Our complaint just now is war meetin's. They've bin havin 'em
bad in varis parts of our cheerful Republic, and nat'rally we
caught 'em here in Baldinsville. They broke out all over us.
They're better attended than the Eclipse was.
I remember how people poured into our town last Spring to see
the Eclipse. They labored into a impression that they
couldn't see it to home, and so they cum up to our place. I
cleared a very handsome amount of money by exhibitin' the
Eclipse to 'em, in an open-top tent. But the crowds is bigger
now. Posey County is aroused. I may say, indeed, that the
pra-hay-ories of Injianny is on fire.
Our big meetin' came off the other night, and our old friend
of the "Bugle" was elected Cheerman.
The "Bugle-Horn of Liberty" is one of Baldinsville's most
eminentest institootions. The advertisements are well-
written, and the deaths and marriages are conducted with
signal ability. The editor, MR. SLINKERS, is a polish'd,
skarcastic writer. Folks in these parts will not soon forgit
how he used up the "Eagle of Freedom," a family journal
published at Snootville, near here. The controversy was about
a plank road. "The road may be, as our cotemporary says, a
humbug; but OUR aunt isn't bald-heded, and WE haven't got a
one-eyed sister Sal! Wonder if the Editor of the "Eagle of
Freedom" sees it?" This used up the "Eagle of Freedom"
feller, because his aunt's head does present a skinn'd
appearance, and his sister SARAH is very much one-eyed. For a
genteel home-thrust, MR. SLINKERS has few ekals. He is a man
of great pluck likewise. He has a fierce nostril, and I
believe upon my soul that if it wasn't absolootly necessary
for him to remain here and announce in his paper, from week to
week, that "our Gov'ment is about to take vig'rous measures to
put down the rebellion"--I b'lieve, upon my soul, this
illustris man would enlist as a Brigadier Gin'ral, and git his
Bounty.
. . . .
I was fixin myself up to attend the great war meetin', when my
daughter entered with a young man who was evijently from the
city, and who wore long hair, and had a wild expression into
his eye. In one hand he carried a port-folio, and his other
paw claspt a bunch of small brushes. My daughter introduced
him as MR. SWEIBIER, the distinguished landscape painter from
Philadelphy.
"He is a artist, papa. Here is one of his master-pieces--a
young mother gazin' admirin'ly upon her first-born," and my
daughter showed me a really pretty picter, done in ile. "Is
it not beautiful, papa? He throws so much soul into his
work."
"Does he? does he?" said I--"well, I reckon I'd better hire
him to whitewash our fence. It needs it. What will you
charge, sir," I continued, "to throw some soul into my fence?"
My daughter went out of the room in very short meeter, takin'
the artist with her, and from the emphatical manner in which
the door slam'd, I concluded she was summat disgusted at my
remarks. She closed the door, I may say, in ITALICS. I went
into the closet and larfed all alone by myself for over half
an hour. I larfed so vi'lently that the preserve jars rattled
like a cavalry offisser's sword and things, which it aroused
my BETSY, who came and opened the door pretty suddent. She
seized me by the few lonely hairs that still linger sadly upon
my bare-footed hed, and dragged me out of the closet,
incidentally obsarving that she didn't exactly see why she
should be compelled, at her advanced stage of life, to open a
assylum for sooperanooated idiots.
My wife is one of the best wimin on this continent, altho' she
isn't always gentle as a lamb, with mint sauce. No, not
always.
But to return to the war meetin'. It was largely attended.
The Editor of the "Bugle" arose and got up and said the fact
could no longer be disguised that we were involved in a war.
"Human gore," said he, "is flowin'. All able-bodied men
should seize a musket and march to the tented field. I repeat
it sir, to the tented field."