I venture to say that if you sarch the earth all over with a ten-hoss power mikriscope, you won't be able to find such another pack of poppycock gabblers as the present Congress of the United States of America would be able to find--find among their constituents.
Gentleman of the Senit & of the House, you've sot there and draw'd your pay and made summer-complaint speeches long enuff. The country at large, incloodin' the undersined, is disgusted with you. Why don't you show us a statesman--sumbody who can make a speech that will hit the pop'lar hart right under the great Public weskit? Why don't you show us a statesman who can rise up to the Emergency, and cave in the Emergency's head?
Congress, you won't do. Go home, you mizzerable devils--go home!
At a special Congressional 'lection in my district the other day I delib'ritly voted for Henry Clay. I admit that Henry is dead, but inasmuch as we don't seem to have a live statesman in our National Congress, let us by all means have a first-class corpse.
Them who think that a cane made from the timbers of the house I once boarded in is essenshall to their happiness, should not delay about sendin' the money right on for one.
My reported captur by the North American savijis of Utah, led my wide circle of friends and creditors to think that I had bid adoo to earthly things and was a angel playin' on a golden harp. Hents my rival home was on expected.
It was 11, P.M., when I reached my homestid and knockt a healthy knock on the door thereof.
A nightcap thrusted itself out of the front chamber winder. (It was my Betsy's nightcap.) And a voice said:
"Who is it?"
"It is a Man!" I answered, in a gruff vois.
"I don't b'lieve it!" she sed.
"Then come down and search me," I replied.
Then resumin' my nat'ral voice, I said, "It is your own A. W., Betsy!
Sweet lady, wake! Ever of thou!"
"Oh," she said, "it's you, is it? I thought I smelt something."
But the old girl was glad to see me.
In the mornin' I found that my family were entertainin' a artist from Philadelphy, who was there paintin' some startlin water-falls and mountains, and I morin suspected he had a hankerin' for my oldest dauter.
"Mr. Skimmerhorn, father," sed my dauter.
"Glad to see you, Sir!" I replied in a hospittle vois. "Glad to see you."
"He is an artist, father," sed my child.
"A whichist?"
"An artist. A painter."
"And glazier," I askt. "Air you a painter and glazier, sir?"
My dauter and wife was mad, but I couldn't help it; I felt in a comikil mood.
"It is a wonder to me, Sir," sed the artist, "considerin what a widespread reputation you have, that some of our Eastern managers don't secure you."
"It's a wonder to me," said I to my wife, "that somebody don't secure him with a chain."
After breakfast I went over to town to see my old friends. The editor of the Bugle greeted me cordyully, and showed me the follerin' article he'd just written about the paper on the other side of the street:
"We have recently put up in our office an entirely new sink, of unique construction--with two holes through which the soiled water may pass to the new bucket underneath. What will the hell-hounds of "The Advertiser" say to this! We shall continue to make improvements as fast as our rapidly increasing business may warrant. Wonder whether a certain editor's wife thinks she can palm off a brass watch-chain on this community for a gold one?"
"That," says the Editor, "hits him whar he lives. That will close him up as bad as it did when I wrote an article ridicooling his sister, who's got a cock-eye."
A few days after my return I was shown a young man, who says he'll be Dam if he goes to the war. He was settin' on a barrel, and was indeed a Loathsum objeck.
Last Sunday I heard Parson Batkins preach, and the good old man preached well, too, tho' his prayer was ruther lengthy. The Editor of the Bugle, who was with me, sed that prayer would make fifteen squares, solid nonparil.
I don't think of nothin' more to write about. So, "B'leeve me if all those endearing young charms," &c., &c.
A. Ward.
IN CANADA.
I'm at present existin' under a monikal form of Gov'ment. In other words I'm travellin' among the crowned heds of Canady. They ain't pretty bad people. On the cont'ry, they air exceedin' good people.
Troo, they air deprived of many blessins. They don't enjoy for instans, the priceless boon of a war. They haven't any American Egil to onchain, and they hain't got a Fourth of July to their backs.
Altho' this is a monikal form of Gov'ment, I am onable to perceeve much moniky. I tried to git a piece in Toronto, but failed to succeed.
Mrs. VICTORIA, who is Queen of England, and has all the luxuries of the markets, includin' game in its season, don't bother herself much about Canady, but lets her do 'bout as she's mighter. She, however, gin'rally keeps her supplied with a lord, who's called a Gov'ner Gin'ral.
Sometimes the politicians of Canady make it lively for this lord--for Canady has politicians, and I expect they don't differ from our politicians, some of 'em bein' gifted and talented liars, no doubt.
The present Gov'ner Gin'ral of Canady is Lord MONK. I saw him review some volunteers at Montreal. He was accompanied by some other lords and dukes and generals and those sort of things. He rode a little bay horse, and his close wasn't any better than mine. You'll always notiss, by the way, that the higher up in the world a man is, the less good harness he puts on. Hence Gin'ral HALLECK walks the streets in plain citizen's dress, while the second lieutenant of a volunteer regiment piles all the brass things he can find onto his back, and drags a forty-pound sword after him.
Monk has been in the lord bisniss some time, and I understand it pays, tho' I don't know what a lord's wages is.
The wages of sin is death and postage stamps. But this has nothing to do with MONK.
One of Lord MONK'S daughters rode with him on the field. She has golden hair, a kind, good face, and wore a red hat. I should be very happy to have her pay me and my family a visit at Baldinsville. Come and bring your knittin', Miss MONK. Mrs. WARD will do the fair thing by you.
She makes the best slap-jacks in America. As a slap-jackist, she has no ekal. She wears the Belt.
What the review was all about, I don't know. I haven't a gigantic intelleck, which can grasp great questions at onct. I am not a WEBSTER or a SEYMOUR. I am not a WASHINGTON or a OLD ABE. Fur from it. I am not as gifted a man as HENRY WARD BEECHER. Even the congregation of Plymouth Meetin'-House in Brooklyn will admit that. Yes, I should think so. But while I don't have the slitest idee as to what the review was fur, I will state that the sojers looked pooty scrumptious in their red and green close.
Come with me, jentle reader, to Quebeck. Quebeck was surveyed and laid out by a gentleman who had been afflicted with the delirium tremens from childhood, and hence his idees of things was a little irreg'ler. The streets don't lead anywheres in partic'ler, but everywheres in gin'ral.
The city is bilt on a variety of perpendicler hills, each hill bein'
a trifle wuss nor t'other one. Quebeck is full of stone walls, and arches, and citadels and things. It is said no foe could ever git into Quebeck, and I guess they couldn't. And I don't see what they'd want to get in there for.
Quebeck has seen lively times in a warlike way. The French and Britishers had a set-to there in 1759. JIM WOLFE commanded the latters, and JO. MONTCALM the formers. Both were hunky boys, and fit nobly.
But WOLFE was too many measles for MONTCALM, and the French was slew'd.
WOLFE and MONTCALM was both killed. In arter years a common monyment was erected by the gen'rous people of Quebeck, aided by a bully Earl named GEORGE DALHOUSIE, to these noble fellows. That was well done.