Chapter III: Introduction (2)

Mr. Shaw began writing for the literary weeklies, and even now writes a half column or so of his quaint paragraphs for the New York Weekly. His almanac and other books have been published through the house of George W. Carleton, New York, and have had a wonderful sale. It is said that Josh has made at least $100,000 by his writings. It has been stated that his uncouth manner of spelling was adopted, in the first instance, quite as much through fear of his ability to spell correctly, as through the wish to be odd. He avoided criticism by intentional and habitual misspelling. He is by nature a philosopher, and the experiences of his whole life are classified in his mind, as illustrations of this or that quality of human nature.

Soon after he became famous in the walks of literature, Shaw entered the lecture field. He became at once very popular, and drew large and cultured audiences in the East and West. His last lecturing tour of any length proved very profitable to him. He lectured on The Probabilities of Life, which was divided, as he says, into twenty-four chapters. The hand-bills announcing this lecture read as follows:

“Josh Billings will deliver his new, and as he calls it, serio-comic lecture, on ‘The Probabilities of Life’ (perhaps rain, perhaps not). Divided into twenty-four cantos, as follows: A Genial Overture of Remarks; the Long Branch Letter; Human Happiness as an Alternative; the Live Man, a Busy Disciple; a Second Wife, a Good Risk to Take; the Poodle with Azure Eyes; the Handsome Man, a Failure; Short Sentences, Sharp at Both Ends; the Fastidious Person, Fuss and Feathers; Patience, Slow Poison; What I Know about Hotels, a Sad History; the Flea, a Brisk Package; the Domestic Man, a Necessary Evil; Answers to Correspondents; Jonah and his Whale; Marriage, a Draw Game; Mary Ann, a Modest Maiden; the Mother-in-law, one of the Luxuries; Proverbs, Truth on the Half Shell; the Mouse, a Household Hord; the Life Insurance Agent; the Caterpillar, a Slow Bug; the First Baby, too Sweet for Anything; Sayings of a promiscuous nature. And much other things.”

Shaw’s advertising dodges have all been of a funny and striking character. The following lines appeared on a postal card that was sent broadcast during the winter of 1877:

‘Josh Billings and the Young Man. Young man, don’t kry for spilt milk, but pik up yure pail and milking stool, and go for the next cow. Yures affekshionately, Josh Billings. For sale or To Let. Price Neat, But Not Gaudy. Contemplating a trip to California during the winter of 1877, I will read my old and venerable lecture, ‘MILK,’ before any association who may desire to hear it. The ‘Milk’ in this lecture is condensed, and will keep sweet in any climate.

“Your cheerful friend,

JOSH BILLINGS.”

Josh is getting old, and each succeeding year his literary productions are fewer and shorter. Out of the fortune he has made by his pen, only $50,000 is retained in his possession. He is an odd-looking genius, tall, stoop-shouldered, with a large head, massive face, deep-set eyes, and grizzly beard. His hair, which was formerly brown, is now an iron gray, and his stiff, drooping moustache is fast changing to the same color. He parts his hair in the middle, combs it smoothly behind his ears, allowing it to fall loosely on his neck like the locks of a school-girl.

A newspaper writer, in speaking of Josh not long since, said: “As he grows older, he seems to become more and more supremely regardless of persons, surroundings, or opinions. As he greets one with the machine like ‘How do ye do,’ or an inanimate ‘Good day,’ the impression is conveyed that he has arrived at the state of life and prosperity where he deems fate powerless to work any alteration for the worse. Billings is essentially a man to himself, taciturn and unobtrusive everywhere. He is now a willing but unattractive lecturer. He and his wife pass a quiet, relegated, but doubtless contented life, in an unpretentious dwelling in Sixty-third street, New York city, the garret of which is made to answer the combined purpose of literary sanctum and storehouse.”

Shaw has written many witty things besides his quaint “Proverbs,” which made him famous. The following is an example:

THE HEIGHT OF SUBLIMITY.

AN ADVERTISEMENT BY JOSH BILLINGS.

I kan sell for eighteen hundred and thirty-nine dollars, a pallas, a sweet and pensive retirement, located on the virgin banks of the Hudson, kontaining 85 acres. The land is luxuriously divided by the hand of natur and art, into pastor and tillage, into plain and deklivity, into stern abruptness and the dallianse ov moss-tufted medder; streams of sparkling gladness (thick with trout) danse through this wilderness of buty, tow the low musik of the kricket and grasshopper. The evergreen sighs az the evening zephir flits through its shadowy buzzum, and the aspen trembles like the love-smitten hart of a damsell. Fruits of the tropicks, in golden buty, melt on the bows, and the bees go heavy and sweet from the fields to their garnering hives. The stables are worthy of the steeds of Nimrod or the studs of Akilles, and its henery was bilt expressly for the birds of paradice; while somber in the distance, like the cave of a hermit, glimpses are caught ov the dog-house. Here poets have come and warbled their laze, here sculpters have cut, here painters hav robbed the scene of dreamy landskapes, and here the philosopher diskovered the stun which made him the alkimist ov natur. As the young moon hangs like a curting ov silver from the blue breast of the ski, an angel may be seen each night dansing with golden tip-toes on the grass. (N. B.--The angel goes with the place.)

To show what Josh’s Proverbs are like, I annex a few as a finale to this sketch:

PROVERBS.

Thare haz been menny a hero born, lived and died unknown, just for the want ov an opportunity.

Thare ain’t nothing that will sho the virtues and vices of a man in so vivid a light as profuse prosperity.

It is a good deal ov a bore to have others luv us more than we luv them.

Mi dear boy, allwuss keep sumthing in reserve. The man who can jump six inches further than he ever haz jumpt, iz a hard customer to beat.

Thare ain’t nothing on arth that will take the starch so klean out ov us, as to git kaught bi the phellow we are trying to ketch.

JAY CHARLTON GOLDSMITH.

Thirty-eight or forty years ago, Jay Charlton Goldsmith, of the New York Herald, was ushered into the world with little if any ceremony. He was born in a small village in eastern New York, not far from the great metropolis. Like other dutiful sons, Jay pleased his parents by attending school until he was thirteen years of age. He then entered a lawyer’s office and mingled with his legal learning the study of phonography. About this time he began acting as correspondent for the Herald from the rural district wherein he lived. At the age of sixteen he was one of the editors of the Register, a small evening paper published at Patterson, New Jersey.

The health of the young man, however, forbade his steady working in a newspaper office, and a year later he was compelled to relinquish his position. He immediately began preparations for a journey abroad, his intention being to travel two years on the continent. He changed his mind at the last moment and went to California, and from there to the Sandwich Islands. During these travels he penned very creditable and quite readable letters to the Herald. He also wrote occasionally for other journals. On his return, after an absence of a year, he accepted an editorial position in the office of the Republican, at Savannah, Georgia. His health again failing him, he was driven from the South by the climate.

In 1867 he returned to New York city, where he became a reporter and occasional editorial writer for the Tribune. When Oakey Hall became mayor of New York, Goldsmith, who was a warm personal friend, became his private secretary. He retained this office for four years. Early in 1873 he succeeded Mr. E. G. Squier as editor of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper. While editing this journal he wrote many critical, terse articles, which attracted general attention. His health again failing, he made a second visit to the Pacific coast two years later. About this time Goldsmith commenced writing to the Danbury News, a series of letters signed by “Jay Charlton,” which became a feature of that famous publication.

Five or six years later, finding himself greatly improved in health, he again accepted a situation on the New York Herald, and has retained it ever since. One of his duties was to write the Personal Intelligence column. He determined to make it spicy, and wrote short items that could be read between bites at the breakfast table. The name of the “P. I. Man,” by which Goldsmith is so widely known, was probably derived from this fact.

He is said to be the editor of the Weekly Herald, and adds much to the character and worth of that popular edition of Bennett’s famous newspaper. Goldsmith is an odd looking, but not unhandsome genius. He wears his black hair long and it hangs down upon his neck and forehead in profusion. He possesses a poetic face, which is adorned with heavy side-whiskers.

Jay Charlton’s Hints to Farmers is one of his best efforts. It shows what horrible puns he is capable of:

HINTS TO FARMERS.

Early Rose potatoes should be planted early. It is not called Early because it grows on rose bushes, but because it gets up at five o’clock in the morning. Do not make the mistake of peeling these potatoes before planting. The potato is to be eaten whole. Mashed potatoes should be sown broadcast.

The string bean is the best bean for growing on strings. One string will do for ten beans. Some of the high strung beans need poles. These may be pulled up and taken on fishing excursions, and be returned with the line attached. The best strings for these beans are B strings.

The Champion of England peas were named after Tom Sayers, the great prize fighter. These peas do not need any pods on them. We have planted them for many years without pods on them. One great advantage of the Champion of England peas is that they spar for themselves. Tom Sayers got away with two quarts of them once, but he trusted too much to his own ability. You cannot handle the Champion of England without gloves. In selecting ground for them it is best to have the sun in their eyes. They can stand a good deal of rough weather, but have been known to yield to a knock-down blow. Peas should never be eaten with a knife, because they roll off. It is best to pour them into a funnel.

Oats should not be planted wild. Still we have known oats sown wild to produce a larger crop than the tame oats. Many of them are sown by moonlight and some by gas-light, but it is sometimes worse for the man who raises them than for the oats themselves. The best place to sow oats is in doors by a nice fire, and with a little sprinkling of cold water. Whiskey is a destroyer of the crop, and although very good for harrowing in, induces a growth of weeds. In Scotland the oats are fed to men, and in England to horses; so that a famous Scotchman said that nowhere could such horses be found in the world as in England, and nowhere such men as in Scotland. This is the reason why, on the borders, inns are sometimes called oatells. Oats are very heating, and many a Scotchman who eats them is compelled to come up to the scratch. Thus arises also that famous expression “hot Scotch,” which refers to a Highlander who has had too many oats. They warm him up.

Do not fail to raise sheep. The proportion should be three dogs to one sheep. They will make it lively for the sheep. When you go wool-gathering take your dinner with you, for you may get lost. Lambs are best cooked a lamb mode. Chinamen eat rice with mutton. Hence their knives and forks are called chop sticks. Thus a Chinaman will say, “Lamby hard to bleat.” Lambs are best when they begin to gamble--you bet--on the green. It is funny, but Lamb’s finest work was on pigs. Yet, _vice versa_, we have seen pigs getting in their best work on lamb and peas.

WILLIAM TAPPAN THOMPSON.

The subject of this sketch, although one of the oldest of American humorists, is comparatively unknown at the present time. William Tappan Thompson was born in the village of Ravenna, Portage county, Ohio, on the 31st day of August, 1812. He came from a good family, his father being a native of Virginia, and his mother the daughter of an Irish exile. At the age of twelve years young Thompson was an orphan, and was thrown upon his own resources in the city of Philadelphia. He entered the office of the Philadelphia Chronicle, where he remained for two years working as a printer’s apprentice.

At the age of eighteen he left his newly found occupation and went to Florida with Acting-Governor Wescott as his private secretary. About the same time he began the study of law. In 1835, he was at work again as a printer, in the office of the Sentinel at Augusta, Georgia. Later on in the same year he became a volunteer with the Richmond Blues and served for nearly two years in the Seminole war.

Late in the autumn of 1836 Mr. Thompson issued the first number of the Augusta Mirror, but it proved a dismal failure. It was during the Mirror trouble that the young editor became the duly wedded husband of a daughter of Joseph Carrie, a well-to-do merchant of Barnwell, South Carolina, and Augusta, Georgia. After the death of the Mirror, Mr. Thompson took editorial charge of the Madison Miscellany, and it was his writings for this journal that in after years made him famous as a humorist.

During his idle moments Mr. Thompson began a series of letters from “Major Joseph Jones of Pineville.” These were begun in 1842, and became very popular--so much so, in fact, that before a year had elapsed after their first appearance, they were collected in a volume and published under the title of Major Jones’ Courtship. In the preface of the book the author dedicated the work to his old commander in the Seminole war, General Duncan L. Clinch.

Edition after edition of the book was issued, and it was known in every city and town on this side of the Atlantic. Later, it was reprinted in London, where it had an enormous run for several years. A recent writer in a New Haven paper says of Major Jones’ Courtship: “Its style is rollicking without grossness; piquant, yet devoid of all exaggeration. Re-reading these letters to-day, the freshness and vigor, which so charmed my youthful fancy for the grotesque in home life, are reflected from every page.”

The preface of the book was written April 10, 1843, and among other things contains the following:

“It’s a great deal easier to write a heap of nonsense than it is to put a good face on it after its rit--and I don’t know when I’ve had a job that puzzled me so much how to begin it. I’ve looked over a whole heap of books to see how other writers done, but they all seemed to be about the same thing. They all feel a monstrous desire to benefit the public one way or other; some is anxious to tell all they know about certain matters, just for the good of the public, some has been swaded by friends to give the book to the public, and others have been induced to publish their ritens just for the benefit of future generations,--but not one of ’em ever had an idea to make a cent for themselves! Now, none of these excuses don’t zactly meet my case. I don’t spose the public--cept it is them as is courtin--will be much benefited by readin my letters--I’m sure Mr. Thompson wouldn’t went to all the expense just to please his friends, and for my part I’m perfectly willin to let posterity write their own books. So I don’t see any other way than to jest come rite out with the naked truth--and that is, that _my book was made just a purpose to sell and make money_. Ther ain’t a single lie in the book, and I’m termined ther sha’n’t be none in the preface.

“I hain’t got no very grate opinion of myself, but I’ve always tried to live honest, and what little character I is got I want to keep. When Mr. Thompson just writ me word, he was gwine to put my letters in a book, I felt sort o’ skeered, for fear them bominable criticks might take hold of it, and tare it all to flinders--as they always nabs a’most every thing that’s got a kiver on; but, when I come to think, there were two ways of gettin into the field--under and over the fence. Well, the criticks is like a pretty considerable high fence round the public taste, and books get into the world of letters jest as a boy does in a pertater patch--some over, and some under. Now and then one gets hung, and the way it gets peppered is distressin--but them that gets in under the fence is jest as safe as them that gits in over. Seein as I is perfectly satisfied with the under route, I don’t think the criticks will tackle my book--if they does, all I can say is, I give ’em joy with their small potaters.”

After the success of Major Jones’ Courtship, Mr. Thompson issued other works from time to time. Major Jones’ Sketches of Travel appeared a few years later, and was followed by The Chronicles of Pineville. Mr. Thompson also wrote a farce entitled, The Live Indian, and a dramatization of The Vicar of Wakefield. Messrs. Carey & Hart, of Philadelphia, bought the copyright of Major Jones’ Courtship in 1848, for the paltry sum of $250. In 1856 Mr. Thompson prepared for the press, Hotchkiss’ Codification of the Statute Laws of Georgia, and in 1858 became connected with the Western Continent, a weekly illustrated paper published in Baltimore.

Two years later he sold his interest in the Western Continent, and went to Savannah, where, in company with John M. Cooper, he issued the Savannah Morning News, which is now valuable newspaper property. During the Rebellion Mr. Thompson was appointed aid to Governor Brown, which position he held until the fall of Savannah. In 1877 he was a member of the Georgia Constitutional convention, which is the full extent of his political career. For the past thirty years he has been the editor of the Morning News, and has been one of the leading citizens of Savannah. His work at present is the superintendency and the occasional writing of editorials for his newspaper. It is many years since he gave to the world a specimen of his old-time humor.

Since writing the above, I have been pained to learn of the sudden death of Mr. Thompson, at his home in Savannah, on the 24th day of March, 1882. His death revives the subject of his works, and his several books are to be republished in Philadelphia at an early date.

MELVILLE D. LANDON.

Eli Perkins is a name well known to Americans. In fact he is so well known that sundry newspaper writers, who should feel heartily ashamed of themselves for so doing, have classed Eli Perkins with Gath, Private Dalzell, George Francis Train, and other equally noted characters. The same sundry newspaper writers have stated at various times that Eli Perkins was the greatest liar in all America. This is a base falsehood, and an attack upon the name of a honorable gentleman. A liar, indeed! If the humorists of America are to be thus defiled simply because they exaggerate good stories, solely for the purpose of displaying their wit, why the occupation of humorist is valueless.

Melville D. Landon, better known as Eli Perkins, is not only a humorist, but is author, lecturer, and journalist as well. He was born in Eaton, Madison county, New York, in the year 1840. His freshman year was passed at Madison university, and in 1861 he graduated from Union college under Dr. Nott, and two years later he received the honorary degree of Master of Arts. He entered journalism soon after this, and after several years of hard work he went to Europe and Asia, returning in 1868.

Eli Perkins was by nature a humorist, yet he devoted himself at first entirely to serious writings. In 1871 he issued his first book from the press of George W. Carleton, New York. It was a large volume of over six hundred pages, and was a detailed history of the Franco-Prussian war. It was a book solemn as the grave, yet full of thrilling description. It commanded a large and ready sale.

An old friend tells the following interesting anecdote of Mr. Landon at this time: “In 1872, at the age of thirty-three, a great change came over Mr. Landon. It was then for the first time that he unchecked his pen, and allowed fun and humor to creep unobstructed into his writings. The occasion was a series of letters written from Saratoga, since republished in Saratoga in 1901. These letters were written for the New York Commercial Advertiser, at the instance of Hugh J. Hastings, a veteran, fun-loving journalist. The Commercial was then almost a dead newspaper. It was never seen on the news-stands, and was only taken in a few old families, who still stuck to the paper because of its antiquity, it having been established in 1794.

“Perkins appeared one day at the leading news-stand in Saratoga, and marching up with great pride, informed the newsman that he was going to write for the Commercial.

“‘For the Co-- what?” asked the man.

“‘For the Co-mercial--the Commercial Advertiser.”

“‘Never heard of it, sir,” replied the newsman.

“‘Well, I am going to write for it, and I want you to order it.”

“‘No use, can’t sell it sir, and----’

“‘But I’ll buy it--buy all you have left,” expostulated Eli.

“‘All right,’ said the newsman, ‘then I’ll order five copies.’

“Every day after that these letters were published in the Commercial under the signature of Eli Perkins. They set Saratoga on fire. The demand for them was immense. On the street cars in New York, and on the balconies in Saratoga, people were reading the letters and asking ‘Who is Eli Perkins?’ In four weeks after the humorist commenced writing six hundred copies of the Commercial were sold in Saratoga alone.

“In a word, the articles made Eli Perkins famous. They were widely read and copied, and many of them were reproduced in France and Spain. Perkins and Mark Twain were the only humorists at that time since the death of Artemus Ward, and it was no wonder that there was a demand for their writings.”

A few years later the Saratoga letters were gathered together, illustrated by Arthur Lumley, and republished in a large volume by Sheldon & Co., of New York. Still later Mr. Landon issued another book--a volume of humorous sketches--entitled Eli Perkins at Large. This production had, and yet has, an immense sale. In 1872, he entered the lecture field, and for eight or ten years he has convulsed hundreds of audiences in every part of the country, North, East, South, and West. He has also kept up his literary work, and has been corresponding regularly for the Chicago Tribune. His letters to this well known journal have been widely copied and are noted for their sparkling wit and rollicking humor.

Eli produced something intensely funny when he wrote

ELI PERKINS ON AMERICAN BULLS.

Punctuation makes a great many bulls in this country. The other day I picked up a newspaper in Wisconsin full of curious things. I enclose a few specimens:

“The procession at Judge Orton’s funeral was very fine and nearly two miles in length as was the beautiful prayer of the Rev. Dr. Swing from Chicago.”

Another:

“A cow was struck by lightning on Saturday belonging to Dr. Hammond who had a beautiful spotted calf only four days old.”

A distressing accident is thus chronicled:

“A sad accident happened to the family of John Elderkin on Main street, yesterday. One of his children was run over by a market wagon three years old with sore eyes and pantalets on that never spoke afterwards.”

The next morning after lecturing at Jonesville, I saw this paragraph:

“George Peck, an intemperate editor from Milwaukee fell over the gallery last night while Eli Perkins was lecturing in a beastly state of intoxication.

“The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict that Mr. Peck came to his death by remaining too long in a cramped position while listening to Mr. Perkins’ lecture which produced apoplexy on the minds of the jury.”

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

Some years ago, a poem in broken German verse, overflowing with the richest of humor, appeared in a Boston paper. It was entitled Leedle Yawcob Strauss, and commanded general attention immediately upon its publication. It was copied widely and was sent on its way across the ocean, delighting hundreds on the other side of the Atlantic. The poem ran thus:

“I haf von funny leedle poy,
Vot gomes schust to my knee;
Der queerest schap, der createst roke
As efer you did see;
He runs, and 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 out;
He sbills mine glass of lager pier,
Poots schnuff into mine kraut;
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese--
Dot vas der roughest chouse;
I’d take 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 shtick to beat it mit--
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine head vas schplit about
He kicks up such 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 schmoodt blace oudt
Vrom the hair ubpon mine hed?
Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp
Vene’er der glim I douse?
How gan I all dese dings eggsplain
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 quiet as a mouse,
I prays der Lord, ‘Dake anydings,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.’”

When in later years another poem, “Dot Leedle Loweeza,” a companion piece to “Leedle Yawcob Strauss,” appeared, the fame of the author, Charles Follen Adams, rose still higher. “Dot Leedle Loweeza” was equally as good as its predecessor, and concluded as follows:

“Vhen winter vas come, midst its coldt, shtormy veddher,
Katrina und I musd sit in der house
Und dalk of der bast, by der fireside togedder,
Or blay mit dat taughter of our Yawcob Strauss.
Oldt age, mit its wrinkles, pegins to remind us
Ve gannot shtay long mit our children to dwell;
Budt soon ve shall meet, mit der poys left behind us,
Und dot shweet Loweeza, dot lofe us so well.”

There are many other poems that have been written by Mr. Adams in a manner similar to his first two efforts, which have attracted general attention. Charles Follen Adams does not follow the occupation of a journalist or literary man, but is a well known merchant of Boston. He is a genuine Yankee, and his parents come of good old Puritan stock. From his mother’s side, he is a direct descendant from Hannah Dustan, famous in the history of the Deerfield massacre. He is a man of middle age and of small stature. A friend thus describes him: “He is a dapper little gentleman, neat and natty in his _personnel_, just as though he had stepped from a band box, a shrewd, sharp, yet kindly face, a keen, but bright and laughing eye, which tells of a fine sense of humor, a close shaven face, with the exception of a ‘bald browed mustache,’ which gives a manly tone to the well shaped mouth and rounded chin, of medium and slender physique, he steps off with a nervy, springy walk, and a sunny smile or a genial word for his many friends and acquaintances as he passes them on the way.”

Mr. Adams lives happily with his family at No. 36 Rutland square, where he spends his leisure moments in writing for the press. He contributes regularly a column of bright, witty paragraphs in the Cambridge Tribune, and occasionally writes for the Detroit Free Press, and other publications. Once in a great while he drops into poetry for the magazines.

A collection of his poems was published in book form by a Boston house, a year or two ago, under the title of “Leedle Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems.” The volume had an immense sale and is still very popular. Mr. Adams is engaged in the mercantile business on Hanover street, and will probably remain so connected with the business world for many years.

Mr. Adams does not confine his writings wholly to the German dialect. In a recent number of The Century he contributes some verses which he is pleased to call Prevalent Poetry.

“A wandering tribe called the Sioux
Wear moccasins, having no shioux.
They are made of buckskin
With the fleshy side in,
Embroidered with beads of bright hyioux.

“When out on the war path, the Sioux
March single file--never by tioux--
And by blazing the trees
Can return at their ease
And their way through the forest ne’er lioux.”

After two more verses in a similar strain, Mr. Adams concludes as follows:

“Now doesn’t this spelling look cyiouxrious?
’Tis enough to make anyone fyiouxrious!
So a word to the wise!
Pray our language revise
With orthography not so injiouxrious.”

SEBA SMITH.

Before the close of the last century a famous humorist was born in the town of Buckfield, in the State of Maine. Seba Smith was his name, yet during his entire life few persons knew him by that title. Speaking of him as “Majer Jack Downing,” however, instantly recalls him to mind, and he at once becomes well known.

Seba Smith was born on the 19th day of September, 1792. As early as 1818 he graduated from Bowdoin College, and, a year or two later, settled in Portland, where, in 1820, he became the editor of the Eastern Argus. In 1830 he transferred his labors to the Portland Courier, with which journal he was connected until 1837. It was during this time that Mr. Smith wrote a series of letters for his paper. They were of a political nature, and took well with the public. They became so popular that in 1833 they were collected in a volume and published in Boston, under the caption of Life and Letters of Majer Jack Downing. The letters were humorous in the extreme, and being written on prominent political subjects, they became widely popular.

In 1841, Smith issued, also through a Boston house, a poem of considerable length, entitled Powhattan. The next year the friends of Majer Jack Downing found him in New York city, where he became actively engaged in literary work. His writings continued to be popular, and his books were written in rapid succession. Away Down East, or Portraitures of Yankee Life, appeared in 1843, and in 1846, a book entitled Dewdrops of the Nineteenth Century was issued. This was followed by a work, New Elements of Geometry, and other books of a serious nature.

In 1859, towards the close of the year, Mr. Smith issued another volume of political humor, which he called My 30 Years Out of the Senate. This book had a wide reputation, and attained an immense sale. The “late unpleasantness” found Mr. Smith hard at work, although now an old man. In 1864, he issued a book entitled Majer Jack Downing of the Downingville Militia. An English edition of the work now lies before me. It was printed in Paternoster Row, London, and contains just thirty chapters. On the title page is the following:

“The constitution is a dimmycratic machine, and its got to run as a dimmycratic machine, or it _won’t run at all_!”

MAJER JACK DOWNING TO LINCOLN.

One of the richest things in the book is “A. Linkin’s Proclamashin Concerning Majer Jack Downing’s Book.” This excellent “take-off” on a President’s proclamation is dated Washington, July 15, 1864, and is as follows:

“Whereas, my friend, Majer Jack Downing, of the Downingville millisha, has issued a Book of Letters, containing his views on public affairs, the war, etc., etc.

“Now, therefore, I do hereby issue this, my Proclamashin, enjoyning upon every loyal, as well as disloyal, citizen, includin’ loyal Leegers, Abolitionists, Republikans, War Dimmycrats, Copperheads, Clay Banks, Charcoals, &c., to buy this book and to read the same, under penalty of the confiscation of all their property, includin’ niggers of every descripshin. Furthermore, all officers under me, whether civil, military, or otherwise, are hereby ordered, under penalty of court marshal, to purchase the said book and read it. This order applies to all Postmasters and their Clerks (who are also ordered to assist in the sale of the book), to all Custom House officials, Provo-Marshalls, to all Tax Collectors, Assessors, Recruteing Officers, Runners, Brokers, Bounty Jumpers, and espeshully to all Government Swindlers, Contractors, Defaulters, &c., to all Furrin Ambassadors, Ministers, Penitentiaries, male and female, &c. &c. Further more, Generals Grant, Sherman and all other Generals, including Ginneral Banks, will see to it that the Majer’s letters are widely circulated in the armies, as the menny good stories of mine, as well as of the Majer’s, in the book, will keep the sojers in good sperits.

“Further more, if eny disloyal editer shall presume to say enything against this book, or advise eny person not to sell or circulate the same, or aid or abet them in so doing, he shall at once be arrested and his paper stopped.

“Further, if any person, in order to avoid the penalties mentioned above, shall borrow said book, he shall, if it be proved, be fined $1000 in gold. If there be no proof, he shall be sent to Fort Lafayette.

“Finally every person perchasing a copy of the Majer’s Letter shall be exempt from the draft. All others are at once to be seized and sent to the front.

“Done, in this, my city of Washington, in the fourth year of my reign.

A. LINKIN.”

The thirty letters following are all dated Washington and give a humorous account of matters political at the National capital at that time.

Miss Elizabeth Oakes, a well known writer, was married to Mr. Smith when she was sixteen years of age. She was born in Cumberland, Maine, in 1831, and was a noted novelist for upwards of twenty years. She has published in all something like fifteen different works. She issued, in 1851, a volume, Woman and Her Needs, which became quite popular.

Mr. Smith retired to private life at the close of the war, and died on the 29th of July, 1868, at his homestead in Patchogue, Rhode Island. His wife survived him and was living in North Carolina several years ago. She gave up writing ten years since.

WILL W. CLARK.

Natives of western Pennsylvania are familiar with two very characteristic names, “Frisbee” and “Gilhooley.” A short, stout, rather good looking young man of twenty-eight or more is the father of both cognomens, and every grown up resident in smoky Pittsburgh will tell you who he is. Will W. Clark, the paragrapher of the Pittsburgh Leader, does not enjoy a national reputation, although he deserves it. His character sketches signed “Frisbee” and “Gilhooley” are choice tidbits of humor, while his “All Sorts” column in the Evening Leader is rarely dry or out of humor.

Clark was born in Pittsburgh, and will probably die there. He is married and is the happy parent of three children. Although but six years in the journalistic harness, Will is already an old hand at the business and is an accomplished reporter. He is a hard-working journalist, who looks ahead for bread and butter rather than for fame.

His humor is peculiar, and I can give no better example of it than a life of himself, written by himself, for himself. It is as follows:

“MY DEAR CLEMENS:

“My biography is not a particularly interesting chapter, and is in fact the romance of a poor young man. Still I think I am a humorist. Away down in the innermost recesses of my system I feel I am a humorist, but by some unfortunate combination of circumstances the public has never tumbled to the fact, with the proper precision and accuracy; the public wouldn’t tumble if a marble front would fall on it. That is probably the reason I am on the ragged edge of genteel poverty at the present time instead of rolling in luxury.

“I was born in the classic precincts of Hardscrabble, of poor and presumably honest parents. I took a fancy to literature from my mother, who was a Scotch-Irish woman, a great reader, and knew Burns by heart.

“The old man was an Englishman with a bald head and side whiskers, and had a faculty of accumulating money, a faculty, I regret to say, which is not hereditary in our family. He used to remark, with some of that fine humor which I possess to such an intense degree, that he came from Derbyshire, ‘where they were strong in the arm and weak in the head.’

“The most striking evidence of weakness on his part was his presenting me with a watch, in consideration of which I was not to enter the army.

On this occasion I became apprised, for the first time, that I was a humorist, as I had no notion of going to the front. I think it is much better to be a miserable poltroon during a war than a one-legged organ-grinder after it.

“It is singular that as a boy I was a good deal like other boys. At school I was the teacher’s pet. She liked me because I was pretty, and she noticed that budding genius which has developed so grandly since, but of which the public has failed to take proper cognizance. When I had reached decimals in arithmetic and could declaim ‘Rolla’s Address to the Peruvians,’ the old man considered that my education was complete, and put me to work.

“He was a rough carpenter, and I became a rough carpenter. I think I was the roughest carpenter in the United States. I built a shed once that was constructed in a manner so diametrically opposite to all the rules of carpentry, that it caved in three days after its completion and killed two coal heavers. On another occasion my employer noticed that I put a lock on upside down and hung a door the wrong way. He kindly but firmly suggested that I should quit. After revolving the question in my own mind I did quit; I thought the employer would be angry if I didn’t.

“When my father died he left me some money and I was pretty well fixed, but in a moment of abberation of mind I yielded to the advice of some of my friends and joined a building and loan association. That settled it; in a short time the association gobbled my property and was loaning my money to some one else. If I had a hundred sons I would advise them all to be solicitors for or presidents of building and loan associations. There’s money in it.

“After that I made the most gigantic mistake of my life. I got a job on a newspaper as a reporter, and, after stoving my legs up running a route, I bloomed out as a humorist writer. As I said before, the people don’t know I’m a humorist, but that is due to their lack of appreciation, and is no fault of mine. I have written some of the most exquisitely all-but funny things I ever saw, and I am now engaged on a series of important jokes for an almanac. I have a wife, three children, and an occasional dose of dyspepsia.

“I do not intend to retire from business for some time. The newspaper business is easy, and especially easy is the task of running the funny end of it. A fellow has merely to be funny when he feels sad, and to grind out humorous items every day in the year. Then the salary of newspaper men is so enormous that college graduates would rather take a situation on a newspaper than get a job driving a street car. I am still grinding out mental pabulum for the public, and still waiting for some appreciative newspaper publisher to offer me a situation at $5,000 per annum.

W. W. CLARK.”

IRWIN RUSSELL.

The night before Christmas, 1879, witnessed the death of one of the brightest young humorists the United States has ever called her own. Of bright intellect and finished education, Irwin Russell was rapidly winning a name in American literature, when taken ill, as the result of overwork; he lingered a few days, and died Christmas Eve.

Little is known of the early days of Irwin Russell. He was born in Fort Gibson, and at an early age was left an orphan, relying on his own exertions for a livelihood. He studied law and began the practice of it in his native city, but, becoming enamored with the life of a Bohemian, he started for New Orleans in search of fame and fortune. He obtained employment at local writing in various newspaper offices, and finally found regular employment in the editorial rooms of the New Orleans Times. Then he left the South and turned up in New York city, where he struggled with fate for a time. His existence was a battle with necessity from the first. It seemed that he was born unlucky. Although his prospects were always fine, he never lived to establish himself permanently anywhere. Few men ever received so many buffets from the hand of fate.

Alone and friendless in New York, young and ambitious, yet weak and moneyless, success and he were strangers. The health of the poor boy failed him, and he would have died had he remained in New York. He shipped on board of a steamer bound for the gulf, and worked his way home--not home, for he had none, but to New Orleans, where he had, at least, a few friends among the journalists of that city. He returned to work upon the Times, and published some of the daintiest bits of dialect humor ever given to the public.

By a strange coincidence his last published lines were written upon the subject of his own grave. They appeared in the New Orleans Times, December 14th, just ten days before the author gave up the struggle with fate and died.

THE CEMETERY.

“I stand within this solemn place,
And think of days gone by--
I think of many an old-time face,
Here’s where those faces lie,

“I think of when, what time God please,
The hour shall came to me,
That covered with the clay, like these,
My face shall masked be.

“No marble monument shall rise
Above that grave of mine--
No loving friends will wipe their eyes
When life I shall resign.

“But when I leave my life--have left
My every present care--
I’ll find a home of care bereft;
My friends are living there.

The New Orleans Times, in speaking of Irwin Russell, after his death, said of him: “He was employed occasionally on this paper, and while so, wrote many a pretty little poem, and many a little catch which reveal an inner life, which hard lines hid from the view of the world. His fund of humor showed itself best in dialect writing, and some things he has written have already found permanent resting places in the compiled editions of American humorous verse.”

For several years Irwin Russell was an interesting and valued contributor to Scribner’s Monthly, and some of his poems have appeared since his death, in The Century. The productions were mostly of the negro dialect order, and occasionally they consisted of Irish sketches in verse. About the last thing published was an Irish dialect poem, entitled Larry’s on the Force, which appeared in The Century. The poem tells in the fourth verse of Larry’s appearance as a policeman:

“He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you’d think he owned the
town,
And houlds his shtick convenient to be tappin’ some wan down--
Aich blissed day, I watch to see him comin’ up the sthrate,
For by the greatest bit of luck, our house is on his bate.”

Russell’s crowning effort was a piece of dialect verse entitled The First Banjo. It appeared in Scribner’s, and is worthy of reprint here:

THE FIRST BANJO.

Go ’way fiddle!--folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’.
Keep silence fur yo’ betters--don’t you heah de banjo talkin’?
About de ’possum’s tail she’s gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!--
About de ha’r what isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’.

“Dar’s gwine to be an oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn--
For Noah tuk the Herald, an’ he read de ribber column--
An’ so he sot his hands to work a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat de steamah “Natchez.”

Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’, an’ a-chippin’, an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighboirs kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’;
But Noah didn’t min’ ’em--knowin’ what wuz gwine to happen;
An’ forty days and forty nights de rain it kept a-drappin’.

Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebery sort o’ beas’es--
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’ it beat ’em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt, an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle--
An’ drew ’em ’board de ark as soon’s he heared de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby
De ribber riz immegitly, an’ bursted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out--’cept Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to work de boat--an’ one to mix de bitters.

De ark she kep’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’, an’ a-sailin’;
De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’--
De sarpints hissed--de painters yelled--tell--what wid all de fussin’,
You c’u’d’n’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ roun’ an’ cussin’.

Now, Ham, de only niggar what wuz runnin’ on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, and c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;
An’ so, for to amuse he-self, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,
An’ soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge, an’ screws, an’ apron;
An’ fitted in a proper neck--’twas bery long and tap’rin’;
He tuk some tin and twisted him a thimble for to ring it;
An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a singin’;
De ha’r’s so long, an’ thick, an’ strong--jes’ fit for banjo
stringin’--
Dat niggar shaved ’em off as short as washday dinner graces;
An’ sorted ob ’em by de size, from little E’s to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig--’twas Nebber Min’ de Wedder--
She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;
Some went to pattin’, some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers--
An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggars!

Now, sence dat time--it’s mighty strange--dere’s not de slightest
showin’.
Ob any ha’r upon de cunnin’ ’possum’s tail a-growin’;
An’ curi’s too--dat nigger’s ways; his people nebber los’ ’em--
For, whar you finds de niggar, dar’s de banjo an’ de possum!

JOHN H. WILLIAMS.

Mr. J. H. Williams, better known as “the Norristown Herald man,” is one of the few successful latter-day humorists. He was born in Montgomery county, Pennsylvania, and after a few years of common school education, he located in Norristown, a lively town of the Keystone State, serving an apprenticeship as a printer’s devil. In 1860 he began writing for the New York Mercury over the signature of “B. Dadd.” About this time he also produced a series of letters signed “A. Ward, Jr.,” which, by the way, were excellent imitations, and were widely copied, some papers dropping the Jr. and crediting them to Artemus Ward himself. For several years Williams resided in Wilmington, Delaware, but in 1871 he returned to Norristown and became attached to the Herald. Williams is considered one of the most rollicking writers on the American press. He is still a young man and has been married for several years. He forbade my writing a biography for him and begged of me to allow him to compose his own “obituary,” as he is pleased to call it. Here is what he wrote:

“MY DEAR MR. CLEMENS:

“A man’s biography auto always be written by himself. A disinterested party is liable to omit some of the facts. A personal history should above all things be truthful--devoid of fulsomeness, and embrace all the important events of its subject’s life, good or bad. Too many biographers lie like a patent medicine advertisement. This is to be regretted.

“My memory is too treacherous to write my own life anyhow. I have been informed that I was present on the occasion of my birth, but I haven’t the slightest recollection of it--as some one has previously remarked.

“I am older--am uglier--than I was two score years ago.

“_Then_, young ladies would chuck me under the chin and gushingly exclaim: “B’ess its purty ’ittle heart.”

“_Now_--they don’t.

“And I am rather glad of it, for the aforesaid young ladies must be nearly sixty years old now, and some of them wear glasses and decayed teeth. If I had time, dear reader, I could tell you how, in 1492, under the _nom de plume_ of Christopher Columbus, I discovered America. This is a fact not generally known. Sometimes it seems like a wild, weird dream. You may have read something about the discovery. It was considered important at the time; but more than one person, no doubt, upon looking around and seeing the distressing amount of misery in America, and observing how bogus mining companies, policy shops, rowing matches, political corruption and other frauds flourish like a green baize, will regret that I ever discovered it.

“I have one wife.

“I could, if my other duties permitted, describe how, in 1773, I surrounded thirty-two wild Indians, and after a hand-to-hand conflict lasting seven hours, I killed twenty-four of the redskins, wounded sixteen, and took eleven prisoners. The remainder fled. Aside from being pierced by twenty-one arrows, I escaped without a scratch.

“And yet I was never made the hero of a dime novel! Probably because I didn’t wear long hair and a soft hat as big around as a cart wheel.

“I am not addicted to bicycle riding--and therefore still retain the respect of my neighbors.

“If it was not my hour to go out and see a man, it would afford me great pleasure to allude to the day that I landed at Plymouth Rock, with a lot of pilgrims, without any “rocks” in my pocket. I shall never do it again.

“I never wrote a comic opera.

“This assertion, if made public, would be received with an air--or rather a tornado of incredulity. It would be accepted as a wild, reckless piece of exaggeration. And yet it is a positive fact.

“I shall not refer to the time I fell at Bunker Hill--caused by stepping on a banana skin,--nor mention the fact that I once struck a gentleman called Billy Patterson. I forgot the date of the latter event; but I desire to say in extenuation that Mr. Patterson struck me first. And yet he had the facial prominence to sue me for assault and battery. However, the grand jury ignored the bill, and saddled the cost upon the plaintiff.

“I have never--never, understand, without any ‘hardly’ qualification about it--lectured.

“My wife has, to an audience of one.