dollar--such a bargain as never was--is incomprehensible. I believe
they can not. I believe they do their duty like men. As one man I
resisted, because I belong to the press, and therefore am not mortal.
Who ever heard of a journalist getting a bargain? With Spartan firmness
I turned a deaf ear to the persuasive music of the propagandist, and
entered where hope is all before. I was not staggered by a welcome from
all the Presidents of the United States, Fitz-Greene Halleck, General
Hooker, and Gratz Brown. These personages are rather woodeny and red
about the face, as though flushed with victories of the platform or the
table, but I recognize their fitness in a menagerie. What athlete has
turned more somersaults than some of these representative men? What lion
has roared more gently than a few of these sucking doves? Barnum's tact
in appropriately grouping curiosities, living and dead, is too well
known to require comment. Passing what Sam Weller would call "a reg'lar
knock-down of intellect," I took my seat high in the air amid a dense
throng of my fellow-creatures, and realized how many people it takes to
make up the world. What did I see? I saw double. I beheld not one ring
but two, in each of which the uncommon variety of man was disporting in
an entertaining manner. I felt for these uncommon men. Think what
immortal hates must arise from these dual performances! We all like to
receive the reward of merit, but when two performances are going on
simultaneously, how are the artists to know for whom it is intended?
Applause is the sweet compensation for which all strive privately or
publicly, and to be cheated out of it, or left in doubt as to its
destination, is a refined form of the Inquisition. Fancy the sensations
of the man balancing plates on the little end of nothing,--a feat to
which he has consecrated his life,--at thought of his neighbor's
performance of impossible feats in the air! It would be more than human
in both not to wish the other in Jericho, or in some equally remote
quarter of the globe. I sympathized with them. I became bewildered in my
endeavors to keep one eye on each. If human beings were constructed on
the same principles as Janus, and had two faces, a fore-and-aft circus
would be convenient; but as nowadays double-faced people only wear two
eyes in their heads, the Barnumian conception muddles the intellect. I
pray you, great and glorious showman, take pity on your artists and your
audiences. Don't drive the former mad and the latter distracted.
Remember that insanity is on the increase, and that accommodations in
asylums are limited. Take warning before you undermine the reason of an
entire continent. Beware! Beware!
I hear much and see more of the physical weakness of woman. Michelet
tells the sentimental world that woman is an exquisite invalid, with a
perennial headache and nerves perpetually on the rack. It is a mistake.
When I gaze upon German and French peasant-women, I ask Michelet which
is right, he or Nature? And since my introduction to Barnum's female
gymnast,--a good-looking, well-formed mother of a family, who walks
about unflinchingly with men and boys on her shoulders, and carries a
300-pound gun as easily as the ordinary woman carries a
clothes-basket,--I have been persuaded that "the coming woman," like
Brother Jonathan, will "lick all creation." In that good time, woman
will have her rights because she will have her muscle. Then, if there
are murders and playful beatings between husbands and wives, the wives
will enjoy all the glory of crime. What an outlook! And what a sublime
consolation to the present enfeebled race of wives that are having their
throats cut and their eyes carved out merely because their biceps have
not gone into training! Barnum's female gymnast is an example to her
sex. What woman has done woman may do again. Mothers, train up your
daughters in the way they should fight, and when they are married they
will not depart this life. God is on the side of the stoutest muscle as
well as of the heaviest battalions. It is perfectly useless to talk
about the equality of the sexes as long as a man can strangle his own
mother-in-law.
I was exceedingly thrilled by the appearance of the two young gentlemen
from the Cannibal Islands, who are beautifully embossed in green and
red, and compassionated them for the sacrifices they make in putting on
blankets and civilization. Is it right to deprive them of their daily
bread,--I mean their daily baby? Think what self-restraint they must
exercise while gazing upon the toothsome infants that congregate at the
circus! That they do gaze and smack their overhanging lips I know,
because, after going through their cannibalistic dance, they sat behind
me and howled in a subdued manner. The North American Indian who
occupied an adjoining seat, favored me with a translation of their
charming conversation, by which I learned many important facts
concerning man as an article of diet. It appears that babies, after all,
do not make the daintiest morsels. Tender they are, of course, but,
being immature, they have not the rich flavor of a youthful adult. This
seems reasonable. Veal is tender, but can it be favorably compared with
beef? The cases are parallel. The embossed young men consider babies
excellent for _entrées_, but for roasts there is nothing like plump
maidens in their teens. Men of twenty are not bad eating. When older,
they are invariably boiled. Commenting upon the audience, the critics
did not consider it appetizing; and, strange as it may appear, I felt
somewhat hurt by the remark, for who is not vain enough to wish to look
good enough to eat? Fancy being shipwrecked off the Fiji Islands, and
discarded by cannibals as a tough subject, while your companions are
literally killed with attention! Can you not imagine, that, under such
circumstances, a peculiar jealousy of the superior tenderness of your
friends would be a thorn in the flesh, rendering existence a temporary
burden? If we lived among people who adored squinting, should we not all
take to it, and cherish it as the apple of our eye? And if we fell among
anthropophagi, would not our love of approbation make us long to be as
succulent as young pigs? What glory to escape from the jaws of death, if
the jaws repudiate us? So long as memory holds a seat in this distracted
brain, I shall entertain unpleasant feelings toward the embossed young
gentlemen who did not sigh to fasten their affections--otherwise their
teeth--on me. It was worse than a crime: it was bad taste.
Roaming among the wild animals, I made the acquaintance of the
cassowary, in which I have been deeply interested since childhood's
sunny hours, for then't was oft I sang a touching hymn running thus:
"If I were a cassowary
Far away in Timbuctoo,
I should eat a missionary,
Hat, and boots, and hymn-book too."
From that hour the cassowary occupied a large niche in my heart. The
desire to gaze upon a bird capable of digesting food to which even the
ostrich never aspired, pursued me by day and tinctured my dreams by
night. "What you seek for all your life you will come upon suddenly when
the whole family is at dinner," says Thoreau. I met the cassowary at
dinner. He was dining alone, having left his family in Africa, and I
must say that I never met with a greater disappointment. Were it not for
the touching intimation of the hymn, I should believe it impossible for
him to eat a missionary. A quieter, more amiable bird never stood on two
legs. A polite attendant stirred him up for me, yet his temper and his
feathers remained unruffled. Perhaps if our geographical position had
changed to Timbuctoo, and I had been a missionary with hymn-book in
hand, the cassowary might have realized my expectations. As it was, one
more illusion vanished.
In order to regain my spirits, I shook hands with the handsome giant in
brass buttons; and speaking of giants leads me to the subject of all
_lusus naturæ_, particularly the Circassian young lady, the dwarf, the
living skeleton, the Albinos, and What-is-it. I have dropped more than
one tear at the fate of these unfortunate beings; for what is more
horribly solitary than to live in a strange crowd, with
"No one to love,
None to caress?"
Noah was human. When he retired to the ark, he selected two of a kind
from all the animal kingdom for the sake of sociability as well as for
more practical purposes. Showmen should be equally considerate. To think
of those Albino sisters with never an Albino beau, of the Circassian
beauty with never a Circassian sweetheart, of the living skeleton with
never another skeleton in his closet (how he can look so good-natured
would be most mysterious, were not his digestion pronounced perfect), to
think of the wretched What-is-it with never a Mrs. What-is-it, produces
unspeakable anguish. May they meet their affinities in another and a
more sympathetic world, where monstrosities are impossible for the
reason that we leave our bones on earth. Since gazing at the What-is-it,
I have become a convert to Darwin. It is too true. Our ancestors stood
on their hind legs, and the less we talk about pedigree the better. The
noble democrat in search of a coat-of-arms and a grandfather should
visit a grand moral circus. Let us assume a virtue, though we have it
not; let our pride _ape_ humility.
Were I asked which I thought the greater necessity of civilization,
lectures or circuses, I should lay my right hand upon my left heart, and
exclaim, "Circuses!"
YAWCOB STRAUSS
BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS
I haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot gomes schust to mine knee;
Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,
As efer you dit see.
He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings
In all barts off der house:
But vot off dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He gets der measles und der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese,--
Dot vas der roughest chouse:
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.
He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit,--
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions sooch as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene'er der glim I douse.
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss?
I somedimes dink I schall go vild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,
Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest,
Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,
So guiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, "Dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss."
SEFFY AND SALLY
BY JOHN LUTHER LONG
The place was the porch of the store, the time was about ten o'clock in
the morning of a summer day, the people were the amiable loafers--and
Old Baumgartner. The person he was discoursing about was his son
Sephenijah. I am not sure that the name was not the ripe fruit of his
father's fancy--with, perhaps, the Scriptural suggestion which is likely
to be present in the affairs of a Pennsylvania-German--whether a
communicant or not--even if he live in Maryland.
"Yas--always last; expecial at funerals and weddings. Except his
own--he's sure to be on time at his own funeral. Right out in front!
Hah? But sometimes he misses his wedding. Why, I knowed a feller--yous
all knowed him, begoshens!--that didn't git there tell another feller'd
married her--'bout more'n a year afterward. Wasn't it more'n a year,
boys? Yas--Bill Eisenkrout. Or, now, was it his brother--Baltzer
Iron-Cabbage? Seems to me now like it was Baltz. Somesing wiss a B at
the front end, anyhow."
Henry Wasserman diffidently intimated that there was a curious but
satisfactory element of safety in being last--a "fastnacht" in their
language, in fact. Those in front were the ones usually hurt in railroad
accidents, Alexander Althoff remembered.
"Safe?" cried the speaker. "Of course! But for why--say, for why?" Old
Baumgartner challenged defiantly.
No one answered and he let several impressive minutes intervene.
"You don't know! Hang you, none of yous knows! Well--because he ain't
there when anysing occurs--always a little late!"
They agreed with him by a series of sage nods.
"But, fellers, the worst is about courting. It's no way to be always
late. Everybody else gits there first, and it's nossing for the
fastnacht but weeping and wailing and gnashing of the teeth. And mebby
the other feller gits considerable happiness--and a good farm."
There was complaint in the old man's voice, and they knew that he meant
his own son Seffy. To add to their embarrassment, this same son was now
appearing over the Lustich Hill--an opportune moment for a pleasing
digression. For you must be told early concerning Old Baumgartner's
longing for certain lands, tenements and hereditaments--using his own
phrase--which were not his own, but which adjoined his. It had passed
into a proverb of the vicinage; indeed, though the property in question
belonged to one Sarah Pressel, it was known colloquially as
"Baumgartner's Yearn."
And the reason of it was this: Between his own farm and the public road
(and the railroad station when it came) lay the fairest meadow-land
farmer's eye had ever rested upon. (I am speaking again for the father
of Seffy and with his hyperbole.) Save in one particular, it was like an
enemy's beautiful territory lying between one's less beautiful own and
the open sea--keeping one a poor inlander who is mad for the seas--whose
crops must either pass across the land of his adversary and pay tithes
to him, or go by long distances around him at the cost of greater tithes
to the soulless owners of the turnpikes--who aggravatingly fix a gate
each way to make their tithes more sure. So, I say, it was like having
the territory of his enemy lying between him and the deep water--save,
as I have also said, in one particular, to wit: that the owner--the
Sarah Pressel I have mentioned--was not Old Baumgartner's enemy.
In fact, they were tremendous friends. And it was by this
friendship--and one other thing which I mean to mention later--that Old
Baumgartner hoped, before he died, to attain the wish of his life, and
see, not only the Elysian pasture-field, but the whole of the adjoining
farm, with the line fences down, a part of his. The other thing I
promised to mention as an aid to this ambition--was Seffy. And, since
the said Sarah was of nearly the same age as Seffy, perhaps I need not
explain further, except to say that the only obstruction the old man
could see now to acquiring the title by marriage was--Seffy himself. He
was, and always had been, afraid of girls--especially such aggressive,
flirtatious, pretty and tempestuous girls as this Sarah.
These things, however, were hereditary with the girl. It was historical,
in fact, that, during the life of Sarah's good-looking father, so
importunate had been Old Baumgartner for the purchase of at least the
meadow--he could not have ventured more at that time--and so obstinate
had been the father of the present owner--(he had red hair precisely as
his daughter had)--that they had come to blows about it, to the
discomfiture of Old Baumgartner; and, afterward, they did not speak.
Yet, when the loafers at the store laughed, Baumgartner swore that he
would, nevertheless, have that pasture before he died.
But then, as if fate, too, were against him, the railroad was built, and
its station was placed so that the Pressel farm lay directly between it
and him, and of course the "life" went more and more in the direction
of the station--left him more and more "out of it"--and made him poorer
and poorer, and Pressel richer and richer. And, when the store laughed
at _that_, Baumgartner swore that he would possess half of the farm
before he died; and as Pressel and his wife died, and Seffy grew up, and
as he noticed the fondness of the little red-headed girl for his little
tow-headed boy, he added to his adjuration that he would be harrowing
that whole farm before _he_ died,--_without paying a cent for it_!
But both Seffy and Sally had grown to a marriageable age without
anything happening. Seffy had become inordinately shy, while the
coquettish Sally had accepted the attentions of Sam Pritz, the clerk at
the store, as an antagonist more worthy of her, and in a fashion which
sometimes made the father of Seffy swear and lose his temper--with
Seffy. Though, of course, in the final disposition of the matter, he was
sure that no girl so nice as Sally would marry such a person as Sam
Pritz, with no extremely visible means of support--a salary of four
dollars a week, and an odious reputation for liquor. And it was for
these things, all of which were known (for Baumgartner had not a single
secret) that the company at the store detected the personal equation in
Old Baumgartner's communications.
Seffy had almost arrived by this time, and Sally was in the store! With
Sam! The situation was highly dramatic. But the old man consummately
ignored this complication and directed attention to his son. For him,
the molasses-tapper did not exist. The fact is he was overjoyed. Seffy,
for once in his life, would be on time! He would do the rest.
"Now, boys, chust look at 'em! Dogged if they ain't bose like one
another! How's the proferb? Birds of a feather flock wiss one another?
I dunno. Anyhow, Sef flocks wiss Betz constant. And they understand one
another good. Trotting like a sidewise dog of a hot summer's day!" And
he showed the company, up and down the store-porch, just how a sidewise
dog would be likely to trot on a hot summer day--and then laughed
joyously.
If there had been an artist eye to see they would have been well worth
its while--Seffy and the mare so affectionately disparaged. And, after
all, I am not sure that the speaker himself had not an artist's eye. For
a spring pasture, or a fallow upland, or a drove of goodly cows deep in
his clover, I know he had. (Perhaps you, too, have?) And this was his
best mare and his only son.
The big bay, clad in broad-banded harness, soft with oil and glittering
with brasses, was shambling indolently down the hill, resisting her own
momentum by the diagonal motion the old man had likened to a dog's
sidewise trot. The looped trace-chains were jingling a merry dithyramb,
her head was nodding, her tail swaying, and Seffy, propped by his elbow
on her broad back, one leg swung between the hames, the other keeping
time on her ribs, was singing:
"'I want to be an angel
And with the angels stand,
A crown upon my forehead
A harp within my hand--'"
His adoring father chuckled. "I wonder what for kind of anchel he'd
make, anyhow? And Betz--they'll have to go together. Say, I wonder if it
_is_ horse-anchels?"
No one knew; no one offered a suggestion.
"Well, it ought to be. Say--he ken perform circus wiss ol' Betz!"
They expressed their polite surprise at this for perhaps the hundredth
time.
"Yas--they have a kind of circus-ring in the barnyard. He stands on one
foot, then on another, and on his hands wiss his feet kicking, and then
he says words--like hokey-pokey--and Betz she kicks up behind and throws
him off in the dung and we all laugh--happy efer after--Betz most of
all!"
After the applause he said:
"I guess I'd better wake 'em up! What you sink?"
They one and all thought he had. They knew he would do it, no matter
what they thought. His method, as usual, was his own. He stepped to the
adjoining field, and, selecting a clod with the steely polish of the
plowshare upon it, threw it at the mare. It struck her on the flank. She
gathered her feet under her in sudden alarm, then slowly relaxed, looked
slyly for the old man, found him, and understanding, suddenly wheeled
and ambled off home, leaving Seffy prone on the ground as her part of
the joke.
The old man brought Seffy in triumph to the store-porch.
"Chust stopped you afore you got to be a anchel!" he was saying. "We
couldn't bear to sink about you being a anchel--an' wiss the anchels
stand--a harp upon your forehead, a crown within your hand, I
expect--when it's corn-planting time."
Seffy grinned cheerfully, brushed off the dust and contemplated his
father's watch--held accusingly against him. Old Baumgartner went on
gaily.
"About an inch and a half apast ten! Seffy, I'm glad you ain't breaking
your reputation for being fastnachtich. Chust about a quarter of an inch
too late for the prize wiss flour on its hair and arms and its frock
pinned up to show its new petticoat! Uhu! If I had such a nice
petticoat--" he imitated the lady in question, to the tremendous delight
of the gentle loafers.
Seffy stared a little and rubbed some dust out of his eyes. He was
pleasant but dull.
"Yassir, Sef, if you'd a-got yere at a inch and a quarter apast! Now
Sam's got her. Down in the cellar a-licking molasses together! Doggone
if Sam don't git eferysing--except his due bills. He don't want to be no
anchel tell he dies. He's got fun enough yere--but Seffy--you're like
the flow of molasses in January--at courting."
This oblique suasion made no impression on Seffy. It is doubtful if he
understood it at all. The loafers began to smile. One laughed. The old
man checked him with a threat of personal harm.
"Hold on there, Jefferson Dafis Busby," he chid. "I don't allow no one
to laugh at my Seffy--except chust me--account I'm his daddy. It's a
fight-word the next time you do it."
Mr. Busby straightened his countenance.
"He don't seem to notice--nor keer--'bout gals--do he?"
No one spoke.
"No, durn him, he ain't no good. Say--what'll you give for him, hah?
Yere he goes to the highest bidder--for richer, for poorer, for better,
for worser, up and down, in and out, swing your partners--what's bid? He
ken plow as crooked as a mule's hind leg, sleep hard as a 'possum in
wintertime, eat like a snake, git left efery time--but he ken ketch
fish. They wait on him. What's bid?"
No one would hazard a bid.
"Yit a minute," shouted the old fellow, pulling out his bull's-eye
watch again, "what's bid? Going--going--all done--going--"
"A dollar!"
The bid came from behind him, and the voice was beautiful to hear. A
gleam came into the old man's eyes as he heard it. He deliberately put
the watch back in its pocket, put on his spectacles, and turned, as if
she were a stranger.
"Gone!" he announced then. "Who's the purchaser? Come forwards and take
away you' property. What's the name, please?" Then he pretended to
recognize her. "Oach! Sally! Well, that's lucky! He goes in good hands.
He's sound and kind, but needs the whip." He held out his hand for the
dollar.
It was the girl of whom he had spoken accurately as a prize. Her sleeves
were turned up as far as they would go, revealing some soft lace-trimmed
whiteness, and there _was_ flour on her arms. Some patches of it on her
face gave a petal-like effect to her otherwise aggressive color. The
pretty dress was pinned far enough back to reveal the prettier
petticoat--plus a pair of trimly-clad ankles.
Perhaps these were neither the garments nor the airs in which every
farmer-maiden did her baking. But then, Sally was no ordinary
farmer-maiden. She was all this, it is true, but she was, besides, grace
and color and charm itself. And if she chose to bake in such attire--or,
even, if she chose to pretend to do so, where was the churl to say her
nay, even though the flour was part of a deliberate "make up"? Certainly
he was not at the store that summer morning.
And Seffy was there. Her hair escaped redness by only a little. But that
little was just the difference between ugliness and beauty. For, whether
Sally were beautiful or not--about which we might contend a bit--her
hair was, and perhaps that is the reason why it was nearly always
uncovered--or, possibly, again, because it was so much uncovered was the
reason it was beautiful. It seemed to catch some of the glory of the
sun. Her face had a few freckles and her mouth was a trifle too large.
But, in it were splendid teeth.
In short, by the magic of brilliant color and natural grace she narrowly
escaped being extremely handsome--in the way of a sunburned peach, or a
maiden's-blush apple. And even if you should think she were not
handsome, you would admit that there was an indescribable rustic charm
about her. She was like the aroma of the hay-fields, or the woods, or a
field of daisies, or dandelions.
The girl, laughing, surrendered the money, and the old man, taking an
arm of each, marched them peremptorily away.
"Come to the house and git his clothes. Eferysing goes in--stofepipe
hat, butterfly necktie, diamond pin, toothbrush, hair-oil, razor and
soap."
They had got far enough around the corner to be out of sight of the
store, during this gaiety, and the old man now shoved Seffy and the girl
out in front of him, linked their arms, and retreated to the rear.
"What Sephenijah P. Baumgartner, Senior, hath j'ined together, let
nobody put athunder, begoshens!" he announced.
The proceeding appeared to be painful to Seffy, but not to Sally. She
frankly accepted the situation and promptly put into action its
opportunities for coquetry. She begged him, first, with consummate
aplomb, to aid her in adjusting her parcels more securely, insisting
upon carrying them herself, and it would be impossible to describe
adequately her allures. The electrical touches, half-caress,
half-defiance; the confidential whisperings, so that the wily old man in
the rear might not hear; the surges up against him; the recoveries--only
to surge again--these would require a mechanical contrivance which
reports not only speech but action--and even this might easily fail, so
subtle was it all!
"Sef--Seffy, I thought it was his old watch he was auctioning off. I
wanted it for--for--a nest-egg! aha-ha-ha! You must excuse me."
"You wouldn't 'a' bid at all if you'd knowed it was me, I reckon," said
Seffy.
"Yes, I would," declared the coquette. "I'd rather have you than any
nest-egg in the whole world--any two of 'em!"--and when he did not take
his chance--"if they were made of gold!"
But then she spoiled it.
"It's worse fellows than you, Seffy." The touch of coquetry was but too
apparent.