this expedient long ago. Dumas's novel of _The Iron Mask_ turns on the
brutal imprisonment of Louis the Fourteenth's double. There seems
little doubt, in our own history, that it was the real General Pierce
who shed tears when the delegate from Lawrence explained to him the
sufferings of the people there - and only General Pierce's double who
had given the orders for the assault on that town, which was invaded
the next day. My charming friend, George Withers, has, I am almost
sure, a double, who preaches his afternoon sermons for him. This is
the reason that the theology often varies so from that of the
forenoon. But that double is almost as charming as the original. Some
of the most well-defined men, who stand out most prominently on the
background of history, are in this way stereoscopic men; who owe their
distinct relief to the slight differences between the doubles. All
this I know. My present suggestion is simply the great extension of
the system, so that all public machine-work may be done by it.
But I see I loiter on my story, which is rushing to the plunge. Let me
stop an instant more, however, to recall, were it only to myself, that
charming year while all was yet well. After the double had become a
matter of course, for nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a
year it was! Full of active life, full of happy love, of the hardest
work, of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfilment of so many of the
fresh aspirations and dreams of boyhood! Dennis went to every
school-committee meeting, and sat through all those late wranglings
which used to keep me up till midnight and awake till morning. He
attended all the lectures to which foreign exiles sent me tickets
begging me to come for the love of Heaven and of Bohemia. He accepted
and used all the tickets for charity concerts which were sent to me.
He appeared everywhere where it was specially desirable that "our
denomination," or "our party," or "our class," or "our family," or
"our street," or "our town," or "our country," or "our state," should
be fully represented. And I fell back to that charming life which in
boyhood one dreams of, when he supposes he shall do his own duty and
make his own sacrifices, without being tied up with those of other
people. My rusty Sanskrit, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French,
Italian, Spanish, German and English began to take polish. Heavens!
how little I had done with them while I attended to my _public_
duties! My calls on my parishioners became the friendly, frequent,
homelike sociabilities they were meant to be, instead of the hard work
of a man goaded to desperation by the sight of his lists of arrears.
And preaching! what a luxury preaching was when I had on Sunday the
whole result of an individual, personal week, from which to speak to a
people whom all that week I had been meeting as hand-to-hand friend! I
never tired on Sunday, and was in condition to leave the sermon at
home, if I chose, and preach it extempore, as all men should do
always. Indeed, I wonder, when I think that a sensible people like
ours - really more attached to their clergy than they were in the lost
days, when the Mathers and Nortons were noblemen - should choose to
neutralize so much of their ministers' lives, and destroy so much of
their early training, by this undefined passion for seeing them in
public. It springs from our balancing of sects. If a spirited
Episcopalian takes an interest in the almshouse, and is put on the
Poor Board, every other denomination must have a minister there, lest
the poorhouse be changed into St. Paul's Cathedral. If a Sandemanian
is chosen president of the Young Men's Library, there must be a
Methodist vice-president and a Baptist secretary. And if a
Universalist Sunday-School Convention collects five hundred delegates,
the next Congregationalist Sabbath-School Conference must be as large,
"lest 'they' - whoever _they_ may be - should think 'we' - whoever _we_
may be - are going down."
Freed from these necessities, that happy year, I began to know my wife
by sight. We saw each other sometimes. In those long mornings, when
Dennis was in the study explaining to map-peddlers that I had eleven
maps of Jerusalem already, and to school-book agents that I would see
them hanged before I would be bribed to introduce their textbooks into
the schools - she and I were at work together, as in those old dreamy
days - and in these of our log-cabin again. But all this could not
last - and at length poor Dennis, my double, overtasked in turn, undid
me.
It was thus it happened. There is an excellent fellow - once a
minister - I will call him Isaacs - who deserves well of the world till
he dies, and after - because he once, in a real exigency, did the right
thing, in the right way, at the right time, as no other man could do
it. In the world's great football match, the ball by chance found him
loitering on the outside of the field; he closed with it, "camped" it,
charged, it home - yes, right through the other side - not disturbed,
not frightened by his own success - and breathless found himself a
great man - as the Great Delta rang applause. But he did not find
himself a rich man; and the football has never come in his way again.
From that moment to this moment he has been of no use, that one can
see, at all. Still, for that great act we speak of Isaacs gratefully
and remember him kindly; and he forges on, hoping to meet the football
somewhere again. In that vague hope, he had arranged a "movement" for
a general organization of the human family into Debating Clubs, County
Societies, State Unions, etc., etc., with a view of inducing all
children to take hold of the handles of their knives and forks,
instead of the metal. Children have bad habits in that way. The
movement, of course, was absurd; but we all did our best to forward,
not it, but him. It came time for the annual county-meeting on this
subject to be held at Naguadavick. Isaacs came round, good fellow! to
arrange for it - got the townhall, got the Governor to preside (the
saint! - he ought to have triplet doubles provided him by law), and
then came to get me to speak. "No," I said, "I would not speak, if ten
Governors presided. I do not believe in the enterprise. If I spoke, it
should be to say children should take hold of the prongs of the forks
and the blades of the knives. I would subscribe ten dollars, but I
would not speak a mill." So poor Isaacs went his way, sadly, to coax
Auchmuty to speak, and Delafield. I went out. Not long after, he came
back, and told Polly that they had promised to speak - the Governor
would speak - and he himself would close with the quarterly report, and
some interesting anecdotes regarding. Miss Biffin's way of handling
her knife and Mr. Nellis's way of footing his fork. "Now if Mr. Ingham
will only come and sit on the platform, he need not say one word; but
it will show well in the paper - it will show that the Sandemanians
take as much interest in the movement as the Armenians or the
Mesopotamians, and will be a great favor to me." Polly, good soul! was
tempted, and she promised. She knew Mrs. Isaacs was starving, and the
babies - she knew Dennis was at home - and she promised! Night came, and
I returned. I heard her story. I was sorry. I doubted. But Polly had
promised to beg me, and I dared all! I told Dennis to hold his peace,
under all circumstances, and sent him down.
It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with
excitement - in a perfect Irish fury - which it was long before I
understood. But I knew at once that he had undone me!
What happened was this: The audience got together, attracted by
Governor Gorges's name. There were a thousand people. Poor Gorges was
late from Augusta. They became impatient. He came in direct from the
train at last, really ignorant of the object of the meeting. He opened
it in the fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present
who would entertain them better than he. The audience were
disappointed, but waited. The Governor, prompted by Isaacs, said, "The
Honorable Mr. Delafield will address you." Delafield had forgotten the
knives and forks, and was playing the Ruy Lopez opening at the chess
club. "The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty will address you." Auchmuty had promised
to speak late, and was at the school committee. "I see Dr. Stearns in
the hall; perhaps he will say a word." Dr. Stearns said he had come to
listen and not to speak. The Governor and Isaacs whispered. The
Governor looked at Dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but
Isaacs, to give him his due, shook his head. But the look was enough.
A miserable lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it
would sound well to call for me, and peeped out, "Ingham!" A few more
wretches cried, "Ingham! Ingham!" Still Isaacs was firm; but the
Governor, anxious, indeed, to prevent a row, knew I would say
something, and said, "Our friend Mr. Ingham is always prepared - and
though we had not relied upon him, he will say a word, perhaps."
Applause followed, which turned Dennis's head. He rose, flattered, and
tried No. 3: "There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well
said, that I will not longer occupy the time!" and sat down, looking
for his hat; for things seemed squally. But the people cried, "Go on!
go on!" and some applauded. Dennis, still confused, but flattered by
the applause, to which neither he nor I are used, rose again, and this
time tried No. 2: "I am very glad you liked it!" in a sonorous, clear
delivery. My best friends stared. All the people who did not know me
personally yelled with delight at the aspect of the evening; the
Governor was beside himself, and poor Isaacs thought he was undone!
Alas, it was I! A boy in the gallery cried in a loud tone, "It's all
an infernal humbug," just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded
silence, and tried No. 4: "I agree, in general, with my friend the
other side of the room." The poor Governor doubted his senses, and
crossed to stop him - not in time, however. The same gallery-boy
shouted, "How's your mother?" - and Dennis, now completely lost, tried,
as his last shot, No. 1, vainly: "Very well, thank you; and you?"
I think I must have been undone already. But Dennis, like another
Lockhard chose "to make sicker." The audience rose in a whirl of
amazement, rage, and sorrow. Some other impertinence, aimed at Dennis,
broke all restraint, and, in pure Irish, he delivered himself of an
address to the gallery, inviting any person who wished to fight to
come down and do so - stating, that they were all dogs and
cowards - that he would take any five of them single-handed, "Shure, I
have said all his Riverence and the Misthress bade me say," cried he,
in defiance; and, seizing the Governor's cane from his hand,
brandished it, quarter-staff fashion, above his head. He was, indeed,
got from the hall only with the greatest difficulty by the Governor,
the City Marshal, who had been called in, and the Superintendent of my
Sunday School.
The universal impression, of course, was, that the Rev. Frederic
Ingham had lost all command of himself in some of those haunts of
intoxication which for fifteen years I have been laboring to destroy.
Till this moment, indeed, that is the impression in Naguadavick. This
number of _The Atlantic_ will relieve from it a hundred friends of
mine who have been sadly wounded by that notion now for years - but I
shall not be likely ever to show my head there again.
No! My double has undone me.
We left town at seven the next morning. I came to No. 9, in the Third
Range, and settled on the Minister's Lot, In the new towns in Maine,
the first settled minister has a gift of a hundred acres of land. I am
the first settled minister in No. 9. My wife and little Paulina are my
parish. We raise corn enough to live on in summer. We kill bear's meat
enough to carbonize it in winter. I work on steadily on my _Traces of
Sandemanianism in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries_, which I hope to
persuade Phillips, Sampson & Co. to publish next year. We are very
happy, but the world thinks we are undone.
A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED PUNSTERS
By Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)
[From _The Atlantic Monthly_, January, 1861. Republished in _Soundings
from the Atlantic_ (1864), by Oliver Wendell Holmes, whose authorized
publishers are the Houghton Mifflin Company.]
Having just returned from a visit to this admirable Institution in
company with a friend who is one of the Directors, we propose giving a
short account of what we saw and heard. The great success of the
Asylum for Idiots and Feeble-minded Youth, several of the scholars
from which have reached considerable distinction, one of them being
connected with a leading Daily Paper in this city, and others having
served in the State and National Legislatures, was the motive which
led to the foundation of this excellent charity. Our late
distinguished townsman, Noah Dow, Esquire, as is well known,
bequeathed a large portion of his fortune to this establishment -
"being thereto moved," as his will expressed it, "by the desire of
_N. Dowing_ some public Institution for the benefit of Mankind."
Being consulted as to the Rules of the Institution and the selection
of a Superintendent, he replied, that "all Boards must construct
their own Platforms of operation. Let them select _anyhow_ and he
should be pleased." N.E. Howe, Esq., was chosen in compliance with
this delicate suggestion.
The Charter provides for the support of "One hundred aged and decayed
Gentlemen-Punsters." On inquiry if there way no provision for
_females_, my friend called my attention to this remarkable
psychological fact, namely:
THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A FEMALE PUNSTER.
This remark struck me forcibly, and on reflection I found that _I
never knew nor heard of one_, though I have once or twice heard a
woman make a _single detached_ pun, as I have known a hen to crow.
On arriving at the south gate of the Asylum grounds, I was about to
ring, but my friend held my arm and begged me to rap with my stick,
which I did. An old man with a very comical face presently opened the
gate and put out his head.
"So you prefer _Cane_ to _A bell_, do you?" he said - and began
chuckling and coughing at a great rate.
My friend winked at me.
"You're here still, Old Joe, I see," he said to the old man.
"Yes, yes - and it's very odd, considering how often I've _bolted_,
nights."
He then threw open the double gates for us to ride through.
"Now," said the old man, as he pulled the gates after us, "you've had
a long journey."
"Why, how is that, Old Joe?" said my friend.
"Don't you see?" he answered; "there's the _East hinges_ on the one
side of the gate, and there's the _West hinges_ on t'other side - haw!
haw! haw!"
We had no sooner got into the yard than a feeble little gentleman,
with a remarkably bright eye, came up to us, looking very serious, as
if something had happened.
"The town has entered a complaint against the Asylum as a gambling
establishment," he said to my friend, the Director.
"What do you mean?" said my friend.
"Why, they complain that there's a _lot o' rye_ on the premises," he
answered, pointing to a field of that grain - and hobbled away, his
shoulders shaking with laughter, as he went.
On entering the main building, we saw the Rules and Regulations for
the Asylum conspicuously posted up. I made a few extracts which may be
interesting:
SECT. I. OF VERBAL EXERCISES.
5. Each Inmate shall be permitted to make Puns freely from eight in
the morning until ten at night, except during Service in the Chapel
and Grace before Meals.
6. At ten o'clock the gas will be turned off, and no further Puns,
Conundrums, or other play on words will be allowed to be uttered, or
to be uttered aloud.
9. Inmates who have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make
Puns shall be permitted to repeat such as may be selected for them by
the Chaplain out of the work of _Mr. Joseph Miller_.
10. Violent and unmanageable Punsters, who interrupt others when
engaged in conversation, with Puns or attempts at the same, shall be
deprived of their _Joseph Millers_, and, if necessary, placed in
solitary confinement.
SECT. III. OF DEPORTMENT AT MEALS.
4. No Inmate shall make any Pun, or attempt at the same, until the
Blessing has been asked and the company are decently seated.
7. Certain Puns having been placed on the _Index Expurgatorius_ of the
Institution, no Inmate shall be allowed to utter them, on pain of
being debarred the perusal of _Punch_ and _Vanity Fair_, and, if
repeated, deprived of his _Joseph Miller_.
Among these are the following:
Allusions to _Attic salt_, when asked to pass the salt-cellar.
Remarks on the Inmates being _mustered_, etc., etc.
Associating baked beans with the _bene_-factors of the Institution.
Saying that beef-eating is _befitting_, etc., etc.
The following are also prohibited, excepting to such Inmates as may
have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make Puns of their
own:
" - - your own _hair_ or a wig"; "it will be _long enough_," etc.,
etc.; "little of its age," etc., etc.; also, playing upon the
following words: _hos_pital; _mayor_; _pun_; _pitied_; _bread_;
_sauce_, etc., etc., etc. _See_ INDEX EXPURGATORIUS, _printed for use
of Inmates_.
The subjoined Conundrum is not allowed: Why is Hasty Pudding like the
Prince? Because it comes attended by its _sweet_; nor this variation
to it, _to wit_: Because the _'lasses runs after it_.
The Superintendent, who went round with us, had been a noted punster
in his time, and well known in the business world, but lost his
customers by making too free with their names - as in the famous story
he set afloat in '29 _of four Jerries_ attaching to the names of a
noted Judge, an eminent Lawyer, the Secretary of the Board of Foreign
Missions, and the well-known Landlord at Springfield. One of the _four
Jerries_, he added, was of gigantic magnitude. The play on words was
brought out by an accidental remark of Solomons, the well-known
Banker. "_Capital punishment_!" the Jew was overheard saying, with
reference to the guilty parties. He was understood, as saying, _A
capital pun is meant_, which led to an investigation and the relief of
the greatly excited public mind.
The Superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went round
with us.
"Do you know" - he broke out all at once - "why they don't take steppes
in Tartary for establishing Insane Hospitals?"
We both confessed ignorance.
"Because there are _nomad_ people to be found there," he said, with a
dignified smile.
He proceeded to introduce us to different Inmates. The first was a
middle-aged, scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a
_Webster's Dictionary_ and a sheet of paper before him.
"Well, what luck to-day, Mr. Mowzer?" said the Superintendent.
"Three or four only," said Mr. Mowzer. "Will you hear 'em now - now I'm
here?"
We all nodded.
"Don't you see Webster _ers_ in the words cent_er_ and theat_er_?
"If he spells leather _lether_, and feather _fether_, isn't there
danger that he'll give us a _bad spell of weather_?
"Besides, Webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow _u_ to rest
quietly in the _mould_.
"And again, because Mr. Worcester inserts an illustration in his text,
is that any reason why Mr. Webster's publishers should hitch one on in
their appendix? It's what I call a _Connect-a-cut_ trick.
"Why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven? Because it is
_under bread_."
"Mowzer!" said the Superintendent, "that word is on the Index!"
"I forgot," said Mr. Mowzer; "please don't deprive me of _Vanity Fair_
this one time, sir."
"These are all, this morning. Good day, gentlemen." Then to the
Superintendent: "Add you, sir!"
The next Inmate was a semi-idiotic-looking old man. He had a heap of
block-letters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed, without
saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them on the table.
They were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of transposing the
letters of the words employed without addition or subtraction. Here
are a few of them:
TIMES. SMITE!
POST. STOP!
TRIBUNE. TRUE NIB.
WORLD. DR. OWL.
ADVERTISER. { RES VERI DAT.
{ IS TRUE. READ!
ALLOPATHY. ALL O' TH' PAY.
HOMOEOPATHY. O, THE - - ! O! O, MY! PAH!
The mention of several New York papers led to two or three questions.
Thus: Whether the Editor of _The Tribune_ was _H.G. really_? If the
complexion of his politics were not accounted for by his being _an
eager_ person himself? Whether Wendell _Fillips_ were not a reduced
copy of John _Knocks_? Whether a New York _Feuilletoniste_ is not the
same thing as a _Fellow down East_?
At this time a plausible-looking, bald-headed man joined us, evidently
waiting to take a part in the conversation.
"Good morning, Mr. Riggles," said the Superintendent, "Anything fresh
this morning? Any Conundrum?"
"I haven't looked at the cattle," he answered, dryly.
"Cattle? Why cattle?"
"Why, to see if there's any _corn under 'em_!" he said; and
immediately asked, "Why is Douglas like the earth?"
We tried, but couldn't guess.
"Because he was _flattened out at the polls_!" said Mr. Riggles.
"A famous politician, formerly," said the Superintendent. "His
grandfather was a _seize-Hessian-ist_ in the Revolutionary War. By the
way, I hear the _freeze-oil_ doctrines don't go down at New Bedford."
The next Inmate looked as if he might have been a sailor formerly.
"Ask him what his calling was," said the Superintendent.
"Followed the sea," he replied to the question put by one of us. "Went
as mate in a fishing-schooner."
"Why did you give it up?"
"Because I didn't like working for _two mast-ers_," he replied.
Presently we came upon a group of elderly persons, gathered about a
venerable gentleman with flowing locks, who was propounding questions
to a row of Inmates.
"Can any Inmate give me a motto for M. Berger?" he said.
Nobody responded for two or three minutes. At last one old man, whom I
at once recognized as a Graduate of our University (Anno 1800) held up
his hand.
"Rem _a cue_ tetigit."
"Go to the head of the class, Josselyn," said the venerable patriarch.
The successful Inmate did as he was told, but in a very rough way,
pushing against two or three of the Class.
"How is this?" said the Patriarch.
"You told me to go up _jostlin'_," he replied.
The old gentlemen who had been shoved about enjoyed the pun too much
to be angry.
Presently the Patriarch asked again:
"Why was M. Berger authorized to go to the dances given to the
Prince?"
The Class had to give up this, and he answered it himself:
"Because every one of his carroms was a _tick-it_ to the ball."
"Who collects the money to defray the expenses of the last campaign in
Italy?" asked the Patriarch.
Here again the Class failed.
"The war-cloud's rolling _Dun_," he answered.
"And what is mulled wine made with?"
Three or four voices exclaimed at once:
"_Sizzle-y_ Madeira!"
Here a servant entered, and said, "Luncheon-time." The old gentlemen,
who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one of them politely
asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of bread and a little
mite of cheese.
"There is one thing I have forgotten to show you," said the
Superintendent, "the cell for the confinement of violent and
unmanageable Punsters."
We were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the
alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could
possibly be made.
The Superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then
along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into another
passageway, and opened a large door which looked out on the main
entrance.
"We have not seen the cell for the confinement of 'violent and
unmanageable' Punsters," we both exclaimed.
"This is the _sell_!" he exclaimed, pointing to the outside prospect.
My friend, the Director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly that
I had to laugh.
"We like to humor the Inmates," he said. "It has a bad effect, we
find, on their health and spirits to disappoint them of their little
pleasantries. Some of the jests to which we have listened are not new
to me, though I dare say you may not have heard them often before. The
same thing happens in general society, with this additional
disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for 'violent and
unmanageable' Punsters, as in our Institution."
We made our bow to the Superintendent and walked to the place where
our carriage was waiting for us. On our way, an exceedingly decrepit
old man moved slowly toward us, with a perfectly blank look on his
face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak.
"Look!" said the Director - "that is our Centenarian."
The ancient man crawled toward us, cocked one eye, with which he
seemed to see a little, up at us, and said:
"Sarvant, young Gentlemen. Why is a - a - a - like a - a - a - ? Give it up?
Because it's a - a - a - a - ."
He smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough.
"One hundred and seven last Christmas," said the Director. "Of late
years he puts his whole Conundrums in blank - but they please him just
as well."
We took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit,
hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the Records of
this excellent Charity and making extracts for the benefit of our
Readers.
THE CELEBRATED JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY
By Mark Twain (1835-1910)
[From _The Saturday Press_, Nov. 18, 1865. Republished in _The
Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches_
(1867), by Mark Twain, all of whose works are published by Harper &
Brothers.]
In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from
the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and
inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to
do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that
_Leonidas W_. Smiley is a myth; and that my friend never knew such a
personage; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler
about him, it would remind him of his infamous _Jim Smiley_, and he
would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating
reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to
me. If that was the design, it succeeded.
I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the
dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel's, and I
noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of
winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He
roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend had commissioned
me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood
named _Leonidas W_. Smiley - _Rev. Leonidas W._ Smiley, a young
minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of
Angel's Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about
this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to
him.
Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his
chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which
follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never
changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned his
initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of
enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a
vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly
that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or
funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter,
and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in _finesse_.
I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.
"Rev. Leonidas W. H'm, Reverend Le - well, there was a feller here once
by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of '49 - or may be it was
the spring of '50 - I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what
makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big
flume warn't finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he
was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up
you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if
he couldn't he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man would
suit _him_ - any way just so's he got a bet, _he_ was satisfied. But
still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He
was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no
solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and
take any side you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a
horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end
of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a
cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on
it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you
which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be
there reg'lar to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best
exhorter about here, and he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a
straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would
take him to get to - to wherever he _was_ going to, and if you took him
up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find
out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of
the boys here has seen that Smiley and can tell you about him. Why, it
never made no difference to _him_ - he'd bet on _any_ thing - the
dangest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good
while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one
morning he come in, and Smiley up and asked him how she was, and he
said she was considerable better - thank the Lord for his inf'nit'
mercy - and coming on so smart that with the blessing of Prov'dence
she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, ‘Well, I'll
risk two-and-a-half she don't anyway.'"
Thish-yer Smiley had a mare - the boys called her the fifteen-minute
nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was
faster than that - and he used to win money on that horse, for all she
was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the
consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or
three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at
the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate-like, and come
cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber,
sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the
fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with
her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose - and always fetch up at
the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it
down.
And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd think he
warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay for a
chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him he was a
different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'-castle
of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like the
furnaces. And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him,
and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew
Jackson - which was the name of the pup - Andrew Jackson would never let
on but what _he_ was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else - and
the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time,
till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that
other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it - not
chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they throwed
up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that
pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs,
because they'd been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing
had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to
make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a minute how he'd been
imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak,
and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like,
and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out
bad. He gave Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and
it was _his_ fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for
him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and
then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup,
was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if
he'd lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius - I know it,
because he hadn't no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to
reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them
circumstances if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry
when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.
Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and
tom-cats and all of them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and
you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He
ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to
educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in
his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he _did_
learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next
minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut - see
him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start,
and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so
in the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant,
that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him. Smiley
said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do 'most
anything - and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down
here on this floor - Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog - and sing
out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring
straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on
the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the
side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no
idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a
frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so
gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level,
he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his
breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you
understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on
him as long as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog,
and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been
everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see.
Well, Smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to
fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller - a
stranger in the camp, he was - come acrost him with his box, and says:
"What might be that you've got in the box?"
And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, "It might be a parrot, or it
might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't - it's only just a frog."
And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round
this way and that, and says, "H'm - so 'tis. Well, what's _he_ good
for?"
"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "he's good enough for _one_
thing, I should judge - he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."
The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look,
and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, "Well," he
says, "I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any
other frog."
"Maybe you don't," Smiley says. "Maybe you understand frogs and maybe
you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you
ain't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got _my_ opinion and
I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras
County."
And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like,
"Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog; but if I had
a frog, I'd bet you."
And then Smiley says, "That's all right - that's all right - if you'll
hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller
took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and
set down to wait.
So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to his-self, and
then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon
and filled him full of quail shot - filled! him pretty near up to his
chin - and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and
slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a
frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:
"Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his forepaws
just even with Dan'l's, and I'll give the word." Then he says,
"One - two - three - _git_!" and him and the feller touched up the frogs
from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan'l give a
heave, and hysted up his shoulders - so - like a Frenchman, but it
warn't no use - he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church,
and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a
good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no
idea what the matter was, of course.
The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out
at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder - so - at
Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, "Well," he says, "_I_ don't
see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."
Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long
time, and at last says, "I do wonder what in the nation that frog
throwed off for - I wonder if there ain't something the matter with
him - he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow." And he ketched Dan'l up
by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, "Why blame my cats
if he don't weigh five pounds!" and turned him upside down and he
belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and
he was the maddest man - he set the frog down and took out after that
feller, but he never ketched him. And - -
(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got
up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me as he moved away, he
said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy - I ain't going
to be gone a second."
But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history
of the enterprising vagabond _Jim_ Smiley would be likely to afford me
much information concerning the Rev. _Leonidas W._ Smiley, and so I
started away.
At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed
me and recommenced:
"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller, one-eyed cow that didn't have no
tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and - - "
However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear
about the afflicted cow, but took my leave.
ELDER BROWN'S BACKSLIDE
By Harry Stillwell Edwards (1855- )
[From _Harper's Magazine_, August, 1885; copyright, 1885, by Harper &