Chapter XXII: Introduction (20)

The Prince came from the dining-room, and began leisurely to ascend. He had only reached the second stair, when a man emerged from the sunken arch, and, standing within a foot or two of him, discharged a pistol full at his heart. Three balls entered his body, one of which, passing quite through him, struck with violence upon the wall beyond. The Prince exclaimed in French, as he felt the wound: “O my God, have mercy upon my soul! O my God, have mercy upon this poor people!” These were the last words he ever spake, save that when his sister immediately afterwards asked him if he commended his soul to Jesus Christ, he faintly answered, “Yes.” His master-of-horse had caught him in his arms as the fatal shot was fired.

The Prince was then placed on the stairs for an instant, when he immediately began to swoon. He was afterwards laid upon a couch in the dining-room, where in a few minutes he breathed his last in the arms of his wife and sister.

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JOHN FISKE.

DISTINGUISHED LECTURER AND HISTORIAN.

IT may be doubted whether even Macaulay exhibited more precocious ability than did the man who for thirty years has held a foremost place among the philosophers and historians of our country. The boy who read Cæsar and Rollin and Josephus at seven, who translated Greek at twelve by the aid of a dictionary which gave only the Latin equivalents of Greek words, who at seventeen had read the whole of Virgil, Horace, Tacitus, Sallust, Suetonius, and much of Livy, Cicero, Ovid, Catullus, and Juvenal, and at the same time knew his mathematics up to and including much of the work of the sophomore year in college, could read the Greek of Plato and Herodotus at sight, kept a diary in Spanish, and read German, French, Italian and Portuguese easily, surely this was one of the boys remarkable in the history of the world. Not only was John Fiske able to work for twelve hours a day and for twelve months in the year at his studies, but in spite of this strenuous application he was able to maintain vigorous health and to enter with enthusiasm into outdoor life.

Mr. Fiske was born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1842. His original name was Edmund Fiske Green, but when his widowed mother became the wife of Edwin W. Stoughton, he took the name of one of his maternal ancestors and was henceforth known as John Fiske. Until he entered Harvard in 1860 he was an inmate of his grandmother’s home in Middletown, Connecticut. But since that time he has lived almost continuously in Cambridge. After being graduated from Harvard College he spent two years in the law school and opened an office in Boston. He never devoted much attention to the practice of law, however, and used his office mainly as a convenient literary workshop. He had been married while in the law school, and from the first his family depended for support upon his diligence and success as a writer.

His literary work has taken two main directions, his most noted books being studies in evolutionary philosophy and treatises upon special features of American history. For a number of years he was connected with the faculty at Harvard, as lecturer or instructor, and he was for seven years Assistant Librarian, but since 1879 he has only been associated with the University as a member of its Board of Overseers. Thirty-five lectures on the Doctrine of Evolution, delivered at Harvard in 1871, were afterwards expanded and published under the title of “Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy.” Two of his most notable papers are “The Destiny of Man” and “The Idea of God,” but Mr. Fiske is best known for the fresh and vigorous delightful and philosophical way in which he has written of American history. His principal books in this department are “The Beginnings of New England;” “The American Revolution;” “The Discovery of America,” and “The Critical Period of American History.” He has written somewhat for young people, notably “The War of Independence,” and perhaps has conferred no greater favor on his youthful countrymen than in the preparation of two school books, “Civil Government in the United States” and “A History of the United States.” Certainly there could be no more delightful innovation than the way in which he introduces his young student to the philosophy of government. He tells a lively story of the siege and final surrender of a mediæval town, and how the citizen delegated to make the capitulation, a lean, lank, half-starved stuttering fellow, replied to the question of why they had rebelled, with the significant phrase, “Tut-tut-tut-too much taxes.”

The boy who reads this at the opening of his text-book is not likely to imagine that his subject is a dry and uninteresting one, and is ready to accept the author’s definition of government as the power that lays taxes. These books of Mr. Fiske’s, with his numerous contributions to periodicals and his lectures before large audiences in many cities, have done more than perhaps is due to any other one man to make the study of American history popular, and to spread among our people sound ideas on the theory of our government. With his vigorous health and wonderful activity it would seem that very much more is still to be expected from a man who has already done so much, and it is entirely safe to predict that the name of John Fiske will stand in the literary history of this time as one of the most remarkable, most fertile, and most useful men of his age.

* * * * *

LAND DISCOVERED.¹

FROM “THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.”

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

BY September 25th, the Admiral’s chief difficulty had come to be the impatience of his crews at not finding land. On that day there was a mirage, or some such illusion, which Columbus and all hands supposed to be a coast in front of them, and hymns of praise were sung, but at dawn next day they were cruelly undeceived. Flights of strange birds and other signs of land kept raising hopes which were presently dashed again, and the men passed through alternately hot and cold fits of exultation and dejection. Such mockery seemed to show that they were entering a realm of enchantment. Somebody, perhaps one of the released jail-birds, hinted that if a stealthy thrust should happen some night to push the Admiral overboard, it could be plausibly said that he had slipped and fallen while star-gazing. His situation grew daily more perilous, and the fact that he was an Italian commanding Spaniards did not help him. Perhaps what saved him was their vague belief in his superior knowledge; they may have felt that they should need him in going back....

At daybreak the boats were lowered and Columbus, with a large part of his company, went ashore. Upon every side were trees of unknown kinds, and the landscape seemed exceedingly beautiful. Confident that they must have attained the object for which they set sail, the crews were wild with exultation. Their heads were dazed with fancies of princely fortunes close at hand. The officers embraced Columbus or kissed his hands, while the sailors threw themselves at his feet, craving pardon and favor.

These proceedings were watched with unutterable amazement and awe by a multitude of men, women and children of cinnamon hue, different from any kind of people the Spaniards had ever seen. All were stark naked and most of them were more or less greased and painted. They thought that the ships were sea-monsters and the white men supernatural creatures descended from the sky. At first they fled in terror as these formidable beings came ashore, but presently, as they found themselves unmolested, curiosity began to overcome fear, and they slowly approached the Spaniards, stopping at every few paces to prostrate themselves in adoration. After a time, as the Spaniards received them with encouraging nods and smiles, they waxed bold enough to come close to the visitors and pass their hands over them, doubtless to make sure that all this marvel was reality and not a mere vision. Experiences in Africa had revealed the eagerness of barbarians to trade off their possessions for trinkets, and now the Spaniards began exchanging glass beads and hawks’ bells for cotton yarn, tame parrots, and small gold ornaments.

Some sort of conversation in dumb show went on, and Columbus naturally interpreted everything in such wise as to fit his theories. Whether the natives understood him or not when he asked them where they got their gold, at any rate they pointed to the south, and thus confirmed Columbus in his suspicion that he had come to some island a little to the north of the opulent Cipango. He soon found that it was a small island, and he understood the name of it to be Guanahani. He took formal possession of it for Castile, just as the discoverers of the Cape Verde islands and the Guinea coasts had taken possession of those places for Portugal; and he gave it a Christian name, San Salvador.

* * * * *

THE FEDERAL CONVENTION.¹

FROM “THE CRITICAL PERIOD OF AMERICAN HISTORY.”

¹ Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

THE Federal Convention did wisely in withholding its debates from the knowledge of the people. It was felt that discussion would be more untrammeled, and that its result ought to go before the country as the collective and unanimous voice of the convention.

There was likely to be wrangling enough among themselves; but should their scheme be unfolded, bit by bit, before its parts could be viewed in their mutual relations, popular excitement would become intense, there might be riots, and an end would be put to that attitude of mental repose so necessary for the constructive work that was to be done. It was thought best that the scheme should be put forth as a completed whole, and that for several years, even, until the new system of government should have had a fair trial, the traces of the individual theories and preferences concerned in its formation should not be revealed.

For it was generally assumed that a system of government new in some important respects would be proposed by the convention, and while the people awaited the result the wildest speculations and rumors were current. A few hoped, and many feared, that some scheme of monarchy would be established. Such surmises found their way across the ocean, and hopes were expressed in England that, should a king be chosen, it might be a younger son of George III. It was even hinted, with alarm, that, through gratitude to our recent allies, we might be persuaded to offer the crown to some member of the royal family of France. No such thoughts were entertained, however, by any person present in the convention. Some of the delegates came with the design of simply amending the articles of confederation by taking away from the States the power of regulating commerce, and intrusting this power to Congress. Others felt that if the work were not done thoroughly now another chance might never be offered; and these men thought it necessary to abolish the confederation and establish a federal republic, in which the general government should act directly upon the people. The difficult problem was how to frame a plan of this sort which people could be made to understand and adopt. At the very outset some of the delegates began to exhibit symptoms of that peculiar kind of moral cowardice which is wont to afflict free governments, and of which American history furnishes many instructive examples. It was suggested that palliatives and half-measures would be far more likely to find favor with the people than any thoroughgoing reform, when Washington suddenly interposed with a brief but immortal speech, which ought to be blazoned in letters of gold and posted on the wall of every American assembly that shall meet to nominate a candidate, or declare a policy, or pass a law, so long as the weakness of human nature endures. Rising from his President’s chair, his tall figure drawn up to its full height, he exclaimed in tones unwontedly solemn with suppressed emotion: “It is too probable that no plan we propose will be adopted. Perhaps another dreadful conflict is to be sustained. If, to please the people, we offer what we ourselves disapprove, how can we afterward defend our work? Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair; the event is in the hand of God.”

This outburst of noble eloquence carried conviction to every one, and henceforth we do not hear that any attempt was avowedly made to avoid the issues as they came up. It was a most wholesome tonic. It braced up the convention to high resolves, and impressed upon all the delegates that they were in a situation where faltering and trifling were both wicked and dangerous. From that moment the mood in which they worked caught something from the glorious spirit of Washington. There was need of such high purpose, for two plans were presently laid before the meeting, which, for a moment, brought out one of the chief elements of antagonism existing between the States, and which at first seemed irreconcilable. It was the happy compromise which united and harmonized these two plans that smoothed the further work of the convention, and made it possible for a stable and powerful government to be constructed.

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JOHN BACH McMASTER.

HISTORIAN OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.

JOHN BACH McMASTER is one of the few men who excel in widely different fields. To be a teacher of English grammar, a college instructor in civil engineering, to do the work of a specialist in the United States Coast Survey, to write a monumental history and to build up a great department in a leading university, surely this is a sufficiently long catalogue for a man forty-five years old. The father of Prof. McMaster was, at the beginning of the Civil War, a banker and planter at New Orleans. The son, however, grew up in the Northern metropolis, and was graduated at the College of the City of New York at the age of twenty, in 1872. After a year devoted to teaching grammar in that institution he took up the study of civil engineering, and began, in the autumn of 1873, the work of preparing his “History of the People of the United States from the Revolution to the Civil War.”

He was appointed, in 1877, Instructor in Civil Engineering at Princeton, and became, in 1883, Professor of American History in the University of Pennsylvania. Besides the four volumes of his “History” already published, he has written a “Life of Benjamin Franklin” for the “Men of Letters Series,” and has been a frequent contributor upon historical topics to the leading periodicals. His “History” is not a story of political intrigue, of the petty jealousies of neighboring communities, of our quarrels with each other or with the Indians, but tells in a clear and strikingly pictorial manner the story of the people themselves, of how they lived and dressed, what they ate, what were their pleasures, their social customs, how they worshipped, how they grew to be a mighty nation and became the people that we are. It is a wonderful story, and not only is every page filled with living interest, but any chapter might well be a monument to the painstaking accuracy, the devoted labor, the historical insight, and the literary skill of the author. But if Prof. McMaster has been in love with his work as a historian he has none the less been devoted to his office as an instructor of youth. During the years in which he has filled a chair in the University of Pennsylvania, the department of history of the United States has assumed such proportions that it may fairly claim to outrank any similar department in any other institution in the country. In this way and as a lecturer before bodies of teachers, Prof. McMaster has held a foremost place in the movement which has demanded, and successfully demanded, that in the lower schools greater attention shall be paid to the history and institutions of our own country, and which is bringing about a more intelligent patriotism and a widespread interest in the way in which we govern ourselves. The boy who applies for admission to the University of Pennsylvania, if he imagines that the history of his country consists of a list of dates of explorations, battles, and of presidents, and of the names of generals and politicians, will be astonished when he is asked to draw a map showing how the United States obtained the various portions of its territory, to tell what were the Virginia and Kentucky Resolutions, and to outline the relations between the President and the two houses of Congress in our government. But the trembling applicant will find his blundering answers leniently judged, and when he looks back from the eminence of his graduation day upon this time of trial, he will agree that the view of history taken by Prof. McMaster is the true one, and that no man has done more than he to bring the intelligent people of our time to that opinion.

* * * * *

THE AMERICAN WORKMAN IN 1784.¹

(FROM “A HISTORY OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.”)

¹ Copyright, D. Appleton & Co.

THERE can, however, be no doubt that a wonderful amelioration has taken place since that day in the condition of the poor. Their houses were meaner, their food was coarser, their clothing was of commoner stuff; their wages were, despite the depreciation that has gone on in the value of money, lower by one-half than at present. A man who performed what would be called unskilled labor, who sawed wood, dug ditches, who mended roads, who mixed mortar, who carried boards to the carpenter and bricks to the mason, or helped to cut hay in harvest-time, usually received as the fruit of his daily toil two shillings. Sometimes when the laborers were few he was paid more, and became the envy of his fellows if at the end of a week he took home to his family fifteen shillings, a sum now greatly exceeded by four dollars. Yet all authorities agree that in 1784 the hire of workmen was twice as great as in 1774.

On such a pittance it was only by the strictest economy that a mechanic kept his children from starvation and himself from jail. In the low and dingy rooms which he called his home were wanting many articles of adornment and of use now to be found in the dwelling of the poorest of his class. Sand sprinkled on the floor did duty as a carpet. There was no glass on his table, there was no china in his cupboard, there were no prints on his wall. What a stove was he did not know, coal he had never seen, matches he had never heard of. Over a fire of fragments of barrels and boxes, which he lit with the sparks struck from a flint, or with live coals brought from a neighbor’s hearth, his wife cooked up a rude meal and served it in pewter dishes.

He rarely tasted fresh meat as often as once in a week, and paid for it a much higher price than his posterity. Everything, indeed, which ranked as a staple of life was very costly. Corn stood at three shillings the bushel, wheat at eight and six pence, an assize of bread was four pence, a pound of salt pork was ten pence. Many other commodities now to be seen on the tables of the poor were either quite unknown or far beyond the reach of his scanty purse. Unenviable is the lot of that man who cannot, in the height of the season, when the wharfs and markets are heaped with baskets and crates of fruit, spare three cents for a pound of grapes, or five cents for as many peaches, or, when Sunday comes round, indulge his family with watermelons or cantaloupes. One hundred years ago the wretched fox-grape was the only kind that found its way to market, and was the luxury of the rich. Among the fruits and vegetables of which no one had then even heard are cantaloupes, many varieties of peaches and pears, tomatoes and rhubarb, sweet corn, the cauliflower, the eggplant, head lettuce, and okra. On the window benches of every tenement-house may be seen growing geraniums and verbenas, flowers not known a century ago. In truth, the best-kept gardens were then rank with hollyhocks and sunflowers, roses and snowballs, lilacs, pinks, tulips, and, above all, the Jerusalem cherry, a plant once much admired, but now scarcely seen.

If the food of an artisan would now be thought coarse, his clothes would be thought abominable. A pair of yellow buckskin or leathern breeches, a checked shirt, a red flannel jacket, a rusty felt hat cocked up at the corners, shoes of neats-skin set off with huge buckles of brass, and a leathern apron, comprised his scanty wardrobe. The leather he smeared with grease to keep it soft and flexible. His sons followed in his footsteps, and were apprenticed to neighboring tradesmen. His daughter went out to service. She performed, indeed, all the duties at present exacted from women of her class; but with them were coupled many others rendered useless by the great improvement that has taken place in the conveniences of life.

She mended the clothes, she did up the ruffs, she ran on errands from one end of the town to the other, she milked the cows, made the butter, walked ten blocks for a pail of water, spun flax for the family linen, and, when the year was up, received ten pounds for her wages. Yet, small as was her pay, she had, before bestowing herself in marriage upon the footman or the gardener, laid away in her stocking enough guineas and joes to buy a few chairs, a table, and a bed.

* * * * *

“THE MINISTER IN NEW ENGLAND.”¹

(FROM “A HISTORY OF THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.”)

¹ Copyright, D. Appleton & Co.

HIGH as the doctors stood in the good graces of their fellow-men, the ministers formed a yet more respected class of New England society. In no other section of the country had religion so firm a hold on the affections of the people. Nowhere else were men so truly devout, and the ministers held in such high esteem. It had, indeed, from the days of the founders of the colony been the fashion among New Englanders to look to the pastor with profound reverence, not unmingled with awe. He was not to them as other men were. He was the just man made perfect; the oracle of divine will; the sure guide to truth. The heedless one who absented himself from the preaching on a Sabbath was hunted up by the tithing-man, was admonished severely, and, if he still persisted in his evil ways, was fined, exposed in the stocks, or imprisoned in the cage. To sit patiently on the rough board seats while the preacher turned his hour-glass for the third time, and with his voice husky from shouting, and the sweat pouring in streams down his face, went on for an hour more, was a delectable privilege. In such a community the authority of the reverend man was almost supreme. To speak disrespectfully concerning him, to jeer at his sermons, or to laugh at his odd ways, was sure to bring down on the offender a heavy fine. His advice was often sought on matters of State, nor did he hesitate to give, unasked, his opinion on what he considered the arbitrary acts of the high functionaries of the province. In the years immediately preceding the war the power of the minister in matters of government and politics had been greatly impaired by the rise of that class of laymen in the foremost ranks of which stood Otis and Hancock and Samuel Adams. Yet his ♦spiritual influence was as great as ever. He was still a member of the most learned and respected class in a community by no means ignorant. He was a divine, and came of a family of divines. Not a few of the preachers who witnessed the Revolution could trace descent through an unbroken line of ministers, stretching back from son to father for three generations, to some canting, psalm-singing Puritan who bore arms with distinction on the great day at Naseby, or had prayed at the head of Oliver’s troops, and had, at the restoration, when the old soldiers of the protector were turning their swords into reaping-hooks and their pikes into pruning-knives, come over to New England to seek that liberty of worship not to be found at home. Such a man had usually received an education at Harvard or at Yale, and would in these days be thought a scholar of high attainments.

♦ ‘spiritunl’ replaced with ‘spiritual’

OUR NATIONAL HUMORISTS

Illustration: OUR NATIONAL HUMORISTS

ROBT. J. BURDETT • “JOSH BILLINGS”
“MARK TWAIN”
CHAS. FOLEN ADAMS • “BILL NYE”
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

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FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER.

THE “WIDOW BEDOTT” AND “WIDOW SPRIGGINS.”

IT was back in the early forties in “Neal’s Gazette” that the “Widow Bedott Table Talk” series of articles began to attract attention, and the question arose, Who is the Widow Bedott? for no one knew at that time that Mrs. Whitcher was the real author behind this _nom-de-plume_. James Neal himself――the well-known author of “Charcoal Sketches” and publisher of the magazine above referred to――was so struck with the originality and clearness of the first of the series when submitted that he sought a correspondence with the author, thinking it was a man, and addressed her as “My dear Bedott.” Mrs. Whitcher often insisted that she must cease to write, as her humorous sketches were not relished by some of her neighbors whom they touched, but Mr. Neal would not hear to it. In a letter of September 10, 1846, he wrote: “It is a theory of mine that those gifted with truly humorous genius like yourself are more useful as moralists, philosophers and teachers than whole legions of the gravest preachers. They speak more effectually to the general ear and heart, even though they who hear are not aware of the fact that they are imbibing wisdom.” Further on he adds: ‘I would add that Mr. Godey called on me to inquire as to the authorship of the “Bedott Papers,” wishing evidently to obtain you for a correspondent to the “Ladies’ Book.”’

For richness of humor and masterly handling of the Yankee dialect, certainly, the “Widow Bedott” and the “Widow Spriggins” occupy a unique space in humorous literature, and the influence she has exercised on modern humorists is more in evidence than most readers are aware of. Her husband, “Hezekiah Bedott,” is a character who will live alongside of “Josiah Allen” as one of the prominent heroes of the humorous literature of our country. In fact, no reader of both these authors will fail to suspect that Miss Marietta Holley used “Hezekiah” as a model for her “Josiah;” while the redoubtable widow herself was enough ♦similar to “Samantha Allen” to have been her natural, as she, perhaps, was her literary, grandmother. Nor was Miss Holley alone in following her lead. Ever since the invention of “Hezekiah Bedott” by Mrs. Whitcher, an imaginary person of some sort, behind whom the author might conceal his own identity, has seemed to be a necessity to our humorists, as witness the _noms-de-plume_ of “Artemus Ward,” “Josh Billings,” “Mark Twain,” etc., under which our greatest American humorists have written.

♦ ‘similiar’ replaced with ‘similar’

Mrs. Whitcher was the daughter of Mr. Lewis Berry, and was born at Whitesboro, New York, 1811, and died there in 1852. As a child she was unusually precocious. Before she learned her letters, even before she was four years old, she was making little rhymes and funny stories, some of which are preserved by her relatives. Her education was obtained in the village school of Whitesboro, and she began to contribute at an early age stories and little poems to the papers. After she had won considerable literary fame she was married, in 1847, to the Rev. Benjamin W. Whitcher, pastor of the Protestant Episcopal Church at Elmira, New York, where she resided with her husband for a period of three years, continuing to contribute her humorous papers to the magazine, and taking as her models her acquaintances at Elmira, as she had been accustomed to do at Whitesboro. The people of Elmira, however, were not so ready to be victimized, and turned against her such shafts of persecution and even insult for her ludicrous pictures of them as to destroy her happiness and her husband’s usefulness as a minister to an extent that they were compelled to leave Elmira, and they removed to Whitesboro in 1850, where, as stated above, she died two years later.

Mrs. Whitcher was something of an artist as well as a writer and illustrated certain of her sketches with her own hands. During her life none of her works were published except in magazines and periodicals, but after her death these contributions were collected and published in book form; the first entitled “The Widow Bedott Papers,” appearing in 1855, with an introduction by Alice B. Neal. In 1857 came “The Widow Spriggins, Mary Allen and Other Sketches,” edited by Mrs. M. L. Ward Whitcher with a memoir of the author. We publish in connection with this sketch the poem “Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles” and also her own humorous comments on some of her poetry, about her husband Hezekiah, which she wrote to a friend, pausing as the various stanzas suggest, to throw in amusing side lights on neighborhood character and gossip.

* * * * *

WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES.

(FROM THE “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”)

O REVEREND sir, I do declare
It drives me most to frenzy,
To think of you a lying there
Down sick with influenzy.

A body’d thought it was enough
To mourn your wife’s departer,
Without sich trouble as this ere
To come a follerin’ arter.

But sickness and affliction, are
Sent by a wise creation,
And always ought to be underwent
By patience and resignation.

O I could to your bedside fly,
And wipe your weeping eyes,
And do my best to cheer you up,
If’t wouldn’t create surprise.

It’s a world of trouble we tarry in,
But, Elder, don’t despair;
That you may soon be movin’ again
Is constantly my prayer.

Both sick and well, you may depend
You’ll never be forgot
By your faithful and affectionate friend,
PRISCILLA POOL BEDOTT.

* * * * *

THE WIDOW’S POETRY ABOUT HEZEKIAH
AND HER COMMENTS ON THE SAME.

(FROM “WIDOW BEDOTT PAPERS.”)

YES,――he was one o’ the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jenkins says (she ’twas Poll Bingham), _she_ says, I never found it out till after he died, but that’s the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it’s jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his mem’ry, nobody wouldn’t think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I’ll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin’s; but I’ll try. It begins as follers:――

He never jawed in all his life,
He never was onkind,――
And (tho’ I say it that was his wife)
Such men you seldom find.

(That’s as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.)

I never changed my single lot,――
I thought ’twould be a sin――

(Though widder Jinkins says it’s because I never had a chance.) Now ’tain’t for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o’ chances or not, but there’s them livin’ that _might_ tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o’ folks knows what was the nature o’ Majors Coon’s feelin’s towards me, tho’ his wife and Miss Jinkins _does_ say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up ’cause she knows the Major took her “Jack at a pinch,”――seein’ he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get,――but I goes on to say――

I never changed my single lot,
I thought ’twould be a sin,――
For I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott,
I never got married agin.

If ever a hasty word he spoke,
His anger dident last,
But vanished like tobacker smoke
Afore the wintry blast.

And since it was my lot to be
The wife of such a man,
Tell the men that’s after me
To ketch me if they can.

If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in――

That’s a fact,――he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,――widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she ’twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent went off to confrence meetin’, when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin’, and when _he_ wa’n’t there, who was ther’, pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott,――and he was always ready and willin’ to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin’; why, I’ve knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o’ the pain in the spine of his back.

He had a wonderful gift, and he wa’n’t a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin,――so you see ’twas from a sense o’ duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh!――

If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in――
I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.

A wonderful tender heart he had,
That felt for all mankind,――
It made him feel amazin’ bad
To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted not――

That’s as true as the Scripturs,――but if you’ll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house how’t she’d seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I’m glad nobody don’t pretend to mind anything _she_ says. I’ve knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth――besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I’ll tell you why if you won’t mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin’ to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin’-distracted after my husband herself, but it’s a long story, I’ll tell you about it some other time, and then you’ll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin’ me down. See,――where had I got to? Oh, I remember now,――

Whisky and rum he tasted not,――
He thought it was a sin,――
I thought so much o’ Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.

But now he’s dead! the thought is killin’,
My grief I can’t control――
He never left a single shillin’
His widder to console.

But that wa’n’t his fault――he was so out o’ health for a number o’ year afore he died, it ain’t to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin’――however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,――he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back,――begrudged folks their vittals when they come to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I’d hold my tongue about my neighbors’ husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,――used to swear like all possest when he got mad,――and I’ve heard my husband say (and he wa’n’t a man that ever said anything that wa’n’t true),――I’ve heard _him_ say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! “His widder to console,”――ther ain’t but one more verse, ’tain’t a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,――“What did you stop so soon for?”――but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby’s _she_ thought I’d better a’ stopt afore I’d begun,――she’s a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I’d like to see some poitry o’ hern,――I guess it would be astonishin’ stuff; and mor’n all that, she said there wa’n’t a word o’ truth in the hull on’t,――said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin’ lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunatic Arsenal. But that’s a painful subject, I won’t dwell on’t.

I conclude as follers:――

I’ll never change my single lot,――
I think ’twould be a sin,――
The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott
Don’t intend to git married agin.

Excuse my cryin’――my feelin’s always overcomes me so when I say that poitry――O-o-o-o-o-o!

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Illustration: (‡ decoration)

CHARLES F. BROWNE.

(ARTEMUS WARD).

ARTEMUS WARD first revealed to the world that humor is a characteristic trait of the Yankee, and he was the first to succeed in producing a type of comic literature distinctively American, purely the product of his original genius.

It is impossible to analyze his jokes or to tell why they are irresistibly funny, but it would be generally admitted that his best things are as much creations of genius as masterpieces of art are.

He was one of the kindest and most generous of men; he used his keen wit to smite evil customs and to satirize immoral deeds, and he went through his short life enjoying above everything to make people laugh and to laugh himself, but with all his play of wit there was a tinge of melancholy in his nature and a tendency to do the most unexpected things, a tendency which he never tried to control. He was born in Waterford, Maine, in 1834, and he came honestly by a view of humor from his father’s side. He had only a most meagre school education, and at fourteen he set himself to learn the printer’s trade, becoming one of the best typesetters in the country.

He drifted from place to place and finally became one of the staff of the “Commercial” at Toledo, Ohio, where he first displayed his peculiar richness of humor in his news reports. In 1857 he became local editor of the “Plain-Dealer” in Cleveland, and it was here his sketches were first signed Artemus Ward, a name which he took from a peculiar character who called on him once in his Cleveland office. He is described at this time as being in striking degree gawky and slouchy, with yellowish, straight hair, a loose swaggering gait, and strangely ill-fitting clothes, though as his popularity and position rose he took on more cultivated manners and grew very particular regarding his dress.

His first attempts at lecturing were not marked with success and he was forced to explain his jokes to his audiences to make the desired laugh come, but he soon attracted attention and multitudes flocked to hear the “grate showman,” with his “moral wax figgers.” In 1863 he crossed the continent and on this trip he collected material for his most humorous lectures and for the best of his chapters.

The Mormons furnished him with the material for his most telling lecture, and it was a mark of his genius that he was irresistibly drawn to Utah to study this peculiar type of American society.

He went to England in 1866, where, though in failing health, ending in premature death, he created almost a sensation and had flattering successes. The “Mormons” never failed to fill a hall and always carried his audiences by storm.

Some of his most brilliant articles were written for “Punch,” and the American humorist was recognized as a typical genius; but he was a dying man while he was making his London audiences laugh at his spontaneous wit, and his life came to an end at Southampton, January 23, 1867.

He provided in his will for the establishment of an asylum for printers and for the education of their orphan children, an action which revealed, as many acts of his life had done, the kindly human spirit of the humorist.

His published books, which owe much of their charm to his characteristic spelling, are as follows: “Artemus Ward, His Book,” and “Artemus Ward, His Travels” (1865), “Artemus Ward in London” (1867), “Artemus Ward’s Lecture, as delivered in Egyptian Hall, London,” edited by T. W. Robertson and E. P. Hingston (1869), and “Artemus Ward, His Works Complete,” with biographical sketch by Melville D. Landon (1875).

* * * * *

ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS.

“MR. SHAKER,” sed I, “you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and he axes a shelter of you.”

“Yay,” said the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another bein’ sent to put my horse and wagon under kiver.

A solum female, lookin’ somewhat like a last year’s bean-pole stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I hunger? To which I asserted, “A few.” She went orf, and I endeavored to open a conversation with the old man.

“Elder, I spect,” sed I.

“Yay,” he said.

“Health’s good, I reckon?”

“Yay.”

“What’s the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness――or do you devote your sarvices gratooitous?”

“Yay.”

“Storm nigh, sir?”

“Yay.”

“If the storm continues there’ll be a mess underfoot, hay?”

“Yay.”

“If I may be so bold, kind sir, what’s the price of that pecooler kind of wesket you wear, includin’ trimmin’s?”

“Yay.”

I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin’ I’d be faseshus with him and see how that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and told him that as a yayer he had no livin’ ekel.

He jumped up as if bilin’ water had been squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin’ and sed:

“You’re a man of sin!”

He then walked out of the room.

Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick lookin’ galls as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the old one I’d met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes sparkled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin’ enuff to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances at me all the time. I got excited. I forget Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I:

“My pretty dears, how air you?”

“We air well,” they solumly sed.

“Where is the old man?” said I, in a soft voice.

“Of whom dost thou speak――Brother Uriah?”

“I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. Shouldn’t wonder if his name wasn’t Uriah.”

“He has retired.”

“Wall, my pretty dears,” sez I, “let’s have some fun. Let’s play puss in the corner. What say?”

“Air you a ♦Shaker, sir?” they asked.

♦ ‘Skaker’ replaced with ‘Shaker’

“Wall, my pretty dears, I haven’t arrayed my proud form in a long weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I’d jine ’em. As it is, I am willing to be Shaker protemporary.”

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little skeery. I tawt ’em puss in the corner, and sich like plase, and we had a nice time, keepin’ quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn’t hear. When we broke up, sez I:

“My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a innersent kiss at partin’?”

“Yay,” they said, and I――yayed.

* * * * *

ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE.

I’VE been lingerin’ by the tomb of the lamented Shakespeare.

It is a success.

I do not hes’tate to pronounce it as such.

You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you think its publication will subswerve the cause of literatoor, you may publicate.

I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birthplace of the orthur of _Otheller_ and other Plays. She said that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn’t care where I went. “But,” I said, “don’t you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter, about the roses as groses, and the breezes as blowses――but a Boss poit――also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything.”

Yes. I’ve been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth-place of Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He’s been dead over three hundred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him. They cherish his mem’ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-place, &c., make it prof’tible cherishin’ it. Almost everybody buys a pictur to put into their Albiom.

“And this,” I said, as I stood in the old churchyard at Stratford, beside a Tombstone, “this marks the spot where lies William W. Shakespeare. Alars! and this is the spot where――”

“You’ve got the wrong grave,” said a man――a worthy villager; “Shakespeare is buried inside the church.”

“Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The boy larfed and put the shillin’ I’d given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and commenced moving backwards towards the street.

I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to him a spell in a sarkastic stile, I let him went.

William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the commentators, Shakesperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his mantle hasn’t fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt said poet or dramatist _much_. And there is no doubt if these commentators and persons continner investigatin’ Shakespeare’s career, we shall not in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere lad little William attended the Grammar School, because, as he said, the Grammar School wouldn’t attend him. This remarkable remark coming from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin’ there might be something in this lad. He subsequently wrote _Hamlet_ and _George Barnwell_. When his kind teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow-pupils to deliver a farewell address. “Go on, sir,” he said, “in a glorous career. Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall be gratified! That’s so.”

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HENRY WHEELER SHAW.

(“JOSH BILLINGS.”)

IT is astonishing what effect is produced by peculiarities of form or manner. It may be true that the writings of Thomas Carlyle owe much of their force and vigor to his disregard for grammatical rules and his peculiar arrangement of words and sentences; but one of the most surprising instances of this kind is in the fact that the “Essay on the Mule, by Josh Billings,” received no attention whatever, while the same contribution transformed into the “Essa on the Muel, bi Josh Billings,” was eagerly copied by almost every paper in the country. Josh Billings once said that “Chaucer was a great poit, but he couldn’t spel,” and apparently it was Mr. Shaw’s likeness, in this respect, to the author of “Canterbury Tales” which won him much of his fame.

He was the son of a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, born in 1818, and entered Hamilton College; but being captivated by stories of Western life and adventure, abandoned college to seek his fortune in the West. The fortune was slow in coming, and he worked as a laborer on steamboats on the Ohio, and as a farmer, and finally drifted back to Poughkeepsie, New York, as an auctioneer. Here he wrote his first contribution to a periodical, “The Essa on the Muel,” which has been above mentioned.

The popularity of the revised form of this classic of poor spelling induced him to publish “Josh Billings’ Farmers’ Allminax,” which continued for ten years, having during a part of the time a circulation of one hundred and twenty-seven thousand copies per annum. In 1863 Mr. Shaw entered the lecture-field. His lectures being a series of pithy sayings without care or order, delivered in an apparently awkward manner. The quaintness and drollery of his discourse won very great popularity. For twenty years he was a regular contributor of “The New York Weekly,” and it is said that the articles which appeared in “The Century Magazine,” under the signature of “Uncle Esek,” were his. His published books are “Josh Billings, His Sayings;” “Josh Billings on Ice;” “Everybody’s Friend;” “Josh Billings’ Complete Works,” and “Josh Billings’ Spice Box.”

Mr. Shaw died in Monterey, California, in 1885.

* * * * *

JOSH BILLING’S ADVERTISEMENT.

(FROM “JOSH BILLINGS, HIS WORKS.” 1876.)

I KAN sell for eighteen hundred and thirty-nine dollars a pallas, a sweet and pensive retirement, lokated on the virgin banks ov the Hudson, kontaining eighty-five 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 ov sparkling gladness (thick with trout) danse through this wilderness ov buty tew the low musik ov the kricket and grasshopper. The evergreen sighs as the evening sephir flits through its shadowy buzzum, and the aspen trembles like the luv-smitten harte ov a damsell. Fruits ov the tropicks, in golden buty, melt on the bows, and the bees go heavy and sweet from the fields to their garnering hives. The manshun is ov Parian marble; the porch iz a single diamond, set with rubiz and the mother ov pearl; the floors are ov rosewood, and the ceilings are more butiful than the starry vault of heaven. Hot and cold water bubbles and quirts in evry apartment, and nothing is wanting that a poet could pra for, or art could portray. The stables are worthy of the steeds ov Nimrod or the studs ov Akilles, and its hennery waz bilt expressly for the birds of paradice; while sombre in the distance, like the cave ov a hermit, glimpses are caught ov the dorg-house. Here poets hav cum and warbled their laze――here skulptors hav cut, here painters hav robbed the scene ov dreamy landscapes, and here the philosopher diskovered the stun which made him the alkimist ov natur. Next, northward ov this thing ov buty, sleeps the residence and domain ov the Duke, John Smith, while southward, and nearer the spice-breathing tropicks, may be seen the barronial villy ov Earl Brown and the Duchess, Widder Betsy Stevens. Walls ov primitiff rock, laid in Roman cement, bound the estate, while upward and downward the eye catches the magesta and slow grander ov the Hudson. As the young moon hangs like a cutting ov silver from the blue brest ov the ski, an angel may be seen each night dansing with golden tiptoes on the green. (N. B.――This angel goes with the place.)

* * * * *

MANIFEST DESTINY.