mirabilis_ on that
account. It was said that several people were detected in speaking the
truth about that time; that nine staid, sober, and discreet widows, who
had sworn on an anti-masonic almanac never to enter a second time into
the holy state, were snapped up by young husbands before they knew what
they were about; that six venerable bachelors wedded as many buxom young
belles, and, it is reported, were afterwards sorry for what they had
done; that many people actually went to church from motives of piety;
and that a great scholar, who had written a book in support of certain
opinions, was not only convinced of his error, but acknowledged it
publicly afterwards. No wonder the year one thousand seven hundred and
sixty, if that was the year, was called _annus mirabilis_!

What contributed to render this year still more remarkable was the
building of six new three-storey brick houses in the city, and three
persons setting up equipages, who, I cannot find, ever failed in
business afterwards or compounded with their creditors at a pestareen in
the pound. It is, moreover, recorded in the annals of the horticultural
society of that day, which were written on a cabbage leaf, as is said,
that a member produced a forked radish of such vast dimensions that,
being dressed up in fashionable male attire at the exhibition, it was
actually mistaken for a travelled beau by several inexperienced young
ladies, who pined away for love of its beautiful complexion, and were
changed into daffadowndillies. Some maintain it was a mandrake, but it
was finally detected by an inquest of experienced matrons. No wonder the
year seventeen hundred and sixty was called _annus mirabilis_!

But the most extraordinary thing of all was the confident assertion that
there was but one _grey mare_ within the bill of mortality; and,
incredible as it may appear, she was the wife of a responsible citizen,
who, it was affirmed, had grown rich by weaving velvet purses out of
sows’ ears. But this was looked upon as being somewhat of the character
of the predictions of almanac-makers. Certain it is, however, that Amos
Shuttle possessed the treasure of a wife who was shrewdly suspected of
having established within doors a system of government not laid down in
Aristotle or the Abbe Sieyès, who made a constitution for every day in
the year, and two for the first of April.

Amos Shuttle, though a mighty pompous little man out of doors, was the
meekest of human creatures within. He belonged to that class of people
who pass for great among the little, and little among the great; and he
would certainly have been master in his own house had it not been for a
woman! We have read somewhere that no wise woman ever thinks her husband
a demigod. If so, it is a blessing that there are so few wise women in
the world.

Amos had grown rich, Heaven knows how—he did not know himself; but, what
was somewhat extraordinary, he considered his wealth a signal proof of
his talents and sagacity, and valued himself according to the infallible
standard of pounds, shillings, and pence. But though he lorded it
without, he was, as we have just said, the most gentle of men within
doors. The moment he stepped inside of his own house his spirit cowered
down, like that of a pious man entering a church; he felt as if he was
in the presence of a superior being—to wit, Mrs. Abigail Shuttle. He
was, indeed, the meekest of beings at home except Moses; and Sir Andrew
Aguecheek’s song, which Sir Toby Belch declared “would draw nine souls
out of one weaver,” would have failed in drawing half a one out of Amos.
The truth is, his wife, who ought to have known, affirmed that he had no
more soul than a monkey; but he was the only man in the city thus
circumstanced at the time we speak of. No wonder, therefore, the year
one thousand seven hundred and sixty was called _annus mirabilis_!

Such as he was, Mr. Amos Shuttle waxed richer and richer every day,
insomuch that those who envied his prosperity were wont to say, “that he
had certainly been born with a dozen silver spoons in his mouth, or such
a great blockhead would never have got together such a heap of money.”
When he had become worth ten thousand pounds, he launched his shuttle
magnanimously out of the window, ordered his weaver’s beam to be split
up for oven wood, and Mrs. Amos turned his weaver’s shop into a
_boudoir_. Fortune followed him faster than he ran away from her. In a
few years the ten thousand doubled, and in a few more trebled,
quadrupled—in short, Amos could hardly count his money.

“What shall we do now, my dear?” asked Mrs. Shuttle, who never sought
his opinion that I can learn, except for the pleasure of contradicting
him.

“Let us go and live in the country, and enjoy ourselves,” quoth Amos.

“Go into the country! go to——” I could never satisfy myself what Mrs.
Shuttle meant; but she stopped short, and concluded the sentence with a
withering look of scorn, that would have cowed the spirit of nineteen
weavers.

Amos named all sorts of places, enumerated all sorts of modes of life he
could think of, and every pleasure that might enter into the imagination
of a man without a soul. His wife despised them all; she would not hear
of them.

“Well, my dear, suppose you suggest something; do now, Abby,” at length
said Amos, in a coaxing whisper; “will you, my onydoney?”

“Ony fiddlestick! I wonder you repeat such vulgarisms. But if I must say
what I should like, I should like to travel.”

“Well, let us go and make a tour as far as Jamaica, or Hackensack, or
Spiking Devil. There is excellent fishing for striped bass there.”

“Spiking Devil!” screamed Mrs. Shuttle; “aren’t you ashamed to swear so,
you wicked mortal! I won’t go to Jamaica, nor Hackensack among the Dutch
Hottentots, nor to Spiking Devil to catch striped bass; I’ll go to
Europe!”

If Amos had possessed a soul it would have jumped out of its skin at the
idea of going beyond seas. He had once been on the sea-bass banks, and
gone seasoning there, the very thought of which made him sick. But as he
had no soul, there was no great harm done.

When Mrs. Shuttle said a thing, it was settled. They went to Europe.
Taking their only son with them, the lady ransacked all the milliners’
shops in Paris, and the gentleman visited all the restaurateurs. He
became such a desperate connoisseur and gourmand, that he could almost
tell an _omelette au jambon_ from a gammon of bacon. After consummating
the polish, they came home, the lady with the newest old fashions, and
the weaver with a confirmed preference of _potage à la turque_ over
pepper-pot. It is said the city trembled, as with an earthquake, when
they landed, but the notion was probably superstitious.

They arrived near the close of the year, the memorable year, the _annus
mirabilis_ one thousand seven hundred and sixty. Everybody that had ever
known the Shuttles flocked to see them, or rather to see what they had
brought with them; and such was the magic of a voyage to Europe, that
Mr. and Mrs. Amos Shuttle, who had been nobodies when they departed,
became somebodies when they returned, and mounted at once to the summit
of _ton_.

“You have come in good time to enjoy the festivities of the holydays,”
said Mrs. Hubblebubble, an old friend of Amos the weaver and his wife.

“We shall have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year,” exclaimed Mrs.
Doubletrouble, another old acquaintance of old times.

“The holydays,” drawled Mrs. Shuttle; “the holydays? Christmas and New
Year? Pray what are they?”

It is astonishing to see how people lose their memories abroad
sometimes. They often forget their old friends, old customs, and
occasionally themselves.

“Why, la! now, who’d have thought it?” cried Mrs. Doubletrouble; “why,
sure you haven’t forgot the oily cooks and the mince-pies, the merry
meetings of friends, the sleigh-rides, the Kissing Bridge, and the
family parties?”

“Family parties!” shrieked Mrs. Shuttle, and held her salts to her nose;
“family parties! I never heard of anything so Gothic in Paris or Rome;
and oily cooks—oh, shocking! and mince-pies—detestable! and throwing
open one’s doors to all one’s old friends, whom one wishes to forget as
soon as possible—oh! the idea is insupportable!” And again she held the
salts to her nose.

Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble found they had exposed
themselves sadly, and were quite ashamed. A real, genteel, well-bred,
enlightened lady of fashion ought to have no rule of conduct, no
conscience, but Paris—whatever is fashionable there is genteel—whatever
is not fashionable is vulgar. There is no other standard of right, and
no other eternal fitness of things. At least so thought Mrs.
Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble.

“But is it possible that all these things are out of fashion abroad?”
asked the latter, beseechingly.

“They never were in,” said Mrs. Amos Shuttle. “For my part, I mean to
close my doors and windows on New Year’s Day—I’m determined.”

“And so am I,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble.

“And so am I,” said Mrs. Doubletrouble.

And it was settled that they should make a combination among themselves
and their friends, to put down the ancient and good customs of the city,
and abolish the sports and enjoyments of the jolly New Year. The
conspirators then separated, each to pursue her diabolical designs
against oily cooks, mince-pies, sleigh-ridings, sociable visitings, and
family parties.

Now the excellent St. Nicholas, who knows well what is going on in every
house in the city, though, like a good and honourable saint, he never
betrays any family secrets, overheard these wicked women plotting
against his favourite anniversary, and he said to himself—

“_Vuur en Vlammen!_ but I’ll be even with you, _mein vrouw_.” So he
determined he would play these conceited and misled women a trick or two
before he had done with them.

It was now the first day of the new year, and Mrs. Amos Shuttle, and
Mrs. Doubletrouble, and Mrs. Hubblebubble, and all their wicked
abettors, had shut up their doors and windows, so that when their old
friends called they could not get into their houses. Moreover, they had
prepared neither mince-pies, nor oily cooks, nor crullers, nor any of
the good things consecrated to St. Nicholas by his pious and
well-intentioned votaries, and they were mightily pleased at having been
as dull and stupid as owls, while all the rest of the city were as merry
as crickets, chirping and frisking in the warm chimney-corner. Little
did they think what horrible judgments were impending over them,
prepared by the wrath of the excellent St. Nicholas, who was resolved to
make an example of them for attempting to introduce their new-fangled
corruptions in place of the ancient customs of his favourite city. These
wicked women never had another comfortable sleep in their lives!

The night was still, clear, and frosty—the earth was everywhere one
carpet of snow, and looked just like the ghost of a dead world, wrapped
in a white winding-sheet; the moon was full, round, and of a silvery
brightness, and by her discreet silence afforded an example to the
rising generation of young damsels, while the myriads of stars that
multiplied as you gazed at them, seemed as though they were frozen into
icicles, they looked so cold and sparkled with such a glorious lustre.
The streets and roads leading from the city were all alive with sleighs
filled with jovial souls, whose echoing laughter and cheerful songs
mingled with a thousand merry bells, that jingled in harmonious
dissonance, giving spirit to the horses and animation to the scene. In
the licence of the season, hallowed by long custom, each of the sleighs
saluted the other in passing with a “Happy New Year,” a merry jest, or
mischievous gibe, exchanged from one gay party to another. All was life,
motion, and merriment; and as old frost-bitten Winter, aroused from his
trance by the rout and revelry around, raised his weather-beaten head to
see what was passing, he felt his icy blood warming and coursing through
his veins, and wished he could only overtake the laughing buxom Spring,
that he might dance a jig with her, and be as frisky as the best of
them. But as the old rogue could not bring this desirable matter about,
he contented himself with calling for a jolly bumper of cocktail, and
drinking a swinging draught to the health of the blessed St. Nicholas,
and those who honour the memory of the president of good-fellows.


[Illustration: “THE EXCELLENT ST. NICHOLAS OVERHEARD THESE WICKED
WOMEN.”]


All this time the wicked women and their abettors lay under the
malediction of the good saint, who caused them to be bewitched by an old
lady from Salem. Mrs. Amos Shuttle could not sleep, because something
had whispered in her apprehensive ear that her son, her only son, whom
she had engaged to the daughter of Count Grenouille, in Paris, then
about three years old, was actually at that moment crossing Kissing
Bridge in company with little Susan Varian, and some others besides. Now
Susan was the fairest little lady of all the land; she had a face and an
eye just like the widow Wadman in Leslie’s charming picture; a face and
an eye which no reasonable man under Heaven could resist, except my
uncle Toby—beshrew him and his fortifications, I say! She was, moreover,
a good little girl, and an accomplished little girl—but, alas! she had
not mounted to the step in Jacob’s ladder of fashion which qualifies a
person for the heaven of high _ton_, and Mrs. Shuttle had not been to
Europe for nothing. She would rather have seen her son wedded to
dissipation and profligacy than to Susan Varian; and the thought of his
being out sleigh-riding with her was worse than the toothache. It kept
her awake all the live-long night, and the only consolation she had was
scolding poor Amos, because the sleigh-bells made such a noise.

As for Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, they neither of them
got a wink of sleep during a whole week for thinking of the beautiful
French chairs and damask curtains Mrs. Shuttle had brought from Europe.
They forthwith besieged their good men, leaving them no rest until they
sent out orders to Paris for just such rich chairs and curtains as those
of the thrice-happy Mrs. Shuttle, from whom they kept the affair a
profound secret, each meaning to treat her to an agreeable surprise. In
the meanwhile they could not rest for fear the vessel which was to bring
these treasures might be lost on her passage. Such was the dreadful
judgment inflicted on them by the good St. Nicholas.

The perplexities of Mrs. Shuttle increased daily. In the first place, do
all she could, she could not make Amos a fine gentleman. This was a
metamorphosis which Ovid would never have dreamed of. He would be
telling the price of everything in his house, his furniture, his wines,
and his dinners, insomuch that those who envied his prosperity, or
perhaps only despised his pretensions, were wont to say, after eating
his venison and drinking his old Madeira, “that he ought to have been a
tavern-keeper, he knew so well how to make out a bill.” Mrs. Shuttle
once overheard a speech of this kind, and the good St. Nicholas himself,
who had brought it about, almost felt sorry for the mortification she
endured on the occasion.

Scarcely had she got over this, when she was invited to a ball by Mrs.
Hubblebubble, and the first thing she saw on entering the drawing-room
was a suite of damask curtains and chairs, as much like her own as two
peas, only the curtains had far handsomer fringe. Mrs. Shuttle came very
near fainting away, but escaped for that time, determined to mortify
this impudent creature by taking not the least notice of her finery. But
St. Nicholas ordered it otherwise, so that she was at last obliged to
acknowledge they were very elegant indeed. Nay, this was not the worst,
for she overheard one lady whisper to another that Mrs. Hubblebubble’s
curtains were much richer than Mrs. Shuttle’s.

“Oh, I daresay,” replied the other—“I daresay Mrs. Shuttle bought them
second-hand, for her husband is as mean as pursley.”

This was too much. The unfortunate woman was taken suddenly ill—called
her carriage, and went home, where it is supposed she would have died
that evening had she not wrought upon Amos to promise her an entire new
suite of French furniture for her drawing-room and parlour to boot,
besides a new carriage. But for all this she could not close her eyes
that night for thinking of the “second-hand curtains.”

Nor was the wicked Mrs. Doubletrouble a whit better off when her friend
Mrs. Hubblebubble treated her to the agreeable surprise of the French
window curtains and chairs. “It is too bad—too bad, I declare,” she said
to herself; “but I’ll pay her off soon.” Accordingly she issued
invitations for a grand ball and supper, at which both Mrs. Shuttle and
Mrs. Hubblebubble were struck dumb at beholding a suite of curtains and
a set of chairs exactly of the same pattern with theirs. The shock was
terrible, and it is impossible to say what might have been the
consequences, had not the two ladies all at once thought of uniting in
abusing Mrs. Doubletrouble for her extravagance.

“I pity poor Mr. Doubletrouble,” said Mrs. Shuttle, shrugging her
shoulders significantly, and glancing at the room.

“And so do I,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble, doing the same.

Mrs. Doubletrouble had her eye upon them, and enjoyed their
mortification, until her pride was brought to the ground by a dead shot
from Mrs. Shuttle, who was heard to exclaim, in reply to a lady who
observed the chairs and curtains were very handsome—

“Why yes, but they have been out of fashion in Paris a long time; and,
besides, really they are getting so common that I intend to have mine
removed to the nursery.”

Heavens! what a blow! Poor Mrs. Doubletrouble hardly survived it. Such a
night of misery as the wicked woman endured almost made the good St.
Nicholas regret the judgment he had passed upon these mischievous and
conceited females. But he thought to himself he would persevere until he
had made them a sad example to all innovators upon the ancient customs
of our forefathers.

Thus were these wicked and miserable women spurred on by witchcraft from
one piece of extravagance to another, and a deadly rivalship grew up
between them which destroyed their own happiness and that of their
husbands. Mrs. Shuttle’s new carriage and drawing-room furniture in due
time were followed by similar extravagances on the part of the two other
wicked women who had conspired against the hallowed institutions of St.
Nicholas; and soon their rivalship came to such a height that neither of
them had a moment’s rest or comfort from that time forward. But they
still shut their door on the jolly anniversary of St. Nicholas, though
the old respectable burghers and their wives, who had held up their
heads time out of mind, continued the good custom, and laughed at the
presumption of these upstart interlopers who were followed only by a few
people of silly pretensions, who had no more soul than Amos Shuttle
himself. The three wicked women grew to be almost perfect skeletons, on
account of the vehemence with which they strove to outdo each other, and
the terrible exertions necessary to keep up the appearance of being the
best friends in the world. In short, they became the laughing-stock of
the town; and sensible, well-bred folks cut their acquaintance, except
when they sometimes accepted an invitation to a party, just to make
merry with their folly and conceitedness.

The excellent St. Nicholas, finding they still persisted in their
opposition to his rites and ceremonies, determined to inflict on them
the last and worst punishment that can befall the sex. He decreed that
they should be deprived of all the delights springing from the domestic
affections, and all taste for the innocent and virtuous enjoyments of a
happy fireside. Accordingly they lost all relish for home; they were
continually gadding about from one place to another in search of
pleasure, and worried themselves to death to find happiness where it is
never to be found. Their whole lives became one long series of
disappointed hopes, galled pride, and gnawing envy. They lost their
health, they lost their time, and their days became days of harassing
impatience, their nights nights of sleeplessness, feverish excitement,
ending in weariness and disappointment. The good saint sometimes felt
sorry for them, but their continued obstinacy determined him to
persevere in his plan to punish the upstart pride of these rebellious
females.

Young Shuttle, who had a soul, which I suppose he inherited from his
mother, all this while continued his attentions to little Susan Varian,
which added to the miseries inflicted on his wicked mother. Mrs. Shuttle
insisted that Amos should threaten to disinherit his son, unless he gave
up this attachment.

“Lord bless your soul, Abby!” said Amos. “What’s the use of my
threatening; the boy knows as well as I do that I’ve no will of my own.
Why, bless my soul, Abby——”

“Bless your soul!” interrupted Mrs. Shuttle; “I wonder who’d take the
trouble to bless it but yourself? However, if you don’t I will.”

Accordingly she threatened the young man with being disinherited unless
he turned his back on little Susan Varian, which no man ever did without
getting a heartache.

“If my father goes on as he has done lately,” sighed the youth, “he
won’t have anything left to disinherit me of but his affection, I fear.
But if he had millions I would not abandon Susan.”

“Are you not ashamed of such a low-lived attachment? You that have been
to Europe! But, once for all, remember this, renounce this low-born
upstart, or quit your father’s house for ever.”

“Upstart!” thought young Shuttle; “one of the oldest families in the
city.” He made his mother a respectful bow, bade Heaven bless her, and
left the house. He was, however, met by his father at the door, who said
to him—

“Johnny, I give my consent; but mind don’t tell your mother a word of
the matter. I’ll let her know I’ve a soul as well as other people,” and
he tossed his head like a war-horse.

The night after this Johnny was married to little Susan, and the
blessing of affection and beauty lighted upon his pillow. Her old
father, who was in a respectable business, took his son-in-law into
partnership, and they prospered so well that in a few years Johnny was
independent of all the world, with the prettiest wife and children in
the land. But Mrs. Shuttle was inexorable, while the knowledge of his
prosperity and happiness only worked her up to a higher pitch of anger,
and added to the pangs of jealousy perpetually inflicted on her by the
rivalry of Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, who suffered under
the like affliction from the wrathful St. Nicholas, who was resolved to
make them an example to all posterity.

No fortune, be it ever so great, can stand the eternal sapping of
wasteful extravagance, engendered and stimulated by the baleful passion
of envy. In less than ten years from the hatching of the diabolical
conspiracy of these three wicked women against the supremacy of the
excellent St. Nicholas, their spendthrift rivalship had ruined the
fortunes of their husbands, and entailed upon themselves misery and
remorse. Rich Amos Shuttle became at last as poor as a church mouse, and
would have been obliged to take to the loom again in his old age, had
not Johnny, now rich, and a worshipful magistrate of the city, afforded
him and his better half a generous shelter under his own happy roof.
Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble had scarcely time to condole
with Mrs. Shuttle, and congratulate each other, when their husbands went
the way of all flesh—that is to say, failed for a few tens of thousands,
and called their creditors together to hear the good news. The two
wicked women lived long enough after this to repent of their offence
against St. Nicholas; but they never imported any more French curtains,
and at last perished miserably in an attempt to set the fashions in
Pennypot Alley.

Mrs. Abigail Shuttle might have lived happily the rest of her life with
her children and grand-children, who all treated her with reverent
courtesy and affection, now that the wrath of mighty St. Nicholas was
appeased by her exemplary punishment; but she could not get over her bad
habits and feelings, or forgive her lovely daughter-in-law for treating
her so kindly when she so little deserved it. She gradually pined away;
and though she revived at hearing of the catastrophe of Mrs.
Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, it was only for a moment. The
remainder of the life of this wicked woman was a series of
disappointments and heartburnings, and when she died, Amos tried to shed
a few tears, but he found it impossible, I suppose, because, as his wife
always said, “he had no soul.”

Such was the terrible revenge of St. Nicholas, which ought to be a
warning to all who attempt to set themselves up against the venerable
customs of their ancestors, and backslide from the hallowed institutions
of the blessed saint, to whose good offices, without doubt, it is owing
that this, his favourite city, has transcended all others of the
universe in beautiful damsels, valorous young men, mince-pies, and New
Year cookies. The catastrophe of these three wicked women had a
wonderful influence in the city, insomuch that from this time forward no
_grey mares_ were ever known, no French furniture was ever used, and no
woman was hardy enough to set herself up in opposition to the good
customs of St. Nicholas. And so wishing many happy New Years to all my
dear countrywomen and countrymen, saving those who shut their doors to
old friends, high or low, rich or poor, on that blessed anniversary
which makes more glad hearts than all others put together,—I say,
wishing a thousand happy New Years to all, with this single exception, I
lay down my pen, with a caution to all wicked women to beware of the
revenge of St. Nicholas.

                                     DOMINIE NICHOLAS ÆGIDIUS OUDENARDE.
                                                    _James K. Paulding._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                      _AN APHORISM AND A LECTURE._


ONE of the Boys mentioned, the other evening, in the course of a very
pleasant poem he read us, a little trick of the Commons table-boarders,
which I, nourished at the parental board, had never heard of. Young
fellows being always hungry——Allow me to stop dead-short, in order to
utter an aphorism which has been forming itself in one of the blank
interior spaces of my intelligence, like a crystal in the cavity of a
geode.


                       APHORISM BY THE PROFESSOR.

In order to know whether a human being is young or old, offer it food of
different kinds at short intervals. If young, it will eat anything at
any hour of the day or night. If old, it observes stated periods, and
you might as well attempt to regulate the time of high-water to suit a
fishing-party as to change these periods.

The crucial experiment is this. Offer a bulky and boggy bun to the
suspected individual just ten minutes before dinner. If this is eagerly
accepted and devoured, the fact of youth is established. If the subject
of the question starts back and expresses surprise and incredulity, as
if you could not possibly be in earnest, the fact of maturity is no less
clear.

                  *       *       *       *       *

—Excuse me,—I return to my story of the Commonstable. Young fellows
being always hungry, and tea and dry toast being the meagre fare of the
evening meal, it was a trick of some of the Boys to impale a slice of
meat upon a fork, at dinner-time, and stick the fork, holding it,
beneath the table, so that they could get it at tea-time. The dragons
that guarded this table of the Hesperides found out the trick at last,
and kept a sharp look-out for missing forks;—they knew where to find
one, if it was not in its place. Now the odd thing was that, after
waiting so many years to hear of this College trick, I should hear it
mentioned a _second time_ within the same twenty-four hours by a College
youth of the present generation. Strange, but true. And so it has
happened to me and to every person, often and often, to be hit in rapid
succession by these twinned facts or thoughts, as if they were linked
like chain-shot.

I was going to leave the simple reader to wonder over this, taking it as
an unexplained marvel. I think, however, I will turn over a furrow of
subsoil in it. The explanation is, of course, that in a great many
thoughts there must be a few coincidences, and these instantly arrest
our attention. Now we shall probably never have the least idea of the
enormous number of impressions which pass through our consciousness,
until in some future life we see the photographic record of our thoughts
and the stereoscopic picture of our actions. There go more pieces to
make up a conscious life or a living body than you think for. Why, some
of you were surprised when a friend of mine told you there were
fifty-eight separate pieces in a fiddle. How many “swimming
glands”—solid, organised, regularly formed, rounded disks, taking an
active part in all your vital processes, part and parcel, each one of
them, of your corporeal being—do you suppose are whirled along like
pebbles in a stream with the blood which warms your frame and colours
your cheeks? A noted German physiologist spread out a minute drop of
blood, under the microscope, in narrow streaks, and counted the
globules, and then made a calculation. The counting by the micrometer
took him a _week_. You have, my full-grown friend, of these little
couriers in crimson or scarlet livery, running on your vital errands day
and night as long as you live, sixty-five billions, five hundred and
seventy thousand millions, errors excepted. Did I hear some gentleman
say “Doubted”? I am the Professor; I sit in my chair with a petard under
it that will blow me through the skylight of my lecture-room, if I do
not know what I am talking about, and whom I am quoting.

Now, my dear friends, who are putting your hands to your foreheads and
saying to yourselves that you feel a little confused, as if you had been
waltzing until things began to whirl slightly round you, is it possible
that you do not clearly apprehend the exact connection of all that I
have been saying, and its bearing on what is now to come? Listen, then.
The number of these living elements in our bodies illustrates the
incalculable multitude of our thoughts; the number of our thoughts
accounts for those frequent coincidences spoken of; these coincidences
in the world of thought illustrate those which we constantly observe in
the world of outward events, of which the presence of the young girl now
at our table, and proving to be the daughter of an old acquaintance some
of us may remember, is the special example which led me through this
labyrinth of reflections, and finally lands me at the commencement of
this young girl’s story, which, as I said, I have found the time and
felt the interest to learn something of, and which I think I can tell
without wronging the unconscious subject of my brief delineation.


                     A SHORT LECTURE ON PHRENOLOGY.

             _Read to the Boarders at our Breakfast-Table._

I shall begin, my friends, with the definition of a _Pseudo-science_. A
Pseudo-science consists of _a nomenclature_, with a self-adjusting
arrangement, by which all positive evidence, or such as favours its
doctrines, is admitted, and all negative evidence, or such as tells
against it, is excluded. It is invariably connected with some lucrative
practical application. Its professors and practitioners are usually
shrewd people; they are very serious with the public, but wink and laugh
a good deal among themselves. The believing multitude consists of women
of both sexes, feeble-minded inquirers, poetical optimists, people who
always get cheated in buying horses, philanthropists who insist on
hurrying up the millennium, and others of this class, with here and
there a clergyman, less frequently a lawyer, very rarely a physician,
and almost never a horse-jockey or a member of the detective police.—I
did not say that Phrenology was one of the Pseudo-sciences.

A Pseudo-science does not necessarily consist wholly of lies. It may
contain many truths, and even valuable ones. The rottenest bank starts
with a little specie. It puts out a thousand promises to pay on the
strength of a single dollar, but the dollar is very commonly a good one.
The practitioners of the Pseudo-sciences know that common minds, after
they have been baited with a real fact or two, will jump at the merest
rag of a lie, or even at the bare hook. When we have one fact found us,
we are very apt to supply the next out of our own imagination. (How many
persons can read Judges xv. 16 correctly the first time?) The
Pseudo-sciences take advantage of this.—I did not say that it was so
with Phrenology.

I have rarely met a sensible man who would not allow that there was
_something_ in Phrenology. A broad, high forehead, it is commonly
agreed, promises intellect; one that is “villainous low,” and has a huge
hind-head back of it, is wont to mark an animal nature. I have as rarely
met an unbiassed and sensible man who really believed in the bumps. It
is observed, however, that persons with what the Phrenologists call
“good heads” are more prone than others toward plenary belief in the
doctrine.

It is so hard to prove a negative, that if a man should assert that the
moon was in truth a green cheese, formed by the coagulable substance of
the Milky Way, and challenge me to prove the contrary, I might be
puzzled. But if he offer to sell me a ton of this lunar cheese, I call
on him to prove the truth of the caseous nature of our satellite before
I purchase.


[Illustration: “I PROCEED TO FUMBLE HIS SKULL.”]


It is not necessary to prove the falsity of the phrenological statement.
It is only necessary to show that its truth is not proved, and cannot
be, by the common course of argument. The walls of the head are double,
with a great air-chamber between them, over the smallest and most
closely crowded “organs.” Can you tell how much money there is in a
safe, which also has thick double walls, by kneading its knobs with your
fingers? So when a man fumbles about my forehead, and talks about the
organs of _Individuality_, _Size_, etc., I trust him as much as I should
if he felt of the outside of my strong-box and told me that there was a
five-dollar or a ten-dollar bill under this or that particular rivet.
Perhaps there is; _only he doesn’t know anything about it_. But this is
a point that I, the Professor, understand, my friends, or ought to,
certainly, better than you do. The next argument you will all
appreciate.

I proceed, therefore, to explain the self-adjusting mechanism of
Phrenology, which is _very similar_ to that of the Pseudo-sciences. An
example will show it most conveniently.

A. is a notorious thief. Messrs. Bumpus and Crane examine him and find a
good-sized organ of Acquisitiveness. Positive fact for Phrenology. Casts
and drawings of A. are multiplied, and the bump _does not lose_ in the
act of copying.—I did not say it gained.—What do you look so for? (to
the boarders).

Presently B. turns up, a bigger thief than A. But B. has no bump at all
over Acquisitiveness. Negative fact; goes against Phrenology.—Not a bit
of it. Don’t you see how small Conscientiousness is? _That’s_ the reason
B. stole.

And then comes C., ten times as much a thief as either A. or B.,—used to
steal before he was weaned, and would pick one of his own pockets and
put its contents in another, if he could find no other way of committing
petty larceny. Unfortunately, C. has a _hollow_, instead of a bump, over
Acquisitiveness. Ah! but just look and see what a bump of
Alimentiveness! Did not C. buy nuts and gingerbread, when a boy, with
the money he stole? Of course you see why he is a thief, and how his
example confirms our noble science.

At last comes along a case which is apparently a _settler_, for there is
a little brain with vast and varied powers,—a case like that of Byron,
for instance. Then comes out the grand reserve-reason which covers
everything and renders it simply impossible ever to corner a
Phrenologist. “It is not the size alone, but the _quality_ of an organ,
which determines its degree of power.”

Oh! oh! I see.—The argument may be briefly stated thus by the
Phrenologist: “Heads I win, tails you lose.” Well, that’s convenient.

It must be confessed that Phrenology has a certain resemblance to the
Pseudo-sciences.—I did not say it was a Pseudo-science.

I have often met persons who have been altogether struck up and amazed
at the accuracy with which some wandering Professor of Phrenology had
read their characters written upon their skulls. Of course the Professor
acquires his information solely through his cranial inspections and
manipulations.—What are you laughing at? (to the boarders).—But let us
just _suppose_, for a moment, that a tolerably cunning fellow, who did
not know or care anything about Phrenology, should open a shop and
undertake to read off people’s characters at fifty cents or a dollar
a-piece. Let us see how well he could get along without the “organs.” I
will suppose myself to set up such a shop. I would invest one hundred
dollars, more or less, in casts of brains, skulls, charts, and other
matters that would make the most show for the money. That would do to
begin with. I would then advertise myself as the celebrated Professor
Brainey, or whatever name I might choose, and wait for my first
customer. My first customer is a middle-aged man. I look at him,—ask him
a question or two, so as to hear him talk. When I have got the hang of
him, I ask him to sit down, and proceed to fumble his skull, dictating
as follows:—


                          SCALE FROM 1 TO 10.

     LIST OF FACULTIES FOR          PRIVATE NOTES FOR MY PUPIL:
           CUSTOMER.          _Each to be accompanied with a wink._

   _Amativeness_, 7.         Most men love the conflicting sex, and
                               all men love to be told they do.

   _Alimentiveness_, 8.      Don’t you see that he has burst off his
                               lowest waistcoat-button with
                               feeding—hey?

   _Acquisitiveness_, 8.     Of course. A middle-aged Yankee.

   _Approbativeness_, 7, +   Hat well brushed. Hair ditto. Mark the
                               effect of that _plus_ sign.

   _Self-esteem_, 6.         His face shows that.

   _Benevolence_, 9.         That’ll please him.

   _Conscientiousness_, 8½   That fraction looks first-rate.

   _Mirthfulness_, 7         Has laughed twice since he came in.

   _Ideality_, 9.            That sounds well.

   _Form, Size, Weight,      4 to 6. Average everything that can’t be
     Colour_}                  guessed.
     _Locality,
     Eventuality_,    }
     _etc., etc._         }

                     And so of the other faculties.

Of course, you know, that isn’t the way the Phrenologists do. They go
only by the bumps. What do you keep laughing so for? (to the boarders).
I only said that is the way _I_ should practise “Phrenology” for a
living.

                                                _Oliver Wendell Holmes._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              _APHORISMS._


WE know but few men, a great many coats and breeches.

To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite
awake. How could I have looked him in the face?

I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much
nearer to one another.

A man sits as many risks as he runs.

There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers.

If you give money, spend yourself with it.

Sometimes we are inclined to class those who are once-and-a-half-witted
with the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third part of their
wit.

                                                              _Thoreau._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _AN ENGLISH FUNERAL._

                                             LONDON, _October 15, 1802_.


THE most humorous sight which I have seen was an English funeral,
performed in the most fashionable manner; for you must know they
_perform funerals_ here. An undertaker’s sign exhibits these words,
“Funerals performed.” The first one which I saw was such a novelty, I
followed it a short distance, not knowing what it was; and, as my manner
is to question every one whom I think can give me any information (a
Yankee custom), I asked an honest fellow “what the show was?” He seemed
a little offended, but directly replied, “_You may know one day, if you
do not come to the gallows._” This man, like Chatham, was “original and
unaccommodating.” But, observing that I was surprised at his answer, and
feeling, perhaps, a little mortified, he asked, “Do you live in London?”
I told him I had just come. “Well, but people die, sometimes, in your
town.” By this I discovered that the _performance_ was a funeral.

                                                       _William Austin._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            _A LOST CHILD._



                         YE CRYER.

                _Here’s a reward for who’ll find Love!
                        Love is a-straying
                        Ever since Maying;
                Hither and yon, below, above,
                        All are seeking Love!_

                         YE HAND-BILL.

                _Gone astray_—between the Maying
                  And the gathering of the hay,
                _Love_, an urchin ever playing—
                  Folk are warned against his play.

                How may you know him? by the quiver,
                  By the bow he’s wont to bear.
                First on your left there comes a shiver,
                  Then a twinge—the arrow’s there.

                By his eye of pansy colour,
                  Deep as wounds he dealeth free;
                If its hue have faded duller,
                  ’Tis not that he weeps for me.

                By the smile that curls his mouthlet;
                  By the mockery of his sigh;
                By his breath, a spicy South, let
                  Slip his lips of roses by.

                By the devil in his dimple;
                  By his lies that sound so true;
                By his shaft-string, that no simple
                  Ever culled will heal for you.

                By his beckonings that embolden;
                  By his quick withdrawings then;
                By his flying hair, a golden
                  Light to lure the feet of men.

                By the breast where ne’er a hurt’ll
                  Rankle ’neath his kerchief hid—
                _What?_ you cry; _he wore a kirtle?_
                  Faith! methinks the rascal did!

                _Here’s a reward for who’ll find Love!
                        Love is a-straying
                        Ever since Maying;
                Hither and you, below, above,
                        I am seeking Love._


                                 ye Finder pray’d
                                 to Bring her to
                     Master Corydon,
                                 _Petticoat Lane_.

    CRYER: H. BUNNER,
       GRUB STREET,
    CRY’S WEDDINGS,
    BURYINGS, LOFT
    CHILDN, AND RIGHT
    CHEAPLIE.
    YE IID. KNOCKER.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          _AMONG THE SPIRITS._


MY naburs is mourn harf crazy on the new-fangled idear about Sperrets.
Sperretooul Sircles is held nitely & 4 or 5 long hared fellers has
settled here and gone into the sperret biznis excloosively. A atemt was
made to git Mrs. A. Ward to embark into the Sperret biznis but the atemt
faled. 1 of the long hared fellers told her she was a ethereal creeter &
wood make a sweet mejium, whareupon she attact him with a mop handle &
drove him out of the house. I will hear obsarve that Mrs. Ward is a
invalerble womun—the partner of my goys & the shairer of my sorrers. In
my absunce she watchis my interests & things with a Eagle Eye & when I
return she welcums me in afectionate stile. Trooly it is with us as it
was with Mr. & Mrs. INGOMER in the Play, to whit—

                     2 soles with but a single thawt
                     2 harts which beet as 1.

My naburs injooced me to attend a Sperretooul Sircle at Squire Smith’s.
When I arrove I found the east room chock full includin all the old
maids in the villige & the long hared fellers a4sed. When I went in I
was salootid with “hear cums the benited man”—“hear cums the hory-heded
unbeleever”—“hear cums the skoffer at trooth,” etsettery, etsettery.

Sez I, “my frens, it’s troo I’m hear, & now bring on your Sperrets”

1 of the long hared fellers riz up and sed he would state a few remarks.
He sed man was a critter of intelleck & was movin on to a Gole. Sum men
had bigger intellecks than other men had and thay wood git to the Gole
the soonerest. Sum men was beests & wood never git into the Gole at all.
He sed the Erth was materiel but man was immateriel, and hens man was
different from the Erth. The Erth, continnered the speaker, resolves
round on its own axeltree onct in 24 hours, but as man haint gut no
axeltree he cant resolve. He sed the ethereal essunce of the koordinate
branchis of superhuman natur becum mettymorfussed as man progrest in
harmonial coexistunce & eventooally anty humanized theirselves & turned
into reglar sperretuellers. [This was versifferusly applauded by the
cumpany, and as I make it a pint to get along as pleasant as possible, I
sung out “bully for you, old boy.”]

The cumpany then drew round the table and the Sircle kommenst to go it.
Thay axed me if thare was anbody in the Sperret land which I wood like
to convarse with. I sed if Bill Tompkins, who was onct my partner in the
show biznis, was sober, I should like to convarse with him a few
periods.

“Is the Sperret of William Tompkins present?” sed 1 of the long hared
chaps, and there was three knox on the table.

Sez I, “William, how goze it, Old Sweetness?”

“Pretty ruff, old hoss,” he replide.

That was a pleasant way we had of addressin each other when he was in
the flesh.

“Air you in the show biznis, William?” sed I.

He sed he was. He sed he & John Bunyan was travelin with a side show in
connection with Shakspere, Jonson & Co.’s Circus. He sed old Bun
(meaning Mr. Bunyan) stired up the animils & ground the organ while he
tended door. Occashunally Mr. Bunyan sung a comic song. The Circus was
doin middlin well. Bill Shakspeer had made a grate hit with old Bob
Ridley, and Ben Jonson was delitin the peple with his trooly grate ax of
hossmanship without saddul or bridal. Thay was rehersin Dixey’s Land &
expected it would knock the peple.

Sez I, “William, my luvly frend, can you pay me that 13 dollars you owe
me?” He sed no with one of the most tremenjis knox I ever experienced.

The Sircle sed he had gone. “Are you gone, William?” I axed. “Rayther,”
he replide, and I knowd it was no use to pursoo the subjeck furder.

I then called for my farther.

“How’s things, daddy?”

“Middlin, my son, middlin.”

“Ain’t you proud of your orfurn boy?”

“Scacely.”

“Why not, my parient?”

“Becawz you hav gone to writin for the noospapers, my son. Bimeby you’ll
lose all your character for trooth and verrasserty. When I helpt you
into the show biznis I told you to dignerfy that there profeshun.
Litteratoor is low.”

He also statid that he was doin middlin well in the peanut biznis &
liked it putty well, tho’ the climit was rather warm.

When the Sircle stopt thay axed me what I thawt of it.

Sez I, “my friends I’ve bin into the show biznis now goin on 23 years.
Theres a artikil in the Constitooshun of the United States which sez in
effeck that everybody may think just as he darn pleases, & them is my
sentiments to a hare. You dowtlis beleeve this Sperret doctrin while I
think it is a little mixt. Just so soon as a man becums a reglar out &
out Sperret rapper he leeves orf workin, lets his hare grow all over his
fase & commensis spungin his livin out of other peple. He eats all the
dickshunaries he can find & goze round chock full of big words, scarein
the wimmin folks & little children & destroyin the peace of mind of evry
famerlee he enters. He don’t do nobody no good & is a cuss to society &
a pirit on honest peple’s corn beef barrils. Admittin all you say abowt
the doctrin to be troo, I must say the reglar perfessional Sperret
rappers—them as makes a biznis on it—air abowt the most ornery set of
cusses I ever enkountered in my life. So sayin I put on my surtoot and
went home.”

                                                      Respectably Yures,
                                                           ARTEMUS WARD.




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         _POETRY AND THE POET._


                              [A SONNET.]

                     (_Found on the Poet’s desk._)


         WEARY, I open wide the antique pane
                 I ope to the air
         I ope to
         I open to the air the antique pane
           And gaze {beyond?} the thrift-sown field of wheat,
                    { across }                    [commonplace?]
           A-shimmering green in breezes born of heat;
         And lo!
         And high
         And my soul’s eyes behold { a?  } billowy main
                               { the }
         Whose farther shore is Greece strain
                                 again
                                 vain
         [_Arcadia_—mythological allusion.—Mem.: _Lemprière_.]
           I see thee, Atalanta, vestal fleet,
           And look! with doves low-fluttering round her feet,
         Comes Venus through the golden {fields of?} grain.
                                    { bowing     }

               (_Heard by the Poet’s neighbour._)

         Venus be bothered—it’s Virginia Dix!

               (_Found on the Poet’s door._)

_Out on important business—back at 6._

                                                         _H. C. Bunner._




------------------------------------------------------------------------




                   _A NEW SYSTEM OF ENGLISH GRAMMAR._


I HAVE often thought that the adjectives of the English language were
not sufficiently definite for the purposes of description.

They have but three degrees of comparison—a very insufficient number,
certainly, when we consider that they are to be applied to a thousand
objects, which, though of the same general class or quality, differ from
each other by a thousand different shades or degrees of the same
peculiarity. Thus, though there are three hundred and sixty-five days in
a year, all of which must, from the nature of things, differ from each
other in the matter of climate, we have but half-a-dozen expressions to
convey to one another our ideas of this inequality. We say—“It is a fine
day;” “It is a _very_ fine day;” “It is the _finest_ day we have seen;”
or, “It is an unpleasant day;” “A _very_ unpleasant day;” “The _most_
unpleasant day we ever saw.”

But it is plain that none of these expressions give an _exact_ idea of
the nature of the day; and the two superlative expressions are generally
untrue. I once heard a gentleman remark, on a rainy, snowy, windy, and
(in the ordinary English language) indescribable day, that it was “most
preposterous weather.” He came nearer to giving a correct idea of it
than he could have done by any ordinary mode of expression; but his
description was not sufficiently definite.

Again:—we say of a lady—“She is beautiful;” “She is _very_ beautiful;”
or “She is _perfectly_ beautiful;” descriptions which, to one who never
saw her, are no descriptions at all, for among thousands of women he has
seen, probably no two are equally beautiful; and as to a _perfectly_
beautiful woman, he knows that no such being was ever created—unless by
G. P. R. James, for one of the two horsemen to fall in love with, and
marry at the end of the second volume.

If I meet Smith in the street, and ask him—as I am pretty sure to
do—“How he does?” he infallibly replies, “_Tolerable_, thank you,” which
gives one no _exact_ idea of Smith’s health, for he has made the same
reply to me on a hundred different occasions, on every one of which
there _must_ have been some slight shade of difference in his physical
economy, and of course a corresponding change in his feelings.

To a man of a mathematical turn of mind, to a student and lover of the
exact sciences, these inaccuracies of expression, this inability to
understand _exactly_ how things are, must be a constant source of
annoyance; and to one who, like myself, unites this turn of mind to an
ardent love of truth, for its own sake,—the reflection that the English
language does not enable us to speak the truth with exactness, is
peculiarly painful. For this reason I have, with some trouble, made
myself thoroughly acquainted with every ancient and modern language, in
the hope that I might find some one of them that would enable me to
express precisely my ideas; but the same insufficiency of adjectives
exist in all except that of the Flathead Indians of Puget Sound, which
consists of but forty-six words, mostly nouns, but to the constant use
of which exists the objection, that nobody but that tribe can understand
it. And as their literary and scientific advancement is not such as to
make a residence among them, for a man of my disposition, desirable, I
have abandoned the use of their language, in the belief that for me it
is _hyas_, _cultus_, or, as the Spaniard hath it, _no me vale nada_.

Despairing, therefore, of making new discoveries in foreign languages, I
have set myself seriously to work to reform our own; and have, I think,
made an important discovery, which, when developed into a system and
universally adopted, will give a precision of expression, and a
consequent clearness of idea, that will leave little to be desired, and
will, I modestly hope, immortalise my humble name as the promulgator of
the truth, and the benefactor of the human race.

Before entering upon my system I will give you an account of its
discovery (which perhaps I might with more modesty term an adaptation
and enlargement of the idea of another), which will surprise you by its
simplicity, and, like the method of standing eggs on end, of Columbus,
the inventions of printing, gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass—prove
another exemplification of the truth of Hannah More’s beautifully
expressed sentiment—

               “Large streams from little fountains flow,
                Large aches from little toe-corns grow.”

During the past week my attention was attracted by a large placard
embellishing the corners of our streets, headed in mighty capitals with
the word “PHRENOLOGY,” and illustrated by a map of a man’s head, closely
shaven and laid off in lots, duly numbered from one to forty-seven.
Beneath this edifying illustration appeared a legend, informing the
inhabitants of San Diego and vicinity that Professor Dodge had arrived
and taken rooms (which was inaccurate, as he had but one room) at
Gyascutus House, where he would be happy to examine and furnish them
with a chart of their heads, showing the moral and intellectual
endowments, at the low price of three dollars each.

Always gratified with an opportunity of spending my money and making
scientific researches, I immediately had my hair cut and carefully
combed, and hastened to present myself and my head to the Professor’s
notice. I found him a tall and thin Professor, in a suit of rusty, not
to say seedy black, with a closely-buttoned vest, and no perceptible
shirtcollar or wristbands. His nose was red, his spectacles were blue,
and he wore a brown wig, beneath which, as I subsequently ascertained,
his bald head was laid off in lots, marked and numbered with Indian ink,
after the manner of the diagram upon his advertisement. Upon a small
table lay many little books with yellow covers, several of the placards,
pen and ink, a pair of iron callipers with brass knobs, and six dollars
in silver. Having explained the object of my visit, and increased the
pile of silver by six half-dollars from my pocket—whereat he smiled, and
I observed he wore false teeth (scientific men always do; they love to
encourage art)—the Professor placed me in a chair, and rapidly
manipulating my head, after the manner of a _shampooh_ (I am not certain
as to the orthography of this expression), said that my temperament was
“lymphatic, nervous, bilious.” I remarked that “I thought myself
dyspeptic,” but he made no reply. Then, seizing on the callipers, he
embraced with them my head in various places, and made notes upon a
small card that lay near him on the table. He then stated that my “hair
was getting very thin on the top,” placed in my hand one of the
yellow-covered books, which I found to be an almanac containing
anecdotes about the virtue of Dodge’s Hair Invigorator, and recommending
it to my perusal, he remarked that he was agent for the sale of this
wonderful fluid, and urged me to purchase a bottle—price two dollars.
Stating my willingness to do so, the Professor produced from a hair
trunk that stood in the corner of the room, which he stated, by the way,
was originally an ordinary pine box, on which the hair had grown since
“the Invigorator” had been placed in it—(a singular fact)—and
recommended me to be cautious in wearing gloves while rubbing it upon my
head, as unhappy accidents had occurred—the hair growing freely from the
ends of the fingers, if used with the bare hand. He then seated himself
at the table, and rapidly filling up what appeared to me a blank
certificate, he soon handed over the following singular document:—

“Phrenological Chart of the Head of Mr. John Phœnix, by Flatbroke B.
Dodge, Professor of Phrenology, and inventor and proprietor of Dodge’s
celebrated Hair Invigorator, Stimulator of the Conscience, and Arouser
of the Mental Faculties:—

    Temperament—_Lymphatic, Nervous, Bilious_.
    Size of Head, 11.
    Amativeness, 11½.
    Caution, 3.
    Conscientiousness, 12.
    Destructiveness, 9.
    Hope, 10.
    Imitation, 11.
    Self-Esteem, ½.
    Benevolence, 12.
    Combativeness, 2½.
    Credulity, 1.
    Causality, 12.
    Mirth, 1.
    Language, 12.
    Firmness, 2.
    Veneration, 12.
    Philoprogenitiveness, 0.”

    Having gazed on this for a few moments in mute astonishment—during
    which the Professor took a glass of brandy and water, and afterwards
    a mouthful of tobacco—I turned to him and requested an explanation.

    “Why,” said he, “it’s very simple; the number 12 is the maximum, 1
    the minimum; for instance, you are as benevolent as a man can
    be—therefore I mark you, Benevolence, 12. You have little or no
    self-esteem—hence I place you, Self-esteem, ½. You’ve scarcely any
    credulity, don’t you see?”

    _I did see!_ This was my discovery. I saw at a flash how the English
    language was susceptible of improvement, and, fired with the
    glorious idea, I rushed from the room and the house; heedless of the
    Professor’s request that I would buy more of his Invigorator;
    heedless of his alarmed cry that I would pay for the bottle I had
    got; heedless that I tripped on the last step of the Gyascutus
    House, and smashed there the precious fluid (the step has now a
    growth of four inches of hair on it, and the people use it as a
    door-mat); I rushed home, and never grew calm till with pen, ink,
    and paper before me, I commenced the development of my system.

    This system—shall I say this great system?—is exceedingly simple,
    and easily explained in a few words. In the first place, “_figures
    won’t lie_.” Let us then represent by the number 100, the maximum,
    the _ne plus ultra_ of every human quality—grace, beauty, courage,
    strength, wisdom, learning—everything. Let _perfection_, I say, be
    represented by 100, and an absolute minimum of all qualities by the
    number 1.

    Then by applying the numbers between, to the adjectives used in
    conversation, we shall be able to arrive at a very close
    approximation to the idea we wish to convey; in other words, we
    shall be enabled to speak the truth. Glorious, soul-inspiring idea!
    For instance, the most ordinary question asked of you is, “How do
    you do?” To this, instead of replying, “Pretty well,” “Very well,”
    “Quite well,” or the like absurdities—after running through your
    mind that _perfection_ of health is 100, no health at all, 1—you
    say, with a graceful bow, “Thank you, I’m 52 to-day;” or, feeling
    poorly, “I’m 13, I’m obliged to you,” or, “I’m 68,” or “75,” or
    “87½” as the case may be! Do you see how very close in this way you
    may approximate to the truth; and how clearly your questioner will
    understand what he so anxiously wishes to arrive at—your _exact_
    state of health?

    Let this system be adopted into our elements of grammar, our
    conversation, our literature, and we become at once an exact,
    precise, mathematical, truth-telling people. It will apply to
    everything but politics; there, truth being of no account, the
    system is useless. But in literature, how admirable! Take an
    example:—

    As a 19 young and 76 beautiful lady was 52 gaily tripping down the
    side-walk of our 84 frequented street, she accidentally came in
    contact—100 (this shows that she came in close contact)—with a 73
    fat, but 87 good-humoured looking gentleman, who was 93 (_i.e._,
    intently) gazing into the window of a toy-shop. Gracefully 56
    extricating herself, she received the excuses of the 96 embarrassed
    Falstaff with a 68 bland smile, and continued on her way. But
    hardly—7—had she reached the corner of the block, ere she was
    overtaken by a 24 young man, 32 poorly dressed, but of an 85
    expression of countenance; 91 hastily touching her 54 beautifully
    rounded arm, he said, to her 67 surprise—

    “Madam, at the window of the toy-shop yonder, you dropped this
    bracelet, which I had the 71 good fortune to observe, and now have
    the 94 happiness to hand to you.”

    (Of course the expression “94 happiness” is merely the young man’s
    polite hyperbole.)

    Blushing with 76 modesty, the lovely (76, as before, of course) lady
    took the bracelet—which was a 24 magnificent diamond clasp—(24
    _magnificent_, playfully sarcastic; it was probably _not_ one of
    Tucker’s) from the young man’s hand, and 84 hesitatingly drew from
    her beautifully 38 embroidered reticule a 67 portemonnaie. The young
    man noticed the action, and 73 proudly drawing back, added—

    “Do not thank me; the pleasure of gazing for an instant at those 100
    eyes (perhaps too exaggerated a compliment) has already more than
    compensated me for any trouble that I might have had.”

    She thanked him, however, and with a 67 deep blush and a 48 pensive
    air, turned from him, and pursued with 33 slow step her promenade.

    Of course you see that this is but the commencement of a pretty
    little tale, which I might throw off, if I had a mind to, showing in
    two volumes, or forty-eight chapters of thrilling interest, how the
    young man sought the girl’s acquaintance, how the interest first
    excited deepened into love, how they suffered much from the
    opposition of parents (her parents, of course), and how, after much
    trouble, annoyance, and many perilous adventures, they were finally
    married—their happiness, of course, being represented by 100. But I
    trust that I have said enough to recommend my system to the good and
    truthful of the literary world; and besides, just at present I have
    something of more immediate importance to attend to.

    You would hardly believe it, but that everlasting (100) scamp of a
    Professor has brought a suit against me for stealing a bottle of his
    disgusting Invigorator; and as the suit comes off before a Justice
    of the Peace, whose only principle of law is to find guilty and fine
    any accused person whom he thinks has any money—(because if he don’t
    he has to take his costs in County Scrip), it behoves me to “take
    time by the forelock.” So for the present, adieu!

    Should my system succeed to the extent of my hopes and expectations,
    I shall publish my new grammar early in the ensuing month, with
    suitable dedication and preface; and should you, with your
    well-known liberality, publish my prospectus, and give me a handsome
    literary notice, I shall be pleased to furnish a presentation copy
    to each of the little Pioneer children.

    P.S.—I regret to add, that having just read this article to Mrs.
    Phœnix, and asked her opinion thereon, she replied that, “If a
    first-rate magazine article were represented by 100, she should
    judge this to be about 13; or if the quintessence of stupidity were
    100, she should take this to be in the neighbourhood of 96.”

    This, as a criticism, is perhaps a little discouraging, but as an
    exemplification of the merits of my system it is exceedingly
    flattering. How could she, I should like to know, in ordinary
    language, have given so _exact_ and truthful an idea—how expressed
    so forcibly her opinion (which, of course, differs from mine) on the
    subject?

    As Dr. Samuel Johnson learnedly remarked to James Boswell, Laird of
    Auchinleck, on a certain occasion—“Sir, the proof of the pudding is
    the eating thereof.”

                                                        “_John Phœnix._”




------------------------------------------------------------------------




               BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF AMERICAN HUMORISTS.


ABY, JOE C., “Hoffenstein,” born 1858. A humorist who made his
    reputation on the _New Orleans Times-Democrat_. His “Hoffenstein”
    sketches have been issued in book form.

ADAMS, CHARLES FOLLEN (1842). “Leedle Yawcob Strauss,” a short poem
    bubbling over with quiet, kindly, pathetic humour, given in quaint
    German-American vernacular, first brought Mr. Adams before the
    public. “Leedle Yawcob Strauss” has been followed by many sunny
    pieces in similar dialect. Mr. Adams has published _Leedle Yawcob
    Strauss and other Poems_, _Dialect Ballads_, etc.

ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY (1767-1848), sixth President of the United States,
    first attracted public attention by his writings, and principally on
    account of his pen he was appointed to many honourable posts by
    President George Washington. He wrote a number of humorous pieces of
    verse, the most popular being “The Plague in the Forest” and “The
    Wants of Man.”

ALCOTT, LOUISA MAY (1832-1888). Author of _Little Women_, _Little Men_,
    _Moods_, _An Old-Fashioned Girl_, _Eight Cousins_, etc. Most popular
    with the young people of America and Great Britain.

ALDEN, WILLIAM L., born 1837. Author of _Domestic Explosives_, _Shooting
    Stars_, _Moral Pirates_, _A Lost Soul_ (Chatto & Windus), and a host
    of volumes of facetious short stories. He was admitted to the bar,
    but took to journalism; made himself famous as the “fifth-column
    man” on the _New York Times_; was appointed consul-general at Rome,
    the king decorating him with the cross of Chevalier of the “Crown of
    Italy” at the end of his consulship. He introduced canoeing as a
    pastime into the United States, and founded the first canoe club. He
    is now (1893) writing humorous “stories” for the _Idler_ and other
    English publications, and his work has lost none of his old-time
    flavour.

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, born 1837. Mr. Aldrich, who for many years was
    looked upon as one of the most promising younger writers of America,
    has now attained the first rank in American poetry. His first great
    success was the _Ballad of Babie Bell_, published in 1856, and this
    induced him to adopt literature as a profession. In March 1881 he
    was appointed editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_. Since _Babie Bell_
    appeared he has given to the public much work of a high order.
    _Pampinea and other Poems_, 1861; _Poems_ (two collections), 1863
    and 1865; _Cloth of Gold_, 1874; _Flower and Thorn_, 1876; _Lyrics
    and Sonnets_, 1880, in verse; and _Marjorie Daw and other People_,
    1873; _Prudence Palfrey_, 1874; _The Stillwater Tragedy_, 1880;
    _Mercedes_, 1883, in prose, are well known in Great Britain and
    America. Messrs. Macmillan & Co. publish his works in England, and
    Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. in America.

ALSOP, GEORGE, born 1638. When twenty years old he sailed to Maryland,
    and for four years laboured as a servant. At the restoration of King
    Charles he, a warm Royalist, returned to England, and whether he
    returned to America or not is uncertain. He published _A Character
    of the Province of Maryland_, a volume of prose and verse, absurdly
    humorous from beginning to end.

ALSOP, RICHARD (1761-1815). Founder of a society of literary-inclined
    individuals known as the “Hartford Wits.” Alsop was the chief writer
    of the _Echo_, a series of burlesque essays published between 1791
    and 1795. He also published _The Enchanted Lake of Fairy Morgana_,
    _Monody on the Death of Washington_, _The Natural and Civil History
    of Chili_, and edited the _Captivity and Adventures of J. R. Jewett
    among the Savages of Nootka Sound_. He was an accomplished linguist.

AMES, NATHANIEL (1708-1764), commenced publishing in 1725 a yearly
    calendar—the great-grandfather of the present weekly paper. He was a
    shrewd wit, and his almanac, which obtained marked popularity, was
    full of quaint and wise sayings.

ANDERSON, MRS. ARESTINE (1855). A writer of humorous newspaper verse.
    Contributor to many of the humorous papers in America.

ANDRÉ, MAJOR JOHN (1751-1780). This unfortunate soldier wrote a humorous
    piece entitled “The Cow Chase,” which, strangely enough, appeared in
    _Rivington’s Royal Gazette_ the same day that the author was
    captured.

ARNOLD, GEORGE (1834-1865). Author of _McArone Papers_, _The Jolly Old
    Pedagogue, and other Poems_.

AUSTIN, WILLIAM (1778-1841). His “Peter Rugg, the Missing Man,”
    published in the _New England Galaxy_, made a great hit, and his
    “Letters from London” are full of quiet humour and quaint
    information. He was also the author of “Oration on the Anniversary
    of the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,” and “Essay on the Human Character
    of Jesus Christ.”

BAGBY, GEORGE WILLIAM (1828-1883). Took his degree in medicine, adopted
    journalism as a profession, was appointed (1870) state librarian for
    Virginia. His humorous articles were published under the pen-name
    “Mozis Addums,” and after his death his sketches were collected and
    published by Mrs. Bagby in three volumes.

BAILEY, JAMES MONTGOMERY, born 1841. In 1873 and 1874 America, from the
    Atlantic to the Pacific, was laughing at the “Danbury News-Man’s”
    funny articles. His work was to be found copied in every paper in
    the land, and the _Danbury News_, which up to that time had claimed
    only local attention, soon rose in circulation, until it had readers
    in every state in the Union. Mr. Bailey, whose laughable sketches
    made this sensation, began life as a carpenter, served in the ranks
    during the war, and then entered journalism. His humorous sketches
    have been collected and published. _Life in Danbury_ and _England
    from a Back Window_ are the best compilations.

BANGS, J. K. Has published the _Tiddledywink Poetry Book_. His verse is
    in much request by the better-class humorous papers and magazines in
    America.

BARLOW, JOEL (1754-1812). After serving with the Revolutionary army as
    chaplain, he, in 1783, settled at Hartford, studied law, and was
    admitted to the bar. He joined the “Hartford Wits,” founded a paper,
    and began writing satirical verse. In 1791 he journeyed to England
    to take part in the political movements of the day, and published
    his _Advice to the Privileged Orders_, which the Government
    proscribed. He took refuge in France, and while there wrote “Hasty
    Pudding,” his most popular poem. After serving his country
    diplomatically on a number of trying occasions, he, while acting as
    minister to France, set out to visit Napoleon, then on his Russian
    campaign, and died of cold in the famous retreat from Moscow.

BARR, JOHN, born in Canada 1858. Taught school, sailed the great lakes,
    appointed marine editor of the _Detroit Free Press_, and is now
    commercial editor of the paper. Has written under the pen-name
    “Baron Joe.” The extract given is from _The White Feather_, a
    farcical opera.

BARR, ROBERT (1851), co-editor of the _Idler_ (1892), and for many years
    connected with the _Detroit Free Press_. His humorous sketches and
    short stories, both humorous and dramatic, under the _nom de guerre_
    of “Luke Sharp,” first made him known to the readers of the United
    Kingdom and America, but lately he has taken to writing under his
    proper name. His published works are _In a Steamer Chair, and other
    Shipboard Stories_ (Chatto & Windus), _From Whose Bourn_, _Strange
    Happenings_, _One Day’s Courtship_, _Jones and I_, etc. Although
    inseparably connected with American humour, and having made his
    first success in America and on an American paper, he was educated
    in Canada.

BARTLETT, JOSEPH (1762-1827), graduated at Harvard, studied law, and
    travelled to England to spend his money, which he easily succeeded
    in doing, and as a result found himself in prison for debt. In
    prison he wrote a play, and with the money obtained for it bought
    his release. Trying the stage for a while and not making headway, he
    obtained a cargo of goods on credit for sale in America, set sail,
    and was shipwrecked. In Boston he started in business, failed,
    opened a law office in Woburn, and removed to Cambridge. There he
    wrote “Physiognomy,” a poem lampooning celebrities of the day, and
    afterwards “The New Vicar of Bray.” He died penniless.

BAYLES, MATHER (1706-1788), humorous verse-writer.

BEERS, HENRY AUGUSTIN, born 1847, Professor of English at Yale. Has
    published _Odds and Ends_, _The Thankless Muse_, volumes of verse,
    and _Life of N. P. Willis_, _A Century of American Literature_, and
    _An Outline Sketch of English Literature_. Has written a few
    facetious poems.

BELKNAP, REV. JEREMY (1744-1798), a New England historian, and author of
    _The Foresters, an American Tale_, a work rich in humour.

BELLAW, AMERICUS W., humorous verse-writer, contributor to most of the
    humorous papers of America. He is well-known to readers of newspaper
    humour in the United States.

BENJAMIN, PARK (1809-1864), a Boston attorney, who drifted into magazine
    writing, and being equally at home in verse or prose, published a
    great amount of matter. For a time he was associated with Horace
    Greeley as editor of the _New Yorker_, and in 1840 he founded the
    _New World_, and, with others, edited it for five years. His
    principal works are _Infatuation_ and _Poetry_, both satires in
    verse.

BEVERIDGE, JOHN, a Scotsman by birth, who in 1758 was appointed
    Professor of Languages in Philadelphia College; published some Latin
    verse of a humorous description, with their English translations by
    his students.

BOLTON, MRS. SARAH TITTLE (1815). She wrote “Paddle your own Canoe.”

BRACKENRIDGE, HUGH HENRY (1748-1816). Born in Scotland and taken to
    America while still a child, he earned enough money to put himself
    through Princetown, graduating in 1771, and rose to be one of the
    Justices of Pennsylvania Supreme Court (1799). _Modern Chivalry, or
    the Adventures of Captain Farrago and Teague O’Regan his Servant_,
    published in Pittsburg, 1796, a political satire, established his
    reputation as a humorist.

BRAINARD, JOHN GARDINER CALKINS (1796-1828). Studied law, but on being
    called to the bar he forsook his profession for that of editor of a
    weekly paper. He wrote a number of ballads, and his “Sonnet to a
    Sea-Serpent” is humorous.

BROUGHAM, JOHN, born in Dublin, 1810; died in America, 1880. A prolific
    writer of comedies and farces, and was editor and proprietor of the
    _Lantern_, a comic paper published in 1852. Two collections of his
    writings have appeared, _A Basket of Chips_ and _The Bunsby Papers_.

BROWNE, CHARLES FARRAR (1834-1867), “Artemus Ward.” When fifteen years
    old he contributed comic articles to the _Carpet Bag_, a Boston
    weekly. Subsequently he secured the situation of reporter on the
    _Cleveland Plaindealer_, a paper of good standing, and while acting
    in that position commenced his showman articles. The first of these
    were written in a careless style, more as a “fill up” than anything
    else, but finding that they met with extraordinary success Mr.
    Browne began taking greater pains with them, and the result is a
    series of as clever and humorous articles as America has produced.
    He was a successful lecturer, and in this capacity visited England
    in 1866, but his health, which had long been failing, became so poor
    that he was forced to cancel engagements. He died in Southampton,
    England.

BROWNE, JOHN ROSS (1817-1875), author of _Yusef_, _American Family in
    Germany_, _Land of Thor_, and other records of his travels in
    Europe, well worth reading. He was a great traveller, visiting every
    quarter of the globe, and his pen was never idle.

BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER (1885), present editor of _Puck_ (1892). He is a
    writer of graceful verse and short stories, which are overflowing
    with refined humour. _Airs from Arcady_, a volume of short verse,
    _Short Sixes_ and _The Zodac Pines_, volumes of short stories, and
    _A Woman of Honour_, a novel, are his principal published works. He
    is one of the best of the many brilliant short-story writers America
    of to-day possesses. Charles Scribner’s Sons and Ogilvie & Co.,
    publishers, America.

BURBANK, “MAJOR,” editor _New Orleans Piccayune_, a humorous writer and
    lecturer.

BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES (1844), first attracted attention by his humorous
    articles to the _Burlington Hawkeye_. These sketches have been
    collected and published in book form under the titles of _The Rise
    and Fall of the Moustache_, _Hawkeyes_, _Sumach Garden_, and other
    comic sketches. His humour is of the evanescent quality, and suited
    better to the columns of a daily or weekly paper than to publication
    in book form.

BURTON, WILLIAM EVANS, born in England, 1804; died in America, 1860. In
    1834 he emigrated to America, and for a time was the leader of the
    dramatic profession in America. In 1858 he published the _Cyclopædia
    of Wit and Humour_ (2 vols.).

BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN, born 1825. A lawyer of New York who has been a
    frequent contributor to the periodical literature of the country.
    His _Nothing to Wear_, first published in 1857, is to be found in
    most collections of American humour.

BYLES, DR. MATHER (1707-1788), more famous for his jokes in conversation
    and in the pulpit than for his writings.

BYRD, COLONEL WILLIAM (1674-1744). Founder of Richmond, Va., three times
    agent for the colony in England, and for thirty-seven years member
    of the King’s Council. His _Westover Manuscripts_ were published in
    1841. They are “A Journey to the Land of Eden,” “A Progress to the
    Mines,” and “History of the Dividing Line.” He wrote verse, and was
    considered a great wit.

CARLETON, WILL, born 1845. Without doubt the most popular humorous
    verse-writer of the day in America. His versification is far from
    being irreproachable, but he takes the everyday occurrences of life
    and treats them in a simple humorous style which appeals to the
    great public. His works are, _Farm Ballads_, _Farm Legends_, _Young
    Folks’ Rhymes_, _Farm Festivals_, _City Ballads_, _City Legends_,
    all published by Harper’s, New York, and most of them by Sampson
    Low, Marston, & Co., London. For pictures of rural life his work is
    invaluable.

CHENEY, JOHN VANCE (1848), public librarian of San Francisco. He has
    published two dainty books of fascinating, graceful, and wayward
    verse_, Thistledrift_ and _Wood Blooms_. See also _Poems of Wild
    Life_, “Canterbury Poets.”

CLARK, LEWIS GAYLORD (1810-1873). Appointed editor of the _Knickerbocker
    Magazine_ in 1834. He brought the magazine into fame, and gathered
    around him as contributors, Longfellow, Irving, Bryant, Halleck,
    Morris, and other well-known men. His published works in book form
    are _Knickerbocker Sketch-Book_, and _Knick-Knacks from an Editor’s
    Table_.

CLARK, WILL W., the “Frisbee” and “Gilhooley” of the _Pittsburg Leader_.

CLEMENS, SAMUEL LANGHORNE, born 1835. A true citizen of the United
    States, he began at the bottom of the ladder and has worked his way
    to the top. After receiving a meagre education at a village school,
    he was apprenticed to a printer at the age of thirteen, and for
    three years “stuck type.” In 1851 he took to the Mississippi,
    earning his living as a pilot, and later on tried mining and
    editing. Under the pseudonym “Mark Twain” he began to publish the
    work which has earned for him the right to be considered the
    greatest humorous writer of the century. _The Jumping Frog and other
    Sketches_ was his first book, appearing in 1867, and this he has
    followed with a splendid line of successes down to _The American
    Claimant_, which has just appeared. Messrs. Chatto & Windus publish
    his works in England, and Webster & Co. in America.

CLIFTON, WILLIAM (1772-1799), a satirical writer of prose and verse.
    Author of _The Group_, _The Rhapsody of the Times_, and an
    unfinished poem, “Chimeriad.”

COTES, MRS. E. C., “SARAH JEANNETTE DUNCAN” (1863). Miss Duncan, a
    native of Brantford, Ontario, Canada, did her first literary work on
    the _Toronto Globe_, and, after occupying positions on the staff of
    the _Globe_ and _Washington Post_, spent a session at Ottawa as
    special correspondent of the _Montreal Star_. This newspaper
    training is clearly shown in her two clever books, _A Social
    Departure_ and _An American Girl in London_. The first is an
    original and wholly unconventional account of travel, telling how
    she, in company with another girl, went round the world. The other
    book is an equally bright description of her doings in London.

COX, SAMUEL SULLIVAN (“SUNSET COX”), born 1824, and died 1889. A lawyer,
    journalist, and politician. He served the United States as
    diplomatist in Peru and Turkey, and wrote and spoke much that was
    witty. He published _The Buck-Eye Abroad_, _Why We Laugh_, _A Search
    for Winter Sunbeams_, _Arctic Sunbeams_, _Orient Sunbeams_, and _The
    Isles of the Princes_—the last three bright and laughable accounts
    of his travels in many lands. They are published by G. P. Putnam’s
    Sons, New York and London.

COX, WILLIAM, died about 1851. Author of _Crayon Sketches_. He wrote
    under the pseudonym “An Amateur.”

COZZENS, FREDERICK SWARTOUT (1818-1869), author of _The Sayings of Dr.
    Bushwhacker and other Learned Men_, and _The Sparrowgrass Papers_. A
    genuine humorist and graceful writer. Some of his work was published
    under the pen-name “Richard Haywarde.”

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM (1824-1892). As the “Easy Chair” in _Harper’s
    Magazine_, Mr. Curtis’ work was familiar to a wide circle of readers
    throughout the English-speaking world. His writings are all
    brightened by a vein of refined and genial humour. His chief works
    are_ Nile Notes_, _The Howadji in Syria_, _Lotus-Eating_, _Potiphar
    Papers_, _Prue and I_, and _Trumps_.

DERRING, NATHANIEL (1791-1881), a playwright of note and humorous story
    writer. Author of _Bozzaris_ and _The Clairvoyants_.

DE MILLE, JAMES, Canadian (1837-1880). He began his career as a humorous
    writer while still at school, his writings appearing in New
    Brunswick papers. In 1860 he was appointed to the Chair of Classics
    in Acadia College, and four years later that of history and rhetoric
    in Dalhousie College, Halifax, holding the position till his death.
    He published, during his comparatively short lifetime, more than
    twenty books, of which _The Dodge Club_ found the most readers.

DENNIE, JOSEPH (1768-1812), a lawyer who thought better of it, and
    adopted literature as a profession. In 1801 he became editor of the
    _Portfolio_, and, under the _nom de plume_ “Oliver Old School,”
    edited and wrote for it till his death. His _Short Sermons for Idle
    Readers_ are rich in humour.

DEPEW, CHAUNCEY MITCHELL, born 1834. He entered politics before 1860,
    and has stayed in ever since. He is President of the New York
    Central Railway, the right-hand man of the Republican party, and
    America’s most famous facetious after-dinner speaker and
    story-teller.

DERBY, GEORGE HORATIO (“JOHN PHŒNIX”), 1823-1861, a graduate of West
    Point, and served in the war with Mexico, receiving a severe wound
    in the battle of Cerro Gordo. He explored Minnesota territory in
    1849, and after holding many important government positions, was
    made captain of engineers. He died from effects produced by
    sunstroke. Under the pseudonym “John Phœnix,” he wrote the first of
    what may be called newspaper humour. His _Phœnixiana_ and _The
    Squibob Papers_ have been published on both sides the Atlantic.

DIAZ, MRS. ABBY (1821), a humorous writer for the young; author of
    _Chronicles of the Stimpcett Family_, _The William Henry Letters_,
    etc.

DODGE, H. C., a writer of newspaper verse, ready with his rhymes, but
    whose chief ingenuity is displayed in the typographical arrangements
    of his verse.

DOUGLASS, WILLIAM, a Scotsman who made America his home in 1718. He was
    a famous satirist in his day.

DOWE, MRS. JENNIE, E. T. Her best work is to be found in the _Century
    Magazine_, where she, every now and again, fills a page or two with
    graceful and fantastical verse, usually employing a slight dialect
    of one sort or another. Her poems are full of life and music, and
    are decidedly clever.

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN (1795-1820), co-author with Halleck of the _Croaker
    Papers_, and author of _The Culprit Fay_.

DRUMMOND, DR. W. H., a resident of Montreal, Canada. He is a master of
    the French-Canadian dialect, and in verse has the field pretty much
    to himself. His _Wreck of the Julie Plante_ is the most popular
    humorous song Canada has produced.

DUNCAN, SARAH JEANNETTE. _See_ COTES, MRS.

DUNLOP, WILLIAM, born in Scotland 1795 (?), died in Canada 1848. He
    contributed to _Blackwood’s Magazine_ “The Autobiography of a Rat,”
    founded the Toronto Literary Society, and represented Huron County
    in the first parliament after the union of Upper and Lower Canada.

DWIGHT, TIMOTHY (1752-1817), President of Yale College, and hymn-writer
    of note. Among his many published works is _Triumph of Infidelity_,
    a satire.

EDWARDS, EDWARD E., the author of “Facts and Fancies” in the _Boston
    Transcript_.

FAY, THEODORE SEDGEWICK, born 1807, an associate of Morris and Willis in
    the _New York Mirror_. Mr. Fay, about 1830, joined the diplomatic
    service, and was stationed at Berlin and Berne for years. He
    published many works of a quietly humorous character.

FESSENDEN, THOMAS GREEN (1771-1837). When at Dartmouth College he wrote
    “Jonathan’s Courtship,” a ballad which became popular, and was
    reprinted in England. He studied law and wrote humorous verse until
    1801, when he was sent to England with a newly-patented hydraulic
    machine which proved a failure. This and other patents in which he
    experimented ruined him. Returning to America, he edited for a time
    the _New York Weekly Inspector_, and from this time till his death
    was connected with one paper or another. His published works include
    _Democracy Unveiled_, “Pills, Poetical, Political, and
    Philosophical, prescribed for the purpose of purging the Public
    of—Philosophers, Penny Poetasters, of Paltry Politicians and Petty
    Partisans. By Peter Pepperbox, Poet and Physician, Philadelphia.”

FIELD, EUGENE (1850). During the year 1891 Mr. Field made a successful
    _début_ before the reading public of Great Britain with his _Little
    Book of Western Verse_, and _Little Book of Profitable Tales_,
    published by Osgood, McIlvain, & Co. For many years past Mr. Field
    has been the chief humorist of Chicago, and in verse and prose holds
    an honoured place among the present-day writers of America. He is
    equally at home in prose and verse.

FIELD, MATTHEW C. (1812-1844), a contributor to many southern journals
    from 1834 till the time of his death.

FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS (1817-1881). He edited the _Atlantic Monthly_ for
    eleven years, and wrote several volumes of prose and clever humorous
    verse. He was partner in the publishing house of Ticknor & Fields.

FINN, HENRY J. (1782-1840), an actor, miniature painter, and humorist.
    He was lost in the burning of the steamer _Lexington_.

FOLGER, PETER (1617-1690), grandfather of Benjamin Franklin, published a
    satirical attack on the follies of the day, under the extensive
    title of _A Looking-glass for the Times; or, the Former Spirit of
    New England Revised in this Generation_.

FOSS, SAM WALTER (1858), editor of the _Yankee Blade_. Although his
    poems are as widely quoted on one side the Atlantic as the other,
    they have not yet appeared in book form in England.

FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN (1706-1790) It is difficult to say what Franklin was
    not, and there can be no question of his being the best-informed man
    of his day. Along with his other virtues, he was a humorist, and
    sparkling witty in conversation and writing. He was the first
    American to achieve cosmopolitan fame as a writer.

FRENEAU, PHILIP (1752-1832). He commenced to write poetry before he left
    college, and continued to do so all his life. As a consequence, his
    published works are many. His reputation as a humorist rests to a
    great extent on “A Journey from Philadelphia to New York, by Robert
    Slender, Stocking-Weaver,” published 1787.

GOLDSMITH, JAY CHARLTON, the “P.I. Man” of the _New York Herald_, and
    the author of the “Jay Charlton” papers which appeared in the
    _Danbury News_.

GRAYDON, ALEXANDER (1752-1818). Graydon served in the War of
    Independence, was taken prisoner; when peace was restored was
    appointed to a government office, which he held for many years. He
    wrote his memoirs, and was an epigrammatist of note.

GREEN, JOSEPH (1706-1780), a writer of verse, chiefly parody. His
    “Poet’s Lament for the Loss of his Cat, which he used to call his
    Mews,” published in the _London Magazine_, 1733, and “The Wonderful
    Lament of Old Mr. Tenor,” are the most notable of his productions.
    He died in England.

GREENE, ALBERT GORTON (1802-1868), founder of the Providence Athenæum,
    and president of the Rhode Island Historical Society from 1854 till
    his death. His poem, “Old Grimes,” has appeared in almost every
    collection of American humour published.

GREGORY W. H., working editor of _Judge_, and a brilliant paragraphist.

GRISWOLD, A. MINOR (_nom de guerre_, “The Fat Contributor”), first made
    his name on the _Cincinnati Enquirer_, and afterwards became
    identified with _Texas Siftings_. In 1889 he started on a lecturing
    tour à la Artemus Ward, and died in Michigan.

HABBERTON, JOHN, born 1842. The author of _Helen’s Babies_. He served
    through the war, and after an unsuccessful attempt to establish
    himself in business he took up journalism. In 1876, after several
    refusals, he found a publisher for _Helen’s Babies_, and the result
    was a sale of close on half a million copies in the United States
    alone. Since that time he has published a dozen or more books, most
    of them successes.

HALE, LUCRETIA PEABODY, born 1820. Her _Peterkim Papers_, published in
    America by Osgood & Co., Boston, made her famous with the young folk
    of America, but the reader must be young to enjoy the skits.

HALIBURTON, THOMAS CHANDLER (1797-1865), Canada’s most famous humorist.
    Was admitted to the bar in Nova Scotia at the age of twenty-three,
    and nine years later was made Chief Justice of the Court of Common
    Pleas, and in 1840 Judge of the Supreme Court. In 1842 he resigned
    this office and settled in England, sitting in Parliament as
    Conservative member for Launceston from 1859 to 1865. It was in the
    year 1835 he commenced writing his humorous works that made the name
    of “Sam Slick” famous the world over. His first production was T_he
    Clockmaker; or, The Sayings and Doings of Sam Slick_; and this he
    followed up with _Bubbles of Canada_, _Letter Bag of the Great
    Western_, _Yankee Stories_, _Nature and Human Nature_, etc.

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE (1790-1867), a descendant of John Eliot, “The
    Apostle of the Indians.” In 1819 he and John Rodman Drake published
    the _Croaker Papers_, humorous and satirical, which attracted much
    attention at the time. These papers he followed with “Fanny,” his
    longest poem, hitting off the follies of the day. These are his
    chief contributions to humorous literature.

HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM (1829-1868), “Miles O’Reilly,” a verse-writer.
    Established with “Mrs. Partington” a humorous paper called _The
    Carpet Bag_, which proved a failure. He enlisted during “the war,”
    and worked his way up until he finally became a colonel. He issued
    _Life and Adventures, Songs, Services, and Speeches of Private Miles
    O’Reilly, 47th Regiment, New York Volunteers_, and _A Collection of
    Essays, Poems, Speeches, and Banquets by Private Miles O’Reilly.
    Collected, Revised, and Edited, with the Requisite Corrections of
    Punctuation, Spelling, and Grammar, by an ex-Colonel of the
    Adjutant-General’s Department, etc._

HARRIS, CHARLES H., “Carl Pretzel,” born 1833. Author of _Pretzelisms,
    My Book of Expressions_, etc., humorous compilations in Dutch
    dialect.

HARRIS, JOEL CHANDLER, born 1848. The greatest exponent of the negro
    dialect. In the columns of the _Atlanta Constitution_, of which he
    is editor and part proprietor, his _Uncle Remus_ sketches first saw
    the light, and proved enormously successful. His humour is delicate
    and fascinating, and as a consequence the _Remus_ series of books
    have had a world-wide circulation. No lover of the humorous should
    overlook Mr. Harris’s work. American publishers, Appleton & Co.

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET, born 1836. Taking full advantage of his unique
    acquaintance with the West of America during the stirring days of
    ’49, when, in California, he was in turn gold-digger, express-rider,
    printer, and editor, Bret Harte has given to the world volume after
    volume of short stories which picture in an inimitable way the
    manners and men of the gold days. No writer is more
    characteristically American than he; his style is vivid and
    beautiful, and he has a wonderful fund of humour, which appears in
    every line he writes. His published works, prose and verse, are
    many. Messrs. Chatto & Windus have recently published a complete
    edition of his writings. American publishers, Houghton, Mifflin, &
    Co.

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL (1804-1864). Like most men of exceptional worth in
    literature; he found great difficulty at first in getting his work
    published. After writing and destroying many tales, he published, at
    his own expense, a novel entitled _Fanshawe_, which proved a
    failure; and it was not until 1837 that he, or rather a friend,
    induced a publisher to bring out _Twice-told Tales_. In the spring
    of 1850 appeared _The Scarlet Letter_, which raised the author from
    obscurity to the front rank of American literature, and the works
    which followed established his position in the letters of his
    country.

HAY, COLONEL JOHN, born 1838, one of President Lincoln’s private
    secretaries during the war, and has since in collaboration written a
    history of the martyr-president. His reputation for humour was made
    by a small volume of verse entitled _Pike Country Ballads_. Best
    known of these ballads are “Little Breeches” and “Jim Bludso,” both
    strong pieces of verse.

HENDERSON, WILLIAM JAMES, born 1855, a New York journalist who has
    written much pleasant verse and prose.

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT (1819-1881). For some time editor of _Scribner’s
    Monthly_ (now the _Century_), and a writer who, though judged from a
    literary point of view is quite second class, still is popular with
    the reading public of America. He wrote a number of articles under
    the _nom de plume_ of “Timothy Titcomb.”

HOLLEY, MARIETTA. Under the pseudonym of “Josiah Allen’s Wife” she wrote
    a great deal of humorous matter. Author of _My Opinions and Betsey
    Bobbet’s_, _My Wayward Partner_, _Josiah Allen’s Wife as a P. A. and
    P.I._, etc.

HOLMES, DR. OLIVER WENDELL, born 1809, physician, novelist, essayist,
    and poet, began literary work at an early age, and for more than
    half a century has written industriously and with consistent
    success. The _Breakfast-Table_ series is among the most read of all
    America’s humorous writings, and various short poems of a humorous
    nature, such as “The One-Hoss Shay,” “Contentment,” “The Spectre
    Pig,” etc., are in every compilation of humour. His chief works are
    _The Autocrat at the Breakfast-Table_, _The Professor at the
    Breakfast-Table_, _The Poet at the Breakfast-Table_, _Songs of Many
    Seasons_, _Songs in Many Keys_. He is one of the small band of
    humorists who are as carefully read and highly appreciated in the
    United Kingdom as in their native land. American publishers,
    Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.

HOOPER, JOHNSON, J. (1815-1863), a native of North Carolina, studied law
    in Alabama, was made a judge, and in 1861 appointed Secretary of the
    Provisional Confederate Congress. He published _Widow Rugby’s
    Husband and Adventures of Captain Simon Suggs_. Clever, but somewhat
    broad in humour.

HOPKINS, LEMUEL (1750-1801), one of the “Hartford Wits,” and co-author
    and projector of _The Anarchiad_, a poem on State Rights, cuttingly
    sarcastic. He also wrote _The Echo_, _The Political Greenhouse_, and
    _New Year’s Verses_, all full of sarcasm.

HOPKINSON, FRANCIS (1737-1791), a telling, sarcastic writer, widely read
    in his lifetime, and author of the poem, “The Battle of the Kegs,”
    which remains famous. He was one of those who signed the Declaration
    of Independence. His son wrote “Hail, Columbia.”

HOWARD, BRONSON (1842). The most successful American dramatist of the
    day, and almost the only American whose plays command attention in
    England. His plays, _Saratoga_, _Truth_, _The Old Love and the New_,
    _Young Mrs. Winthrope_, _The Henrietta_, and others are full of
    humour, and have been successful on both sides the Atlantic.

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN, born 1837. He is now America’s representative
    novelist, and has qualified for representation in a humorous book by
    his comedies, _Out of the Question_, _A Counterfeit Presentment_,
    _The Parlour Car_, _The Sleeping Car_, etc. He is an industrious
    writer. D. Douglas, Edinburgh, in his American author series, has
    included twenty-five of Mr. Howells’ works. The extract given in
    this book is from _A Chance Acquaintance_. American publishers,
    Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., and Osgood & Co.

HOYT, CHARLES, humorous paragraphist of the _Boston Post_, the paper, by
    the way, which is credited with having originated the column of
    witty paragraphs now so popular with American and British papers.

HUMPHREYS, DAVID (1752-1818), served as aide-de-camp to Washington, and
    wrote lyrics of a patriotic nature for the good of the cause. He was
    an intimate friend of the first president, residing with and being
    treated as a member of the Washington family, and held many
    positions of trust. He was one of the famous “Hartford Wits.”

HUNTER-DUVAR, LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOHN (1830), one of the principal
    literary men of Canada, his work polished, bright, and full of
    imagination. His “Emigration of the Fairies,” a poem of 117 stanzas
    of six lines each, is quite the best piece of verse as regards
    light, fantastical, imaginative humour that Canada has produced.
    Many of his lyrics are dainty and sweet, with a seventeenth century
    ring about them. He has published in verse _De Roberval_, a drama
    dealing with early life in Canada, _The Triumph of Constancy_, _The
    Enamorado_, and for private circulation, _John a’ Var, his Lays_.

HUNTLEY, STANLEY. In 1881 Mr. Huntley joined the staff of the _Brooklyn
    Eagle_, to which paper he contributed his famous “Spoopendyke”
    articles. He died before he had the opportunity of following up his
    success.

IRVING, JOHN TREAT (1778-1838), a writer of sarcastic political verse.

IRVING, WASHINGTON (1783-1859), author of those undying works of
    delightful and quaint humour, _Rip Van Winkle_, _Sketch Book_,
    _History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker_, etc. A hospitable,
    vivacious, good-natured, humorous man, who, at the opening of his
    career, was much harassed by business worries, and it was not until
    his books had scattered his fame broadcast, and the revenue from his
    writings began to accrue to him, that he could lead the life of
    hearty hospitality and freedom he loved. He was one of the small
    band of American authors which first attracted attention outside of
    their own country, and established the literary reputation of
    America.

IKE MARVEL. _See_ MITCHELL, D. G.

JAMES, HENRY (1843). His stories are slight in plot, but worked out
    gracefully, and full of character delineation, vivacious, and witty.

JOHNSTON, RICHARD MALCOLM, born 1822, a native of Georgia, author of
    _The Dukesborough Tales_ and _Mark Langston_.

JOSIAH ALLEN’S WIFE. _See_ HOLLEY.

KEELER, RALPH (1840-1873). Mr. Keeler had an adventurous career, running
    away from home when a lad, serving as cabin-boy on a lake steamer,
    train-boy on a railway, joining several bands of strolling
    minstrels, worked in a post-office, visited Europe, and supported
    himself by correspondence with newspapers and lecturing. He
    published _Three Years a Negro Minstrel_, _A Tour of Europe on
    $181_, _Gloverson and his Silent Partners_ (from which “A Breach of
    Promise Case” in this volume is taken), and _Vagabond Adventures_.
    He mysteriously disappeared while doing newspaper work in Cuba, and
    it is supposed he was murdered and thrown overboard from a steamer.

KELLY, ANDREW W. (“PHARMENAS MIX”), died 1888. A writer of humorous
    poetry, which appeared in the _Century Magazine_, _Detroit Free
    Press_, etc.

KERR, ORPHEUS C. _See_ NEWELL.

KIMBALL, MATHER DEAN (1849), a Wisconsin journalist who has written some
    dialect pieces of merit.

LANDON, MELVILLE D., “ELI PERKINS,” born 1840. In 1871 he published his
    first book, a detailed history of the Franco-German war, and
    afterwards began writing in a lighter vein for various publications,
    among them the _Chicago Tribune_.

LANIGAN, GEORGE THOMAS (1845-1886), a Canadian journalist who drifted
    across the borders, and who, after filling important positions on
    the staff of many of the great American newspapers, died in
    Philadelphia. He was a brilliant and versatile journalist, and his
    poems, “The Ahkoond of Swat” and “Dirge of the Moolta Kotal,” are
    masterpieces of oddness of theme and wording.

LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY (1824). Best known to lovers of the humorous as
    the author of the laughable _Breitmann Ballads_. Since fifteen years
    of age Mr. Leland has been busy with his pen, and there is no
    greater authority on folk-lore, superstition, and legend than he. He
    has written many volumes of verse, sketches of travel, etc., and is
    still (1893) hard at work.

LEWIS, CHARLES B., “M QUAD,” born 1842. The creator of _His Honor and
    Bijah_, his first great success; _The Lime Kiln Club_, with all its
    comical darkey characters; _Carl Dunder_, the unsophisticated
    Dutchman who is always being “shwindled”; _The Arisona Kicker_,
    whose editor keeps a private graveyard; and _Mr. and Mrs. Bowser_.
    “M Quad” is without question the greatest newspaper humorist of
    America. His style is deliciously original; he can write weekly for
    years on the same subject without wearying the reader. “Quad” is
    popularly known as the _Detroit Free Press_ man, from his long
    connection with that weekly.

LIGHTHALL WILLIAM DOUW, born 1857. His _Songs of the Great Dominion_, a
    collection of verse by various Canadian writers, attracted
    considerable attention in this kingdom. His works are, _An Analysis
    of the Altruistic Act_, _Sketch of a New Utilitarianism_, _Thoughts,
    Moods, and Ideas_ (a collection of verse), and a novel, _The Young
    Seigneur_. He has paid little attention to humorous writing.

LOCKE, DAVID ROSS, “PETROLEUM V. NASBY” (1833-1888). A political
    humorist and satirical writer, whose works have left their
    impression on American political life. He was editor of the _Toledo
    Blade_. His principal published works are, _Swinging Round the
    Circle_, _The Moral History of Americans Little Struggle_, and _A
    Paper City_.

LOGAN, JOHN E., a Canadian who, under the _nom de guerre_ of “Barry
    Dane,” has written some clever humorous pieces. _See_ Lighthall’s
    _Songs of the Great Dominion_.

LONGSTREET, AUGUSTUS BALDWIN (1790-1870), in turn a lawyer, legislator,
    judge, editor, Methodist minister, college president, and farmer. He
    was a ready and brilliant speaker, and an industrious writer of
    humour and pathos. His _Georgia, Scenes, Characters, and Incidents_,
    first published in periodicals, and afterwards collected in book
    form, were widely read. The papers are full of humour, rather broad,
    but it is said by those who know, truly characteristic of the place
    and period.

LOW, SAMUEL, born 1765. Author of two volumes of poetry, containing many
    pieces of a humorous character.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (1819-1891), poet, essayist, and diplomat. One of
    the foremost literary geniuses of America. His first volume of poems
    was published in 1838, under the title of _Class Poems_. In 1841
    followed _A Year’s Life_, consisting mainly of love poems, only a
    few of which the author in later years considered worth
    republishing. In the year 1846 the _Biglow Papers_ began appearing
    in the columns of the _Boston Courier_, and it was not until 1848
    that what is probably the most remarkable series of satirical poems
    which ever appeared were furnished. For wit, insight into human
    nature, and finish, these poems, in the peculiar dialect of the
    “down-easter,” must be considered nothing short of perfect. These
    poems had an instantaneous effect on America, and raised the
    question of slavery and corruption in politics to the eyes of the
    people in a way they had never before been presented. Mr. Lowell was
    an out-and-out democrat and a fearless exponent of democracy of the
    kind established by the founders of American independence. His
    works, of which a complete and excellent edition is published by
    Messrs. Macmillan & Co., London, are numerous, the best known being
    _Class Poems_, _A Year’s Life_, _Poems_ (1844), _The Vision of Sir
    Launfal_ (1848), _Conversations on some of the Old Poets_ (1945),
    _Poems_ (1848), _The Biglow Papers_, _A Fable for Critics_, _Poems_
    (1849), _Life of Keats, Mason and Slidell_, _Fireside Travels_, _The
    President’s Policy_, _Biglow Papers_ (second series), _Under the
    Willows_, _Among my Books_, _Democracy, and other Addresses_.
    Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. have published a complete edition
    of his works in America.

MACCLURG, DR. JAMES (1747-1825), a writer of the dainty _vers de
    société_, which has since become so popular with a school of modern
    writers.

MACDOWELL, MRS. KATE (1853-1883), a writer of humorous sketches in
    vernacular, and published by _Harper’s_. Pseudonym, “Sherwood
    Bonner.”

M’LENNAN, WILLIAM, Canadian. His French-Canadian dialect sketches and
    stories are full of humour, and the dialect is perfect. See
    Lighthall’s _Songs of the Great Dominion_.

MILES O’REILLY. _See_ HALPINE.

MILLER, CINCINNATUS HINER, “Joaquin” (1841). The most American of all
    America’s poets. In his youth he took to gold-mining in California,
    afterwards acting as express-rider, later on drifted into
    journalism, and began his literary career while judge of Grant
    county, Oregon. His best-known works are _Songs of the Sierras_,
    _Songs of Sunland_, _Songs of the Desert_, _Songs of the Mexican
    Seas_, and _In Classic Shades_. He has not written much in a
    humorous vein, but his “William Brown of Oregon,” “That Gentle Man
    from Boston Town,” and “Saratoga and the Psalmist,” all humorous
    verse, have been widely read.

MITCHELL, DONALD GRANT, born 1822. His delicate health compelled him to
    abandon the study of law, and he has spent most of his time in
    landscape gardening, writing, and travelling. His first book, _Fresh
    Gleanings, or a New Sheaf from the Old Field of Continental Europe_,
    was published in 1847, and in 1850 his widely-read work, _Reveries
    of a Bachelor_, appeared. In the sixties appeared the “Edgewood”
    series of books from his pen. Most of his humorous work appeared
    under the pen-name of “Ike Marvel.”

MITCHELL, DR. SAMUEL LATHAM (1764-1831), a valuable and voluminous
    writer on scientific subjects. He was a humorist in his way.

MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE (1779-1863). He wrote the famous piece of verse
    beginning—

      “’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
        Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

MORRIS, GEORGE P. (1802-1864), began writing for the press when but
    fifteen years of age, and during his lifetime saw many of his poems
    attain international celebrity. In 1823, he, in conjunction with
    Samuel Woodworth, established the _New York Mirror_, and in 1843,
    with N. P. Willis, the _New Mirror_; and in 1845 himself founded the
    _National Press_, afterwards the _Home Journal_. _The Little
    Frenchman and his Water-Lots_, a volume of prose sketches, published
    in 1839, was widely read; but his greatest hits were made by the
    songs, “Woodman, spare that Tree,” “We were Boys together,” “My
    Mother’s Bible,” and “Whip-poor-will.”

MORTON, THOMAS, born in England about 1575; died in America, 1646.
    During his adventurous life he caused Miles Standish and his Puritan
    followers a great deal of trouble, being many times imprisoned for
    misdeeds. He wrote a book, of which the following is a copy of the
    title-page:—“New English Canaan or New Canaan, containing an
    abstract of New England, composed in three Bookes. The first Booke
    setting forth the originall of the Natives, their Manners and
    Customs, together with their tractable Nature and Love towards the
    English. The second Booke setting forth, what people are planted
    there, their prosperity, what remarkable accidents have happened
    since the first planting of it, together with their Tenents and
    practise of their Church. _Written by_ Thomas Morton of Clifford’s
    Inne gent, _upon Tenne years knowledge and experiment of the
    country_. Printed at Amsterdam by Jacob Frederick Stain in the yeare
    1637.” This book is full of ridicule of all things pertaining to the
    Puritans.

M QUAD. _See_ LEWIS.

MRS. PARTINGTON. _See_ SHILLABER.

MUNKETTRICK, RICHARD KENDALL (1853), a writer of prose and verse, full
    of subtle and refined humour. He contributes to all the standard
    publications of America.

NASH, THOMAS, born 1840, came into public notice during the Civil War by
    his strong caricatures, and has ever since been considered one of
    America’s best caricaturists.

NEAL, JOHN (1793-1876). “Yankee Neal,” as he was called, at the age of
    thirty, set sail for England, determined that the British people
    should no longer be able to say that no one reads an American book.
    This pioneer of American literature began writing in London, and was
    successful beyond his expectation. Among the twenty volumes from his
    pen are _Brother Jonathan_, _The Down Easters_, _One Word More_, and
    _Keep Cool_.

NEAL, JOSEPH CLAY (1807-1847). In 1831 he edited the _Pennsylvanian_,
    and a few years later established the _Saturday Gazette_, a humorous
    and satirical publication, which was widely read. His _Charcoal
    Sketches_ were republished in London under the auspices of Charles
    Dickens.

NEWELL, ROBERT HENRY (1836). His “Orpheus C. Kerr” papers, humorous and
    satirical, met with great success during the days of the Civil War,
    and still continue popular. After these papers, _The Palace
    Beautiful_ and _Versatilities_ are his best-known works Some of his
    verse is clever, and “The Great Fight” is to be found in most
    collections of American humour.

NYE, EDGAR WILSON, born 1850. One of the most popular newspaper
    humorists of America. He studied law in Wyoming territory, but the
    farcical sketches which he contributed to different newspapers soon
    took the public fancy, and he removed to New York, where he now
    (1893) resides. He has published a number of collections of his
    sketches.

ORPHEUS JUNIOR. _See_ VAUGHAN.

PAGE, THOMAS NELSON, born 1853. Brought up on a Southern plantation;
    educated at Washington, and is now practising law at Richmond,
    Virginia. His negro dialect stories, full of the kindly humour of
    the South, have attracted much attention. His first volume, _In Ole
    Virginia_, was published in 1887.

PAULDING, JAMES KIRKE (1779-1860). Making the acquaintance of Washington
    Irving, the two formed a strong liking for each other, and in 1807,
    _Salmajundi_, their joint production, was issued, and its success
    was great. In 1812 Mr. Paulding published _The Diverting History of
    John Bull and Brother Jonathan_, and this was followed by _The Lay
    of the Scottish Fiddle_, _Letters from the South_, _John Bull in
    America_, _Chronicle of the City of Gotham_, _The Dutchman’s
    Fireside_, _Westward Ho_, _The Book of St. Nicholas_, and many other
    works of exceptional merit.

PECK, GEORGE W., author of the “Peck’s Bad Boy” series of articles,
    began life as a printer’s devil, entered the army in 1863, and when
    peace was declared returned to Wisconsin and made his name as a
    humorous writer in the columns of _Peck’s Sun_, Milwaukee. Since the
    famous articles were published Mr. Peck has entered politics, and
    for some years held the position of Governor of Wisconsin.

PETE PAREAU. _See_ WRIGHT.

PETERS, SAMUEL (1735-1826), author of _General History of Connecticut_,
    a satire.

PETROLEUM V. NASBY. _See_ LOCKE.

PHARMENAS MIX. _See_ KELLY.

POMEROY, MARCUS MILLS, born 1833. After an apprenticeship to journalism
    in the West, he founded in New York, 1868, the _Brick Pomeroy
    Democrat_, which for sensationalism was unsurpassed in the history
    of American journalism. He has the reputation of being able to tell
    a plainer lie—professionally, of course—than any man in America. His
    principal books are _Sense_, _Nonsense_, _Brick Dust_, _Home
    Harmonies_, and _Perpetual Money_.

“PORTE CRAYON.” _See_ STROTHER.

RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB (1854). Mr. Riley is writing the typically
    American verse of the day, and his work is now read by a larger
    public than any other American poet finds. His poems, humorous or
    otherwise, are full of tender feeling, and in them the tear
    invariably accompanies the smile. He has a perfect command of the
    country dialects, and pictures as no other writer seems able to do,
    the humorous and the pathetic side of American life. A number of his
    books have been published in England. _Old Fashioned Roses_, by
    Messrs. Longmans, Green, & Co., and other volumes by Messrs. Gay &
    Bird. In America the Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, publish _The
    Old Swimmin’-Hole, and ’Leven More Poems_; _The Boss Girl, and other
    Sketches and Poems_; and _Afterwhiles_. Mr. Riley’s verses, “Old Man
    and Jim,” and “Little Orphant Annie,” are popular with reciters on
    both sides the Atlantic.

ROCHE, JAMES JEFFREY (1847), editor of the _Boston Pilot_, and author of
    _Songs and Satires_. Has written a great deal of humorous verse.

RUSSELL, IRWIN (1853-1879). According to Joel Chandler Harris, Mr.
    Russell was the first Southern writer to appreciate the literary
    possibilities of the negro character. Mr. Russell’s short life was
    one of hard work and disappointments, and it was not until after his
    death that his poems were collected and published. “Christmas Night
    in the Quarters” is the best of his poems.

SANDERSON, JOHN (1783-1844). _The American in England_ and _The American
    in Paris_ are works which attained wide circulation at the time of
    publication.

SAXE, JOHN GODFREY (1816-1887), a humorist whose command of rhyme was as
    complete as that of “Ingoldsby.” He was a prolific writer of
    humorous verse, and also wrote much that is in a serious vein. Mr.
    Saxe was an ardent politician, holding the position of State
    Attorney for Cheltenden, co. Vt., and in 1859, and again in 1860,
    was the unsuccessful Democratic candidate for governor of that
    state. Many of his poems saw original publication in _Harper’s
    Magazine_ and the _Atlantic Monthly_.

SCOLLARD, CLINTON (1860), a writer of fanciful and sparkling verse. His
    books of verse, _Pictures in Song_, _With Reed and Lyre_, and _Old
    and New World Lyrics_, have been successful.

SECCOMB, JOHN (1708-1793). Educated at Harvard, and settled as a
    minister at Chester, Nova Scotia, where he died. Author of “Father
    Abbey’s Will,” a humorous piece of verse, published in the
    _Gentleman’s Magazine_, May 1732.

SHANLY, CHARLES DAWSON (1811-1875), born in Ireland and died in Florida.
    He is claimed as a Canadian, he having held a government office for
    fifteen years in Canada before going to New York to engage in
    journalism. He was editor of _Vanity Fair_ and _Mrs. Grundy_, New
    York publications, and contributed to the _New York Leader_,
    _Atlantic Monthly_, and other periodicals. He wrote “A Jolly Bear
    and his Friends,” “The Monkey of Porto Bello,” “The Truant Chicken,”
    and “The Walker of the Snow,” a well-known poem. See Lighthall’s
    _Songs of the Great Dominion_.

SHARP, LUKE. _See_ ROBERT BARR.

SHAW, HENRY WHEELER, 1818-1885 (“Josh Billings”). In compilations of
    American humour “Josh Billings” has always been popular. His pungent
    paragraphs are very convenient to fill the chinks between longer
    articles. A great deal of his humour is in the spelling; but his
    “sayings” are full of philosophy and wisdom, to which the
    orthography gives a certain quaintness. His publications are _Josh
    Billings his Sayings_, _Josh Billings on Ice_, _Every Boddy’s
    Friend_, and _Josh Billings’ Spice Box_.

SHELTON, FREDERICK WILLIAM (1814-1881), author of _The Trollopiad_,
    _Rector of St. Bardolph’s_, _Peeps from the Belfry_, etc. Mr.
    Shelton was a clergyman who found authorship more congenial and
    profitable, and so devoted himself to writing.

SHERMAN, FRANK DEMPSTER (1860), author of _Madrigals and Catches_ and
    _Lyrics for a Lute_, volumes of dainty verse.

“SHERWOOD BONNER.” _See_ MACDOWELL.

SHILLABER, BENJAMIN P. (1814-1890). No series of newspaper articles in
    the humorous vein attracted greater attention than that written by
    Mr. Shillaber under the _nom de guerre_ “Mrs. Partington.” These
    short articles were full of good-natured humour, and never failed to
    draw a smile from the reader.

SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND (1841-1887). His poems contain a few pieces of
    pleasant fancy.

SMALL, SAMUEL W., born 1851, a Southern humorist who published articles
    under the pseudonym “Old Si.”

SMITH, JAMES (1720-1806), a signer of the Declaration of Independence.
    Alexander Graydon, in his _Memoirs_, says that Smith was accounted a
    consummate humorist by those who knew him.

SMITH, MAJOR CHARLES H., “Bill Arp,” born 1826. His humorous sketches,
    published in the _Atlanta Constitution_, have long been popular
    reading in the Southern States. He served in the Confederate army
    during the war.

SMITH, REV. WILLIAM WYE (1827), a Canadian writer whose poems are
    popular in his native country. See Lighthall’s _Songs of the Great
    Dominion_.

SMITH, SEBA, _nom de guerre_, “Major Jack Downing” (1792-1868). A
    journalist who, after editing the _Eastern Argus_, _Family
    Recorder_, and _Portland Daily Courier_, wrote during the presidency
    of Jackson the famous series of satirical letters which made the
    name “Jack Downing” celebrated in America. In 1842 he removed from
    Portland to New York city, and published _Powhatan_, _New Elements
    of Geometry_, _Way Down East_. He was all his life a journalist.

SPOOPENDYKE. _See_ HUNTLEY.

STEEL, RICHARD, famous paragraphist of Chicago from about 1870 to 1882.

STOCKTON, FRANCIS RICHARD, born 1834. Educated in Philadelphia, he first
    became an engraver, but abandoned this for journalism. After some
    experience in newspaper work he joined the staff of _Scribner’s
    Monthly_, and subsequently was appointed assistant-editor of _St.
    Nicholas_. His first great success was made with the _Rudder Grange_
    stories, and few short stories have attracted such a reading public
    as “The Lady or the Tiger.” All his writings are rich in quiet and
    quaint humour, and no writer can tell a more genial and interesting
    story. A convenient-sized and inexpensive edition of his works,
    including _Rudder Grange_, from which “Pomona’s Novel” is taken,
    _The Lady or the Tiger? and other Stories_, and _A Borrowed Month,
    and other Stories_, is published by David Douglas, Edinburgh.
    American publishers, Charles Scribner’s Sons.

STROTHER, DAVID HUNTER (1816-1888), an artist as well as a humorous
    writer. He wrote under the _nom de guerre_ of “Porte Crayon,” and
    illustrated his own work. Published works, _The Blackwater
    Chronicle_ and _Virginia Illustrated_.

SWEET, ALEXANDER EDWIN, Canadian, born 1841. After an adventurous youth
    he became editor of the _San Antoine Express_ in 1869, and later,
    with Colonel Knox, conducted _Texas Siftings_. For a time the weekly
    was published in Texas, but afterwards the office was moved to New
    York.

THOMPSON, BENJAMIN (1640-16—). A native of Massachusetts, a graduate of
    Harvard, and generally credited with being the first poet born in
    America. He wrote in satirical vein _New England’s Crisis_.

THOMPSON, DANIEL PIERCE (1793-1868). Began his literary career with a
    satirical novel entitled, _The Adventures of Timothy Peacock, Esq.;
    or, Freemasonry Practically Illustrated_, which caused quite a stir
    among Freemasons and others in 1835.

THOMPSON, MAURICE (1844), author of _Songs of Fair Weather_, _By-Ways
    and Bird Notes_, _Sylvan Secrets_, etc. An intense lover of nature
    and out-door life, as his poems show. See Professor Roberts’ _Poems
    of Wild Life_, “Canterbury Poets.”

THOMPSON, MORTIMER H. (1830-1875). Wrote under the _nom de guerre_ “Q.
    K. Philander Doesticks.” His work for a time was popular in the
    newspapers of “the States.” Author of _The Dodge Club_.

THOMPSON, WILLIAM TAPPAN (1812-1882). He wrote a number of articles
    known as the “Major Jones’ Series,” in which the humour is
    plentiful. He was the first white child born in the Western Reserve.

THOREAU, HENRY DAVID (1817-1862), one of the best known of the New
    England “transcendentalists.” He has a fine vein of ironic humour.
    His _Walden_ and _A Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers_ have
    had a wide circulation in England.

TIMOTHY TITCOMB. _See_ HOLLAND.

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND (1827). The most popular writer of stories for
    boys in America. His work usually appears in the _Youths’
    Companion_, Boston. His pathetically humorous poem, “The Vagabonds,”
    is a favourite with reciters in England as well as America.

TROWBRIDGE, ROBERTSON, a verse-writer whose work has appeared in the
    _Century Magazine_.

TURNBULL, JOHN (1751-1831), author of _The Progress of Dulness and
    MacFingal_.

TYLER, ROYALL (1757-1826), a lawyer who in 1794 was made Judge of the
    Supreme Court, and in 1800 Supreme Justice. He was the first to use
    the Yankee dialect in literature, and his play, _The Contrast_, has
    the distinction of being “the first American play ever acted on a
    regular stage by an established company of comedians.” _May-Day, or
    New York in an Uproar_; _The Georgia Spec., or Land in the Moon_;
    and _The Algerine Captive_, are from his pen.

VANDEGRIFT, MARGARET, a frequent contributor of humorous verse to the
    _Century_ and other publications.

VAUGHAN, SIR WILLIAM (1577-1640), who established a small settlement in
    Newfoundland early in the seventeenth century, published in London,
    1626, under the pseudonym of “Orpheus Junior,” a humorous poem,
    entitled “The Golden Fleece.” He was a Welsh physician, and died in
    Newfoundland.

WARD, NATHANIEL, born between 1578-80, died 1652. He was a Puritan
    minister whose convictions got him into trouble with Archbishop
    Laud, and in 1633 he was deprived of his living. The next year he
    sailed for America and settled at Ipswich, and there compiled for
    Massachusetts the “Body of Liberties,” which was adopted in 1641. In
    1645-46 he wrote “The Simple Cobbler of Aggawam in America,” a
    witty, stinging pamphlet, partisan and patriotic. This was published
    in England, and during the year 1647 four editions were sold. He
    returned to England and died at Shenfield, in Essex.

WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY (1829), a prolific writer of sketches and
    stories, through all of which runs a graceful vein of refined
    humour. He now does the “Editor’s Study” in _Harper’s Magazine_. His
    best-known books are, _My Summer in a Garden_, _Back-Log Studies_,
    _Mummies and Moslems_, _Baddeck_, and in collaboration with Mark
    Twain, _The Gilded Age_. London publishers, Sampson Low, Marston, &
    Co. American publishers, Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., and Henry Holt &
    Co.

WEBB, CHARLES HENRY (1834), a successful inventor as well as writer of
    humorous verse and prose. Some of his earlier work was published
    under the _nom de guerre_ of “John Paul.” _American Humorous Verse_
    (“Canterbury Poets”) contains some of his best work.

WEBB, GEORGE, an Englishman by birth, contemporary of Benjamin Franklin,
    author of _Bachelors’ Hall_. He studied at Oxford, took to the
    stage, failed, and, joining the army, was sent to America, where he
    deserted, and worked as a printer in Philadelphia.

WEEMS, MASON LOCKE (1760-1825), an eccentric character: clergyman,
    story-teller, fiddler, and historian and book agent. In the latter
    capacity, and with his fiddle always within reach, he travelled
    through the rural districts of America, present at every
    merry-making, and always pressing his wares on the people. He wrote
    much in the way of history, in which a little fact suffices to carry
    a great deal of entertaining fiction; and it is on his doubtful
    authority that the famous story of Washington and his hatchet has
    been given to the world.

WHITCHER, MRS. FRANCES MIRIAM, “WIDOW BEDOTT” (1812-1852). Her “Widow
    Bedott” papers, although not of a high type of humour, were
    immensely popular in her lifetime, and are still read.

WIDOW BEDOTT. _See_ WHITCHER.

WILCOX, ELLA WHEELER (1845?), a prolific writer of verse; one of the
    chief literary women of America. Author of _Drops of Water_,
    _Maurine_, _Shells_, _Poems of Passion_ (which caused a great stir
    at the time of publication), and _Poems of Pleasure_.

WILLIAMS, JOHN H., “The Norristown Herald Man.” His humorous writings
    were widely quoted during the “seventies.”

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER (1806-1867). He edited the _New York Mirror_,
    and under his care that weekly became the foremost literary paper of
    America, and continued to hold that position while Mr. Willis
    continued with it. He was the author of a large number of religious
    poems as well as many that were of a humorous turn.

WOOD, WILLIAM, born in England about 1580, died in America 1639. After
    paying a visit to Massachusetts in 1629, he finally settled at
    Sandwich in that state, and became town clerk in 1637. In London was
    published his book; the following is a copy of the title-page:—“Nevv
    England’s Prospect. A true, lively, and experimentall description of
    that part of America commonly called Nevv England; discovering the
    state of that countrie, both as it stands to our new-come English
    Planters; and to the old Native Inhabitants. Laying downe that which
    may both enrich the knowledge of the mind-travelling Reader, or
    benefit the future Voyager, by William Wood. Printed at _London_ by
    _Ro. Cotes_ for Iohn Bellamie, and are to be sold at his shop, at
    the Three Golden Lyons in _Corne-hill_, neere the _Royall Exchange_,
    1634.”

WRIGHT, ROBERT WM. (1816-1885). His _Vision of Judgment_ and _The Church
    Knaviad_ are strong in satire.

WRIGHT, ROBERT H. (1868), author of the “Pete Parean” papers, written in
    the French-Canadian _patois_. The dialect is not first-class, but
    the papers are humorous.

WYOMING KIT held a position on the _Detroit Free Press_ for a few
    months, during which time he contributed verse that was quoted all
    over “the States.” He suddenly disappeared, and it is not known
    where he is now. His name was Adams.




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       THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LIMITED, FELLING-ON-TYNE.




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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
    ○ Unbalanced quotation marks were left as the author intended.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).