"Oh!" returned the tradesman, in a confused manner.
"He means," said an honest villager, with a desire to help the puzzled tradesman out, "he means that he writes the handbills for the stage drivers!"
I believe that story is new, although perhaps it is not of an uproariously mirthful character; but one hears stories at the store that are old enough, goodness knows stories which, no doubt, diverted Methuselah in the sunny days of his giddy and thoughtless boyhood.
There is an exciting scene at the store occasionally. Yesterday an athletic peasant, in a state of beer, smashed in a counter and emptied two tubs of butter on the floor. His father a white-haired old man, who was a little boy when the Revolutionary war closed, but who doesn't remember Washington much, came round in the evening and settled for the damages. "My son," he said, "has considerable originality." I will mention that this same son once told me that he could lick me with one arm tied behind him, and I was so thoroughly satisfied he could, that I told him he needn't mind going for a rope.
Sometimes I go a-visiting to a farmhouse, on which occasions the parlor is opened. The windows have been close-shut ever since the last visitor was there, and there is a dingy smell that I struggle as calmly as possible with, until I am led to the banquet of steaming hot biscuit and custard pie. If they would only let me sit in the dear old-fashioned kitchen, or on the door-stone if they knew how dismally the new black furniture looked but, never mind, I am not a reformer. No, I should rather think not.
Gloomy enough, this living on a farm, you perhaps say, in which case you are wrong. I can't exactly say that I pant to be an agriculturist, but I do know that in the main it is an independent, calmly happy sort of life. I can see how the prosperous farmer can go joyously a-field with the rise of the sun, and how his heart may swell with pride over bounteous harvests and sleek oxen. And it must be rather jolly for him on winter evenings to sit before the bright kitchen fire and watch his rosy boys and girls as they study out the charades in the weekly paper, and gradually find out why my first is something that grows in a garden, and my second is a fish.
On the green hillside over yonder there is a quivering of snowy drapery, and bright hair is flashing in the morning sunlight. It is recess, and the Seminary girls are running in the tall grass.
A goodly seminary to look at outside, certainly, although I am pained to learn, as I do on unprejudiced authority, that Mrs. Higgins, the Principal, is a tyrant, who seeks to crush the girls and trample upon them; but my sorrow is somewhat assuaged by learning that Skimmerhorn, the pianist, is perfectly splendid.
Looking at these girls reminds me that I, too, was once young and where are the friends of my youth? I have found one of 'em, certainly. I saw him ride in the circus the other day on a bareback horse, and even now his name stares at me from yonder board-fence, in green, and blue, and red, and yellow letters. Dashington, the youth with whom I used to read the able orations of Cicero, and who, as a declaimer on exhibition days, used to wipe the rest of us boys pretty handsomely out--well, Dashington is identified with the halibut and cod interest--drives a fish cart, in fact, from a certain town on the coast, back into the interior.
Hurbertson, the utterly stupid boy the lunkhead, who never had his lesson he's about the ablest lawyer a sister State can boast. Mills is a newspaper man, and is just now editing a Major-General down South.
Singlinson, the sweet-voiced boy, whose face was always washed and who was real good, and who was never rude--he is in the penitentiary for putting his uncle's autograph to a financial document. Hawkins, the clergyman's son, is an actor, and Williamson, the good little boy who divided his bread and butter with the beggarman, is a failing merchant, and makes money by it. Tom Slink, who used to smoke short-sixes and get acquainted with the little circus boys, is popularly supposed to be the proprietor of a cheap gaming establishment in Boston, where the beautiful but uncertain prop is nightly tossed. Be sure, the Army is represented by many of the friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a good account of themselves. But Chalmerson hasn't done much.
No, Chalmerson is rather of a failure. He plays on the guitar and sings love songs. Not that he is a bad man. A kinder-hearted creature never lived, and they say he hasn't yet got over crying for his little curly haired sister who died ever so long ago. But he knows nothing about business, politics, the world, and those things. He is dull at trade indeed, it is a common remark that "everybody cheats Chalmerson."
He came to the party the other evening, and brought his guitar. They wouldn't have him for a tenor in the opera, certainly, for he is shaky in his upper notes; but if his simple melodies didn't gush straight from the heart, why were my trained eyes wet? And although some of the girls giggled, and some of the men seemed to pity him I could not help fancying that poor Chalmerson was nearer heaven than any of us all!
THE SHOW IS CONFISCATED.
You hav perhaps wondered wharebouts I was for these many dase gone and past.
Perchans you sposed I'd gone to the Tomb of the Cappylets, tho I don't know what those is.
It's a popler noospaper frase.
Listen to my tail, and be silent that ye may here I've been among the Seseshers, a earnin my daily peck by my legitimit perfeshun, and havn't had no time to weeld my facile quill for "the Grate Komick paper," if you'll allow me to kote from your troothful advertisement.
My success was skaly, and I likewise had a narrer scape of my life.
If what I've bin threw is "Suthren hosspitality," 'bout which we've hearn so much, then I feel bound to obsarve that they made two much of me.
They was altogether two lavish with their attenshuns.
I went amung the Seseshers with no feelins of annermosity.
I went in my perfeshernal capacity.
I was actooated by one of the most Loftiest desires which can swell the human Buzzum, viz.:--to giv the peeple their money's worth, by showin them Sagashus Beests, and Wax Statoots, which I venter to say air onsurpast by any other statoots anywheres.
I will not call that man who sez my statoots is humbugs a lier and a hoss thief, but bring him be4 me and I'll wither him with one of my scornful frowns.
But to proseed with my tail.
In my travels threw the Sonny South I heared a heap of talk about Seceshon and bustin up the Union, but I didn't think it mounted to nothin.
The politicians in all the villages was swearin that Old Abe (sometimes called the Prahayrie flower) shouldn't never be noggerated.
They also made fools of theirselves in varis ways, but as they was used to that I didn't let it worry me much, and the Stars and Stripes continued for to wave over my little tent.
Moor over, I was a Son of Malty and a member of several other Temperance Societies, and my wife she was a Dawter of Malty, an I sposed these fax would secoor me the infloonz and pertectiun of all the fust families.
Alas! I was dispinted.
State arter State seseshed and it growed hotter and hotter for the undersined.
Things came to a climbmacks in a small town in Alabamy, where I was premtorally ordered to haul down the Stars & Stripes.
A deppytashun of red-faced men cum up to the door of my tent ware I was standin takin money (the arternoon exhibishun had commenst, an'
my Italyun organist was jerkin his sole-stirrin chimes.) "We air cum, Sir," said a millingtary man in a cockt hat, "upon a hi and holy mishun.
The Southern Eagle is screamin threwout this sunny land--proudly and defiantly screamin, Sir!"
"What's the matter with him?" sez I; "don't his vittles sit well on his stummick?"
"That Eagle, Sir, will continner to scream all over this Brite and tremenjus land!"
"Wall, let him scream. If your Eagle can amuse hisself by screamin, let him went!" The men anoyed me, for I was Bizzy makin change.
"We are cum, Sir, upon a matter of dooty--"
"You're right, Capting. It's every man's dooty to visit my show," said I.
"We air cum--"
"And that's the reason you are here!" sez I, larfin one of my silvery larfs. I thawt if he wanted to goak I'd giv him sum of my sparklin eppygrams.
"Sir, you're inserlent.
The plain question is, will you haul down the Star-Spangled Banner, and hist the Southern flag!"
"Nary hist!" Those was my reply.
"Your wax works and beests is then confisticated, & you air arrested as a Spy!"
Sez I, "My fragrant roses of the Southern clime and Bloomin daffodils, what's the price of whisky in this town, and how many cubic feet of that seductive flooid can you individooally hold?"
They made no reply to that, but said my wax figgers was confisticated.