kissed the dear child, and I would if she'd been six years older.
I think my companions intended makin a day of it, for they all had
sandwiches, sassiges, etc. The sad-lookin man, who had wanted us to drop
a tear afore we started to go round, fling'd such quantities of sassige
into his mouth that I expected to see him choke hisself to death; he
said to me, in the Beauchamp Tower, where the poor prisoners writ their
onhappy names on the cold walls, "This is a sad sight."
"It is indeed," I anserd. "You're black in the face. You shouldn't eat
sassige in public without some rehearsals beforehand. You manage it
orkwardly."
"No," he said, "I mean this sad room."
Indeed, he was quite right. Tho' so long ago all these drefful things
happened, I was very glad to git away from this gloomy room, and go
where the rich and sparklin Crown Jewils is kept. I was so pleased with
the Queen's Crown, that it occurd to me what a agree'ble surprise it
would be to send a sim'lar one home to my wife; and I asked the Warder
what was the vally of a good, well-constructed Crown like that. He told
me, but on cypherin up up with a pencil the amount of funs I have in the
Jint Stock Bank, I conclooded I'd send her a genteel silver watch
instid.
And so I left the Tower. It is a solid and commandin edifis, but I deny
that it is cheerful. I bid it adoo without a pang.
I was droven to my hotel by the most melancholly driver of a
four-wheeler that I ever saw. He heaved a deep sigh as I gave him two
shillings.
"I'll give you six d.'s more," I said, "if it hurts you so."
"It isn't that," he said, with a hart-rendin groan, "it's only a way I
have. My mind's upset to-day. I at one time tho't I'd drive you into the
Thames. I've been readin all the daily papers to try and understand
about Governor Eyre, and my mind is totterin. It's really wonderful I
didn't drive you into the Thames."
I asked the onhappy man what his number was, so I could redily find him
in case I should want him agin, and bad him good-bye. And then I tho't
what a frollicsome day I'd made of it. Respectably, etc.,
ARTEMUS WARD.
--_Punch_,1866.
SCIENCE AND NATURAL HISTORY.
Mr. Punch _My Dear Sir_:--I was a little disapinted at not receivin a
invitation to jine in the meetins of the Social Science Congress....
I prepared an Essy on Animals to read before the Social Science meetins.
It is a subjeck I may troothfully say I have successfully wrastled with.
I tackled it when only nineteen years old. At that tender age I writ a
Essy for a lit'ry Institoot entitled, "Is Cats to be trusted?" Of the
merits of that Essy it doesn't becum me to speak, but I may be excoos'd
for mentionin that the Institoot parsed a resolution that "whether we
look upon the length of this Essy, or the manner in which it is written,
we feel that we will not express any opinion of it, and we hope it will
be read in other towns."
Of course the Essy I writ for the Social Science Society is a more
finisheder production than the one on Cats, which was wroten when my
mind was crood, and afore I had masterd a graceful and ellygant stile
of composition. I could not even punctooate my sentences proper at that
time, and I observe with pane, on lookin over this effort of my youth,
that its beauty is in one or two instances mar'd by ingrammaticisms.
This was inexcusable, and I'm surprised I did it. A writer who can't
write in a grammerly manner better shut up shop.
You shall hear this Essy on Animals. Some day when you have four hours
to spare, I'll read it to you. I think you'll enjoy it. Or, what will be
much better, if I may suggest--omit all picturs in next week's _Punch_,
and do not let your contributors write eny thing whatever (et them have
a holiday; they can go to the British Mooseum;) and publish my Essy
intire. It will fill all your collumes full, and create comment. Does
this proposition strike you? Is it a go?
In case I had read the Essy to the Social Sciencers, I had intended it
should be the closin attraction. I intended it should finish the
proceedins. I think it would have finished them. I understand animals
better than any other class of human creatures. I have a very animal
mind, and I've been identified with 'em doorin my entire perfessional
career as a showman, more especial bears, wolves, leopards and
serpunts.
The leopard is as lively a animal as I ever came into contack with. It
is troo he cannot change his spots, but you can change 'em for him with
a paint-brush, as I once did in the case of a leopard who wasn't
nat'rally spotted in a attractive manner. In exhibitin him I used to
stir him up in his cage with a protracted pole, and for the purpuss of
makin him yell and kick up in a leopardy manner, I used to casionally
whack him over the head. This would make the children inside the booth
scream with fright, which would make fathers of families outside the
booth very anxious to come in--because there is a large class of parents
who have a uncontrollable passion for takin their children to places
where they will stand a chance of being frightened to death.
One day I whacked this leopard more than ushil, which elissited a
remonstrance from a tall gentleman in spectacles, who said, "My good
man, do not beat the poor caged animal. Rather fondle him."
"I'll fondle him with a club," I ansered, hitting him another whack.
"I prithy desist," said the gentleman; "stand aside, and see the effeck
of kindness. I understand the idiosyncracies of these creeturs better
than you do."
With that he went up to the cage, and thrustin his face in between the
iron bars, he said, soothingly, "Come hither, pretty creetur."
The pretty creetur come-hithered rayther speedy, and seized the
gentleman by the whiskers, which he tore off about enuff to stuff a
small cushion with.
He said "You vagabone, I'll have you indicted for exhibitin dangerous
and immoral animals."
I replied, "Gentle Sir, there isn't a animal here that hasn't a
beautiful moral, but you mustn't fondle 'em. You mustn't meddle with
their idiotsyncracies."
The gentleman was a dramatic cricket, and he wrote a article for a
paper, in which he said my entertainment wos a decided failure.
As regards Bears, you can teach 'em to do interestin things, but they're
onreliable. I had a very large grizzly bear once, who would dance, and
larf, and lay down, and bow his head in grief, and give a mournful wale,
etsetry. But he often annoyed me. It will be remembered that on the
occasion of the first battle of Bull Run, it suddenly occurd to the
Fed'ral soldiers that they had business in Washington which ought not to
be neglected, and they all started for that beautiful and romantic city,
maintainin a rate of speed durin the entire distance that would have
done credit to the celebrated French steed _Gladiateur_. Very nat'rally
our Gov'ment was deeply grieved at this defeat; and I said to my Bear
shortly after, as I was givin a exhibition in Ohio--I said, "Brewin, are
you not sorry the National arms has sustained a defeat?" His business
was to wale dismal, and bow his head down, the band (a barrel origin and
a wiolin) playing slow and melancholy moosic. What did the grizzly old
cuss do, however, but commence darncin and larfin in the most joyous
manner? I had a narrer escape from being imprisoned for
disloyalty.--_Works_.
FROM THE "LECTURE."
Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a
tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a
splendid skeleton. He didn't weigh any thing scarcely,--and I said to
myself,--the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous
curiosity. It is a long voyage--as you know--from New York to
Melbourne--and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out
to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He
had never been on the ocean before--and he said it agreed with
him.--I thought so!--I never saw a man eat so much in my life.
Beef--mutton--pork--he swallowed them all like a shark--and between
meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs.
The result was that when we reached Melbourne this infamous skeleton
weighed sixty-four pounds more than I did!
I thought I was ruined--but I wasn't. I took him on to
California--another very long sea voyage--and when I got him to San
Francisco I exhibited him as a fat man.
This story hasn't any thing to do with my Entertainment, I know--but one
of the principal features of my Entertainment is that it contains so
many things that don't have any thing to do with it....
* * * * *
I like Music.--I can't sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am
saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even
than I am....
* * * * *
I met a man in Oregon who hadn't any teeth--not a tooth in his head--yet
that man could play on the bass drum better than any man I ever met....
* * * * *
Brigham Young has two hundred wives. Just think of that! Oblige me by
thinking of that. That is--he has eighty actual wives, and he is
spiritually married to one hundred and twenty more. These spiritual
marriages--as the Mormons call them--are contracted with aged
widows--who think it a great honor to be sealed--the Mormons call it
being sealed--to the Prophet.
So we may say he has two hundred wives. He loves not wisely--but two
hundred well. He is dreadfully married. He's the most married man I ever
saw in my life....
* * * * *
I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while I
was in Utah.
It was leap-year when I was there--and seventeen young widows--the wives
of a deceased Mormon--offered me their hearts and hands. I called on
them one day--and taking their soft white hands in mine--which made
eighteen hands altogether--I found them in tears.
And I said--"Why is this thus? What is the reason of this thusness?"
They hove a sigh--seventeen sighs of different size.--They said--
"Oh--soon thou wilt be gonested away!"
I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I wentested.
They said--"Doth not like us?"
I said--"I doth--I doth!"
I also said--"I hope your intentions are honorable--as I am a lone
child--my parents being far--far away."
They then said--"Wilt not marry us?"
I said--"Oh no--it cannot was."
Again they asked me to marry them--and again I declined. When they
cried--
"Oh--cruel man! This is too much--oh! too much!"
I told them that it was on account of the muchness that I
declined.--_Works_.
FRANK R. STOCKTON.
(BORN, 1834.)
* * * * *
OUR TAVERN.
It was about noon of a very fair July day, when Euphemia and myself
arrived at the little town where we were to take the stage up into the
mountains. We were off for a two weeks' vacation and our minds were a
good deal easier than when we went away before, and left Pomona at the
helm. We had enlarged the boundaries of Rudder Grange, having purchased
the house, with enough adjoining land to make quite a respectable farm.
Of course I could not attend to the manifold duties on such a place, and
my wife seldom had a happier thought than when she proposed that we
should invite Pomona and her husband to come and live with us. Pomona
was delighted, and Jonas was quite willing to run our farm. So
arrangements were made, and the young couple were established in
apartments in our back building, and went to work as if taking care of
us and our possessions was the ultimate object of their lives. Jonas was
such a steady fellow that we feared no trouble from tree-man or
lightning rodder during this absence.
Our destination was a country tavern on the stage-road, not far from the
point where the road crosses the ridge of the mountain range, and about
sixteen miles from the town. We had heard of this tavern from a friend
of ours, who had spent a summer there. The surrounding country was
lovely, and the house was kept by a farmer, who was a good soul, and
tried to make his guests happy. These were generally passing farmers and
wagoners, or stage-passengers, stopping for a meal, but occasionally a
person from the cities, like our friend, came to spend a few weeks in
the mountains.
So hither we came, for an out-of-the-world spot like this was just what
we wanted. When I took our place at the stage-office, I inquired for
David Button, the farm tavern-keeper before mentioned, but the agent did
not know of him.
"However," said he, "the driver knows everybody on the road, and he'll
set you down at the house."
So, off we started, having paid for our tickets on the basis that we
were to ride about sixteen miles. We had seats on top, and the trip,
although slow,--for the road wound uphill steadily,--was a delightful
one. Our way lay, for the greater part of the time, through the woods,
but now and then we came to a farm, and a turn in the road often gave us
lovely views of the foot-hills and the valleys behind us.
But the driver did not know where Dutton's tavern was. This we found out
after we had started. Some persons might have thought it wiser to settle
this matter before starting, but I am not at all sure that it would have
been so. We were going to this tavern, and did not wish to go anywhere
else. If people did not know where it was, it would be well for us to go
and look for it. We knew the road that it was on, and the locality in
which it was to be found.
Still, it was somewhat strange that a stage-driver, passing along the
road every week-day,--one day one way, and the next the other
way,--should not know a public-house like Dutton's.
"If I remember rightly," I said, "the stage used to stop there for the
passengers to take supper."
"Well, then, it ain't on this side o' the ridge," said the driver; "we
stop for supper, about a quarter of a mile on the other side, at Pete
Lowry's. Perhaps Dutton used to keep that place. Was it called the
'Ridge House'?"
I did not remember the name of the house, but I knew very well that it
was not on the other side of the ridge.
"Then," said the driver, "I'm sure I don't know where it is. But I've
only been on the road about a year, and your man may 'a' moved away
afore I come. But there ain't no tavern this side the ridge, arter ye
leave Delhi, and, that's nowhere's nigh the ridge."
There were a couple of farmers who were sitting by the driver, and who
had listened with considerable interest to this conversation. Presently,
one of them turned around to me and said:
"Is it Dave Dutton ye're askin' about?"
"Yes," I replied, "that's his name."
"Well, I think he's dead," said he.
At this, I began to feel uneasy, and I could see that my wife shared my
trouble.
Then the other farmer spoke up.
"I don't believe he's dead, Hiram," said he to his companion. "I heerd
of him this spring. He's got a sheep-farm on the other side o' the
mountain, and he's a livin' there. That's what I heerd, at any rate. But
he don't live on this road any more," he continued, turning to us. "He
used to keep tavern on this road, and the stages did used to stop fur
supper--or else dinner. I don't jist ree-collect which. But he don't
keep tavern on this road no more."
"Of course not," said his companion, "if he's a livin' over the
mountain. But I b'lieve he's dead."
I asked the other farmer if he knew how long it had been since Dutton
had left this part of the country.
"I don't know fur certain," he said, "but I know he was keeping tavern
here two year' ago, this fall, fur I came along here, myself, and
stopped there to git supper--or dinner, I don't jist ree-collect which."
It had been three years since our friend had boarded at Dutton's house.
There was no doubt that the man was not living at his old place now. My
wife and I now agreed that it was very foolish in us to come so far
without making more particular inquiries. But we had had an idea that a
man who had a place like Dutton's tavern would live there always.
"What are ye goin' to do?" asked the driver, very much interested, for
it was not every day that he had passengers who had lost their
destination. "Ye might go on to Lowry's. He takes boarders sometimes."
But Lowry's did not attract us. An ordinary country-tavern, where
stage-passengers took supper, was not what we came so far to find.
"Do you know where this house o' Dutton's is?" said the driver, to the
man who had once taken either dinner or supper there.
"Oh yes! I'd know the house well enough, if I saw it. It's the fust
house this side o' Lowry's."
"With a big pole in front of it?" asked the driver.
"Yes, there was a sign-pole in front of it."
"An' a long porch?"
"Yes."
"Oh! well!" said the driver, settling himself in his seat. "I know all
about that house. That's a empty house. I didn't think you meant that
house. There's nobody lives there. An' yit, now I come to remember, I
have seen people about, too. I tell ye what ye better do. Since ye're so
set on staying on this side the ridge, ye better let me put ye down at
Dan Carson's place. That's jist about quarter of a mile from where
Dutton used to live. Dan's wife can tell ye all about the Duttons, an'
about everybody else, too, in this part o' the country, and if there
aint nobody livin' at the old tavern, ye can stay all night at Carson's,
and I'll stop an' take you back, to-morrow, when I come along."
We agreed to this plan, for there was nothing better to be done, and,
late in the afternoon, we were set down with our small trunk--for we
were traveling under light weight--at Dan Carson's door. The stage was
rather behind time, and the driver whipped up and left us to settle our
own affairs. He called back, however, that he would keep a good look-out
for us to-morrow.
Mrs. Carson soon made her appearance, and, very naturally, was somewhat
surprised to see visitors with their baggage standing on her little
porch. She was a plain, coarsely dressed woman, with an apron full of
chips and kindling wood, and a fine mind for detail, as we soon
discovered.
"Jist so," she said, putting down the chips and inviting us to seats on
a bench. "Dave Dutton's folks is all moved away. Dave has a good farm
on the other side o' the mountain, an' it never did pay him to keep that
tavern, 'specially as he didn't sell liquor. When he went away, his son
Al come there to live with his wife, an' the old man left a good deal o'
furniture and things for him, but Al's wife aint satisfied here, and,
though they've been here, off an' on, the house is shet up most o' the
time. It's for sale an' to rent, both, ef enybody wants it. I'm sorry
about you, too, fur it was a nice tavern, when Dave kept it."
We admitted that we were also very sorry, and the kind-hearted woman
showed a great deal of sympathy.
"You might stay here, but we haint got no fit room where you two could
sleep."
At this, Euphemia and I looked very blank.
"But you could go up to the house and stay, jist as well as not," Mrs.
Carson continued. "There's plenty o' things there, an' I keep the key.
For the matter o' that, ye might take the house for as long as ye want
to stay; Dave 'd be glad enough to rent it; and, if the lady knows how
to keep house, it wouldn't be no trouble at all, jist for you two. We
could let ye have all the victuals ye'd want, cheap, and there's plenty
o' wood there, cut, and every thing handy."
We looked at each other. We agreed. Here was a chance for a rare good
time. It might be better, perhaps, than any thing we had expected.
The bargain was struck. Mrs. Carson, who seemed vested with all the
necessary powers of attorney, appeared to be perfectly satisfied with
our trustworthiness, and when I paid on the spot the small sum she
thought proper for two weeks' rent, she evidently considered she had
done a very good thing for Dave Dutton and herself.
"I'll jist put some bread, an' eggs, an' coffee, an' pork, an' things in
the basket, an' I'll have 'em took up for ye, with yer trunk, an' I'll
go with ye an' take some milk. Here, Danny!" she cried, and directly her
husband, a long, thin, sun-burnt, sandy-headed man, appeared, and to him
she told, in a few words, our story, and ordered him to hitch up the
cart and be ready to take our trunk and the basket up to Dutton's old
house.
When all was ready, we walked up the hill, followed by Danny and the
cart. We found the house a large, low, old-fashioned farm-house,
standing near the road with a long piazza in front, and a magnificent
view of mountain-tops in the rear. Within, the lower rooms were large
and low, with quite a good deal of furniture in them. There was no
earthly reason why we should not be perfectly jolly and comfortable
here. The more we saw the more delighted we were at the odd experience
we were about to have. Mrs. Carson busied herself in getting things in
order for our supper and general accommodation. She made Danny carry our
trunk to a bedroom in the second story, and then set him to work
building a fire in a great fire-place, with a crane for the kettle.
When she had done all she could, it was nearly dark, and after lighting
a couple of candles, she left us, to go home and get supper for her own
family.
As she and Danny were about to depart in the cart, she ran back to ask
us if we would like to borrow a dog.
"There aint nuthin to be afeard of," she said; "for nobody hardly ever
takes the trouble to lock the doors in these parts, but bein' city
folks, I thought ye might feel better if ye had a dog."
We made haste to tell her that we were not city folks, but declined the
dog. Indeed, Euphemia remarked that she would be much more afraid of a
strange dog than of robbers.
After supper, which we enjoyed as much as any meal we ever ate in our
lives, we each took a candle, and after arranging our bedroom for the
night, we explored the old house. There were lots of curious things
everywhere,--things that were apparently so "old timey," as my wife
remarked, that David Dutton did not care to take them with him to his
new farm, and so left them for his son, who probably cared for them even
less than his father did. There was a garret extending over the whole
house, and filled with old spinning-wheels, and strings of onions, and
all sorts of antiquated bric-a-brac, which was so fascinating to me that
I could scarcely tear myself away from it; but Euphemia, who was
dreadfully afraid that I would set the whole place on fire, at length
prevailed on me to come down.
We slept soundly that night, in what was probably the best bedroom in
the house, and awoke with a feeling that we were about to enter on a
period of some uncommon kind of jollity, which we found to be true when
we went down to get breakfest. I made the fire, Euphemia made the
coffee, and Mrs. Carson came with cream and some fresh eggs. The good
woman was in high spirits. She was evidently pleased at the idea of
having neighbors, temporary though they were, and it had probably been a
long time since she had had such a chance of selling milk, eggs, and
sundries. It was almost the same as opening a country store. We bought
groceries and every thing of her.
We had a glorious time that day. We were just starting out for a
mountain stroll when our stage-driver came along on his down trip.
"Hello!" he called out. "Want to go back this morning?"
"Not a bit of it," I cried. "We wont go back for a couple of weeks.
We've settled here for the present."
The man smiled. He didn't seem to understand it exactly, but he was
evidently glad to see us so well satisfied. If he had had time to stop
and have the matter explained to him, he would probably have been better
satisfied; but as it was, he waved his whip to us and drove on. He was a
good fellow.
We strolled all day, having locked up the house and taken our lunch with
us; and when we came back, it seemed really like coming home. Mrs.
Carson, with whom we had left the key, had brought the milk and was
making the fire. This woman was too kind. We determined to try and repay
her in some way. After a splendid supper we went to bed happy.
The next day was a repetition of this one, but the day after it rained.
So we determined to enjoy the old tavern, and we rummaged about
everywhere. I visited the garret again, and we went to the old barn,
with its mows half full of hay, and had rare times climbing about there.
We were delighted that it happened to rain. In a wood-shed, near the
house, I saw a big square board with letters on it. I examined the
board, and found it was a sign,--a hanging sign,--and on it was painted
in letters that were yet quite plain:
"FARMERS'
AND
MECHANICS'
HOTEL."
I called to Euphemia and told her that I had found the old tavern sign.
She came to look at it, and I pulled it out.
"Soldiers and sailors!" she exclaimed; "that's funny."
I looked over on her side of the sign, and, sure enough, there was the
inscription:
"SOLDIERS'
AND
SAILORS'
HOUSE."