reside without interruption or intermission at Mrs. Bardell's house. I
shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some
occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you,
by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned
friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy
on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any _alley
tors_ or _commoneys_ lately (both of which I understand to be a
particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town),
made use of this remarkable expression: 'How should you like to have
another father?' I shall prove to you, gentlemen, on the testimony of
three of his own friends,--most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen,--most
unwilling witnesses,--that on that morning he was discovered by them
holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his
caresses and endearments.
"And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between
these parties,--letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of
the defendant. Let me read the first:--'Garraway's, twelve o'clock.
Dear Mrs. B.--Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Gentlemen, what
does this mean? Chops! Gracious heavens! and Tomato sauce! Gentlemen,
is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away
by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever,
which is in itself suspicious. 'Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home
till to-morrow. Slow coach.' And then follows this very remarkable
expression. 'Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan.' Why,
gentlemen, who _does_ trouble himself about a warming-pan? Why is
Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this
warming-pan, unless it is, as I assert it to be, a mere cover for
hidden fire,--a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise,
agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully
contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and
which I am not in a condition to explain?
"Enough of this. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined. But
Pickwick, gentlemen,--Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic
oasis in the desert of Goswell Street,--Pickwick, who has choked up the
well, and thrown ashes on the sward,--Pickwick, who comes before you
to-day with his heartless Tomato sauce and warming-pans,--Pickwick
still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a
sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, are
the only punishment with which you can visit him, the only recompense
you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an
enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a
dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized
countrymen."
A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER
BY MACCABE
Ladies and Gentlemen: I see so many foine-lookin' people sittin' before
me that if you'll excuse me I'll be after takin' a seat meself. You
don't know me, I'm thinking, as some of yees 'ud be noddin' to me afore
this. I'm a walkin' pedestrian, a travelin' philosopher. Terry
O'Mulligan's me name. I'm from Dublin, where many philosophers before
me was raised and bred. Oh, philosophy is a foine study! I don't know
anything about it, but it's a foine study! Before I kirn over I
attended an important meetin' of philosophers in Dublin, and the
discussin' and talkin' you'd hear there about the world 'ud warm the
very heart of Socrates or Aristotle himself. Well, there was a great
many _imminent_ and learned _min_ there at the meetin', and I
was there too, and while we was in the very thickest of a heated
argument, one comes to me and says he, "Do you know what we're talkin'
about?" "I do," says I, "but I don't understand yees." "Could ye
explain the sun's motion around the earth?" says he. "I could," says I,
"but I'd not know could you understand or not." "Well," says he, "we'll
see," says he. Sure'n I didn't know anything, how to get out of it
then, so I piled in, "for," says I to myself, "never let on to any one
that you don't know anything, but make them believe that you do know
all about it." So says I to him, takin' up me shillalah this way
(holding a very crooked stick perpendicular), "We'll take that for the
straight line of the earth's equator"--how's that for gehography? (to
the audience). Ah, that was straight till the other day I bent it in an
argument. "Wery good," says he. "Well," says I, "now the sun rises in
the east" (placing the disengaged hand at the eastern end of the
stick). Well, he couldn't deny that. "And when he gets up he
Darts his rosy beams
Through the mornin' gleams."
Do you moind the poetry there? (to the audience with a smile). "And he
keeps on risin' and risin' till he reaches his meriden." "What's that?"
says he. "His dinner-toime," says I; "sure'n that's my Latin for
dinner-toime, and when he gets his dinner
He sinks to rest
Behind the glorious hills of the west."
Oh, begorra, there's more poetry! I fail it creepin' out all over me.
"There," says I, well satisfied with myself, "will that do for ye?"
"You haven't got done with him yet," says he. "Done with him," says I,
kinder mad like; "what more do you want me to do with him? Didn't I
bring him from the east to the west? What more do you want?" "Oh," says
he, "you'll have to bring him back again to the east to rise next
mornin'." By Saint Patrick! and wasn't I near betrayin' me ignorance,
Sure'n I thought there was a large family of suns, and they rise one
after the other. But I gathered meself quick, and, says I to him,
"Well," says I, "I'm surprised you axed me that simple question. I
thought any man 'ud know," says I, "when the sun sinks to rest in the
west--when the sun--" says I. "You said that before," says he. "Well, I
want to press it stronger upon you," says I. "When the sun sinks to
rest in the east--no--west, why he--why he waits till it grows dark,
and then he goes _back in the noight toime_!"
RESPONSE TO A TOAST
From "A Charity Dinner"
BY LITCHFIELD MOSELEY
"Milors and Gentlemans!" commences the Frenchman, elevating his
eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. "Milors and Gentlemans--You
excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me,
'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to make; but he
nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but
von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid your kind permission,
I vill make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great
philosophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his,
de Pronouncing Dictionnaire; and, derefore, I vill not say ver moch to
de point. Ven I vas a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to
promenade de streets of Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto
my shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I
vas to begin de vorld as von garēon--or, vat you call in dis countrie,
von vaitaire in a café--vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillemens at all
to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old blue
blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself
fit to be showed at; but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch
for me since dat time, and I have rose myself, seulement par mon
industrie et perseverance. Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de
flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur
Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von étrangé to sit
at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat grand, dat majestique
man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis;
and who is also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chef of you
common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel dat I can perspire to
no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but,
hélas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great
cité, not von liveryman servant of von of you compagnies joint-stock.
But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal
Shakispeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy for
nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing
dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, der vinking eye of de beautiful
lady! It is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. It is de ladies
who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer
but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage to de dear sex, de
toast dat I have to propose is, "De Ladies! God bless dem all!"
PARTRIDGE AT THE PLAY
From "Tom Jones"
BY HENRY FIELDING
In the first row of the first gallery did Mr. Jones, Mrs. Miller, her
youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge
immediately declared it was the finest place he had ever been in. When
the first music was played, he said, "It was a wonder how so many
fiddlers could play at one time, without putting one another out."
While the fellow was lighting the upper candles, he cried out to Mrs.
Miller, "Look, look, madam, the very picture of the man in the end of
the common-prayer book before the gunpowder-treason service." Nor could
he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted,
"That here were candles enough burnt in one night, to keep an honest
poor family for a whole twelvemonth."
As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, began,
Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance
of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones, "What man that was in the
strange dress; something," said he, "like what I have seen in a
picture. Sure it is not armor, is it?" Jones answered, "That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, "Persuade me to that,
sir, if you can. ... No, no, sir, ghosts don't appear in such dresses
as that, neither." In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the
neighborhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the scene
between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr.
Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a
trembling, that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him
what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior upon the
stage? "O la! sir," said he, "I perceive now it is what you told me. ...
Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little man
there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened
in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, to be sure! Who's fool then?
Will you? Lud have mercy upon such foolhardiness!--Whatever happens,
it is good enough for you.--Follow you? I'd follow the devil as soon.
Nay, perhaps it is the devil--for they say he can put on what likeness
he pleases.--Oh! here he is again.--No farther! No, you have gone far
enough already; farther than I'd have gone for all the king's
dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, "Hush, hush!
dear sir, don't you hear him?" And during the whole speech of the
ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost and partly on
Hamlet, and with his mouth open; the same passions which succeeded each
other in Hamlet, succeeding likewise in him.
During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly
admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he help observing upon
the king's countenance. "Well," said he, "how people may be deceived by
faces! _Nulla fides fronti_ is, I find, a true saying. Who would
think, by looking into the king's face, that he had ever committed a
murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he
should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than "that he might
possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire."
Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this; and now, when the ghost
made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now; what
say you now? is he frightened now or no? As much frightened as you
think me, and, to be sure, nobody can help some fears. I would not be
in so bad a condition as what's his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for
all the world. Bless me! what's become of the spirit! As I am a living
soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw
right," answered Jones, "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it is
only a play: and besides, if there was any thing in all this, Madam
Miller would not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid,
I believe, if the devil was here in person.--There, there--Aye, no
wonder you are in such a passion; shake the vile wicked wretch to
pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve her so. To be sure all
duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings.--Aye, go about
your business, I hate the sight of you."
Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of
which Jones asked him which of the players he had liked best? To this
he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the question, "The
king, without doubt." "Indeed, Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller, "you
are not of the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed,
that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." "He
the best player!" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer, "why, I
could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I had seen a ghost, I
should have looked in the very same manner, and done just as ne did.
And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and
his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any
man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done
exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but indeed,
madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet I have seen acting
before in the country; and the king for my money; he speaks all his
words distinctly, half as loud again as the other.--Anybody may see he
is an actor."
A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT
BY ROBERT BURNS
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by--
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd [Footnote: gold] for a' that!
What tho' on hamely [Footnote: homely, plain] fare we dine,
Wear hoddin [Footnote: homespun] gray, an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine--
A man's a man, for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie [Footnote: fellow], ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof [Footnote: fool (pronounce like German _o_ or
_oe_)] for a' that;
For a' that, an' a' that,
His riband, star, an' a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon [Footnote: above] his might--
Gude faith, he maunna fa' [Footnote: must not claim (to make the
honest man)] that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,
That sense an' worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, [Footnote: prize] an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that--
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
ARTEMUS WARD'S LECTURE
From "Complete Works of Artemus Ward" with the permission of the
G. W. Dillingham Company, New York, publishers.
BY CHARLES FARRAR BROWN (ARTEMUS WARD)
I don't expect to do great things here--but I have thought that if I
could make money enough to buy me a passage to New Zealand I should
feel that I had not lived in vain. I don't want to live in vain. I'd
rather live in Texas--or here.
If you should be dissatisfied with anything here to-night--I will
admit you all free in New Zealand--if you will come to me there for the
orders. Any respectable cannibal will tell you where I live. This shows
that I have a forgiving spirit.
I really don't care for money. I only travel round to see the world and
to exhibit my clothes. These clothes I have on have been a great
success in America.
How often do large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined,
but I can get on very well as I am.
I am not an Artist. I don't paint myself--though perhaps if I were a
middle-aged single lady I should--yet I have a passion for pictures.--I
have had a great many pictures--photographs--taken of myself. Some of
them are very pretty--rather sweet to look at for a short time--and as
I said before, I like them. I've always loved pictures. I could draw on
wood at a very tender age. When a mere child I once drew a small
cartload of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.--The people of the
village noticed me. I drew their attention. They said I had a future
before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.
Time passed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have
noticed that Time passes on.--It is a kind of way Time has.
I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist--but
I have always been more or less mixed up with art. I have an uncle who
takes photographs--and I have a servant who--takes anything he can get
his hands on.
When I was in Rome--Rome in New York State, I mean--a distinguished
sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said "No." I saw through the
designing man. My model once in his hands--he would have flooded the
market with my busts--and I couldn't stand it to see everybody going
round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course--and
wherever I should go I should meet the educated classes with my bust,
taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty
could stand--and I should have to return home--where my creditors are.
I like art. I admire dramatic art--although I failed as an actor.
It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor.--The play was
"The Ruins of Pompeii."--I played the ruins. It was not a very
successful performance--but it was better than the "Burning Mountain."
He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.
The remembrance often makes me ask--"Where are the boys of my youth?" I
assure you this is not a conundrum. Some are amongst you here--some in
America--some are in jail.
Hence arises a most touching question--"Where are the girls of my
youth?" Some are married--some would like to be.
Oh, my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she
is happy--because I am.--Some people are not happy. I have noticed
that.
A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I
said, "Why these weeps?" He said he had a mortgage on his farm--and
wanted to borrow $200. I lent him the money--and he went away. Some
time afterward he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me
forever. I ventured to remind him of the $200 he borrowed. He was much
cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him--so told him I would
throw off $100. He brightened--shook my hand--and said,--"Old friend--
I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality--I'll throw off the other
hundred."
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. He kept a hotel. They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember one
where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow--I had nightmares of
course. In the morning the landlord said,--"How do you feel--old hoss--
hay?"--I told him I felt my oats.
As a manager I was always rather more successful than as an actor.
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 anything scarcely--and I said to
myself--the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous cu-
riosity. 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 anything 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 anything to do with it.
JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE
By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin
Company, authorized publishers of this author's work.
BY JOHN HAY
Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives,
Because he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit
Of livin' like you and me.
Whar have you been for the last three year
That you haven't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the "Prairie Belle"?
He weren't no saint,--them engineers
Is all pretty much alike,--
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never flunked, and he never lied,--
I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had,--
To treat his engine well;
Never be passed on the river;
To mind the pilot's bell;
And if ever the "Prairie Belle" took fire,--
A thousand times he swore,
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississip,
And her day come at last,--
The "Movastar" was a better boat,
But the "Belle" she _wouldn't_ be passed.
And so she come tearin' along that night--
The oldest craft on the line--
With a nigger squat on her safety valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she cleared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,
And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For that willer-bank on the right.
There was runnin' and cursing but Jim yelled out,
Over all the infernal roar,
"I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore."
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat
Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,--
And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the "Prairie Belle."
He weren't no saint,--but at jedgment
I'd run my chance with Jim,
'Longside of some pious gentlemen
That wouldn't shake hands with him.
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,--
And he went for it thar and then;
And Christ ain't agoing to be too hard
On a man that died for men.
THE TRIAL OF ABNER BARROW
From "The Boy Orator of Zepata City" in "The Exiles and Other Stories."
Copyrighted, 1894, Harper and Brothers. Reprinted with permission.
BY RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
Abe Barrow had been closely associated with the early history of
Zepata; he had killed in his day several of the Zepata citizens. His
fight with Thompson had been a fair fight--as those said who remembered
it--and Thompson was a man they could well spare; but the case against
Barrow had been prepared by the new and youthful district attorney, and
the people were satisfied and grateful.
Harry Harvey, "The Boy Orator of Zepata City," as he was called, turned
slowly on his heels, and swept the court room carelessly with a glance
of his clever black eyes. The moment was his.
"This man," he said, and as he spoke even the wind in the corridors
hushed for the moment, "is no part or parcel of Zepata city of to-day.
He comes to us a relic of the past--a past that was full of hardships
and glorious efforts in the face of daily disappointments,
embitterments and rebuffs. But the part _this_ man played in that
past lives only in the court records of that day. This man, Abe Barrow,
enjoys, and has enjoyed, a reputation as a 'bad man,' a desperate and
brutal ruffian. Free him to-day, and you set a premium on such
reputations; acquit him of this crime, and you encourage others to like
evil. Let him go, and he will walk the streets with a swagger, and
boast that you were afraid to touch him--_afraid_, gentlemen--and
children and women will point after him as the man who has sent nine
others into eternity, and who yet walks the streets a free man. And he
will become, in the eyes of the young and the weak, a hero and a god.