But havin' no eddycation, I'm only a low thief—a stealer of watches and spoons and sich—a low wretch, anyhow—and the Law puts me through without mercy.
It's all right, I spose, and yet I sometimes think it's wery hard to be shut up here, a wearin' checkered clothes, a livin' on cold vittles, a sleepin' on iron beds, a lookin' out upon the world through iron muskeeter bars, and poundin' stun like a galley slave, day after day, week after week, and year after year, while my brother thieves (for to speak candid, there's no difference between a thief and a defaulter, except that the latter is forty times wuss), who have stolen thousands of dollars to my one cent, are walkin' out there in the bright sunshine—dressed up to kill, new clothes upon their backs and piles of gold in their pockets! But the Law don't tech 'em. They are too big game for the Law to shoot at. It's as much as the Law can do to take care of us ignorant thieves.
Who said there was no difference 'tween tweedledum and tweedledee? He lied in his throat, like a villain as he was! I tell ye there's a tremendous difference.
Oh that I had been liberally eddycated!
Jim Griggins.
Sing—Sing 1860.
7.13. THE NEGRO QUESTION.
I was sitting in the bar, quietly smokin a frugal pipe, when two middle-aged and stern-looking females and a young and pretty female suddenly entered the room. They were accompanied by two umberellers and a negro gentleman.
"Do you feel for the down-trodden?" said one of the females, a thin-faced and sharp-voiced person in green spectacles.
"Do I feel for it?" ansered the lan'lord, in a puzzled voice—" do
I feel for it?"
"Yes; for the oppressed, the benighted?"
"Inasmuch as to which?" said the lan'lord.
"You see this man?" said the female, pintin her umbreller at the negro gentleman.
"Yes, marm, I see him."
"Yes!" said the female, raisin her voice to a exceedin high pitch, "you see him, and he's your brother!"
"No, I'm darned if he is!" said the lan'lord, hastily retreating to his beer-casks.
"And yours!" shouted the excited female, addressing me. "He is also your brother!"
"No, I think not, marm," I pleasantly replied. "The nearest we come to that color in our family was the case of my brother John. He had the janders for sev'ral years, but they finally left him. I am happy to state that, at the present time, he hasn't a solitary jander."
"Look at this man!" screamed the female.
I looked at him. He was an able-bodied, well-dressed, comfortable-looking negro. He looked as though he might heave three or four good meals a day into him without a murmur.
"Look a that down-trodden man!" cried the female.
"Who trod on him?" I inquired.
"Villains! despots!"
"Well," said the lan'lord, "why don't you go to the willins about it? Why do you come here tellin us niggers is our brothers, and brandishin your umbrellers round us like a lot of lunytics? You're wuss than the sperrit-rappers!"
"Have you," said middle-aged female No. 2, who was a quieter sort of person, "have you no sentiment—no poetry in your soul—no love for the beautiful? Dost never go into the green fields to cull the beautiful flowers?"
"I not only never dost," said the landlord, in an angry voice, "but
I'll bet you five pound you can't bring a man as dares say I durst."
"The little birds," continued the female, "dost not love to gaze onto them?"
"I would I were a bird, that I might fly to thou!" I humorously sung, casting a sweet glance at the pretty young woman.
"Don't you look in that way at my dawter!" said female No. 1., in a violent voice; "you're old enough to be her father."
"'Twas an innocent look, dear madam," I softly said. "You behold in me an emblem of innocence and purity. In fact, I start for Rome by the first train to-morrow to sit as a model to a celebrated artist who is about to sculp a statue to be called Sweet Innocence. Do you s'pose a sculper would send for me for that purpose onless he knowd I was overflowing with innocency? Don't make a error about me."
"It is my opinyn," said the leading female, "that you're a scoffer and a wretch! Your mind is in a wusser beclouded state than the poor nergoes' we are seeking to aid. You are a groper in the dark cellar of sin. O sinful man!
'There is a sparkling fount
Come, O come, and drink.'
No! you will not come and drink."
"Yes, he will," said the landlord, "if you'll treat. Jest try him."
"As for you," said the enraged female to the landlord, "you're a degraded bein, too low and wulgar to talk to."
"This is the sparklin fount for me, dear sister!" cried the lan'lord, drawin and drinkin a mug of beer. Having uttered which goak, he gave a low rumblin larf, and relapsed into silence.
"My colored fren," I said to the negro, kindly, "what is it all about?"
He said they was trying to raise money to send missionaries to the
Southern States in America to preach to the vast numbers of negroes
recently made free there. He said they were without the gospel.
They were without tracts.
I said, "My fren," this is a seris matter. I admire you for trying to help the race to which you belong, and far be it from me to say anything again carrying the gospel among the blacks of the South. Let them go to them by all means. But I happen to individually know that there are some thousands of liberated blacks in the South who are starvin. I don't blame anybody for this, but it is a very sad fact. Some are really too ill to work, some can't get work to do, and others are too foolish to see any necessity for workin. I was down there last winter and I observed that this class had plenty of preachin for their souls, but skurce any vittles for their stummux. Now, if it is proposed to send flour and bacon along with the gospel, the idea is really an excellent one. If, on t'other hand, it is proposed to send preachin alone, all I can say is that it's a hard case for the niggers. If you expect a colored person to get deeply interested in a tract when his stummuck is empty, you expect too much."
I gave the negro as much as I could afford, and the kind-hearted lan'lord did the same. I said:
"Farewell, my colored fren, I wish you well, certainly. You are now as free as the eagle. Be like him and soar. But don't attempt to convert a Ethiopian person while his stummuck yearns for vittles. And you, ladies—I hope you are ready to help the poor and unfortunate at home, as you seem to help the poor and unfortunate abroad."
When they had gone, the lan'lord said, "Come into the garden, Ward."
And we went and culled some carrots for dinner.
7.14. ARTEMUS WARD ON HEALTH.
[The following fragment from the pen of Artemus Ward was written in the last days of his illness, and was found amongst the loose papers on the table beside his bed. It contains the last written jests of the dying jester, and is illustrative of that strong spirit of humor which even extreme exhaustion and the near approach of death itself could not wholly destroy.
There is an anecdote related of Thomas Hood to the effect that when he was just upon the point of dying, his friend, Mr. F.O. WARD, visited him, and, to amuse him, related some of his adventures in the low parts of the metropolis in his capacity as a sanitary commissioner. "Pray desist," said Hood; "your anecdote gives me the back-slum-bago." The proximity of death could no more deprive poor Artemus of his power to jest than it could Thomas Hood. When nothing else was left him to joke upon, when he could no longer seek fun in the city streets, or visit the Tower of London and call it "a sweet boon," his own shattered self suggested a theme for jesting. He commenced this paper "On Health." The purport of it, I believe, was to ridicule doctors generally; for Artemus was bitterly sarcastic on his medical attendants, and he had some good reasons for being so. A few weeks before he died, a German physician examined his throat with a laryngoscope, and told him that nothing was the matter with him except a slight inflammation of the larynx. Another physician told him that he had heart disease, and a third assured him that he merely required his throat to be sponged two or three times a day, and take a preparation of tortoise shell for medicine, to perfectly recover! Every doctor made a different diagnosis, and each had a different specific. One alone of the many physicians to whom Artemus applied seemed to be fully aware that the poor patient was dying of consumption in its most formidable form. Not merely phthisis, but a cessation of functions and a wasting away of the organs most concerned in the vital processes. Artemus saw how much the doctors were at fault, and used to smile at them with a sadly scornful smile as they left the sick room. "I must write a paper," said he, "about health and doctors." The few paragraphs which follow are, I believe, all that he wrote on the subject. Whether the matter became too serious to him for further jesting, or whether his hand became too weak to hold the pen, I cannot say. The article terminates as abruptly as did the life of its gentle, kind, ill-fated author.
E.P.H.]
Ontil quite recent, I've bin a helthy individooal. I'm near 60, and yit I've got a muskle into my arms which don't make my fists resemble the tread of a canary bird when they fly out and hit a man.
Only a few weeks ago I was exhibitin in East Skowhegan, in a b'ildin which had form'ly bin ockepyied by a pugylist—one of them fellers which hits from the shoulder, and teaches the manly art of self defens. And he cum and said he was goin in free, in consekence of previ'sly ockepyin sed b'ildin, with a large yeller dog. I sed, "To be sure, sir, but not with those yeller dogs." He sed, "Oh, yes." I sed, "Oh, no." He sed, "Do you want to be ground to powder?" I sed, "Yes, I do, if there is a powder-grindist handy." When he struck me a disgustin blow in my left eye, which caused that concern to at once close for repairs; but he didn't hurt me any more. I went for him. I went for him energet'cally. His parents live near by, and I will simply state that 15 minits after I'd gone for him, his mother, seein the prostrate form of her son approachin the house on to a shutter carrid by four men, run out doors, keerfully looked him over, and sed, "My son, you've been foolin round a thrashin masheen. You went in at the end where they put the grain in, come out with the straw, and then got up in the thingumajig and let the hosses tred on you, didn't you, my son?"
You can jedge by this what a disagreeable person I am when I'm angry.
But to resoom about helth. I cum of a helthy fam'ly.
The Wards has allus been noted for helthiness.
The fust of my ancestors that I know anything about was Abijah Ward and his wife, Abygil Ward who came over with the Pilgrims in the "Mayflower." Most of the Pilgrims was sick on the passige, but my ancestor wasn't. Even when the tempist raged and the billers howled, he sold another Pilgrim a kag of apple sass. The Pilgrim who bo't it was angry when he found that under a few layers of sass the rest was sawdust, and my ancestor sed he wouldn't have b'leeved such wickedness could exist, when he ascertained that the bill sed Pilgrim gave him was onto a broken bank, and wasn't wuth the price of a glass of new gin. It will be thus seen that my fust ancestor had a commercial mind.
My ancestors has all bin helthy people, tho' their pursoots in life has been vari's.
* * * * *
* * * * *
7.15. A FRAGMENT.
[Among the papers, letters and miscellanea left on the table of poor Ward was found the fragment which follows. Diligent search failed to discover any beginning or end to it. The probability is that it consists of part of a paper intended to describe a comic trip round England. To write a comic itinerary of an English tour was one of the author's favorite ideas; and another favorite one was to travel on the Continent and compile a comic "Murray's Guide." No interest attaches to this mere scrap other than that it exemplifies what the writer would have attempted had his life been longer.]
* * * * *
At North Berwick there was a maniacal stampede toward the little house by the railside, where they sell such immense quantities of sponge-cake, which is very sweet and very yellow, but which lies rather more heavily on the stomach than raw turnips, as I ascertained one day from actual experience. This is not stated because I have any spite against this little house by the railside. Their mince-pies are nobly made, and their apple-pies are unsurpassed. Some years ago there used to be a very pretty girl at this house, and one day, while I was struggling rapidly with a piece of mince-pie, I was so unfortunate as to wink slightly at her. The rash act was discovered by a yellow-haired party, who stated that she was to be his wife ere long, and that he "expected" he could lick any party who winked at her. A cursory examination of his frame convinced me that he could lick me with disgustin ease, so I told him it was a complaint of the eyes. "They are both so," I added, "and they have been so from infancy's hour. See here!" And I commenced winking in a frightful manner. I escaped, but it was inconvenient for me for some time afterwards, because whenever I passed over the road I naturally visited the refreshment house, and was compelled to wink in a manner which took away the appetites of other travellers, and one day caused a very old lady to state, with her mouth full of sponge-cake, that she had cripples and drunkards in her family, but thanks to the heavens above, no idiots without any control over their eyes, looking sternly at me as she spoke.
That was years ago. Besides, the wink was a pure accident. I trust that my unblemished character—but I will not detain you further with this sad affair.
* * * * *
There have been several editions of the Works of Artemus Ward.
The Following appeared in THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ARTEMUS WARD, A New
Impression; Chatto & Windus, London 1922
Additional short pieces by A. Ward.
7.16. BRIGHAM YOUNG'S WIVES.
7.17. A. WARD'S FIRST UMBRELLA.
7.18. AN AFFECTING POEM.
7.19. MORMON BILL OF FARE.
A comtemporary review
7.20. "THE BABES IN THE WOOD."
Spurious pieces
7.21. MR. WARD ATTENDS A GRAFFICK (SOIREE.)
7.22. A. WARD AMONG THE MORMONS.—REPORTED BY HIMSELF —OR SOMEBODY ELSE.
7.16. BRIGHAM YOUNG'S WIVES.
Frends and Feller Passingers.—I'm e'en a most tiard ov statin my convicshuns regarden them Mormoness plooralyties, which sits theirselves round Mister Yung's grate table when the dinner-bell booms merryly thruout the long and short ov this ere land.
Heavy figgerin isn't my berthrite; it's the nobil contemplativ what's the pecoolar offshute of these massiv brane.
"But how many wives has he?"
Wall, all A. W. nose abowt it is thet his luvly contemplativ wun day used up the MulteplyKashun tabul in kountin the long Stockins on a close line in Brigham's back yard—and he soddingly had to leave, fer the site made him dizzy. It was too mutch for him. — Yures abstractid,
WARTEMUS DARD.
7.17. A. WARD'S FIRST UMBRELLA.
[A friend of Artemus Ward's sends the following, with the request that it may be included in the present edition.]
The solumncholies hev bin on-to A. W. now and agin, as it dus to most ov the four-lorned human naturs in this Vayl of Tares. She's tickled me considerabull sumtims—only it was the wrong wa. Most human naturs git tickled the wrong wa sumtims.
She was heviest onter me the fust yeer I ever owned a Umbrellar. I was going on 18 yeer old then, and praid for rane as bad as any dride-up farmer. I wantid to show that umBrellar—I wantid to mak sum persnul apeerents with that brellar—I desirud Jim parker and Hiram Goss to witness the site—I felt my birthWrite was bowned up in that brellar—I wantid to be a MAN!
I'd un-hook'd frum Betsy Jain fur a spell—(canfidenshal, leastways, I hadn't commenced cortin up to her rite down in ernest then)—and kum evenin I went over to the Widder Blakes. I'd the umBrellar along, and opun'd it outside the door—pretendin I couldn't klose it like, so that the dawter could hev a good Luke at my property. But it wuz no use; the new Brellar didn't take, and Sally sed she thort I "needn't cum agin !"
I hev bin many wheres, and seen sum few in this erthly Tavernknuckle, but ov all the solum hours I ever speeriunsed the 1 ockepied in going hum that partickler nite frum the Widders was the most solumm.
I'd a mind to throw awa that Brellar more'n onct as I went along.
7.18. AN AFFECTING POEM.
"POOR Jonathan Snow
Away did go
All on the ragen mane,
With other males,
All for to ketch wales,
& nere come back agen.
The wind bloo high,
The billers tost,
All hands were lost,
And he was one,
A spritely lad,
Nigh 21."
7.19. MORMON BILL OF FARE
BRIGHAM YOUNG'S HOUSES.
BRIGHAM'S Wives live in these houses. They live well at Brigham's, the following being the usual
BILL OF FARE.
SOUPS, ETC.
Matrimonial Stews (with pretty Pickles).
FISH.
Salt Lake Gudgeon.
ROAST.
Brigham's Lambs (Sauce piquante).
Minced Heart (Mormon style).
BROILED.
Domestic Broils (Family style)
ENTREES.
Little Deers.
COLD.
Raw Dog (a la Injun).
Tongue (lots of it).
VEGETABLES.
Cabbage-head, Some Pumpkins, &c.
DESSERT.
Apples of Discord, a great many Pairs;
Mormon Sweet-Hearts, Jumbles, &c.
7.20. "THE BABES IN THE WOOD."
[The following amusing critique or report of Artemus Ward's favourite lecture entitled "The Babes in the wood" was written the day after its first delivery in San Francisco, California, by one of the contributors to the Golden Era. As an imitation of A. Ward's burlesque orthography it is somewhat overdone; but it has, nevertheless, certain touches of humour which will amuse the English reader. Why the lecture is called "The Babes in the Wood" is not known, unless it is because they are WARDS. — ED.]
Nite befoar larst was an Erer in the annals of Sand Francisco; yis, an Erer; I sa it, and I guess I know what a Erer is! I gess I do! It's something like this noosepaper, for instance; something that's gut a big Injin onto it; though the Big Injin Fryday Nite had his close on, which this moril Jernal's Injin hasn't, bein intended to represent that nobil read man of the forrist, of hoom the poet sweetly sings:
"Low, the poor Injin! hoose untootered mind
Clothes him in frunt—Butt leaves him bare behind!"
However, let that parse.
I hearn thare was to be a show up to Mr Platt's Haul on the occashun allewded to; so I took Maria An an' the children—with the excepshun of the smollest wun, which, under the inflewence of tired Nachure's sweet restorer, Missis Winslow's Soothin Syrup, was rapped in barmy slumbers—up to prayer meetin; and after havin excoosed myself to the pardner of my boosom, on the plee of havin swallered a boks of Bristol's Sugar-Coated Pills, I slipt out and went down to the Haul, thinkin I would have a little relaxation. Prubably Mariar An thought so too. (That are a double entender, but I didn't intend it.) Although I arrove quite airly, I found a few Individools I mean to sa I found but few who ware not—already in the Haul. I would not on no account whatsumdever, no how you can fix it, deceeve nobody nor nothin', for I am a pieus man, and send my wife to church, and addhere to the trooth; and yit, I ventoor to assurt, that I never in all my born dase beheld so menny fokes befoar—stop, I er slitely— I had a seat in the rear.
It seemed as tho the hole populashun had turned out en massy to welcum the gratist wit of his age.—He is older than me.
The curtin roze—no, I do not desire to misrepresent fax—there was no curtin—I think thare should have bin!
The lectoor commenced at a few minutes past ate—precisely. The gay and gifted Artemus stepped to his place, and after acknowledging my presence by a polite bow, prooeeded to define the platform on which he stood—Oregon pine. The papers, with thare usuil fidelity to fax, had stated that the entertainment would consist only of a lectoor, & that the kangaroo & wax-figgers would not be introdooced—"dooced queer," thinks I, and I soon discovered the telegram; for Mr. Ward used a number of figgers—of speech.
Thare ware also severeil animils thare, thare was, tho I don't know whether they belonged to him, as they was scattered thro the ordgunce, and was boysterous to a degre—yis, two degrese.
Some of the funniest of the fundymentall principles of the lectoor escaped me—rather I escaped them—partly owin to the fokes squeeging in at the dore, and partly owin to a pretty but frail gurl wayin all the way from 200 up to 250 lbs. avoirdoopois, which sot herself rite onto my lap.
Mr Ward statid that he would not give a fillosoffical lectoor—nor an astronomical lectoor—nor—did he say what kind of lectoor he would give. The subjec was, however, the "Babes in the Wood." He has had the Babes in the Wood sum time. Mr. Ward is not rich—but is doin— as well as could be expected.
It is one of the lectoors you read about, you know—here. Yis, I sa it's a great moril lectoor; I sa it boldly, because I've heerd—of it.
The structoor of the lectoor was as they sa in architectoor of the compost like ordoor; first a stratter of this, then a stratter of that; that is to sa—kinder mixed, you know. It was on the aneckdotale plan, and speakin of aneckdotes reminds me of a little story—it is wun of Mr Ward's, by the way; it will bare repitition— it lass, so far, stood it very well. It is of a young made, hoose name it was Mehitabull—some of it, at least—enuff—for the present porpussus—and of a nobil and galyunt lovyier, which his naim it was John Jones. This young man was a patrut, tho oppoged to coershun. The enrolin officer going his rounds was beheld by this young man wile yit he was afar off, the site was not a welcum wun to John, and it propelled him to seek proteekshun of his plited wun, in hoose hous he was at that critical moment. Time was preshus. What was too be dun? The enemy was now neer at hand. "Git under my hoops," sez Mehitabull. The heroick youth obade.
After a pause the offisser hentered the manshun.
"Is thare any men in this 'ere hous?" sez he.
"Not as I nose—on," replied the damsell.
"Then," sez the offisser, "I gess I'll stop awhile myself."
He stopped a our. After witch he stopped anuther our; after witch he continuood to stop.
During this time John Jones was garspin for breath. At last he felt he cood endoor it no longer, without—ingoory to his helth. He put his hed out of his strong hold and sed to the amazed offisser, "I think the draft will doo me good—I mean the draft of are."
"You air in favor of the Proclamashun!" red the offisser.
"Yis, and of ventilation."
The young man was not drafted, but he is still single—single-ar to say.
The abov is a correct report of the story as I heern it—I only heern the naims, fancy has supplide the rest.
P.S.—I larfed all the wa home; observin witch severil peple gave me the hole walk, evidently taking me for a hilarious loonatic.
A. Ward will shortly lecshoor on Asstronmy, I heer, partickly upon the Konstlashun ov the Suthern Cross, which he portends he found out to be a MULATTO.
7.21. MR. WARD ATTENDS A GRAFFICK (SOIREE.)
[Shortly after the publication in this country of "Artemus Ward His Book," I received from a friend the following article, purporting to have been written by Mr. W. during a stay in Bristol. The sketch appeared in the "Bristol Record,"* and upon writing to the editor for further information concerning it, I received from that gentleman such a cautious reply as confirmed a previous suspicion that "the showman" had not visited the great western city, and that the article was either a concoction in Mr. Ward's style, or one of the papers of Josh Billings, an imitator of Mr. W., slightly altered to suit the locality of its republication. Whether these conjectures are correct or not, the article is here given for the English reader's criticism, and, although not equal in humour to A. Ward's more successful pieces, certain pleasantries of expression and droll extravagances observable in it will, at least, repay perusal.]
Prefixed to the article in the Record was the following:-" A letter has just been shown to us, of which we subjoin a portion, from which it will appear that Mr. — (we suppress the name for obvious reasons) is not the only illustrious American who is sojourning at present at Clifton. Artemus Ward has retired for the present from his professional duties, in consequence of the rough treatment which he lately received in the Southern States. His admirers have sent him to England to recruit, and he was last week at Clifton, and dined with Mr. —. We are violating no literary confidence in mentioning the above, as Mr. Ward is combining business with pleasure, and his letters will appear in the New York Tribune, to which journal he has temporarily attached himself as special European correspondent.—Ed. B. R.
WALL, we had a just sittled down to our wine, when sez the Squire soddenlick, "Mr. W., would you like to go to a Graffick?"
"What's a Graffick?" sed I.
"A Pictur-shew," sed he, "with a swoiree between, and all the fashionables of this interestin location there."
"Don't care if I duz," sed I, "perwided u go the Ticket."
"Sertingly," sed he. "Mr. Ward, you are my guest for the evening."
So we put on our go-to-meetings, and yaller kid-skins, and sot off. There was a purty tidy fixin of shrubs and statooary as we went in (but nuthin ekal to the Bowery Saloon, New York!), and stairs up and stairs down, and gals in opera clokes ascendin and D-scendin.
First we go up into a big room with a blaze o' lite and a crowd of cumpany. The Squire whispers to me, and sez he'll pint out the lokial celebrities. At the end of the room is a great pictur, representin a stout femail on a tarnation dark back-ground. The critters scrowded up to it, and looked on in hor. Presently I feels the Squire nudging me.
"Do you see that individooal," sed he, "with Hyacinthian curls, and his eye in a fine frenzy rollin! That's the great art critic, who lays down the lor for Bristol and ets vicinity."
So I pushed up cloas, and sed I to the creteck, "Wall, Mister, what dew think of that air piece of canvas staining?"
At first he Ide me loftily, and made no reply. At last he spoak (with grate deliberashun). "Not yet have I mastered the pictur. I'm a studyin of the onperfectly-seen vizionoimies behind. Them guards is a phernomenon. The soul of the painter has projected itself thrugh the august glooms."
"Don't see it," sez I. "Them shadders want glazin—and the middletints is no whur. Guess if Hiram Applesquash (our 'domestic decorator' to hum) had pertrayed them guards, he would hev slicked off their Uniforms as bright as a New England tulip."
The creteck regarded me With Contemptoous indignashun.
"Hullo!" sed I next, "whose been and stolen a signboard, and stuck it up in this refined society?"
"To what do you defer?" sez he, still very fridgid.
"To that corpulent figgur," sez I, "in military fixins."
"That, sair," sez he, with severity, "is a portrait of his Majusty the King of Denmark, lately disEased."
"A portraickt of his cloze, you mean," sez I. "Is that sprorling pictur a work of art? (N.B.—This I sed sarcasticul.) Hiram A. touched off a new Sign for the Tavern at Baldinsville jest before I saled, and his 'President's Head' would bete this by a long chalk any day." With that I scowled at the Creteck, and left him looking considerable smawl pertaters.
Arter this we went down into the Cole-hole, wich they had cleaned out for the night and white-washed. Here I own was buties of natur. I always had a liken for water-colar paintin, and sometimes take a sketcht in that way myself. Me and Squire tried to get a good look, but was engulphed in an oshun of hot galls, who kinder steamed again. The gas, close over our heads, nigh made our brains bile over, so sez I, "Let's make tracks out of this, Squire. It ain't civet (Schakspar) here. This parfume of humanity is horrid unhandsome."
"Let's have a cup of corfy," says he, "to repare exhorsted natur."
"A sherry cobbler would be more to the purpose," says I, "but if they hev none of them coolin drinks at art sworricks, here goes for the Moky." (N.B.—This I sed ironical. Korfy at sworricks is usually burnt beans.)
So we med our way into another room, with 2 bar-counters, and a crowd of people pushin and drivin to get forrerd. They knocked and elbered me about till I felt my dander riz. "Come on, Squire," sez I, setting my arms a kimber; "take care, my old coons, of your tendur Korns and Bunyans. Look out for your ribs, for I've crooked my elbers," and forrerd I goes with Squire follerin' in my wake. Bimeby a woman's long skirt gets between my legs, and I spins round and goes kerslash into the stumuck of a fat old gentleman, who was just blowin his third cup. He med a spaired his breath though! kerslap I goes into his wastecote, and kesouse goes his coffy over his shoulders onto hed and neck of a bony old made with a bird of Pardice in her artificial locks.
"Beg your pardon, marm," sez I, as soon as I could speak.
She looked imprekashuns, and turned away ortily, mopping herself down with a laced nose-rag.
The Old gentleman was more cholerick. "Cuss your clumsiness," says he, "can't you come to a graffick without punching your ugly hed Into other people's stumucks?"
"I didn't go for to do it," sez I, "and jest put the Sadll on the right hoss, mister," I continerred. "If this femail behind didn't carry so much slack foresail, she wuddn't hev entangled my spars and careened me over."
Arter this I would try no more of their all-fired corfy. Squire— had had enough of the Sworrick, so we made tracks for the Ho-tell.
"Bring-up a quart of brandy," sez the Squire, "and a bilin o' lemons and sugar. Mr. W.," sez he, "there's not much of me left. Let's liquor up! Let's have a smoke and a cocktail." So we mixes, and had an entertaining discorse on polite literatoor. "Dod-rabbit the sworrick," says Squire. "Say no more about it. I was a fool, Mr Ward, to prefare it to your amusin an inshstructive conversashun."
After a while we got cheerful and sung "ale Columby" (it's a fine voice the Squire has for a doo-et). Respect for the soshul Borde makes me now cave in and klose my commoonication. Squire — is a grate filantherpist, but he's not grate at stowing away his lick-er. I tuk him to bed after the 3d tumbler, that the cuss of a british Waiter might not see one of us free & enlightened citizens onable to walk strate. He said it was a wet night, and demanded his umburella. Likewise he wouldn't hev his boots off, for fere of catchin cold. I put the candle in the wash-basan that the critter mightn't set hisself on fire, and left him in bed with his umburella up, singing "Ale columby."
Arter that I went down and finished the mahogany. (Brandy and water, the ruddy appearance of which indicates that very little of the latter has been used in its composition. Spanish is the stronger, and Honduras the milder mixture.)
A. WARD.
7.22. A. WARD AMONG THE MORMONS.—REPORTED BY HIMSELF—OR SOMEBODY ELSE.
(The following rough report of Artemus Ward's Lecture in California Appeared in the "San Francisco Era," during the lecturer's visit to that city. It has been thought worthy of preservation in the form of a supplementary paper to the present little volume.
FELLER-CITIZENS AND FELLER-CITIZENESSES,—I feel truly glad to see you here to-night, more especially those who have paid, although I am too polite to say how many are here who have not paid, but who take a base advantage of the good-nature of my friend and manager, Hingston, bothering him to give them free tickets, gratis, and also for nothing; and my former friend and manager, Rosenberg, assures me that the best way to prevent a person from enjoying any entertainment is to admit them without the equivalent spondulics. What a man gets for nothing he don't care for.
Talking of free tickets, my first lecture was a wonderful success— house so full that everybody who could pay turned from the doors. It happened thus:
Walking about Salt Lake City on the morning before the lecture, I met
Elder Kimball. Well, I most imprudently gave him a family ticket.
That ticket filled the house, and left about a dozen of the young
Kimballs howling in the cold. After that I limited my family tickets
to "Admit Elder Jones, ten wives, and thirty children."
You may perhaps be astonished that I, a rather fascinating bachelor, escaped from Salt Lake City without the loss of my innocence. Well I will confess, confidentially, that was only by the skin of my teeth, and thanks to the virtuous lecturing of my friend Hingston, whose British prejudices amainst Bigamy, Trigamy, and Brighamy, saying nothing of Ninnygavigamy, could not be overcome.
My narrowest escape was this:
About six hours before I arrived an elder died. I think his name was Smith. You may have heard that name before; but it isn't the Smith you know—it is quite another Smith. Well, this defunct elder left a small assortment of wives behind him—I think there were seventeen—of all ages, from seventeen to seventy. This miscellaneous gathering included three grandmothers, a fact which lent a venerable sanctity to the affair. I received an invitation—I went—and was introduced to the whole seventeen widows at once. Sam Weller or Dr. Shelton Mackenzie—I forget which—says, "One widow is dangerous;" but, perhaps, there is safety in a multitude of them. All I know is, that they made the tenderest appeals to me, as a man and a brother; but I threw myself upon their mercy—I told them I was far away from my parents and my Sainted Maria, and that I was a good young man; and finally, I begged to know if their intentions were honourable?
One said:
"Young man, dash not the cup of happiness from your life!"
I said:
"I have no objection to a cup, but I cannot stand an entire hogshead!"
They grew more and more tender—two put their arms around me and pinioned me, while the other fifteen drew large shears from their pockets, and, under pretence of getting a lock of hair for each, they left me as bare as a goose-egg. Indians couldn't have scalped me closer. I made Samson-like my escape from these Delilahs by stratagem. I assured them that I was sickening for the measles, which, like love, is always the more fatal the later it comes in life. I also told them that my friend Hingston was a much better looking man than I was; also that he was an Englishman, and that, according to that nation's creed, every Englishman is equal to five Americans and five hundred Frenchmen: consequently there would be some to spare of him. This happy thought saved me. I was let off upon solemnly promising to deliver Hingston into their arms, bound, Laocoon-like, by the serpent spells of their charms, or, like Regulus, potted and preserved in a barrel of fingernails, for their especial scratching.
Hingston, little dreaming of the sale I had made of him, went on the pretended errand of conveying to these seventeen beauties a farewell bouquet. Poor fellow! that is the last I ever saw of him—he was never heard of again.
The gentleman who acts as my manager is somebody else. I must ask the indulgence of the audience for twenty minutes, while I drop a few tears to his memory. (Here Artemus holds his head over a barrel, and the distinct dripping of a copious shower is heard.)
As I feel a little better, I will recommence my lecture—I don't mean to defend Mormonism—indeed, I have no hesitation in affirming, and I affirm it boldly, and I would repeat the observation to my own wife's face, if I had one, but as I haven't one, I'll say it boldly to every other man's wife, that I don't think it wise to marry more than one wife at a time, without it is done to oblige the ladies, and then it should be done sparingly, and not oftener than three times a day, for the marriage ceremony isn't lightly to be repeated. But I want to tell you what Brigham Young observed to me.
"Artemus, my boy," said he, "you don't know how often a man marries against his will. Let me recite one case out of a hundred that has happened to myself. About three months ago a family arrived here— they were from Hoboken—everybody knows how beautiful the Jersey girls are—with the exception of applejack, they are the nicest things Jersey produces. Well, this family consisted of four daughters, a mother and two grandmothers, one with teeth, the other without. I took a fancy to the youngest of the girls, and proposed. After considerable reflection she said: 'I can't think of marrying you without you marry my three sisters as well.'
"After some considerable hesitation I agreed, and went to the girl's mother for her consent: 'No objection to your marrying my four girls, but you'll have to take me as well.' After a little reflection, I consented, and went to the two grandmothers for their consent:—'No objection,' said the old dames in a breath, 'but you'll have to marry us as well. We cannot think of separating the family.' After a little cosy hesitation on my part, I finally agreed to swallow the two old venerable antiquities as a sort of sauce to the other five."
Under these circumstances, who can wonder at Brigham Young being the most highly married man in the Republic? In a word, he is too much married—indeed, if I were he, I should say two hundred and too much married.
As I see my esteemed friend Joe Whitton, of Niblo's Garden, sitting right before me, I will give him an anecdote which he will appreciate. There is considerable barter in Salt Lake City—horses and cows are good for hundred-dollar greenbacks, while pigs, dogs, cats, babies, and pickaxes are the fractional currency. I dare say my friend Joe Whitton would be as much astonished as I was after my first lecture. Seeing a splendid house I naturally began to reckon my spondulics. Full of this Pactolean vision, I went into my treasurer's room.
"Now, Hingston, my boy, let us see what the proceeds are! We shall soon make a fortune at this rate."
Hingston with the solemnity of a cashier, then read the proceeds of the lecture:
"Three cows, one with horns, and two without, but not a stumptail; fourteen pigs, alive and grunting; seventeen hams, sugar cured; three babies in arms, two of them cutting their teeth, and the other sickening with the chicken-coop, or some such disease." There were no end of old hats, ladies' hoops, corsets, and another article of clothing, generally stolen from the husband. There was also a secondhand coffin, three barrels of turnips, and a peck of coals; there was likewise a footless pair of stockings without the legs, and a pair of embroidered gaiters, a little worn. If I could find the legs belonging to them—well, I won't say what I'd do now—but leave all ladies in that pleasing state of expectation which is true happiness. Ladies and gentlemen, my lecture is done—if you refuse to leave the hall, you'll be forcibly ejected.