The Humour of America
Selected, with an Introduction and Index of American Humorists (2024)

WHEN the unfortunate man standing on thescaffold was asked by a spectator to make aspeech, he said that, considering the interesting programmewhich had been prepared by their goodfriend the Sheriff, he could not hope to say anythinglikely to amuse them. The compiler of a book ofhumour may recognise a like anxiety on the partof the public to push on to the principal attraction.There arises on his mental vision the eager faceof the book-buyer, as he hurriedly skims over theleaves at the commencement of the volume, to findthe end of the introduction and the beginning ofthe humour.

Once upon a time when I was young—in fact, morethan eighteen months ago—I wrote an introduction toa volume of American humorous verse. It didn’t saymuch, but it covered a great deal of space, and lookedimposing. The few statements made, however, haverisen up and smitten me night and day, and I havenever to this moment been able to get away fromthem. After the volume had been before the publicfor a few months, I made an everlasting resolve toxiiabstain from all theories, deductions, speculations, prophecies,warnings, and prognostications in regard toany and every humour, whether American or British,new or old, known or unknown. It occurred to methat a new and delightful feature might be added toa book of humour if the reader were permitted theprivilege of forming his own conclusions and choosingfor himself his favourite among the authors. Nodoubt many a man has been forced, sorely againsthis will, to acknowledge, theoretically, the irresistibilityof certain writers’ humour, and to spend thebest part of his life in trying to see something funnyin the writers’ work. No such hopeless task will beimposed by this volume. The different authorsincluded between the covers of this book will speakfor themselves. They need no bush.

But instead of writing an introduction for no one toread I have thought it better to arrange a biographicalindex of American and Canadian humorous writers,giving such pertinent particulars of each author’slife and work as may be of value to the student ofAmerican literature. This index will be foundat the end of the volume. It comes, it is hoped,within reasonable distance of completeness, andalthough in the majority of cases the datagiven is of a broad and general kind, still it issufficiently explicit to set the student in the wayof finding for himself the chief characteristics andwork of the different authors. This index, to thexiiibest of my knowledge, is the first of its kind that hasbeen arranged, and should at least prove of benefit toany unfortunate compiler who in future ages is askedto prepare a volume of humorous extracts fromAmerican 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 pasthundred years it is impossible to imagine.

In conclusion, I gladly acknowledge my indebtednessfor particulars of the works of many writers toMr. Oscar Fay Adams’ valuable little work, Handbookof American Authors. The dates which appearin this book are chiefly taken from Appleton’s Dictionaryof American Biography.

J. B.

MY DOG.

I HAVE owned quite a number of dogs in my life, butthey are all dead now. Last evening I visited my dogcemetery—just between the gloaming and the shank of theevening. On the biscuit-box cover that stands at the head2of a little mound fringed with golden rod and pickle bottles,the idler may still read these lines, etched in red chalk by atrembling hand—

I do not know why he was called Kosciusko. I do notcare. I only know that his little grave stands out therewhile the gloaming gloams and the soughing winds aresoughing.

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

I will tell you, anyhow. It will not take long, and it maydo 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 hadleft something in there by mistake and had returned for it.

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

The second year that little Kosciusko was with us, Ishaved off a full beard one day while down town, put on aclean collar and otherwise disguised myself, intending tosurprise my wife.

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

3He smiled sarcastically, showing his glorious wealth ofmouth, but still sat there as though he had stuck his tailinto 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 thehouse, but Kosciusko was there when I arrived. The cook,seeing a stranger lurking around the manor-house, encouragedKosciusko to come and gorge himself with a part ofmy leg, which he did. Acting on this hint I went to thebarn.

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

Noticing the stairway, I ascended it in an aimless kind ofway, about four steps at a time. What happened when wegot into the haymow I do not now recall, only that Kosciuskoand I frolicked around there in the hay for some time.Occasionally I would be on the top, and then he wouldhave all the delegates, until finally I got hold of a pitchfork,and freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell. I wrapped myselfup in an old horse-net and went into the house. Someof my clothes were afterwards found in the hay, and thedoctor 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 violentdeaths, and went out of the world totally unprepared todie.

Bill Nye.

James Whitcomb Riley.

BAKED BEANS AND CULTURE.

THE members of the Boston Commercial Club arecharming gentlemen. They are now the guests ofthe Chicago Commercial Club, and are being shown everyattention that our market affords. They are a fine-lookinglot, well-dressed and well-mannered, with just enoughwhiskers to be impressive without being imposing.

“This is a darned likely village,” said Seth Adams lastevening. “Everybody is rushin’ ’round an’ doin’ businessas if his life depended on it. Should think they’d git alltuckered out ’fore night, but I’ll be darned if there ain’tjust as many folks on the street after nightfall as afore.We’re stoppin’ at the Palmer tavern; an’ my chamber isup so all-fired high, that I can count all your meetin’-housesteeples from the winder.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s the man,” resumed Mr. Taft. “Waal, Bill fellsick,—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’ leathersaddlebags,—gosh, they don’t have no sech doctors nowadays!Waal, the dock, he come; an’ he looked at Bill’stongue, an’ felt uv his pulse, an’ said that Bill had typhusfever. Ol’ Dock Smith was a very careful, conserv’tiveman, an’ he never said nothin’ unless he knowed he wasright.

“Bill began to git wuss, an’ he kep’ a-gittin’ wuss everyday. 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 tillnightfall.’

“Bill’s mother insisted on a con-sul-tation bein’ held; sool’ Dock Smith sent over for young Dock Brainerd. Icalc’late that, next to ol’ Dock Smith, young Dock Brainerdwas the smartest doctor that ever lived.

“Waal, pretty soon along come Dock Brainerd; an’ hean’ 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 sparechamber to hold their con-sul-tation.

“Wall, Bill he lay there in the front room a-pantin’ an’a-gaspin’, an’ a wond’rin’ whether it wuz true. As he wuz11thinkin’, up comes the girl to git a clean tablecloth out ofthe 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 raisedhimself 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 thembeans!’

“‘Sakes alive, Mr. Holbrook!’ says she; ‘if you wuz toeat 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 thebeans 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’ Idon’t suppose the beans’ll make any diff’rence.’

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

“So Sary went down to the kitchen, an’ brought up aplateful of hot baked beans. Dock Smith raised Bill upin bed, an’ Dock Brainerd put a piller under the smallof Bill’s back. Then Sary sat down by the bed, an’ fedthem 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 peacefullike, an’ closed his eyes.

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

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

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

Eugene Field.

THE NICE PEOPLE.

“THEY certainly are nice people,” I assented to mywife’s observation, using the colloquial phrase witha consciousness that it was anything but “nice” English,“and I’ll bet that their three children are better broughtup 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 theyhad only two—a boy and a girl.”

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

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

“All right,” I said; but I did not think it was all right.As a near-sighted man learns by enforced observation torecognise persons at a distance when the face is not visibleto 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 toforget that Mr. Brewster Brede had told me that afternoonthat he had three children, at present left in the care of hismother-in-law, while he and Mrs. Brede took their summervacation.

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

13“He told me with his mother-in-law,” I put in. My wifelooked at me with a serious expression. Men may notremember much of what they are told about children; butany man knows the difference between an aunt and amother-in-law.

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

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

“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 downand seated themselves opposite us at table, beaming andsmiling in their natural, pleasant, well-bred fashion, I knew,to a social certainty, that they were “nice” people. He wasa fine-looking fellow in his neat tennis-flannels, slim, graceful,14twenty-eight or thirty years old, with a Frenchy-pointedbeard. She was “nice” in all her pretty clothes, and sheherself was pretty with that type of prettiness which out-wearsmost other types—the prettiness that lies in arounded figure, a dusky skin, plump, rosy cheeks, whiteteeth, 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 inMr. Jacobus’s summer boarding-house on the top of OrangeMountain. For a week we had come down to breakfasteach morning, wondering why we wasted the precious daysof idleness with the company gathered around the Jacobusboard. What joy of human companionship was to be hadout of Mrs. Tabb and Miss Hoogencamp, the two middle-agedgossips from Scranton, Pa.,—out of Mr. and Mrs. Biggle,an indurated head-bookkeeper and his prim and censoriouswife,—out of old Major Halkit, a retired business man,who, having once sold a few shares on commission, wrotefor circulars of every stock company that was started, andtried to induce every one to invest who would listen to him?We looked around at those dull faces, the truthful indicesof mean and barren minds, and decided that we would leavethat morning. Then we ate Mrs. Jacobus’s biscuits, lightas Aurora’s cloudlets, drank her honest coffee, inhaled theperfume of the late azaleas with which she decked her table,and decided to postpone our departure one more day. Andthen we wandered out to take our morning glance at whatwe called “our view”; and it seemed to us as if Tabb andHoogencamp, and Halkit and the Biggles could not driveus away in a year.

I was not surprised when, after breakfast, my wife invitedthe Bredes to walk with us to “our view.” The Hoogencamp-Biggle-Tabb-Halkitcontingent never stirred offJacobus’s verandah; but we both felt that the Bredes would15not profane that sacred scene. We strolled slowly acrossthe fields, passed through the little belt of wood, and as Iheard Mrs. Brede’s little cry of startled rapture, I motionedto Brede to look up.

“By Jove!” he cried; “heavenly!”

We looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteenmiles of billowing green, to where, far across a far stretch ofpale blue, lay a dim purple line that we knew was StatenIsland. Towns and villages lay before us and under us;there were ridges and hills, uplands and lowlands, woodsand plains, all massed and mingled in that great silent sea ofsunlit green. For silent it was to us, standing in the silenceof a high place—silent with a Sunday stillness that made uslisten, without taking thought, for the sound of bells comingup from the spires that rose above the tree-tops—the tree-topsthat lay as far beneath us as the light clouds were aboveus that dropped great shadows upon our heads and faintspecks of shade upon the broad sweep of land at the mountain’sfoot.

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

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

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

16Ah, how much better was this sort of talk than the chatterand gossip of the Tabb and the Hoogencamp—than theMajor’s dissertations upon his everlasting circulars! Mywife and I exchanged glances.

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

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

“It—it was five years ago,” said Mr. Brede hurriedly; “I—Ididn’t tell you—when I was on the other side, you know—itwas 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 shadowover the field where we lay. The shadow passed overthe mountain’s brow, and reappeared far below, a rapidlydecreasing blot; flying eastward over the golden green.My wife and I exchanged glances once more.

Somehow the shadow lingered over us all. As we wenthome, 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 wouldclimb the Matterhorn the very first year he was married?”

“I don’t know, my dear,” I answered evasively; “thisisn’t the first year I have been married, not by a goodmany, 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 tookme aside.

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

I didn’t know; but I said, “Yes.”

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

17“That is the invariable rule, I believe.”

“Then—I say—these here new folk that you ’n’ your wifeseems 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. “IfI 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 hecome here to take the rooms—you wasn’t here then—hetold my wife that he lived at number thirty-four in hisstreet. An’ yistiddy she told her that they lived at numberthirty-five. He said he lived in an apartment-house. Now,there can’t be no apartment-house on two sides of the samestreet, 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 knowwhether they’ve had the measles or not.”

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

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

After dinner that night—or rather after supper, for wehad dinner in the middle of the day at Jacobus’s—I walkeddown the long verandah to ask Brede, who was placidly18smoking at the other end, to accompany me on a twilightstroll. Half-way down I met Major Halkit.

“That friend of yours,” he said, indicating the unconsciousfigure at the further end of the house, “seems to bea queer sort of a Dick. He told me that he was out ofbusiness, and just looking round for a chance to invest hiscapital. And I’ve been telling him what an everlasting bigshow he had to take stock in the Capitoline Trust Company—startsnext month—four million capital; I told youall about it. ‘Oh, well,’ he says, ‘let’s wait and thinkabout it.’ ‘Wait!’ says I; ‘the Capitoline Trust Companywon’t wait for you, my boy. This is letting you in onthe 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 theverandah. But I was troubled none the less. The Majorcould not have influenced the sale of one share of stock inthe Capitoline Company. But that stock was a great investment;a rare chance for a purchaser with a few thousanddollars. Perhaps it was no more remarkable that Bredeshould not invest than that I should not; and yet it seemedto add one circumstance more to the other suspiciouscircumstances.

When I went upstairs that evening, I found my wifeputting her hair to bed—I don’t know how I can betterdescribe an operation familiar to every married man. Iwaited until the last tress was coiled up, and then Ispoke.

“I’ve talked with Brede,” I said, “and I didn’t have tocatechise him. He seemed to feel that some sort ofexplanation was looked for, and he was very outspoken.You were right about the children—that is, I must have misunderstoodhim. There are only two; but the Matterhorn19episode was simple enough. He didn’t realise howdangerous it was until he had got so far into it that hecouldn’t back out; and he didn’t tell her, because he’d lefther here, you see; and under the circumstances——”

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

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

“You poor dear, did I abuse you?” said my wife. “Butdo you know Mrs. Tabb said that she didn’t know howmany lumps of sugar he took in his coffee. Now thatseems queer, doesn’t it?”

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

The next morning it was clear that war was declaredagainst the Bredes. They came down to breakfast somewhatlate, and as soon as they arrived the Biggles swoopedup the last fragments that remained on their plates, andmade a stately march out of the dining-room. Then MissHoogencamp arose and departed, leaving a whole fish-ballon her plate. Even as Atalanta might have dropped anapple behind her to tempt her pursuer to check his speed,so Miss Hoogencamp left that fish-ball behind her, andbetween her maiden self and Contamination.

We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before theBredes appeared. We talked it over, and agreed that wewere glad that we had not been obliged to take sides uponsuch insufficient testimony.

After breakfast it was the custom of the male half of theJacobus household to go around the corner of the building20and smoke their pipes and cigars, where they would notannoy the ladies. We sat under a trellis covered with agrape vine that had borne no grapes in the memory of man.This vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that pleasantsummer morning, shielded from us two persons who werein earnest conversation in the straggling, half-dead flower-gardenat the side of the house.

“I don’t want,” we heard Mr. Jacobus say, “to enter inno 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—andI don’t want you to take it as in no ways personal—is, hevyou your merridge-licence with you?”

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

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

Where is your marriage-licence, married reader? Do youknow? Four men, not including Mr. Brede, stood or saton one side or the other of that grape-trellis, and not one ofthem knew where his marriage-licence was. Each of us hadhad 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 whitewaistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour),washed out of existence—can you tell where it is? Canyou—unless you are one of those people who frame thatinteresting document and hang it upon their drawing-roomwalls?

Mr. Brede’s voice arose, after an awful stillness of whatseemed like five minutes, and was, probably, thirtyseconds—

“Mr. Jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and21let me pay it? I shall leave by the six o’clock train. Andwill 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 itseemed to us, when we looked at “our view,” as if we couldonly see those invisible villages of which Brede had toldus—that other side of the ridges and rises of which wecatch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the heights ofhuman self-esteem. We meant to stay out until the Bredeshad taken their departure; but we returned just in time tosee Pete, the Jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, thebrusher 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 wereheavy rings about her pretty black eyes.

My wife took a step towards her.

“Look at that dress, dear,” she whispered; “she neverthought anything like this was going to happen when sheput that on.”

It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow-stripedaffair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow-stripedsilk of the same colour—maroon and white; and in herhand 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 awfullysorry they’re going!”

But going they were. They moved towards the steps.Mrs. Brede looked towards my wife, and my wife moved22towards Mrs. Brede. But the ostracised woman, as thoughshe felt the deep humiliation of her position, turned sharplyaway, and opened her parasol to shield her eyes from thesun. A shower of rice—a half-pound shower of rice—felldown over her pretty hat and her pretty dress, and fell in asplattering circle on the floor, outlining her skirts, and thereit lay in a broad, uneven band, and bright in the morningsun.

23Mrs. Brede was in my wife’s arms, sobbing as if heryoung heart would break.

“Oh, you poor, dear, silly children!” my wife cried, asMrs. Brede sobbed on her shoulder; “why didn’t youtell us?”

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

“Pete!” commanded Mr. Jacobus, “put back themtrunks. 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. Bredevanished 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 asudden sisterhood of sympathy.

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

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

H. C. Bunner.

HE boarded the boat at a landing about a hundred milesabove Vicksburg, having two dilapidated but bulky-lookingsatchels as luggage. He said he was bound to“Orleans,” and when the clerk told him what the fare wouldbe 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,” continuedthe stranger.

25“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 landyou!”

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

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

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

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

“I take great pleasure in presenting to your attention theEureky 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 traparound on his outstretched hand, “and I guarantee thistrap to do more square killing among rats than——”

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

“Fellow-mortal, awakest and gaze upon the Eureky rat-trap,”26said the stranger, as he laid his hand on the shinypate of the sleeper.

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

“I take this opportunity to call your attention to myEureky rat-trap,” continued the new passenger; “thenoblest Roman of them all. Try one, and you will useno other. It is constructed on——”

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

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

“Go away, sir—go away; or I’ll knock your blamedhead off!” roared the Bald-head. “When I want a rat-trapI shan’t patronise travelling vagabonds! Your audacity indaring to put your hand on my head and wake me updeserves 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, lookingaround for his cane.

“Oh, wall, I ain’t a starvin’, and it won’t make muchdifference 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, embroideringa slipper, and the rat-trap man drew a stool up beside herand remarked—

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

“Sir, this is unpardonable!” she exclaimed, pushingback.

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

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

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

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

The rat-trap man went forward and found a northerninvalid, who was so far gone that he could hardly speakabove 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 swearto on a million Bibles, that it climbs the ridge-pole over anyimmortal vermin-booster ever yet set before——”

The captain came up at this juncture, and informed theinventor 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, gotup to swindle the hair right off of an innocent and confidingpublic.”

“You hear me—put that trap up!”

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

C. B. Lewis (“M. Quad.”)

THE bell tapped, and they came forth to battle. Therewas the line, there was the leader. The great junctureof the day was on him. Was not here the State’s officialeye? Did not victory hover overhead? His reserve, thedarling regiment, the flower of his army, was dressing for thefinal charge. There was Claude. Next him, Sidonie!—andÉtienne, and Madelaine, Henri and Marcelline,—all waitingfor the word—the words—of eight syllables! Suprememoment! Would any betray? Banish the thought!Would any fail?

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

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

“In-e-rad-i-ca-bility!”

Claude’s face suddenly set in a stony vacancy, and withhis 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 hespoke, re-opened the book, shut it again, lifted it high inthe air, cried, “Madelaine, my dear chile, prepare!” whirledthe book and rushed upon her with—

29“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 momenttenderly on her head as he looked first towards the audienceand then towards the stranger. Then he drew off for the thirdword. He looked at it twice before he called it. Then—

“Sidonie! ah! Sidonie, be ready! be prepared! fail notyo’ humble school-teacher! In-com——” He looked atthe 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 hungover her with the spelling-book at arm’s reach above them;yet the pause that followed seemed to speak dismay, andthroughout the class there was a silent recoil from somethingundiscovered by the master. But an instant laterSidonie had chosen between the two horns of her agonisingdilemma, 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 hisarms up and down in distraction, then suddenly faced thevisitor. “Sir, it was my blame! I spoke the word withoutadequate distinction! Sidonie—maintenant—now!” Buta voice in the audience interrupted with—

“Assoiez-vous la, Chat-oué! seet down yondeh!” And atthe potent voice of Maximian Roussel the offender waspushed silently into the seat he had risen from, andBonaventure gave the word again.

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

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

“Right! Right! Tremble not, my Sidonie! fearnaught! yo’ loving school-teacher is at thy side!” Butshe 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 inspeechless despair. As they fell again upon Sidonie herown met them. She moaned, covered her face with herhands, burst into tears, ran to her desk, and threw herhands and face upon it, shaking with noiseless sobs andburning red to the nape of her perfect neck. All GrandePointe rose to its feet.

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

The next moment all eyes were on Maximian. Hisstrong figure was mounted on a chair, and he was makinga 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 thestranger to speak.

“My friends,” said the visitor, rising with alacrity, “Isay when a man makes a bargain, he ought to stick to it!”He paused for them—as many as could—to take in themeaning of his English speech, and, it may be, expectingsome demonstration of approval; but dead silence reigned,all eyes on him save Bonaventure’s and Sidonie’s. He31began again: “A bargain’s a bargain!” And Chat-ouénodded approvingly and began to say audibly, “Yass;”but ’Mian thundered out—

“Taise toi, Chat-oué! Shot op!” And the silence wasagain complete, while the stranger resumed—

“There was a plain bargain made.” He moved a stepforward and laid the matter off on the palm of his hand.“There was to be an examination! The school was not toknow; but if one scholar should make one mistake theschoolhouse was to be closed and the schoolmaster sentaway. Well, there’s been a mistake made, and I say abargain’s a bargain.” Dead silence still. The speakerlooked 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 peoplethink education’s a big thing, and some think it ain’t. Well,32sometimes it is, and sometimes it ain’t. Now, here’s thisman”—he pointed down to where Bonaventure’s dishevelledcrown was drooping to his knees—“claims to have taughtover thirty of your children to read. Well, what of it? Aman can know how to read, and be just as no account ashe was before. He brags that he’s taught them to talkEnglish. Well, what does that prove? A man mightspeak English and starve to death. He claims, I am told,to have taught some of them to write. But I know a manin the penitentiary that can write; he wrote too much.”

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

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

“Yes; and so you hadn’t never ought to have made thebargain you made; but, my friends, a bargain’s a bargain,and the teacher’s——” He paused invitingly, and an answercame 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 beenmade. Three mistakes have been made!”

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

“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 rest33with the exultant look of one who can afford to yieldground.

“The first mistake,” resumed the stranger, addressing himselfespecially to the risen men still standing, and pointingto Catou, “the first mistake was in the kind of bargain youmade.” He ceased, and passed his eyes around from one toanother until they rested for an instant on the bewilderedcountenance of Chat-oué. Then he turned again upon thepeople, who had sat down, and began to speak with theexultation of a man that feels his subject lifting him abovehimself.

“I came out here to show up that man as a fraud. Butwhat do I find?—A poor, unpaid, half-starved man thatloves his thankless work better than his life, teaching what notone school-master in a thousand can teach: teaching hiswhole school four better things than were ever printed in anyschool-book—how to study, how to think, how to valueknowledge, and to love one another and mankind. Whatyou’d ought to have done was to agree that such a schoolshould keep open, and such a teacher should stay, if jestone, one lone child should answer one single book-questionright! But, as I said before, a bargain’s a bargain——Holdon, there! Sit down! You shan’t interrupt me again!”Men were standing up on every side; there was a confusionand a loud buzz of voices. “The second mistake,” thestranger made haste to cry, “was thinking the teacher gaveout that last word right. He gave it wrong! And thethird 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!”

He could say no more; the rumble of voices suddenlyburst into a cheer. The women and children laughedand clapped their hands,—Toutou his feet also,—andBonaventure, flirting the leaves of a spelling-book till hefound the place, looked, cried “In-com-pre-hen-sibility!”35wheeled and dashed upon Sidonie, seizing her hands inhis as she turned to fly, and gazed speechlessly uponher, with the tears running down his face. Feeling a largehand upon his shoulder, he glanced around and saw ’Mianpointing him to his platform and desk. Thither he went.The stranger had partly restored order. Every one wasin his place. But what a change! What a gay flutterthroughout the old shed! Bonaventure seemed tohave bathed in the fountain of youth. Sidonie, once morethe school’s queen-flower, sat calm, with just a trace oftears adding a subtle something to her beauty.

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

George Washington Cable.

“WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW?”

36

WE always did pity a man who does not love childhood.There is something morally wrong with sucha man. If his tenderest sympathies are not awakened bytheir innocent prattle, if his heart does not echo their merrylaughter, if his whole nature does not reach out in ardentlonging after their pure thoughts and unselfish impulses, heis a sour, crusty, crabbed old stick, and the world full ofchildren has no use for him. In every age and clime thebest and noblest men loved children. Even wicked menhave a tender spot left in their hardened hearts for little39children. The great men of the earth love them. Dogslove them. Kamehame Kemokimodahroah, the King ofthe 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 canchatter with a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, quick-witted littledarling, anywhere from three to five years, and not appreciatethe pride which swells a mother’s breast when shesees her little ones admired? Ah, yes, to be sure.

One day—ah, can we ever cease to remember thatdreamy, idle, summer afternoon—a lady friend, who wasdown in the city on a shopping excursion, came into thesanctum with her little son, a dear little tid-toddler of fivebright summers, and begged us to amuse him while shepursued the duties which called her down town. Such abright boy; so delightful it was to talk to him. We cannever forget the blissful half-hour we spent booking thatprodigy up in his centennial history.

“Now, listen, Clary,” we said—his name was ClarenceFitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers—“and learnabout 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 theAmerican people, cemented with the life-blood of themen of ’76 poured out upon the altars of our country as thedearest libation to liberty that her votaries can offer.”

“Who did?” asked Clarence.

There is a peculiar tact in talking to children that veryfew people possess. Now most people would have grownimpatient, and lost their temper, when little Clarence askedso many irrelevant questions, but we did not. We knewthat, however careless he might appear at first, we couldsoon interest him in the story, and he would be all eyes and40ears. So we smiled sweetly—that same sweet smile whichyou may have noticed on our photographs. Just the faintestripple of a smile breaking across the face like a ray of sunlight,and checked by lines of tender sadness, just beforethe 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, justlike you. One day his father——”

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

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

“Gave who a little hatchet?” the dear child interruptedwith a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most men wouldhave betrayed signs of impatience, but we didn’t. Weknow 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 toldhim——”

“Told who?”

“Told George.”

“Oh, yes, George.”

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

“And he told him that——”

41“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 toldhim——”

“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 thehatchet——”

“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, ordrop it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night.So George went round cutting everything he could reachwith 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 firstthing, and——”

“Saw the hatchet?”

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

42“What apple tree?”

“George’s father’s. And everybody said they didn’tknow anything about it, and——”

“Anything about what?”

“The apple tree.”

“Oh!”

“——and George came up and heard them talkingabout 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 tella lie. I——’”

“Who couldn’t tell a lie?”

“Why, George Washington. He said, ‘Father, I cannottell a lie. It was——’”

“His father couldn’t?”

“Why, no; George couldn’t.”

43“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 thanhave 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 appletrees 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 prodigyat this critical juncture, we don’t believe all Burlingtoncould have pulled us out of that snarl. And as ClarenceFitzherbert Alencon de Marchemont Caruthers pattereddown the stairs, we heard him telling his ma about a boywho had a father named George, and he told him to cutdown an apple tree, and he said he’d rather tell a thousandlies than cut down one apple tree.

Robert Jones Burdette.

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

ILIKE that. We have not all had the good fortune tobe ladies. We have not all been generals, or poets, orstatesmen; but when the toast works down to the babies,we stand on common ground. It is a shame that for athousand years the world’s banquets have utterly ignoredthe baby, as if he didn’t amount to anything. If you willstop and think a minute—if you will go back fifty or onehundred years to your early married life, and recontemplateyour first baby—you will remember that he amounted to agood deal, and even something over. You soldiers allknow that when that little fellow arrived at family headquartersyou had to hand in your resignation. He tookentire command. You became his lackey, his mere body-servant,and you had to stand around too. He was nota commander who made allowances for time, distance,weather, or anything else. You had to execute his orderswhether it was possible or not. And there was only oneform of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was thedouble-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolenceand disrespect, and the bravest of you didn’t dare say aword. You could face the death-storm at Donelson andVicksburg, and give back blow for blow; but when heclawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and twistedyour nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of warwere sounding in your ears, you set your faces toward thebatteries and advanced with steady tread; but when heturned on the terrors of his war-whoop, you advanced in45the other direction, and mighty glad of the chance too.When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture tothrow out any side remarks about certain services beingunbecoming an officer and a gentleman? No. You gotup and got it. When he ordered his pap-bottle, and it wasnot warm, did you talk back? Not you. You went to workand warmed it. You even descended so far in your menialoffice as to take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself,to see if it was right—three parts water to one of milk, anda touch of sugar to modify the colic, and a drop of peppermintto kill those immortal hiccoughs. I can taste thestuff yet. And how many things you learned as you wentalong! Sentimental young folks still take stock in thatbeautiful old saying, that when the baby smiles in his sleep,it is because the angels are whispering to him. Verypretty, but too thin—simply wind on the stomach, myfriends. If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usualhour, two o’clock in the morning, didn’t you rise uppromptly and remark, with a mental addition which wouldnot improve a Sunday-school book much, that that was thevery thing you were about to propose yourself?

Oh! you were under good discipline, and as you wentfluttering up and down the room in your undress uniform,you not only prattled undignified baby-talk, but even tunedup your martial voices and tried to sing!—“Rock-a-bybaby in the tree-top,” for instance. What a spectacle foran army of the Tennessee! And what an affliction for theneighbours, too; for it is not everybody within a milearound that likes military music at three in the morning.And when you had been keeping this sort of thing up twoor three hours, and your little velvet-head intimated thatnothing suited him like exercise and noise, what did youdo? (“Go on!”) You simply went on until you droppedin the last ditch. The idea that a baby doesn’t amount toanything! Why, one baby is just a house and a front yard47full by itself. One baby can furnish more business thanyou 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 thereservation. Sufficient unto the day is one baby. As longas you are in your right mind don’t you ever pray for twins.Twins amount to a permanent riot, and there ain’t anyreal difference between triplets and an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognise theimportance of the babies. Think what is in store for thepresent crop! Fifty years from now we shall all be dead,I trust, and then this flag, if it still survive (and let ushope it may), will be floating over a Republic numbering200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of ourincrease. Our present schooner of State will have growninto a political leviathan—a Great Eastern. The cradledbabies 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 inthe land are some which this nation would preserve forages as sacred things, if we could know which ones theyare. In one of these cradles the unconscious Farragut ofthe future is at this moment teething—think of it!—andputting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, butperfectly justifiable profanity over it, too. In another thefuture renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining MilkyWay with but a languid interest—poor little chap!—andwondering what has become of that other one they call thewet-nurse. In another the future great historian is lying—anddoubtless will continue to lie until his earthly missionis ended. In another the future president is busying himselfwith no profounder problem of state than what themischief has become of his hair so early; and in a mightyarray of other cradles there are now some 60,000 futureoffice-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to48grapple with that same old problem a second time. Andin still one more cradle, somewhere under the flag, thefuture illustrious commander-in-chief of the Americanarmies is so little burdened with his approaching grandeursand responsibilities as to be giving his whole strategic mindat this moment to trying to find out some way to get hisbig toe into his mouth—an achievement which, meaningno disrespect, the illustrious guest of this evening turnedhis entire attention to some fifty-six years ago; and if thechild is but a prophecy of the man, there are mighty fewwho will doubt that he succeeded.

Samuel L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”).

49

ON CYCLONES.

IDESIRE to statethat my position asUnited States cyclonistfor this judicial districtis now vacant. I resignedon the 9th day of September, A.D. 1884.

I have not the necessary personal magnetism to look acyclone in the eye and make it quail. I am stern and evenhaughty in my intercourse with men, but when a Manitobasimoon takes me by the brow of my pantaloons and throwsme across township 28, range 18, west of the 5th principalmeridian, I lose my mental reserve and become anxiousand even taciturn. For thirty years I had yearned to see a50grown-up cyclone, of the ring-tail-puller variety, mop up thegreen earth with huge forest trees and make the landscapelook tired. On the 9th day of September, A.D. 1884, mymorbid curiosity was gratified.

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

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

I said it was all right, what there was of it. I said thisin 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-nameddate.

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

The horse was hanging by the breeching from the boughof a large butternut tree, waiting for some one to come andpick him.

I did not see my brother at first, but after a while hedisengaged himself from a rail fence, and came where I washanging, wrong end up, with my personal effects spillingout of my pockets. I told him that as soon as the windkind of softened down, I wished he would go and pick thehorse. He did so, and at midnight a party of friends51carried me into town on a stretcher. It was quite anovation. To think of a torchlight procession coming outway out there into the woods at midnight, and carryingme into town on their shoulders in triumph! And yet Iwas once a poor boy!

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

The cyclone is a natural phenomenon, enjoying the mostrobust health. It may be a pleasure for a man with greatwill power and an iron constitution to study more carefullyinto the habits of the cyclone, but as far as I am concerned,individually, I could worry along some way if we didn’thave a phenomenon in the house from one year’s end toanother.

As I sit here, with my leg in a silicate of soda corset, andwatch the merry throng promenading down the street, ormingling in the giddy torchlight procession, I cannotrepress a feeling toward a cyclone that almost amounts todisgust.

Bill Nye.

OUR CORRESPONDENT HAS THE HONOUR TO BE.

Washington, D.C., March 20, 1861.

JUDGE not by appearances, for appearances are verydeceptive,—as the old lady cholerically remarkedwhen one, who was really a virgin unto forty, blushinglyinformed her that she was “just twenty-five this month.”

Though you find me in Washington now, I was bornof respectable parents, and gave every indication, in mysatchel and apron days, of coming to something better thanthis.

Slightly northward of the Connecticut river, where a52pleasant little conservative village mediates between twoopposition hills, you may behold the landscape on whichmy infantile New England eyes first traced the courses offuture railroads.

Near the centre of this village in the valley, and a littleback from its principal road, stood the residence of myworthy sire, and a very pretty residence it was. From thefrequent addition of a new upper room here, a new dormerwindow there, and an innovating skylight elsewhere, theroof of the mansion had gradually assumed an alpinevariety 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 finallyslink ignominiously down the water-pipe, as though utterlydisgusted with its own inability to determine, where therewere so many, which peak it should particularly perforate.

Such was the house in which I came to life a certainnumber of years ago, entering the world like a humanexclamation point between two of the angriest sentencesof a September storm, and adding materially to the uproarprevailing at the time.

Next to my parents, the person I can best remember, asI look back, was our family physician. A very obese manwas he, with certain sweet-oiliness of manner, and neverput out of patience. I think I can see him still, as he arosefrom his chair after a profound study of the case before him,and wrote a prescription so circumlocutory in its effect thatit sent a servant half-a-mile to his friend the druggist forarticles she might have found in her own kitchen, aquapumpaginis and sugar being the sole ingredients required.

The doctor had started business in our village as aveterinary surgeon, but as the entire extent of his practicefor six months in that line was a call to mend one of Colt’srevolvers, he finally turned his attention to the ailings of53his fellows, and wrought many cures with sugar and waterlatinised.

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 seenin bottles; but the doctor’s neat speech at a Sunday-schoolfestival won his heart at last. The festival was held near aseries of small water-falls just out of the village, and thedoctor, who was an invited guest, was called upon for afew appropriate remarks. In compliance with the demand,he made a speech of some compass, ending with a perorationthat is still quoted in my native place. He pointed impressivelyto the water-falls, and says he—

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

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

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

“How beautiful is babes! So small and yet so muchlike human beings, only not so large. This boy,” says hefatly, looking down at me, “will make a noise in the worldyet. 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, avery long head—and it’s as thick as it is long.”

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

So far as I can trace back, we never had a literarycharacter in our family, save a venerable aunt of mine, onmy mother’s side, who commenced her writing career byrefusing to contribute to the Sunday papers, and subsequentlywon much fame as the authoress of a set of copy-books.When this gifted relative found herself acquiring areputation she came in state to visit us, and so disgustedmy very practical father, by wearing slipshod gaiters, inkingher right-hand thumb-nail every morning, calling all things55by European names, and insisting upon giving our oldestplough-horse the romantic and literary title of “LordByron,” that my exasperated parent incurred a mosttremendous prejudice against authorship, and vowed, whenshe went away, that he never would invite her presenceagain.

I was only twenty years old at that time, and the noveltyof my aunt’s conduct had a rather infatuating effect uponme. With the perversity often observable in youngstersbefore they have seen much of the world, I became deeplyinterested in my literary relative as soon as my father beganspeaking contemptuously of her pursuits, and it took verylittle time to invest me with a longing and determinationto be a writer.

Thenceforth I wore negligent linen; frequently restedmy head upon the forefinger of my right hand, with a loftyand abstracted air; assumed an expression of settled andmysterious gloom when at church, and suffered my hair togrow long and uncombed.

My bearing during this period of infatuation could hardlyfail to attract considerable attention in our village, andthere were two opinions about me. One was that I hadbeen jilted; the other that I was likely to become avagabond and an actor. My father inclined to the former,and left me, as he thought, to get over my disappointmentin the natural way.

My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, when Iformed the acquaintance of the editor of the Lily of theValley, who permitted me to mope in his office now andthen, and soothed my literary inflammation by allowing meto write “puffs” for the village milliner.

While looking over some old magazines in the Lily officeone day, I found in an ancient British periodical a rakingarticle upon American literature, wherein the critic affirmedthat all our writers were but weak imitators of English57authors, and that such a thing as a Distinctly AmericanPoem, sui generis, had not yet been produced.

This radical sneer at the United States of America firedmy Yankee blood, and I vowed within myself to write apoem, not only distinctively American, but of such acharacter that only America could have produced it. Inthe solitude of my room, that night, I wooed the aboriginalmuse, and two days thereafter the Lily of the Valley containedmy distinctive American poem of

In his note introductory of this poem the editor of theLily affirmed that I had named none but veritable localities(which was strictly true), and ventured the belief that thecomposition would remind his readers of Goldsmith.Upon which his scorpion contemporary in the next village60observed that there was rather more smith than gold aboutthe poem.

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

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

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

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

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

R. H. Newell (“Orpheus C. Kerr”).

Charles Follen Adams.

THE MINISTER’S WOOING.

“WAL, the upshot on’t was, they fussed and fuzzledand wuzzled till they’d drinked up all the teain the tea-pot; and then they went down and calledon the parson, and wuzzled him all up talkin’ about this,that, and t’other that wanted lookin’ to, and that it wasno way to leave everything to a young chit like Huldy,and that he ought to be lookin’ about for an experiencedwoman.

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

“He didn’t ask Mis’ Pipperidge to come and stay thereand help him, nor nothin’ o’ that kind; but he said he’dattend to matters himself. The fact was, the parson hadgot such a likin’ for havin’ Huldy ’round, that he couldn’tthink o’ such a thing as swappin’ her off for the WidderPipperidge.

“‘But,’ he thought to himself, ‘Huldy is a good girl;but I oughtn’t to be a leavin’ everything to her—it’s toohard on her. I ought to be instructin’ and guidin’ andhelpin’ of her; ’cause ’tain’t everybody could be expected toknow and do what Mis’ Carryl did;’ and so at it he went;and Lordy massy! didn’t Huldy hev a time on’t when theminister began to come out of his study, and wanted to ten’round and see to things? Huldy, you see, thought all theworld of the minister, and she was ’most afraid to laugh;64but she told me she couldn’t, for the life of her, help itwhen his back was turned, for he wuzzled things upin the most singular way. But Huldy, she’d jest say,‘Yes, sir,’ and get him off into his study, and go on herown way.

“‘Huldy,’ says the minister one day, ‘you ain’texperienced 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 tosave the turkey eggs, so that we can have a lot of turkeysfor 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 killedup to old Jim Scroggs’s barn. Folks say Scroggs killed it;though Scroggs, he stood to it he didn’t; at any rate, theScroggses, they made a meal on’t, and Huldy, she felt badabout it ’cause she’d set her heart on raisin’ the turkeys;and says she, ‘Oh, dear! I don’t know what I shall do, Iwas just ready to set her.’

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

“Sure enough, there was the old tom-turkey a-struttin’ anda-sidlin’, and a-quitterin’, and a-floutin’ his tail feathers inthe sun, like a lively young widower, all ready to begin lifeover 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, youknow, she didn’t want to contradict the minister, and shewas afraid she should laugh—‘I never heard that a tom-turkeywould set on eggs.’

66“‘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 convincehim 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 foundold Tom a-skirmishin’ with the parson pretty lively, I tellye. Ye see, old Tom, he didn’t take the idee at all; andhe flopped and gobbled, and fit the parson: and theparson’s wig got ’round so that his cue stuck straight outover his ear, but he’d got his blood up. Ye see, the olddoctor was used to carryin’ his p’ints o’ doctrine; and hehadn’t fit the Arminians and Socinians to be beat by a tom-turkey;and finally he made a dive and ketched him by theneck in spite o’ his floppin’, and stroked him down, and putHuldy’s apron ’round him.

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

“Huldy came behind, just chokin’ with laugh, and afraidthe 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 seehe is getting quiet, and he’ll set there all right.’

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

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

“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’.

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

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

“So he crooked old Tom’s legs, and got him down agin;and they put the corn-basket over him, and then they bothstood 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, andthey could see old Tom’s long legs.

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

“‘You jist hold him a minute, and I’ll get somethingthat’ll make him stay, I guess;’ and out he went to thefence, and brought in a long, thin, flat stone, and laid it onold Tom’s back.

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

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

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

“Wal, next week, Huldy, she jist borrowed the minister’shorse and side-saddle, and rode over to South Parish to herAunt Bascome’s,—Widder Bascome’s, you know, that livesthere 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 asever ye see.

“Huldy never said a word to the minister about hisexperiment, and he never said a word to her; but he sort68o’ kep’ more to his books, and didn’t take it on him toadvise so much.

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

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

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

“Huldy said she wished he might put a curb round thewell out there, because, in the dark sometimes, a bodymight stumble into it; and the parson said he might dothat.

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

“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—thereain’t no pig-pen built,’ says she.

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

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

“Arter that the parson set sich store by Huldy that hecome to her and asked her about everything, and it was69amazin’ 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; andtrained up mornin’ glories and scarlet runners round thewindows. And she was always gettin’ a root here, and asprig there, and a seed from somebody else; for Huldy wasone o’ them that has the gift, so that ef you jist give ’em theleastest of anything they make a great bush out of it rightaway; so that in six months Huldy had roses and geraniumsand lilies, sich as it would take a gardener to raise.

“Huldy was so sort o’ chipper and fair spoken, that shegot the hired men all under her thumb: they come to herand took her orders jist as meek as so many calves; andshe traded at the store, and kep’ the accounts, and she hadher eyes everywhere, and tied up all the ends so tight thatthere wa’n’t no gettin’ ’round her. She wouldn’t let nobodyput nothin’ off on Parson Carryl ’cause he was a minister.Huldy was allers up to anybody that wanted to make a hardbargain, and, afore he knew jist what he was about, she’dgot the best end of it, and everybody said that Huldy wasthe 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 theparson’s all in a stew, and offerin’ their services to get thehouse ready, but the doctor, he jist thanked ’em quite quiet,and turned ’em over to Huldy; and Huldy she told ’emthat she’d got everything ready, and showed ’em herpantries, and her cakes, and her pies, and her puddin’s, andtook ’em all over the house; and they went peekin’ andpokin’, 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’. Theybegun to talk that it was a year now since Mis’ Carryldied; and it r’ally wasn’t proper such a young gal to be70stayin’ there, who everybody could see was a-settin’ her capfor the minister.

“Mis’ Pipperidge said, that so long as she looked onHuldy as the hired gal, she hadn’t thought much aboutit; but Huldy was railly takin’ on airs as an equal, andappearin’ as mistress o’ the house in a way that would maketalk if it went on. And Mis’ Pipperidge she driv’ ’roundup to Deakin Abner Snow’s, and down to Mis’ ’LijahPerry’s, and asked them if they wasn’t afraid that the waythe 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 allwent and talked with somebody else, and asked them if theydidn’t think it would make talk. So come Sunday, betweenmeetin’s there warn’t nothin’ else talked about; and Huldysaw folks a-noddin’ and a-winkin’, and a-lookin’ arter her,and she begun to feel drefful sort o’ disagreeable. FinallyMis’ Sawin, she says to her, ‘My dear, didn’t you neverthink folk would talk about you and the minister?’

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

“‘Wal, dear,’ says she, ‘I think it’s a shame; butthey say you’re tryin’ to catch him, and that it’s so boldand improper for you to be courtin’ of him right in his ownhouse,—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 gothome 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 ofhis 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 ministerhad, and Huldy had got to likin’ to be with him; and it allcome over her that perhaps she ought to go away; and her72throat 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 allways, Huldy. I wish I knew how to show my gratitude.’

“‘Oh, sir!’ says Huldy, ‘is it improper for me to behere?’

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

“Wal, Huldy never told me just what she said to theminister; 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’ablelot o’ clear starchin’ and ironin’ the next two days; and theFriday o’ next week the minister and she rode overtogether to Dr. Lothrop’s, in Oldtown; and the doctor, hejist made ’em man and wife.”

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

IHAVE a passion for fat women. If there is anything Ihate in life, it is what dainty people call a spirituelle.Motion—rapid motion—a smart, quick, squirrel-like step, apert, voluble tone—in short, a lively girl—is my exquisitehorror. I would as lief have a diable petit dancing hisinfernal hornpipe on my cerebellum as to be in a room withone. I have tried before now to school myself into likingthese parched peas of humanity. I have followed them withmy eyes, and attended to their rattle till I was as crazy as afly in a drum. I have danced with them, and romped with74them in the country, and perilled the salvation of my“white tights,” by sitting near them at supper. I swear offfrom this moment. I do. I won’t—no—hang me if everI show another small, lively, spry woman a civility.

Albina McLush is divine. She is like the description ofthe Persian beauty by Hafiz: “Her heart is full of passion,and her eyes are full of sleep.” She is the sister of LurlyMcLush, my old college chum, who, as early as hissophomore year, was chosen president of the DolcefarnienteSociety, no member of which was ever known to besurprised at anything—(the college law of rising beforebreakfast excepted). Lurly introduced me to his sisterone day, as he was lying upon a heap of turnips, leaning onhis elbow with his head in his hand, in a green lane in thesuburbs. He had driven over a stump, and been tossedout of his gig, and I came up just as he was wondering howin the d—l’s name he got there. Albina sat quietly in thegig, and when I was presented, requested me, with adelicious drawl, to say nothing about the adventure—“itwould be so troublesome to relate it to everybody!” Iloved her from that moment. Miss McLush was tall,and her shape, of its kind, was perfect. It was not afleshy one exactly, but she was large and full. Her skinwas clear, fine-grained and transparent; her temples andforehead perfectly rounded and polished, and her lips andchin swelling into a ripe and tempting pout, like the cleft ofa burst apricot. And then her eyes—large, languid, andsleepy—they languished beneath their long, black fringes asif they had no business with daylight—like two magnificentdreams, surprised in their jet embryos by some bird-nestingcherub. Oh! it was lovely to look into them!

She sat usually upon a fauteuil, with her large, full armembedded in the cushion, sometimes for hours withoutstirring. I have seen the wind lift the masses of dark hairfrom her shoulders, when it seemed like the coming to life75of a marble Hebe—she had been motionless so long. Shewas a model for a goddess of sleep; as she sat with hereyes half-closed, lifting up their superb lips slowly as youspoke to her, and dropping them again with the deliberatemotion of a cloud, when she had murmured out her syllableof assent. Her figure, in a sitting posture, presented agentle declivity from the curve of her neck to the instep ofthe small round foot lying on its side upon the ottoman.I remember a fellow bringing her a plate of fruit oneevening. He was one of your lively men—a horridmonster, all right angles and activity. Having never beenaccustomed to hold her own plate, she had not well extractedher whole fingers from her handkerchief before he set itdown in her lap. As it began slowly to slide towards herfeet, her hand relapsed into the muslin folds, and she fixedher eyes upon it with a kind of indolent surprise, droopingher lids gradually, till, as the fruit scattered over theottoman, they closed entirely, and a liquid jet line wasalone visible through the heavy lashes. There was animperial indifference in it worthy of Juno.

Miss McLush rarely walks. When she does it is with thedeliberate majesty of a Dido. Her small, plump feet meltto the ground like snow-flakes, and her figure sways to theindolent motion of her limbs with a glorious grace andyieldingness quite indescribable. She was idling slowly upthe Mall one evening, just at twilight, with a servant at ashort distance behind her, who, to while away the timebetween her steps, was employing himself in throwingstones 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 eccentricthing. Without troubling herself to look at him, she turnedto her servant and requested him, with a yawn of desperateennui, to knock that fellow down! John obeyed his orders;and, as his mistress resumed her lounge, picked up a new76handful of pebbles, and tossing one at the nearest cow,loitered lazily after.

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

I found her one morning sipping her coffee at twelve, withher eyes wide open. She was just from the bath, and hercomplexion had a soft, dewy transparency, like the cheek ofVenus rising from the sea. It was the hour, Lurly had toldme, when she would be at the trouble of thinking. She putaway with her dimpled forefinger, as I entered, a cluster ofrich curls that had fallen over her face, and nodded to melike a water-lily swaying to the wind when its cup is full ofrain. “Lady Albina,” said I, in my softest tone, “howare you to-day?”

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

The conversation fell into short sentences, and thedialogue became monologue. I entered upon my declarationwith the assistance of Beltina, who supplied hermistress with cologne. I kept her attention alive throughthe incipient circumstances. Symptoms were soon told.I came to the avowal. Her hand lay reposing on the armof 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. Deliciouscreature! she was asleep.

I never have had courage to renew the subject. MissMcLush seems to have forgotten it altogether. Uponreflection, too, I am convinced she would not survive the77excitement of the ceremony, unless, indeed, she should sleepbetween 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, in1833, or if anything happens that can keep her waking solong, I shall deliver a declaration abbreviated for me by ascholar friend of mine, which he warrants may be articulatedin fifteen minutes—without fatigue.

Nathaniel Parker Willis.

A LONG TIME AGO.

Owosco. Here, here, enough of this nonsense! Whyshould you sing about that which you think peculiar toyourselves, 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 samestick.

Owosco (derisively). Ah! here comes our worthy apologyfor a chief.

Otsiketa. And our equally worthy medicine man.

Owosco. They make a gay old couple. The one is aboutas useful as the other.

(Enter Old Chief, closely followed by Medicine Man,both old and ugly.)

Otsiketa. Say, old fellow, you must have been a greatchap beyond all our memories!

Owosco. I say, old chap, where did you ever manage tostore all your scalps?

Old Chief (to Medicine Man). What shall I say to theseyoung men? They’re getting very inquisitive!

Medicine Man. I should not answer them. The properthing to do is to assume a dignified silence.

John Barr.

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

He was mightily pleased with the reception of that poemof his about the chaise. He spoke to me once or twiceabout another poem of similar character he wanted to readme, 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 whichhe placed first his hat and then his person, going smackthrough the crown of the former, as neatly as they do thetrick at the circus.

The Professor jumped at the explosion as if he had sat83down on one of those small calthrops our grandfathers usedto sow round in the grass when there were Indians about,—ironstars, each ray a rusty thorn an inch and a half long,—stickthrough 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 whichlie at the bottom of the best man’s vocabulary, but perhapsnever turn up in his life,—just as every man’s hair maystand on end, but in most men it never does. After he hadgot calm, he pulled out a sheet or two of manuscript,together with a smaller scrap, on which, as he said, he hadjust been writing an introduction or prelude to the mainperformance. A certain suspicion had come into my mindthat the Professor was not quite right, which was confirmedby the way he talked; but I let him begin.

This is the way he read it:

Here I thought it necessary to interpose. “Professor,”I said, “you are inebriated. The style of what you callyour ‘Prelude’ shows that it was written under cerebralexcitement. Your articulation is confused. You have told84me three times in succession, in exactly the same words,that I was the only true friend you had in the world thatyou would unbutton your heart to. You smell distinctlyand decidedly of spirits.” I spoke and paused; tenderbut firm.

Two large tears orbed themselves beneath the Professor’slids,—in obedience to the principles of gravitation celebratedin that delicious bit of bladdery bathos, “The verylaw that moulds a tear,” with which the Edinburgh Reviewattempted to put down Master George Gordon when thatyoung man was foolishly trying to make himself conspicuous.One of these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until itlost its balance,—slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,—swelledagain,—rolled down a little further,—stopped,—movedon,—and at last fell on the back of the Professor’shand. He held it up for me to look at, and liftedhis eyes, brimful, till they met mine.

I couldn’t stand it,—I always break down when folks cryin my face,—so I hugged him, and said he was a dear oldboy, 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 onhis legs. That was it. But what had he been doing to gethis head into such a state—had he really committed anexcess? What was the matter? Then it came out that hehad been taking chloroform to have a tooth out, which hadleft him in a very queer state, in which he had written the“Prelude” given above, and under the influence of whichhe evidently was still.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

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;

87I 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;

88To 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?

89Didn’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.

90As 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 FRIEND of ours, sojourning during the past summerin one of the far-off “shore-towns” of Massachusett’sBay, was not a little amused one day at the querulouscomplainings of “one” of the “oldest inhabitants” againstrailroads; his experience in which consisted in having seenthe end of one laid out, and at length the cars runningupon it. Taking out his old pipe, on a pleasant summerafternoon, and looking off upon the ocean, and the shipsfar 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, whenrailroads takes one man’s upland and carts it over in wheel-barrersonto another man’s ma’sh? What kind o’ ’commodationbe they? You can’t go when you want to go; yougot to go when the bell rings, or the noisy whistle blows.I tell yeöw it’s payin’ tew much for the whistle. Ef youlive a leetle ways off the dee-pot, you got to pay togit to the railroad; and ef you want to go any whereselse ’cept just to the eend on it, you got to pay to goa’ter you git there. What kind o’ ’commodation is that?Goin’ round the country tew, murderin’ folks, runnin’ overcattle, sheep, and hogs, and settin’ fire to bridges, andevery now and then burnin’ up the woods. Mrs. Robbins,down to Cod-p’int, says—and she ought to know, for she’sa pious woman, and belongs to the lower church—she saysto me, no longer ago than day-’fore yesterday, that she’dbe cuss’d if she didn’t know that they sometimes runover 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,93now I’ve lived here, clus to the dee-pot, ever sence theroad started to run, and seen ’em go out and comein; but I never could see that they went so d—d fast,nuther!”

L. Gaylord Clark.

AN UNMARRIED FEMALE.

ISUPPOSE 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 inlife has its various skeletons. But we ort to try to be94contented 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 iswimmin’s only spear to marry, but as yet she can’t find anyman willin’ to lay holt of that spear with her. But you canread in her daily life, and on her eager, willin’ countenance,that she fully realises the sweet words of the poet, “Whilethere is life there is hope.”

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

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

For take the men that are the most opposed to wimmin’shavin’ a right, and talk the most about its bein’ her duty tocling to man like a vine to a tree, they don’t want Betsey tocling to them, they won’t let her cling to ’em. For whenthey would be a-goin’ on about how wicked it was forwimmin to vote—and it was her only spear to marry, says Ito ’em, “Which had you ruther do, let Betsey Bobbet clingto you or let her vote?” and they would every one of ’em95quail before that question. They would drop their headsbefore my keen grey eyes—and move off the subject.

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

Why, to hear Betsey Bobbet talk about wimmin’s throwin’their modesty away, you would think if they ever went tothe political pole, they would have to take their dignity andmodesty and throw ’em against the pole, and go withoutany all the rest of their lives.

Now I don’t believe in no such stuff as that. I think awoman can be bold and unwomanly in other things besidesgoin’ with a thick veil over her face, and a brass-mountedparasol, once a year, and gently and quietly dropping a votefor a Christian President, or a religious and noble-mindedpathmaster.

She thinks she talks dreadful polite and proper. Shesays, “I was cameing,” instead of “I was coming;” and “Ihave saw,” instead of “I have seen;” and “papah” forpaper, and “deah” for dear. I don’t know much aboutgrammer, but common sense goes a good ways. She writesthe poetry for the Jonesville Augur, or “Augah,” as shecalls it. She used to write for the opposition paper, theJonesville Gimlet, but the editer of the Augur, a long-hairedchap, who moved into Jonesville a few months ago, lost hiswife soon after he come there, and sence that she has turnedDimocrat, and writes for his paper stiddy. They say thathe is a dreadful big feelin’ man, and I have heard—it cameright straight to me—his cousin’s wife’s sister told it to themother-in-law of one of my neighbour’s brother’s wife, that96he didn’t like Betsey’s poetry at all, and all he printed it forwas to plague the editer of the Gimlet, because she used towrite for him. I myself wouldn’t give a cent a bushel forall the poetry she can write. And it seems to me, that if Iwas Betsey, I wouldn’t try to write so much. Howsumever,I don’t know what turn I should take if I was BetseyBobbet; that is a solemn subject, and one I don’t love tothink on.

I never shall forget the first piece of her poetry I eversee. Josiah Allen and I had both on us been marriedgoin’ on a year, and I had occasion to go to his trunkone day, where he kept a lot of old papers, and the firstthing I laid my hand on was these verses. Josiah wentwith her a few times after his wife died, on 4th of Julyor so, and two or three camp meetin’s, and the poetryseemed to be wrote about the time we was married. Itwas directed over the top of it, “Owed to Josiah,” justas if she were in debt to him. This was the way it read—

I showed the poetry to Josiah that night after he camehome, and told him I had read it. He looked awfulashamed to think I had seen it, and, says he, with adreadful sheepish look, “The persecution I underwentfrom that female can never be told; she fairly huntedme down. I hadn’t no rest for the soles of my feet. Ithought one spell she would marry me in spite of all Icould 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 sectwas reared up. I says to him, in a tone cold enough toalmost freeze his ears, “Josiah Allen, shet up; of all thecowardly things a man ever done, it is goin’ round braggin’about wimmin likin’ ’em, and follerin’ ’em up. Enny manthat’ll do that is little enough to crawl through a knot holewithout rubbing his clothes.” Says I, “I suppose youmade her think the moon rose in your head and set in yourheels. I daresay you acted foolish enough round her tosicken 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.

“Now,” says I, “go to bed;” and I added, in still morefreezing accents, “for I want to mend your pantaloons.”We gathered up his shoes and stockin’s and started off to99bed, and we hain’t never passed a word on the subject sence.I believe when you disagree with your pardner, in freein’ yourmind in the first on’t, and then not to be a-twittin’ about itafterwards. And as for bein’ jealous, I should jest as soonthink of bein’ jealous of a meetin’-house as I should ofJosiah. He is a well principled man. And I guess hewasn’t fur out o’ the way about Betsey Bobbet, though Iwouldn’t encourage him by lettin’ him say a word on thesubject, for I always make it a rule to stand up for my ownsect; but when I hear her go on about the editer of theAugur, I can believe anything about Betsey Bobbet.

She came in here one day last week. It was about teno’clock in the mornin’. I had got my house slick as a pin,and my dinner under way (I was goin’ to have a bileddinner, and a cherry puddin’ biled, with sweet sass to eat onit), and I sot down to finish sewin’ up the breadth of mynew rag carpet. I thought I would get it done while Ihadn’t so much to do, for it bein’ the 1st of March I knewsugarin’ would be comin’ on, and then cleanin’-house time,and I wanted it to put down jest as soon as the stove wascarried 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 downand lay off her things. She sot down, but she said shecouldn’t lay off her things. Says she, “I was comin’down past, and I thought I would call and let you see thelast numbah of the Augah. There is a piece in it concernin’the tariff that stirs men’s souls. I like it evah somuch.”

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

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

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

“It is seldom that we present to the readers of the Augur (the bestpaper for the fireside in Jonesville or the world) with a poem like thefollowing. It may be, by the assistance of the Augur (only twelveshillings a year in advance, wood and potatoes taken in exchange), thename of Betsey Bobbet will yet be carved on the lofty pinnacle offame’s towering pillow. We think, however, that she could study suchwriters as Sylvanus Cobb, and Tupper, with profit both to herself andto them.

“Editor of the Augur.”

Here Betsey interrupted me. “The deah editah of theAugah has no need to advise me to read Tuppah, for he isindeed 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 coldas a cold icicle.

“Mahten, Fahqueah, Tuppah, that sweet authar,” saysshe.

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

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

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

“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 shesot and twisted her long yellow bunnet-strings, and then Ispoke out. “Hain’t the editer of the Augur a widowerwith a pair of twins?”

“Yes,” says she with a happy look.

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

“Oh!” says she, and she dropped her bunnet-strings,102and clasped her long bony hands together in her browncotton gloves, “Oh, we ahdent soles of genious havefeelin’s, you cold, practical natures know nuthing of, and ifthey did not gush out in poetry we should expiah. Youmay as well try to tie up the gushing catarack of Niagarawith a piece of welting cord, as to tie up the feelin’s of anahdent sole.”

“Ardent sole!” says I coldly. “Which makes the mostnoise, Betsey Bobbet, a three-inch brook, or a ten-footer?which is the tearer? which is the roarer? deep waters runstillest. I have no faith in feelin’s that stalk round inpublic in mournin’ weeds. I have no faith in suchmourners,” says I.

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

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

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

“Mere woman of clay!” says I, fixin’ my spektacles uponher in a most searchin’ manner. “Where will you find awoman, Betsey Bobbet, that hain’t more or less clay? Andaffinity, that is the meanest word I ever heard; no marriedwoman has any right to hear it. I’ll excuse you, bein’ afemale; but if a man had said it to me, I’d holler to Josiah.There is a time for everything, and the time to hunt103affinity is before you are married; married folks hain’t noright to hunt it,” says I sternly.

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

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

“The Editah of the Augah,” says she, and she graspedthe paper offen the stand, and folded it up, and presentedit at me like a spear, “the Editah of this paper is a kindredsole, he appreciates me, he undahstands me, and will notour names in the pages of this very papah go down toposterety togathah?”

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

Marietta Holley.

THE COURTIN’.

James Russell Lowell.

“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—brerfox did. One day after brer rabbit fool him wid datcalamus root, brer fox went ter wuk en got ’im some tar,en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshunwhat he call a tar-baby, en he tuck dish yere tar-baby en hesot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer tersee wat de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn’t hatter waitlong, nudder, kaze bimeby here come brer rabbit pacin’down de road—lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity—dez ezsassy ez a jay-bird. Brer fox, he lay low. Brer rabbit comeprancin’ ’long twel he spy de tar-baby, en den he fotch upon his behime legs like he wuz ’stonished. De tar-baby,she sot dar, she did, en brer fox, he lay low.

109“‘Mawnin’!’ sez brer rabbit, sezee; ‘nice wedder dismawnin’,’ sezee.

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

“‘How duz zo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez brerrabbit, 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 brerrabbit, 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 gwineterdo,’ 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 fokesef hit’s de las’ ack,’ sez brer rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’ttake off dat hat en tell me howdy, I’m gwineter bus’ youwide open,’ sezee.

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

“Brer rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de tar-baby, she keepon sayin’ nuthin’ twel presently brer rabbit draw back widhis fis’, he did, en blip he tuck ’er side er de head. Rightdar’s whar he broke his merlasses jug. His fis’ struck, enhe 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,’ sezbrer rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid deudder 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 erhis feet in de same way.

“Brer fox, he lay low. Den brer rabbit squall out dat ef110de tar-baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er cranksided. Enden he butted, en his head got stuck. Den brer fox, hesantered fort’, lookin’ des ez innercent ez wunner yo’mammy’s mockin’-birds.

“‘Howdy, brer rabbit,’ sez brer fox, sezee. ‘You looksorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on degroun’, en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I ’speck you’lltake dinner wid me dis time, brer rabbit. I done laid insome calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sezbrer fox, sezee.”

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

“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy towhom 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’arcome along en loosed ’im—some say he didn’t. I hearMiss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”

Joel Chandler Harris.

IT was in the latter part of August of that year that itbecame necessary for some one in the office in which Iwas engaged to go to St. Louis to attend to importantbusiness. Everything seemed to point to me as the fitperson, for I understood the particular business better thanany one else. I felt that I ought to go, but I did notaltogether like to do it. I went home, and Euphemia andI talked over the matter far into the regulation sleepinghours.

There were very good reasons why we should go (for ofcourse I would not think of taking such a journey withoutEuphemia). In the first place it would be of advantage tome, in my business connection, to take the trip, and then112it would be such a charming journey for us. We had neverbeen west of the Alleghanies, and nearly all the country wewould see would be new to us. We would come home bythe great lakes and Niagara, and the prospect was delightfulto both of us. But then we would have to leave RudderGrange for at least three weeks, and how could we dothat?

This was indeed a difficult question to answer. Whocould take care of our garden, our poultry, our horse andcow, and all their complicated belongings? The gardenwas in admirable condition. Our vegetables were comingin every day in just that fresh and satisfactory condition—altogetherunknown to people who buy vegetables—forwhich I had laboured so faithfully, and about which I hadhad so many cheerful anticipations. As to Euphemia’schicken-yard,—with Euphemia away,—the subject was toogreat for us. We did not even discuss it. But we wouldgive up all the pleasures of our home for the chance of thismost desirable excursion, if we could but think of some onewho would come and take care of the place while we weregone. Rudder Grange could not run itself for three weeks.

We thought of every available person. Old John wouldnot do. We did not feel that we could trust him. Wethought of several of our friends; but there was, in both ourminds, a certain shrinking from the idea of handing overthe place to any of them for such a length of time. Formy part, I said, I would rather leave Pomona in charge thanany one else; but then, Pomona was young and a girl.Euphemia agreed with me that she would rather trust herthan any one else, but she also agreed in regard to the disqualifications.So when I went to the office the nextmorning, we had fully determined to go on the trip, if wecould find some one to take charge of our place while wewere gone. When I returned from the office in the afternoonI had agreed to go to St. Louis. By this time I had113no choice in the matter, unless I wished to interfere verymuch 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. Wewere not able to get any one, and Pomona did assume thecharge. It is surprising how greatly relieved we felt whenwe were obliged to come to this conclusion. The arrangementwas exactly what we wanted, and now that there wasno 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 youngperson who was extraordinarily well able to take care ofherself. Old John would be within call in case she neededhim, and I borrowed a bull-dog to be kept in the house atnight. Pomona herself was more than satisfied with theplan.

We made out, the night before we left, a long and minuteseries of directions for her guidance in household, garden,and farm matters, and directed her to keep a careful recordof everything noteworthy that might occur. She was fullysupplied with all the necessaries of life, and it has seldomhappened that a young girl has been left in such a responsibleand independent position as that in which we leftPomona. She was very proud of it. Our journey was tentimes more delightful than we had expected it would be,and successful in every way; and yet although we enjoyedevery hour of the trip, we were no sooner fairly on our wayhome than we became so wildly anxious to get there thatwe reached Rudder Grange on Wednesday, whereas we hadwritten that we would be home on Thursday. We arrivedearly in the afternoon and walked up from the station,leaving our baggage to be sent in the express-waggon. Aswe approached our dear home we wanted to run, we wereso eager to see it.

There it was, the same as ever. I lifted the gate-latch;114the gate was locked. We ran to the carriage-gate; thatwas locked too. Just then I noticed a placard on thefence; it was not printed, but the lettering was large,apparently made with ink and a brush. It read—

We stood and looked at each other. Euphemia turnedpale.

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

I could say no more. The dreadful thought arose thatthe place might pass away from us. We were not yet readyto buy it. But I did not put the thought in words. Therewas a field next to our lot, and I got over the fence andhelped Euphemia over. Then we climbed our side-fence.This was more difficult, but we accomplished it withoutthinking much about its difficulties; our hearts were toofull of painful apprehensions. I hurried to the front door;it was locked. All the lower windows were shut. We wentaround to the kitchen. What surprised us more thananything else was the absence of Lord Edward. Had hebeen sold?

Before we reached the back part of the house Euphemiasaid she felt faint and must sit down. I led her to a treenear by, under which I had made a rustic chair. The chairwas gone. She sat on the grass, and I ran to the pump forsome water. I looked for the bright tin dipper whichalways hung by the pump. It was not there. But I hada travelling-cup in my pocket, and as I was taking it out Ilooked around me. There was an air of bareness overeverything. I did not know what it all meant, but I knowthat my hand trembled as I took hold of the pump-handleand began to pump.

At the first sound of the pump-handle I heard a deep115bark in the direction of the barn, and then furiously aroundthe 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 reviveEuphemia 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 weretwo friends who looked as if they were neither sold norruined.

Pomona quickly saw that we were ill at ease, and beforeI could put a question to her she divined the cause. Hercountenance fell.

“You know,” said she, “you said you wasn’t comin’ tillto-morrow. If you only had come then—I was goin’ tohave everything just exactly right—an’ now you had toclimb in——”

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

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

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

We were somewhat relieved by Pomona’s statement thatit was “all right” in regard to the tax-poster, but we werevery 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 hourto herself, and then, said she, “I’ll have everything lookingjust as if it was to-morrow.”

We respected her feelings, for, of course, it was a greatdisappointment to her to be taken thus unawares, and weremained in the dining-room until she appeared, andannounced that she was ready for us to go about. We116availed ourselves quickly of the privilege, and Euphemiahurried to the chicken-yard, while I bent my steps towardthe garden and barn. As I went out I noticed that therustic chair was in its place, and passing the pump I lookedfor the dipper. It was there. I asked Pomona about thechair, but she did not answer as quickly as was her habit.

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

I called to Euphemia and asked her what she thought, andshe was so anxious to get to her chickens that she said shewould much rather wait and hear it altogether. We foundeverything in perfect order,—the garden was even free fromweeds, a thing I had not expected. If it had not been forthat cloud on the front fence, I should have been happyenough. Pomona had said it was all right, but she couldnot have paid the taxes—however, I would wait; and Iwent to the barn.

When Euphemia came in from the poultry-yard, shecalled me and said she was in a hurry to hear Pomona’saccount of things. So I went in, and we sat on the sideporch, where it was shady, while Pomona, producing somesheets 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, Ithought 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 tothink one out to-night. I wrote this all of nights. And Idon’t read the first chapters, for they tell about my birthand my parent-age, and my early adventures. I’ll just comedown to what happened to me while you was away, becauseyou’ll be more anxious to hear about that. All that’swritten here is true, jus’ the same as if I told it to you, but117I’ve put it into novel language because it seems to comeeasier to me.”

And then, in a voice somewhat different from her ordinarytones, as if the “novel language” demanded it, she began toread—

“‘Chapter Five. The Lonely house and the Faithfulfriend. Thus was I left alone. None but two dogs tokeep me com-pa-ny. I milk-ed the lowing kine andwater-ed and fed the steed, and then, after my fru-galrepast, I clos-ed the man-si-on, shutting out all re-collectionsof the past and also foresights into the future. Thatnight was a me-mor-able one. I slept soundly until thebreak of morn, but had the events transpired which afterwardoccur-red, what would have hap-pen-ed to me notongue can tell. Early the next day nothing hap-pened.Soon after breakfast the vener-able John came to bor-rowsome ker-o-sene oil and a half a pound of sugar, but hisattempt 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 witha empty can. For two long days I wan-der-ed amid thever-dant pathways of the garden and to the barn, wheneverand anon my du-ty call-ed me, nor did I ere neg-lect thefowlery. No cloud o’er-spread this happy peri-od of mylife. But the cloud was ri-sing in the horizon, although Isaw it not.

“‘It was about twenty-five minutes after eleven, on themorning of a Thursday, that I sat pondering in my mindthe ques-ti-on what to do with the butter and the veg-et-ables.Here was butter, and here was green corn and limabeansand trophy tomats, far more than I ere could use.And here was a horse, idly cropping the fol-i-age in thefield, for as my employer had advis-ed and order-ed, I hadput the steed to grass. And here was a waggon, none toonew, which had it the top taken off, or even the curtainsroll-ed up, would do for a li-cen-sed vendor. With the118truck and butter, and mayhap some milk, I could load thewaggon——’”

“Oh, Pomona,” interrupted Euphemia, “you don’t meanto 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 thehouse. And you’ll see I didn’t do it.” And then she continuedher novel. “‘But while my thoughts were thusemploy-ed, I heard Lord Edward burst into bark-ter——’”

At this Euphemia and I could not help bursting intolaughter. Pomona did not seem at all confused, but wenton with her reading.

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

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

“‘Thus, with my mind at ease, I could let my faith-fulfri-end, the dog, for he it was, roam with me through thegrounds, while the fi-erce bull-dog guard-ed the man-si-onwithin. Then said I, quite bold unto him, “No. I let inno man here. My em-ploy-er and employ-er-ess are nowfrom home. What do you want?” Then says he, as boldas brass, “I’ve come to put the light-en-ing rods upon thehouse. Open the gate.” “What rods?” says I. “The rodsas was order-ed,” says he. “Open the gate.” I stood andgaz-ed at him. Full well I saw through his pinch-beckmask. I knew his tricks. In the ab-sence of my em-ployer,he would put up rods, and ever so many more than waswanted, and likely, too, some miser-able trash that wouldattract the light-en-ing, instead of keep-ing it off. Then, asit would spoil the house to take them down, they would bekept, and pay demand-ed. “No, sir,” says I. “No light-en-ingrods upon this house whilst I stand here,” and with119that I walk-ed away, and let Lord Edward loose. The manhe storm-ed with pas-si-on. His eyes flash-ed fire. Hewould e’en have scal-ed the gate, but when he saw the doghe did forbear. As it was then near noon, I strode away tofeed the fowls; but when I did return, I saw a sight whichfroze the blood with-in my veins——’”

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

“Oh, no, ma’am!” said Pomona. “You’ll see that thatwasn’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 fencewith a long stick, and thus attrack-ing to hisself the rage ofLord Edward, while the vile intrig-er of a light-en-ing rodderhad 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,” andshe 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 towrite out the chapters about my birth, my parentage, andmy early adventures, that I hadn’t time to finish up therest. But I can tell you what happened after that jus’ aswell as if I had writ it out.” And so she went on, muchmore glibly than before, with the account of the doingsof the lightning-rod man.

“There was that wretch on top of the house, a-fixin’ hisold rods and hammerin’ away for dear life. He’d broughthis ladder over the side fence, where the dog, a-barkin’and plungin’ at the boy outside, couldn’t see him. I stooddumb for a minute, and then I know’d I had him. Irushed into the house, got a piece of well-rope, tied itto the bull-dog’s collar, an’ dragged him out and fastenedhim to the bottom rung of the ladder. Then I walks over120to the front fence with Lord Edward’s chain, for I knewthat if he got at that bull-dog there’d be times, for they’dnever been allowed to see each other yet. So says I tothe boy, ‘I’m goin’ to tie up the dog, so you needn’t beafraid of his jumpin’ over the fence,’—which he couldn’tdo, or the boy would have been a corpse for twentyminutes, or maybe half-an-hour. The boy kinder laughed,and said I needn’t mind, which I didn’t. Then I went tothe gate and I clicked to the horse which was standin’there, an’ off he starts, as good as gold, an’ trots downthe road. The boy, he said somethin’ or other pretty badan’ 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 suchthings?” said Euphemia. “That horse might have upsetthe waggon and broken all the lightning-rods, besides runningover I don’t know how many people.”

“But you see, ma’am, that wasn’t my look-out,” saidPomona. “I was a-defendin’ the house, and the enemymust expect to have things happen to him. So then Ihears an awful row on the roof, and there was the manjust coming down the ladder. He’d heard the horse gooff, and when he got about half-way down an’ caughta sight of the bull-dog, he was madder than ever you seeda lightnin’-rodder in all your born days. ‘Take that dogoff of there!’ he yelled at me. ‘No, I won’t,’ says I.‘I never see a girl like you since I was born,’ hescreams at me. ‘I guess it would ’a’ been better furyou if you had,’ says I; an’ then he was so mad hecouldn’t stand it any longer, and he comes down as lowas he could, and when he saw just how long the ropewas—which was pretty short—he made a jump, and landedclear of the dog. Then he went on dreadful because hecouldn’t get at his ladder to take it away; and I wouldn’tuntie the dog, because if I had he’d ’a’ torn the tendons out122of that fellow’s legs in no time. I never see a dog in sucha boiling passion, and yet never making no sound at all butblood-curdlin’ grunts. An’ I don’t see how the rodderwould ’a’ got his ladder at all if the dog hadn’t made anawful jump at him, and jerked the ladder down. It justmissed your geranium-bed, and the rodder, he ran to theother end of it, and began pulling it away, dog and all.‘Look-a-here,’ says I, ‘we can fix him now;’ and so hecooled down enough to help me, and I unlocked the frontdoor, and we pushed the bottom end of the ladder in, dogand all; an’ then I shut the door as tight as it would goan’ untied the end of the rope, an’ the rodder pulled theladder out while I held the door to keep the dog fromfollerin’, which he came pretty near doin’, anyway. But Ilocked him in, and then the man began stormin’ againabout his waggon; but when he looked out an’ see the boycomin’ back with it—for somebody must ’a’ stopped thehorse—he stopped stormin’ and went to put up his ladderag’in. ‘No, you don’t,’ says I; ‘I’ll let the big dog loosenext time, and if I put him at the foot of your ladder, you’llnever come down.’ ‘But I want to go and take downwhat 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 towrench 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 orderedjob.’ An’ says I, ‘There wasn’t no order about it;’ an’says he, ‘I’ll show you better than that;’ an’ he goes tohis waggon an’ gits a book, ‘There,’ says he, ‘read that.’‘What of it?’ says I; ‘there’s nobody of the name ofBall lives here.’ That took the man kinder back, and hesaid he was told it was the only house on the lane, which Isaid was right, only it was the next lane he oughter ’a’ gone123to. He said no more after that, but just put his ladder inhis waggon and went off. But I was not altogether rid ofhim. He left a trail of his baleful presence behind him.

“That horrid bull-dog wouldn’t let me come into thehouse! No matter what door I tried, there he was, justfoamin’ mad. I let him stay till nearly night, and thenwent and spoke kind to him; but it was no good. He’dgot an awful spite ag’in me. I found something to eatdown cellar, an’ I made a fire outside an’ roasted somecorn and potatoes. That night I slep’ in the barn. Iwasn’t afraid to be away from the house, for I knew it wassafe enough, with that dog in it, and Lord Edward outside.For three days, Sunday an’ all, I was kep’ out of this herehouse. I got along pretty well with the sleepin’ and theeatin’, but the drinkin’ was the worst. I couldn’t get nocoffee or tea; but there was plenty of milk.”

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

“Well, I didn’t know no man that could do it,” saidPomona. “The dog would ’a’ been too much for oldJohn, and besides, he was mad about the kerosene. Sundayafternoon, Captain Atkinson and Mrs. Atkinson andtheir little girl in a push-waggon, come here, and I told ’emyou was gone away; but they says they would stop aminute, and could I give them a drink; an’ I had nothin’to give it them but an old chicken-bowl that I had washedout, for even the dipper was in the house, an’ I told ’emeverything was locked up, which was true enough, thoughthey must ’a’ thought you was a queer kind of people; butI wasn’t a-goin’ to say nothin’ about the dog, fur, to tell thetruth, 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 thekey for the outside cellar door,—and I got a piece of fatcorn-beef and the meat axe. I unlocked the kitchen door124and went in, with the axe in one hand and the meat in theother. The dog might take his choice. I know’d he mustbe pretty nigh famished, for there was nothin’ that hecould 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. Helooked a sort of wicked at me, and then he grabbed themeat. 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 heas savage yet?”

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

“Look here, Pomona,” said I, “I want to know aboutthose 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 twodogs so that they’d have to be tied up if they see eachother. Just as like as not I’d want them both at once,and then they’d go to fightin’, and leave me to settle withsome blood-thirsty lightnin’-rodder. So, as I know’d ifthey once had a fair fight and found out which was master,they’d be good friends afterwards, I thought the best thingto do would be to let ’em fight it out, when there wasnothin’ else for ’em to do. So I fixed up things for thecombat.”

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

“It looks that way, ma’am, but really it ain’t,” replied thegirl. “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 infront of the wood-shed and unchained Lord Edward, andthen I opened the kitchen door and called the bull. Outhe came, with his teeth a-showin’, and his blood-shoteyes, and his crooked front legs. Like lightnin’ from themount’in blast, he made one bounce for the big dog, andoh! what a fight there was! They rolled, they gnashed,125they knocked over the wood-horse and sent chips a-flyin’all ways at wonst. I thought Lord Edward would whip ina minute or two; but he didn’t, for the bull stuck to himlike a burr, and they was havin’ it, ground and lofty, whenI hears some one run up behind me, and turnin’ quick,there was the ’piscopalian minister. ‘My! my! my!’ hehollers, ‘what an awful spectacle! Ain’t there no way ofstoppin’ it?’ ‘No, sir,’ says I, and I told him how I didn’twant 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 mustdo it myself.’ An’ he took off his coat. ‘No,’ says I, ‘youkeep back, sir. If there’s anybody to plunge into thaterena, the blood be mine;’ an’ I put my hand, withoutthinkin’, ag’in his black shirt-bosom, to hold him back; buthe didn’t notice, bein’ so excited. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘jist waitone minute, and you’ll see that bull’s tail go between hislegs. He’s weakenin’.’ An’ sure enough, Lord Edward gota good grab at him, and was a-shakin’ the very life out ofhim, when I run up and took Lord Edward by the collar.‘Drop it!’ says I; an’ he dropped it, for he know’d he’dwhipped, and he was pretty tired hisself. Then the bull-dog,he trotted off with his tail a-hangin’ down. ‘Nowthen,’ says I, ‘them dogs will be bosom friends for everafter this.’ ‘Ah me!’ says he, ‘I’m sorry indeed that youremployer, for who I’ve always had a great respect, shouldallow you to get into such bad habits.’

“That made me feel real bad, and I told him, mightyquick, that you was the last man in the world to let me doanything like that, and that if you’d ’a’ been here, you’d ’a’separated them dogs, if they’d a-chawed your arms off; thatyou was very particular about such things, and that it wouldbe 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 and126settled, the one thing you would like most would be to bemade 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 whatyou really was; an’ he says, ‘Well, well, I never knew that.It might be a very good thing. I’ll speak to some of themembers about it. There’s two vacancies now in ourvestry.’”

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

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

I could not talk on this subject. “Go on, Pomona,” Isaid, trying to feel resigned to my shame, “and tell us aboutthat 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 wasdown at the barn, and happenin’ to look over to old John’s,I saw that tree-man there. He was a-showin’ his book toJohn, and him and his wife and all the young ones wasa-standin’ there, drinkin’ down them big peaches and pearsas if they was all real. I know’d he’d come here ag’in, forthem fellers never gives you up; and I didn’t know how tokeep him away, for I didn’t want to let the dogs loose on aman what, after all, didn’t want to do no more harm thanto talk the life out of you. So I just happened to notice,as I came to the house, how kind of desolate everythinglooked, and I thought perhaps I might make it look worse,and he wouldn’t care to deal here. So I thought of puttingup a poster like that, for nobody whose place was a-goin’ tobe sold for taxes would be likely to want trees. So I run inthe house, and wrote it quick and put it up. And sure127enough, the man he come along soon, and when he lookedat that paper and tried the gate, an’ looked over the fencean’ saw the house all shut up an’ not a livin’ soul about,—forI had both the dogs in the house with me,—he shook hishead an’ walked off, as much as to say, ‘If that man hadfixed his place up proper with my trees, he wouldn’t ’a’come to this!’ An’ then, as I found the poster worked sogood, I thought it might keep other people from comin’a-botherin’ around, and so I left it up; but I was a-goin’ tobe sure and take it down before you came.”

As it was now pretty late in the afternoon, I proposedthat Pomona should postpone the rest of her narrative untilevening. She said that there was nothing else to tell thatwas very particular; and I did not feel as if I could standanything 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 tome with as bright a face as she ever had; “at least not for along, long, long time to come. And I’m so glad you’re tobe a vestryman.”

Frank R. Stockton.

IT was all about a wash-tub. Mrs. Villiers had loanedMrs. Ransom her wash-tub. This was two weeks agolast Monday. When Mrs. Villiers saw it again, which wasthe next morning, it stood on her backstoop, minus a hoop.Mrs. Villiers sent over to Mrs. Ransom’s a request for thehoop, couched in language calculated to impugn Mrs.Ransom’s reputation for carefulness. Mrs. Ransom lostno time in sending back word that the tub was all rightwhen it was sent back; and delicately intimated that Mrs.129Villiers had better sweep before her own door first, whateverthat might mean. Each having discharged a Christian dutyto each other, further communication was immediately cutoff; and the affair was briskly discussed by the neighbours,who entered into the merits and demerits of the affair withunselfish zeal. Heaven bless them! Mrs. Ransom clearlyexplained her connection with the tub by charging Mr.Villiers with coming home drunk as a fiddler the nightbefore Christmas. This bold statement threatened to carrythe neighbours over in a body to Mrs. Ransom’s view, untilMrs. Villiers remembered, and promptly chronicled the fact,that the Ransoms were obliged to move away from theirlast place because of non-payment of rent. Here thematter rested among the neighbours, leaving them as undecidedas before. But between the two families immediatelyconcerned the fire burned as luridly as when firstkindled. It was a constant skirmish between the twowomen, 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 clenchedteeth—

“Oh, you hussy!”

And, with that wonderful instinct which characterises thehuman above the brute animal, Mrs. Villiers understoodthat Mrs. Ransom was thus engaged, and, lifting her noseat the highest angle compatible with the safety of her spinalcord, would sail around the yard as triumphantly as ifescorted by a brigade of genuine princes.

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

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

“Who’s that fright, I wonder?”

And when Mrs. Ransom was favoured with a call, it was130Mrs. Villiers’s blessed privilege to be at the window andaudibly 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 thecognomen of Wickliffe Morgan; and it will happen, becausethese two children are too young to grasp fully the graveresponsibilities of life—it will happen, I repeat, that they willcome together in various respects. If Mrs. Ransom is so fortunateas to first observe one of these cohesions, she promptlysteps to the door, and, covertly waiting until Mrs. Villiers’sdoor opens, she shrilly observes—“Thomas Jefferson, comeright into this house this minute! How many times haveI told you to keep away from that Villiers brat?”

“Villiers brat!” What a stab that is! What subtle poisonit is saturated with! Poor Mrs. Villiers’s breath comes thickand hard; her face burns like fire, and her eyes almost snapout of her head. She has to press her hand to her heartas if to keep that organ from bursting; there is no relieffrom the dreadful throbbing and the dreadful pain. Theslamming of Mrs. Ransom’s door shuts out all hope ofsuccour. But it quickens Mrs. Villiers’s faculties, andmakes her so alert, that when the two children come togetheragain, which they very soon do, she is first at thedoor. Now is the opportunity to heap burning coals onthe head of Mrs. Ransom. She heaps them.

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

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

J. M. Bailey.

IT was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month ofNovember. I had been detained in the course of ajourney by a slight indisposition, from which I wasrecovering, but I was still feverish, and was obliged to132keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small town ofDerby. A wet Sunday in a country inn! whoever hashad the luck to experience one can alone judge of mysituation. The rain pattered against the casements; thebells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went tothe window in quest of something to amuse the eye; but itseemed as if I had been placed completely out of reach ofall amusement. The windows of my bedroom looked outamong tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys; while those ofmy sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard.I know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick ofthis world than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The placewas littered with wet straw that had been kicked about bytravellers and stable-boys; in one corner was a stagnant poolof water surrounding an island of muck; there were severalhalf-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, amongwhich was a miserable, crestfallen cock, drenched out of alllife and spirit; his drooping tail matted as it were into asingle feather, along which the water trickled from his back.Near the cart was a half-dozing cow, chewing the cud, andstanding patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapourrising from her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of theloneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out ofa window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; anunhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by utteringsomething every now and then between a bark and a yelp;a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwardsthrough the yard in pattens, looking as sulky as the weatheritself; everything, in short, was comfortless and forlorn,excepting a crew of hard-drinking ducks, assembled likeboon companions round a puddle, and making a riotousnoise over their liquor.

I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. Myroom soon became insupportable. I abandoned it andsought what is technically called the traveller’s room. This133is a public room set apart at most inns for the accommodationof a class of wayfarers called travellers or riders; akind of commercial knights-errant who are incessantlyscouring the kingdom in gigs, on horseback, or by coach.They are the only successors, that I know of at the presentday, to the knights-errant of yore. They lead the samekind of roving, adventurous life, only changing the lancefor a whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat ofmail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicating thecharms of peerless beauty, they rove about spreading thefame 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 withone another. As the room of the Hostel, in the good oldfighting times, would be hung round at night with thearmour of wayworn warriors, such as coats of mail,falchions, and yawning helmets; so the traveller’s roomis garnished with the harnessing of their successors; withbox-coats, whips of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oilcloth-coveredhats.

I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talkwith, but was disappointed, there were, indeed, two or threein the room, but I could make nothing of them. One wasjust finishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his bread andbutter, and huffing the waiter; another buttoned on a pairof gaiters, with many execrations at “Boots” for not havingcleaned his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the tablewith his fingers, and looking at the rain as it streameddown the window-glass; they all appeared infected by theweather, and disappeared, one after the other, withoutexchanging a word.

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at thepeople picking their way to church, with petticoats hoistedmid-leg high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased totoll, and the streets became silent. I then amused myself134with watching the daughters of a tradesman opposite; who,being confined to the house, for fear of wetting theirSunday finery, played off their charms at the front windowsto fascinate the chance tenants of the inn. They at lengthwere 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? Iwas sadly nervous and lonely; and everything about an innseemed calculated to make a dull day ten times duller.Old newspapers smelling of beer and tobacco smoke, andwhich I had already read half-a-dozen times. Good-for-nothingbooks, that were worse than the rainy weather.I bored myself to death with an old volume of the Lady’sMagazine. I read all the commonplace names of ambitioustravellers scrawled on the panes of glass; the eternalfamilies of the Smiths, and the Browns, and the Jacksons,and the Johnsons, and all the other sons; and I decipheredseveral scraps of fatiguing inn-window poetry that I havemet 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 thatnow and then I was enlivened by the idea of a briskshower, from the rattlings of the drops upon a passingumbrella. It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed ahackneyed phrase of the day) when in the course of themorning a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled through thestreet, with outside passengers stuck all over it, coweringunder cotton umbrellas; and seethed together, and reekingwith the steams of wet box-coats and upper Benjamins.

The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crewof vagabond boys and vagabond dogs, with the carroty-headedhostler and the nondescript animal ycleped Boots,and all the other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of135an inn; but the bustle was transient; the coach againwhirled on its way; the boy, and dog, and hostler, andBoots, all slunk back again to their holes; and the streetagain became silent, and the rain continued to rain on.In fact there was no hope of its clearing up; the barometerpointed to rainy weather; mine hostess’s tortoise-shell catsat by the fire washing her face and rubbing her paws overher ears; and on referring to the almanac, I found a direfulprediction from the top of the page to the bottomthrough the whole month, “expect—much—rain—about—this—time.”

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if theywould never creep by. The very ticking of the clockbecame irksome. At length the stillness of the house wasinterrupted by the ringing of a bell. Shortly after I heardthe voice of a waiter at the bar, “The Stout Gentleman inNo. 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 mymind, and ample exercise for my imagination. I am proneto paint pictures to myself, and on this occasion I hadsome material to work upon. Had the guest upstairs beenmentioned as Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Jackson, or Mr.Johnson, or merely as the gentleman in No. 13, it wouldhave been a perfect blank to me. I should have thoughtnothing of it. But “the Stout Gentleman!”—the veryname had something in it of the picturesque. It at once gavethe size, it embodied the personage to my mind’s eye, andmy 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 breakfastingrather late, and in his own room, he must be a manaccustomed to live at his ease, and above the necessity ofearly rising; no doubt a round, rosy, lusty old gentleman.”

There was another violent ringing; the Stout Gentlemanwas impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man ofimportance, “well-to-do in the world,” accustomed to bepromptly waited upon, of a keen appetite, and a little crosswhen hungry. “Perhaps,” thought I, “he may be someLondon alderman; or who knows but he may be a memberof Parliament?”

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

The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that shewas a brisk, coquettish woman; a little of a shrew, andsomething of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal; with anincompoop for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. Sherated the servants roundly for their negligence in sending upso bad a breakfast; but said not a word against the StoutGentleman; by which I clearly perceived he must be a manof consequence; entitled to make a noise and to givetrouble at a country inn. Other eggs and ham and breadand butter were sent. They appeared to be more graciouslyreceived; at last there was no further complaint, and I hadnot made many turns about the traveller’s room when therewas another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a stir,and an inquest about the house. “The Stout Gentlemanwanted the Times or the Chronicle newspaper.” I sethim down, therefore, for a whig; or rather, from his beingso absolute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspectedhim of being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large137man. “Who knows,” thought I, “but it is Hunthimself?”

My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of thewaiter who was this Stout Gentleman that was making allthis stir, but I could get no information. Nobody seemedto know his name. The landlords of bustling inns seldomtrouble their heads about the names of their transientguests. The colour of a coat, the shape or size of theperson, is enough to suggest a travelling name. It is eitherthe tall gentleman, or the short gentleman; or the gentlemanin black, or the gentleman in snuff colour; or, as inthe present instance, the Stout Gentleman; a designation ofthe kind once hit on answers every purpose, and saves allfurther inquiry.

Rain—rain—rain! pitiless, ceaseless rain! no such thingas putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation oramusement within. By-and-by I heard some one walkingoverhead. It was in the Stout Gentleman’s room. Heevidently 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, ofregular habits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast.”

I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotelsthat were stuck about the mantelpiece. The Lady’sMagazine had become an abomination to me; it was astedious as the day itself. I wandered out, not knowingwhat to do, and ascended again to my room. I had notbeen there long when there was a squall from a neighbouringbedroom. A door opened and slammed violently; achambermaid that I had remarked for a ruddy, good-humouredface, went downstairs in a violent flurry. TheStout Gentleman had been rude to her.

This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce ina moment. This unknown personage could not be an oldgentleman; for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous139to 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 uglyinto the bargain, or the girl would not have taken thematter in such terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorelypuzzled. In a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady.I caught a glance of her as she came trampingupstairs, her face glowing, her cap flaring, her tonguewagging 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 aboveall with pretty women, I slunk back into my room, andpartly closed the door; but my curiosity was too muchexcited not to listen. The landlady marched intrepidly tothe enemy’s citadel and entered it with a storm. The doorclosed after her. I heard her voice in high windy clamourfor a moment or two. Then it gradually subsided, like agust of wind in a garret. Then there was a laugh; then Iheard nothing more. After a little while my landlady cameout with an odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap, whichwas a little on one side. As she went downstairs I heardthe landlord ask her what was the matter; she said,“Nothing at all—only the girl’s a fool!” I was more thanever perplexed what to make of this unaccountablepersonage, who could put a good-natured chambermaid ina 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 painthim entirely different. I now set him down for one ofthose Stout Gentlemen that are frequently met with swaggeringabout the doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows,in Belcher handkerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by140malt liquors. Men who have seen the world, and beensworn at Highgate. Who are used to tavern life; up toall the tricks of tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinfulpublicans. Free livers on a small scale, who call all thewaiters by name, tousle the maids, gossip with the landladyat the bar, and prose over a pint of port or a glass of negusafter dinner.

The morning wore away in forming these and similarsurmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, somemovement of the unknown would completely overturn it,and throw all my thoughts again into confusion. Such arethe solitary operations of a feverish mind. I was, as I havesaid, extremely nervous, and the continual meditation onthe concerns of this invisible personage began to have itseffects—I was getting a fit of fidgets.

Dinner-time came. I hoped the Stout Gentleman mightdine in the traveller’s room, and that I might at length geta view of his person; but no—he had dinner served in hisown room. What could be the meaning of this solitudeand mystery? He could not be a radical; there was somethingtoo aristocratical in thus keeping himself apart from therest of the world, and condemning himself to his own dullcompany throughout a rainy day. And then too he livedtoo well for a discontented politician. He seemed toexpatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over his wine likea jolly friend of good living.

Indeed, my doubts on this head were soon at an end, forhe could not have finished his first bottle before I couldfaintly hear him humming a tune, and on listening I foundit to be “God Save the King.” ’Twas plain then he wasno radical, but a faithful subject; one that grew loyal overhis bottle, and was ready to stand by his king and constitutionwhen he could stand by nothing else. But who could hebe? My conjectures began to run wild. Was he not somepersonage of distinction travelling incog.? “God knows!”141said I, at my wit’s end; “it maybe one of the royal familyfor aught I know, for they are all Stout Gentlemen!”

The weather continued rainy. The mysterious personkept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair; forI did not hear him move. In the meantime, as the dayadvanced, the traveller’s room began to be frequented.Some who had just arrived came in buttoned up in boxcoats; others came home who had been dispersed aboutthe town. Some took their dinners, and some their tea.Had I been in a different mood, I should have found entertainmentin studying this peculiar class of men. Therewere two, especially, who were regular wags of the road,and up to all the standing jokes of travellers. They had athousand sly things to say to the waiting-maid, whom theycalled Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen other fine names,changing the name every time, and chuckling amazingly attheir own waggery. My mind, however, had become completelyengrossed by the Stout Gentleman. He had keptmy fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not nowto be diverted from the scent.

The evening gradually wore away. The travellers readthe papers two or three times over. Some drew around thefire, and told long stories about their horses, about theiradventures, their over-turns, and breakings-down. Theydiscussed the credits of different merchants and differentinns, and the two wags told several choice anecdotes ofpretty chambermaids and kind landladies. All this passedas they were quietly taking what they called their “nightcaps,”—thatis to say, strong glasses of brandy and waterwith sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; after whichthey one after another rang for “boots” and the chambermaids,and walked up to bed in old shoes, cut down intomarvellously uncomfortable slippers.

There was only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied,plethoric fellow, with a very large sandy head. He sat by142himself, 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 theempty glass standing before him; and the candle seemedto fall asleep too, for the wick grew long and black andcabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light thatremained in the chamber.

The gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Aroundhung the shapeless and almost spectral box-coats ofdeparted travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. I onlyheard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-drawnbreathing of the sleeping toper, and the dripping of therain, drop—drop—drop, from the eaves of the house.

The church bells chimed midnight. All at once theStout Gentleman began to walk overhead, pacing slowlybackwards and forwards. There was something extremelyawful in all this—especially to me in my state of nerves.These ghastly great-coats, these guttural breathings, andthe creaking footsteps of the mysterious being. His stepsgrew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. Icould bear it no longer; I was wound up to the desperationof a hero of romance. “Be he who or what he may,”said I to myself, “I’ll have a sight of him!” I seized achamber candle and hurried up to No. 13. The doorstood 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 wentalong the corridor I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty,waxed tops, standing at the door of a bed-chamber. Theydoubtless belonged to the unknown; but it would not doto disturb so redoubtable a personage in his den; he mightdischarge a pistol or something worse at my head. I went143to bed therefore, and lay awake half the night in a terriblynervous state; and even when I fell asleep I was stillhaunted in my dreams by the idea of the Stout Gentlemanand his wax-topped boots.

I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakenedby some stir and bustle in the house, which I could not atfirst comprehend; until getting more awake, I found therewas a mail coach starting from the door. Suddenly there144was a cry from below: “The gentleman has forgot hisumbrella; look for the gentleman’s umbrella in No. 13.”

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

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

Washington Irving.

MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN.

NEXT to deciding when to start your garden, the mostimportant matter is, what to put in it. It is difficultto decide what to order for dinner on a given day: howmuch more oppressive is it to order in a lump an endlessvista of dinners, so to speak! For, unless your garden is aboundless prairie (and mine seems to me to be that when Ihoe it on hot days), you must make a selection, from thegreat variety of vegetables, of those you will raise in it; andyou feel rather bound to supply your own table from yourown garden, and to eat only as you have sown.

I hold that no man has a right (whatever his sex, ofcourse) to have a garden to his own selfish uses. Heought not to please himself, but every man to please his145neighbour. I tried to have a garden that would givegeneral moral satisfaction. It seemed to me that nobodycould object to potatoes (a most useful vegetable); andI began to plant them freely. But there was a chorus ofprotest against them. “You don’t want to take up yourground with potatoes,” the neighbours said: “you can buypotatoes” (the very thing I wanted to avoid doing is buyingthings). “What you want is the perishable things thatyou cannot get fresh in the market.”—“But what kind ofperishable things?” A horticulturist of eminence wantedme to sow lines of strawberries and raspberries right overwhere I had put my potatoes in drills. I had about fivehundred strawberry-plants in another part of my garden;but this fruit-fanatic wanted me to turn my whole patch intovines and runners. I suppose I could raise strawberriesenough for all my neighbours; and perhaps I ought to doit. I had a little space prepared for melons,—musk-melons,—whichI showed to an experienced friend. “You arenot going to waste your ground on musk-melons?” heasked. “They rarely ripen in this climate thoroughly,before frost.” He had tried for years without luck. Iresolved not to go into such a foolish experiment. But, thenext day, another neighbour happened in. “Ah! I seeyou are going to have melons. My family would rathergive up anything else in the garden than musk-melons,—ofthe nutmeg variety. They are the most grateful things wehave on the table.” So there it was. There was no compromise:it was melons or no melons, and somebodyoffended in any case. I half resolved to plant them a littlelate, so that they would, and they wouldn’t. But I had thesame difficulty about string-beans (which I detest), andsquash (which I tolerate), and parsnips, and the wholeround of green things.

I have pretty much come to the conclusion that youhave got to put your foot down in gardening. If I had146actually taken counsel of my friends, I should not have hada thing growing in the garden to-day but weeds. Andbesides, while you are waiting, Nature does not wait. Hermind is made up. She knows just what she will raise; andshe has an infinite variety of early and late. The mosthumiliating thing to me about a garden is the lesson itteaches of the inferiority of man. Nature is prompt,decided, inexhaustible. She thrusts up her plants witha vigour and freedom that I admire; and the more worthlessthe plant, the more rapid and splendid its growth.She is at it early and late, and all night; never tiring, norshowing the least sign of exhaustion.

“Eternal gardening is the price of liberty,” is a mottothat I should put over the gateway of my garden, if I had agate. And yet it is not wholly true; for there is no libertyin gardening. The man who undertakes a garden is relentlesslypursued. He felicitates himself that, when he getsit once planted, he will have a season of rest and of enjoymentin the sprouting and growing of his seeds. It is agreen anticipation. He has planted a seed that will keephim awake nights, drive rest from his bones, and sleepfrom his pillow. Hardly is the garden planted, when hemust begin to hoe it. The weeds have sprung up all overit in a night. They shine and wave in redundant life.The docks have almost gone to seed; and their roots godeeper than conscience. Talk about the London Docks!—theroots of these are like the sources of the Aryan race.And the weeds are not all. I awake in the morning (anda thriving garden will wake a person up two hours before heought to be out of bed), and think of the tomato-plants,—theleaves like fine lace-work, owing to black bugs that skiparound, and can’t be caught. Somebody ought to get upbefore the dew is off (why don’t the dew stay on till after areasonable breakfast?) and sprinkle soot on the leaves. Iwonder if it is I. Soot is so much blacker than the bugs,148that they are disgusted, and go away. You can’t get uptoo early if you have a garden. You must be early dueyourself, if you get ahead of the bugs. I think that, on thewhole, it would be best to sit up all night, and sleep day-times.Things appear to go on in the night in the gardenuncommonly. It would be less trouble to stay up than it isto get up so early.

I have been setting out some new raspberries, two sorts,—asilver and a gold colour. How fine they will look onthe table next year in a cut-glass dish, the cream being in aditto pitcher! I set them four and five feet apart. I setmy strawberries pretty well apart also. The reason is, togive room for the cows to run through when they breakinto the garden,—as they do sometimes. A cow needs abroader track than a locomotive; and she generally makesone. I am sometimes astonished to see how big a space ina flower-bed her foot will cover. The raspberries are calledDoolittle and Golden Cap. I don’t like the name of thefirst variety, and, if they do much, shall change it to SilverTop. You never can tell what a thing named Doolittle willdo. 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 shallwatch the Doolittles.

ORTHODOXY is at a low ebb. Only two clergymenaccepted my offer to come and help hoe my potatoes forthe privilege of using my vegetable total-depravity figureabout the snake-grass, or quack-grass, as some call it; andthose two did not bring hoes. There seems to be a lack ofdisposition to hoe among our educated clergy. I am boundto say that these two, however, sat and watched my vigorouscombats with the weeds, and talked most beautifully aboutthe application of the snake-grass figure. As, for instance,149when a fault or sin showed on the surface of a man, whetherif you dug down, you would find that it ran back and intothe original organic bunch of original sin within the man.The only other clergyman who came was from out of town,—ahalf Universalist, who said he wouldn’t give twentycents for my figure. He said that the snake-grass was notin my garden originally, that it sneaked in under the sod,and that it could be entirely rooted out with industry andpatience. I asked the Universalist-inclined man to take myhoe and try it; but he said he hadn’t time, and went away.

But, jubilate, I have got my garden all hoed the firsttime! I feel as if I had put down the rebellion. Onlythere are guerillas left here and there, about the bordersand in corners, unsubdued,—Forrest docks, and Quantrellgrass, and Beauregard pig-weeds. This first hoeing is agigantic task: it is your first trial of strength with the never-sleeping150forces of Nature. Several times, in its progress, Iwas tempted to do as Adam did, who abandoned his gardenon account of the weeds. (How much my mind seems torun upon Adam, as if there had been only two really moralgardens,—Adam’s and mine!) The only drawback to myrejoicing over the finishing of the first hoeing is, that thegarden now wants hoeing the second time. I suppose, ifmy garden were planted in a perfect circle, and I startedround it with a hoe, I should never see an opportunity torest. The fact is, that gardening is the old fable of perpetuallabour: and I, for one, can never forgive AdamSisyphus, or whoever it was, who let in the roots of discord.I had pictured myself sitting at eve, with my family, in theshade of twilight, contemplating a garden hoed. Alas! it isa dream not to be realised in this world.

My mind has been turned to the subject of fruit andshade trees in a garden. There are those who say thattrees shade the garden too much, and interfere with thegrowth of the vegetables. There may be something in this:but when I go down the potato rows, the rays of the sunglancing upon my shining blade, the sweat pouring from myface, I should be grateful for shade. What is a garden for?The pleasure of man. I should take much more pleasurein 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 Iwould have my garden covered with an awning, so that itwould be comfortable to work in it. It might roll up andbe removable, as the great awning of the Roman Coliseumwas,—not like the Boston one, which went off in a highwind. Another very good way to do, and probably not soexpensive as the awning, would be to have four persons offoreign birth carry a sort of canopy over you as you hoed.And there might be a person at each end of the row withsome cool and refreshing drink. Agriculture is still in a151very barbarous stage. I hope to live yet to see the daywhen I can do my gardening, as tragedy is done, to slowand soothing music, and attended by some of the comfortsI have named. These things come so forcibly into mymind sometimes as I work, that perhaps, when a wanderingbreeze lifts my straw hat, or a bird lights on a near currant-bushand shakes out a full-throated summer-song, I almostexpect to find the cooling drink and the hospitable entertainmentat the end of the row. But I never do. Thereis nothing to be done but to turn round, and hoe back tothe other end.

Speaking of those yellow squash-bugs, I think I disheartenedthem by covering the plants so deep with sootand wood-ashes that they could not find them; and I amin doubt if I shall ever see the plants again. But I haveheard of another defence against the bugs. Put a finewire-screen over each hill, which will keep out the bugs,and admit the rain. I should say that these screens wouldnot cost much more than the melons you would be likelyto get from the vines if you bought them; but then thinkof the moral satisfaction of watching the bugs hoveringover the screen, seeing, but unable to reach the tenderplants within. That is worth paying for.

I left my own garden yesterday, and went over to wherePolly was getting the weeds out of one of her flower-beds.She was working away at the bed with a little hoe. Whetherwomen ought to have the ballot or not (and I have adecided opinion on that point, which I should here plainlygive, did I not fear that it would injure my agriculturalinfluence), I am compelled to say that this was rather helplesshoeing. It was patient, conscientious, even pathetichoeing; but it was neither effective nor finished. Whencompleted, the bed looked somewhat as if a hen hadscratched it: there was that touching unevenness about it.I think no one could look at it and not be affected. To152be sure, Polly smoothed it off with a rake, and asked me ifit wasn’t nice; and I said it was. It was not a favourabletime for me to explain the difference between putteringhoeing, and the broad, free sweep of the instrument, whichkills the weeds, spares the plants, and loosens the soilwithout leaving it in holes and hills. But, after all, as lifeis constituted, I think more of Polly’s honest and anxiouscare of her plants than of the most finished gardening inthe world.

Somebody has sent me a new sort of hoe, with the wishthat I should speak favourably of it, if I can consistently.I willingly do so, but with the understanding that I am to beat liberty to speak just as courteously of any other hoe whichI may receive. If I understand religious morals, this is theposition of the religious press with regard to bitters andwringing-machines. In some cases, the responsibility ofsuch a recommendation is shifted upon the wife of theeditor or clergyman. Polly says she is entirely willing tomake a certificate, accompanied with an affidavit, withregard to this hoe; but her habit of sitting about the garden-walk,on an inverted flower-pot, while I hoe, somewhatdestroys the practical value of her testimony.

As to this hoe, I do not mind saying that it has changedmy view of the desirableness and value of human life.It has, in fact, made life a holiday to me. It ismade on the principle that man is an upright, sensible,reasonable being, and not a grovelling wretch. It doesaway with the necessity of the hinge in the back. Thehandle is seven and a half feet long. There are twonarrow blades, sharp on both edges, which come togetherat an obtuse angle in front; and as you walk along withthis hoe before you, pushing and pulling with a gentlemotion, the weeds fall at every thrust and withdrawal,153and the slaughter is immediate and widespread. WhenI got this hoe, I was troubled with sleepless mornings,pains in the back, kleptomania with regard to newweeders; when I went into my garden, I was alwayssure to see something. In this disordered state ofmind and body I got this hoe. The morning after aday of using it I slept perfectly and late. I regained myrespect for the eighth commandment. After two doses ofthe hoe in the garden the weeds entirely disappeared.Trying it a third morning, I was obliged to throw it overthe fence, in order to save from destruction the greenthings that ought to grow in the garden. Of course thisis figurative language. What I mean is, that the fascinationof using this hoe is such that you are sorely tempted toemploy it upon your vegetables after the weeds are laid lowand must hastily withdraw it to avoid unpleasant results. Imake this explanation because I intend to put nothing intothese agricultural papers that will not bear the strictestscientific investigation; nothing that the youngest childcannot understand and cry for; nothing that the oldest andwisest men will not need to study with care.

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

Let us have peas. I have been a zealous advocate ofthe birds. I have rejoiced in their multiplication. I haveendured their concerts at four o’clock in the morningwithout a murmur. Let them come, I said, and eat theworms, in order that we, later, may enjoy the foliage andthe fruits of the earth. We have a cat, a magnificent154animal, of the sex which votes (but not a pole-cat),—solarge and powerful that, if he were in the army, he wouldbe called Long Tom. He is a cat of fine disposition, themost irreproachable morals I ever saw thrown away in acat, and a splendid hunter. He spends his nights, not insocial 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 isa reasonable cat, and understands pretty much everythingexcept the binomial theorem and the time down thecycloidal arc. But with no effect. The killing of birdswent on to my great regret and shame.

The other day I went to my garden to get a mess ofpeas. I had seen, the day before, that they were just readyto pick. How I had lined the ground, planted, hoed,bushed them! The bushes were very fine—seven feethigh, and of good wood. How I had delighted in thegrowing, the blowing, the podding! What a touchingthought it was that they had all podded for me! When Iwent to pick them, I found the pods all split open, and thepeas gone. The dear little birds, who are so fond of thestrawberries, had eaten them all. Perhaps there were left asmany as I planted: I did not count them. I made a rapidestimate of the cost of the seed, the interest of the ground,the price of labour, the value of the bushes, the anxiety ofweeks of watchfulness. I looked about me on the face ofNature. The wind blew from the south so soft andtreacherous! A thrush sang in the woods so deceitfully!All Nature seemed fair. But who was to give me backmy peas? The fowls of the air have peas; but what hasman?

I went into the house. I called Calvin (that is thename of our cat, given him on account of his gravity,morality, and uprightness. We never familiarly call him155John). I petted Calvin. I lavished upon him an enthusiasticfondness. I told him that he had no fault; that theone action that I had called a vice was an heroic exhibitionof regard for my interests. I bade him go and do likewisecontinually. I now saw how much better instinct is thanmere unguided reason. Calvin knew. If he had put hisopinion into English (instead of his native catalogue), itwould have been: “You need not teach your grandmotherto suck eggs.” It was only the round of Nature. Theworms eat a noxious something in the ground. The birdseat the worms. Calvin eats the birds. We eat—no, we donot eat Calvin. There the chain stops. When you ascendthe scale of being, and come to an animal that is, likeourselves, inedible, you have arrived at a result where youcan rest. Let us respect the cat, he completes an ediblechain.

I have little heart to discuss methods of raising peas. Itoccurs to me that I can have an iron pea-bush, a sort oftrellis, through which I could discharge electricity at frequentintervals, and electrify the birds to death when theyalight; for they stand upon my beautiful bush, in order topick out the peas. An apparatus of this kind, with anoperator, would cost, however, about as much as the peas.A neighbour suggests that I might put up a scarecrow nearthe vines, which would keep the birds away. I am doubtfulabout it: the birds are too much accustomed to seeinga person in poor clothes in the garden to care much forthat. Another neighbour suggests that the birds do notopen the pods; that a sort of blast, apt to come after rain,splits the pods, and the birds then eat the peas. It may beso. There seems to be complete unity of action betweenthe blast and the birds. But good neighbours, kind friends,I desire that you will not increase, by talk, a disappointmentwhich you cannot assuage.

Charles Dudley Warner.

Charles Graham Halpin.

CAT-FISHING.

MANY and ingenious are the remedies that have beenproposed for nocturnal cats, but none of them seemto have proved thoroughly successful. It was pointed outnot very long ago that the extirpation of all fences whichrun in a direction parallel, or nearly parallel, with theEquator, would exempt cats from electrical difficulties intheir internal organs, and would thus hush the cries thatnow render night hideous; but there is a practical difficultyin dispensing with these fences. Another remedy, which isa certain cure for nocturnal cats, is suggested by the factthat cats cannot live at a greater elevation than 13,000 feetabove the sea. If we build our back fences 13,500 feethigh, not a cat will scale their lofty summits; but the labourand expense of constructing fences of this height would beso great as to forbid their erections by persons with smallincomes. Mere palliatives, such as bootjacks and lumps159of coal, never accomplished any lasting benefits; they maydiscourage an occasional cat, but his place will instantly befilled. With all their habitual caution, cats are bold, andwill often rush in where an average angel would fear totread. To deal effectually with them is a task which callsfor the highest form of inventive genius, combined withpatience and a reckless indifference to Mr. Bergh’s opinions.

The young man in West Thirty-fifth Street who latelyintroduced cat-fishing as a manly and beneficent sport, canscarcely be said to have devised an absolute specific forcats, but he has unquestionably contributed to lessen thenumber of cats in his immediate vicinity. Early last falla vast area of cats, accompanied with marked depressionof the spirits of the inhabitants of West Thirty-fifth Street,overspread that unfortunate region. After a thorough trialof most of the popular remedies, a young man residing onthe block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, and who maybe called—not necessarily for publication, but as a guaranteeof good faith—by the name of Thompson, hit upon the ideaof angling for cats. To the end of a strong blue-fish line heaffixed 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 firstcat that passed over the fence would investigate the bait,and finding it apparently free from fraud, would begin toeat it. A slight pull at the line would usually fix the hookin the cat’s mouth, and the angler would haul in his preyand knock it on the head. It frequently happened, however,that the cat would not be successfully “struck,” andwould escape and warn his associates to beware of concealedhooks. Moreover, the angler had his bait gorged,upon one occasion, by a tramp, who had climbed the fencewith a view to gaining access to the kitchen; and thoughthe game was successfully landed in the second-storey backroom, and, after being goffed with a sword-bayonet, he had160so much difficulty in subsequently disposing of the bodythat he dreaded a repetition of the incident. He thereforealtered his methods of angling, and adopted a modifiedstyle of fly-fishing.

This latter sport was carried on with the aid of a longbamboo fishing-pole. The hook was baited as before, butinstead 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 theintense self-conceit characteristic of his race, that it was asupernatural recognition of his extraordinary merits, andcould be fearlessly appropriated. In order to seize it hewas, of course, compelled to leap upwards, and it was veryseldom that he failed to hook himself. By this plan, notonly was the necessity of “striking” the cat obviated, butthe danger that the bait would be seized by tramps wasgreatly lessened, while the excitement and interest of thesport were increased.

The young man became greatly fascinated with his newoccupation, and having effected an arrangement with apopular French restaurant, was enabled to dispose of hisgame easily and profitably. On moonlight nights, whenthe late fall cats were in season, he often caught a stringof from three to four dozen during a single night,—manyof these weighing ten or fifteen pounds each. So few catsescaped after having once leaped at the bait, that nogeneral suspicion of the deadly nature of apparently aerialmeat was disseminated among the feline population of theneighbourhood. Before the winter was over cats hadbecome so scarce that the sportsman was seriously contemplatingthe necessity of artificially stocking the back fencesof Thirty-fifth Street, when an unfortunate accident broughthis beneficent occupation to a sudden end. An old gentleman,residing in a house in Thirty-sixth Street, the backyardof which adjoined the fence where the young man161practised his sport, noticed one evening that somethingattached to a string was dangling over his back fence. Ashe had a pretty daughter, he immediately suspected thatit was a surreptitious note, and stole softly out to seizeand confiscate it. Mounting on a barrel he clutchedthe supposed note, and was instantly hooked. The tacklewas strong, and he would perhaps have been landed hadnot the hook torn out when he was about forty feet fromthe ground. After he had recovered from his injuriescaused by the fall, and the weakness consequent uponthe amputation of his legs, he showed so much annoyanceat the so-called outrage which had been inflicted uponhim, that the young man, who was a person of most162delicate feelings, promised to give up cat-fishing. Ofcourse, had the old gentleman been thoroughly gaffed, hewould not have fallen, and perhaps the young man feltthat his failure to properly gaff him was an inexcusableerror, which really called for his graceful retirement fromcat-fishing.

This example ought to bear fruit. At a very smallexpense for tackle, any resident of this city who occupiesa back room can secure excellent sport, and at the sametime can render a great service to humanity by reducingthe number of cats. The sport ought speedily to becomea very popular one, and there can be but little doubt thatin time cat-fishing will rival trout-fishing in the estimationof American sportsmen.

W. L. Alden.

CAPTAIN STICK AND TONY.

OLD Captain Stick was a remarkably precise oldgentleman and conscientiously just man. He was,too, very methodical in his habits, one of which was tokeep an account in writing of the conduct of his servants,from day to day. It was a sort of account-current, and hesettled by it every Saturday afternoon. No one dreadedthese hebdomadal balancings more than Tony, the boy ofall-work, for the captain was generally obliged to write areceipt, for a considerable amount, across his shoulders.

One settling afternoon, the captain, accompanied byTony, was seen “toddling” down to the old stable, withhis little account book in one hand and a small rope in theother. After they had reached the “Bar of Justice,” andTony had been properly “strung up,” the captain proceededto state his accounts as follows:—

163“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, fivestripes.

“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 cowhideand remarked——“Now, Tony, you black scamp, whatsay you, you lazy villain, why I shouldn’t give you fifteenlashes across your back, as hard as I can draw?”

“Stop, ole mass,” said Tony; “dar’s de work in degarden, sir—dat ought to tek some off.”

“You black dog,” said the captain, “haven’t I given youthe proper credit of ten stripes for that? Come, come!”

“Please, ole massa,” said Tony, rolling his eyes aboutin agony of fright—“dar’s—you forgot—dar’s de scourinob de floor—ole missus say nebber been scour as goodbefore.”

“Soho, you saucy rascal,” quoth Captain Stick, “you’rebringing in more offsets, are you? Well, now, there!”Here the captain made an entry upon his book. “Youhave 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 dewhite boy and fetchin’ um to ole missus, what trow rock atde young duck.”

“That’s a fact,” said the captain; “the outrageous youngvagabond—that’s a fact, and I’ll give you credit of tenstripes for it. I wish you had brought him to me. Now,we’ll settle the balance.”

165“Bress de Lord, ole massa,” said Tony, “dat’s all.”Tony grinned extravagantly. The captain adjusted histortoise-shell spectacles with great exactness, held the bookclose to his eyes, and ascertained that the fact was as statedby Tony. He was not a little irritated.

“You swear off the account, you infernal rascal—youswear off the account, do you?”

“All de credit is fair, ole massa,” answered Tony.

“Yes, but”—said the disappointed captain—“but—but,”—stillthe captain was sorely puzzled how to give Tonya few licks anyhow; “but——” An idea popped into hishead.

“Where’s my costs, you incorrigible, abominable scoundrel?You want to swindle me, do you, out of my costs, youblack deceitful rascal? And,” added Captain Stick,chuckling as well at his own ingenuity as the perfect justiceof the sentence, “I enter judgment against you for costs—tenstripes,” and forthwith administered the stripes andsatisfied 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 keepout ob de ole stable, or, I’ll tell you what, dat judgmen’ forcoss make e back feel mighty warm, for true!”

Johnson T. Hooper.

ALITTLE bit of romance has just transpired to relievethe monotony of our metropolitan life. Old SamChoggins, whom the editor of this paper has so oftenpublicly thrashed, has returned from Mud Springs with ayoung wife. He is said to be very fond of her, and theway he came to get her was this:

Some time ago we courted her, but finding she was “onthe make” threw her off, after shooting her brother and twocousins. She vowed revenge, and promised to marry anyman who would horsewhip us. This Sam agreed to undertake,and she married him on that promise.

167We shall call on Sam to-morrow with our new shot-gun,and present our congratulations in the usual form.—HangtownGibbet.

There was considerable excitement in the street yesterday,owing to the arrival of Bust-Head Dave, formerly of thisplace, who came over on the stage from Pudding Springs.He was met at the hotel by Sheriff Knogg, who leaves alarge family, and whose loss will be universally deplored.

Dave walked down the street to the bridge, and itreminded one of old times to see the people go away as heheaved in view. It was not through any fear of the man,but from knowledge that he had made a threat (firstpublished in this paper) to clean out the town. Beforeleaving the place Dave called at our office to settle fora year’s subscription (invariably in advance), and wasinformed, through a chink in the logs, that he mightleave his dust in the tin cup at the well.

Dave is looking very much larger than at his last visitjust previous to the funeral of Judge Dawson. He left forInjun Hill at five o’clock amidst a good deal of shooting atrather long range, and there will be an election for sheriffas soon as a stranger can be found who will accept thehonour.—Yankee Flat Advertiser.

The superintendent of the May Davis Mine requests usto state that the custom of pitching Chinamen and Injunsdown the shaft will have to be stopped, as he has resumedwork in the mine. The old well-huck of Jo. Bowman’s isjust as good, and is more centrally located.—New JerusalemCourier.

A stranger wearing a stove-pipe hat arrived in townyesterday, putting up at the Nugget House. The boys arehaving a good time with that hat this morning, and thefuneral will take place at two o’clock.—Spanish Camp Flag.

168There 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 isto hang the Judge of the County Court.—Cow CountyOutcropper.

Ambrose Bierce (“Dod Grile”).

AN AVALANCHE OF DRUGS.

IHAVE been the victim of a somewhat singular persecutionfor several weeks past. When we came here tolive, Judge Pitman was partially bald. Somebody inducedhim to apply to his head a hair restorative made by aChicago man named Pulsifer. After using this liquid for afew months the judge was gratified to find that his hair had169returned; and as he naturally regarded the remedy withadmiration, he concluded that it would be simply fair togive expression to his feelings in some form. As I happenedto be familiar with all the facts of the case, the judgeinduced me to draw up a certificate affirming them overmy signature. This he mailed to Pulsifer. I have not yetceased to regret the weakness which permitted me to standsponsor for Judge Pitman’s hair. Of course, Pulsiferimmediately inserted the certificate, with my name andresidence 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 onrecord,” in the largest capital letters.

I have had faith in advertising since that time; andPulsifer had confidence in it too, for he wrote to me toknow what I would take to get him up a series of similarcertificates of cures performed by his other patent medicines.He had a Corn Salve which dragged a little in its sales, andhe was prepared to offer me a commission if I would writehim a strong letter to the effect that six or eight frightfulcorns had been eradicated from my feet with his admirablepreparation. He was in a position also to do somethinghandsome if I could describe a few miraculous cures thathad been effected by his Rheumatic Lotion, or if I wouldname certain ruined stomachs which had, as it were, beenborn again through the influence of Pulsifer’s Herb Bitters;and from the manner in which he wrote, I think he wouldhave taken me into partnership if I had consented to writean assurance that his Ready Relief had healed a bad leg ofeighteen years standing, and that I could never feel that myduty was honourably performed until he sent me a dozenbottles more for distribution among my friends whose legswere in that defective and tiresome condition. I wasobliged to decline Pulsifer’s generous offer.

I heard with singular promptness from other medical170men. Fillemup & Killem forwarded some of their HairTonic, with a request for me to try it on any bald headsI happened to encounter, and report. Doser & Co. senton two packages of their Capillary Pills, with a suggestionto the effect that if Pitman lost his hair again he wouldget it back finally by following the enclosed directions. Ialso heard from Brown & Bromley, the agents for Johnson’sScalp Awakener. They sent me twelve bottles for distributionamong my bald friends. Then Smith & Smithsonwrote to say that a cask of their Vesuvian Wash for the hairwould be delivered in my cellar by the Express Company;and a man called on me from Jones, Butler, & Co., witha proposition to pump out my vinegar barrel, and fill it withBalm of Peru for the gratuitous use of the afflicted in thevicinity.

But this persecution was simply unalloyed felicity whencompared with the suffering that came in other forms. Iwill not attempt to give the number of the letters I received.I cherish a conviction that the mail received at our post-officedoubled the first week after Judge Pitman’s cure wasannounced to a hairless world. I think every bald-headedman in the Tropic of Cancer must have written to me atleast twice upon the subject of Pulsifer’s Renovator andPitman’s hair. Persons dropped me a line to inquire ifPitman’s baldness was hereditary; and if so, if it came fromhis father’s or his mother’s side. One man, a phrenologist,sent on a plaster head mapped out into town-lots, witha suggestion that I should ink over the bumps that hadbeen barest and most fertile in the case of Pitman. Hesaid he had a little theory which he wanted to demonstrate.A man in San Francisco wrote to inquire if my Pitman wasthe same Pitman who came out to California in 1849 witha bald head; and if he was, would I try to collect twodollars Pitman had borrowed from him in that year? Thesuperintendent of a Sunday-school in Vermont forwarded171eight pages of foolscap covered with an argument supportingthe theory that it was impious to attempt to force hairto grow upon a head which had been made bald, because,although Elisha was bald, we find no record in theBible that he used renovator of any kind. He warnedPitman to beware of Absalom’s fate, and to avoid ridingmules 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.” Aparty in Kansas desired to know whether I thought Pulsifer’sRenovator could be used beneficially by a man who hadbeen scalped. Two men in New Jersey wrote, in a mannertotally irrelevant to the subject, to inquire if I could geteach of them a good hired girl.

I received a confidential letter from a man who waswilling to let me into a “good thing” if I had five hundreddollars cash capital. Mrs. Singerly, of Frankford, relatedthat she had shaved her dog, and shaved him too close, andshe would be relieved if I would inform her if the Renovatorwould make hair grow on a dog. A devoted mother inRhode Island said her little boy had accidentally dranka bottle of the stuff, and she would go mad unless I couldassure her that there was no danger of her child having hisstomach choked up with hair. And over eleven hundredboys inquired what effect the Renovator would have on thegrowth of whiskers which betrayed an inclination to stagnation.

But the visitors were a more horrible torment. Baldmen came to see me in droves. They persecuted me athome and abroad. If I went to church, the sexton wouldcall me out during the prayers to see a man in the vestibulewho wished to ascertain if Pitman merely bathed his heador rubbed the medicine in with a brush. When I went to aparty, some bald-headed miscreant would stop me in themidst of the dance to ask if Pitman’s hair began to grow in173the full of the moon or when it was new. While I wasbeing shaved, some one would bolt into the shop and insist,as the barber held me by the nose, upon knowing whetherPitman wore ventilators in his hat. If I attended a wedding,as likely as not a bare-headed outlaw would stand by me atthe altar and ask if Pitman ever slept in nightcaps; andmore than once I was called out of bed at night by wretcheswho wished to learn, before they left the town, if I thoughtit hurt the hair to part it behind.

It became unendurable. I issued orders to the servantsto admit to the house no man with a bald head. But thatvery day a stranger obtained admission to the parlour; andwhen I went down to see him, he stepped softly around,closed all the doors mysteriously, and asked me, in awhisper, if any one could hear us. Then he pulled offa wig; and handing me a microscope, he requested me toexamine his scalp and tell him if there was any hope. Isent him over to see Pitman; and I gloat over the fact thathe bored Pitman for two hours with his baldness.

I am sorry now that I ever wrote anything upon thesubject of his hair. A bald Pitman, I know, is less fascinatingthan a Pitman with hair; but rather than have sufferedthis misery, I would prefer a Pitman without an eye-winker,or fuzz enough on him to make a camel’s-hair pencil. ButI shall hardly give another certificate of cure in any event.If I should see a patent medicine man take a mummywhich died the year Joseph was sold into Egypt, and doseit until it kicked off its rags and danced the polka mazurkawhile it whistled the tune, I would die at the stake soonerthan acknowledge the miracle on paper. Pitman’s hairwinds me up as far as medical certificates are concerned.

A WILD cat was listening with rapt approval to themelody of distant hounds tracking a remote fox.

“Excellent! bravo!” she exclaimed at intervals. “Icould sit and listen all day to the like of that. I ampassionately fond of music. Ong core!”

Presently the tuneful sounds drew near, whereupon shebegan to fidget, ending by shinning up a tree, just as the dogsburst into view below her, and stifling their songs upon thebody of their victim before her eyes—which protruded.

“There is an indefinable charm,” said she—“a subtleand tender spell—a mystery—a conundrum, as it were—inthe sounds of an unseen orchestra. This is quite lostwhen the performers are visible to the audience. Distantmusic (if any) for your obedient servant!”

Ambrose Bierce (“Dod Grile.”)

NEVER spare the parson’s wine, nor the baker’s pudding.

A house without woman or firelight, is like a bodywithout 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.

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 notuncommon here. Sometimes, indeed, one unknown personbrings another equally unknown, to recommend him; andsometimes they recommend one another! As to thisgentleman, I must refer you to himself for his characterand merits, with which he is certainly better acquaintedthan I can possibly be. I recommend him, however, tothose civilities which every stranger, of whom one knows noharm, has a right to; and I request you will do him all thefavour that, on further acquaintance, you shall find him todeserve. I have the honour to be, etc.

Benjamin Franklin.

ECHO-SONG.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

COLONEL MULBERRY SELLERS was in his“library,” which was his “drawing-room,” and wasalso his “picture gallery,” and likewise his “workshop.”Sometimes he called it by one of these names, sometimesby another, according to occasion and circumstance.He was constructing what seemed to be some kind of afrail mechanical toy, and was apparently very much interestedin 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 nearby, contentedly knitting and thinking, with a cat asleep inher lap. The room was large, light, and had a comfortablelook—in fact, a home-like look—though the furniture wasof a humble sort, and not over-abundant, and the knick-knacksand things that go to adorn a living-room not plentyand not costly. But there were natural flowers, and therewas an abstract and unclassifiable something about the placewhich betrayed the presence in the house of somebody witha happy taste and an effective touch.

Even the deadly chromos on the walls were somehowwithout offence; in fact, they seemed to belong there, andto add an attraction to the room—a fascination, anyway; forwhoever got his eye on one of them was like to gaze and suffertill he died—you have seen that kind of pictures. Some ofthese terrors were landscapes, some libelled the sea, somewere ostensible portraits, all were crimes. All the portraitswere recognisable as dead Americans of distinction, and yet,through labelling, added by a daring hand, they were alldoing duty here as “Earls of Rossmore.” The newest onehad left the works as Andrew Jackson, but was doing itsbest now as “Simon Lathers Lord Rossmore, Present Earl.”On one wall was a cheap old railroad map of Warwickshire.180This had been newly labelled, “The Rossmore Estates.”On the opposite wall was another map, and this was themost imposing decoration of the establishment, and thefirst to catch a stranger’s attention, because of its great size.It had once borne simply the title SIBERIA; but now theword “FUTURE” had been written in front of that word.There were other additions, in red ink—many cities, withgreat populations set down, scattered over the vast countryat 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 astill more populous one, centrally located and marked“Capitol,” which bore the name “Freedomslovnaivenovich.”

The mansion—the Colonel’s usual name for the house—wasa rickety old two-storey frame of considerable size, whichhad been painted, some time or other, but had nearly forgottenit. It was away out in the ragged edge of Washington,and had once been somebody’s country place. It hada neglected yard around it, with a paling fence that neededstraightening 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,” wasthe principal one. One learned from the others that theColonel was a Materialiser, a Hypnotiser, a Mind-curedabbler, and so on. For he was a man who could alwaysfind things to do.

A white-headed negro man, with spectacles and damagedwhite cotton gloves, appeared in the presence, made astately obeisance, and announced—

“Marse Washington Hawkins, suh.”

“Great Scott! Show him in, Dan’l, show him in.”

The Colonel and his wife were on their feet in a moment,and the next moment were joyfully wringing the hands of astoutish, discouraged-looking man, whose general aspect182suggested that he was fifty years old, but whose hair sworeto a hundred.

“Well, well, well, Washington, my boy, it is good tolook at you again. Sit down, sit down, and make yourselfat 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 lookedif 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, andoh, the changes that——”

There was a sudden catch of her voice and a trembling ofthe lip, the men waiting reverently for her to get commandof herself and go on; but, after a little struggle, she turnedaway 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. Butbanish care, it’s no time for it now—on with the dance, letjoy be unconfided, is my motto—whether there’s any danceto dance or any joy to unconfide, you’ll be the healthier forit every time—every time, Washington—it’s my experience,and I’ve seen a good deal of this world. Come, where haveyou disappeared to all these years, and are you from therenow, 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 apretty strong term for ’dobies and jackass rabbits, boiledbeans and slap-jacks, depression, withered hopes, poverty inall its varieties——”

183“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 theGovernment. Make yourself perfectly easy—I’ll take careof 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 comeout and tell me what it is? What do you want to be soreserved 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 achance to——”

“Now, look here, old friend, I know the human race;and I know that when a man comes to Washington, I don’tcare if it’s from heaven, let alone Cherokee Strip, it’sbecause he wants something. And I know that as a rulehe’s not going to get it; that he’ll stay and try for anotherthing and won’t get that; the same luck with the next andthe next and the next; and keeps on till he strikes bottom,and is too poor and ashamed to go back, even to CherokeeStrip; and at last his heart breaks and they take up acollection and bury him. There—don’t interrupt me, Iknow what I’m talking about. Happy and prosperous inthe Far West, wasn’t I? You know that. Principalcitizen of Hawkeye, looked up to by everybody, kind of anautocrat, actually a kind of an autocrat, Washington.Well, nothing would do but I must go as Ministerto St. James’s, the Governor and everybody insisting,you know, and so at last I consented—no getting outof it, had to do it, so here I came. A day too late,184Washington. Think of that—what little things change theworld’s history—yes, sir, the place had been filled. Well,there I was, you see. I offered to compromise and go toParis. The President was very sorry and all that, but thatplace, you see, didn’t belong to the West, so there I wasagain. There was no help for it, so I had to stoop a little—weall reach the day some time or other when we’ve gotto do that, Washington, and it’s not a bad thing for us,either, take it by and large all around—I had to stoop alittle and offer to take Constantinople, Washington, considerthis—for it’s perfectly true—within a month I askedfor China; within another month I begged for Japan; oneyear later I was away down, down, down, supplicating withtears and anguish for the bottom office in the gift of theGovernment of the United States—Flint-picker in the cellarsof 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 weresupplied from the capitol. They do it yet; for althoughthe 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 Ticonderogaand others used to stand still get their six quarts ofgun-flints a year just the same.”

Washington said musingly after a pause:

“How strange it seems—to start for Minister to Englandat twenty thousand a year and fail for flint-picker at——”

“Three dollars a week. It’s human life, Washington—justan epitome of human ambition, and struggle, and theoutcome; you aim for the palace and get drowned in thesewer.”

There was another meditative silence. Then Washingtonsaid, with earnest compassion in his voice—

“And so, after coming here, against your inclination, to185satisfy your sense of patriotic duty and appease a selfishpublic 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 Memberand the only Perpetual Member of a Diplomatic Bodyaccredited to the greatest country on earth—do you callthat nothing?”

It was Washington’s turn to be amazed. He wasstricken dumb; but the wide-eyed wonder, the reverentadmiration expressed in his face, were more eloquent thanany words could have been. The Colonel’s woundedspirit was healed, and he resumed his seat, pleased andcontent. He leaned forward and said, impressively—

“What was due to a man who had become for everconspicuous by an experience without precedent in thehistory of the world?—a man made permanently anddiplomatically sacred, so to speak, by having been connected,temporarily, through solicitation, with every singlediplomatic post in the roster of this government, fromEnvoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to theCourt of St. James all the way down to Consul to a guanorock in the Straits of Sunda—salary payable in guano—whichdisappeared by volcanic convulsion the day beforethey got down to my name in the list of applicants.Certainly something august enough to be answerable to thesize of this unique and memorable experience was my due,and I got it. By the common voice of this community, byacclamation of the people, that mighty utterance whichbrushes aside laws and legislation, and from whose decreesthere is no appeal, I was named Perpetual Member of theDiplomatic Body, representing the multifarious sovereigntiesand civilisations of the globe near the republican courtof the United States of America. And they brought mehome with a torchlight procession.”

186“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 downtheir arms.”

“It is awful. The responsibility, I mean.”

“It is nothing. Responsibility is no burden to me; Iam used to it; have always been used to it.”

“And the work—the work! Do you have to attend allthe sittings?”

“Who, I? Does the Emperor of Russia attend theconclaves of the governors of the provinces? He sits athome and indicates his pleasure.”

Washington was silent a moment, then a deep sighescaped him.

“How proud I was an hour ago; how paltry seems mylittle promotion now! Colonel, the reason I came toWashington is—I am Congressional Delegate fromCherokee Strip!”

The Colonel sprang to his feet and broke out withprodigious enthusiasm—

“Give me your hand, my boy—this is immense news!I congratulate you with all my heart. My propheciesstand confirmed. I always said it was in you. I alwayssaid you were born for high distinction and would achieveit. 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, lostin the remote wastes of the vast continent—why, it’s likerepresenting a billiard table—a discarded one.”

“Tut-tut, it’s a great, it’s a staving preferment, and justopulent with influence here.”

187“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 evena territory, there’s no Organic Act, the government hasn’tany official knowledge of us whatever.”

“Never mind about that; I’ll fix that. I’ll rush thething through, I’ll get you organised in no time.”

“Will you, Colonel?—it’s too good of you; but it’s justyour 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, andwe’ll make things hum!”

Samuel L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”).

THE OWL-CRITIC.

Jas. T. Fields.

Columbus, O.,

June the 21, ’62.

I WUZ onto my way to Columbus to attend the annooalgatherin uv the fatheful at that city, a dooty I hevreligusly performed fer over 30 yeres. Ther wuz butwun seet vakent in the car, and onto that I sot down.Presently a gentleman carryin uv a karpit bag, sot downbeside me, and we towunst commenst conversashen. Afterdiscussin the crops, the wether, et settry, I askt wher heresided.

“In Oberlin,” sez he.

192“Oberlin!” shreekt I. “Oberlin! wher Ablishnismruns rampant—wher a nigger is 100 per cent. betterner a white man—wher a mulatto is a obgik uv pitty onaccount uv hevin white blood. Oberlin! that stonest theDimekratik prophets, and woodent be gathered underVallandygum’s wings as a hen hawk gathereth chickens, atno price—Oberlin, that gives all the profits uv her collegeto the support uv the underground ralerode——”

“But,” sez he.

“Oberlin,” continyood I, “that reskoos niggers, and setsat defians the benifisent laws fer takin on em back to theirkind and hevenly-minded masters—Oberlin——”

“My jentle frend,” sez he, “Oberlin don’t do nuthin uvthe kind. Yoo’ve bin misinformed. Oberlin respex thelaws, and hez now a body uv her galyent sons in the feeld afightin to manetane the Constooshn.”

“A fightin to manetane the Constooshn,” retordid I.“My frend” (and I spoke impressively), “no Oberlin manis a doin any sich thing. Oberlin never fit for no Constooshn.Oberlin commenst this war, Oberlin wuz theprime cause uv all the trubble. Wat wuz the beginnin uvit. Our Suthrin brethrin wantid the territories—Oberlinobjectid. They wantid Kansas fer ther blessid instooshn—Oberlinagin objecks. They sent colonies with muskitsand sich, to hold the terrytory—Oberlin sent 2 thowsandarmed with Bibles and Sharp’s rifles—two instooshnsDimocrisy cood never stand afore—and druv em out.They wantid Breckinridge fer President—Oberlin refusedand elektid Linkin. Then they seceded, and why is it thatthey still hold out?”

He made no anser.

“Becoz,” continyood I, transfixin him with my penetratingaze, “Oberlin won’t submit. We mite 2-day hevpeese, ef Oberlin wood say to Linkin, ‘Resine!’ and toGeff Davis, ‘Come up higher!’ When I say Oberlin,193understand it ez figgerative fer the entire Ablishn party, uvwich Oberlin is the fountin hed. There’s wher the trubbleis. Our Suthern brethren wuz reasonable. So long ez thedimocrisy controld things, and they got all they wanted,they wuz peeceable. Oberlin ariz—the dimocrisy wuz beetdown, and they riz up agin it.”

Jest eggsactly 80-six yeres ago, akordin to Jaynesesalmanac, a work wich I perooz annually with grate delite,the Amerykin Eagle (whose portrate any wun who possessisa 5 cent peece kin behold) wuz born, the Goddis uvLiberty bein its muther, the Spirit uv Freedom its sire,Tomas Gefferson actin ez physician on the occasion. Theproud bird growd ez tho it slept on guano—its left wingdipt into the Pasific, its rite into the Atlantic, its beekthretened Kanady, while his magestik tale cast a shadderore the Gulf. Sich wuz the Eagle up to March, ’61. Watis 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 hedthrived on the diet. Oberlin got the keepin uv him—shewithholds his nateral food—and onless Oberlin is whaledthis fall, down goes the Eagle.

Petroleum V. Nasby.

AN ECONOMICAL PROJECT.

MESSIEURS,—You often entertain us with accounts ofnew discoveries. Permit me to communicate to thepublic, through your paper, one that has lately been madeby myself, and which I conceive may be of great utility.

I was the other evening in a grand company, where thenew lamp of Messrs. Quinquet and Lange was introduced194and much admired for its splendour; but a general inquirywas made, whether the oil it consumed was not in proportionto the light it afforded, in which case there would beno saving in the use of it. No one present could satisfy usin that point, which all agreed ought to be known, it beinga very desirable thing to lessen, if possible, the expense oflighting our apartments, when every other article of familyexpense 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 accidentalsudden noise waked me about six in the morning, whenI was surprised to find my room filled with light; and Iimagined at first that a number of those lamps had beenbrought into it; but, rubbing my eyes, I perceived the lightcame in at the windows. I got up and looked out to seewhat might be the occasion of it, when I saw the sun justrising above the horizon, from whence he poured his raysplentifully into my chamber, my domestic having negligentlyomitted, the preceding evening, to close the shutters.

I looked at my watch, which goes very well, and found thatit was but six o’clock; and still thinking it something extraordinarythat the sun should rise so early, I looked into thealmanac, where I found it to be the hour given for his risingon that day. I looked forward, too, and found he was to risestill earlier every day till towards the end of June; and thatat no time in the year he retarded his rising so long as tilleight o’clock. Your readers who, with me, have never seenany signs of sunshine before noon, and seldom regarded theastronomical part of the almanac, will be as much astonishedas I was, when they hear of his rising so early, and especiallywhen I assure them, that he gives light as soon as he rises.I am convinced of this. I am certain of my fact. Onecannot be more certain of any fact. I saw it with my own195eyes. And, having repeated this observation the threefollowing mornings, I found always precisely the sameresult.

Yet so it happens that when I speak of this discovery toothers, I can easily perceive by their countenances, thoughthey forbear expressing it in words, that they do not quitebelieve me. One, indeed, who is a learned naturalphilosopher, has assured me that I must certainly bemistaken as to the circumstance of the light coming into myroom; for it being well known, as he says, that there couldbe no light abroad at that hour, it follows that none couldenter from without, and that of consequence, my windowsbeing accidentally left open, instead of letting in the light,had only served to let out the darkness; and he used manyingenious arguments to show me how I might, by thatmeans, have been deceived. I owned that he puzzled mea little, but he did not satisfy me; and the subsequentobservations I made, as above mentioned, confirmed me inmy first opinion.

This event has given rise in my mind to several seriousand important reflections. I consider that if I had notbeen awakened so early in the morning I should have sleptsix hours longer by the light of the sun, and in exchangehave lived six hours the following night by candle-light; andthe latter being a much more expensive light than theformer, my love of economy induced me to muster up whatlittle 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, andthat a discovery which can be applied to no use, or is notgood for something, is good for nothing.

I took for the basis of my calculation the suppositionthat there are 100,000 families in Paris, and that thesefamilies consume in the night half a pound of bougies, orcandles, per hour. I think this is a moderate allowance,197taking one family with another; for though I believe someconsume less, I know that many consume a great dealmore. Then estimating seven hours per day, as themedium quantity between the time of the sun’s rising andours, he rising during the six following months from six toeight hours before noon, and there being seven hours ofcourse per night in which we burn candles, the account willstand thus:—

An immense sum! that the city of Paris might saveevery year, by the economy of using sunshine instead ofcandles.

If it should be said that people are apt to be obstinatelyattached to old customs, and that it will be difficult toinduce them to rise before noon, consequently my discoverycan be of little use; I answer, Nil desperandum. I believeall who have common sense, as soon as they havelearned from this paper that it is daylight when the sunrises, 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 every198window that is provided with shutters to keep out the lightof the sun.

Second. Let the same salutary operation of police bemade use of, to prevent our burning candles, that inclinedus last winter to be more economical in burning wood; thatis, let guards be placed in the shops of the wax and tallowchandlers, and no family be permitted to be supplied withmore 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 ofphysicians, surgeons, and midwives.

Fourth. Every morning, as soon as the sun rises, let allthe bells in every church be set ringing; and if that is notsufficient, let cannon be fired in every street, to wake thesluggards effectually, and make them open their eyes to seetheir true interest.

All the difficulty will be in the first two or three days,after which the reformation will be as natural and easy asthe 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 morethan probable he will go willingly to bed at eight in theevening; and, having had eight hours sleep, he will rise morewillingly at four in the morning following. But this sumof ninety-six millions and seventy-five thousand livres is notthe whole of what may be saved by my economical project.You may observe that I have calculated upon only one-half ofthe year, and much may be saved in the other, though the daysare shorter. Besides, the immense stock of wax and tallowleft unconsumed during the summer will probably makecandles much cheaper for the ensuing winter, and continuethem cheaper as long as the proposed reformation shall besupported.

For the great benefit of this discovery, thus freely communicatedand bestowed by me on the public, I demandneither place, pension, exclusive privilege, nor any other199reward whatever. I expect only to have the honour of it.And yet I know there are little envious minds who will, asusual, deny me this, and say that my invention was knownto the ancients, and perhaps they may bring passages out ofold books in proof of it. I will not dispute with thesepeople that the ancients knew not the sun would rise atcertain hours—they possibly had, as we have, almanacsthat predicted it—but it does not follow thence that theyknew he gave light as soon as he rose. This is what I claimas my discovery. If the ancients knew it, it might havebeen long since forgotten, for it certainly was unknown tothe moderns, at least to the Parisians, which to prove Ineed use but one plain, simple argument. They are as wellinstructed, judicious, and prudent a people as exist anywherein the world, all professing, like myself, to be lovers ofeconomy; and, from the many heavy taxes required fromthem by the necessities of the state, have surely an abundantreason to be economical. I say it is impossible that sosensible a people, under such circumstances, should havelived so long by the smoky, unwholesome, and enormouslyexpensive light of candles, if they had really known thatthey might have had as much pure light of the sun fornothing.

Benjamin Franklin.

MISS MEHETABEL’S SON.

A MAN with a passion for bric-à-brac is always stumblingover antique bronzes, intaglios, mosaics, and daggersof the time of Benvenuto Cellini; the bibliophile findscreamy vellum folios and rare Alduses and Elzevirs waitingfor him at unsuspected bookstalls; the numismatist has butto stretch forth his palm to have priceless coins drop intoit. My own weakness is odd people, and I am constantly200encountering them. It was plain I had unearthed a coupleof very queer specimens at Bayley’s Four Corners. I sawthat a fortnight afforded me too brief an opportunity todevelop the richness of both, and I resolved to devote myspare time to Mr. Jaffrey alone, instinctively recognising inhim an unfamiliar species.

My professional work in the vicinity of Greenton left myevenings and occasionally an afternoon unoccupied; theseintervals I purposed to employ in studying and classifyingmy fellow-boarder. It was necessary, as a preliminary step,to learn something of his previous history, and to this endI 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 donot want to seem inquisitive, but your friend Mr. Jaffreydropped a remark this morning at breakfast which—whichwas 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 conversationto 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 fortytimes. Old Elkin’s daughter over at K——, she’d havehad him quick enough. Seven years off and on, he keptcompany 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 allof a heap,—and that’s all about it.”

Obviously Mr. Sewell did not intend to tell me anything201more, and obviously there was more to tell. Thetopic was plainly disagreeable to him for some reason orother, and that unknown reason of course piqued mycuriosity.

As I had been absent from dinner and supper that day,I did not meet Mr. Jaffrey again until the following morningat breakfast. He had recovered his bird-like manner, andwas full of a mysterious assassination that had just takenplace in New York, all the thrilling details of which were athis fingers’ ends. It was at once comical and sad to seethis harmless old gentleman, with his naïve, benevolentcountenance, and his thin hair flaming up in a semicirclelike the foot-lights at a theatre, revelling in the intricacies ofthe unmentionable deed.

“You come up to my room to-night,” he cried withhorrid 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 detectivehimself who fired the three pistol-shots.”

It was not so much the desire to have this pointelucidated as to make a closer study of Mr. Jaffrey thatled me to accept his invitation.

Mr. Jaffrey’s bedroom was in an L of the building, andwas in no way noticeable except for the numerous files ofnewspapers neatly arranged against the blank spaces of thewalls, and a huge pile of old magazines which stood in onecorner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and threateningeach instant to topple over like the Leaning Tower at Pisa.There were green paper shades at the windows, some fadedchintz valances about the bed, and two or three easy-chairscovered with chintz. On a black walnut shelf between thewindows lay a choice collection of meerschaum and brierwoodpipes.

Filling one of the chocolate-coloured bowls for me, andanother for himself, Mr. Jaffrey began prattling; but notabout the murder, which appeared to have flown out of his202mind. In fact, I do not remember that the topic was eventouched upon, either then or afterwards.

“Cosy nest this,” said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacentlyover the apartment. “What is more cheerful, now, in thefall of the year, than an open wood-fire? Do you hearthose little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece ofapple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins andbluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossomlast spring. In summer whole flocks of them come flutteringabout the fruit trees under the window; so I havesinging 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 greatintellectual 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 mygrain business over at K——, thirteen years ago, and settledown at the Corners. When a man has made a competency,what does he want more? Besides, at that time an eventoccurred which destroyed any ambition I may have had,—Mehetabeldied.”

“The lady you were engaged to?”

“N-o, not precisely engaged. I think it was quiteunderstood between us, though nothing had been saidon the subject. Typhoid,” added Mr. Jaffrey, in a lowtone.

For several minutes he smoked in silence, a vague,troubled look playing over his countenance. Presently thispassed away, and he fixed his grey eyes speculatively uponmy 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 pipeon my knee, dropped into an attitude of attention.

203“If I had married Mehetabel, you know, we should havehad—ahem!—a family.”

“Very likely,” I assented, vastly amused at this unexpectedturn.

“A boy!” exclaimed Mr. Jaffrey, explosively.

“By all means, certainly, a son.”

“Great trouble about naming the boy. Mehetabel’sfamily want him named Elkanah Elkins, after her grandfather;I want him named Andrew Jackson. We compromiseby christening him Elkanah Elkins Andrew JacksonJaffrey. 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. Somewhatfractious at first,—colic and things. I suppose it isright, or it wouldn’t be so; but the usefulness of measles,mumps, croup, whooping-cough, scarlatina, and fits is notvisible to the naked eye. I wish Andy would be a modelinfant, 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 inmy line to assist at the births of infants, imaginary orotherwise. I pulled away vigorously at the pipe and saidnothing.

“What large blue eyes he has,” resumed Mr. Jaffrey, aftera pause; “just like Hetty’s; and the fair hair, too, likehers. How oddly certain distinctive features are handeddown in families! sometimes a mouth, sometimes a turn ofthe eyebrow. Wicked little boys, over at K——, have nowand then derisively advised me to follow my nose. Itwould be an interesting thing to do. I should find mynose flying about the world, turning up unexpectedly hereand there, dodging this branch of the family and reappearing204in that, now jumping over one great-grandchild to fastenitself 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 littlething,” he cried, with a sudden, indescribable tenderness,“to lose his mother so early!”

And Mr. Jaffrey’s head sunk upon his breast, and hisshoulders slanted forward, as if he were actually bendingover the cradle of the child.

The whole gesture and attitude was so natural that itstartled me. The pipe slipped from my fingers and fell tothe floor.

“Hush!” whispered Mr. Jaffrey, with a deprecatingmotion of his hand. “Andy’s asleep!”

He rose softly from the chair, and, walking across theroom on tiptoe, drew down the shade at the window throughwhich the moonlight was streaming. Then he returned tohis seat, and remained gazing with half-closed eyes into thedrooping 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 quarterof an hour afterwards, when I wished him good-night andwithdrew, I do not think he noticed my departure. I amnot what is called a man of imagination; it is my habit toexclude most things not capable of mathematical demonstration;but I am not without a certain psychologicalinsight, 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, mighttake refuge in some forlorn place like this old tavern, anddream his life away. To such a man—brooding for everon what might have been, and dwelling only in the realm ofhis fancies—the actual world might indeed become as adream, and nothing seem real but his illusions.

205I daresay that thirteen years of Bayley’s Four Cornerswould have its effect upon me; though instead of conjuring upgolden-haired children of the Madonna, I should probably seegnomes and kobolds and goblins engaged in hoisting falsesignals 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 nowimpossible child is a great comfort to the old gentleman,—agreater comfort, perhaps, than a real son would be.Maybe Andy will vanish with the shades and mists ofnight, he’s such an unsubstantial infant; but if he doesn’t,and Mr. Jaffrey finds pleasure in talking to me about hisson, I shall humour the old fellow. It wouldn’t be aChristian act to knock over his harmless fancy.”

I was very impatient to see if Mr. Jaffrey’s illusion wouldstand the test of daylight. It did. Elkanah Elkins AndrewJackson Jaffrey was, so to speak, alive and kicking the nextmorning. On taking his seat at the breakfast-table, Mr.Jaffrey whispered to me that Andy had had a comfortablenight.

206“Silas!” said Mr. Sewell, sharply, “what are you whisperingabout?”

Mr. Sewell was in an ill humour; perhaps he was jealousbecause I had passed the evening in Mr. Jaffrey’s room;but surely Mr. Sewell could not expect his boarders to goto bed at eight o’clock every night, as he did. Fromtime to time during the meal Mr. Sewell regarded meunkindly out of the corner of his eye, and in helpingme to the parsnips he poniarded them with quite asuggestive air. All this, however, did not prevent me fromrepairing to the door of Mr. Jaffrey’s snuggery when nightcame.

“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 silverdollar. Standing reward for first tooth.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to express surprise thatan infant a day old should cut a tooth, when I suddenlyrecollected that Richard III. was born with teeth.

Feeling myself to be on unfamiliar ground, I suppressedmy criticism. It was well I did so, for in the next breath Iwas advised that half a year had elapsed since the previousevening.

“Andy’s had a hard six months of it,” said Mr. Jaffrey,with the well-known narrative air of fathers. “We’vebrought 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 theold gentleman’s tragic end.

Mr. Jaffrey then went on to give me a history of Andy’sfirst six months, omitting no detail however insignificant orirrelevant. This history I would in turn inflict upon thereader, if I were only certain that he is one of those dreadfulparents who, under the ægis of friendship, bore you at a207street-corner with that remarkable thing which Freddy saidthe other day, and insist on singing to you at an eveningparty the Iliad of Tommy’s woes.

But to inflict this enfantillage upon the unmarried readerwould be an act of wanton cruelty. So I pass over thatpart of Andy’s biography, and, for the same reason, makeno record of the next four or five interviews I had with Mr.Jaffrey. It will be sufficient to state that Andy glided fromextreme infancy to early youth with astonishing celerity,—atthe 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 areality to me than to Mr. Jaffrey.

At first I had lent myself to the old dreamer’s whim witha keen perception of the humour of the thing; but by-and-byI found I was talking and thinking of Miss Mehetabel’sson as though he were a veritable personage. Mr. Jaffreyspoke of the child with such an air of conviction!—as ifAndy were playing among his toys in the next room, ormaking mud-pies down in the yard. In these conversations,it should be observed, the child was never supposed to bepresent, except on that single occasion when Mr. Jaffreyleaned over the cradle. After one of our séances I wouldlie awake until the small hours, thinking of the boy, and thenfall asleep only to have indigestible dreams about him.Through the day, and sometimes in the midst of complicatedcalculations, I would catch myself wondering whatAndy was up to now! There was no shaking him off; hebecame an inseparable nightmare to me; and I felt that if Iremained much longer at Bayley’s Four Corners I shouldturn into just such another bald-headed, mild-eyed visionaryas Silas Jaffrey.

Then the tavern was a gruesome old shell anyway, fullof unaccountable noises after dark,—rustlings of garmentsalong unfrequented passages, and stealthy footfalls in208unoccupied chambers overhead. I never knew of an oldhouse without these mysterious noises.

Next to my bedroom was a musty, dismantled apartment,in one corner of which, leaning against the wainscot, was acrippled mangle, with its iron crank tilted in the air like theelbow of the late Mr. Clem Jaffrey. Sometimes,

I used to hear sounds as if some one were turning thatrusty crank on the sly. This occurred only on particularlycold nights, and I conceived the uncomfortable idea that itwas the thin family ghosts, from the neglected graveyard inthe cornfield, keeping themselves warm by running eachother through the mangle. There was a haunted air aboutthe whole place that made it easy for me to believe in theexistence of a phantasm like Miss Mehetabel’s son, who,after all, was less unearthly than Mr. Jaffrey himself, andseemed more properly an inhabitant of this globe than thetoothless ogre who kept the inn, not to mention the silentwitch of Endor that cooked our meals for us over the bar-roomfire.

In spite of the scowls and winks bestowed upon me byMr. Sewell, who let slip no opportunity to testify his disapprobationof the intimacy, Mr. Jaffrey and I spent allour evenings together—those long autumnal evenings,through the length of which he talked about the boy, layingout 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 hishands gleefully, as if it were a great joke, “Andy will findthat the old man has left him a pretty plum.”

“What do you think of having Andy enter West Pointwhen he’s old enough?” said Mr. Jaffrey, on another209occasion. “He needn’t necessarily go into the army whenhe graduates; he can become a civil engineer.”

This was a stroke of flattery so delicate and indirect, thatI could accept it without immodesty.

There had lately sprung up on the corner of Mr. Jaffrey’sbureau a small tin house, Gothic in architecture, and pinkin colour, with a slit in the roof, and the word “Bank”painted on one façade. Several times in the course of anevening Mr. Jaffrey would rise from his chair, withoutinterrupting the conversation, and gravely drop a nickelthrough the scuttle of the bank. It was pleasant toobserve the solemnity of his countenance as he approachedthe edifice, and the air of triumph with which he resumedhis seat by the fireplace. One night I missed the tin bank.It had disappeared, deposits and all. Evidently there hadbeen a defalcation on rather a large scale. I stronglysuspected that Mr. Sewell was at the bottom of it; but mysuspicion was not shared by Mr. Jaffrey, who, remarkingmy glance at the bureau, became suddenly depressed.“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I have failed to instil intoAndrew those principles of integrity—which—which——”And the old gentleman quite broke down.

Andy was now eight or nine years old, and for some timepast, if the truth must be told, had given Mr. Jaffrey noinconsiderable trouble. What with his impishness and hisillnesses, the boy led the pair of us a lively dance. I shallnot soon forget the anxiety of Mr. Jaffrey the night Andyhad the scarlet fever,—an anxiety which so affected me thatI actually returned to the tavern the following afternoonearlier than usual, dreading to hear the little spectre wasdead, and greatly relieved on meeting Mr. Jaffrey on thedoor-step with his face wreathed in smiles. When I spoketo him of Andy, I was made aware that I was inquiringinto a case of scarlet fever that had occurred the yearbefore!

210It was at this time, towards the end of my second weekat Greenton, that I noticed what was probably not a newtrait,—Mr. Jaffrey’s curious sensitiveness to atmosphericalchanges. He was as sensitive as a barometer. Theapproach of a storm sent his mercury down instantly.When the weather was fair he was hopeful and sunny, andAndy’s prospects were brilliant. When the weather wasovercast 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 hadbeen fixed for Monday, it had rained heavily all the afternoon,and that night Mr. Jaffrey was in an unusuallyexcitable and unhappy frame of mind. His mercury wasvery 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 anythingwith him.”

“He’ll come out all right, Mr. Jaffrey. Boys will beboys. I wouldn’t give a snap for a lad without animalspirits.”

“But animal spirits,” said Mr. Jaffrey, sententiously,“shouldn’t saw off the legs of the piano in Tobias’s bestparlour. I don’t know what Tobias will say when he findsit 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. “Hepledged me his word of honour that he would give over hisclimbing. The way that boy climbs sends a chill down myspine. This morning, notwithstanding his solemn promise,he shinned up the lightning-rod attached to the extension,211and sat astride the ridge-pole. I saw him, and he deniedit! When a boy you have caressed and indulged andlavished 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. Trainingand education are bound to tell in the end, and he has beenwell 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 toknow now. To-morrow he will be eleven years old.”

The reflection came to me that if Andy had not beenbrought up by the rod, he had certainly been brought upby the lightning. He was eleven years old in two weeks!

I essayed to tranquillise Mr. Jaffrey’s mind, and to givehim some practical hints on the management of youth, withthat perspicacious wisdom which seems to be the peculiarproperty 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 flashedupon me that in six months Andy would be a hundredand forty-three years old!—an age at which parental disciplinewould have to be relaxed.

The next morning, Sunday, the rain came down as ifdetermined to drive the quicksilver entirely out of my poorfriend. Mr. Jaffrey sat bolt upright at the breakfast-table,looking as woe-begone as a bust of Dante, and retired tohis chamber the moment the meal was finished. As theday advanced, the wind veered round to the north-east, andsettled itself down to work. It was not pleasant to think,and I tried not to think, what Mr. Jaffrey’s condition wouldbe if the weather did not mend its manners by noon; butso far from clearing off at noon, the storm increased inviolence, and as night set in the wind whistled in a spitefulfalsetto key, and the rain lashed the old tavern as if it were212a balky horse that refused to move on. The windowsrattled in the worm-eaten frames, and the doors of remoterooms, where nobody ever went, slammed-to in the maddestway. Now and then the tornado, sweeping down the sideof Mount Agamenticus, bowled across the open countryand struck the ancient hostelry point-blank.

Mr. Jaffrey did not appear at supper. I knew he wasexpecting me to come to his room as usual, and I turnedover in my mind a dozen plans to evade seeing him thatnight.

The landlord sat at the opposite side of the chimney-place,with his eye upon me. I fancy he was aware of theeffect of this storm on his other boarder; for at intervals,as the wind hurled itself against the exposed gable, threateningto burst in the windows, Mr. Sewell tipped me anatrocious wink, and displayed his gums in a way he hadnot done since the morning after my arrival at Greenton.I wondered if he suspected anything about Andy. Therehad been odd times during the past week when I felt convincedthat the existence of Miss Mehetabel’s son was nosecret to Mr. Sewell.

In deference to the gale, the landlord sat up half-an-hourlater than was his custom. At half-past eight he went tobed, remarking that he thought the old pile would stand tillmorning.

He had been absent only a few minutes when I heard arustling at the door. I looked up and beheld Mr. Jaffreystanding on the threshold, with his dress in disorder, hisscant 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 inthe red chamber and broken his neck!”

214Mr. Jaffrey threw up his hands with a gesture of despairand disappeared. I followed him through the hall, saw himgo into his own apartment, and heard the bolt of the doordrawn to. Then I returned to the bar-room and sat for anhour or two in the ruddy glow of the fire, brooding over thestrange experience of the last fortnight.

On my way to bed I paused at Mr. Jaffrey’s door, and, ina lull of the storm, the measured respiration within toldme that the old gentleman was sleeping peacefully.

Slumber was coy with me that night. I lay listening tothe soughing of the wind and thinking of Mr. Jaffrey’sillusion. It had amused me at first with its grotesqueness;but now the poor little phantom was dead. I was consciousthat there had been something pathetic in it all along.Shortly after midnight the wind sunk down, coming andgoing fainter and fainter, floating around the eaves of thetavern with a gentle, murmurous sound, as if it were turningitself into soft wings to bear away the spirit of a littlechild.

Perhaps nothing that happened during my stay at Bayley’sFour Corners took me so completely by surprise as Mr.Jaffrey’s radiant countenance the next morning. The morningitself was not fresher or sunnier. His round faceliterally shone with geniality and happiness. His eyestwinkled like diamonds, and the magnetic light of his hairwas turned on full. He came into my room while I waspacking my valise. He chirped and prattled and carolled,and was sorry I was going away,—but never a word aboutAndy. However, the boy had probably been dead severalyears then!

The open waggon that was to carry me to the stationstood at the door; Mr. Sewell was placing my case of instrumentsunder the seat, and Mr. Jaffrey had gone up to hisroom to get me a certain newspaper containing an account215of a remarkable shipwreck on the Auckland Islands. Itook the opportunity to thank Mr. Sewell for his courtesiesto me, and to express my regret at leaving him and Mr.Jaffrey.

“I have become very much attached to Mr. Jaffrey,” Isaid; “he is a most interesting person; but that hypotheticalboy of his, that son of Miss Mehetabel’s——”

“Yes, I know!” interrupted Mr. Sewell, testily, “fell offa step-ladder and broke his dratted neck. Eleven year old,wasn’t he? Always does, jest at that point. Next weekSilas will begin the whole thing over again if he can getanybody to listen to him.”

“I see; our amiable friend is a little queer on thatsubject.”

Mr. Sewell glanced cautiously over his shoulder, and,tapping himself significantly on the forehead, said in a lowvoice—

“Room to let. Unfurnished!”

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

“SAY, are you a Mason, or a Nodfellow, or anything?”asked the bad boy of the grocery man, as he went tothe cinnamon bag on the shelf and took out a long stick ofcinnamon bark to chew.

“Why, yes, of course I am; but what set you to thinkingof that?” asked the grocery man, as he went to thedesk and charged the boy’s father with a half-pound ofcinnamon.

“Well, do the goats bunt when you nishiate a freshcandidate?”

“No, of course not. The goats are cheap ones, thathave no life, and we muzzle them, and put pillows overtheir heads, so they can’t hurt anybody,” says the groceryman, as he winked at a brother Oddfellow who was seatedon a sugar barrel, looking mysterious. “But why do youask?”

217“Oh, nothin’, only I wish me and my chum had muzzledour goat with a pillow. Pa would have enjoyed his becominga member of our lodge better. You see, Pa hadbeen telling us how much good the Masons and Oddfellersdid, and said we ought to try and grow up good sowe could jine the lodges when we got big; and I asked Paif it would do any hurt for us to have a play lodge in myroom, and purtend to nishiate, and Pa said it wouldn’t doany hurt. He said it would improve our minds and learnus to be men. So my chum and me borried a goat thatlives in a livery stable. Say, did you know they keepa goat in a livery stable so the horses won’t get sick?They get used to the smell of the goat, and after thatnothing can make them sick but a glue factory. You seemy chum and me had to carry the goat up to my roomwhen Ma and Pa was out riding, and he blatted so we hadto tie a handkerchief around his nose, and his feet madesuch a noise on the floor that we put some baby’s socks onhis hoofs.

“Well, my chum and me practised with that goat untilhe could bunt the picture of a goat every time. Weborried a bock beer sign from a saloon man and hung iton the back of a chair, and the goat would hit it everytime. That night Pa wanted to know what we were doingup in my room, and I told him we were playing lodge, andimproving our minds; and Pa said that was right, therewas nothing that did boys of our age half so much goodas to imitate men, and store by useful nollidge. Then mychum asked Pa if he didn’t want to come up and take thegrand bumper degree, and Pa laffed and said he didn’tcare if he did, just to encourage us boys in innocent pastimethat was so improving to our intellex. We had shutthe goat up in a closet in my room, and he had got overblatting; so we took off the handkerchief, and he waseating some of my paper collars and skate straps. We218went upstairs, and told Pa to come up pretty soon andgive three distinct raps, and when we asked him who comesthere he must say, ‘A pilgrim, who wants to join yourancient order and ride the goat.’ Ma wanted to comeup, too, but we told her if she come in it would breakup 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 inyour Mason’s lodge you sprinkle a little kyan pepper on thegoat’s beard just afore you turn him loose. You can getthree times as much fun to the square inch of goat. Youwouldn’t think it was the same goat. Well, we got allfixed and Pa rapped, and we let him in and told him hemust be blindfolded, and he got on his knees a laffing, andI tied a towel around his eyes, and then I turned himaround and made him get down on his hands also, andthen his back was right towards the closet sign, and I putthe bock beer sign right against Pa’s clothes. He was alaffing all the time, and said we boys were as full of fun asthey made ’em, and we told him it was a solemn occasion,and we wouldn’t permit no levity, and if he didn’t stoplaffing we couldn’t give him the grand bumper degree.Then everything was ready, and my chum had his handon the closet door, and some kyan pepper in his otherhand, and I asked Pa in low bass tones if he felt asthough he wanted to turn back, or if he had nerve enoughto go ahead and take the degree. I warned him that itwas full of dangers, as the goat was loaded for bear, andtold him he yet had time to retrace his steps if he wantedto. He said he wanted the whole bizness, and we could goahead with the menagerie. Then I said to Pa that if hehad decided to go ahead, and not blame us for the consequences,to repeat after me the following: ‘Bring forth theRoyal Bumper and let him Bump.’

“Pa repeated the words, and my chum sprinkled the219kyan pepper on the goat’s moustache, and he sneezed onceand looked sassy, and then he see the lager beer goatrearing up, and he started for it just like a crow-catcher, andblatted. Pa is real fat, but he knew he got hit, and hegrunted and said, ‘What you boys doin’?’ and then thegoat gave him another degree, and Pa pulled off the toweland got up and started for the stairs, and so did the goat;and Ma was at the bottom of the stairs listening, andwhen I looked over the banisters Pa and Ma and the goatwere all in a heap, and Pa was yelling murder, and Ma wasscreaming fire, and the goat was blatting, and sneezing,and bunting, and the hired girl came into the hall and thegoat took after her, and she crossed herself just as the goatstruck her and said, ‘Howly mother, protect me!’ and wentdown stairs the way we boys slide down hill, with bothhands on herself, and the goat reared up and blatted, andPa and Ma went into their room and shut the door, andthen my chum and me opened the front door and drovethe goat out. The minister, who comes to see Ma everythree times a week, was just ringing the bell, and the goatthought he wanted to be nishiated too, and gave him onefor luck, and then went down the side walk, blatting, andsneezing, and the minister came in the parlour and said hewas stabbed, and then Pa came out of his room with hissuspenders hanging down, and he didn’t know the ministerwas there, and he said cuss words, and Ma cried and toldPa he would go to the bad place sure, and Pa said hedidn’t care, he would kill that kussid goat afore he went,and I told Pa the minister was in the parlour, and he andMa went down and said the weather was propitious for arevival, and it seemed as though an outpouring of thespirit was about to be vouchsafed, and none of them sotdown but Ma, cause the goat didn’t hit her, and while theywere talking relidgin with their mouths, and kussin’ thegoat inwardly, my chum and me adjourned the lodge, and220I went and stayed with him all night, and I haven’t beenhome since. But I don’t believe Pa will lick me, ’cause hesaid he would not hold us responsible for the consequences.He ordered the goat hisself, and we filled the order, don’tyou see? Well, I guess I will go and sneak in the backway, and find out from the hired girl how the land lays.She won’t go back on me, ’cause the goat was not loadedfor hired girls. She just happened to get in at the wrongtime. Good-bye, sir. Remember and give your goat kyanpepper in your lodge.”

George W. Peck.

London, October 30, 1802.

I HAVE lately made a most important discovery whichhas disclosed one of the great secrets of English rank.You, in the United States, knowing nothing of this, willconsider the following authentic history of rank a singularcuriosity.

They have confined the several species of man within222such definite limits, in this country, that the moment theyhear a knocking at the doors, they can tell you whether itbe 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 heusurp a nobleman’s knock he would hazard his situation.A postman knocks twice, very loudly. A milkman knocksonce, at the same time sending forth an artificial noise, notunlike the yell of an American Indian. A mere gentlemanusually knocks three times, moderately; a terrible fellowfeels authorised to knock thrice, very loudly, generallyadding to these two or three faint knocks, which seem torun into each other; but there is considerable art in doingthis elegantly, therefore it is not always attempted; butit is a valuable accomplishment. A stranger who shouldventure at an imitation would undoubtedly be taken for anupstart. A knight presumes to give a double knock, that issix raps, with a few faint ones at the end. I have not yetascertained the various peculiarities which distinguish thedegrees between the baronet and the nobleman; but thisI know too well, that a nobleman, at any time of night,is allowed to knock so long and loud, that the wholeneighbourhood is frequently disturbed; and although fiftypeople may be deprived of their night’s rest, there is noredress at law or at equity. Nor have I learned how longand loud a prince of the blood presumes to knock, thoughdoubtless he might knock an hour or two by way ofdistinction.

You may hold your sides if you please, but I assure youI am perfectly serious. These people are so tenacious oftheir prerogative, that a true-blooded Englishman goes nearto think it a part of British liberty. Indeed, I am convincedI could place certain Englishmen in a situation, inwhich, rather than knock at a door but once, they wouldfight a duel every day in the week. Good heavens, how223would a fine gentleman appear if obliged to knock butonce at the door of a fashionable lady to whose party hehad been invited, while at the same moment a number ofhis 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 thewhole company would be turned on him; he would believehimself disgraced for ever, he would feel himself annihilated,for all his imaginary consequence, without which an Englishmanfeels himself to be nothing, would have forsaken him.

You may imagine it a very easy matter to pass from thesimple rap of the servant to that of the nobleman; but letme inform you these little monosyllables stand in the placeof Alpine mountains, which neither vinegar nor valour canpass. Hercules and Theseus, those vagabond but respectablebullies, who govern by personal strength instead of astanding army, would have hesitated an enterprise againstthese raps. They have, by prescription, risen nearly to thedignity of Common Law, of which strangers as well asnatives are bound to take notice. I was lately placed in apleasant position through ignorance of this. Soon after myarrival I received an invitation to dine with a gentleman,and in my economical way, with the greatest simplicity, Igave one reasonable rap; after a considerable time a servantopened the door and asked me what I wanted! I told himMr. ——. He replied “His master has company, butwill see if he can be spoken with.” In the meantime Iwas left in the entry. Presently Mr. —— came, who, alittle mortified, began to reprove the servant; but itappeared in the sequel he was perfectly right, for on tellingMr. —— “I knocked but once,” he burst into a laugh, andsaid he would explain that at dinner.

Should an honest fellow, ignorant of the consequences ofthese raps, come to London in search of a place, andunfortunately knock at a gentleman’s door, after the manner224of noblemen, it might prejudice him as much as a prayer-bookonce prejudiced a certain person in Connecticut. Theanecdote is this:—

A young adventurer, educated Church-of-England-wise,on going forth to seek his fortune, very naturally put hisprayer-book in his pocket. Wandering within the precinctsof Connecticut, he offered his service to a farmer, who, afterasking him a thousand questions (a New England custom),gave him employment; but in the evening, the unluckyprayer-book being discovered, he fairly turned the poorwight out of doors to get a lodging where he could.

You know the Connecticut Blue Laws made it death fora priest, meaning a clergyman of the Church of England, tobe found within that State. Thank heaven, those daysare past. “God, liberty, and toleration,” whether a manprefers a prayer-book to the missal, or the Koran to aprayer-book, or a single rap at a door to the noise of adozen.

Adieu.

N.B.—You must keep this letter a profound secret, as wehave certain gentlemen on our side of the Atlantic whowould, in imitation of the noblemen here, disturb theirneighbours.

William Austin.

IT is extremely probable that we shall lose our servant-girl.She was the victim of a very singular catastrophea night or two since, in consequence of which she hasacquired a prejudice against the house of Adeler. We weretroubled with dampness in our cellar, and in order toremove the difficulty we got a couple of men to come anddig the earth out to the depth of twelve or fifteen inches, andfill it in with a cement and mortar floor. The material was,of course, very soft, and the workmen laid boards upon the226surface, so that access to the furnace and the coal-bin waspossible. That night, just after retiring, we heard a womanscreaming for help; but after listening at the open window,we concluded that Cooley and his wife were engaged in analtercation, and so we paid no more attention to the noise.Half-an-hour afterwards there was a violent ring at the frontdoor bell, and upon going to the window again I foundPitman standing upon the door-step below. When I spoketo him he said—

“Max,”—the judge is inclined sometimes, especiallyduring periods of excitement, to be unnecessarily familiar,—“there’ssomethin’ wrong in your cellar. There’s a womandown there screechin’ and carryin’ on like mad. Sounds ’sif somebody’s a-murderin’ her.”

I dressed and descended; and securing the assistance ofPitman, so that I would be better prepared in the event ofburglars being discovered, I lighted a lamp and we wentinto the cellar.

There we found the maid-servant standing by therefrigerator, knee-deep in the cement, and supporting herselfwith the handle of a broom, which was also half-submerged.In several places about her were air-holesmarking the spot where the milk-jug, the cold veal, theLima beans, and the silver-plated butter-dish had gonedown. We procured some additional boards, and whilePitman seized the sufferer by one arm I grasped the other.It was for some time doubtful if she would come to thesurface without the use of more violent means, and Iconfess that I was half inclined to regard with satisfactionthe prospect that we would have to blast her loose withgunpowder. After a desperate struggle, during which thegirl declared that she would be torn in pieces, Pitman and Isucceeded in getting her safely out, and she went upstairswith half a barrel of cement on each leg, declaring that shewould leave the house in the morning.

227The cold veal is in there yet. Centuries hence someantiquarian will perhaps grub about the spot whereon mycottage once stood, and will blow that cold veal out in apetrified condition, and then present it to a museum as thefossil remains of some unknown animal. Perhaps, too, hewill excavate the milk-jug and the butter-dish, and go aboutlecturing upon them as utensils employed in bygone agesby a race of savages called “The Adelers.” I should liketo be alive at the time to hear that lecture. And I cannotavoid the thought that if our servant had been completelyburied in the cement, and thus carefully preserved until thecoming of that antiquarian, the lecture would be moreinteresting, and the girl more useful than she is now. Afossilised domestic servant of the present era would probablyastonish 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 thecity courts; “I went up into the gallery, and, after I hadadjusted my specs, I looked down into the room, but Icouldn’t see any courting going on. An old gentlemanseemed to be asking a good many impertinent questions,—justlike some old folks,—and people were sitting aroundmaking minuets of the conversation. I don’t see how theymade out what was said, for they all told different stories.How much easier it would be to get along if they were allmade to tell the same story! What a sight of trouble itwould save the lawyers! The case, as they call it, wasgiven to the jury, but I couldn’t see it, and a gentlemanwith a long pole was made to swear that he’d keep an eye228on ’em, and see that they didn’t run away with it. Bimebyin they came agin, and then they said somebody was guiltyof something, who had just said he was innocent, and didn’tknow nothing about it no more than the little baby thathad never subsistence. I come away soon afterwards; butI couldn’t help thinking how trying it must be to sit thereall day, shut out from the blessed air!”

Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber

(“Mrs. Partington”).

THE MUSIC-GRINDERS.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

MISS CRUMP was inexorable. She declared that shewas entirely out of practice. “She scarcely evertouched the piano;” “Mamma was always scolding her forgiving so much of her time to French and Italian, andneglecting her music and painting; but she told mamma theother day that it really was so irksome to her to quit Racineand Dante, and go to thrumming upon the piano, that, butfor the obligations of filial obedience, she did not think sheshould ever touch it again.”

Here Mrs. Crump was kind enough, by the merestaccident in the world, to interpose, and to relieve thecompany from farther anxiety.

“Augusta, my dear,” said she, “go and play a tune ortwo; 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 ofsmiling faces.

“Poor child,” said Mrs. Crump, as she went forward,“she is frightened to death. I wish Augusta could overcomeher diffidence.”

Miss Crump was educated in Philadelphia; she had beentaught to sing by Madame Piggisqueaki, who was a pupil ofMa’m’selle Crokifroggietta, who had sung with MadameCatalani; and she had taken lessons on the piano fromSeignor Buzzifussi, who had played with Paganini.

She seated herself at the piano, rocked to the right, thento the left, leaned forward, then backward, and began. Sheplaced her right hand about midway the keys, and her leftabout two octaves below it. She now put off to the rightin a brisk canter up the treble notes, and the left after it.The left then led the way back, and the right pursued it in233like manner. The right turned, and repeated its first movement;but the left outran it this time, hopped over it, andflung 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 metfuriously on the middle ground. Here a most awful conflictensued for about the space of ten seconds, when theright whipped off all of a sudden, as I thought, fairlyvanquished. But I was in the error against which JackRandolph cautions us; “it had only fallen back to astronger position.” It mounted upon two black keys, andcommenced the note of a rattlesnake. This had a wonderfuleffect upon the left, and placed the doctrine of “snakecharming” beyond dispute. The left rushed furiouslytowards it repeatedly, but seemed invariably panic-struckwhen it came within six keys of it, and as invariably retiredwith a tremendous roaring down the bass keys.

It continued its assaults, sometimes by the way of thenaturals, sometimes by the way of the sharps, and sometimesby a zigzag through both; but all its attempts to dislodgethe right from its stronghold proving ineffectual, itcame close up to its adversary, and expired.

Any one, or rather no one, can imagine what kind ofnoises the piano gave forth during the conflict. Certain itis, no one can describe them, and, therefore, I shall notattempt it. The battle ended, Miss Augusta moved asthough she would have arisen, but this was protested againstby a number of voices at once.

“One song, my dear Aurelia,” said Miss Small; “youmust sing that sweet little French air you used to sing inPhiladelphia, and which Madame Piggisqueaki was so fondof.”

Miss Augusta looked pitifully at her mamma, and hermamma looked “sing” at Miss Augusta; accordingly, shesquared herself for a song.

She brought her hands to the campus this time in finestyle, and they seemed now to be perfectly reconciled toeach other. They commenced a kind of colloquy; theright whispering treble very softly, and the left respondingbass very loudly. The conference had been kept up untilI began to desire a change of the subject, when my earcaught, indistinctly, some very curious sounds, whichappeared to proceed from the lips of Miss Augusta; theyseemed to be compounded of a dry cough, a grunt, ahiccough, and a whisper; and they were introduced, it235appeared to me, as interpreters between the right and theleft.

Things progressed in this way for about the space offifteen seconds, when I happened to direct my attention toMr. Jenkins, from Philadelphia. His eyes were closed, hishead rolled gracefully from side to side; a beam of heavenlycomplacency rested upon his countenance; and his wholeman gave irresistible demonstration that Miss Crump’s musicmade him feel good all over. I had just turned from thecontemplation of Mr. Jenkins’ transports, to see whether Icould extract from the performance anything intelligible,when Miss Crump made a fly-catching grab at half-a-dozenkeys in a row and at the same instant she fetched a long,dunghill-cock crow, at the conclusion of which she grabbedas many keys with her left. This came over Jenkins like awarm bath, and over me like a rake of bamboo briers.

My nerves had not recovered from this shock before MissAugusta repeated the movement, and accompanied it witha squall of a pinched cat. This threw me into an aguefit; but, from respect to the performer, I maintained myposition.

She now made a third grasp with the right, boxed thefaces of six keys in a row with the left, and at the sametime raised one of the most unearthly howls that everissued from the throat of a human being. This seemedthe signal for universal uproar and destruction. She nowthrew away all her reserve, and charged the piano with herwhole force. She boxed it, she clawed it, she raked it, shescraped it. Her neck-vein swelled, her chin flew up, herface flushed, her eye glared, her bosom heaved; shescreamed, she howled, she yelled, cackled, and was in theact of dwelling upon the note of a screech-owl, when Itook 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 heard236a voice exclaim, “By heavens! she’s the most enchantingperformer I ever heard in my life!” I turned to see whowas the author of this ill-timed compliment, and who shouldit be but Nick Truck, from Lincoln, who seven years beforewas dancing “Possum up the Gumtree” in the chimney-cornerof his father’s kitchen. Nick had entered the counting-roomof a merchant in Charleston some five or six yearsbefore, had been sent out as supercargo of a vessel toBordeaux, and while the vessel was delivering one cargoand taking in another, had contracted a wonderful relishfor French music.

As for myself, I went home in convulsions; took sixtydrops of laudanum, and fell asleep. I dreamed that I wasin a beautiful city, the streets of which intersected eachother at right angles; that the birds of the air and thebeasts of the forest had gathered there for battle, theformer 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 turnedmy eye to the north-east, and saw a female flying throughthe air toward the city, and distinctly recognised in her thefeatures of Miss Crump. I took the alarm, and was makingmy escape, when she gave command for the beasts andbirds to fall on me. They did so, and, with all the noisesof 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 mefrom 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.”

237“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 playon.”

“And where was Truck?”

“He was asleep.”

“And what was she playing?”

“An Italian——”

Here I swooned, and heard no more.

Augustus Baldwin Longstreet.

MY first tonsorial experience is in a barber shop of theold town of Prinkipo. Most of the barbers arepolyglotically inclined. My particular barber is either aGreek, a Maltese, a Sclav, a Bulgarian, or a Montenegrin.It is impossible at first to tell his native tongue. He hasFrench glibly. He speaks a “leetle Inglis,” and understandsless. He is well up in Italian, as many of thefamilies in this vicinage are. He had some knowledge ofSpanish, as kindred to the Italian. This extraordinarylearning always gives me a shudder, and especially whenunder his razor or shears. Being a stranger on the island,and having no very pronounced national features, it was239equally difficult for him to ascertain my nationality, exceptby inquisition long and pitiless. All I could do was toarm myself with the affirmatives and negatives of variouslanguages. With these I made myself complaisant, to savemy face from bloodshed. My first conversation with thisartist confirmed the general reputation as to the gossipyquality of the Barber of Seville. He had all the gossip ofthe isles, including its languages. The conversation ransomewhat 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.” Thispuzzled 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, Ireply in Hungarian; because, lucus a non lucendo, Hungaryis an inland country, and, like our own, without a navy.

“Igen!” “Yes.”

“Your vessel is at Constantinople?”

Remembering that there was an Italian emigrant namedChristopher Columbus of naval renown, I reply: “Si, signore.”

“You will bring your vessel to Prinkipo?”

Ah! here was my opportunity. It is the modern Greekin which I reply: “Nae vevayos.”

He is thunderstruck. It is evidently his mother-tongue.Likely he has a Polish father; who knows? When heasks me in French—

“Will your vessel touch at Athens?”

I respond in Polish, “Tak!” “No.” And then, with somehesitation, I add the French word, “peut-être.” “Perhaps.”

240“You will visit Egypt?”

“Sim, senhor.” This is Portuguese for “Yes, sir.”

The gesture or the manner with which these responsesare made encourages him, for he immediately asks whetherI have ever been in Alabania. I have no negative oraffirmative in any of the languages of the Adriatic. MyDalmatian servitor, Pedro, is absent, and my next bestaffirmative 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 thePyramids of the Pharaohs, I respond in Swedish, making itintense—

“Ja!” adding a little affirmative in Roumanian, to giveintensity to the remark, “Gie.”

After a pause in the conversation he resumes. Hebelieves that he has my nationality fixed. He surmisesthat 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, andnot being able to answer it partially, I give him back inRoumanian an emphatic negative—

“Na canna, bucca.”

“You have been quite a traveller!”

This suggests the Chinese as the fitting language for theaffirmative, and I say—

“She!”

Having no reference to Haggard’s novel, for it was notthen out. To make the “she” expressive I add anotheraffirmative, which I had carefully studied while boardingwith the Chinese Legation in Washington.

“Ta Jin!”

241“You like the Chinese, Monsieur?”

Having succeeded so well with the Chinese, I answerpromptly in the negative—

“Puh!”

This monosyllable disgusts him. His subordinatesgather around the chair where I was being shaved,interested in this composite conversation. The artist thenasks if I had visited Jerusalem. Here was my greatbreakdown. Notwithstanding I had represented a Hebrewcommunity in New York, with more synagogues thanJerusalem had in the time of Solomon, I was at a loss for aHebrew affirmative. Happy thought! I respond promptlyin the Arabic tongue, with its guttural peculiarity—

“Na’am.”

It sounded to me after I uttered it like profanity, and Ifell back as gracefully as I could, waiting for the nextattack, 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 afraidevery 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 educatedat 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.”

242“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 theintense 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 worldwhere 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 acigarette, and say, “No, I am not Swiss.”

“Brazeel?” “Jamais.”

The way that barber rubs the unguent into my hairlessscalp and hirsute beard shows that he is a disappointedman.

The next time I visit the shop I receive marked attention.The hands all rise up. They pick up the earth ina Turkish salaam. They distribute it in courtesy to theAmerican minister, whom they have meanwhile discovered.As I have been frequently turned away from the doors ofour American Congress after twenty-five years’ service,because I did not act or look like a member, so I wasunrecognised here, by the “Oi Barberoi,” as having nonational characterisation. America was the last race orpeople to which this Greek barber assigned me.

Samuel S. Cox.

“YIS, sur. It’s many a wan av yure countrymin Oi’vetaken 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 toNew 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 GineralGrant himsilf over the Causeway, and a foine mawn he was.An’ Gineral Sheridan, too, sur. Many’s the great mawnOi’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 sometimesbether than they look, sur.”

“True. So we won’t pursue that subject any further.”

“Oi took the Duke av Connaught himsilf down thisvery road, sur, an’ do you know what he says to me, sur?He says, ‘Pat,’ says he, ‘have ye had anything to ate theday?’ ‘Saving yer presence, sur,’ says Oi, ‘except a biteat breakfast’—an’ before the words were out of my mout’,says the Duke to me, says he, ‘Sit down wid us,’ sayshe; an’ no sooner said than done, and Oi had moy lunchwith 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 furme, sur.”

“Just depends on how a man looks at it. If you thinkit was a great honour for you, it was.”

“An’ Oi’ve taken great professors over the Causeway, sur—min244that knew more in wan minute, sur, than you andOi wud know in all our loives, sur. An’ they’ve tould methat 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 nothingin 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 powerav 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 seeit the minute we turn that bit av rock, sur. Sure an’begorra it’s well worth the walk, for there is no place that isas noted as the Causeway, sur.”

“Yes. They told me about it at Derry. That’s why Icame.”

“De ye mane to say, sur, that ye niver heard av theGoiant’s Causeway till ye came to Derry? Well, sur, Oi’vetaken tins av thousands av people over this ground, sur, andyure the first wan that iver tould me he never heard av theCauseway. Where were ye brought up, sur?”

“I’m a Belfast man.”

“De ye mane thot? Troth! Oi don’t think the professorsare the biggest loiers, saving yer prisince, sur.”

“Where’s your old Causeway? We’re round that rocknow.”

“Where’s the Causeway is it, sur? Where should it bebut 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 bigstone tabernacle, and went bankrupt when the foundationwas laid.”

245“The greatest min in this wurrold, sur, tould me that——”

“Never mind what the greatest men said. Is that theCauseway? 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 futwill Oi go back till ye’ve seen what ye paid for, sur.”

“All right, I’ll go on—under protest—merely to pleaseyou, you know.”

“Oi’m afraid ye’r hard to plaze yersilf, sur. It’s wan avthe 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. Notthe sickond toime, but the twintieth toime have Oi knowneducated min to come, sur. And the aftener a man avsinse sees it, sur, the more wondherful he thinks it. Now,sur, ye’r fut is on the smaller Causeway, and be careful howyou stip, fur it’s moighty slippery undherfut. There arethree Causeways, sur, the Great Causeway bein’ in thecenthre, 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 throughyour hid that the Goiant’s Causeway was built by the handav man, sur!”

“How was it built, then? By contract?”

“Oi see plainly Oi’ll hay to begin at the beginnin’ widyou, sur. It was built by a mighty convulsion av nathure,sur.”

246“Oh, yes, I remember reading about it in the papers atthe time. It was the beginning of the Irish troubles.”

“It was at the beginning av toime, sur. ProfessorGneiss, av Edinburgh, tould me its origin was volcanic,and that——”

“Oh, you can’t believe what a professor says. Was hethere?”

“He was not.”

“Well, then!”

“If you, sur, will excuse the liberty Oi’ll take, sur, inrecommending you to kape silence fur a few minutes, sur,ye’ll know a good dale more whin ye lave here than ye didwhin 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 callye’r attention to the ind av this column. That we calloctagon, meaning eight-sided, as ye can see. And if yermeasure the eight sides, sur, yer’ll foind them the same to ahair’s breadth.”

“And yet you say nobody chiselled it?”

“Oi do, sur.”

“You evidently think I’ll believe anything. But nomatter. Go on, go on.”

“Now, if ye’ll notice, around this octagon are eight otherpillars, forming an octagon group, as we call thim here, sur,all the columns being aqual in size. Now, sur, if ye followme here, ye will see a septagon column, from the Latin wordmaning 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. Aman broke his leg there once. Are ye hurt, sur?”

247“Not in the least.”

“Thank the powers for that, sur! Oi always notice thatthe quieter a man kapes, the more attention he can pay tohis futin’.”

“And you’re paid to do the talking, too. I hadn’tthought about that.”

“Now, sur, ye see from here the Great Causeway. Isn’tthat a grand soight, sur?”

“Well, that depends on what you call a——”

“Oh! tare an’ ’owns, sur, ye’ve kilt yerself entoirely thistoime. Don’t attempt to roise, sur, till Oi get down to ye.Dear! dear!! Are ye badly hurt, sur?”

“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 wasso slippery? Do you want to break a man’s neck over thisCauseway 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 futas you do to your tongue——”

“Who’s been doing all the talking? Have I opened mymouth 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 theCauseway. Ye can see their formation now, sur. They’reall in short lengths of three or four feet, and every joint is aperfect 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 ofthe lava. Now, look at this, sur. This is—be careful, sur.Ye were nearly aff that toime again. This is the Goiant’s249Wishin’ Chair. If ye sit down here, ye can have threewishes, sur.”

“I won’t sit down.”

“Have ye nothing to wish, sur?”

“No. All I wanted was to meet the biggest liar in theworld, but I don’t need to wish for that now.”

“Then ye’ve met him, sur. Well, Oi suppose ye likecompany, sur?”

“Anything else to be seen around here?”

“Do ye see those basaltic columns on the face av thecliff, sur? That’s the Goiant’s Organ, sur.”

“Who plays on it?”

“Well, sur, the storms do. When the wind comesdhriving in from the Atlantic, and the waves lash up theCauseway, they do be sayin’ that whin the timpast is at itshoight all the grand tones av an organ can be heard comin’from thim pipes.”

“Good enough. That’s worth the money. Here youare. I must be going now to catch my train. Good-bye.”

“Here’s a very dacent mon, sur, that sells picturs av theCauseway.”

“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 monsprawlin’ over the Causeway? Well, thot’s the dombdestfule Oi iver tuk over these racks. Oi wouldn’t take thatmon over the Causeway agin fur all the money in the Northav Oireland. De ye mind thot now?”

Robert Barr (“Luke Sharp”).

Charles Godfrey Leland.

I HAVE bought me a new patent bedstead, to facilitateearly rising, called a “wake-up.” It is a good thing torise early in the country. Even in the winter time it isconducive to health to get out of a warm bed by lamplight;to shiver into your drawers and slippers; to wash your facein a basin of ice-flakes; and to comb out your frigid hairwith an uncompromising comb, before a frosty looking-glass.The only difficulty about it lies in the impotence ofhuman will. You will deliberate about it and argue thepoint. You will indulge in specious pretences, and lie still254with only the tip end of your nose outside the blankets;you will pretend to yourself that you do intend to jump outin 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 thehead-board. When you go to bed you wind up the clock,and point the index-hand to that hour on the dial at whichyou wish to rise in the morning. Then you place yourselfin the hands of the invention and shut your eyes.

You are now, as it were, under the guardianship of KingSolomon and Doctor Benjamin Franklin. There is noneed to recall those beautiful lines of the poet’s—

Science has forestalled them. The “wake-up” is a combinationof hard wood, hinges, springs, and clock-work,against sleeping late o’ mornings. It is a bedstead withall the beautiful vitality of a flower—it opens with thedawn. If, for instance, you set the hand against six o’clockin the morning, at six the clock at the bed’s head solemnlystrikes a demi-twelve on its sonorous bell. If you pay noattention to the monitor, or idly, dreamily endeavour tocompass the coherent sequence of sounds, the invention,within the succeeding two minutes, drops its tail-board andlets down your feet upon the floor. While you are pleasantlydefeating this attempt upon your privacy by drawing upyour legs within the precincts of the blankets, the virtuoushead-board and the rest of the bed suddenly rise up inprotest; and the next moment, if you do not instantlyabdicate, you are launched upon the floor by a blind elbowthat connects with the crank of an eccentric, that is turnedby a cord that is wound around a drum, that is moved byan endless screw, that revolves within the body of the255machinery. So soon as you are turned out, of course, youwaive the balance of the nap and proceed to dress.

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, contemplatively, after thegrimy machinists had departed, “this machine is one ofthe most remarkable evidences of progress the ingenuity ofman has yet developed. In this bedstead we see a host ofcardinal virtues made practical by science. To rise earlyone must possess courage, prudence, self-denial, temperance,and fortitude. The cultivation of these virtues, necessarilyattended with a great deal of trouble, may now be dispensedwith, as this engine can entirely set aside, and render useless,a vast amount of moral discipline. I have no doubtin a short time we shall see the finest attributes of thehuman mind superseded by machinery. Nay, more; Ihave very little doubt that, as a preparatory step in thisgreat progress, we shall have physical monitors of cast-ironand wheel-work to regulate the ordinary routine of duty inevery family.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she did not precisely understandwhat I meant.

“For instance,” said I, in continuation, “we dine everyday; as a general thing, I mean. Now sometimes we eattoo much, and how easy, how practicable it would be toregulate our appetites by a banquet-dial. The subject,having had the superficial area of his skull and the cubiccapacity of his body worked out respectively by a licensedcraniologist and by a licensed corporalogist, gets from eacha certificate, which certificates are duly registered in thecounty clerk’s office. From the county clerk he receiveda permit, marked, we will say, ten.”

“Not ten pounds, I hope,” said Mrs. S.

“No, my dear,” I replied, “ten would be the averageof his capacity. We will now suppose the chair, in whichthe subject is seated at dinner, rests upon a pendulousplatform, over a delicate arrangement of levers, connected256with an upright rod, that runs through the section of tablein front of his plate, and this rod, we will suppose, istoothed into a ratchet-wheel, that moves the index of thebanquet-dial. You will see at once that, as he hangsbalanced in this scale, any absorption of food would beinstantly indicated by the index. All then he is calledupon 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 behalf 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 notstop eating?”

“Then,” said I, “the proper way to do would be toinform against him, and have him brought immediatelybefore a justice of the peace, and if he did not at onceswear that he had eaten within his limits, fine him, andseize all the victuals on his premises.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. S., “you would have a law to regulateit, then?”

“Of course,” said I, “a statute—a statutory provision,or provisionary act. Then, the principle once beingestablished, you see how easily and beautifully we couldbe regulated by the simplest motive powers. All theobligations we now owe to society and to ourselves couldbe dispensed with, or rather transferred to, or vested in,some superior machine, to which we would be accountableby night and day. Nay, more than that, instead of sendingrepresentatives to legislate for us, how easy it would beto construct a legislature of bronze and wheel-work—anincorruptible legislature. I would suggest a hydraulic orpneumatic congress as being less liable to explode, andmore easily graduated than one propelled by steam simply.All that would be required of us then would be to elect a257state engineer annually, and he, with the assistance of a fewunderlings, could manage the automata as he pleased.”

“I do not see,” replied Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “how thatwould be an improvement upon the present method, fromall I hear.”

This unexpected remark of Mrs. S. surprised me intosilence for a moment, but immediately recovering, Ianswered, that a hydraulic or pneumatic legislature wouldat least have this advantage—it would construct enactmentsfor the State at, at least, one-fiftieth part of the presentexpense, and at the same time do the work better andquicker.

“Now, my dear,” said I, as I wound up the ponderousmachinery with a huge key, “as you are always an earlyriser, 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 bedisturbed by the progress of science. It is getting to bevery cold, my dear, but how beautiful the stars are to-night.Look at Orion and the Pleiades! Intensely lustrous in thefrosty sky.”

The sensations one experiences in lying down upon acomplication of mechanical forces are somewhat peculiarif they are not entirely novel. I once had the pleasure, forone week, of sleeping over the boiler of a high-pressureMississippi steamboat; and, as I knew in case of a blow upI should be the first to hear of it, I composed my mind aswell as I could under the circumstances. But this reposingupon a bed of statics and dynamics, with the constantchirping and crawling of wheel-work at the bed’s head,with a thought now and then of the inexorable iron elbowbelow, and an uncertainty as to whether the clock itselfmight not be too fast, or too slow, caused me to be ratherreflective and watchful than composed and drowsy.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed the lucent stars in their bluedepths, and the midnight moon, now tipping the Palisades258with a fringe of silver fire, and was thinking how manycenturies that lovely light had played upon those ruggedridges of trap and basalt, and so finally sinking from thereflective to the imaginative, and from the imaginative tothe indistinct, at last reached that happy state of halfconsciousness, between half asleep and asleep, when theclock in the machine woke up, and suddenly struck eight.Of course I knew it was later, but I could not imagine whyit should at all, as I presumed the only time of striking wasin the morning by way of signal. As Mrs. S. was soundasleep, I concluded not to say anything to her about it;but I could not help thinking what an annoyance it wouldbe if the clock should keep on striking the hours during thenight. In a little while the bedclothes seemed to droop atthe 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 ropeand preparing for action. Then I felt the upper part ofthe patent bedstead rising up, and then I concluded tojump out, just as the iron elbow began to utter a cry likeunto the cry of a steel Katydid, and did jump, but wasaccidentally preceded by the mattress, one bolster, twopillows, ditto blankets, a brace of threadbare linen sheets,one coverlid, the baby, one cradle (overturned), and Mrs.Sparrowgrass. To gather up these heterogeneous materialsof comfort required some little time, and, in the meanwhile,the bedstead subsided. When we retired again, and wereonce more safely protected from the nipping cold, althoughpretty well cooled, I could not help speaking of the perfectoperation of the bedstead in high terms of praise, although,by some accident, it had fulfilled its object a little earlierthan had been desirable. As I am very fond of dilatingupon a pleasant theme, the conversation was prolongeduntil Mrs. Sparrowgrass got sleepy, and the clock strucknine. Then we had to turn out again. We had to turn259out every hour during the long watches of the night for thatwonderful epitome of the age of progress.

When the morning came we were sleepy enough, and thenext evening we concluded to replace the “wake-up” witha common, old-fashioned bedstead. To be sure I hadmade a small mistake the first night, in not setting the“indicator” as well as the index of the dial. But what ofthat? Who wants his rest, that precious boon, subjected tocontingencies? When we go to sleep, and say our prayers,let us wake up according to our natures, and according toour virtues; some require more sleep, some less; we arenot mere bits of mechanism after all; who knows whatworld we may chance to wake up in? For my part, I havedetermined not to be a humming-top, to be wound up andto run down, just like that very interesting toy one of theyoung Sparrowgrassii has just now left upon my table, minusa string.

Frederick Swartout Cozzens.

A QUILTING.

I MUST tell you, however, of a quilting which I did notshare with Mr. Sibthorpe, though I wished for himmany times during the afternoon. It was held at the houseof a very tidy neighbour, a Mrs. Boardman, the neatness ofwhose dwelling and its outworks I have often admired inpassing. She invited all the neighbours, and, of course,included my unworthy self, although I had never had anyother acquaintance than that which may be supposed to resultfrom John and Sophy’s having boarded with her for sometime. The walking being damp, an ox cart was sent round forsuch of the guests as had no “team” of their own, which isour case as yet. This equipage was packed with hay, overwhich was disposed, by way of musnud, a blue and white261coverlet; and by this arrangement half-a-dozen goodlydames, including myself, found reclining room, and werecarried at a stately pace to Mrs. Boardman’s. Here wefound a collection of women busily occupied in preparingthe quilt, which you may be sure was a curiosity to me.They had stretched the lining on a frame, and were nowlaying fleecy cotton on it with much care; and I understoodfrom several aside remarks, which were not intended for theear of our hostess, that a due regard for etiquette requiredthat this laying of the cotton should have been performedbefore the arrival of the company, in order to give them abetter chance for finishing the quilt before tea, which isconsidered a point of honour.

However, with so many able hands at work, the preparationswere soon accomplished. The “bats” were smoothlydisposed, and now consenting hands on either side

wherein stars and garters, squares and triangles, figured inevery possible relation to each other, and produced, on thewhole, a very pretty mathematical piece of work, on whichthe eyes of Mrs. Boardman rested with no small amount ofwomanly pride.

Now needles were in requisition, and every availablespace round the frame was filled by a busy dame.

Several of the company, being left-handed, or rather,ambidextrous (no unusual circumstance here), this peculiaritywas made serviceable at the corners, where common seamstressescould only sew in one direction, while thesefavoured individuals could turn their double power todouble account. This beginning of the solid labour wasa serious time. Scarcely a word was spoken beyond anoccasional request for the thread, or an exclamation at thesnapping of a needle. This last seemed of no unfrequent262occurrence, as you may well suppose, when you think ofthe thickness of the materials, and the necessity for makingat least tolerably short stitches. I must own that the mostI could accomplish for the first hour was the breaking ofneedles, and the pricking of my fingers in the vain attemptto do as I was bid, and take my stitches “clear through.”

By-and-by it was announced that it was time to roll—andall was bustle and anxiety. The frame had to be takenapart at the corners, and two of the sides rolled severaltimes with much care, and at this diminished surface webegan again with renewed spirit. Now all tongues seemedloosened. The evidence of progress had raised everybody’sspirits, and the strife seemed to be who should talk fastestwithout slackening the industry of her fingers. Some heldtête-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, butwith a view to the amusement of all. Mrs. Vining told thesymptoms of each of her five children through an attack ofthe measles; Mrs. Keteltas gave her opinion as to the partymost worthy of blame in a late separation in the village;and Miss Polly Mittles said she hoped the quilt would notbe “scant of stitches, like a bachelor’s shirt.”

Tea-time came before the work was completed, and someof the more generous declared they would rather finish itbefore tea. These offers fell rather coldly, however, fora real tea-drinker does not feel very good-humoured justbefore tea.

So Mr. Boardman drove four stout nails in the raftersoverhead, corresponding in distance with the corners of thequilt, and the frame was raised and fastened to these, so asto be undisturbed, and yet out of the way during theimportant ceremony that was to succeed.

Is it not well said that “Necessity is the mother ofinvention”?

263A long table was now spread, eked out by boards laidupon carpenters’ “horses,” and this was covered with avariety of table-cloths, all shining clean, however, and carefullydisposed. The whole table array was equally various,the contributions, I presume, of several neighbouring log-houses.The feast spread upon it included every variety thatever was put upon a tea-table; from cake and preserves topickles 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 besideslook, and try to guess out the dishes. However, everythingwas very good, and our hostess must have felt complimentedby the attention paid to her various delicacies.

The cabbage, I think, was rather the favourite; vinegarbeing one of the rarities of a settler’s cabin.

I was amused to see the loads of cake and pie thataccumulated 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 todecline any one kind of food, though your hostess may haveprovided a dozen. You are expected at least to try eachvariety. But this leads to something which I cannot thinkvery agreeable.

After all had left the table, our hostess began to clear itaway, that the quilt might be restored to its place; and, asa preliminary, she went all round to the different plates,selecting such pieces of cake as were but little bitten, andparing off the half-demolished edges with a knife, in orderto replace them in their original circular position in thedishes. When this was accomplished, she assiduouslyscraped from the edges of the plates the scraps of butterthat had escaped demolition, and wiped them back on theremains of the pat. This was doubtless a season of delectationto the economical soul of Mrs. Boardman; you mayimagine its effects upon the nerves of your friend. Such is264the influence of habit! The good woman doubtless thoughtshe was performing a praiseworthy action, and one in nowise at variance with her usual neat habits; and if shecould have peeped into my heart, and there have read theresolutions I was tacitly making against breaking breadagain under the same auspices, she would have pitied ordespised such a lamentable degree of pride and extravagance.So goes this strange world.

The quilt was replaced, and several good housewivesseated themselves at it, determined to “see it out.” I wasreluctantly compelled to excuse myself, my inexperiencedfingers being pricked to absolute rawness. But I havesince ascertained that the quilt was finished that evening,and placed on Mrs. Boardman’s best bed immediately; whereindeed I see it every time I pass the door, as it is not ourcustom to keep our handsome things in the background.There were some long stitches in it, I know, but they donot show as far as the road; so the quilt is a very greattreasure, 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’sremarked that the skirt of the French cambric dress Iwore would make a “splendid” quilt. It is a temptation,certainly.

Sam Slick.

THE town of Sussex, Pennsylvania, has lately been profoundlystirred by an extraordinary and romantic lawsuit.The case was an entirely novel one, and no precedentbearing upon it is to be found in the common or statutelaw. While it is necessarily a matter of great interest tothe legal profession, its romantic side cannot fail to attractthe attention of persons of all ages and every kind of sex.In fact, it is destined to be one of the most celebrated casesin 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 littlegirl, aged four, with her to make a call on Mrs. Brown, hernear 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 theladies were excitedly discussing the new bonnet of the local266Methodist minister’s wife, the little girl incautiously satdown on the stove hearth. She was instantly convincedthat the hearth was exceedingly hot, and on loudly bewailingthe fact, was rescued by her mother and carried homefor medical treatment. A few days later Mrs. Smith burstin great excitement into the room of a young law student,who was one of her boarders, and with tears and lamentationsdisclosed to him the fact that her child was indeliblybranded with the legend, “Patented, 1872.” These wordsin raised letters had happened to occupy just that part ofthe stove-hearth on which the child had seated herself, andbeing heated nearly to red heat they had reproduced themselveson the surface of the unfortunate child.

The law student entered into the mother’s sorrow withmuch sympathy, but after he had in some degree calmedher mind he informed her that a breach of law had beencommitted. “Your child,” he remarked, “has never beenpatented, but she is marked ‘Patented, 1872.’ This isan infringement of the statute. You falsely represent bythat brand that a child for whom no patent was issued ispatented. This false representation is forgery, and subjectsyou to penalty made and provided for that crime.”

Mrs. Smith was, as may be supposed, greatly alarmed atlearning this statement, and her first impulse was to beg theyoung man to save her from a convict’s cell. With agravity suited to the occasion, he explained the whole lawof patents. He told her that had she desired to patent thechild, she should have either constructed a model of it orprepared accurate drawings, with specifications showing distinctlywhat parts of the child she claimed to have invented.This model or these drawings she should have forwarded tothe Patent Office, and she would then have received indue time a patent—provided, of course, the child was reallypatentable—and would have been authorised to label it“Patented.” “Unfortunately,” he pursued, “it is now too267late to take this course, and we must boldly claim that apatent was issued, but that the record was destroyed duringthe recent fire in the Patent Office.”

This suggestion cheered the spirits of Mrs. Smith, butthey were again dashed by the further remarks of the youngman. He reminded her that the child might find it veryinconvenient to be patented. “If we claim,” he went on tosay, “that she has been regularly patented, it follows thatthe ownership of the patent, including the child herself,belongs to you, and will pass at your death into thepossession of your heirs. Holding the patent, they canprevent any husband taking possession of the girl bymarriage, and they can sell, assign, transfer, and set overthe patent right and the accompanying girl to any purchaser.If she is sold to a speculator or to a joint-stockcompany, she will find her position a most unpleasant one;and to sum up the case, madam, either your child ispatented or she is not. If she is not patented, you areguilty of forgery. If she is patented, she is an object ofbarter 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, whosestove had branded the unfortunate little girl. She loudlyinsisted that the whole fault rested with Mrs. Brown, anddemanded 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 wherethere is a wrong there must, in the nature of things, be aremedy. “Mrs. Brown, by means of her stove, has doneyou a great wrong. In accordance with the maxim, Quifacit per alium facit per se, Mrs. Brown, and not the stove, isthe party from whom you must demand redress. She haswickedly and maliciously, and at the instigation of thedevil, branded your child, and thus rendered you liable foran infringement of the patent law. It is my opinion,268madam, that an action for assault and an action for libel willboth lie against Mrs. Brown, and ‘semble’ that there is alsoground for having her indicted for procurement of forgery.”Finally, after much further argument, the young manadvised her to apply to a magistrate and procure the arrestand punishment of Mrs. Brown.

Accordingly, Mrs. Smith applied to the Mayor, who, aftervainly trying to comprehend the case, and to find out whatwas the precise crime alleged against Mrs. Brown, compromisedthe matter by unofficially asking the lady toappear before him. When both the ladies were in courtMrs. Smith, prompted by the clerk, put her complaint inthe shape of a charge that Mrs. Brown had branded theyouthful Smith girl. The latter was then marked “ExhibitA,” and formally put in evidence, and both complainant anddefendant told their respective stories.

The result was that the court, in a very able andvoluminous opinion, decided that nobody was guilty ofanything, but that, with a view of avoiding the penaltyof infringing the patent law, the mother must apply toCongress for a special act declaring the child regularly andlegally patented.

If Congress finds time to attend to this important matter,little Miss Smith will be the first girl ever patented in thiscountry, and the legal profession will watch with unflagginginterest the law-suits to which in future any infringement ofthe patent may lead.

W. L. Alden.

“SIR,” said our learned friend, Dr. Bushwhacker, “weare indebted to China for the four principal blessingswe enjoy. Tea came from China, the compass camefrom China, printing came from China, and gunpowdercame from China—thank God! China, sir, is an oldcountry, a very old country. There is one word, sir, wegot from China that is oftener in the mouths of Americanpeople than any other word in the language. It iscash, sir, cash! That we derive from the Chinese. Itis the name, sir, of the small brass coin they use, thecoin with a square hole in the middle. And then look atour Franklin; he drew the lightning from the skies with hiskite; but who invented the kite, sir? The long-tailedChinaman, sir. Franklin had no invention; he neverwould have invented a kite or a printing-press. But hecould use them, sir, to the best possible advantage, sir; hehad no genius, sir, but he had remarkable talent andindustry.

“Then, sir, we got our umbrella from China. The firstman that carried an umbrella, in London, in Queen Anne’sreign, was followed by a mob. That is only one hundredand fifty years ago. We get the art of making porcelainfrom China. Our ladies must thank the Celestials for theirtea-pots.

“Queen Elizabeth never saw a tea-pot in her life. In1664 the East India Company brought two pounds twoounces of tea as a present for his Majesty King Charlesthe Second. In 1667 they imported one hundred poundsof tea.

“Then, sir, rose the reign of scandal. Queen scandal, sir!Then, sir, rose the intolerable race of waspish spinsters whosting reputations and defame humanity over their dyspeptic271cups. Then, sir, the astringent principle of the herb wascommunicated to the heart, and domestic troubles werebrewed and fomented over the tea-table. Then, sir, the ageof chivalry was over, and women grew acrid and bitter;then, sir, the first temperance society was founded, andhigh duties were laid upon wines, and in consequence theydistilled whisky instead, which made matters a great dealbetter, of course; and all the abominations, all the difficultiesof domestic life, all the curses of living in a countryvillage; 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 upfor patterns over their vile decoctions, sir, arose with theintroduction of tea. Yes, sir; when the wine-cup gaveplace to the tea-cup, then the devil, sir, reached his culminatingpoint.

“The curiosity of Eve was bad enough; but, sir, whenEve’s curiosity becomes sharpened by turgid tonics, andscandal is added to inquisitiveness, and innuendo suppliesthe place of truth, and an imperfect digestion is the pilotinstead of charity; then, sir, we must expect to see humannature vilified, and levity condemned, and good fellowshipcondemned, and all good men, from Washington down,damned by Miss Tittle, and Miss Tattle, and the widowBlackleg, and the whole host of tea-drinking conspiratorsagainst social enjoyment.”

Here Dr. Bushwhacker grew purple with eloquence andindignation. We ventured to remark that he had spokenof tea “as a blessing” at first.

“Yes, sir,” responded Dr. Bushwhacker, shaking hisbushy head, “that reminds one of Doctor Pangloss. Yes,sir, it is a blessing, but like all other blessings it must beused temperately, or else it is a curse! China, sir,” continuedthe doctor, dropping the oratorical and taking up272the historical; “China, sir, knows nothing of perspective,but she is great in pigments. Indian ink, sir, is Chinese, soare vermilion and indigo; the malleable properties of gold,sir, were first discovered by this extraordinary people; wemust thank them for our gold leaf. Gold is not a pigment,but roast pig is, and Charles Lamb says the origin of roastpig is Chinese; the beautiful fabric we call silk, sir, camefrom the Flowery Nation, so did embroidery, so did thegame of chess, so did fans. In fact, sir, it is difficult tosay what we have not derived from the Chinese. Cotton,sir, is our great staple, but they wove and spun, long stapleand short staple, yellow cotton and white cotton, beforeColumbus sailed out of the port of Palos in the SantaMaria.”

Frederick S. Cozzens.

James Whitcomb Riley.

I ADDRESS myself to all the friends of youth, andconjure them to direct their compassionate regards tomy unhappy fate, in order to remove the prejudices of whichI am the victim. There are twin sisters of us; and the twoeyes of man do not more resemble, nor are capable of beingupon better terms with each other, than my sister andmyself, were it not for the partiality of our parents, whomake the most injurious distinctions between us. From myinfancy I have been led to consider my sister as a being ofa more elevated rank. I was suffered to grow up withoutthe least instruction, while nothing was spared in hereducation.

She had masters to teach her writing, drawing, music, andother accomplishments; but if by chance I touched apencil, a pen, or a needle, I was bitterly rebuked; andmore than once I have been beaten for being awkward, andwanting a graceful manner. It is true, my sister associatedme with her upon some occasions; but she always made apoint of taking the lead, calling upon me only from necessity,or to figure by her side.

But conceive not, sirs, that my complaints are instigatedmerely by vanity. No; my uneasiness is occasioned by anobject much more serious. It is the practice in our family,that the whole business of providing for its subsistence fallsupon my sister and myself. If any indisposition shouldattack my sister,—and I mention it in confidence upon thisoccasion, that she is subject to the gout, the rheumatism,and cramp, without making mention of other accidents,—whatwould be the fate of our poor family?

Must not the regret of our parents be excessive, at having276placed so great a difference between sisters who are soperfectly equal? Alas! we must perish from distress; forit would not be in my power even to scrawl a suppliantpetition for relief, having been obliged to employ the handof another in transcribing the request which I have now thehonour to prefer to you.

Condescend, sirs, to make my parents sensible of theinjustice of an exclusive tenderness, and of the necessity ofdistributing their care and affection among all their childrenequally. I am, with a profound respect, sirs, your obedientservant,

The Left Hand.

Benjamin Franklin.

SHOULD I not keepe promise in speaking a little toWomen’s fashions, they would take it unkindly. Iwas loath to pester better matter with such stuffe; I ratherthought it meet to let them stand by themselves, like theQuæ Genus in the Grammar, being Deficients, or Redundants,not to be brought under any Rule: I shall therefore makebold for this once, to borrow a little of their loose-tonguedLiberty, and misspend a word or two upon their long-wasted,but short-skirted patience; a little use of my stirrup willdoe no harme.

It is known more then enough, that I am neither Nigard,nor Cinick, to the due bravery of the true Gentry: if anyman mislikes a bully ’mong drossock more than I, let himtake her for his labour! I honour the woman that canhonour her selfe with her attire: a good Text alwayes deservesa fair Margent: I am not much offended if I see a trimme,far trimmer than she that wears it: in a word, whateverChristianity or Civility will allow, I can afford with Londonmeasure: but when I heare a nugiperous Gentledameinquire what dresse the Queen is in this week: what thenudiustertian fashion of the court; I meane the verynewest: 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 ofa quarter of a cypher, the epitome of nothing, fitter to bekickt, if shee were of a kickable substance, than eitherhonour’d or humour’d.

To speak moderately, I truly confesse, it is beyond theken of my understanding to conceive, how those women278should have any true grace, or valuable vertue, that have solittle wit, as to disfigure themselves with such exotick garbes,as not only dismantles their native lovely lustre, but trans-cloutsthem into gant bar-geese, ill-shapen-shotten-shell-fish,Egyptian hyeroglyphicks, or at the best into French flurts ofthe pastery, which a proper English-woman should scornewith her heels; it is no marvell they weare drailes on thehinder part of their heads, having nothing as it seems in thefore part, but a few Squirril’s brains to help them frisk fromone ill-favor’d fashion to another.

The very troublers and impoverishers of mankind, I canhardly forbear to commend to the world a saying of a Ladyliving sometime with the Queen of Bohemia. I know notwhere shee found it, but it is a pitty it should be lost.

The Verses are even enough for such odde pegma’s. Ican make myselfe sicke at any time, with comparing thedazling splender wherewith our Gentlewomen were embellishedin some former habits, with the goosdom wherewiththey are now surcingled and debauched. Wee have aboutfive or six of them in our Colony; if I see any of themaccidentally, I cannot cleanse my phansie of them for amoneth after. I have been a solitary widdower almost twelveyeares, purposed lately to make a step over to my NativeCountry for a yoke fellow; but when I consider how womenthere have tripe-wifed themselves with their cladments, Ihave no heart to the voyage, least their nauseous shapes andthe Sea, should work too sorely upon my stomach. I speaksadly; me thinkes it should breake the hearts of Englishmento see so many goodly Englishwomen imprisoned in French279Cages, peering out of their hood-holes for some men of mercyto help them with a little wit, and no body relieves them.

It is a more common than convenient saying, that nineTaylors make a man; it were well if nineteene could makea woman to her minde; if Taylors were men indeed, wellfurnished, but with meer morall principles, they woulddisdain to be led about like Apes, by such mymickMarmosets. It is a most unworthy thing, for men thathave bones in them, to spend their lives in making fidle-casesfor futilous women’s phansies; which are the verypettitoes of infirmity, the gyblets of perquisquilian toyes.I am so charitable to think, that most of that mysterywould worke the cheerfuller while they live, if they mightbee well discharged of the tyring slavery of mis-tryingwomen; it is no little labour to be continually putting upEnglish-women into Out-landish caskes; who if they be notshifted anew, once in a few moneths, grow too sowre fortheir Husbands. What this Trade will answer for themselveswhen God shall take measure of Taylors’ consciencesis beyond my skill to imagine. There was a time when

But now our Roses are turned to Flore de lices, ourCarnations to Tulips, our Gilliflowers to Dayzes, our CityDames, to indenominable Quæmalry of overturcas’d things.Hee that makes Coates for the Moone had need takemeasure every noone; and he that makes for women, asoften, to keepe them from Lunacy.

I have often heard divers Ladies vent loud feminine complaintsof the wearisome varieties and chargeable changesof fashions! I marvell themselves preferre not a Bill ofredresse. I would Essex Ladies would lead the Chore, forthe honour of their County and persons; or rather thethrice honourable Ladies of the Court, whom it best280beseemes; who may wel presume of a Le Roy le Veult fromour sober King, a Les Seigneurs ont Assentus from ourprudent Peers, and the like Assentus from our considerate,I dare not say wife-worne Commons! who I believe hadmuch 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 attemptit; as you have the precellency of the women of the worldfor beauty and feature; so assume the honour to give, andnot take Law from any, in matter of attire; if ye cantransact so faire a motion among yourselves unanimouslyI dare say, they that most renite, will least repent. Whatgreater honour can your Honours desire, than to build aPromontory president to all foraigne Ladies, to deserve soeminently at the hands of all the English Gentry presentand to come; and to confute the opinion of all the wisemen in the world; who never thought it possible for womento doe so good a work?

If any man think I have spoken rather merrily thanseriously, he is much mistaken. I have written what Iwrite with all the indignation I can, and no more than Iought. I confesse I veer’d my tongue to this kinde ofLanguage de industria though unwillingly, supposing thoseI speak to are uncapable of grave and rationall arguments.

I desire all Ladies and Gentlewomen to understand thatall this while I intend not such as through necessarymodesty to avoyd morose singularity, follow fashions slowly,a flight shot or two off, showing by their moderation thatthey rather draw countermont with their hearts, than put onby their examples.

I point my pen only against the light-heel’d beagles thatlead the chase so fast, that they run all civility out ofbreath, against these Ape-headed pullets, which inventAntique foole-fangles, meerly for fashion and novelty sake.

Nathaniel Ward.

“IS this the office of the National Pop-gun and UniversalValve Trumpet?” inquired Sapid in sepulchral tones.

“Hey—what? Oh!—yes,” gruffly replied the clerk, ashe scrutinised the applicant.

“It is, is it?” was the response.

“H—umpse;” heaving a porcine affirmative, much inuse 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 beensomething 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 theclerk, with a cautionary wink at the paste-boy.

282“Guess he ain’t more nor up yet,” said Spry; “themails 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 mostdistant 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 StateHouse and a libel suit? It’s a’most time—not had a newsuit for a week.”

“Not much; and, as we didn’t have any scrouger inthe Gun yesterday, perhaps he wants to have somebodytickled up himself. Send him in.”

St. Sebastian Sockdolager, Esq., the editor of The NationalPop-gun and Universal Valve Trumpet, sat at a green table,elucidating an idea by the aid of a steel pen and whity-brownpaper, and therefore St. Sebastian Sockdolager didnot look up when Mr. Sapid entered the sanctum. Theabstraction may, perhaps, have been a sample of literarystage effect; but it is certain that the pen pursued the ideawith the speed and directness of a steeple-chase, straightacross the paper, and direful was the scratching thereof.The luckless idea being at last fairly run down and itsbrush cut off, Mr. Sockdolager threw himself back into hischair with a smile of triumph.

“Tickletoby,” said he, rumpling his hair into heroicexpansiveness.

“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. Wecirculate ten thousand deaths to any sort of a nuisanceevery day, besides the weekly and the country edition. We283are a regular smash-pipes in that line—surgical, surgical tothis community—we are at once the knife and the sarsaparillato human ills, whether financial, political, or social.”

“Sir, the nuisance I complain of lies in the circulation—inits mode and manner.”

“Bless me,” said Sockdolager, with a look of suspicion,“you are too literal in your interpretations. If your circulationis deranged, you had better try Brandreth, or the FluidExtract of Quizembob.”

“It is not my circulation, but yours, that makes all thetrouble. I never circulate—I can’t without being insulted.”

“Really, mister, I can’t say that this is clearly comprehensibleto perception. Not circulate! Are you belowpar in the money article; or in what particular do you findyourself in the condition of ‘no go’? Excuse my facetiæand be brief, for thought comes tumbling, bumping,booming——” and Sockdolager dipped his pen in theink.

Mr. Sappington Sapid unravelled the web of his miseries.“I wish you, sir, to control your newsboys—to dismiss thesaucy, and to write an article which shall make ’em ashamedof themselves. I shall call on every editor in the city, sir,and ask the same—a combined expression for the suppressionof iniquity. We must be emancipated from this new andgrowing evil, or our liberties become a farce, and we aresquashed and crushed in a way worse than fifty tea-taxes.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Whatcheecallem; it can’t be done—itwould be suicidal, with the sharpest kind of a knife.Whatcheecallem, you don’t understand the grand movementof the nineteenth century—you are not up to snuff as to thevital principle of human progression—the propulsive forcehas not yet been demonstrated to your benighted optics.The sun is up, sir; the hill-tops of intellect glow with itsbrightness, and even the level plain of the world’s collectivemediocrity is gilded by its beams; but you, sir, are yet in284the foggy valley of exploded prejudice, poking along with atuppenny-ha’penny candle—a mere dip. Suppress sauciness!why, my dear bungletonian, sauciness is the discoveryof the age—the secret of advancement! We are saucy now,sir, not by the accident of constitution—temperament hasnothing to do with it. We are saucy by calculation, byintention, by design. It is cultivated, like our whiskers, asa 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,—thissauce, or ‘sass,’ as the vulgar have it,—steam to the greatlocomotive of affairs. Suppress, indeed! No, sir; youshould regard it as part of your duty as a philanthropist andas a patriot to encourage this essence of superiority in allyour countrymen; and I’ve a great mind to write you anarticle on that subject instead of the other, for this conversationhas warmed up my ideas so completely that justicewill not be done to the community till they, like you, areenlightened on this important point.”

St. Sebastian Sockdolager, now having a leading articlefor The National Pop-gun and Universal Valve Trumpetclearly in his mind, was not a creature to be trifled with.An editor in this paroxysm, however gentle in his lessinspired moments, cannot safely be crossed, or even spokento. It is not wise to call him to dinner, except through thekeyhole; and to ask for “more copy,” in general a privilegeddemand, is a risk too fearful to be encountered. St.Sebastian’s eye became fixed, his brow corrugated, hismouth intellectually ajar.

“But, sir, the nuisance,” said Sappington.

“Don’t bother!” was the impatient reply, and the browof St. Sebastian Sockdolager grew black as his own ink.

“The boys, sir, the boys!—am I to be worried out ofmy life and soul?”

285The right hand of St. Sebastian Sockdolager fell heavilyupon the huge pewter inkstand—the concatenation of hisideas had been broken—he half raised himself from hischair and glanced significantly from his visitor to the door.“Mizzle!” said he, in a hoarse, suppressed whisper.

The language itself was unintelligible—the word mighthave been Chaldaic, for all that Sapid knew to the contrary;but there are situations in which an interpreter is notneeded, and this appeared to be one of them. Sapid neverbefore made a movement so swiftly extemporaneous.

He intends shortly to try whether the Grand Jury is aconvert 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 yearsof age get ready for bed? His shoe-strings are ina hard knot, and after a few vain efforts to unlace themhe rushes after a case-knife and saws each string in two.One shoe is thrown under the table, the other behind thestove, his jacket behind the door, and his stockings aredistributed over as many chairs as they will reach.

The boy doesn’t slip his pants off; he struggles out ofthem, holding a leg down with his foot and drawing hislimbs out after many stupendous efforts. While doing thishis hands are clutched into the bedclothes, and by thetime he is ready to get into bed the quilts and sheets areawry and the bed is full of humps and lumps. His brotherhas gone through the same motions, and both finally crawlinto bed. They are good boys, and they love each other,but they are hardly settled on their backs when one criesout—

“Hitch along!”

“I won’t!” bluntly replies the other.

286“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 firstexclaims—

“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 toheaven!”

The mother looks into the bedroom and kindly says—

“Come, children, be good, and don’t make your motherany trouble.”

“Well,” replies the youngest, “if Bill ’ll tell me a bearstory ’ll go to sleep.”

The mother withdraws, and Bill starts out—

“Well, you know, there was an old bear who lived in acave. He was a big black bear. He had eyes like coals offire, 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 themother, entering the room and arranging the clothes.

They doze off after a few muttered words, to preserve thepeace until morning, and it is popularly supposed that anangel sits on each bed-post to sentinel either curly headduring the long, dark hours.

“Ho-hum!” yawns Bill.

“Ho-hum!” yawns Henry.

287It is morning, and they crawl out of bed. After four orfive efforts they get into their pants, and then reach out forstockings.

“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 themother finally finds the stockings. Then comes the jackets.They are positive that they hung them on the hooks, andboldly charge that some maliciously wicked person removedthem. And so it goes until each one is finally dressed,washed, and ready for breakfast, and the mother feels sucha burden off her mind that she can endure what followstheir leaving the table—a good half-hour’s hunt after theirhats, which they “positively hung up,” but which are at lastfound 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 prominentcitizens, and the leading hide and pelt dealer in theNorth-West, has just returned from a European tour. Hehas been absent about four months; and in that time hehas made a visit to every European country, and hasbecome thoroughly acquainted with the customs, manners,and languages of the different people. He spent aboutseventy-five thousand dollars on the trip; but this couldnot be called an extravagant sum when one takes into considerationthe superb paintings, statuary, and other works ofvirtue that he brought back with him. In Paris, upon theRoo de Rivoly alone, he purchased fifteen thousand dollars’worth of pictures; and in Brussels he bought several288thousand dollars’ worth of those elegant carpets from whichthat city derives its name. Mr. Doty says that he was welltreated everywhere except in England. He is speciallybitter against Mr. Phelps, our representative at the court ofSt. James.

“This man Phelps,” says he, “is a little, dried-up,snobbish Vermont lawyer, with a soul no bigger than ahuckleberry. I dyed my moustache, and put on my dress-suitand my twenty-thousand-dollar diamond bosom-pin,and called to see him. A fine specimen he is to representour wealth and culture! I don’t believe his clothes costmore 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 youmind introducing me?’

“‘Really, Mr. Doty,’ says he, ‘I do not feel likepresenting an entire stranger to her Majesty.’

“‘Oh! you needn’t be scared,’ says I, ‘for I carry as biga letter of credit as any American in London; and when itcomes to culture, and that sort of thing, I can knock thesocks off any of your lords and marqueezies.’

“Well, will you believe it? he had the impudence toshove a printed list of questions at me.

“‘You will have to answer these on oath before I can tellyou whether I can present you to her Majesty,’ says he.

“I was as mad as a Texas steer. Here are some of thequestions: ‘Did you ever have a grandfather? and if so,what was his vocation?’ ‘Have you contracted the toothbrushhabit?’ ‘Are you addicted to the use of the doublenegative?’ ‘Spell phthisis, strychnine, pneumonia?’Fine questions these to put to a gentleman worth a coolmillion! I told him to go to —— with his queen; and I’mgoing to have my private secretary write a letter to thePresident, complaining of Phelps, and demanding that hebe discharged.”

Eugene Field.

Eugene Field.

ONE OF MR. WARD’S BUSINESS LETTERS.

To the Editor of the ——.

SIR—I’m movin along—slowly along—down tords yourplace. I want you should rite me a letter, sayin how isthe show bizniss in your place. My show at present consistsof three moral Bares, a Kangaroo (a amoozin little Raskal—’twouldmake you larf yerself to deth to see the little cussjump up and squeal) wax figgers of G. Washington Gen.Tayler, John Bunyan Capt. Kidd and Dr. Webster in theact of killin Dr. Parkman, besides several miscellanyus moralwax statoots of celebrated piruts & murderers, &c., ekalledby few & exceld by none. Now Mr. Editor, scratch orfa few lines sayin how is the show bizness down to yourplace. I shall hav my hanbills dun at your offiss. Dependupon it. I want you should git my hanbills up in flaminstile. Also git up a tremenjus excitemunt in yr. paper’bowt my onparaleld Show. We must fetch the publicsumhow. We must wurk on their feelins. Cum the moralon ’em strong. If its a temprance community tell ’emI sined the pledge fifteen minits arter Ise born, but on thecontery ef your peple take their tods, say Mister Ward is asJenial a feller as we ever met, full of conwiviality, & thelife an sole of the Soshul Bored. Take, don’t you? If yousay anythin abowt my show say my snaiks is as harmliss asthe new-born Babe. What a interestin study it is to seea zewological animal like a snaik under perfeck subjecshun!My kangaroo is the most larfable little cuss I ever saw. All292for 15 cents. I am anxyus to skewer your infloounce. Irepeet in regard to them hanbills that I shall git ’em struckorf up to your printin offiss. My perlitercal sentimentsagree with yourn exackly. I know thay do, becawz I neversaw a man whoos didn’t.

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 hankerarter Betsy Jane. Her father’s farm jined our’n;their cows and our’n squencht their thurst at the samespring; our old mares both had stars in their forrerds;the measles broke out in both famerlies at nearly the sameperiod; our parients (Betsy’s and mine) slept reglarly everySunday in the same meetin house, and the nabers used toobsarve, “How thick the Wards and Peasleys air!” Itwas a surblime site, in the Spring of the year, to see oursevral mothers (Betsy’s and mine) with their gowns pin’d upso 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 inmy manly Buzzom. I’d try to do it but my tung wouldkerwollup up agin the roof of my mowth & stick thar, likedeth to a deseast Afrikan, or a country postmaster to hisoffiss, while my hart whanged agin my ribs like a old-fashionedwheat Flale agin a barn door.

’Twas a carm still nite in Joon. All nater was hushtand nary zeffer disturbed the sereen silens. I sot withBetsy Jane on the fense of her farther’s pastur. We’d binrompin threw the woods, kullin flours & drivin the woodchuck293from his Native Lair (so to speak) with long sticks.Wall we sot thar on the fense, a swingin our feet two andfro, blushin as red as the Baldinsville skool house when itwas 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.

I cleared my throat and tremblinly sed, “Betsy, you’re aGazelle.”

I thought that air was putty fine. I waitid to see whateffeck it would hav upon her. It evidently didn’t fetch her,for she up and sed—

294“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 thatyou could see some of my feelins. There’s fire enuff inhere,” said I, strikin my buzzum with my fist, “to bile allthe corn beef and turnips in the naberhood. Versooviusand the Critter ain’t a circumstans!”

She bowd her hed down and commenst chawin thestrings to her sun bonnet.

“Ar could you know the sleeplis nites I worry threwwith on your account, how vittles has seized to be attractivto me, & how my lims has shrunk up, you wouldn’t dowtme. Gase on this wastin form and these ’ere sunkencheeks——”

I should have continnered on in this strane probly forsum time, but unfortnitly I lost my ballunse and fell overinto the pastur kersmash, tearin my close and seveerlydamagin myself ginerally.

Betsy Jane sprung to my assistance in dubble quick timeand dragged me 4th. Then drawin herself up to her fullhite, she said:

“I won’t listen to your noncents no longer. Jes say ritestrate out what you’re drivin at. If you mean gettinhitched, I’m in!”

I considered that air enuff for all practical purpusses, andwe proceeded immejitly to the parson’s, and was made 1that very nite.

(Notiss to the Printer. Put some stars here.)

I’ve parst threw many tryin ordeels sins then, but BetsyJane has bin troo as steel. By attendin strickly to biznissI’ve amarsed a handsum Pittance. No man on this footstoolcan rise & git up & say I ever knowinly injered no295man or wimmin folks, while all agree that my Show isekalled by few and exceld by none, embracin as it does awonderful colleckshun of livin wild Beests of Pray, snaix ingrate profushun, a endliss variety of life-size wax figgers, &the only traned kangaroo in Ameriky—the most amoozinlittle cuss ever introjuced to a discriminatin public.

Artemus Ward.

YE PEDAGOGUE.

John Godfrey Saxe.

STRANGERS visiting the beautiful city of Burlingtonhave not failed to notice that one of the handsomestyoung men they meet is very bald, and they fall into theusual 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 nightabout two years ago. He escorted three charming girls,with angelic countenances and human appetites, out tothe refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, andthen found he had left his pocket-book at home, and adeaf man that he had never seen before at the cashier’sdesk. 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 littlelouder key, “that I have unfortunately come away withoutany change to——”

“Change two?” chirped the old man. “Oh, yes; I canchange five if you want it.”

“No,” the young man explained in a terrible penetratingwhisper, for half-a-dozen people were crowding up behindhim, impatient to pay their bills and get away, “I don’twant any change, because——”

“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried gleefully.“’Bleeged to ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Taint often weget such generous donations. Pass over your bill.”

“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have nofunds——”

“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growingtired of the conversation, and noticing the long line of299people waiting with money in their hands; “but I haven’tgot time to talk about it now. Settle, and move on.”

“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have nomoney——”

“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’tcare when you go; you must pay, and let these other peoplecome 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 gigglingand chuckling audibly.

“Owe money?” the cashier said; “of course you do;2.75 dollars.”

“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning hispockets inside out, and yelling his poverty to the heavens,he finally made the deaf man understand. And then hehad to shriek his full name three times, while his ears fairlyrung with the half-stifled laughter that was breaking out allaround him; and he had to scream out where he worked,and roar when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deafman to understand him until some of the church memberscame up to see what the uproar was, and, recognising theiryoung friend, made it all right with the cashier. And theyoung 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.

A YOUNG fellow, a tobacco pedler by trade, was on hisway from Morristown, where he had dealt largelywith the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the village ofParker’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 goldentobacco-stalk, on the rear. The pedler drove a smart littlemare, and was a young man of excellent character, keen ata bargain, but none the worse liked by the Yankees; who,as I have heard them say, would rather be shaved with asharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he beloved bythe pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favour he usedto court by presents of the best smoking tobacco in hisstock; knowing well that the country lassies of NewEngland are generally great performers on pipes. Moreover,as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedlerwas inquisitive, and something of a tattler, always itching tohear the news and anxious to tell it again.

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobaccopedler, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had travelled sevenmiles through a solitary piece of woods, without speakinga word to anybody but himself and his little grey mare. Itbeing nearly seven o’clock, he was as eager to hold a morninggossip as a city shopkeeper to reach the morning paper.An opportunity seemed at hand when, after lighting a cigarwith a sun-glass, he looked up and perceived a man comingover the brow of a hill, at the foot of which the pedler hadstopped his green cart. Dominicus watched him as hedescended, and noticed that he carried a bundle over hisshoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled with a weary,yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had started301in 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 withinspeaking distance. “You go a pretty good jog. What’sthe latest news at Parker’s Falls?”

The man pulled the broad brim of a grey hat over hiseyes, and answered rather sullenly that he did not comefrom Parker’s Falls, which, as being the limit of his ownday’s journey, the pedler had naturally mentioned in hisinquiry.

“Well, then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s have thelatest news where you did come from. I’m not particularabout Parker’s Falls. Any place will answer.”

Being thus importuned, the traveller—who was as ill-lookinga fellow as one would desire to meet in a solitarypiece of woods—appeared to hesitate a little, as if he waseither searching his memory for news, or weighing theexpediency of telling it. At last mounting on the step ofthe cart, he whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though hemight have shouted aloud and no other mortal would haveheard him—

“I do remember one little trifle of news,” said he.“Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered inhis orchard, at eight o’clock last night, by an Irishmanand a nigger. They strung him up to a branch of aSt. Michael’s pear-tree, where nobody would find him tillthe morning.”

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated,the stranger betook himself to his journey again with morespeed than ever, not even turning his head when Dominicusinvited him to smoke a Spanish cigar and relate all theparticulars. The pedler whistled to his mare and went upthe hill, pondering on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham,whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold himmany a bunch of long-nines, and a great deal of pig-tail,303ladies’ twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather astonishedat the rapidity with which the news had spread. Kimballtonwas nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; themurder had been perpetrated only at eight o’clock thepreceding night; and yet Dominicus had heard of it atseven in the morning, when in all probability poor Mr.Higginbotham’s own family had just discovered his corpsehanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree. The stranger onfoot must have worn seven-league boots to travel at sucha rate.

“Ill news flies fast, they say,” thought Dominicus Pike;“but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hiredto go express with the President’s message.”

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narratorhad made a mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence;so that our friend did not hesitate to introduce thestory at every tavern and country store along the road,expending a whole bunch of Spanish wrappers amongat least twenty horrified audiences. He found himselfinvariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was sopestered with questions that he could not avoid filling upthe outline, till it became quite a respectable narrative. Hemet with one piece of corroborative evidence. Mr. Higginbothamwas a trader; and a former clerk of his, to whomDominicus related the facts, testified that the old gentlemanwas accustomed to return home through the orchardabout nightfall with the money and valuable papers of thestore in his pocket. The clerk manifested but little griefat Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe, hinting, what the pedlerhad discovered in his own dealings with him, that he wasa crusty old fellow, as close as a vice. His property woulddescend to a pretty niece, who was now keeping school inKimballton.

What with telling the news for the public good anddriving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much304delayed 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 thebar-room, and went through the story of the murder, whichhad 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 thetwentieth was an elderly farmer, who had arrived on horsebacka short time before, and was now seated in a cornersmoking his pipe. When the story was concluded he roseup very deliberately, brought his chair right in front ofDominicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing out thevilest tobacco-smoke the pedler had ever smelt.

“Will you make affidavit,” demanded he in the tone ofa country justice taking an examination, “that old SquireHigginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in his orchardthe night before last, and found hanging on his great pear-treeyesterday morning?”

“I tell the story as I heard it,” answered Dominicus,dropping his half-burnt cigar. “I don’t say that I saw thething done, so I can’t take my oath that he was murderedexactly in that way.”

“But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “that if SquireHigginbotham was murdered the night before last, I dranka bottle of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being aneighbour of mine he called me into his store as I wasriding by and treated me, and then asked me to do a littlebusiness for him on the road. He didn’t seem to knowany more about his own murder than I did.”

“Why, then, it can’t be a fact!” exclaimed DominicusPike.

“I guess he’d have mentioned if it was,” said the oldfarmer, 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!305The pedler had no heart to mingle in the conversation anymore, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and waterand went to bed, where, all night long, he dreamt ofhanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree. To avoid the oldfarmer (whom he so detested that his suspension wouldhave pleased him better than Mr. Higginbotham’s),Dominicus rose in the grey of the morning, put the littlemare into the green cart, and trotted swiftly away towardsParker’s Falls. The fresh breeze, the dewy road, and thepleasant summer dawn revived his spirits, and might haveencouraged him to repeat the old story had there beenanybody awake to hear it. But he met neither ox-team,light waggon, chaise, horseman, nor foot-traveller, till justas he crossed Salmon River a man came trudging down tothe bridge with a bundle over his shoulder on the end of astick.

“Good morning, mister,” said the pedler, reining in hismare; “if you come from Kimballton or that neighbourhoodmaybe you can tell me the real facts about the affairof old Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow actually murderedtwo or three nights ago by an Irishman and a nigger?”

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe atfirst that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of negroblood. On hearing this sudden question the Ethiopianappeared to change his skin, its yellow hue becoming aghastly white, while shaking and stammering he thusreplied—

“No! no! There was no coloured man! It was anIrishman that hanged him last night at eight o’clock. Icame away at seven! His folks can’t have looked for himin the orchard yet.”

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken when he interruptedhimself, and though he seemed weary enough before,continued his journey at a pace which would have kept thepedler’s mare on a sharp trot. Dominicus stared after306him in great perplexity. If the murder had not been committedtill Tuesday night, who was the prophet that hadforetold it, in all its circumstances, on Tuesday morning?If Mr. Higginbotham’s corpse were not yet discovered byhis own family, how came the mulatto, at above thirty milesdistance, to know that he was hanging in the orchard,especially as he had left Kimballton before the unfortunateman was hanged at all? These ambiguous circumstances,with the stranger’s surprise and terror, made Dominicusthink of raising a hue and cry after him, as an accomplicein the murder, since a murder, it seemed, had really beenperpetrated.

“But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedler. “Idon’t want his black blood on my head; and hanging thenigger won’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Unhang the oldgentleman! It’s a sin, I know; but I should hate to havehim come to life a second time, and give me the lie!”

With these meditations Dominicus Pike drove into thestreet of Parker’s Falls, which, as everybody knows, is asthriving a village as three cotton factories and a slitting-millcan make it. The machinery was not in motion, andbut a few of the shop doors unbarred, when he alightedin the stable-yard of the tavern, and made it his firstbusiness to order the mare four quarts of oats. Hissecond duty, of course, was to impart Mr. Higginbotham’scatastrophe to the ostler. He deemed it advisable, however,not to be too positive as to the date of the direfulfact, and also to be uncertain whether it was perpetratedby 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 reportgenerally diffused.

The story ran through the town like fire among girdledtrees, and became so much the universal talk that nobodycould tell whence it originated. Mr. Higginbotham was307as well known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of the place,being part-owner of the slitting-mill, and a considerablestockholder in the cotton factories. The inhabitants felttheir own prosperity interested in his fate. Such was theexcitement that the Parker’s Falls Gazette anticipated itsregular day of publication, and came out with half a form ofblank paper and a column of double pica emphasised withcapitals, and headed Horrid Murder of Mr. Higginbotham!Among other dreadful details, the printedaccount described the mark of the cord round the deadman’s neck, and stated the number of thousand dollarsof which he had been robbed. There was much pathosalso about the affliction of his niece, who had gone fromone fainting fit to another, ever since her uncle was foundhanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree with his pockets insideout. The village poet likewise commemorated the younglady’s grief in seventeen stanzas of a ballad. The select-menheld a meeting, and in consideration of Mr. Higginbotham’sclaims on the town, determined to issue handbillsoffering a reward of five hundred dollars for theapprehension of his murderers and the recovery of thestolen property.

Meanwhile the whole population of Parker’s Falls, consistingof shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding-houses, factorygirls, mill-men and school-boys, rushed into the street, andkept up such a terrible loquacity as more than compensatedfor the silence of the cotton machines, which refrained fromtheir usual din out of respect to the deceased. Had Mr.Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his untimelyghost would have exulted in this tumult. Our friendDominicus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precautions,and, mounting on the town pump, announcedhimself as the bearer of the authentic intelligence whichhad caused so wonderful a sensation. He immediatelybecame the great man of the moment, and had just began308a new edition of the narrative with a voice like a field-preacherwhen the mail stage drove into the village street.It had travelled all night, and must have shifted horses atKimballton at three in the morning.

“Now we shall hear all the particulars,” shouted thecrowd.

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern,followed by a thousand people; for if any man had beenminding his own business till then, he now left it at sixesand sevens to hear the news. The pedler, foremost in therace, discovered two passengers, both of whom had beenstartled from a comfortable nap to find themselves in thecentre of a mob. Every man assailed them with separatequestions all propounded at once. The couple were struckspeechless, though one was a lawyer and the other a younglady.

“Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham! Tell us theparticulars 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 herfainting fits? Mr. Higginbotham! Mr. Higginbotham!”

The coachman said not a word, except to swear awfullyat the ostler for not bringing him a fresh team of horses.The lawyer inside had generally his wits about him evenwhen asleep; the first thing he did, after learning the causeof the excitement, was to produce a large red pocket-book.Meanwhile, Dominicus Pike, being an extremely politeyoung man, and also suspecting that a female tongue wouldtell the story as glibly as a lawyer’s, had handed the ladyout of the coach. She was a fine, smart girl, now wideawake and bright as a button, and had such a sweet, prettymouth, that Dominicus would almost as lieves have heard alove-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 assure309you that some unaccountable mistake, or more probably, awilful falsehood, maliciously contrived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’scredit, has excited this singular uproar. Wepassed through Kimballton at three o’clock this morning,and most certainly should have been informed of themurder, had any been perpetrated. But I have proofnearly as strong as Mr. Higginbotham’s own oral testimonyin the negative. Here is a note relating to a suit ofhis in the Connecticut courts, which was delivered me fromthat gentleman himself. I find it dated at ten o’clock lastevening.”

So saying the lawyer exhibited the date and signature ofthe note, which irrefragably proved, either that this perverseMr. Higginbotham was alive when he wrote it, or—as somedeemed the more probable case of two doubtful ones—thathe was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue totransact it even after his death. But unexpected evidencewas forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to thepedler’s explanations, merely seized a moment to smoothher gown and put her curls in order, and then appeared atthe tavern door, making a modest signal to be heard.

“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’sniece.”

A wondering murmur passed through the crowd onbeholding her so rosy and bright, the same unhappy niecewhom they had supposed, on the authority of the Parker’sFalls Gazette, to be lying at death’s door in a fainting fit.But some shrewd fellow had doubted all along whether ayoung lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of arich 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 tomy dear uncle Higginbotham. He has the kindness togive me a home in his house, though I contribute to my310support by teaching a school. I left Kimballton thismorning to spend the vacation of commencement weekwith a friend, about five miles from Parker’s Falls. Mygenerous uncle, when he heard me on the stairs, called meto his bedside, and gave me two dollars and fifty cents topay my stage fare, and another dollar for my extra expenses.311He then laid his pocket-book under his pillow, shook handswith 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 trustthat 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 withsuch grace and propriety, that everybody thought her fit tobe Preceptress of the best Academy in the State. But astranger would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham wasan object of abhorrence at Parker’s Falls, and that a thanksgivinghad been proclaimed for his murder, so excessivewas the wrath of the inhabitants on learning their mistake.The mill-men resolved to bestow public honours on DominicusPike, only hesitating whether to tar and feather him,ride him on a rail, or refresh him with an ablution at thetown pump, on the top of which he had declared himselfthe bearer of the news. The select-men, by the advice ofthe lawyer, spoke of prosecuting him for a misdemeanour incirculating unfounded reports, to the great disturbance ofthe peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved Dominicuseither from mob law or a court of justice but an eloquentappeal made by the young lady in his behalf. Addressinga few words of heartfelt gratitude to his benefactress, hemounted the green cart and drove out of town under adischarge of artillery from the school-boys, who foundplenty of ammunition in the neighbouring clay-pits andmud-holes. As he turned his head, to exchange a farewellglance with Mr. Higginbotham’s niece, a ball, of the consistenceof hasty-pudding, hit him slap in the mouth, givinghim a most grim aspect. His whole person was so bespatteredwith the like filthy missiles that he had almost a mindto ride back and supplicate for the threatened ablution atthe town pump, for, though not meant in kindness, it wouldhave been a deed of charity.

312However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, andthe mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved opprobrium,was easily brushed off when dry. Being a funny rogue, hisheart soon cheered up; nor could he refrain from a heartylaugh at the uproar which his story excited. The handbillsof the select-men would cause the commitment of all thevagabonds in the State. The paragraph in the Parker’s FallsGazette would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, andperhaps form an item in the London newspapers; and manya miser would tremble for his money-bag and life, on learningthe catastrophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler meditatedwith much fervour on the charms of the young school-mistress,and swore that Daniel Webster never spoke norlooked so like an angel as Miss Higginbotham, whiledefending him from the wrathful populace at Parker’sFalls.

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, havingall along determined to visit that place, though business haddrawn him out of the most direct road from Morristown.As he approached the scene of the supposed murder, hecontinued to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and wasastonished at the aspect which the whole case assumed. Hadnothing occurred to corroborate the story of the first travellerit might have been considered as a hoax; but the yellow manwas evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact;and there was a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look onbeing abruptly questioned. When to this singular combinationof incidents it was added that the rumour tallied withMr. Higginbotham’s character and habits of life; and thathe had an orchard, and a St. Michael’s pear-tree, near whichhe always passed at nightfalls, the circumstantial evidenceappeared so strong that Dominicus doubted whether theautograph produced by the lawyer, or even the niece’sdirect testimony, ought to be equivalent. Making cautiousinquiry along the road, the pedler further learned that Mr.313Higginbotham had in his service an Irishman of doubtfulcharacter, whom he had hired without a recommendation,on the score of economy.

“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pikealoud, on reaching the top of a lonely hill, “if I believe oldHigginbotham is unhanged, till I see him with my owneyes, and hear it from his own mouth! And as he’s a realshaver, I’ll have the minister or some other responsibleman for an endorser.”

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-houseon Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile fromthe village of this name. His little mare was fast bringinghim up with a man on horseback, who trotted throughthe gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to thetoll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. Dominicuswas acquainted with the toll-man, and while makingchange, the usual remarks on the weather passed betweenthem.

“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whip-lashto bring it down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “youhave not seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within aday or two?”

“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer; “he passed the gatejust before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if youcan see him through the dusk. He’s been to Woodfieldthis afternoon, attending a sheriff’s sale there. The oldman generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me;but to-night he nodded, as if to say, ‘Charge my toll,’ andjogged on, for wherever he goes, he must always be athome by eight o’clock.”

“So they tell me,” said Dominicus.

“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as thesquire does,” continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myselfto-night, he’s more like a ghost or an old mummy thangood flesh and blood.”

314The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, andcould just discern the horseman now far ahead on thevillage road. He seemed to recognise the rear of Mr.Higginbotham; and through the evening shadows, andamid the dust from the horse’s feet, the figure appeared dimand unsubstantial, as if the shape of the mysterious old manwere faintly moulded of darkness and grey light. Dominicusshivered.

“Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the otherworld, by way of Kimballton turnpike,” thought he.

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about thesame distance in the rear of the grey old shadow, till thelatter was concealed by a bend of the road. On reachingthis point the pedler no longer saw the man on horseback,but found himself at the head of the village street, not farfrom a number of stores and two taverns, clustered aroundthe meeting-house steeple. On his left was a stone walland a gate, the boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which layan 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 beenleft in the background by the Kimballton turnpike, andDominicus knew the place; and the little mare stoppedshort by instinct, for he was not conscious of tightening thereins.

“For the soul of me I cannot get by this gate,” said he,trembling. “I never shall be my own man again till I seewhether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michaelpear-tree!”

He leaped from the cart, gave the reins a turn round thegate-post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot asif Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the villageclock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell, Dominicusgave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim inthe solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree.315One great branch stretched from the old contortedtrunk across the path and threw the darkest shadow onthat one spot. But something seemed to struggle beneaththe branch!

The pedler had never pretended to more courage thanbefits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could he accountfor his valour on this awful emergency. Certain it is,however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irishmanwith the butt end of his whip, and found—not indeedhanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree, but tremblingbeneath it, with a halter round his neck—the old, identicalMr. Higginbotham.

“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus tremulously,316“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 willexplain the simple machinery by which this coming eventwas made to cast its shadow before. Three men hadplotted the robbery and murder of Mr. Higginbotham;two of them successively lost courage and fled, eachdelaying the crime one night by their disappearance; thethird was in the act of perpetration when a champion,blindly obeying the call of fate, like the heroes of oldromance, appeared in the person of Dominicus Pike.

It only remains to say that Mr. Higginbotham took thepedler into high favour, sanctioned his addresses to thepretty school-mistress, and settled his whole property ontheir children, allowing themselves the interest. In duetime the old gentleman capped the climax of his favoursby dying a Christian death, in bed, since which melancholyevent Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballtonand established a large tobacco factory in my nativevillage.

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 whenhe refused the beggar a sixpence, for fear it might lead himinto extravagance! Everybody is going to California andChagrin arter gold. Cousin Jones and the three Smithshave gone; and Mr. Chip, the carpenter, has left his wifeand seven children, and a blessed old mother-in-law, to seekhis fortin, too. This is the strangest yet, and I don’t see317how he could have done it; it looks so ongrateful to treatHeaven’s blessings so lightly. But there we are told thatthe 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!”

And she shook her head doubtingly, as she pensivelywatched a small mug of cider, with an apple in it, simmeringby the winter fire. She was somewhat fond of drinkmade in this way.

Benjamin Penhallon Shillaber

(“Mrs. Partington”).

ANOTHER night of alternate tranquillity and turmoil.But morning came by-and-by. It was another gladawakening to fresh breezes, vast expanses of level greensward,bright sunlight, an impressive solitude utterly withoutvisible human beings or human habitations, and anatmosphere of such amazing magnifying properties that treesthat seemed close at hand were more than three miles away.We resumed undress uniform, climbed a-top of the flyingcoach, dangled our legs over the side, shouted occasionallyat our frantic mules, merely to see them lay their ears backand scamper faster, tied our hats on to keep our hair fromblowing away, and levelled an outlook over the world-widecarpet about us for things new and strange to gaze at.Even at this day it thrills me through and through to thinkof the life, the gladness and the wild sense of freedom, thatused to make the blood dance in my veins on those fineoverland mornings!

Along about an hour after breakfast we saw the firstprairie-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 gotwell acquainted with his race afterward, and can speak withconfidence. The cayote is a long, slim, sick- and sorry-lookingskeleton, with a grey wolf-skin stretched over it, atolerably bushy tail that for ever sags down with a despairingexpression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evileye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip andexposed teeth. He has a general slinking expression allover. The cayote is a living, breathing allegory of want.He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck, and319friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and eventhe fleas would desert him for a velocipede. He is sospiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teethare pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologisingfor it. And he is so homely!—so scrawny, and ribby, andcoarse-haired, and pitiful. When he sees you he lifts his lipand lets a flash of his teeth out, and then turns a little outof 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 heis about out of easy pistol range, and then he stops andtakes a deliberate survey of you; he will trot fifty yards andstop again—another fifty and stop again; and finally thegrey of his gliding body blends with the grey of the sagebrush,and he disappears. All this is when you make nodemonstration against him; but if you do, he develops alivelier interest in his journey, and instantly electrifies hisheels, and puts such a deal of real estate between himselfand your weapon that by the time you have raised thehammer you see that you need a minié rifle, and by thetime you have got him in line you need a rifled cannon,and by the time you have “drawn a bead” on him you seewell enough that nothing but an unusually long-windedstreak of lightning could reach him where he is now. Butif you start a swift-footed dog after him, you will enjoy itever so much—especially if it is a dog that has a goodopinion of himself, and has been brought up to think heknows something about speed. The cayote will go swinginggently off on that deceitful trot of his, and every little whilehe will smile a fraudful smile over his shoulder that will fillthat dog entirely full of encouragement and worldly ambition,and make him lay his head still lower to the ground, andstretch his neck further to the front, and pant more fiercely,and stick his tail out straighter behind, and move hisfurious legs with a yet wilder frenzy, and leave a broader320and broader, and higher and denser cloud of desert sandsmoking behind, and marking his long wake across the levelplain! And all this time the dog is only a short twentyfeet behind the cayote, and to save the soul of him hecannot understand why it is that he cannot get perceptiblycloser; and he begins to get aggravated, and it makes himmadder and madder to see how gently the cayote glidesalong and never pants or sweats or ceases to smile; and hegrows still more and more incensed to see how shamefullyhe has been taken in by an entire stranger, and what anignoble swindle that long, calm, soft-footed trot is; andnext he notices that he is getting fagged, and that thecayote actually has to slacken speed a little to keep fromrunning away from him—and then that town-dog is mad inearnest, and he begins to strain and weep and swear, andpaw the sand higher than ever, and reach for the cayotewith concentrated and desperate energy. This “spurt”finds him six feet behind the gliding enemy, and two milesfrom his friends. And then, in the instant that a wild newhope is lighting up his face, the cayote turns and smilesblandly upon him once more, and with a something aboutit which seems to say: “Well, I shall have to tear myselfaway from you, bub—business is business, and it will notdo for me to be fooling along this way all day”—and forthwiththere is a rushing sound, and the sudden splitting of along crack through the atmosphere, and behold that dog issolitary 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, heturns and jogs along back to his train, and takes up ahumble position under the hindmost waggon, and feelsunspeakably mean, and looks ashamed, and hangs his tailat half-mast for a week. And forasmuch as a year after that,whenever there is a great hue and cry after a cayote, that321dog will merely glance in that direction without emotion,and apparently observe to himself, “I believe I do not wishany of the pie.”

The cayote lives chiefly in the most desolate and forbiddingdeserts, along with the lizard, the jackass-rabbit, andthe raven, and gets an uncertain and precarious living, andearns it. He seems to subsist almost wholly on thecarcasses of oxen, mules, and horses that have dropped outof emigrant trains and died, and upon windfalls of carrion,and occasional legacies of offal bequeathed to him by whitemen who have been opulent enough to have somethingbetter to butcher than condemned army bacon. He willeat anything in the world that his first cousins, the desert-frequentingtribes of Indians, will, and they will eat anythingthey can bite. It is a curious fact that these latterare the only creatures known to history who will eat nitroglycerineand ask for more if they survive.

The cayote of the deserts beyond the Rocky Mountainshas a peculiarly hard time of it, owing to the fact that hisrelations, the Indians, are just as apt to be the first todetect a seductive scent on the desert breeze, and follow thefragrance to the late ox it emanated from, as he is himself;and when this occurs he has to content himself with sittingoff at a little distance watching those people strip off anddig out everything edible, and walk off with it. Then heand the waiting ravens explore the skeleton and polish thebones. It is considered that the cayote, and the obscenebird, and the Indian of the desert, testify their bloodkinship with each other in that they live together in thewaste places of the earth on terms of perfect confidence andfriendship, while hating all other creatures and yearning toassist at their funerals. He does not mind going a hundredmiles 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 the322scenery as lying around doing nothing and adding to theburdens of his parents.

We soon learned to recognise the sharp, vicious bark ofthe cayote as it came across the murky plain at night todisturb our dreams among the mail-sacks; and rememberinghis forlorn aspect and his hard fortune, made shift to wishhim the blessed novelty of a long day’s good luck and alimitless larder the morrow.

Samuel L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”).

THE HEAD-WRITER.

IT was early in the morning when I heard a great puffingand blowing on the stairs, and pretty soon footstepssounded in the hall, and a woman’s voice said—

“Now, John Quincy, you want to look as smart as youcan!”

323The next moment the door opened, and a big fatwoman and a small thin boy came into the room. Shegave her dress a shake, snatched the boy’s hat off, andthen, 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 chairand fanned herself with her handkerchief; “I like to havenever 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’tknow. 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 aboutthat 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 apologeticalsmile. “He’s rid fourteen miles this morning, and hedoesn’t feel well, anyhow; I shouldn’t wonder if he wastroubled with worums.”

“Worms be blowed!” replied John Quincy, chewingaway at his hat.

“He’s awful skeard when he’s among strangers,” shewent on; “but he’ll git over it in a short time. What Icum in for was to see if you wouldn’t take him and make ahead-writer of him.”

“I don’t want to be a durned old bald-headed head-writer!”said John Quincy, picking his teeth with myscissors.

324“The young never knows what’s good for ’em,” she wenton. “He wants to be a preacher, or a great lawyer, or abig doctor; but he seems to take to writing, and wethought we’d make a head-writer of him. I don’t soposehe’d earn over five or six dollars and board a week for thefirst year, but I’ve bin told that Gen’ral Jackson didn’t gethalf 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 steeltrap, 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 unlessyou put his left eye out. If you will think back you willremember that you never saw a great writer whose left eyewas not out. This is a matter of economy. A one-eyedwriter only needs half as much light as a man with twoeyes, and he isn’t half so apt to discover hair-pins in hisbutter, and buttons in his oyster soup. The best way toput 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 maythink that my baldness results from scalp disease, but suchis not the case. When a head-writer is bothered to get anidea he scratches his head. Scratching the hair wouldn’tdo any good; it’s the scalp he must agitate. The hair istherefore pulled out with a pair of pincers, in order that aman 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 thatone of my legs is shorter than the other. Without anexplanation on my part you would attribute this to some325accident. Such is not the case. Every head-writer islocated in the fourth storey of the office, and his left leg isshortened three inches to enable him to run up and downstairs. You will have to have a doctor unjoint your son’sleg at the hip, saw it off to the proper length, and thenhook it back in its place.”

“Did I ever hear the likes!” she exclaimed.

“And you also observe, madam, that two of my frontteeth are gone. You might think they decayed, but suchwas not the case. They were knocked out with a crowbarin order to enable me to spit ten feet. According to a lawenacted at the last Session of Congress, any head-writerwho can’t spit ten feet is not entitled to receive Congressionalreports free of postage.”

“Can it be so?” she said, her eyes growing larger everymoment.

“And you notice my corpulent build?” I went on; “youmight think this the result of high-living, but it is not.Every head-writer of any prominence has one of these bigstomachs on him. They are all members of a secretsociety, and they tell each other outside of the lodge-roomin this way: I am naturally very tall and thin, but I had toconform to the rules. They cut a hole in my chest andfilled me out by stuffing in dry Indian meal. It took twobushels and a peck, and then it lacked a little, and theyhad to fill up with oatmeal. Now then, madam, you seewhat your son must go through with, and I leave you tojudge whether you will have him learn the head-writer’strade or not. I like the looks of the boy very much, and ifyou desire to——”

“I guess we’ll go hum!” she exclaimed, lifting herselfoff the chair. “I kinder want him to be a head-writer, andyit 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 ’blegedto you, and if we conclude to have him——”

326“Yes, bring him right in, day or night. The first thingwill be to unhinge his left leg and——!”

But they were out in the hall, and I heard John Quincyremark: “Head-writer be blowed!”

C. B. Lewis (“M Quad”).

PELEG W. PONDER; OR, THE POLITICIAN WITHOUT A SIDE.

IT is a curious thing—an unpleasant thing—a veryembarrassing sort of thing—but the truth must betold—if not at all times, at least sometimes; and truthnow compels the declaration that Peleg W. Ponder, whose327character is here portrayed, let him travel in any way, cannotarrive at a conclusion. He never had one of his own.He scarcely knows a conclusion, even if he should chanceto see one belonging to other people, and, as for reachinga result, he would never be able to do it, if he could stretchlike a giraffe. Results are beyond his compass. And hismisfortune is, perhaps, hereditary, his mother’s name havingbeen Mrs. Perplexity Ponder, whose earthly career cameto an end while she was in dubitation as to which of thevarious physicians of the place should be called in. Ifthere had been only one doctor in the town, PerplexityPonder might have been saved. But there was many—andwhat could Perplexity do in such a case?

Ponder’s father was run over by a waggon, as he stooddebating with himself, in the middle of the road, whetherhe should escape forward or retreat backward. There weretwo methods of extrication, and between them both oldPonder became a victim. How then could their worthyson, Peleg, be expected to arrive at a conclusion? Henever does.

Yet, for one’s general comfort and particular happiness,there does not appear to be any faculty more desirable thanthe power of “making up the mind.” Right or wrong, itsaves a deal of wear and tear; and it prevents an infinitevariety of trouble. Commend us to the individual whochooses upon propositions like a nutcracker—whose promptnessof will has a sledge-hammer way with it, and hits nailscontinually on the head. Genius may be brilliant—talentcommanding! but what is genius, or what is talent, if itlack that which we may call the clinching faculty—if ithesitates, veers, and flutters—suffers opportunities to pass,and stumbles at occasion? To reason well is much, nodoubt, but reason loses the race if it sits in meditationon the fence when competition rushes by.

Under the best of circumstances, something must be left328to hazard. There is a chance in all things. No man canso calculate odds in the affairs of life as to ensure a certainty.The screws and linchpins necessary to our purpose havenot the inflexibility of fate; yet they must be trusted atsome degree of risk. Our candle may be put out by a puffof wind on the stair, let it be sheltered ever so carefully.Betsy is a good cook, yet beefsteaks have been productiveof strangulation. Does it then follow from this that we arenever to go to bed, except in the dark, and to abstain frombreaking our fast until dinner is announced?

One may pause and reflect too much. There must beaction, conclusion, result, or we are a failure, to all intentsand purposes—a self-confessed failure—defunct from thebeginning. And such was the case with Peleg W. Ponder,who never arrived at a conclusion, or contrived to reach aresult. Peleg is always “stumped”—he “don’t know whatto think”—he “can’t tell what to say”—an unfinishedgentleman, with a mind like a dusty garret, full, as it were,of rickety furniture, yet nothing serviceable—broken-backedchairs—three-legged tables—pitchers without handles—crackeddecanters and fractured looking-glasses—thatmuseum of mutilations in which housewifery rejoices, underthe vague but never realised hope that these things mayeventually “come in play.” Peleg’s opinions lie about theworkshop of his brains, in every stage of progress but thelast—chips, sticks, and sawdust enough, but no articleready to send home.

Should you meet Peleg in the street with “Goodmorning, 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, howhe is after being up for several hours, and having hadabundant time to investigate the circumstances of his case,it is useless to propound questions of opinion to such an329individual. It is useless to attempt it with Peleg. “Howdo you do?” puzzles him—he is fearful of being too rash,and of making a reply which might not be fully justified byafter-reflection. His head may be about to ache, and hehas other suspicious feelings.

“People are always asking me how I do, and more thanhalf the time I can’t tell. There’s a good many differentsorts of ways of feeling betwixt and between ‘Very sick, Ithank you,’ and ‘Half-dead, I’m obliged to you;’ andpeople won’t stop to hear you explain the matter. Theywant to know right smack, when you don’t know rightsmack yourself. Sometimes you feel things a-coming, andjust after you feel things a-going. And nobody’s exactlyprime all the while. I ain’t, anyhow—I’m kinder so justnow, and I’m sorter t’other way just after. Then, somepeople tell you that you look very well, when you don’t feelvery well—how then?”

At table Peleg is not exactly sure what he will take; andsits looking slowly up and down the board, deliberatingwhat he would like, until the rest of the company havefinished their repast, there being often nothing left whichsuits Peleg’s hesitating appetite.

Peleg has never married—not that he is averse to theconnubial state—on the contrary, he has a large share ofthe susceptibilities, and is always partially in love. Butfemale beauty is so various. At one time Peleg is inclinedto believe that perfection lies in queenly dignity—themajesty of an empress fills his dreams; and he looks downwith disdain on little people. He calls them “squabs” inderogation. But anon, in a more domestic mood, hethinks of fireside happiness and quiet bliss, declining fromthe epic poetry of loveliness to the household wife, whomight be disposed to bring him his slippers, and to darnthe hole in his elbow. When in the tragic vein he fanciesa brunette; and when the sunshine is on his soul, blue330eyes are at a premium. Should woman possess the slightnessof a sylph, or should her charms be of the more solidarchitecture? Ought her countenance to beam in smiles,or will habitual pensiveness be the more interesting? Issparkling brilliancy to be preferred to gentle sweetness?

“If there wasn’t so many of them, I shouldn’t be sobothered,” said Peleg; “or if they all looked alike, a mancouldn’t help himself. But yesterday I wanted this one;to-day, I want that one; and to-morrow I’ll want t’otherone; and how can I tell, if I should get this, or that, ort’other, that it wouldn’t soon be somebody else that I reallywanted? That’s the difficulty. It always happens so withme. When the lady’s most courted, and thinks I ought tospeak out, then I begin to be skeered, for fear I’ve made amistake, and have been thinking I loved her, when I didn’t.Maybe it’s not the right one—maybe she won’t suit—maybeI 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 dozenunfinished courtships on hand already.”

But all this happened a long time ago; and Peleg hasgradually lost sight of his fancy for making an addition tohis household. Not that he has concluded, even yet, toremain a bachelor. He would be alarmed at the baremention of such an idea. He could not consent to beshelved in that decisive manner. But he has subsidedfrom active “looking around” in pursuit of his object, intothat calm, irresponsible submissiveness, characteristic of thesomewhat elderly bachelor, which waits until she maychance 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 beingin a hurry?”

Peleg W. Ponder’s great object is now ambition. Hispersonal affairs are somewhat embarrassed by his lack of331enterprise, and he hankers greatly for an office. But whichside to join? Ay, there’s the rub! Who will purvey theloaf and fish? for whom shall Peleg shout?

Behold him as he puzzles over the returns of the Stateelections, labouring in vain to satisfy his mind as to theresult of the presidential contest. Stupefied by figures—perplexedby contradictory statements—bothered by thegeneral 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 mytime a-blowing out for the wrong person, and never get athank’e. What’s the use of that? There’s Simpkins—saysI, Simpkins, says I, which is the party that can’t be beat?And Simpkins turns up his nose and tells me every foolknows that—it’s his side—so I hurrah for Simpkins’ side ashard as I can. But then comes Timpkins—Timpkins’ sideis t’other side from Simpkins’ side—and Timpkins offers tobet me three levies that his side is the side that can’t bebeat. Hurrah! says I, for Timpkins’ side!—and then Ican’t tell which side.”

“As for the newspapers, that’s worse still. They not onlycrow all round, but they cipher it out so clear that bothsides 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’vebeen in all the processions, and I sit a littlewhile every evening in all sorts of headquarters. I’ve gotone kind of documents in one pocket, and t’other kind ofdocuments in t’other pocket; and as I go home at night Ising 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 tosplit the difference and show my impartiality. If I onlyhad two notes—a couple of ’em—how nice it would be!

“But the best thing that can be done now, I guess, asmy character is established both ways, is to turn in quietly332till the row is all over. Nobody will miss me when theyare 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 usedthem up. I can’t say so now, or I would, for I am notperfectly sure yet which is ‘we’ or which is ‘them.’ Timeenough when the election is over.”

It will thus be seen that Ponder is a remarkable person.Peter Schlemihl lost his shadow and became memorablyunhappy in consequence; but what was his misfortune whencompared with that of the man who has no side? Whatare shadows if weighed against sides? And Peleg isalmost afraid that he never will be able to get a side, sounlucky has he been heretofore. He begins to dread thatboth sides may be defeated; and then, let us ask, what isto 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 theirbroad brim’d hats and long wastid coats; but I’d never cuminto immejit contack with ’em and I’d sot ’em down aslackin 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 ofNew York State, one dark and stormy night, when the windsBlue pityusly, and I was forced to tie up with the Shakers.

I was toilin threw the mud, when in the dim vister of thefuter I obsarved the gleams of a taller candle. Tiein ahornet’s nest to my off hoss’s tail to kinder encourage him,I soon reached the place. I knockt at the door, which it333was opened unto me by a tall, slick-faced, solum lookinindividooal, who turn’d out to be a Elder.

“Mr. Shaker,” sed I, “you see before you a Babe in theWoods, so to speak, and he axes shelter of you.”

“Yay,” sed the Shaker, and he led the way into thehouse, another Shaker bein sent to put my hosses andwaggin under kiver.

A solum female, lookin sumwhat like a last year’s beanpolestuck into a long meal bag, cum in and axed me was Iathurst and did I hunger? to which I urbanely anserd“a few.” She went orf and I endeverd to open a conversashunwith 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 hisbizness—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 thatpecooler kind of weskit you wear, incloodin trimmins?”

“Yay!”

I pawsd a minit, and then, thinkin I’d be faseshus withhim 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 hadno livin ekal.

He jumpt up as if Bilin water had bin squirted into hisears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed:“You’re a man of sin!” He then walkt out of the room.

334Jest then the female in the meal bag stuck her hed intothe room and statid that refreshments awaited the wearytravler, and I sed if it was vittles she ment the wearytravler was agreeable, and I follered her into the next room.

I sot down to the table and the female in the meal bagpored out sum tea. She sed nothin, and for five minutesthe 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 totalk to the female or bust. So sez I, “Marrige is agin yourrules, I bleeve, marm?”

“Yay.”

“The sexes liv strickly apart, I spect?”

“Yay.”

“It’s kinder singler,” sez I, puttin on my most sweetestlook and speakin in a winnin voice, “that so fair a made asthou never got hitched to some likely feller.” [N.B.—Shewas upards of 40 and homely as a stump fence, but I thawtI’d tickil her.]

“I don’t like men!” she sed, very short.

“Wall, I dunno,” sez I, “they’re a rayther important partof the populashun. I don’t scarcely see how we could gitalong without ’em.”

“Us poor wimin folks would git along a grate deal betterif there was no men!”

“You’ll excoos me, marm, but I don’t think that airwould 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, allis peas. Here, we air brothers and sisters. We don’tmarry and consekently we hav no domestic difficulties.Husbans don’t abooze their wives—wives don’t worrit theirhusbans. There’s no children here to worrit us. Nothin335to worrit us here. No wicked matrimony here. Wouldthow 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 couldcarry comfortable, and, leanin back in my cheer, commenstpickin my teeth with a fork. The female went out, leavinme all alone with the clock. I hadn’t sot thar long beforethe Elder poked his hed in at the door. “You’re a man ofsin!” he sed, and groaned and went away.

Direckly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty andslick lookin gals as I ever met. It is troo they was dressedin meal bags like the old one I’d met previsly, and theirshiny, silky har was hid from sight by long white caps, sichas I spose female Josts wear; but their eyes sparkled likediminds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charminenuff to make a man throw stuns at his granmother, if theyaxed him to. They commenst clearin away the dishes,castin shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I forgotBetsy 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 ofsin. Shouldn’t wonder if his name was Uriah.”

“He has retired.”

“Wall, my pretty dears,” sez I, “let’s have sum fun. Let’splay puss in the corner. What say?”

“Air you a Shaker, sir?” they axed.

“Wall, my pretty dears, I havn’t arrayed my proud formin a long weskit yit, but if they was all like you perhapsI’d jine ’em. As it is, I’m a Shaker pro-temporary.”

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they wasa leetle skeery. I tawt ’em Puss in the corner and sichlike plase, and we had a nice time, keepin quiet of course336so 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?”

“Yay,” they sed, and I yay’d.

I went up stairs to bed. I spose I’d been snoozin half ahour when I was woke up by a noise at the door. I sot upin bed, leanin on my elbers and rubbin my eyes, and I sawthe follerin picter: The Elder stood in the doorway, with ataller candle in his hand. He hadn’t no wearin appeerel onexcept his night close, which fluttered in the breeze like aSeseshun flag. He sed, “You’re a man of sin!” thengroaned and went away.

I went to sleep agin, and drempt of runnin orf with thepretty little Shakeresses, mounted on my Californy Bar. Ithawt the Bar insisted on steerin strate for my dooryard inBaldinsville, and that Betsy Jane cum out and giv us awarm recepshun with a panfull of bilin water. I was wokeup arly by the Elder. He sed refreshments was reddy forme down stairs. Then sayin I was a man of sin, he wentgroanin away.

As I was goin threw the entry to the room where thevittles was, I cum across the Elder and the old female I’dmet the night before, and what d’ye spose they was up to?Huggin and kissin like young lovers in their gushingiststate. Sez I, “My Shaker frends, I reckon you’d bettersuspend the rules, and git marrid!”

“You must excoos Brother Uriah,” sed the female; “he’ssubjeck to fits, and hain’t got no command over hisselfwhen 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 toclear away the dishes.

“My pretty dears,” sez I, “shall we yay agin?”

“Nay,” they sed, and I nay’d.

338The Shakers axed me to go to their meetin, as they wasto hav sarvices that mornin, so I put on a clean biled ragand went. The meetin house was as neat as a pin. Thefloor was white as chalk and smooth as glass. The Shakerswas all on hand, in clean weskits and meal bags, ranged onthe floor like milingtery companies, the mails on one side ofthe room, and the females on tother. They commenstclappin their hands and singin and dancin. They dancedkinder slow at fust, but as they got warmed up theyshaved it down very brisk, I tell you. Elder Uriah, inparticler, exhiberted a right smart chance of sprynessin his legs, considerin his time of life, and as he cum adouble shuffle near where I sot, I rewarded him with aapprovin smile and said, “Hunky boy! Go it, my gay andfestiv cuss.”

“You’re a man of sin!” he said, continnering his shuffle.

The Sperret, as they called it, then moved a short fatShaker to say a few remarks. He sed they was Shakers,and all was ekal. They was the purest and seleckest pepleon the yearth. Other peple was sinful as they could be,but Shakers was all right. Shakers was all goin kerslap tothe Promist Land, and nobody want goin to stand at thegate to bar ’em out, if they did they’d git run over.

The Shakers then danced and sung agin, and arter theywas 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 weskitbizniss, and this anty-matrimony idee? My frends, you airneat and tidy. Your lands is flowin with milk and honey.Your brooms is fine, and your apple sass is honest. Wehna man buys a kag of apple sass of you he don’t find a gratemany shavins under a few layers of sass—a little Game I’msorry to say sum of my New Englan ancesters used topractiss. Your garding seeds is fine, and if I should sow339’em on the rock of Gibralter probly I should raise a goodmess of garding sass. You air honest in your dealins.You air quiet and don’t distarb nobody. For all this I givsyou credit. But your religion is small pertaters, I must say.You mope away your lives here in single retchidness, and asyou air all by yourselves nothing ever conflicts with yourpecooler idees, except when Human Nater busts out amongyou, as I understan she sumtimes do. [I give Uriah a slywink here, which made the old feller squirm like a spearedEel.] You wear long weskits and long faces, and lead agloomy life indeed. No children’s prattle is ever hearnaround your harthstuns—you air in a dreary fog all thetime, and you treat the jolly sunshine of life as tho’ it was athief, drivin it from your doors by them weskits, and mealbags, and pecooler noshuns of yourn. The gals amongyou, sum of which air as slick pieces of caliker as I ever soteyes on, air syin to place their heds agin weskits which kiverhonest, manly harts, while you old heds fool yerselves withthe idee that they air fulfillin their mishun here, and aircontented. Here you air, all pend up by yerselves, talkinabout the sins of a world you don’t know nothin of. Meanwhilesaid world continners to resolve round on her ownaxeltree onct in every 24 hours, subjeck to the Constitutionof the United States, and is a very plesant place of residence.It’s a unnatral, onreasonable, and dismal life you’releadin here. So it strikes me. My Shaker friends, I nowbid you a welcome adoo. You hav treated me exceedinwell. Thank you kindly, one and all.”

“A base exhibiter of depraved monkeys and onprincipledwax works!” sed Uriah.

“Hello, Uriah,” sez I, “I’d most forgot you. Wall, lookout for them fits of yourn, and don’t catch cold and die inthe flour of your youth and beauty.”

And I resoomed my jerney.

Artemus Ward.

John G. Saxe.

IT had been raining in the valley of Sacramento. TheNorth Fork had overflowed its banks and RattlesnakeCreek was impassable.

The few boulders that had marked the summer ford atSimpson’s Crossing were obliterated by a vast sheet ofwater stretching to the foothills. The up stage was stoppedat Granger’s; the last mail had been abandoned in thetules, the rider swimming for his life.

“An area,” remarked the Sierra Avalanche with pensivelocal pride, “as large as the State of Massachusetts is nowunder water.”

Nor was the weather any better in the foothills.

The mud lay deep on the mountain road; waggons thatneither physical force nor moral objurgation could movefrom the evil ways into which they had fallen, encumberedthe track, and the way to Simpson’s Bar was indicated bybroken-down teams and hard swearing.

And farther on, cut-off and inaccessible, rained uponand bedraggled, smitten by high winds and threatened byhigh water, Simpson’s Bar, on the eve of Christmas Day,1862, clung like a swallow’s nest to the rocky entablatureand splintered capitals of Table Mountain, and shook inthe blast.

As night shut down on the settlement, a few lightsgleamed through the mist from the windows of cabinson either side of the highway now crossed and gullied bylawless streams and swept by marauding winds.

Happily most of the population were gathered atThompson’s store, clustered around a red-hot stove, at whichthey silently spat in some accepted sense of social communionthat perhaps rendered conversation unnecessary.

343Indeed most methods of diversion had long since beenexhausted on Simpson’s Bar; high water had suspendedthe regular occupations on gulch and on river, and aconsequent lack of money and whisky had taken thezest from most illegitimate recreation.

Even Mr. Hamlin was fain to leave the Bar with fiftydollars in his pocket—the only amount actually realisedof the large sums won by him in the successful exerciseof his arduous profession.

“Ef I was asked,” he remarked somewhat later—“ef Iwas asked to pint out a purty little village where a retiredsport as didn’t care for money could exercise hisselffrequent and lively, I’d say Simpson’s Bar; but for ayoung man with a large family depending on his exertions,it don’t pay.”

As Mr. Hamlin’s family consisted mainly of femaleadults, this remark is quoted rather to show the breadthof his humour than the exact extent of his responsibilities.

Howbeit, the unconscious objects of this satire sat thatevening in the listless apathy begotten of idleness and lackof excitement.

Even the sudden splashing of hoofs before the doordid not arouse them.

Dick Bullen alone paused in the act of scraping outhis pipe, and lifted his head; but no other one of thegroup indicated any interest in, or recognition of, theman who entered.

It was a figure familiar enough to the company, andknown 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 ofready, but not very powerful sympathy, with a chameleon-likeaptitude for taking on the shade and colour of contiguousmoods and feelings.

He had evidently just left some hilarious companions,344and did not at first notice the gravity of the group, butclapped the shoulder of the nearest man jocularly, andthrew 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 sepulchralaccents.

A silence followed these positive statements.

The Old Man glanced quickly around the group. Thenhis face slowly changed.

“That’s so,” he said reflectively, after a pause; “certainlya sort of a skunk and suthin’ of a fool. In course.”

He was silent for a moment, as in painful contemplationof the unsavouriness and folly of the unpopular Smiley.

“Dismal weather, ain’t it?” he added, now fully embarkedon the current of prevailing sentiment. “Mightyrough papers on the boys, and no show for money thisseason. 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 hehad 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, jestpassin like you know—that may be ye’d all like to comeover to my house to-night and have a sort of tear round.But I suppose, now, you wouldn’t? Don’t feel like it, maybe?” he added, with anxious sympathy, peering into thefaces of his companions.

“Well, I don’t know,” responded Tom Flynn, with somecheerfulness. “P’r’aps we may. But how about your wife,Old Man? What does she say to it?”

The Old Man hesitated.

345His conjugal experience had not been a happy one, andthe fact was known to Simpson’s Bar.

His first wife, a delicate, pretty little woman, had sufferedkeenly and secretly from the jealous suspicions of herhusband, until one day he invited the whole Bar to hishouse to expose her infidelity.

On arriving, the party found the shy, petite creaturequietly engaged in her household duties, and retiredabashed and discomfited.

But the sensitive woman did not easily recover from theshock of this extraordinary outrage.

It was with difficulty she regained her equanimitysufficiently to release her lover from the closet in whichhe was concealed, and escape with him.

She left a boy of three years to comfort her bereavedhusband.

The Old Man’s present wife had been his cook. Shewas large, loyal, and aggressive.

Before he could reply, Joe Dimmick suggested with greatdirectness that it was the “Old Man’s house,” and that,invoking the Divine Power, if the case were his own, hewould invite who he pleased, even if in so doing heimperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil, he furtherremarked, should contend against him vainly.

All this delivered with a terseness and vigour lost inthis necessary translation.

“In course. Certainly. Thet’s it,” said the Old Manwith a sympathetic frown. “Thar’s no trouble about thet.It’s my own house, built every stick on it myself. Don’tyou be afeared o’ her, boys. She may cut up a trifle rough—ezwimmin do—but she’ll come round.”

Secretly the Old Man trusted to the exultation of liquorand the power of a courageous example to sustain him insuch an emergency.

As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simpson’s346Bar, had not spoken. He now took his pipe from hislips.

“Old Man, how’s that yer Johnny gettin’ on? Seems tome he didn’t look so peart the last time I seed him on thebluff heavin’ rocks at Chinamen. Didn’t seem to takemuch interest in it. Thar was a gang of ’em by yar yesterday—drowndedout up the river—and I kinder thought o’Johnny, and how he’d miss ’em! May be now, we’d be inthe way ef he was sick?”

The father, evidently touched not only by this patheticpicture of Johnny’s deprivation, but by the consideratedelicacy of the speaker, hastened to assure him that Johnnywas better, and that a “little fun might ’liven him up.”

Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying, “I’mready. Lead the way, Old Man: here goes,” himself ledthe way with a leap, a characteristic howl, and darted outinto the night.

As he passed through the outer room he caught up ablazing brand from the hearth.

The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closelyfollowing and elbowing each other, and before theastonished proprietor of Thompson’s grocery was awareof the intention of his guests, the room was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of windtheir temporary torches were extinguished, and only the redbrands dancing and flitting in the gloom like drunken will-o’-the-wispsindicated their whereabouts.

Their way led up Pine Tree Cañon, at the head of whicha broad, low bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountainside.

It was the home of the Old Man, and the entrance to thetunnel in which he worked, when he worked at all.

Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicatedeference to their host, who came up panting in the rear.

“P’r’aps ye’d better hold on a second out yer, whilst I go347in and see thet things is all right,” said the Old Man, withan indifference he was far from feeling.

The suggestion was graciously accepted, the door openedand closed on the host, and the crowd, leaning their backsagainst the wall, and cowering under the eaves, waited andlistened.

For a few moments there was no sound but the drippingof water from the eaves, and the stir and rustle of wrestlingboughs above them.

Then the men became uneasy, and whispered suggestionand 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 thedoor, 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 hiswife. It was the voice of a small boy, its weak treblebroken by that preternatural hoarseness which only vagabondageand the habit of premature self-assertion can give.

It was the face of a small boy that looked up at theirs—aface that might have been pretty and even refined, but thatit was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirtand hard experience from without.

He had a blanket around his shoulders, and had evidentlyjust 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 deprecatingaccents.

348“Let me be,” he added, querulously to Dick Bullen, whohad caught him up, blanket and all, and was affecting totoss him into the fire; “let go o’ me, you d—d old fool,d’ye hear?”

Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the groundwith a smothered laugh, while the men, entering quietly,ranged themselves around a long table of rough boardswhich occupied the centre of the room.

Johnny then gravely proceeded to a cupboard, andbrought out several articles which he deposited on thetable.

“Thar’s whisky and crackers, and red herons andcheese.” He took a bite of the latter on his way to thetable. “And sugar.” He scooped up a mouthful enroute 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,349and don’t be afeared. I don’t mind the old woman. Shedon’t b’long to me. S’long.”

He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcelylarger 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, hisbare feet peeping from the blanket, and nodded.

“Hello, Johnny! You ain’t goin’ to turn in agin, areye?” 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’spause, he added in the dark, apparently from under thebedclothes—“And biles!”

There was an embarrassing silence. The men looked ateach other and at the fire.

Even with the appetising banquet before them, it seemedas if they might again fall into the despondency ofThompson’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 ornariestof all. Didn’t hev no more sabe than to come round yarwith sickness in the house and no provision. Thet’s whatI 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 aman, Staples, and ’spect to raise h—ll under my roof andinvalids lyin’ round?’ But they would come—they would.Thet’s wot you must ’spect o’ such trash as lays round theBar.”

A burst of laughter from the men followed this unfortunateexposure.

350Whether it was overheard in the kitchen, or whether theOld Man’s irate companion had just then exhausted allother modes of expressing her contemptuous indignation, Icannot say, but a back door was suddenly slammed withgreat violence.

A moment later and the Old Man reappeared, haplyunconscious of the cause of the late hilarious outburst, andsmiled blandly.

“The old woman thought she’d jest run over to Mrs.McFadden’s for a sociable call,” he explained, with jauntyindifference, as he took a seat at the board.

Oddly enough, it needed this untoward incident torelieve the embarrassment that was beginning to be felt bythe party, and their natural audacity returned with theirhost.

I do not propose to record the convivialities of thatevening. The inquisitive reader will accept the statementthat the conversation was characterised by the sameintellectual exaltation, the same cautious reverence, thesame fastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision, andthe same logical and coherent discourse somewhat laterin the evening, which distinguish similar gatherings of themasculine sex in more civilised localities, and under morefavourable auspices.

No glasses were broken in the absence of any; no liquorwas uselessly spilt on floor or table in the scarcity of thatarticle.

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 adjacentcloset.

“Oh, dad.”

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in thecloset. Presently he reappeared.

351“His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,” he explained,“and he wants rubbin’.”

He lifted the demijohn of whisky from the table andshook it. It was empty.

Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassedlaugh. So did the others.

The Old Man examined their contents, and said, hopefully—

“I reckon that’s enough; he don’t need much. Youhold on all o’ you for a spell, and I’ll be back;” andvanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and thewhisky.

The door closed but imperfectly, and the followingdialogue was distinctly audible:—

“Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?”

“Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it’smost powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad.”

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. ThenJohnny—

“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, forthere was a silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnnyagain—

“Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody givesthings to everybody Chrismiss, and then she just waded interyou. She sez thar’s a man they call Sandy Claws, not awhite man, you know, but a kind o’ Chinemin, comes downthe chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things tochillern—boys likes me. Puts ’em in their butes! Thet’s352what she tried to play upon me. Easy now, pop; whar areyou rubbin’ to—thet’s a mile from the place. She jest madethat up, didn’t she, jest to aggrewate me and you? Don’trub thar——Why, dad!”

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon thehouse the sigh of the near pines and the drip of leaves withoutwas 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 therewere a few silver coins in a lean buckskin purse on thetable.

“Bettin’ on suthin’,—some little game or ’nother. They’reall right,” he replied to Johnny, and recommenced hisrubbing.

“I’d like to take a hand and win some money,” saidJohnny, reflectively, after a pause.

The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiarformula, that if Johnny would wait until he struck it richin the tunnel he’d have lots of money, etc., etc.

“Yes,” said Johnny, “but you don’t. And whether youstrike it or I win it, it’s about the same. It’s all luck. Butit’s mighty cur’o’s about Chrismiss—ain’t it? Why do theycall it Chrismiss?”

Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearingof his guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity,the Old Man’s reply was so low as to be inaudible beyondthe room.

“Yes,” said Johnny, with some slight abatement ofinterest, “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 inthis yer blanket. So. Now,” he added in a muffled whisper,“sit down yer by me till I go asleep.”

353To assure himself of obedience, he disengaged one handfrom the blanket, and grasping his father’s sleeve, againcomposed himself to rest.

For some moments the Old Man waited patiently.

Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited hiscuriosity, and without moving from the bed, he cautiouslyopened the door with his disengaged hand, and looked intothe 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 DickBullen sitting by the dying embers.

“Hello!”

Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadilytowards him.

“Whar’s the boys?” said the Old Man.

“Gone up the cañon on a little pasear. They’re comingback for me in a minit. I’m waitin’ round for ’em. Whatare 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’tyou git up,” he continued, as the Old Man made a movementto release his sleeve from Johnny’s hand. “Don’you mind manners. Sit jist whar you be; I’m goin’ in ajiffy. Thar, that’s them now.”

There was a low tap at the door.

Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded “good night” tohis host, and disappeared.

The Old Man would have followed him but for the handthat still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could haveeasily disengaged it; it was small, weak, and emaciated.354But perhaps because it was small, weak, and emaciated, hechanged his mind, and drawing his chair closer to the bed,rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude thepotency of his earlier potations surprised him. The roomflickered and faded before his eyes, reappeared, faded again,went out, and left him—asleep.

Meantime, Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted hiscompanions.

“Are you ready?” said Staples.

“Ready!” said Dick; “what’s the time?”

“Past twelve,” was the reply; “can you make it?—it’snigh on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon.”

“I reckon,” returned Dick, shortly. “Whar’s themare?”

“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 sawthat 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, hishelpless 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 foreheadand a few curls damp with perspiration.

Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glancedover his shoulder into the deserted room.

Everything was quiet.

With a sudden resolution he parted his huge moustacheswith 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 litup the room with a shameless glow, from which Dick fledin bashful terror.

355His companions were already waiting for him at thecrossing.

Two of them were struggling in the darkness with somestrange misshapen bulk, which, as Dick came nearer, tookthe 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 herarched spine, hidden by the stiff machillas of a Mexicansaddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs, there was not a lineof equine grace.

In her half-blind but wholly vicious white eyes, in herprotruding under lip, in her monstrous colour, there wasnothing 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 ofher mane, and mind ye get your off stirrup quick.Ready!”

There was a leap, a scrambling struggle, a bound, a wildretreat of the crowd, a circle of flying hoofs, two springlessleaps that jarred the earth, a rapid play and jingle of spurs,a plunge, and then the voice of Dick somewhere in thedarkness.

“All right!”

“Don’t take the lower road back onless you’re hardpushed for time! Don’t hold her in down hill! We’ll beat the ford at five. G’lang! Hoopa! Mula! Go!”

A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road, aclatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

Sing, O Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen! Sing, OMuse, of chivalrous men! the sacred quest, the doughtydeeds, the battery of low churls, the fearsome ride andgruesome perils of the flower of Simpson’s Bar! Alack!she is dainty, this Muse! She will have none of this bucking356brute and swaggering, ragged rider, and I must fainfollow him, in prose, afoot!

It was one o’clock; and yet he had only gained RattlesnakeHill. For in that time Jovita had rehearsed to himall her imperfections and practised all her vices.

Thrice had she stumbled.

Twice had she thrown up her Roman nose in a straightline with the reins, and resisting bit and spur, struck outmadly across country.

Twice had she reared, and, rearing, fallen backward; andtwice had the agile Dick, unharmed, regained his seat beforeshe found her vicious legs again.

And a mile beyond them, at the foot of a long hill, wasRattlesnake Creek.

Dick knew that here was the crucial test of his ability toperform his enterprise, set his teeth grimly, put his kneeswell into her flanks, and changed his defensive tactics tobrisk aggression.

Bullied and maddened, Jovita began the descent of the hill.

Here the artful Richard pretended to hold her in withostentatious 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 iswritten 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 RattlesnakeCreek.

As Dick expected, the momentum she had acquiredcarried her beyond the point of balking; and holding herwell together for a mighty leap, they dashed into the middleof the swiftly-flowing current.

A few moments of kicking, wading, and swimming, andDick drew a long breath on the opposite bank.

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain wastolerably level.

357Either the plunge in Rattlesnake Creek had dampenedher baleful fire, or the art which led to it had shown her thesuperior wickedness of her rider, for Jovita no longer wastedher surplus energy in wanton conceits.

Once she bucked, but it was from force of habit; onceshe shied, but it was from a new freshly-painted meeting-houseat the crossing of the county road.

Hollows, ditches, gravelly deposits, patches of freshly-springinggrasses flew from beneath her rattling hoofs.

She began to smell unpleasantly, once or twice shecoughed slightly, but there was no abatement of her strengthor speed.

By two o’clock he had passed Red Mountain and begunthe descent to the plain.

Ten minutes later the driver of the fast Pioneer coach wasovertaken and passed by a “man on a Pinto hoss”—anevent sufficiently notable for remark.

At half-past two Dick rose in his stirrups with a greatshout.

Stars were glittering through the rifted clouds, and beyondhim, out of the plain, rose two spires, a flag-staff, and astraggling line of black objects.

Dick jingled his spurs and swung his riata, Jovitabounded forward, and in another moment they swept intoTuttleville, and drew up before the wooden piazza of “TheHotel of All Nations.”

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not strictly apart of this record.

Briefly I may state, however, that after Jovita had beenhanded over to a sleepy hostler, whom she at once kickedinto unpleasant consciousness, Dick sallied out with the bar-keeperfor a tour of the sleeping town.

Lights still gleamed from a few saloons and gambling-houses;but, avoiding these, they stopped before severalclosed shops, and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry358roused the proprietors from their beds, and made themunbar the doors of their magazines and expose theirwares.

Sometimes they were met by curses, but oftener byinterest and some concern in their needs, and the interviewwas 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 strappedon his shoulders, Dick returned to the hotel.

But here he was waylaid by Beauty—Beauty opulent incharms, affluent in dress, persuasive in speech, and Spanishin accent!

In vain she repeated the invitation in “Excelsior,” happilyscorned by all Alpine-climbing youth, and rejected by thischild of the Sierras—a rejection softened in this instance bya laugh and his last gold coin.

And then he sprang to the saddle and dashed down thelonely street and out into the lonelier plain, where presentlythe lights, the black line of houses, the spires and the flag-staffsank into the earth behind him again and were lost inthe distance.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and cold,the outlines of adjacent landmarks were distinct, but it washalf-past four before Dick reached the meeting-house andthe crossing of the country road.

To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and morecircuitous road, in whose viscid mud Jovita sank fetlockdeep at every bound.

It was a poor preparation for a steady ascent of five milesmore; but Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it withher usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half-hour laterreached 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.

359Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would haveunseated a less practised rider.

Hanging to her rein was a figure that had leaped fromthe bank, and at the same time from the road before herarose a shadowy horse and rider.

“Throw up your hands,” commanded this second apparitionwith an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently sinkunder 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 hervicious head, and charged her deadly malevolence down onthe impediment before her.

An oath, a pistol-shot, horse and highwayman rolled overin the road, and the next moment Jovita was a hundredyards 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 hisleft hand.

But a few moments later he was obliged to halt andtighten 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 theeastern stars were already paling, and that the distant peakshad lost their ghostly whiteness, and now stood out blacklyagainst a lighter sky.

Day was upon him.

Then completely absorbed in a single idea, he forgot thepain of his wound, and mounting again dashed on towardsRattlesnake Creek.

360But now Jovita’s breath came broken by gasps, Dickreeled 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, anddid not recognise his surroundings.

Had he taken the wrong road, or was this RattlesnakeCreek?

It was.

But the brawling creek he had swum a few hours beforehad risen, more than doubled its volume, and now rolled aswift and resistless river between him and RattlesnakeHill.

For the first time that night Richard’s heart sank withinhim.

The river, the mountain, the quickening east swam beforehis eyes.

361He 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 thesleeping 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 manand horse struggled for a few moments against the battlingcurrent, and then were swept away, amid uprooted trees andwhirling driftwood.

The Old Man started and awoke.

The fire on the hearth was dead, the candle in the outerroom flickering in its socket, and somebody was rapping atthe door.

He opened it, but fell back with a cry before the drippinghalf-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 emptybottle!

Dick would have sworn, but his strength was not equal tothe occasion.

He staggered, caught at the handle of the door, andmotioned 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 theexhausted man.

“Open it, quick!”

He did so with trembling fingers.

362It contained only a few poor toys—cheap and barbaricenough, goodness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel.

One of them was broken; another, I fear, was irretrievablyruined by water; and on the other, ah me! there was acruel 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—tellhim, you know—hold me, Old Man.”

The Old Man caught at his sinking figure.

“Tell him,” said Dick, with a weak little laugh—“tellhim Sandy Claus has come.”

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven and unshorn,with one arm hanging helplessly at his side, Santa Clauscame to Simpson’s Bar and fell fainting on the firstthreshold.

The Christmas dawn came slowly after, touching theremoter peaks with the rosy warmth of ineffable love.

And it looked so tenderly on Simpson’s Bar that thewhole mountain, as it caught in a generous action, blushedto the skies.

Bret Harte.

THE BREACH OF PROMISE CASE.

AMOS DIXON had not been long gone from the eleganthouse when Miss Sophia Garr, caparisoned in ajaunty hat and a ready-made cloak, sallied forth on alittle business of her own.

She took the nearest way to Montgomery Street, andproceeded almost to the head of that thoroughfare.Ascending a very wide flight of steps, she turned to theright, and went up a narrower flight; turning again tothe left, she went up a narrower flight still. Withoutpausing to take breath, Miss Sophia proceeded, by the help363of the skylight, to read the names on a whole army ofdoors. Making nearly the whole circuit of the long hall,she arrived finally at a door which seemed to meet withher approval, for she nodded her head, knocked, andwalked briskly in.

“What a horrid-looking man!” she said, as she threwherself upon a well-worn lounge, and breathed heavily.

“What an ugly old vixen!” replied the gentleman thusapostrophised, looking up from the desk at which he satwriting.

“Hem!” rejoined Miss Sophia, eyeing him wickedly,and still labouring for her breath, after her unwontedexertion.

“Well, madam?”

“How dare you, sir—but this is Mr. Beanson, nodoubt?”

“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 itwas a characteristic of this remarkable man that all hisgreatest troubles were in the future—that undiscoveredcountry of his first brief, and the presidency. He waspossessed of a wonderful talent at apprehending evil; andhe had not heard Miss Sophia this long without exertingit. He thought instantly of the snares laid for unsuspectingyoung men by designing females, and did not grow calmeras 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 alwaysdid, very aggressive.

364“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 atMrs. Clayton’s?”

“I did, madam, but that does not constitute a breach ofpromise; and I warn you now,” said Mr. Beanson, raisinghis voice and his forefinger, and shaking both at her simultaneously,“I warn you now, madam, that you cannotground an action for breach of promise on a little skilfuladvertising!”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Mr. Beanson observed a sudden and marked changecoming over the features of his visitor, and took it forthe 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 enlightenmenta man cannot be held for breach of promise, or prosecutedfor breach of promise, by a woman whom he never saw beforein his life—and, for that matter, never wishes to see again—justbecause he put his business card in her card-case.”Here the speaker, seeing the remarkable effect of hisphilippic, launched himself upon his feet, the better toenjoy the ovation he was preparing for himself. As heundoubled his exceeding length before Sophia, he hadthe satisfaction of seeing the additional effect he was producing,even apart from his oratory. It was the very yellowjaundice of tones in which Mr. Beanson concluded—

“No, madam, you would not get any intelligent court inthe land, in these premises, to find cause of action. Itwas nothing but a skilful advertisement—in short, an act ofcommercial and legal genius. You, I suppose, would makeit a crime punishable by marriage with such as you. Thething is simply ridiculous! Madam, I have done. Haveyou?”

365Mr. Beanson resumed his seat triumphantly, and eyedthe astonished Garr with an expression that made his headlook older than common.

Miss Sophia could not have interrupted the foregoingforensic display if she had tried. In her bewildermentshe was mutely deciding whether she, Sophia Garr, or allthe men were going stark mad. George Lang had offeredhimself to Amelia, after being accepted by herself. Thenthis impudent red-headed wretch—whom she had neverattempted 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 personof her own sex; since it might have shocked into silenceor 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 wasrequested 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 inthe occurrence, and some of his own anger to boot.

“Now, madam,” said he facetiously, “I am prepared topart with you.”

Miss Garr was more angry than ever.

“I say, madam, I am prepared to part with you. I willnot detain you further.”

“You ugly, hateful, impudent wretch!” remarked Sophia,finding speech at last. “You may insult me here as muchas you please, since I am without a protector; but you shallnot drive me away till you have answered my question. Iwould as soon marry a keg of nails as you, sir; so you mayset your mind at rest! It is somebody else that my outragedfeelings are interested in—somebody else of more366consequence than you, though I verily believe he is as biga villain——”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Beanson, as any other drowningman might have done before he was swallowed up by anyother flood.

“Do you suppose, sir, I would walk all the way herefrom Folsome Street, and up these interminable stairs, andthen go away, without knowing what constitutes a breach ofpromise? I would have you know, sir, that my case isurgent.”

“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 kegof nails, you ninny?”

As strange as it may seem, a bland smile, which spreadover the entire face of Mr. Beanson, was the result of thislast poisoned arrow of Miss Garr. The ignis fatuus of hisfirst brief was again rising over the marshes of his presentembarrassments. “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 askedabout forty times: What constitutes a breach of promise?”

“To tell the truth, madam, there are so many conditionsto a breach of promise that an abstract definition of itwould not do the least good in the world; and I couldnot give one without consulting my books—but do youabsolutely insist on mentioning no names?”

“I do, sir.”

“Will you state the case, then, without names?”

“You must see, sir, that my natural delicacy revoltsagainst any revelations to strangers.”

“Why, madam, counsellor and client should never bestrangers. Besides, you must be aware that a breach of367promise depends on so many things. As I have saidbefore, there are so many conditions that we cannotproceed at all unless you answer certain questions; suchas, 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, anywitnesses—any one who has heard the defendant that is tobe,” 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 promiseeither expressed or implied?”

“The lady,” responded Miss Garr mysteriously; “thelady has not.”

“Has the plaintiff been injured in any way by thedefendant?”

“Yes, grossly.”

“Ah, then, I begin to see a case. Set the damagesheavy—set the damages heavy. By-the-bye, is the defendantrich?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Mr. Beanson, rubbing his hands. “Wewill make the villain suffer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beanson. Fifty thousand dollars willbe little enough. Thank you, Mr. Beanson.” And MissGarr actually shook hands with Mr. Beanson on the spot.

“Hem, ah! what was—the—nature of—these injuries—thatyou say the defendant had inflicted upon you—thelady, 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 thewhole case seems to hang upon that injury, or those injuriesalone.”

368“Well, then,” said Sophia, riveting her maidenly orbsmeekly upon a broken coal-scuttle; “well, then, sir, hekissed her in the dark!”

“Is that all?”

“Is it not enough, sir?”

“It might have been enough,” replied Mr. Beanson, inthe stumbling innocence which had been the bane of hislife; “it might have been enough, madam, for thedefendant, or for the plaintiff even, but it is hardlyenough to ground an action of breach of promise upon.”

Miss Garr was angry; Mr. Beanson puzzled; and bothwere silent. If he had seen a possible chance of securinghis first brief in any other way, Mr. Archibald Beansonwould 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 toconsult Bishop on Marriage.”

“Now look here, sir,” observed Miss Sophia, wrappingher ready-made cloak tighter around her, “if you keep on,I shall lose my patience and my good manners. Who inthe world wants to consult the bishop on marriage? Anordinary minister, or even a justice of the peace, will dome. I am not proud, sir.”

Mr. Beanson, trying to look learned, succeeded in lookingconfused. Undoubling himself again—this time withabstruse deliberation—he went to a meagre bookcase, andreturned to his desk. “It was this book,” said he, “thatI had reference to—‘Bishop on Marriage and Divorce!’”

“Well, now you begin to get sensible,” remarked MissGarr, in a tone and manner which, expressed in words,would have read, “I grant your pardon, sir, for yourtrivial mistake about ministers and bishops.”

Mr. Beanson opened the book, and, glancing over thetable of contents, his eye rested on the heading of achapter, which read thus—“Want of age.”

369In his utter helplessness, Archibald looked up againat Sophia and asked, “Is there any want of age in theparties?”

“Now look here, sir; I did not come here to beinsulted. You think I do not understand your irony. Iwould 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 firsttime you have openly acknowledged that you are theplaintiff in the contemplated suit. I have known it allalong, however; and I therefore assure you that thequestion about age was suggested wholly by my ignoranceas to the other party—the defendant.”

Mr. Beanson, without perusing the commentary on thisspeech written in the face of his client, now glanced hiseye back to the table of contents again. The questionsuggested this time seemed to that astute pundit anhonest one, and based on sufficient grounds. “Wantof mental capacity,” he read. “That’s it,” he exclaimed.

“There may be a want of mental capacity in one of theparties. Do you think the defence would make that out?”inquired Mr. Beanson.

“It might be,” replied Miss Garr, still pursuing thethought into which she had been drifted, and in which shehad gradually drowned some of her indignation at theunsuspecting Archibald. Lang’s late conduct may havebeen dictated by insanity—proposing to Amelia afterengaging 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 fora moment wrapped in a mute study. “Can the defence,madam,” demanded Mr. Beanson at last, “can—can theyprove that you have ever been in Stockton, or any privateinsane asylum?”

370Here the reader who has visited the Sandwich Islandsmay pause to congratulate himself. Remembering thecrater of Mauna Loa, he will have a more vivid idea of MissGarr’s feelings than anything but that molten sea of lavacould possibly suggest. Sophia jumped indignantly toher feet, and poured a tide of epithets, so seething-hot,over the head of the astonished Archibald, that for amoment he succumbed before it, blank and still as somepatriarchal porpoise, lava-cooked and cast upon the beachof Hawaii.

“You wretch!” was the comparatively calm perorationof Miss Garr, “you—you horrid wretch! I have a mindto sue you for slander. How dare you put such a stigmaon my character when you know, or ought to know, thatGeorge Lang is the one that is insane!”

“Oh, ah! George Lang, my employer?” exclaimed Mr.371Beanson, coming to life. “That’s the gentleman youwould prosecute. Well, now!”

To the intense astonishment of Archibald an increasingbitterness of manner succeeded, and he said, “If you arenot insane, madam, you are certainly in your dotage.Why, look at this desk, here! Every one of these papersis a deed made out by order of the gentleman you wouldrob. Go along with your breach of promise! The courtwould 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 unwontedappearance of youth. Sophia’s rough handling, like sandpaperupon an antique bust, had rubbed some of the yellowmould away—had lifted that mysterious veil woven by thesemblance of years, and had opened up to her eyes andours, 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 onme to enter into a plot against my only present employer,and may be (here Mr. Beanson was very bitter in the curlof his lip and his general tone), may be?—no, I am sure,too, that you would attempt to marry me at last, as a meetpunishment for being your accomplice. Oh! I see it inyour eye, madam; you need not deny it!”

Miss Garr, at one time or another, since she had readMr. Beanson’s name on his card, might have thoughtvaguely of “prospecting” him for a husband, in case of thefailure of all other claims; but to do her justice, it wasonly ineffable rage that Archibald saw in her eye, as herepeated—though Sophia had not attempted to speak—“Youneed 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 agreat deal of it, too, especially of late. He is selling hostsof property—hosts of property, madam, in the name and372with the written consent of the Claytons. Why, the veryheaviest sale is to be made to-day. Now what does thismutual confidence presuppose? Madam,” said Mr. Beanson,rising and assuming an air of mock politeness, “if youwere as sure that you are sane, as I am that he is going tomarry the daughter of Mrs. Clayton, you would not havetaken up so much of my valuable time from Mr. Lang’sbusiness. But, madam, this is the door,” concluded Mr.Beanson with an urbane wave of the hand, as he resumedhis 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 thelabours they had undertaken, and fell heavily, one on eachside of his chair, almost to the floor. As he sat and gazedat the still shape before him, the idea of the ghost inHamlet was suddenly suggested to the fertile mind of Mr.Beanson. This was not a remarkable conception, takenapart from its consequences; yet Mr. Beanson, forgettingthe matter of gender, not only congratulated himself on theaptness of the allusion, though not expressed in words, butactually chuckled, and at last, laughed outright, as anencouragement to his own genius.

Had it not been for this fatal laugh, Miss Garr couldhave spoken, and her speech might have been terrible. Butsomething came perversely up into her throat. Turningbriskly upon her heel, she darted through the door to be inadvance of her own tears; and she and the first brief ofMr. Archibald Beanson disappeared together.

Ralph Keeler.

Benjamin Franklin.

THE DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER.

ONE of these fellows was about seventy, or upwards, andhad a bald head and very grey whiskers. He hadan old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woollenshirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into hisboot-tops, and home-knit galluses—no, he only had one.He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat, with slick brassbuttons, flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat,ratty-looking carpet-bags.

The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about asornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and thefirst thing that come out was that these chaps didn’t knowone another.

“What got you into trouble?” says the bald-head tot’other chap.

374“Well, I’d been selling an article to take the tartar offthe teeth—and it does take it off, too, and generly theenamel along with it—but I stayed about one night longerthan I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out whenI ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you toldme they were coming, and begged me to help you to getoff. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, andwould scatter out with you. That’s the whole yarn—what’syourn?”

“Well, I’d ben a-runnin’ a little temperance revivalthar, ’bout a week, and was the pet of the women-folks, bigand 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—tencents a head, children and niggers free—and businessa growin’ all the time; when somehow or another a littlereport got around, last night, that I had a way of puttin’ inmy time with a private jug, on the sly. A nigger roustedme out this mornin’, and told me the people was getherin’on the quiet, with their dogs and horses, and they’d bealong pretty soon and give me ’bout half-an-hour’s start,and then run me down, if they could; and if they got methey’d tar and feather me, and ride me on a rail, sure. Ididn’t wait for no breakfast—I warn’t hungry.”

“Old man,” says the young one, “I reckon we mightdouble-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 mesmerismand phrenology when there’s a chance; teachsinging geography school for a change; sling a lecture,sometimes—oh, I do lots of things—most anything thatcomes 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, andparalysis, and sich things; and I k’n tell a fortune pretty375good, when I’ve got somebody along to find out the factsfor me. Preachin’s my line, too; and workin’ camp meetin’s;and missionaryin’ around.”

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the youngman 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 hebegun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag.

“Dern your skin, ain’t the company good enough foryou?” says the bald-head, pretty pert and uppish.

“Yes, it is good enough for me; it’s as good as Ideserve; 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 coldworld do its worst; one thing I know—there’s a gravesomewhere for me. The world may go on just as it’salways done, and take everything from me—loved ones,property, everything—but it can’t take that. Some day I’lllie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heartwill 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’sright I should suffer—perfectly right—I don’t make anymoan.”

“Brought you down from whar? Whar was you broughtdown from?”

“Ah, you would not believe me; the world neverbelieves—let it pass—’tis no matter. The secret of mybirth——”

“The secret of your birth? Do you mean to say——”

376“Gentlemen,” says the young man, very solemn, “I willreveal 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 reckonmine did, too. Then the bald-head says: “No! you can’tmean it?”

“Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke ofBridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the lastcentury, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here,and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about thesame time. The second son of the late duke seized thetitle and estates—the infant real duke was ignored. I amthe lineal descendant of that infant—I am the rightfulDuke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn frommy high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world,ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companionshipof felons on a raft!”

Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried tocomfort him, but he said it warn’t much use, he couldn’t bemuch comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledgehim, that would do him more good than most anything else;so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said weought to bow, when we spoke to him, and say, “YourGrace,” or “My Lord,” or “Your Lordship”—and hewouldn’t mind it if we called him plain “Bridgewater,”which he said was a title, anyway, and not a name; andone of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any littlething for him he wanted done.

Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All throughdinner Jim stood around and waited on him, and says,“Will yo’ Grace have some o’ dis, or some o’ dat?” andso on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him.

But the old man got pretty silent, by-and-by—didn’thave much to say, and didn’t look pretty comfortable overall that petting that was going on around that duke. He377seemed to have something on his mind. So, along in theafternoon, he says—

“Looky here, Bilgewater,” he says, “I’m nation sorryfor you, but you ain’t the only person that’s had troubleslike that.”

“No?”

“No, you ain’t. You ain’t the only person that’s bensnaked down wrongfully out’n a high place.”

“Alas!”

“No, you ain’t the only person that’s had a secret of hisbirth.” And by jings, he begins to cry.

“Hold! What do you mean?”

“Bilgewater, kin I trust you?” says the old man, stillsort of sobbing.

“To the bitter death!” He took the old man by thehand and squeezed it, and says, “The secret of your being:speak!”

“Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!”

You bet you Jim and me stared, this time. Then theduke 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 MarryAntonette.”

“You! At your age! No! You mean you’re the lateCharlemagne; 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 prematurebalditude. Yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in bluejeans and misery, the wanderin’, exiled, trampled-on, andsufferin’ rightful King of France.”

Well, he cried and took on so, that me and Jim didn’tknow hardly what to do, we was so sorry—and so glad and378proud we’d got him with us, too. So we set in, like wedone before with the duke, and tried to comfort him. Buthe said it warn’t no use, nothing but to be dead and donewith it all could do himany good; though hesaid it often made himfeel easier and better fora while if people treatedhim according to hisrights, and got down onone knee to speak tohim, and always calledhim “Your Majesty,”and waited on him firstat meals, and didn’t setdown in his presencetill he asked them. SoJim and me set tomajestying him, anddoing this and that andt’other for him, andstanding up till he toldus we might set down.This done him heaps ofgood, and so he gotcheerful and comfortable.But the dukekind of soured on him,and didn’t look a bitsatisfied with the waythings was going; still,the king acted realfriendly towards him,and said the duke’sgreat-grandfather and all379the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a good deal thoughtof by his father, and was allowed to come to the palaceconsiderable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, tillby-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’ yourbein’ sour? It’ll only make things oncomfortable. It ain’tmy fault I warn’t born a duke, it ain’t your fault you warn’tborn a king—so what’s the use to worry? Make the besto’ things the way you find ’em, says I—that’s my motto.This ain’t no bad thing that we’ve struck here—plenty gruband an easy life—come, give us your hand, Duke, and lessall be friends.”

The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad tosee it. It took away all the uncomfortableness, and wefelt mighty good over it, because it would a been a miserablebusiness to have any unfriendliness on the raft; forwhat you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybodyto be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others.

It didn’t take me long to make up my mind that theseliars warn’t no kings nor dukes, at all, but just low-downhumbugs and frauds. But I never said nothing, never leton; kept it to myself; it’s the best way; then you don’thave no quarrels, and don’t get into no trouble. If theywanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn’t no objections,‘long as it would keep peace in the family; and itwarn’t no use to tell Jim, so I didn’t tell him. If I neverlearnt nothing else out of pap, I learnt that the best way toget along with his kind of people is to let them have theirown way.

Samuel L. Clemens (“Mark Twain”).

(From “Huckleberry Finn.”)

IT is now goin on 2 (too) yeres, as I very well remember,since I crossed the Planes for Kaliforny, the Brite landof Jold. While crossin the Planes all so bold I fell inwith sum noble red men of the forest (N.B. This is roteSarcastical. Injins is Pizin, whar ever found), which thaySed I was their Brother, & wantid for to smoke the Calomelof Peace with me. Thay than stole my jerkt beef, blankits,etsettery, skalpt my orgin grinder & scooted with a WildHoop. Durin the Cheaf’s techin speech he sed he shoodmeet me in the Happy Huntin Grounds. If he duz tharewill be a fite. But enuff of this ere. Reven Noose Muttons,as our skoolmaster who has got Talent into him, cussycallyobsarves.

381I arrove at Salt Lake in doo time. At Camp Scott therewas a lot of U.S. sojers, hosstensibly sent out thare to smashthe mormins but really to eat Salt vittles & play poker& other beautiful but sumwhat onsartin games. I gotacquainted with sum of the officers. Thay lookt puttyscrumpshus in their Bloo coats with brass buttings ontoum & ware very talented drinkers, but so fur as fitin isconsarned I’d willingly put my wax figgers agin the hullparty.

My desire was to exhibit my grate show in Salt LakeCity, so I called on Brigham Yung, the grate mogull amungthe mormins, and axed his permishun to pitch my tent andonfurl my banner to the gintle breezis. He lookt at me ina austeer manner for a few minits, and sed—

“Do you bleeve in Solomon, Saint Paul, the immaculatenessof the Mormin Church and the Latter-dayRevelashuns?”

Sez I, “I’m on it!” I make it a pint to git alongplesunt, tho I didn’t know what under the Son the oldfeller 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 ammarrid.”

“How do you like it as far as you hev got?” sed I.

He sed “middlin,” and axed me wouldn’t I like to seehis famerly, to which I replide that I wouldn’t mind minglinwith the fair Seck & Barskin in the winnin smiles of hisinterestin wives. He accordingly tuk me to his Scareum.The house is powerful big & in an exceedin large roomwas his wives and children, which larst was squawkinand 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 theWayne—which is verses, tho sich was not my intentions,382as I don’t ’prove of puttin verses in Proze rittins, tho efoccashun requires I can jerk a Poim ekal to any of themAtlantic Munthly fellers.

“My wives, Mister Ward,” sed Yung.

“Your sarvant, marms,” sed I, as I sot down in a cheerwhich a red-heded female brawt me.

“Besides these wives you see here, Mister Ward,” sedYung, “I hav eighty more in varis parts of this consecratedland 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 atraggerdy voice.

“Will they probly continner on in that stile to any greatextent, Sir,” I axed.

“Sir,” sed he, turnin as red as a biled beet, “don’t youknow that the rules of our Church is that I, the Profit, mayhev 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 minewhen I wants um—air at present my sperretooul wives,”sed Mister Yung.

“Long may thay wave!” sez I, seein I shood git into ascrape ef I didn’t look out.

In a privit conversashun with Brigham I learnt thefollerin fax:—It takes him six weeks to kiss his wives.He don’t do it only onct a yere, & sez it is wussnor cleanin house. He don’t pretend to know hischildren, thare is so many of um, tho they all knowhim. He sez about every child he meats call him Par,and he takes it for grantid it is so. His wives air veryexpensive. They allers want suthin & ef he don’t buy itfor um they set the house in a uproar. He sez he don’thave a minit’s peace. His wives fite amung theirselves so383much that he has bilt a fitin room for thare speshul benefit,& when too of em get into a row he has em turned looseinto that place, whare the dispoot is settled a cordin tothe rules of the London prize ring. Sumtimes thay aboozhisself individooally. Thay hev pulled the most of his hairout at the roots & he wares meny a horrible scar upon hisbody, 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 darkclosit, previsly whippin him arter the stile of muthers whenthare orfsprings git onruly. Sumtimes when he went inswimmin thay’d go to the banks of the Lake and stealall his close, thereby compellin him to sneek home by asircootius rowt, drest in the Skanderlus stile of the GreekSlaiv. “I find that the keers of a marrid life way hevyonto me,” sed the Profit, “& sumtimes I wish I’d remainedsingel.” I left the Profit and startid for the tavern whare Iput up to. On my way I was overtuk by a lurge krowd ofMormons, which they surrounded me & statid that theywere goin into the Show free.

“Wall,” sez I, “ef I find a individooal who is goin’ roundlettin folks into his show free, I’ll let you know.”

“We’ve had a Revelashun biddin us go into A. Ward’sShow without payin nothin!” thay showtid.

“Yes,” hollered a lot of femaile Mormonesses, ceasin meby the cote tales & swingin me round very rapid, “we’re allgoin in free! So sez the Revelashun!”

“What’s Old Revelashun got to do with my show?” sezI, gittin putty rily. “Tell Mister Revelashun,” sed I,drawin myself up to my full hite and lookin round upon theornery krowd with a prowd & defiant mean, “tell MisterRevelashun to mind his own bizness, subject only to theKonstitushun of the United States!”

“Oh now let us in, that’s a sweet man,” sed severalfemailes, puttin thare arms rownd me in lovin stile.384“Becum 1 of us. Becum a Preest & hav wives Sealed toyou.”

“Not a Seal!” sez I, startin back in horror at the idee.

“Oh stay, Sir, stay,” sed a tall gawnt femaile, ore whooshed 37 summirs must hev parsd, “stay, & I’ll be yourJentle Gazelle.”

“Not ef I know it, you won’t,” sez I. “Awa, youskanderlus femaile, awa! Go & be a Nunnery!” That’swhat I sed, jes so.

“& I,” sed a fat chunky femaile, who must hev wademore than too hundred lbs., “I will be your sweet gidinStar!”

Sez I, “Ile bet two dollers and a half you won’t!”Whare ear I may Rome Ile still be troo 2 thee, Oh BetsyJane! [N.B. Betsy Jane is my wife’s Sir naime.]

“Wiltist thou not tarry hear in the Promist Land?” sedseveral 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 myduds & left Salt Lake, which is a 2nd Soddum andGermorrer, inhabitid by as theavin & onprincipled a set ofretchis as ever drew Breth in any spot on the Globe.

Artemus Ward.

Charles Graham Halpine.

IT was dimmest twilight when Kitty entered Mrs. Ellison’sroom, and sank down on the first chair in silence.

“The Colonel met a friend at the St. Louis, and forgotabout the expedition, Kitty,” said Fanny, “and he onlycame in half-an-hour ago. But it’s just as well; I knowyou’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?” Kittydemanded, with an indignant accent.

“Well, then, has anything happened to you?”

“I don’t know if you can call it happening. But Isuppose you’ll be satisfied now, Fanny. He’s offered himselfto 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 thesharpest relief.

“Oh, dear!” said Mrs. Ellison, not so well satisfied asthe successful match-maker ought to be. So long as it wasa marriage in the abstract, she had never ceased to desireit; but as the actual union of Kitty and this Mr. Arbuton,of whom, really, they knew so little, and of whom, if shesearched her heart, she had as little liking as knowledge, itwas another affair. Mrs. Ellison trembled at her triumph,and began to think that failure would have been easier tobear. Were they in the least suited to each other? Wouldshe like to see poor Kitty chained for life to that impassiveegotist, whose very merits were repellent, and whosemodesty even seemed to convict and snub you? Mrs.Ellison was not able to put the matter to herself with388moderation, either way; doubtless she did Mr. Arbutoninjustice now.

“Did you accept him?” she whispered feebly.

“Accept him?” repeated Kitty. “No!”

“Oh, dear!” again sighed Mrs. Ellison, feeling that thiswas scarcely better, and not daring to ask further.

“I’m dreadfully perplexed, Fanny,” said Kitty, afterwaiting for the questions which did not come, “and I wishyou’d help me think.”

“I will, darling. But I don’t know that I’ll be of muchuse. I begin to think I’m not very good at thinking.”

Kitty, who longed chiefly to get the situation more distinctlybefore herself, gave no heed to this confession, butwent on to rehearse the whole affair. The twilight lent herits veil; and in the kindly obscurity she gathered courageto face all the facts, and even to find what was droll inthem.

“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 thatI didn’t know,—and I don’t; and that I must have time tothink,—and I must. He was very ungenerous, and said hehad hoped I had already had time to think; and he couldn’tseem 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 ofsuch indelicacy?”

“Encouraging isn’t indelicacy. The gentlemen have tobe 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 seemedto think that he had only to ask as a matter of form, and Ihad no business to say anything. What has he ever done389for me? And hasn’t he often been intensely disagreeable?He oughtn’t to have spoken just after overhearing what hedid. It was horrid to do so. He was very obtuse, too,not to see that girls can’t always be so certain of themselvesas men, or, if they are, don’t know they are as soonas they’re asked.”

“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Ellison, “that’s the way withgirls. I do believe that most of them—when they’re younglike you, Kitty—never think of marriage as the end of theirflirtations. They’d just like the attentions and the romanceto go on for ever, and never turn into anything moreserious; and they’re not to blame for that, though they doget blamed for it.”

“Certainly,” assented Kitty eagerly, “that’s it; that’s justwhat I was saying; that’s the very reason why girls musthave time to make up their minds. You had, I suppose.”

“Yes, two minutes. Poor Dick was going back to hisregiment, and stood with his watch in his hand. I said no,and called after him to correct myself. But, Kitty, if theromance 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 hisfavour. How much time did you want, or did he giveyou?”

“I said I should answer before we left Quebec,” answeredKitty, 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 thinkout.”

Mrs. Ellison was silent for a moment before she said,“Well, then, I suppose we shall have to go back to thevery beginning.”

“Yes,” assented Kitty, faintly.

“You did have a sort of fancy for him the first time you390saw him, didn’t you?” asked Mrs. Ellison coaxingly, whileforcing herself to be systematic and coherent, by a mentalstrain of which no idea can be given.

“Yes,” said Kitty, yet more faintly, adding, “but I can’ttell just what sort of a fancy it was. I suppose I admiredhim for being handsome and stylish, and for having suchexquisite manners.”

“Go on,” said Mrs. Ellison; “and after you got acquaintedwith him?”

“Why, you know we’ve talked that over once already,Fanny.”

“Yes, but we oughtn’t to skip anything now,” repliedMrs. Ellison, in a tone of judicial accuracy, which madeKitty smile.

But she quickly became serious again, and said, “AfterwardsI couldn’t tell whether to like him or not, orwhether he wanted me to. I think he acted very strangelyfor a person in—love. I used to feel so troubled andoppressed when I was with him. He seemed always to bemaking 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 Montgomeryexpedition he seemed to change altogether, and to tryalways to be pleasant, and to do everything he could tomake me like him. I don’t know how to account for it.Ever since then he’s been extremely careful of me, andbehaved—of course without knowing it—as if I belongedto him already. Or maybe I’ve imagined that too. It’svery hard to tell what has really happened the last twoweeks.”

Kitty was silent, and Mrs. Ellison did not speak at once.Presently she asked, “Was his acting as if you belonged tohim disagreeable?”

391“I can’t tell. I think it was rather presuming. I don’tknow why he did it.”

“Do you respect him?” demanded Mrs. Ellison.

“Why, Fanny, I’ve always told you that I did respectsome things in him.”

Mrs. Ellison had the facts before her, and it rested uponher to sum them up, and do something with them. Sherose to a sitting posture, and confronted her task.

“Well, Kitty, I’ll tell you. I don’t really know what tothink. But I can say this: if you liked him at first, andthen didn’t like him, and afterwards he made himself moreagreeable, and you didn’t mind his behaving as if youbelonged to him, and you respected him, but after alldidn’t think him fascinating——”

“He is fascinating—in a kind of way. He was, from thebeginning. In a story his cold, snubbing, putting-downways 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 likehim.”

“But do you think you might get to like him?”

“I don’t know. His asking brings all the doubts I everhad of him, and that I’ve been forgetting the past twoweeks. 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 whatyou are, Kitty,” cried Mrs. Ellison, provoked with herindecision, and yet relieved that the worst, whatever itwas, was postponed thereby for a day or two.

“What?”

“You’re——”

But at this important juncture the colonel came loungingin, and Kitty glided out of the room.

“Richard,” said Mrs. Ellison, seriously, and in a tone392implying that it was the colonel’s fault, as usual, “youknow 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 itmakes me perfectly wretched.”

“Why, I thought you liked him.”

“I didn’t like him; but I thought it would be anexcellent thing for Kitty.”

“And won’t it?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know?”

“No.”

The colonel was silent, while Mrs. Ellison stated the casein full, and its pending uncertainty. Then he exclaimedvehemently as if his amazement had been growing uponhim. “This is the most astonishing thing in the world!Who would ever have dreamt of that young iceberg beingin 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 theeye of a potato.”

“Colonel Ellison,” said Fanny, with sternness, “why doyou suppose he’s been hanging about us for the last fourweeks? Why should he have stayed in Quebec? Do youthink he pitied me, or found you so very agreeable?”

“Well, I thought he found us just tolerable, and wasinterested in the place.”

Mrs. Ellison made no direct reply to this pitiable speech,but looked a scorn which, happily for the colonel, the393darkness hid. Presently she said that bats did not expressthe blindness of men, for any bat could have seen what wasgoing on.

“Why,” remarked the colonel, “I did have a momentarysuspicion that day of the Montgomery business; they bothlooked very confused when I saw them at the end of thatstreet, and neither of them had anything to say; but thatwas accounted for by what you told me afterwards abouthis adventure. At the time I didn’t pay much attention tothe matter. The idea of his being in love seemed tooridiculous.”

“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 safelymarried, he thinks all the love-making in the world hasbeen done for ever, and he can’t conceive of two youngpeople taking a fancy to each other.”

“That’s something so, Fanny. But granting—for thesake of argument merely—that Boston has been askingKitty to marry him, and she doesn’t know whether shewants him, what are we to do about it? I don’t like himwell enough to plead his cause; do you? When doesKitty 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 hereon uncertainties for two whole days! That is rather roughon him. Fanny, what made you so eager for thisbusiness?”

“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 thoughtshe would be just fit to live in a place where everybody394is literary and intellectual. That is, I thought that, if Ithought anything.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “you may have been right onthe whole, but I don’t think Kitty is showing any particularforce of mind, just now, that would fit her to live in Boston.My opinion is, that it’s ridiculous for her to keep him insuspense. She might as well answer him first as last.She’s putting herself under a kind of obligation by herdelay. I’ll talk to her——”

“If you do, you’ll kill her. You don’t know how she’swrought up about it.”

“Oh, well, I’ll be careful of her sensibilities. It’s myduty 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 perhapsyou’re right. Only do be careful, Richard. You mustapproach the matter very delicately, indirectly, you know.Girls are different, remember, from young men, and youmustn’t be blunt. Do manœuvre a little, for once in yourlife.”

“All right, Fanny; you needn’t be afraid of my doinganything awkward or sudden. I’ll go to her room prettysoon, after she is quieted down, and have a good, calm,old, fatherly conversation with her.”

The colonel was spared this errand; for Kitty had leftsome of her things on Fanny’s table, and now came backfor them with a lamp in her hand. Her averted faceshowed the marks of weeping; the corners of her firm-setlips were downward bent, as if some resolutions which shehad taken were very painful. This the anxious Fanny saw;and she made a gesture to the colonel which any womanwould have understood to enjoin silence, or, at least, theutmost caution and tenderness of speech. The colonelsummoned his finesse and said, cheerily, “Well, Kitty,what’s Boston been saying to you?”

395Mrs. Ellison fell back upon her sofa as if shot, and placedher hands over her face.

Kitty seemed not to hear her cousin. Having gatheredup her things, she bent an unmoved face and an unseeinggaze full upon him, and glided from the room without aword.

“Well, upon my soul,” cried the colonel, “this isa pleasant, nightmarist, sleep-walking, Lady-Macbethish,little transaction. Confound it, Fanny! this comes of yourwanting me to manœuvre. If you’d let me come straight atthe subject, like a man——”

“Please, Richard, don’t say anything more now,” pleadedMrs. 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.

EVERYBODY knows that in the famous city of NewYork, whose proper name is New Amsterdam, theexcellent St. Nicholas—who is worth a dozen St. George’sand dragons to boot, and who, if every tub stood on itsright bottom, would be at the head of the seven championsof Christendom—I say, everybody knows the excellent St.Nicholas, in holyday times, goes about among the people inthe middle of the night, distributing all sorts of toothsomeand becoming gifts to the good boys and girls in this hisfavourite city. Some say that he comes down the chimneysin a little Jersey waggon; others, that he wears a pair ofHolland skates, with which he travels like the wind; andothers, who pretend to have seen him, maintain that hehas lately adopted a locomotive, and was once actuallydetected on the Albany railroad. But this last assertionis looked upon to be entirely fabulous, because St. Nicholashas too much discretion to trust himself in such a new-fangledjarvie; and so I leave this matter to be settled bywhomsoever will take the trouble. My own opinion is thathis favourite mode of travelling is on a canal, the motionand speed of which aptly comport with the philosophicdignity of his character. But this is not material, and Iwill no longer detain my readers with extraneous andirrelevant matters, as is too much the fashion with ourstatesmen, 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 thisrespect; but it was a very remarkable year, and it wascalled annus mirabilis on that account. It was said thatseveral people were detected in speaking the truth about397that time; that nine staid, sober, and discreet widows, whohad sworn on an anti-masonic almanac never to enter asecond time into the holy state, were snapped up by younghusbands before they knew what they were about; that sixvenerable bachelors wedded as many buxom young belles,and, it is reported, were afterwards sorry for what they haddone; that many people actually went to church frommotives of piety; and that a great scholar, who had writtena book in support of certain opinions, was not only convincedof 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 remarkablewas the building of six new three-storey brick housesin the city, and three persons setting up equipages, who,I cannot find, ever failed in business afterwards or compoundedwith their creditors at a pestareen in the pound.It is, moreover, recorded in the annals of the horticulturalsociety of that day, which were written on a cabbage leaf,as is said, that a member produced a forked radish of suchvast dimensions that, being dressed up in fashionable maleattire at the exhibition, it was actually mistaken for atravelled beau by several inexperienced young ladies, whopined away for love of its beautiful complexion, and werechanged into daffadowndillies. Some maintain it was amandrake, but it was finally detected by an inquest ofexperienced matrons. No wonder the year seventeenhundred and sixty was called annus mirabilis!

But the most extraordinary thing of all was the confidentassertion that there was but one grey mare within the billof mortality; and, incredible as it may appear, she wasthe wife of a responsible citizen, who, it was affirmed, hadgrown rich by weaving velvet purses out of sows’ ears.But this was looked upon as being somewhat of thecharacter of the predictions of almanac-makers. Certain398it is, however, that Amos Shuttle possessed the treasureof a wife who was shrewdly suspected of having establishedwithin doors a system of government not laid down inAristotle or the Abbe Sieyès, who made a constitution forevery day in the year, and two for the first of April.

Amos Shuttle, though a mighty pompous little man outof doors, was the meekest of human creatures within. Hebelonged to that class of people who pass for great amongthe little, and little among the great; and he would certainlyhave been master in his own house had it notbeen for a woman! We have read somewhere that nowise woman ever thinks her husband a demigod. If so,it is a blessing that there are so few wise women in theworld.

Amos had grown rich, Heaven knows how—he did notknow himself; but, what was somewhat extraordinary, heconsidered his wealth a signal proof of his talents andsagacity, and valued himself according to the infalliblestandard of pounds, shillings, and pence. But though helorded it without, he was, as we have just said, the mostgentle of men within doors. The moment he stepped insideof his own house his spirit cowered down, like that of apious man entering a church; he felt as if he was in thepresence of a superior being—to wit, Mrs. Abigail Shuttle.He was, indeed, the meekest of beings at home exceptMoses; and Sir Andrew Aguecheek’s song, which Sir TobyBelch declared “would draw nine souls out of one weaver,”would have failed in drawing half a one out of Amos. Thetruth is, his wife, who ought to have known, affirmed thathe had no more soul than a monkey; but he was the onlyman in the city thus circumstanced at the time we speak of.No wonder, therefore, the year one thousand seven hundredand sixty was called annus mirabilis!

Such as he was, Mr. Amos Shuttle waxed richer andricher every day, insomuch that those who envied his399prosperity were wont to say, “that he had certainly beenborn with a dozen silver spoons in his mouth, or such agreat blockhead would never have got together such a heapof money.” When he had become worth ten thousandpounds, he launched his shuttle magnanimously out of thewindow, ordered his weaver’s beam to be split up for ovenwood, and Mrs. Amos turned his weaver’s shop into aboudoir. Fortune followed him faster than he ran awayfrom her. In a few years the ten thousand doubled, andin a few more trebled, quadrupled—in short, Amos couldhardly count his money.

“What shall we do now, my dear?” asked Mrs. Shuttle,who never sought his opinion that I can learn, except forthe 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 satisfymyself 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 ofmodes of life he could think of, and every pleasure thatmight 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; donow, 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 totravel.”

“Well, let us go and make a tour as far as Jamaica, orHackensack, or Spiking Devil. There is excellent fishingfor striped bass there.”

“Spiking Devil!” screamed Mrs. Shuttle; “aren’t youashamed to swear so, you wicked mortal! I won’t go to400Jamaica, nor Hackensack among the Dutch Hottentots,nor to Spiking Devil to catch striped bass; I’ll go toEurope!”

If Amos had possessed a soul it would have jumped outof its skin at the idea of going beyond seas. He had oncebeen on the sea-bass banks, and gone seasoning there, thevery thought of which made him sick. But as he had nosoul, there was no great harm done.

When Mrs. Shuttle said a thing, it was settled. Theywent to Europe. Taking their only son with them, thelady ransacked all the milliners’ shops in Paris, and thegentleman visited all the restaurateurs. He became sucha desperate connoisseur and gourmand, that he could almosttell an omelette au jambon from a gammon of bacon.After consummating the polish, they came home, the ladywith the newest old fashions, and the weaver with a confirmedpreference of potage à la turque over pepper-pot.It is said the city trembled, as with an earthquake, whenthey landed, but the notion was probably superstitious.

They arrived near the close of the year, the memorableyear, the annus mirabilis one thousand seven hundred andsixty. Everybody that had ever known the Shuttles flockedto see them, or rather to see what they had brought withthem; and such was the magic of a voyage to Europe, thatMr. and Mrs. Amos Shuttle, who had been nobodies whenthey departed, became somebodies when they returned, andmounted at once to the summit of ton.

“You have come in good time to enjoy the festivities ofthe holydays,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble, an old friend ofAmos the weaver and his wife.

“We shall have a merry Christmas and a happy NewYear,” exclaimed Mrs. Doubletrouble, another old acquaintanceof old times.

“The holydays,” drawled Mrs. Shuttle; “the holydays?Christmas and New Year? Pray what are they?”

401It is astonishing to see how people lose their memoriesabroad sometimes. They often forget their old friends, oldcustoms, and occasionally themselves.

“Why, la! now, who’d have thought it?” cried Mrs.Doubletrouble; “why, sure you haven’t forgot the oilycooks and the mince-pies, the merry meetings of friends,the sleigh-rides, the Kissing Bridge, and the familyparties?”

“Family parties!” shrieked Mrs. Shuttle, and held hersalts to her nose; “family parties! I never heard ofanything so Gothic in Paris or Rome; and oily cooks—oh,shocking! and mince-pies—detestable! and throwingopen one’s doors to all one’s old friends, whom one wishesto 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 theyhad exposed themselves sadly, and were quite ashamed. Areal, genteel, well-bred, enlightened lady of fashion oughtto have no rule of conduct, no conscience, but Paris—whateveris fashionable there is genteel—whatever is notfashionable is vulgar. There is no other standard of right,and no other eternal fitness of things. At least so thoughtMrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble.

“But is it possible that all these things are out of fashionabroad?” asked the latter, beseechingly.

“They never were in,” said Mrs. Amos Shuttle. “Formy part, I mean to close my doors and windows on NewYear’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 combinationamong themselves and their friends, to put down theancient and good customs of the city, and abolish thesports and enjoyments of the jolly New Year. The conspiratorsthen separated, each to pursue her diabolical402designs against oily cooks, mince-pies, sleigh-ridings, sociablevisitings, and family parties.

Now the excellent St. Nicholas, who knows well what isgoing on in every house in the city, though, like a goodand honourable saint, he never betrays any family secrets,overheard these wicked women plotting against his favouriteanniversary, and he said to himself—

“Vuur en Vlammen! but I’ll be even with you, meinvrouw.” So he determined he would play these conceitedand misled women a trick or two before he had done withthem.

It was now the first day of the new year, and Mrs. AmosShuttle, and Mrs. Doubletrouble, and Mrs. Hubblebubble,and all their wicked abettors, had shut up their doors andwindows, so that when their old friends called they couldnot get into their houses. Moreover, they had preparedneither mince-pies, nor oily cooks, nor crullers, nor any ofthe good things consecrated to St. Nicholas by his piousand well-intentioned votaries, and they were mightilypleased at having been as dull and stupid as owls, whileall the rest of the city were as merry as crickets, chirpingand frisking in the warm chimney-corner. Little did theythink what horrible judgments were impending over them,prepared by the wrath of the excellent St. Nicholas, whowas resolved to make an example of them for attemptingto introduce their new-fangled corruptions in place of theancient customs of his favourite city. These wicked womennever had another comfortable sleep in their lives!

The night was still, clear, and frosty—the earth waseverywhere one carpet of snow, and looked just like theghost of a dead world, wrapped in a white winding-sheet;the moon was full, round, and of a silvery brightness, andby her discreet silence afforded an example to the risinggeneration of young damsels, while the myriads of starsthat multiplied as you gazed at them, seemed as though404they were frozen into icicles, they looked so cold andsparkled with such a glorious lustre. The streets androads leading from the city were all alive with sleighsfilled with jovial souls, whose echoing laughter and cheerfulsongs mingled with a thousand merry bells, that jingledin harmonious dissonance, giving spirit to the horses andanimation to the scene. In the licence of the season,hallowed by long custom, each of the sleighs saluted theother in passing with a “Happy New Year,” a merry jest,or mischievous gibe, exchanged from one gay party toanother. All was life, motion, and merriment; and as oldfrost-bitten Winter, aroused from his trance by the rout andrevelry around, raised his weather-beaten head to see whatwas passing, he felt his icy blood warming and coursingthrough his veins, and wished he could only overtakethe laughing buxom Spring, that he might dance a jig withher, and be as frisky as the best of them. But as the oldrogue could not bring this desirable matter about, he contentedhimself with calling for a jolly bumper of cocktail,and drinking a swinging draught to the health of theblessed St. Nicholas, and those who honour the memoryof the president of good-fellows.

All this time the wicked women and their abettors layunder the malediction of the good saint, who caused themto be bewitched by an old lady from Salem. Mrs. AmosShuttle could not sleep, because something had whispered inher apprehensive ear that her son, her only son, whom shehad engaged to the daughter of Count Grenouille, in Paris,then about three years old, was actually at that momentcrossing Kissing Bridge in company with little SusanVarian, and some others besides. Now Susan was thefairest little lady of all the land; she had a face and aneye just like the widow Wadman in Leslie’s charmingpicture; a face and an eye which no reasonable man underHeaven could resist, except my uncle Toby—beshrew him405and his fortifications, I say! She was, moreover, a goodlittle girl, and an accomplished little girl—but, alas! shehad not mounted to the step in Jacob’s ladder of fashionwhich qualifies a person for the heaven of high ton, andMrs. Shuttle had not been to Europe for nothing. Shewould rather have seen her son wedded to dissipation andprofligacy than to Susan Varian; and the thought of hisbeing out sleigh-riding with her was worse than the toothache.It kept her awake all the live-long night, and theonly consolation she had was scolding poor Amos, becausethe sleigh-bells made such a noise.

As for Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble, theyneither of them got a wink of sleep during a whole weekfor thinking of the beautiful French chairs and damaskcurtains Mrs. Shuttle had brought from Europe. Theyforthwith besieged their good men, leaving them no restuntil they sent out orders to Paris for just such rich chairsand curtains as those of the thrice-happy Mrs. Shuttle,from whom they kept the affair a profound secret, eachmeaning to treat her to an agreeable surprise. In themeanwhile they could not rest for fear the vessel which wasto bring these treasures might be lost on her passage. Suchwas the dreadful judgment inflicted on them by the goodSt. Nicholas.

The perplexities of Mrs. Shuttle increased daily. In thefirst place, do all she could, she could not make Amos afine gentleman. This was a metamorphosis which Ovidwould never have dreamed of. He would be telling theprice of everything in his house, his furniture, his wines,and his dinners, insomuch that those who envied hisprosperity, or perhaps only despised his pretensions, werewont to say, after eating his venison and drinking his oldMadeira, “that he ought to have been a tavern-keeper, heknew so well how to make out a bill.” Mrs. Shuttle onceoverheard a speech of this kind, and the good St. Nicholas406himself, who had brought it about, almost felt sorry forthe mortification she endured on the occasion.

Scarcely had she got over this, when she was invited toa ball by Mrs. Hubblebubble, and the first thing she sawon entering the drawing-room was a suite of damask curtainsand chairs, as much like her own as two peas, only thecurtains had far handsomer fringe. Mrs. Shuttle camevery near fainting away, but escaped for that time, determinedto mortify this impudent creature by taking not theleast notice of her finery. But St. Nicholas ordered itotherwise, so that she was at last obliged to acknowledgethey were very elegant indeed. Nay, this was not theworst, for she overheard one lady whisper to another thatMrs. 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 asmean as pursley.”

This was too much. The unfortunate woman was takensuddenly ill—called her carriage, and went home, whereit is supposed she would have died that evening had shenot wrought upon Amos to promise her an entire newsuite of French furniture for her drawing-room and parlourto boot, besides a new carriage. But for all this she couldnot close her eyes that night for thinking of the “second-handcurtains.”

Nor was the wicked Mrs. Doubletrouble a whit better offwhen her friend Mrs. Hubblebubble treated her to theagreeable surprise of the French window curtains andchairs. “It is too bad—too bad, I declare,” she said toherself; “but I’ll pay her off soon.” Accordingly she issuedinvitations for a grand ball and supper, at which both Mrs.Shuttle and Mrs. Hubblebubble were struck dumb atbeholding a suite of curtains and a set of chairs exactly ofthe same pattern with theirs. The shock was terrible,407and it is impossible to say what might have been the consequences,had not the two ladies all at once thought ofuniting in abusing Mrs. Doubletrouble for her extravagance.

“I pity poor Mr. Doubletrouble,” said Mrs. Shuttle,shrugging her shoulders significantly, and glancing at theroom.

“And so do I,” said Mrs. Hubblebubble, doing thesame.

Mrs. Doubletrouble had her eye upon them, and enjoyedtheir mortification, until her pride was brought to theground by a dead shot from Mrs. Shuttle, who was heardto exclaim, in reply to a lady who observed the chairs andcurtains were very handsome—

“Why yes, but they have been out of fashion in Paris along time; and, besides, really they are getting so commonthat I intend to have mine removed to the nursery.”

Heavens! what a blow! Poor Mrs. Doubletroublehardly survived it. Such a night of misery as the wickedwoman endured almost made the good St. Nicholas regretthe judgment he had passed upon these mischievous andconceited females. But he thought to himself he wouldpersevere until he had made them a sad example to all innovatorsupon the ancient customs of our forefathers.

Thus were these wicked and miserable women spurredon by witchcraft from one piece of extravagance to another,and a deadly rivalship grew up between them whichdestroyed their own happiness and that of their husbands.Mrs. Shuttle’s new carriage and drawing-room furniture indue time were followed by similar extravagances on the partof the two other wicked women who had conspired againstthe hallowed institutions of St. Nicholas; and soon theirrivalship came to such a height that neither of them had amoment’s rest or comfort from that time forward. But theystill shut their door on the jolly anniversary of St. Nicholas,408though the old respectable burghers and their wives, whohad held up their heads time out of mind, continued thegood custom, and laughed at the presumption of these upstartinterlopers who were followed only by a few people ofsilly pretensions, who had no more soul than Amos Shuttlehimself. The three wicked women grew to be almost perfectskeletons, on account of the vehemence with which theystrove to outdo each other, and the terrible exertionsnecessary to keep up the appearance of being the bestfriends in the world. In short, they became the laughing-stockof the town; and sensible, well-bred folks cut theiracquaintance, except when they sometimes accepted aninvitation to a party, just to make merry with their follyand conceitedness.

The excellent St. Nicholas, finding they still persisted intheir opposition to his rites and ceremonies, determined toinflict on them the last and worst punishment that canbefall the sex. He decreed that they should be deprivedof all the delights springing from the domestic affections, andall taste for the innocent and virtuous enjoyments of ahappy fireside. Accordingly they lost all relish for home;they were continually gadding about from one place toanother in search of pleasure, and worried themselves todeath to find happiness where it is never to be found.Their whole lives became one long series of disappointedhopes, galled pride, and gnawing envy. They lost theirhealth, they lost their time, and their days became days ofharassing 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 perseverein his plan to punish the upstart pride of these rebelliousfemales.

Young Shuttle, who had a soul, which I suppose heinherited from his mother, all this while continued his409attentions to little Susan Varian, which added to themiseries inflicted on his wicked mother. Mrs. Shuttleinsisted that Amos should threaten to disinherit his son,unless he gave up this attachment.

“Lord bless your soul, Abby!” said Amos. “What’s theuse of my threatening; the boy knows as well as I do thatI’ve no will of my own. Why, bless my soul, Abby——”

“Bless your soul!” interrupted Mrs. Shuttle; “I wonderwho’d take the trouble to bless it but yourself? However,if you don’t I will.”

Accordingly she threatened the young man with beingdisinherited unless he turned his back on little SusanVarian, which no man ever did without getting a heartache.

“If my father goes on as he has done lately,” sighed theyouth, “he won’t have anything left to disinherit me of buthis affection, I fear. But if he had millions I would notabandon 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 quityour father’s house for ever.”

“Upstart!” thought young Shuttle; “one of the oldestfamilies in the city.” He made his mother a respectfulbow, 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 yourmother a word of the matter. I’ll let her know I’ve a soulas 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 hispillow. Her old father, who was in a respectable business,took his son-in-law into partnership, and they prospered sowell that in a few years Johnny was independent of all theworld, with the prettiest wife and children in the land. But410Mrs. Shuttle was inexorable, while the knowledge of hisprosperity and happiness only worked her up to a higherpitch of anger, and added to the pangs of jealousy perpetuallyinflicted on her by the rivalry of Mrs. Hubblebubbleand Mrs. Doubletrouble, who suffered under the likeaffliction from the wrathful St. Nicholas, who was resolvedto make them an example to all posterity.

No fortune, be it ever so great, can stand the eternalsapping of wasteful extravagance, engendered and stimulatedby the baleful passion of envy. In less than ten years fromthe hatching of the diabolical conspiracy of these threewicked women against the supremacy of the excellentSt. Nicholas, their spendthrift rivalship had ruined thefortunes of their husbands, and entailed upon themselvesmisery and remorse. Rich Amos Shuttle became at last aspoor as a church mouse, and would have been obliged totake to the loom again in his old age, had not Johnny, nowrich, and a worshipful magistrate of the city, afforded himand his better half a generous shelter under his own happyroof. Mrs. Hubblebubble and Mrs. Doubletrouble hadscarcely time to condole with Mrs. Shuttle, and congratulateeach other, when their husbands went the way of all flesh—thatis to say, failed for a few tens of thousands, and calledtheir creditors together to hear the good news. The twowicked women lived long enough after this to repent oftheir offence against St. Nicholas; but they never importedany more French curtains, and at last perished miserably inan attempt to set the fashions in Pennypot Alley.

Mrs. Abigail Shuttle might have lived happily the restof her life with her children and grand-children, who alltreated her with reverent courtesy and affection, now thatthe wrath of mighty St. Nicholas was appeased by herexemplary punishment; but she could not get over herbad habits and feelings, or forgive her lovely daughter-in-lawfor treating her so kindly when she so little deserved411it. She gradually pined away; and though she revivedat hearing of the catastrophe of Mrs. Hubblebubbleand Mrs. Doubletrouble, it was only for a moment. Theremainder of the life of this wicked woman was a seriesof 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 nosoul.”

Such was the terrible revenge of St. Nicholas, whichought to be a warning to all who attempt to set themselvesup against the venerable customs of their ancestors, andbackslide from the hallowed institutions of the blessedsaint, to whose good offices, without doubt, it is owing thatthis, his favourite city, has transcended all others of theuniverse in beautiful damsels, valorous young men, mince-pies,and New Year cookies. The catastrophe of thesethree wicked women had a wonderful influence in the city,insomuch that from this time forward no grey mares wereever known, no French furniture was ever used, and nowoman was hardy enough to set herself up in oppositionto the good customs of St. Nicholas. And so wishing manyhappy New Years to all my dear countrywomen andcountrymen, saving those who shut their doors to oldfriends, high or low, rich or poor, on that blessed anniversarywhich makes more glad hearts than all others puttogether,—I say, wishing a thousand happy New Years toall, with this single exception, I lay down my pen, with acaution to all wicked women to beware of the revengeof St. Nicholas.

Dominie Nicholas Ægidius Oudenarde.

James K. Paulding.

ONE of the Boys mentioned, the other evening, in thecourse of a very pleasant poem he read us, a littletrick of the Commons table-boarders, which I, nourished atthe parental board, had never heard of. Young fellowsbeing always hungry——Allow me to stop dead-short,in order to utter an aphorism which has been forming itselfin one of the blank interior spaces of my intelligence, likea crystal in the cavity of a geode.

In order to know whether a human being is young orold, offer it food of different kinds at short intervals. Ifyoung, it will eat anything at any hour of the day or night.If old, it observes stated periods, and you might as wellattempt to regulate the time of high-water to suit a fishing-partyas to change these periods.

The crucial experiment is this. Offer a bulky and boggybun to the suspected individual just ten minutes beforedinner. If this is eagerly accepted and devoured, the factof youth is established. If the subject of the questionstarts back and expresses surprise and incredulity, as if youcould not possibly be in earnest, the fact of maturity is noless clear.

—Excuse me,—I return to my story of the Commonstable.Young fellows being always hungry, and tea anddry toast being the meagre fare of the evening meal, it wasa trick of some of the Boys to impale a slice of meatupon 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 Hesperides413found out the trick at last, and kept a sharp look-out formissing forks;—they knew where to find one, if it was notin its place. Now the odd thing was that, after waitingso many years to hear of this College trick, I should hearit mentioned a second time within the same twenty-fourhours by a College youth of the present generation.Strange, but true. And so it has happened to me andto every person, often and often, to be hit in rapid successionby these twinned facts or thoughts, as if they werelinked like chain-shot.

I was going to leave the simple reader to wonder overthis, taking it as an unexplained marvel. I think, however,I will turn over a furrow of subsoil in it. The explanationis, of course, that in a great many thoughts there must be afew coincidences, and these instantly arrest our attention.Now we shall probably never have the least idea of theenormous number of impressions which pass through ourconsciousness, until in some future life we see the photographicrecord of our thoughts and the stereoscopic pictureof our actions. There go more pieces to make up aconscious life or a living body than you think for. Why,some of you were surprised when a friend of mine told youthere were fifty-eight separate pieces in a fiddle. Howmany “swimming glands”—solid, organised, regularlyformed, rounded disks, taking an active part in all yourvital processes, part and parcel, each one of them, of yourcorporeal being—do you suppose are whirled along likepebbles in a stream with the blood which warms yourframe and colours your cheeks? A noted German physiologistspread out a minute drop of blood, under themicroscope, in narrow streaks, and counted the globules,and then made a calculation. The counting by themicrometer took him a week. You have, my full-grownfriend, of these little couriers in crimson or scarlet livery,running on your vital errands day and night as long as you414live, sixty-five billions, five hundred and seventy thousandmillions, errors excepted. Did I hear some gentleman say“Doubted”? I am the Professor; I sit in my chair with apetard under it that will blow me through the skylight ofmy 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 handsto your foreheads and saying to yourselves that youfeel a little confused, as if you had been waltzing untilthings began to whirl slightly round you, is it possible thatyou do not clearly apprehend the exact connection of allthat I have been saying, and its bearing on what is now tocome? Listen, then. The number of these living elementsin our bodies illustrates the incalculable multitude of ourthoughts; the number of our thoughts accounts for thosefrequent coincidences spoken of; these coincidences inthe world of thought illustrate those which we constantlyobserve in the world of outward events, of which thepresence of the young girl now at our table, and proving tobe the daughter of an old acquaintance some of us mayremember, is the special example which led me throughthis labyrinth of reflections, and finally lands me at thecommencement of this young girl’s story, which, as I said,I have found the time and felt the interest to learn somethingof, and which I think I can tell without wronging theunconscious subject of my brief delineation.

I shall begin, my friends, with the definition of a Pseudo-science.A Pseudo-science consists of a nomenclature, witha self-adjusting arrangement, by which all positive evidence,or such as favours its doctrines, is admitted, and all negativeevidence, or such as tells against it, is excluded. It is415invariably connected with some lucrative practical application.Its professors and practitioners are usually shrewdpeople; they are very serious with the public, but winkand laugh a good deal among themselves. The believingmultitude consists of women of both sexes, feeble-mindedinquirers, poetical optimists, people who always get cheatedin buying horses, philanthropists who insist on hurrying upthe millennium, and others of this class, with here and therea clergyman, less frequently a lawyer, very rarely a physician,and almost never a horse-jockey or a member of thedetective police.—I did not say that Phrenology was oneof the Pseudo-sciences.

A Pseudo-science does not necessarily consist whollyof lies. It may contain many truths, and even valuableones. The rottenest bank starts with a little specie. Itputs out a thousand promises to pay on the strength of asingle dollar, but the dollar is very commonly a good one.The practitioners of the Pseudo-sciences know that commonminds, after they have been baited with a real fact or two,will jump at the merest rag of a lie, or even at the barehook. When we have one fact found us, we are very aptto supply the next out of our own imagination. (How manypersons can read Judges xv. 16 correctly the first time?)The Pseudo-sciences take advantage of this.—I did not saythat it was so with Phrenology.

I have rarely met a sensible man who would not allowthat there was something in Phrenology. A broad, highforehead, it is commonly agreed, promises intellect; onethat is “villainous low,” and has a huge hind-head back ofit, is wont to mark an animal nature. I have as rarely metan unbiassed and sensible man who really believed in thebumps. It is observed, however, that persons with whatthe Phrenologists call “good heads” are more prone thanothers toward plenary belief in the doctrine.

It is so hard to prove a negative, that if a man should416assert that the moon was in truth a green cheese, formedby the coagulable substance of the Milky Way, andchallenge me to prove the contrary, I might be puzzled.But if he offer to sell me a ton of this lunar cheese, I callon him to prove the truth of the caseous nature of oursatellite before I purchase.

It is not necessary to prove the falsity of the phrenologicalstatement. It is only necessary to show that itstruth is not proved, and cannot be, by the common courseof argument. The walls of the head are double, with agreat air-chamber between them, over the smallest andmost closely crowded “organs.” Can you tell how muchmoney there is in a safe, which also has thick doublewalls, by kneading its knobs with your fingers? So whena man fumbles about my forehead, and talks about theorgans of Individuality, Size, etc., I trust him as muchas I should if he felt of the outside of my strong-boxand told me that there was a five-dollar or a ten-dollarbill under this or that particular rivet. Perhaps there is;only he doesn’t know anything about it. But this is a pointthat I, the Professor, understand, my friends, or ought to,certainly, better than you do. The next argument you willall appreciate.

I proceed, therefore, to explain the self-adjusting mechanismof 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 Craneexamine him and find a good-sized organ of Acquisitiveness.Positive fact for Phrenology. Casts and drawings of A. aremultiplied, and the bump does not lose in the act of copying.—Idid not say it gained.—What do you look so for? (tothe 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 see417how small Conscientiousness is? That’s the reason B.stole.

And then comes C., ten times as much a thief as eitherA. or B.,—used to steal before he was weaned, and wouldpick 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, overAcquisitiveness. Ah! but just look and see what a bumpof Alimentiveness! Did not C. buy nuts and gingerbread,when a boy, with the money he stole? Of course you seewhy he is a thief, and how his example confirms our noblescience.

At last comes along a case which is apparently a settler,for there is a little brain with vast and varied powers,—acase like that of Byron, for instance. Then comes out thegrand reserve-reason which covers everything and rendersit simply impossible ever to corner a Phrenologist. “It isnot the size alone, but the quality of an organ, whichdetermines its degree of power.”

Oh! oh! I see.—The argument may be briefly statedthus by the Phrenologist: “Heads I win, tails you lose.”Well, that’s convenient.

It must be confessed that Phrenology has a certainresemblance to the Pseudo-sciences.—I did not say it wasa Pseudo-science.

I have often met persons who have been altogetherstruck up and amazed at the accuracy with which somewandering Professor of Phrenology had read their characterswritten upon their skulls. Of course the Professoracquires his information solely through his cranial inspectionsand 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 careanything about Phrenology, should open a shop andundertake to read off people’s characters at fifty cents or418a dollar a-piece. Let us see how well he could get alongwithout the “organs.”I will suppose myself to set up such a shop. I wouldinvest one hundred dollars, more or less, in casts of brains,skulls, charts, and other matters that would make the mostshow for the money. That would do to begin with. Iwould then advertise myself as the celebrated ProfessorBrainey, or whatever name I might choose, and wait formy first customer. My first customer is a middle-agedman. I look at him,—ask him a question or two, so as tohear him talk. When I have got the hang of him, Iask him to sit down, and proceed to fumble his skull,dictating as follows:—

419

Of course, you know, that isn’t the way the Phrenologistsdo. They go only by the bumps. What do youkeep laughing so for? (to the boarders). I only said thatis 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 quiteawake. How could I have looked him in the face?

I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds muchnearer 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-wittedwith the half-witted, because we appreciate only a third partof their wit.

Thoreau.

London, October 15, 1802.

THE most humorous sight which I have seen was anEnglish funeral, performed in the most fashionablemanner; 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, Ifollowed it a short distance, not knowing what it was; and,as my manner is to question every one whom I think can giveme any information (a Yankee custom), I asked an honestfellow “what the show was?” He seemed a little offended,but directly replied, “You may know one day, if you do notcome to the gallows.” This man, like Chatham, was “originaland unaccommodating.” But, observing that I was surprisedat his answer, and feeling, perhaps, a little mortified, heasked, “Do you live in London?” I told him I had justcome. “Well, but people die, sometimes, in your town.”By this I discovered that the performance was a funeral.

William Austin.

A LOST CHILD.

AMONG THE SPIRITS.

MY naburs is mourn harf crazy on the new-fangled idearabout Sperrets. Sperretooul Sircles is held nitely& 4 or 5 long hared fellers has settled here and gone intothe sperret biznis excloosively. A atemt was made to gitMrs. A. Ward to embark into the Sperret biznis but theatemt faled. 1 of the long hared fellers told her she was aethereal creeter & wood make a sweet mejium, whareuponshe attact him with a mop handle & drove him out of thehouse. I will hear obsarve that Mrs. Ward is a invalerblewomun—the partner of my goys & the shairer of my sorrers.In my absunce she watchis my interests & things with aEagle Eye & when I return she welcums me in afectionatestile. Trooly it is with us as it was with Mr. & Mrs.Ingomer in the Play, to whit—

My naburs injooced me to attend a Sperretooul Sircle atSquire Smith’s. When I arrove I found the east room423chock full includin all the old maids in the villige & thelong hared fellers a4sed. When I went in I was salootidwith “hear cums the benited man”—“hear cums thehory-heded unbeleever”—“hear cums the skoffer at trooth,”etsettery, etsettery.

Sez I, “my frens, it’s troo I’m hear, & now bring on yourSperrets”

1 of the long hared fellers riz up and sed he would statea few remarks. He sed man was a critter of intelleck &was movin on to a Gole. Sum men had bigger intellecksthan other men had and thay wood git to the Gole thesoonerest. Sum men was beests & wood never git into theGole at all. He sed the Erth was materiel but man wasimmateriel, and hens man was different from the Erth.The Erth, continnered the speaker, resolves round on itsown axeltree onct in 24 hours, but as man haint gut noaxeltree he cant resolve. He sed the ethereal essunce ofthe koordinate branchis of superhuman natur becum mettymorfussedas man progrest in harmonial coexistunce &eventooally anty humanized theirselves & turned into reglarsperretuellers. [This was versifferusly applauded by thecumpany, and as I make it a pint to get along as pleasantas possible, I sung out “bully for you, old boy.”]

The cumpany then drew round the table and the Sirclekommenst to go it. Thay axed me if thare was anbody inthe Sperret land which I wood like to convarse with. I sedif Bill Tompkins, who was onct my partner in the showbiznis, was sober, I should like to convarse with him a fewperiods.

“Is the Sperret of William Tompkins present?” sed 1 ofthe 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 otherwhen he was in the flesh.

424“Air you in the show biznis, William?” sed I.

He sed he was. He sed he & John Bunyan was travelinwith 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 tendeddoor. Occashunally Mr. Bunyan sung a comic song. TheCircus was doin middlin well. Bill Shakspeer had made agrate hit with old Bob Ridley, and Ben Jonson was delitinthe peple with his trooly grate ax of hossmanship withoutsaddul 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 13dollars you owe me?” He sed no with one of the mosttremenjis 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 useto 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, myson. Bimeby you’ll lose all your character for trooth andverrasserty. When I helpt you into the show biznis I toldyou to dignerfy that there profeshun. Litteratoor is low.”

He also statid that he was doin middlin well in thepeanut biznis & liked it putty well, tho’ the climit wasrather warm.

When the Sircle stopt thay axed me what I thawt of it.

Sez I, “my friends I’ve bin into the show biznis nowgoin on 23 years. Theres a artikil in the Constitooshun ofthe United States which sez in effeck that everybody maythink just as he darn pleases, & them is my sentiments to a425hare. You dowtlis beleeve this Sperret doctrin while Ithink it is a little mixt. Just so soon as a man becums areglar out & out Sperret rapper he leeves orf workin, letshis hare grow all over his fase & commensis spungin hislivin out of other peple. He eats all the dickshunaries hecan find & goze round chock full of big words, scarein thewimmin folks & little children & destroyin the peace ofmind of evry famerlee he enters. He don’t do nobody nogood & is a cuss to society & a pirit on honest peple’s cornbeef barrils. Admittin all you say abowt the doctrin to betroo, I must say the reglar perfessional Sperret rappers—themas makes a biznis on it—air abowt the most orneryset of cusses I ever enkountered in my life. So sayin I puton my surtoot and went home.”

Respectably Yures,

Artemus Ward.

Out on important business—back at 6.

H. C. Bunner.

IHAVE often thought that the adjectives of the Englishlanguage were not sufficiently definite for the purposesof description.

They have but three degrees of comparison—a veryinsufficient number, certainly, when we consider that theyare to be applied to a thousand objects, which, though ofthe same general class or quality, differ from each otherby a thousand different shades or degrees of the samepeculiarity. Thus, though there are three hundred andsixty-five days in a year, all of which must, from the natureof things, differ from each other in the matter of climate,we have but half-a-dozen expressions to convey to oneanother our ideas of this inequality. We say—“It is a fineday;” “It is a very fine day;” “It is the finest day we haveseen;” or, “It is an unpleasant day;” “A very unpleasantday;” “The most unpleasant day we ever saw.”

But it is plain that none of these expressions give anexact idea of the nature of the day; and the two superlativeexpressions are generally untrue. I once heard a gentlemanremark, on a rainy, snowy, windy, and (in the ordinaryEnglish language) indescribable day, that it was “most preposterousweather.” He came nearer to giving a correctidea of it than he could have done by any ordinary modeof expression; but his description was not sufficientlydefinite.

Again:—we say of a lady—“She is beautiful;” “She isvery beautiful;” or “She is perfectly beautiful;” descriptionswhich, to one who never saw her, are no descriptions at all,for among thousands of women he has seen, probably notwo are equally beautiful; and as to a perfectly beautifulwoman, he knows that no such being was ever created—unless428by G. P. R. James, for one of the two horsemen tofall in love with, and marry at the end of the secondvolume.

If I meet Smith in the street, and ask him—as I ampretty sure to do—“How he does?” he infallibly replies,“Tolerable, thank you,” which gives one no exact idea ofSmith’s health, for he has made the same reply to me on ahundred different occasions, on every one of which theremust have been some slight shade of difference in hisphysical economy, and of course a corresponding change inhis feelings.

To a man of a mathematical turn of mind, to a studentand 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 oftruth, for its own sake,—the reflection that the Englishlanguage does not enable us to speak the truth with exactness,is peculiarly painful. For this reason I have, withsome trouble, made myself thoroughly acquainted withevery ancient and modern language, in the hope that Imight find some one of them that would enable me toexpress precisely my ideas; but the same insufficiency ofadjectives exist in all except that of the Flathead Indiansof Puget Sound, which consists of but forty-six words,mostly nouns, but to the constant use of which exists theobjection, that nobody but that tribe can understand it.And as their literary and scientific advancement is not suchas to make a residence among them, for a man of my disposition,desirable, I have abandoned the use of theirlanguage, in the belief that for me it is hyas, cultus, or, asthe Spaniard hath it, no me vale nada.

Despairing, therefore, of making new discoveries inforeign languages, I have set myself seriously to work toreform our own; and have, I think, made an important discovery,429which, when developed into a system and universallyadopted, will give a precision of expression, and a consequentclearness of idea, that will leave little to be desired,and will, I modestly hope, immortalise my humble nameas the promulgator of the truth, and the benefactor of thehuman race.

Before entering upon my system I will give you anaccount of its discovery (which perhaps I might with moremodesty term an adaptation and enlargement of the idea ofanother), which will surprise you by its simplicity, and, likethe method of standing eggs on end, of Columbus, theinventions of printing, gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass—proveanother exemplification of the truth of HannahMore’s beautifully expressed sentiment—

During the past week my attention was attracted by alarge placard embellishing the corners of our streets, headedin mighty capitals with the word “PHRENOLOGY,” andillustrated by a map of a man’s head, closely shaven andlaid off in lots, duly numbered from one to forty-seven.Beneath this edifying illustration appeared a legend, informingthe inhabitants of San Diego and vicinity that ProfessorDodge had arrived and taken rooms (which was inaccurate,as he had but one room) at Gyascutus House, where hewould be happy to examine and furnish them with a chartof their heads, showing the moral and intellectual endowments,at the low price of three dollars each.

Always gratified with an opportunity of spending mymoney and making scientific researches, I immediately hadmy hair cut and carefully combed, and hastened to presentmyself and my head to the Professor’s notice. I found hima tall and thin Professor, in a suit of rusty, not to say seedyblack, with a closely-buttoned vest, and no perceptible shirtcollar430or wristbands. His nose was red, his spectacles wereblue, and he wore a brown wig, beneath which, as I subsequentlyascertained, his bald head was laid off in lots,marked and numbered with Indian ink, after the manner ofthe diagram upon his advertisement. Upon a small tablelay many little books with yellow covers, several of theplacards, pen and ink, a pair of iron callipers with brassknobs, and six dollars in silver. Having explained theobject of my visit, and increased the pile of silver by sixhalf-dollars from my pocket—whereat he smiled, and Iobserved he wore false teeth (scientific men always do;they love to encourage art)—the Professor placed me in achair, and rapidly manipulating my head, after the mannerof a shampooh (I am not certain as to the orthography ofthis expression), said that my temperament was “lymphatic,nervous, bilious.” I remarked that “I thought myselfdyspeptic,” but he made no reply. Then, seizing on thecallipers, he embraced with them my head in variousplaces, and made notes upon a small card that laynear him on the table. He then stated that my“hair was getting very thin on the top,” placed in myhand one of the yellow-covered books, which I found tobe an almanac containing anecdotes about the virtue ofDodge’s Hair Invigorator, and recommending it to myperusal, he remarked that he was agent for the sale of thiswonderful fluid, and urged me to purchase a bottle—pricetwo dollars. Stating my willingness to do so, the Professorproduced from a hair trunk that stood in the corner of theroom, which he stated, by the way, was originally anordinary pine box, on which the hair had grown since “theInvigorator” had been placed in it—(a singular fact)—andrecommended me to be cautious in wearing gloves whilerubbing it upon my head, as unhappy accidents hadoccurred—the hair growing freely from the ends of thefingers, if used with the bare hand. He then seated himself431at the table, and rapidly filling up what appeared tome a blank certificate, he soon handed over the followingsingular document:—

“Phrenological Chart of the Head of Mr. John Phœnix,by Flatbroke B. Dodge, Professor of Phrenology, andinventor and proprietor of Dodge’s celebrated HairInvigorator, Stimulator of the Conscience, and Arouser ofthe Mental Faculties:—

Having gazed on this for a few moments in muteastonishment—during which the Professor took a glass ofbrandy and water, and afterwards a mouthful of tobacco—Iturned to him and requested an explanation.

“Why,” said he, “it’s very simple; the number 12 is themaximum, 1 the minimum; for instance, you are asbenevolent as a man can be—therefore I mark you,Benevolence, 12. You have little or no self-esteem—henceI 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 flashhow the English language was susceptible of improvement,and, fired with the glorious idea, I rushed from the roomand the house; heedless of the Professor’s request that Iwould buy more of his Invigorator; heedless of his alarmedcry that I would pay for the bottle I had got; heedless thatI tripped on the last step of the Gyascutus House, and432smashed there the precious fluid (the step has now agrowth of four inches of hair on it, and the people use itas a door-mat); I rushed home, and never grew calm tillwith pen, ink, and paper before me, I commenced thedevelopment of my system.

This system—shall I say this great system?—is exceedinglysimple, and easily explained in a few words. In thefirst place, “figures won’t lie.” Let us then represent bythe number 100, the maximum, the ne plus ultra of everyhuman quality—grace, beauty, courage, strength, wisdom,learning—everything. Let perfection, I say, be representedby 100, and an absolute minimum of all qualities by thenumber 1.

Then by applying the numbers between, to the adjectivesused in conversation, we shall be able to arrive at a veryclose approximation to the idea we wish to convey; inother words, we shall be enabled to speak the truth.Glorious, soul-inspiring idea! For instance, the mostordinary 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 throughyour 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! Doyou see how very close in this way you may approximate tothe truth; and how clearly your questioner will understandwhat he so anxiously wishes to arrive at—your exact state ofhealth?

Let this system be adopted into our elements of grammar,our conversation, our literature, and we become at once anexact, precise, mathematical, truth-telling people. It willapply to everything but politics; there, truth being of noaccount, the system is useless. But in literature, howadmirable! Take an example:—

433As a 19 young and 76 beautiful lady was 52 gaily trippingdown the side-walk of our 84 frequented street, she accidentallycame in contact—100 (this shows that she came inclose contact)—with a 73 fat, but 87 good-humoured lookinggentleman, who was 93 (i.e., intently) gazing into thewindow of a toy-shop. Gracefully 56 extricating herself,she received the excuses of the 96 embarrassed Falstaff witha 68 bland smile, and continued on her way. But hardly—7—hadshe reached the corner of the block, ere she wasovertaken by a 24 young man, 32 poorly dressed, but of an85 expression of countenance; 91 hastily touching her 54beautifully rounded arm, he said, to her 67 surprise—

“Madam, at the window of the toy-shop yonder, youdropped this bracelet, which I had the 71 good fortune toobserve, and now have the 94 happiness to hand to you.”

(Of course the expression “94 happiness” is merely theyoung man’s polite hyperbole.)

Blushing with 76 modesty, the lovely (76, as before, ofcourse) lady took the bracelet—which was a 24 magnificentdiamond clasp—(24 magnificent, playfully sarcastic; it wasprobably not one of Tucker’s) from the young man’shand, and 84 hesitatingly drew from her beautifully 38embroidered reticule a 67 portemonnaie. The young mannoticed the action, and 73 proudly drawing back, added—

“Do not thank me; the pleasure of gazing for an instantat those 100 eyes (perhaps too exaggerated a compliment)has already more than compensated me for any trouble thatI might have had.”

She thanked him, however, and with a 67 deep blush anda 48 pensive air, turned from him, and pursued with 33 slowstep her promenade.

Of course you see that this is but the commencement ofa pretty little tale, which I might throw off, if I had a mindto, showing in two volumes, or forty-eight chapters of thrillinginterest, how the young man sought the girl’s acquaintance,434how the interest first excited deepened into love, howthey suffered much from the opposition of parents (herparents, of course), and how, after much trouble, annoyance,and many perilous adventures, they were finally married—theirhappiness, of course, being represented by 100. ButI trust that I have said enough to recommend my systemto the good and truthful of the literary world; and besides,just at present I have something of more immediateimportance to attend to.

You would hardly believe it, but that everlasting (100)scamp of a Professor has brought a suit against me forstealing a bottle of his disgusting Invigorator; and as thesuit comes off before a Justice of the Peace, whose onlyprinciple of law is to find guilty and fine any accused personwhom he thinks has any money—(because if he don’t hehas to take his costs in County Scrip), it behoves meto “take time by the forelock.” So for the present,adieu!

Should my system succeed to the extent of my hopes andexpectations, I shall publish my new grammar early in theensuing month, with suitable dedication and preface; andshould you, with your well-known liberality, publish myprospectus, and give me a handsome literary notice, I shallbe pleased to furnish a presentation copy to each of thelittle Pioneer children.

P.S.—I regret to add, that having just read this article toMrs. Phœnix, and asked her opinion thereon, she repliedthat, “If a first-rate magazine article were represented by100, she should judge this to be about 13; or if the quintessenceof stupidity were 100, she should take this to be inthe neighbourhood of 96.”

This, as a criticism, is perhaps a little discouraging, butas an exemplification of the merits of my system it isexceedingly flattering. How could she, I should like toknow, in ordinary language, have given so exact and truthful435an idea—how expressed so forcibly her opinion (which, ofcourse, differs from mine) on the subject?

As Dr. Samuel Johnson learnedly remarked to JamesBoswell, Laird of Auchinleck, on a certain occasion—“Sir,the proof of the pudding is the eating thereof.”

“John Phœnix.”

Aby, Joe C., “Hoffenstein,” born 1858. A humorist who made hisreputation on the New Orleans Times-Democrat. His “Hoffenstein”sketches have been issued in book form.

Adams, Charles Follen (1842). “Leedle Yawcob Strauss,” ashort 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 beenfollowed by many sunny pieces in similar dialect. Mr. Adams haspublished Leedle Yawcob Strauss and other Poems, Dialect Ballads,etc.

Adams, John Quincy (1767-1848), sixth President of the UnitedStates, first attracted public attention by his writings, and principallyon account of his pen he was appointed to many honourableposts by President George Washington. He wrote a number ofhumorous pieces of verse, the most popular being “The Plague inthe Forest” and “The Wants of Man.”

Alcott, Louisa May (1832-1888). Author of LittleWomen, Little Men, Moods, An Old-FashionedGirl, Eight Cousins, etc. Most popular with the youngpeople of America and Great Britain.

Alden, William L., born 1837. Author of DomesticExplosives, Shooting Stars, Moral Pirates, A LostSoul (Chatto & Windus), and a host of volumes of facetious shortstories. He was admitted to the bar, but took to journalism; madehimself famous as the “fifth-column man” on the New York Times;was appointed consul-general at Rome, the king decorating him with thecross of Chevalier of the “Crown of Italy” at the end of hisconsulship. He introduced canoeing as a pastime into the UnitedStates, and founded the first canoe club. He is now (1893) writinghumorous “stories” for the Idler and other Englishpublications, and his work has lost none of his old-time flavour.

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, born 1837. Mr. Aldrich, who for manyyears was looked upon as one of the most promising youngerwriters of America, has now attained the first rank in American438poetry. His first great success was the Ballad of Babie Bell,published in 1856, and this induced him to adopt literature as aprofession. In March 1881 he was appointed editor of theAtlantic Monthly. Since Babie Bell appeared he has given tothe 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, inverse; and Marjorie Daw and other People, 1873; PrudencePalfrey, 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 toMaryland, and for four years laboured as a servant. At therestoration of King Charles he, a warm Royalist, returned toEngland, and whether he returned to America or not is uncertain.He published A Character of the Province of Maryland, a volumeof prose and verse, absurdly humorous from beginning to end.

Alsop, Richard (1761-1815). Founder of a society of literary-inclinedindividuals known as the “Hartford Wits.” Alsop was the chiefwriter of the Echo, a series of burlesque essays published between1791 and 1795. He also published The Enchanted Lake of FairyMorgana, Monody on the Death of Washington, The Naturaland Civil History of Chili, and edited the Captivity and Adventuresof J. R. Jewett among the Savages of Nootka Sound. He wasan accomplished linguist.

Ames, Nathaniel (1708-1764), commenced publishing in 1725 ayearly calendar—the great-grandfather of the present weeklypaper. He was a shrewd wit, and his almanac, which obtainedmarked popularity, was full of quaint and wise sayings.

Anderson, Mrs. Arestine (1855). A writer of humorous newspaperverse. Contributor to many of the humorous papers in America.

André, Major John (1751-1780). This unfortunate soldier wrote ahumorous piece entitled “The Cow Chase,” which, strangelyenough, appeared in Rivington’s Royal Gazette the same day thatthe author was captured.

Arnold, George (1834-1865). Author of McArone Papers, TheJolly 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 quaintinformation. He was also the author of “Oration on the Anniversaryof the Battle of Bunker’s Hill,” and “Essay on the HumanCharacter of Jesus Christ.”

439Bagby, George William (1828-1883). Took his degree in medicine,adopted journalism as a profession, was appointed (1870) statelibrarian for Virginia. His humorous articles were published underthe pen-name “Mozis Addums,” and after his death his sketcheswere 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 “DanburyNews-Man’s” funny articles. His work was to be found copied inevery paper in the land, and the Danbury News, which up to thattime 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 acarpenter, served in the ranks during the war, and then enteredjournalism. His humorous sketches have been collected andpublished. Life in Danbury and England from a Back Windoware the best compilations.

Bangs, J. K. Has published the Tiddledywink Poetry Book. Hisverse is in much request by the better-class humorous papers andmagazines in America.

Barlow, Joel (1754-1812). After serving with the Revolutionaryarmy 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 journeyedto England to take part in the political movements of the day,and published his Advice to the Privileged Orders, which the Governmentproscribed. He took refuge in France, and while therewrote “Hasty Pudding,” his most popular poem. After servinghis 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 famousretreat from Moscow.

Barr, John, born in Canada 1858. Taught school, sailed the greatlakes, appointed marine editor of the Detroit Free Press, and isnow commercial editor of the paper. Has written under thepen-name “Baron Joe.” The extract given is from The WhiteFeather, a farcical opera.

Barr, Robert (1851), co-editor of the Idler (1892),and for many years connected with the Detroit Free Press. Hishumorous sketches and short stories, both humorous and dramatic, underthe nom de guerre of “Luke Sharp,” first made him known to thereaders of the United Kingdom and America, but lately he has taken towriting under his proper name. His published works are In a SteamerChair, and other Shipboard Stories (Chatto & Windus), FromWhose Bourn, Strange Happenings, One Day’sCourtship, Jones and I, etc. Although inseparably connected440with American humour, and having made his first success inAmerica and on an American paper, he was educated inCanada.

Bartlett, Joseph (1762-1827), graduated at Harvard, studied law,and travelled to England to spend his money, which he easily succeededin doing, and as a result found himself in prison for debt.In prison he wrote a play, and with the money obtained for itbought his release. Trying the stage for a while and not makingheadway, 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 lampooningcelebrities 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 atYale. Has published Odds and Ends, The Thankless Muse,volumes of verse, and Life of N. P. Willis, A Century ofAmerican Literature, and An Outline Sketch of EnglishLiterature. Has written a few facetious poems.

Belknap, Rev. Jeremy (1744-1798), a New England historian, andauthor of The Foresters, an American Tale, a work rich in humour.

Bellaw, Americus W., humorous verse-writer, contributor to mostof the humorous papers of America. He is well-known to readersof newspaper humour in the United States.

Benjamin, Park (1809-1864), a Boston attorney, who drifted intomagazine writing, and being equally at home in verse or prose,published a great amount of matter. For a time he was associatedwith Horace Greeley as editor of the New Yorker, and in1840 he founded the New World, and, with others, edited it forfive years. His principal works are Infatuation and Poetry, bothsatires in verse.

Beveridge, John, a Scotsman by birth, who in 1758 was appointedProfessor of Languages in Philadelphia College; published someLatin verse of a humorous description, with their English translationsby his students.

Bolton, Mrs. Sarah Tittle (1815). She wrote “Paddle yourown Canoe.”

Brackenridge, Hugh Henry (1748-1816). Born in Scotland andtaken to America while still a child, he earned enough money toput himself through Princetown, graduating in 1771, and rose to441be one of the Justices of Pennsylvania Supreme Court (1799).Modern Chivalry, or the Adventures of Captain Farrago andTeague O’Regan his Servant, published in Pittsburg, 1796, apolitical satire, established his reputation as a humorist.

Brainard, John Gardiner Calkins (1796-1828). Studied law, buton being called to the bar he forsook his profession for that ofeditor of a weekly paper. He wrote a number of ballads, andhis “Sonnet to a Sea-Serpent” is humorous.

Brougham, John, born in Dublin, 1810; died in America, 1880. Aprolific writer of comedies and farces, and was editor and proprietorof the Lantern, a comic paper published in 1852. Twocollections of his writings have appeared, A Basket of Chips andThe Bunsby Papers.

Browne, Charles Farrar (1834-1867), “Artemus Ward.” Whenfifteen years old he contributed comic articles to the Carpet Bag, aBoston weekly. Subsequently he secured the situation of reporteron the Cleveland Plaindealer, a paper of good standing, and whileacting in that position commenced his showman articles. Thefirst of these were written in a careless style, more as a “fill up”than anything else, but finding that they met with extraordinarysuccess Mr. Browne began taking greater pains with them, and theresult is a series of as clever and humorous articles as America hasproduced. He was a successful lecturer, and in this capacityvisited England in 1866, but his health, which had long beenfailing, became so poor that he was forced to cancel engagements.He died in Southampton, England.

Browne, John Ross (1817-1875), author of Yusef, AmericanFamily in Germany, Land of Thor, and other records of histravels 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 areoverflowing with refined humour. Airs from Arcady, a volume ofshort verse, Short Sixes and The Zodac Pines, volumes ofshort stories, and A Woman of Honour, a novel, are hisprincipal published works. He is one of the best of the many brilliantshort-story writers America of to-day possesses. Charles Scribner’sSons and Ogilvie & Co., publishers, America.

Burbank, “Major,” editor New OrleansPiccayune, a humorous writer and lecturer.

Burdette, Robert Jones (1844), first attracted attention by hishumorous articles to the Burlington Hawkeye. These sketcheshave been collected and published in book form under the titles of442The Rise and Fall of the Moustache, Hawkeyes, SumachGarden, and other comic sketches. His humour is of the evanescentquality, and suited better to the columns of a daily or weekly paperthan 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 theleader of the dramatic profession in America. In 1858 hepublished the Cyclopædia of Wit and Humour (2 vols.).

Butler, William Allen, born 1825. A lawyer of New York whohas been a frequent contributor to the periodical literature of thecountry. His Nothing to Wear, first published in 1857, is to befound in most collections of American humour.

Byles, Dr. Mather (1707-1788), more famous for his jokes inconversation 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-sevenyears member of the King’s Council. His Westover Manuscriptswere published in 1841. They are “A Journey to the Land ofEden,” “A Progress to the Mines,” and “History of the DividingLine.” He wrote verse, and was considered a great wit.

Carleton, Will, born 1845. Without doubt the most popularhumorous verse-writer of the day in America. His versification is farfrom being irreproachable, but he takes the everyday occurrences oflife and treats them in a simple humorous style which appeals to thegreat public. His works are, Farm Ballads, Farm Legends,Young Folks’ Rhymes, Farm Festivals, CityBallads, City Legends, all published by Harper’s, New York,and most of them by Sampson Low, Marston, & Co., London. For picturesof rural life his work is invaluable.

Cheney, John Vance (1848), public librarian of San Francisco.He has published two dainty books of fascinating, graceful, andwayward verse, Thistledrift and Wood Blooms. See also Poemsof Wild Life, “Canterbury Poets.”

Clark, Lewis Gaylord (1810-1873). Appointed editor of theKnickerbocker Magazine in 1834. He brought the magazine intofame, and gathered around him as contributors, Longfellow,Irving, Bryant, Halleck, Morris, and other well-known men. Hispublished works in book form are Knickerbocker Sketch-Book, andKnick-Knacks from an Editor’s Table.

Clark, Will W., the “Frisbee” and “Gilhooley” of the PittsburgLeader.

443Clemens, Samuel Langhorne, born 1835. A true citizen of theUnited States, he began at the bottom of the ladder and hasworked his way to the top. After receiving a meagre education ata village school, he was apprenticed to a printer at the age ofthirteen, and for three years “stuck type.” In 1851 he took tothe Mississippi, earning his living as a pilot, and later on triedmining and editing. Under the pseudonym “Mark Twain” hebegan to publish the work which has earned for him the right tobe considered the greatest humorous writer of the century. TheJumping Frog and other Sketches was his first book, appearingin 1867, and this he has followed with a splendid line of successesdown to The American Claimant, which has just appeared.Messrs. Chatto & Windus publish his works in England, andWebster & Co. in America.

Clifton, William (1772-1799), a satirical writer of prose and verse.Author of The Group, The Rhapsody of the Times, and anunfinished poem, “Chimeriad.”

Cotes, Mrs. E. C., “Sarah Jeannette Duncan” (1863). MissDuncan, a native of Brantford, Ontario, Canada, did her firstliterary work on the Toronto Globe, and, after occupying positionson the staff of the Globe and Washington Post, spent a session atOttawa as special correspondent of the Montreal Star. This newspapertraining is clearly shown in her two clever books, A SocialDeparture and An American Girl in London. The first is anoriginal and wholly unconventional account of travel, telling howshe, in company with another girl, went round the world. Theother book is an equally bright description of her doings inLondon.

Cox, Samuel Sullivan (“Sunset Cox”), born 1824, anddied 1889. A lawyer, journalist, and politician. He served the UnitedStates as diplomatist in Peru and Turkey, and wrote and spoke muchthat was witty. He published The Buck-Eye Abroad, Why WeLaugh, A Search for Winter Sunbeams, ArcticSunbeams, Orient Sunbeams, and The Isles of thePrinces—the last three bright and laughable accounts of histravels in many lands. They are published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, NewYork and London.

Cox, William, died about 1851. Author of Crayon Sketches. Hewrote under the pseudonym “An Amateur.”

Cozzens, Frederick Swartout (1818-1869), author of The Sayingsof Dr. Bushwhacker and other Learned Men, and The SparrowgrassPapers. A genuine humorist and graceful writer. Some of hiswork was published under the pen-name “Richard Haywarde.”

Curtis, George William (1824-1892). As the “Easy Chair” inHarper’s Magazine, Mr. Curtis’ work was familiar to a wide circle of444readers throughout the English-speaking world. His writings areall brightened by a vein of refined and genial humour. His chiefworks 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 humorousstory writer. Author of Bozzaris and The Clairvoyants.

De Mille, James, Canadian (1837-1880). He began his career as ahumorous writer while still at school, his writings appearing inNew Brunswick papers. In 1860 he was appointed to the Chairof Classics in Acadia College, and four years later that of historyand rhetoric in Dalhousie College, Halifax, holding the positiontill his death. He published, during his comparatively short lifetime,more than twenty books, of which The Dodge Club foundthe most readers.

Dennie, Joseph (1768-1812), a lawyer who thought better of it,and adopted literature as a profession. In 1801 he became editorof the Portfolio, and, under the nom de plume “Oliver OldSchool,” edited and wrote for it till his death. His Short Sermonsfor Idle Readers are rich in humour.

Depew, Chauncey Mitchell, born 1834. He entered politicsbefore 1860, and has stayed in ever since. He is President of theNew York Central Railway, the right-hand man of the Republicanparty, and America’s most famous facetious after-dinner speaker andstory-teller.

Derby, George Horatio (“John Phœnix”), 1823-1861, a graduateof West Point, and served in the war with Mexico, receiving asevere wound in the battle of Cerro Gordo. He explored Minnesotaterritory in 1849, and after holding many important governmentpositions, was made captain of engineers. He died fromeffects produced by sunstroke. Under the pseudonym “JohnPhœnix,” he wrote the first of what may be called newspaperhumour. His Phœnixiana and The Squibob Papers have beenpublished on both sides the Atlantic.

Diaz, Mrs. Abby (1821), a humorous writer for the young;author of Chronicles of the Stimpcett Family, The WilliamHenry Letters, etc.

Dodge, H. C., a writer of newspaper verse, ready with his rhymes,but whose chief ingenuity is displayed in the typographicalarrangements of his verse.

Douglass, William, a Scotsman who made America his home in1718. He was a famous satirist in his day.

445Dowe, Mrs. Jennie, E. T. Her best work is to be found in theCentury Magazine, where she, every now and again, fills a page ortwo with graceful and fantastical verse, usually employing a slightdialect of one sort or another. Her poems are full of life andmusic, and are decidedly clever.

Drake, Joseph Rodman (1795-1820), co-author with Halleck of theCroaker Papers, and author of The Culprit Fay.

Drummond, Dr. W. H., a resident of Montreal, Canada. He is amaster of the French-Canadian dialect, and in verse has the fieldpretty much to himself. His Wreck of the Julie Plante is themost 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 ofa Rat,” founded the Toronto Literary Society, and representedHuron County in the first parliament after the union of Upper andLower Canada.

Dwight, Timothy (1752-1817), President of Yale College, andhymn-writer of note. Among his many published works is Triumph ofInfidelity, a satire.

Edwards, Edward E., the author of “Facts and Fancies” in theBoston Transcript.

Fay, Theodore Sedgewick, born 1807, an associate of Morris andWillis in the New York Mirror. Mr. Fay, about 1830, joined thediplomatic service, and was stationed at Berlin and Bernefor years. He published many works of a quietly humorouscharacter.

Fessenden, Thomas Green (1771-1837). When at DartmouthCollege he wrote “Jonathan’s Courtship,” a ballad which becamepopular, and was reprinted in England. He studied law andwrote humorous verse until 1801, when he was sent to Englandwith 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 WeeklyInspector, and from this time till his death was connected with onepaper or another. His published works include DemocracyUnveiled, “Pills, Poetical, Political, and Philosophical, prescribedfor the purpose of purging the Public of—Philosophers,Penny Poetasters, of Paltry Politicians and Petty Partisans. ByPeter Pepperbox, Poet and Physician, Philadelphia.”

446Field, Eugene (1850). During the year 1891 Mr. Field madea successful début before the reading public of Great Britain withhis Little Book of Western Verse, and Little Book of ProfitableTales, published by Osgood, McIlvain, & Co. For many yearspast Mr. Field has been the chief humorist of Chicago, and inverse and prose holds an honoured place among the present-daywriters of America. He is equally at home in prose and verse.

Field, Matthew C. (1812-1844), a contributor to many southernjournals from 1834 till the time of his death.

Fields, James Thomas (1817-1881). He edited the AtlanticMonthly for eleven years, and wrote several volumes of prose andclever humorous verse. He was partner in the publishing house ofTicknor & Fields.

Finn, Henry J. (1782-1840), an actor, miniature painter, andhumorist. 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 theextensive title of A Looking-glass for the Times; or, the FormerSpirit of New England Revised in this Generation.

Foss, Sam Walter (1858), editor of the Yankee Blade. Althoughhis poems are as widely quoted on one side the Atlantic as theother, they have not yet appeared in book form in England.

Franklin, Benjamin (1706-1790) It is difficult to say whatFranklin was not, and there can be no question of his being thebest-informed man of his day. Along with his other virtues,he was a humorist, and sparkling witty in conversation andwriting. He was the first American to achieve cosmopolitan fameas a writer.

Freneau, Philip (1752-1832). He commenced to write poetrybefore he left college, and continued to do so all his life. As aconsequence, his published works are many. His reputation as ahumorist rests to a great extent on “A Journey from Philadelphiato New York, by Robert Slender, Stocking-Weaver,” published1787.

Goldsmith, Jay Charlton, the “P.I. Man” of the New YorkHerald, and the author of the “Jay Charlton” papers whichappeared in the Danbury News.

Graydon, Alexander (1752-1818). Graydon served in the War ofIndependence, was taken prisoner; when peace was restored wasappointed to a government office, which he held for many years.He wrote his memoirs, and was an epigrammatist of note.

447Green, Joseph (1706-1780), a writer of verse, chiefly parody. His“Poet’s Lament for the Loss of his Cat, which he used to callhis Mews,” published in the London Magazine, 1733, and “TheWonderful Lament of Old Mr. Tenor,” are the most notable of hisproductions. He died in England.

Greene, Albert Gorton (1802-1868), founder of the ProvidenceAthenæum, and president of the Rhode Island Historical Societyfrom 1854 till his death. His poem, “Old Grimes,” has appearedin almost every collection of American humour published.

Gregory W. H., working editor of Judge, and abrilliant paragraphist.

Griswold, A. Minor (nom de guerre, “The FatContributor”), first made his name on the Cincinnati Enquirer,and afterwards became identified with Texas Siftings. In 1889he started on a lecturing tour à la Artemus Ward, and died in Michigan.

Habberton, John, born 1842. The author of Helen’s Babies. Heserved through the war, and after an unsuccessful attempt to establishhimself in business he took up journalism. In 1876, afterseveral refusals, he found a publisher for Helen’s Babies, and theresult was a sale of close on half a million copies in the UnitedStates alone. Since that time he has published a dozen or morebooks, most of them successes.

Hale, Lucretia Peabody, born 1820. Her PeterkimPapers, published in America by Osgood & Co., Boston, made herfamous with the young folk of America, but the reader must be young toenjoy the skits.

Haliburton, Thomas Chandler (1797-1865), Canada’s mostfamous humorist. Was admitted to the bar in Nova Scotia at theage of twenty-three, and nine years later was made Chief Justice ofthe Court of Common Pleas, and in 1840 Judge of the SupremeCourt. In 1842 he resigned this office and settled in England,sitting in Parliament as Conservative member for Launceston from1859 to 1865. It was in the year 1835 he commenced writing hishumorous works that made the name of “Sam Slick” famous theworld over. His first production was The Clockmaker; or, TheSayings and Doings of Sam Slick; and this he followed up withBubbles of Canada, Letter Bag of the Great Western, YankeeStories, 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 RodmanDrake published the Croaker Papers, humorous and satirical, whichattracted much attention at the time. These papers he followedwith “Fanny,” his longest poem, hitting off the follies of the day.These are his chief contributions to humorous literature.

448Halpine, Charles Graham (1829-1868), “Miles O’Reilly,” a verse-writer.Established with “Mrs. Partington” a humorous papercalled The Carpet Bag, which proved a failure. He enlistedduring “the war,” and worked his way up until he finally becamea colonel. He issued Life and Adventures, Songs, Services, andSpeeches of Private Miles O’Reilly, 47th Regiment, New YorkVolunteers, and A Collection of Essays, Poems, Speeches, andBanquets by Private Miles O’Reilly. Collected, Revised, andEdited, 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 ofPretzelisms, My Book of Expressions, etc., humorous compilationsin Dutch dialect.

Harris, Joel Chandler, born 1848. The greatest exponent ofthe negro dialect. In the columns of the Atlanta Constitution, ofwhich he is editor and part proprietor, his Uncle Remus sketchesfirst saw the light, and proved enormously successful. His humouris delicate and fascinating, and as a consequence the Remusseries of books have had a world-wide circulation. No lover ofthe humorous should overlook Mr. Harris’s work. Americanpublishers, Appleton & Co.

Harte, Francis Bret, born 1836. Taking full advantage of hisunique acquaintance with the West of America during the stirringdays of ’49, when, in California, he was in turn gold-digger,express-rider, printer, and editor, Bret Harte has given to theworld volume after volume of short stories which picture in aninimitable way the manners and men of the gold days. No writeris more characteristically American than he; his style is vivid andbeautiful, and he has a wonderful fund of humour, which appears inevery line he writes. His published works, prose and verse, aremany. Messrs. Chatto & Windus have recently published a completeedition of his writings. American publishers, Houghton,Mifflin, & Co.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel (1804-1864). Like most men of exceptionalworth in literature; he found great difficulty at first in gettinghis work published. After writing and destroying many tales, hepublished, at his own expense, a novel entitled Fanshawe, whichproved a failure; and it was not until 1837 that he, or rathera friend, induced a publisher to bring out Twice-told Tales. Inthe spring of 1850 appeared The Scarlet Letter, which raised theauthor from obscurity to the front rank of American literature,and the works which followed established his position in theletters of his country.

449Hay, Colonel John, born 1838, one of President Lincoln’s privatesecretaries during the war, and has since in collaboration writtena history of the martyr-president. His reputation for humour wasmade by a small volume of verse entitled Pike Country Ballads.Best known of these ballads are “Little Breeches” and “JimBludso,” both strong pieces of verse.

Henderson, William James, born 1855, a New York journalistwho has written much pleasant verse and prose.

Holland, Josiah Gilbert (1819-1881). For some time editor ofScribner’s Monthly (now the Century), and a writer who, thoughjudged from a literary point of view is quite second class, still ispopular with the reading public of America. He wrote a numberof articles under the nom de plume of “Timothy Titcomb.”

Holley, Marietta. Under the pseudonym of “Josiah Allen’sWife” she wrote a great deal of humorous matter. Author ofMy Opinions and Betsey Bobbet’s, My Wayward Partner, JosiahAllen’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 formore than half a century has written industriously and with consistentsuccess. The Breakfast-Table series is among the mostread of all America’s humorous writings, and various short poemsof a humorous nature, such as “The One-Hoss Shay,” “Contentment,”“The Spectre Pig,” etc., are in every compilation ofhumour. His chief works are The Autocrat at the Breakfast-Table,The Professor at the Breakfast-Table, The Poet at theBreakfast-Table, Songs of Many Seasons, Songs in Many Keys.He is one of the small band of humorists who are as carefully readand highly appreciated in the United Kingdom as in their nativeland. 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 appointedSecretary of the Provisional Confederate Congress. He publishedWidow Rugby’s Husband and Adventures of Captain Simon Suggs.Clever, but somewhat broad in humour.

Hopkins, Lemuel (1750-1801), one of the “Hartford Wits,” andco-author and projector of The Anarchiad, a poem on StateRights, cuttingly sarcastic. He also wrote The Echo, ThePolitical Greenhouse, and New Year’s Verses, all full ofsarcasm.

Hopkinson, Francis (1737-1791), a telling, sarcastic writer, widelyread in his lifetime, and author of the poem, “The Battle of theKegs,” which remains famous. He was one of those whosigned the Declaration of Independence. His son wrote “Hail,Columbia.”

450Howard, Bronson (1842). The most successful American dramatistof the day, and almost the only American whose plays commandattention in England. His plays, Saratoga, Truth, The OldLove and the New, Young Mrs. Winthrope, The Henrietta, andothers are full of humour, and have been successful on both sides theAtlantic.

Howells, William Dean, born 1837. He is now America’s representativenovelist, and has qualified for representation in ahumorous book by his comedies, Out of the Question, A CounterfeitPresentment, The Parlour Car, The Sleeping Car, etc. Heis an industrious writer. D. Douglas, Edinburgh, in his Americanauthor 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, thepaper, by the way, which is credited with having originated thecolumn of witty paragraphs now so popular with American andBritish papers.

Humphreys, David (1752-1818), served as aide-de-camp toWashington, and wrote lyrics of a patriotic nature for the good ofthe cause. He was an intimate friend of the first president,residing with and being treated as a member of the Washingtonfamily, and held many positions of trust. He was one of thefamous “Hartford Wits.”

Hunter-Duvar, Lieutenant-Colonel John (1830), one of theprincipal literary men of Canada, his work polished, bright, andfull of imagination. His “Emigration of the Fairies,” a poem of117 stanzas of six lines each, is quite the best piece of verse asregards light, fantastical, imaginative humour that Canada hasproduced. Many of his lyrics are dainty and sweet, with a seventeenthcentury ring about them. He has published in verse DeRoberval, a drama dealing with early life in Canada, The Triumphof Constancy, The Enamorado, and for private circulation, John a’Var, his Lays.

Huntley, Stanley. In 1881 Mr. Huntley joined the staff of theBrooklyn Eagle, to which paper he contributed his famous“Spoopendyke” articles. He died before he had the opportunityof following up his success.

Irving, John Treat (1778-1838), a writer of sarcastic political verse.

Irving, Washington (1783-1859), author of those undying works ofdelightful 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 the451opening of his career, was much harassed by business worries, andit was not until his books had scattered his fame broadcast, andthe revenue from his writings began to accrue to him, that hecould lead the life of hearty hospitality and freedom he loved.He was one of the small band of American authors which firstattracted attention outside of their own country, and establishedthe literary reputation of America.

Ike Marvel. See Mitchell, D. G.

James, Henry (1843). His stories are slight in plot, but workedout gracefully, and full of character delineation, vivacious, andwitty.

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 alake steamer, train-boy on a railway, joining several bands ofstrolling minstrels, worked in a post-office, visited Europe, andsupported 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 Breachof Promise Case” in this volume is taken), and Vagabond Adventures.He mysteriously disappeared while doing newspaper workin Cuba, and it is supposed he was murdered and thrown overboardfrom a steamer.

Kelly, Andrew W. (“Pharmenas Mix”), died 1888. A writerof 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 haswritten some dialect pieces of merit.

Landon, Melville D., “Eli Perkins,” born 1840. In 1871 hepublished his first book, a detailed history of the Franco-Germanwar, and afterwards began writing in a lighter vein for variouspublications, among them the Chicago Tribune.

Lanigan, George Thomas (1845-1886), a Canadian journalistwho drifted across the borders, and who, after filling importantpositions on the staff of many of the great American newspapers,died in Philadelphia. He was a brilliant and versatile journalist,452and his poems, “The Ahkoond of Swat” and “Dirge of theMoolta Kotal,” are masterpieces of oddness of theme andwording.

Leland, Charles Godfrey (1824). Best known to lovers of thehumorous 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, andlegend than he. He has written many volumes of verse, sketchesof travel, etc., and is still (1893) hard at work.

Lewis, Charles B., “M Quad,” born 1842. The creator of HisHonor and Bijah, his first great success; The Lime Kiln Club,with all its comical darkey characters; Carl Dunder, the unsophisticatedDutchman who is always being “shwindled”; TheArisona Kicker, whose editor keeps a private graveyard; and Mr.and Mrs. Bowser. “M Quad” is without question the greatestnewspaper humorist of America. His style is deliciously original;he can write weekly for years on the same subject without wearyingthe reader. “Quad” is popularly known as the Detroit Free Pressman, from his long connection with that weekly.

Lighthall William Douw, born 1857. His Songs of the GreatDominion, a collection of verse by various Canadian writers,attracted considerable attention in this kingdom. His works are, AnAnalysis of the Altruistic Act, Sketch of a NewUtilitarianism, Thoughts, Moods, and Ideas (a collection ofverse), and a novel, The Young Seigneur. He has paid littleattention to humorous writing.

Locke, David Ross, “Petroleum V. Nasby” (1833-1888). Apolitical humorist and satirical writer, whose works have left theirimpression on American political life. He was editor of the ToledoBlade. His principal published works are, Swinging Round theCircle, The Moral History of Americans Little Struggle, and APaper City.

Logan, John E., a Canadian who, under the nom de guerre of“Barry Dane,” has written some clever humorous pieces. SeeLighthall’s Songs of the Great Dominion.

Longstreet, Augustus Baldwin (1790-1870), in turn a lawyer,legislator, judge, editor, Methodist minister, college president, andfarmer. He was a ready and brilliant speaker, and an industriouswriter of humour and pathos. His Georgia, Scenes, Characters,and Incidents, first published in periodicals, and afterwards collectedin book form, were widely read. The papers are full of humour,rather broad, but it is said by those who know, truly characteristicof the place and period.

453Low, Samuel, born 1765. Author of two volumes of poetry, containingmany pieces of a humorous character.

Lowell, James Russell (1819-1891), poet, essayist, anddiplomat. One of the foremost literary geniuses of America. His firstvolume of poems was published in 1838, under the title of ClassPoems. In 1841 followed A Year’s Life, consisting mainly oflove poems, only a few of which the author in later years consideredworth republishing. In the year 1846 the Biglow Papers beganappearing in the columns of the Boston Courier, and it was notuntil 1848 that what is probably the most remarkable series ofsatirical poems which ever appeared were furnished. For wit, insightinto human nature, and finish, these poems, in the peculiar dialect ofthe “down-easter,” must be considered nothing short of perfect. Thesepoems had an instantaneous effect on America, and raised the questionof slavery and corruption in politics to the eyes of the people in away they had never before been presented. Mr. Lowell was anout-and-out democrat and a fearless exponent of democracy of the kindestablished by the founders of American independence. His works, ofwhich a complete and excellent edition is published by Messrs.Macmillan & Co., London, are numerous, the best known being ClassPoems, A Year’s Life, Poems (1844), The Vision ofSir Launfal (1848), Conversations on some of the Old Poets(1945), Poems (1848), The Biglow Papers, A Fable forCritics, Poems (1849), Life of Keats, Mason andSlidell, 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 hisworks in America.

MacClurg, Dr. James (1747-1825), a writer of the dainty vers desociété, which has since become so popular with a school ofmodern writers.

MacDowell, Mrs. Kate (1853-1883), a writer of humoroussketches in vernacular, and published by Harper’s. Pseudonym,“Sherwood Bonner.”

M’Lennan, William, Canadian. His French-Canadian dialectsketches 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 mostAmerican of all America’s poets. In his youth he took to gold-miningin California, afterwards acting as express-rider, later on driftedinto journalism, and began his literary career while judge of Grantcounty, Oregon. His best-known works are Songs of the Sierras,Songs of Sunland, Songs of the Desert, Songs of theMexican Seas,454and In Classic Shades. He has not written much in a humorousvein, but his “William Brown of Oregon,” “That Gentle Manfrom Boston Town,” and “Saratoga and the Psalmist,” allhumorous verse, have been widely read.

Mitchell, Donald Grant, born 1822. His delicate health compelledhim to abandon the study of law, and he has spent mostof his time in landscape gardening, writing, and travelling. Hisfirst book, Fresh Gleanings, or a New Sheaf from the Old Field ofContinental Europe, was published in 1847, and in 1850 hiswidely-read work, Reveries of a Bachelor, appeared. In thesixties appeared the “Edgewood” series of books from his pen.Most of his humorous work appeared under the pen-name of “IkeMarvel.”

Mitchell, Dr. Samuel Latham (1764-1831), a valuable andvoluminous writer on scientific subjects. He was a humorist inhis way.

Moore, Clement Clarke (1779-1863). He wrote the famous pieceof verse beginning—

Morris, George P. (1802-1864), began writing for the press whenbut fifteen years of age, and during his lifetime saw many of hispoems attain international celebrity. In 1823, he, in conjunctionwith Samuel Woodworth, established the New York Mirror, andin 1843, with N. P. Willis, the New Mirror; and in 1845 himselffounded the National Press, afterwards the Home Journal. TheLittle Frenchman and his Water-Lots, a volume of prose sketches,published in 1839, was widely read; but his greatest hits weremade by the songs, “Woodman, spare that Tree,” “We wereBoys 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 andhis Puritan followers a great deal of trouble, being many timesimprisoned for misdeeds. He wrote a book, of which the followingis a copy of the title-page:—“New English Canaan or NewCanaan, containing an abstract of New England, composed inthree Bookes. The first Booke setting forth the originall of theNatives, their Manners and Customs, together with their tractableNature and Love towards the English. The second Booke settingforth, what people are planted there, their prosperity, what remarkableaccidents have happened since the first planting of it,together with their Tenents and practise of their Church. Writtenby Thomas Morton of Clifford’s Inne gent, upon Tenne years knowledgeand experiment of the country. Printed at Amsterdam by455Jacob Frederick Stain in the yeare 1637.” This book is full ofridicule of all things pertaining to the Puritans.

M Quad. See Lewis.

Mrs. Partington. See Shillaber.

Munkettrick, Richard Kendall (1853), a writer of prose andverse, full of subtle and refined humour. He contributes to all thestandard publications of America.

Nash, Thomas, born 1840, came into public notice during the CivilWar by his strong caricatures, and has ever since been consideredone of America’s best caricaturists.

Neal, John (1793-1876). “Yankee Neal,” as he was called, at theage of thirty, set sail for England, determined that the Britishpeople should no longer be able to say that no one reads anAmerican book. This pioneer of American literature beganwriting 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 thePennsylvanian, and a few years later established theSaturday Gazette, a humorous and satirical publication, whichwas widely read. His Charcoal Sketches were republished inLondon under the auspices of Charles Dickens.

Newell, Robert Henry (1836). His “Orpheus C. Kerr” papers,humorous and satirical, met with great success during the daysof the Civil War, and still continue popular. After these papers,The Palace Beautiful and Versatilities are his best-known worksSome of his verse is clever, and “The Great Fight” is to befound in most collections of American humour.

Nye, Edgar Wilson, born 1850. One of the most popular newspaperhumorists of America. He studied law in Wyoming territory, butthe farcical sketches which he contributed to different newspaperssoon took the public fancy, and he removed to New York, wherehe now (1893) resides. He has published a number of collectionsof his sketches.

Orpheus Junior. See Vaughan.

Page, Thomas Nelson, born 1853. Brought up on a Southernplantation; educated at Washington, and is now practising lawat Richmond, Virginia. His negro dialect stories, full of thekindly humour of the South, have attracted much attention. Hisfirst volume, In Ole Virginia, was published in 1887.

456Paulding, James Kirke (1779-1860). Making the acquaintance ofWashington Irving, the two formed a strong liking for each other,and in 1807, Salmajundi, their joint production, was issued, andits success was great. In 1812 Mr. Paulding published TheDiverting History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan, and thiswas followed by The Lay of the Scottish Fiddle, Letters from theSouth, 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 whenpeace was declared returned to Wisconsin and made his name as ahumorous writer in the columns of Peck’s Sun, Milwaukee. Sincethe 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 ofConnecticut, a satire.

Petroleum V. Nasby. See Locke.

Pharmenas Mix. See Kelly.

Pomeroy, Marcus Mills, born 1833. After an apprenticeship tojournalism in the West, he founded in New York, 1868, the BrickPomeroy Democrat, which for sensationalism was unsurpassed in thehistory of American journalism. He has the reputation of being able totell a plainer lie—professionally, of course—than any man in America.His principal books are Sense, Nonsense, BrickDust, Home Harmonies, and Perpetual Money.

“Porte Crayon.” See Strother.

Riley, James Whitcomb (1854). Mr. Riley is writing the typicallyAmerican verse of the day, and his work is now read by alarger public than any other American poet finds. His poems,humorous or otherwise, are full of tender feeling, and in themthe tear invariably accompanies the smile. He has a perfectcommand of the country dialects, and pictures as no other writerseems able to do, the humorous and the pathetic side of Americanlife. A number of his books have been published in England.Old Fashioned Roses, by Messrs. Longmans, Green, & Co., andother volumes by Messrs. Gay & Bird. In America the Bowen-MerrillCo., Indianapolis, publish The Old Swimmin’-Hole, and’Leven More Poems; The Boss Girl, and other Sketches andPoems; and Afterwhiles. Mr. Riley’s verses, “Old Man andJim,” and “Little Orphant Annie,” are popular with reciters onboth sides the Atlantic.

457Roche, James Jeffrey (1847), editor of the BostonPilot, and author of Songs and Satires. Has written a greatdeal of humorous verse.

Russell, Irwin (1853-1879). According to Joel Chandler Harris,Mr. Russell was the first Southern writer to appreciate the literarypossibilities of the negro character. Mr. Russell’s short life wasone of hard work and disappointments, and it was not until afterhis death that his poems were collected and published. “ChristmasNight in the Quarters” is the best of his poems.

Sanderson, John (1783-1844). The American in England andThe American in Paris are works which attained wide circulationat the time of publication.

Saxe, John Godfrey (1816-1887), a humorist whose command ofrhyme was as complete as that of “Ingoldsby.” He was a prolificwriter of humorous verse, and also wrote much that is in aserious vein. Mr. Saxe was an ardent politician, holding theposition of State Attorney for Cheltenden, co. Vt., and in 1859,and again in 1860, was the unsuccessful Democratic candidate forgovernor of that state. Many of his poems saw original publicationin Harper’s Magazine and the Atlantic Monthly.

Scollard, Clinton (1860), a writer of fanciful and sparklingverse. His books of verse, Pictures in Song, With Reed andLyre, and Old and New World Lyrics, have been successful.

Seccomb, John (1708-1793). Educated at Harvard, and settled asa minister at Chester, Nova Scotia, where he died. Author of“Father Abbey’s Will,” a humorous piece of verse, published in theGentleman’s Magazine, May 1732.

Shanly, Charles Dawson (1811-1875), born in Ireland and diedin Florida. He is claimed as a Canadian, he having held agovernment office for fifteen years in Canada before going to NewYork to engage in journalism. He was editor of Vanity Fair andMrs. Grundy, New York publications, and contributed to theNew York Leader, Atlantic Monthly, and other periodicals. Hewrote “A Jolly Bear and his Friends,” “The Monkey of PortoBello,” “The Truant Chicken,” and “The Walker of theSnow,” a well-known poem. See Lighthall’s Songs of the GreatDominion.

Sharp, Luke. See Robert Barr.

Shaw, Henry Wheeler, 1818-1885 (“Josh Billings”). In compilationsof American humour “Josh Billings” has always beenpopular. His pungent paragraphs are very convenient to fill thechinks between longer articles. A great deal of his humour isin the spelling; but his “sayings” are full of philosophy and458wisdom, to which the orthography gives a certain quaintness.His publications are Josh Billings his Sayings, Josh Billings onIce, Every Boddy’s Friend, and Josh Billings’ Spice Box.

Shelton, Frederick William (1814-1881), author of TheTrollopiad, Rector of St. Bardolph’s, Peeps from theBelfry, etc. Mr. Shelton was a clergyman who found authorship morecongenial and profitable, and so devoted himself to writing.

Sherman, Frank Dempster (1860), author of Madrigals andCatches and Lyrics for a Lute, volumes of dainty verse.

“Sherwood Bonner.” See MacDowell.

Shillaber, Benjamin P. (1814-1890). No series of newspaper articlesin the humorous vein attracted greater attention than that writtenby Mr. Shillaber under the nom de guerre “Mrs. Partington.”These short articles were full of good-natured humour, and neverfailed to draw a smile from the reader.

Sill, Edward Rowland (1841-1887). His poems contain a fewpieces of pleasant fancy.

Small, Samuel W., born 1851, a Southern humorist who publishedarticles 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 accounteda consummate humorist by those who knew him.

Smith, Major Charles H., “Bill Arp,” born 1826. His humoroussketches, published in the Atlanta Constitution, have long beenpopular reading in the Southern States. He served in the Confederatearmy during the war.

Smith, Rev. William Wye (1827), a Canadian writer whose poemsare popular in his native country. See Lighthall’s Songs of theGreat Dominion.

Smith, Seba, nom de guerre, “Major Jack Downing” (1792-1868). Ajournalist who, after editing the Eastern Argus, Family Recorder,and Portland Daily Courier, wrote during the presidency of Jacksonthe famous series of satirical letters which made the name“Jack Downing” celebrated in America. In 1842 he removedfrom Portland to New York city, and published Powhatan, NewElements of Geometry, Way Down East. He was all his life ajournalist.

Spoopendyke. See Huntley.

459Steel, Richard, famous paragraphist of Chicago from about 1870 to1882.

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 ofScribner’s Monthly, and subsequently was appointed assistant-editorof St. Nicholas. His first great success was made with theRudder Grange stories, and few short stories have attracted such areading public as “The Lady or the Tiger.” All his writingsare rich in quiet and quaint humour, and no writer can tell a moregenial and interesting story. A convenient-sized and inexpensiveedition of his works, including Rudder Grange, from which“Pomona’s Novel” is taken, The Lady or the Tiger? and otherStories, and A Borrowed Month, and other Stories, is publishedby David Douglas, Edinburgh. American publishers, CharlesScribner’s Sons.

Strother, David Hunter (1816-1888), an artist as well as ahumorous writer. He wrote under the nom de guerre of “PorteCrayon,” and illustrated his own work. Published works, TheBlackwater Chronicle and Virginia Illustrated.

Sweet, Alexander Edwin, Canadian, born 1841. After anadventurous youth he became editor of the San Antoine Expressin 1869, and later, with Colonel Knox, conducted Texas Siftings.For a time the weekly was published in Texas, but afterwards theoffice was moved to New York.

Thompson, Benjamin (1640-16—). A native of Massachusetts, agraduate of Harvard, and generally credited with being the firstpoet born in America. He wrote in satirical vein New England’sCrisis.

Thompson, Daniel Pierce (1793-1868). Began his literary careerwith a satirical novel entitled, The Adventures of TimothyPeacock, Esq.; or, Freemasonry Practically Illustrated, whichcaused 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 loverof nature and out-door life, as his poems show. See ProfessorRoberts’ Poems of Wild Life, “Canterbury Poets.”

Thompson, Mortimer H. (1830-1875). Wrote under the nom deguerre “Q. K. Philander Doesticks.” His work for a time waspopular in the newspapers of “the States.” Author of TheDodge Club.

460Thompson, William Tappan (1812-1882). He wrote a number ofarticles known as the “Major Jones’ Series,” in which the humouris plentiful. He was the first white child born in the WesternReserve.

Thoreau, Henry David (1817-1862), one of the best known of theNew England “transcendentalists.” He has a fine vein of ironichumour. His Walden and A Week on the Concord and MerrimacRivers have had a wide circulation in England.

Timothy Titcomb. See Holland.

Trowbridge, John Townsend (1827). The most popular writer ofstories for boys in America. His work usually appears in theYouths’ Companion, Boston. His pathetically humorous poem,“The Vagabonds,” is a favourite with reciters in England as wellas America.

Trowbridge, Robertson, a verse-writer whose work has appearedin the Century Magazine.

Turnbull, John (1751-1831), author of The Progress of Dulnessand MacFingal.

Tyler, Royall (1757-1826), a lawyer who in 1794 was made Judgeof the Supreme Court, and in 1800 Supreme Justice. He was thefirst to use the Yankee dialect in literature, and his play, TheContrast, has the distinction of being “the first American playever acted on a regular stage by an established company ofcomedians.” May-Day, or New York in an Uproar; TheGeorgia Spec., or Land in the Moon; and The Algerine Captive,are from his pen.

Vandegrift, Margaret, a frequent contributor of humorous verseto the Century and other publications.

Vaughan, Sir William (1577-1640), who established a small settlementin Newfoundland early in the seventeenth century, publishedin London, 1626, under the pseudonym of “Orpheus Junior,” ahumorous poem, entitled “The Golden Fleece.” He was aWelsh physician, and died in Newfoundland.

Ward, Nathaniel, born between 1578-80, died 1652. He was aPuritan minister whose convictions got him into trouble with ArchbishopLaud, and in 1633 he was deprived of his living. The nextyear he sailed for America and settled at Ipswich, and there compiledfor Massachusetts the “Body of Liberties,” which was adopted in1641. In 1645-46 he wrote “The Simple Cobbler of Aggawamin America,” a witty, stinging pamphlet, partisan and patriotic.This was published in England, and during the year 1647 foureditions were sold. He returned to England and died at Shenfield,in Essex.

461Warner, Charles Dudley (1829), a prolific writer of sketches andstories, through all of which runs a graceful vein of refinedhumour. He now does the “Editor’s Study” in Harper’s Magazine.His best-known books are, My Summer in a Garden, Back-LogStudies, Mummies and Moslems, Baddeck, and in collaborationwith 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 writerof humorous verse and prose. Some of his earlier work was publishedunder the nom de guerre of “John Paul.” AmericanHumorous Verse (“Canterbury Poets”) contains some of his bestwork.

Webb, George, an Englishman by birth, contemporary of BenjaminFranklin, author of Bachelors’ Hall. He studied at Oxford, tookto 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 thelatter capacity, and with his fiddle always within reach, hetravelled through the rural districts of America, present at everymerry-making, and always pressing his wares on the people. Hewrote much in the way of history, in which a little fact suffices tocarry a great deal of entertaining fiction; and it is on his doubtfulauthority that the famous story of Washington and his hatchet hasbeen given to the world.

Whitcher, Mrs. Frances Miriam, “Widow Bedott”(1812-1852). Her “Widow Bedott” papers, although not of a high type ofhumour, were immensely popular in her lifetime, and are still read.

Widow Bedott. See Whitcher.

Wilcox, Ella Wheeler (1845?), a prolific writer of verse; oneof the chief literary women of America. Author of Drops of Water,Maurine, Shells, Poems of Passion (which caused a great stir atthe time of publication), and Poems of Pleasure.

Williams, John H., “The Norristown Herald Man.” Hishumorous writings were widely quoted during the “seventies.”

Willis, Nathaniel Parker (1806-1867). He edited the New YorkMirror, and under his care that weekly became the foremost literarypaper of America, and continued to hold that position while Mr.Willis continued with it. He was the author of a large number ofreligious poems as well as many that were of a humorous turn.

462Wood, William, born in England about 1580, died in America 1639.After paying a visit to Massachusetts in 1629, he finally settled atSandwich in that state, and became town clerk in 1637. InLondon was published his book; the following is a copy of thetitle-page:—“Nevv England’s Prospect. A true, lively, and experimentalldescription of that part of America commonly calledNevv England; discovering the state of that countrie, both as itstands to our new-come English Planters; and to the old NativeInhabitants. Laying downe that which may both enrich theknowledge of the mind-travelling Reader, or benefit the futureVoyager, by William Wood. Printed at London by Ro. Cotes forIohn Bellamie, and are to be sold at his shop, at the ThreeGolden Lyons in Corne-hill, neere the Royall Exchange, 1634.”

Wright, Robert Wm. (1816-1885). His Vision of Judgment andThe 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 notfirst-class, but the papers are humorous.

Wyoming Kit held a position on the Detroit Free Press for a fewmonths, during which time he contributed verse that was quotedall over “the States.” He suddenly disappeared, and it is notknown where he is now. His name was Adams.