by R. H. Newell
Do you remember the asinine time in your own life, my boy,--do youremember it? I know that you do, my boy, for I can feel your blush onmy own cheeks.
Of the few women of America who looked upon me with favor, there wasone--Ellen--whom I really loved, I think; for of all the girls, themention of her name, alone, gave me that peculiar feeling in whichinstinctive impulse blends undefinably and perpetually with a sense ofreverent respect; or, rather, with a sense of some unworthiness ofself. Ellen died before I had known her a year. I thought afterwards,like any other youngster, that I loved half-a-dozen different girls;but, even in maturer years, second love is a poor imitation. Say whatyou will about second love, my boy, in the breast of him truly a man,it is but an _imperium in imperio_--a flower on the grave of the first.
There was one young woman of America in our village, my boy, about whomthe chaps teased me not a little; and I might, perhaps, have beenteased into matrimony, like many another unfortunate, but for theexample of a Salsbury chap I met one night in one of the villagestores. He was a Yankee chap with much southwestern experience, my boy,and when he heard the lads teasing me about a woman, he hoisted hisheels upon the counter, and says he:
"Anybody'd think that creation was born with a frock on, to hear theway you younkers talk woman. Darn the she-critters!" says he, shuttinghis jack-knife with a clash. "I'd rayther be as lonesome as a borryedpup, than see a piece of caliker as big as a pancake. What's wimmen buta tarnation bundle of gammon and petticoats. Powerful! Be you marriedfolks, stranger?"
"Not yet," says I.
"Don't never be then," says he. "My name's Smith--one of the Smithsesdown to Salsbury, that's guaranteed to put away as much provender andcarry as big a turkey as ever set on critters down in that deestrict.And whilst my name's Smith, there'll never be a younker to call me'daddy,' ef a gal was to have Jerusalem tantrums after me. You'rn astranger, and ain't married folks; but I don't mind tellin' ye about agolfired rumpus I got into down in Salsbury when I took to a gal thatstuck out all around like a hay-stack, an' was a screamer atchoir-meetin' and such like. Her name was Sal Green--one of theGreenses down in Pegtown--and the first time I took a notion to her wasdown to the old shingle meetin'-house, when Sam Spooner had a buryin'.When the parson gets out a hymn, she straightened up like a rooster atsix o'clock of daybreak, and let out a string of screams that set allthe babies to yelping as though big pins was goin' clean through theirinsides. Geewhillikins! how the critter did squawk and squeal, and turnup her eyes like a sick duck in a shower. I was jest fool enough tothink it pooty; and when my old man says, says he, 'Jed, you're tookall of a heap with that pooty creeter,' I felt as ef chills an' feverwas givin' me partikiler agony. Says I, 'She's an armful fur theprintze of Wales, and ef that Bob Tompkins don't stop makin' eyes ather over there, I'll give him sech a lacing that he won't comb his hairfor six weeks.'
"The old man put a chaw into his meat-safe, and shut one eye; and, sezhe: 'Jed, you're a fool ef you don't hook that gal's dress fur herbefore next harvestin'. She's a mighty scrumptious creetur, and justabout ripe for the altar. Jest tell her there's more Smithses wantedan' she'll leave the Greenses 'thout a snicker.' I rayther liked theidee: but I told the old man that his punkin-pie was all squash;because it wouldn't do to let on too soon. When the folks was startin'from the church, I went up to Sal, and sez I, 'Miss, I s'pose youwouldn't mind lettin' me see you tu hum.' She blushed like a biledlobster, and sez she: 'I don't know your folks.' I felt sorterstreaked; but I gev my collar a hitch, and sez I: 'I'm Mister Smith:one of the Smithses of this deestrict, an' always willin' for a femalein distress.' Then she made a curtesy, an' was goin' to say somethin',when Bob Tompkins steps up, and sez he: 'There's a-goin' to be anotherburyin' in this settlement, ef some folks don't mind their own chores,an' quit foolin' with other folkses company!' This riled me rite up,and sez I: 'There's a feller in this deestrict that hain't had a spellof layin' on his back for some time: but he's in immediate danger ofketchin' the disease bad.' Bob took a squint at the width of my chist,and then he turned to Sal, who was shakin' like a cabbage leaf in asummer gale, and sez he: 'Sal, let's marvel out of bad company beforeit spiles our morials.' With that he crooked one of his smashin'machines, and Sal was jest hookin' on, when I put the weight of aboutone hundred pounds under his ear, an' sez I: 'Jest lay there, BobTompkins, until your parients comes out to look fur your body.' He wentdown as ef he'd been took with a suddint desire to examine the roots ofthe grass, and Sal screamed out that I'd murdered the rantankerouscritter. Sez I: 'The tombstun that's fur his head ain't cut yet: but Icalkilate it'll be took out of the quarry ef he comes smellin' aroundmy heels ag'in.' Jest as I made this feelin' remark, the varmint beganto scratch earth as ef he had a mind to see how it would feel to be onhis pins ag'in, and I crooked my elbow to Sal and thought it was abouttime to marvel. She layed up to me like a pig to a rough post, and weperegrinated along for some distance until we were pretty nigh hum. Iwas askin' her ef it hurt her much when she sung, an' she was sayin''not partikeler,' when all of a suddint somethin' knockedFourth-o'-July fireworks out of my eyes, and I went to grass with myheels up. It was Bob Tompkins, and sez he: 'Lay there, Mr. Smith, andlet us here from you by the next mail.' For a minute, I thought I wasbound for glory, but pooty soon I come to my oats, and then I rolledover and seen Bob a-squeezing Sal's hand. All right, my prooshian blue,thinks I, there'll be a 'pothecary's bill for some family in this heredeestrict: but I won't say who's to pay it at present. I jest waited tosee the feller try to put his nose into Sal's face, and then Istretched to my feet, and sez I: 'This here pasture wants a littlemashin' down to make it fruitful, and it's my impreshun that I can doit.' Sal see that I was bound to make somebody smell agony, so she jistripped away from Bob, and marveled for the house, screaming 'fire,'like a scrumptious fire-department. Bob looked after her for a minit,and then he turned to me, and sez he: 'I hope your folks have got somecrape to hum; because there's goin' to be a job fur our wirtuoussexton.' I kinder smiled outer one eye, and sez I: 'When Sal and I ismarried, we'll drop a tear fur the early decease of an individual whonever would hev been born if it hadn't been for your parients.' Thisriled Bob up awful, and he came right at me, like a mad bull at a redshawl. I felt somethin' drop on the bridge of my nose, and see a hullnest of sky rockets all at onct; but I only keeled for the shake of atail, and then I piled in like a mad buffalo with the cholic. It wasgive and take for about five minutes; and, I tell you, Bob played awayon my nose like a Trojan. The blood flu some, and I was sorry I hadn'tsaid good-bye to the folks before I left them; but I gave Bob somehappy evidences of youthful Christianity around his goggles, and pootysoon he looked as ef he'd been brought up to the charcoal business. Wewas makin' pooty good time round the lot, when, all of a suddint, Salcame running up with her father and mother; and, sez the old feller:'Ef you two members of the church don't stop your religious exercises,there'll be some preachin' from the book of John.'
"With that, Bob took his paw out of my hair, and sez he: 'Smithses sonhit me the first whack.' I jest promenaded up to the old man, and sezI: 'If you'll jest show me a good buryin'-place, I'll take pleasure inmakin' a funeral for the Tompkinses.' The old man looked kinderqueerious at Sally, and she commenced to snicker; and sez she: 'Whatare you two fellers rumpussin' about?' I looked lovin' at her, and sezI: 'It's to see who shall hev the pootiest gal of all the Greenses.'When I said this, the old man bust into a larf like a wild hyenner; andthe old woman, she put her hands across her stummik and begin to larflike mad, and Sal she snickered right eout in my countenance, and sezshe: 'Why, I'm engaged to Sam Slocum!'
"Strannger, there's no use of talkin'. My hair riz right up like ablackin'-brush, and Bob's eyes came out like peas out of a yaller pod.There was speechless silence for two minits, and then says Bob:'There's a couple of golfired fools somewheres in this country, andit's a pity their dads ever seen their mothers.' I see he felt powerfulmean, so I walked up to him, and sez I: 'Suppose we go and look for theNew Jerusalem?' He jest hooked to my
elbow, and without sayin' anotherword, we marveled for hum.
"Sence that, I hain't held no communion with petticoats, and ef I everget married, you shall hev an invite to the funeral."
As I went home that night, my boy, after hearing the story of thatrude, unlettered man, I made up my mind to have nothing more to do withthe uncertain women of America, until my position should be such thatthey would not dare to "fool" me. The women of America, my boy, areequally apt at making a fool of a man in his own estimation, and a manof a fool in _their_ own.
Yours, for celibacy,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.
LETTER III.
OUR CORRESPONDENT BECOMES LITERARY, AND FATHOMS CERTAIN MYSTERIES OFJOURNALISM. HE PRODUCES A DISTINCTIVE AMERICAN POEM, AND GAINS THEUSUAL REWARD OF YOUTHFUL GENIUS.
WASHINGTON, D.C., March 31st, 1861.
As far I can trace back, my boy, we never had a literary character inour family, save a venerable aunt of mine, on my mother's side, whocommenced her writing career by refusing to contribute to the Sundaypapers, and subsequently won much fame as the authoress of a set ofcopy-books. When this gifted relative found herself acquiring areputation, she came in state to visit us, and so disgusted my verypractical father by wearing slip-shod gaiters, inking her right handthumb nail every morning, calling all things by European names, andinsisting upon giving our oldest plough horse the romantic and literarytitle of "Lord Byron," that my exasperated parent incurred a mosttremendous prejudice against authorship, my boy, and vowed, when shewent away, that he never would invite her presence again.
I was only twenty years old at that time, and the novelty of my aunt'sconduct had rather an infatuating effect upon me. With that perversityoften observable in youngsters before they have seen much of the world,I became deeply interested in my literary relative as soon as my fathercommenced to speak contemptuously of her pursuits, and it took verylittle time to invest me with a longing and determination to be awriter.
Thenceforth I wore negligent linen; frequently rested my head upon theforefinger of my right hand, with a lofty and abstracted air; assumedan expression of settled and mysterious gloom when at church, andsuffered my hair to grow long and uncombed.
Speaking of the masculine literary habit of wearing the hair in thisway, my boy, I find myself impressed with a profound metaphysical idea.You have probably noticed that writers following this fashion willfrequently scratch their heads when inspiration plays the laggard. Itis also true that wearers of long and uncombed hair who are _not_writers, will scratch their heads in the same way, occasionally. Theaction being the same in both cases, can it be that physiologicalinspection would develope an affinity between the natural causesthereof?
I have often thought of this, my boy,--I've often thought of this.
My bearing during this period of infatuation could hardly fail toattract considerable attention in our village, and there were twoopinions about me. One was that I had been jilted; the other, that Iwas about to become a vagabond and an actor. My father inclined to theformer, and left me, as he thought, to get over my disappointment inthe natural way.
My peripatetic spell had lasted about six weeks, my boy, when I formedthe acquaintance of the editor of the _Lily of the Valley_, whopermitted me to mope in his office now and then, and soothed myliterary inflammation by permitting me to write "puffs" for the villagemilliner.
Oh! the fierce and tremendous ecstasy of that moment when I first sawmy own words in print, with not more than six typographical errors ineach line:--"QUEBN VICTORIA, it is said, is comind to this coontry forthe xpress purpose of obtoining one of these beautiful spring bunnetsat Madame Smith's."
I noticed as I went home on the day of publication, that all whom Ipassed paused to look after me. I was already famous. The discovery, onreaching our house, that one of my temples was somewhat fingered withprinters' ink, did not shake me in this belief, my boy; I was too fargone for that.
The editor of the _Lily_ treated me considerately, and even asked me attimes to accompany him to the place where he daily sipped inspiration,gaining thereby a fresh flow of ideas and the qualified immortality ofcertain additional chalk-marks on the back of a door. I refer to aspirituous establishment.
Finding that the editorial treasury did not redeem its verbalpromissory notes, my boy, the proprietor of this establishment suddenlyput forth a new sign, conspicuously reading:--
TIMOTHY TROT,
LICENSED LIQUOR DEALER, AND ASSOCIATE EDITOR OF THE "LILY OF THE VALLEY."
The editor went to him, and says he:
"What do you mean by this impertinence, Timothy?"
The liquor chap stuck his hands into his pockets, my boy, and says he:
"If I furnish inspiration for nothing, I may as well have some literarycredit. The village swallows what you furnish," says the chap,reasoningly, "and you swallow what I furnish, and so I'm the headeditor after all."
But he took down the sign, my boy, when the editor dissolved thepartnership by paying his score.
What are called Spirited Editorials in the New York papers, my boy,very often involve two swallows as well as a spread-eagle.
While looking over some old magazines in the _Lily_ office one day, Ifound in an ancient British periodical a raking article upon Americanliterature, wherein the critic affirmed that all our writers were butweak imitators of English authors, and that such a thing even as aDistinctively American Poem _sui generis_, had not yet been produced.
This radical sneer at the United States of America fired my Yankeeblood, my boy, and I vowed within myself to write a poem, not onlydistinctively American, but of such a character that only America couldhave produced it. In the solitude of my room, that night, I wooed theaboriginal muse, and two days thereafter the _Lily of the Valley_contained my distinctive American poem of
THE AMERICAN TRAVELER.
To Lake Aghmoogenegamook, All in the State of Maine, A man from Wittequergaugaum came One evening in the rain.
"I am a traveler," said he, "Just started on a tour, And go to Nomjamskillicook To-morrow morn at four."
He took a tavern bed that night, And with the morrow's sun, By way of Sekledobskus went, With carpet-bag and gun.
A week passed on; and next we find Our native tourist come To that sequestered village called Genasagarnagum.
From thence he went to Absequoit, And there--quite tired of Maine-- He sought the mountains of Vermont, Upon a railroad train.
Dog Hollow, in the Green Mount State, Was his first stopping-place, And then Skunk's Misery displayed Its sweetness and its grace.
By easy stages then he went To visit Devil's Den; And Scrabble Hollow, by the way, Did come within his ken.
Then, _via_ Nine Holes and Goose Green, He traveled through the State, And to Virginia, finally, Was guided by his fate.
Within the Old Dominion's bounds, He wandered up and down, To-day, at Buzzard Roost ensconced, To-morrow, at Hell Town.
At Pole Cat, too, he spent a week, Till friends from Bull Ring came, And made him spend a day with them In hunting forest game.
Then, with his carpet-bag in hand, To Dog Town next he went; Though stopping at Free Negro Town, Where half a day he spent.
From thence, into Negationburg His route of travel lay, Which having gained, he left the State And took a southward way.
North Carolina's friendly soil He trod at fall of night, And, on a bed of softest down, He slept at Hell's Delight.
Morn found him on the road again, To Lousy Level bound; At Bull's Tail, and Lick Lizzard, too, Good provender he found.
The country all about Pinch Gut So beautiful did seem, That the beholder thought it like A picture in a dream.
But the plantations near Burnt Coat Were even finer still, And made the won
d'ring tourist feel A soft, delicious thrill.
At Tear Shirt too, the scenery Most charming did appear, With Snatch It in the distance far, And Purgatory near.
But spite of all these pleasant scenes, The tourist stoutly swore, That home is brightest, after all, And travel is a bore.
So back he went to Maine, straightway, A little wife he took; And now is making nutmegs at Moosehicmagunticook.
In his note, introductory of this poem, my boy, the editor of the_Lily_ affirmed (which is strictly true) that I had named none butveritable localities; and ventured the belief that the compositionwould remind his readers of Goldsmith. Upon which his scorpioncontemporary in the next village observed, that there was rather moresmith than gold about the poem. Genius, my boy, is never appreciateduntil its possessor is dead; and even the useless praise it thenobtains is chiefly due to the pleasure that is experienced in buryingthe poor wretch.
Up to the time when this poem appeared in print, I had succeeded inconcealing from my father the nature of my incidental occupation; butnow he must know all.
He did know all, my boy; and the result was, that he gave me tendollars, and sent me to New York to look out for myself.