Chapter 2

HERSEY DEATHBURY was an extraordinary woman. A woman of genius, sir. What if her make-up _was_ limited? What if, when she was born, nature _was_ economizing, and gave her only one eye, and she was lame and hump-backed, and hadn't got any eyebrows and wore a wig; what of that? It's to her credit, _I_ say. You saw her just as she was. No airs _there_. And in this lay the great charm of H. DEATHBURY'S character. Looking at her closely, you would see a fixed and stony eye and a chronic scowl, and you would say: "Disposition a little morose; some man has soured on her." Looking at her more closely, you would see under her right arm a common blackboard, such as is used in schools, and over her shoulder a canvas bag containing lumps of chalk, and you would say: "A little eccentric; likes to write on the blackboard instead of talking. Would make a nice wife. Looks, on the whole, like a country schoolma'am, whom the boys have stoned out of town, with the fixtures of the school-house tied to her." But she has talents. What is she, an authoress? "Yes, she is." But, like other authoresses, she isn't appreciated, and has returned to her legitimate occupation, the Wash-Tub; but still doth she itch for fame, and so, between times, she writes verbose essays on Female Suffrage, composed during the process known as "wringing." And when there's a Woman's Rights Convention in that locality, she sits on the platform, and applauds all the Red-Hot Resolutions with that trenchant female weapon, the umbrella, in one hand, and an antediluvian reticule the other. In the words of the Hon. MICHAEL: "She is not only a leading _Re_former, sir, but a great _Plat_former." And Mrs. LADLE will tell you that, as a washer, she is superb. She "does up things" in a manner simply celestial.

Mrs. LADLE told her first to shut the door.

"Have you seen ANN BRUMMET to-day?" she said.

HERSEY nodded.

"Where?" was the eager inquiry.

HERSEY DEATHBURY placed her blackboard against the wall, unslung her chalk, and wrote in very large letters:--

"I C hur a-Goin on The rode 2 forneys Kragg."

"Ah!" ejaculated Mrs. LADLE joyfully, "traced at last." And she ran to tell the Hon. MICHAEL all about it.

* * *

The Half-Way House at Forney's Crag was a hoary-headed old vagabond of a house, that had passed the heyday of its youth long before that great encyclopaedia, the oldest inhabitant, emitted his first infantile squawk. Each successive season caused it to lean a little more and the most casual observer must perceive that it couldn't by any possibility become much leaner without pining entirely away.

Nevertheless, it had been the only hotel that Spunkville could boast, all within a short period of this writing. Like most Western hotels, it had been ably supported by a large floating population, known as "New York Drummers," and many a time had its old walls re-echoed with their guileless hilarity and moral tales; and, if the ancient and time-honored spittoon in the bar-room could speak, it could relate wonderful stories concerning the Sample Gentry; relating, perhaps, to a Spunkville merchant, who, having retreated precipitately down his cellar stairs several tunes during the day, to avoid "them confounded drummers, with their everlasting samples," was, while plodding his lonely way homeward, seized upon by these commercial freebooters, conveyed forthwith to the Half-Way House, and there deluged with such a perfect torrent of brow-beating eloquence as to reduce him to an imbecile state, in which condition he would willingly order large bills of goods, a custom still somewhat in vogue, and known as "commanding trade."

At other times, it was refreshing to see a drummer emerge from a week's carousal, take a drink of plain soda, and write a long letter to his employers concerning the extreme dulness of trade.

But since the new hotel had been built the Half-Way House had waned, and its quiet was only invaded by an occasional straggling traveller or a runaway couple, and its walls resounded with nothing more clamorous than the orgies of a Sunday-school picnic.

It is, however, with the Ladies' Parlor only (that wretched abode of female discomfort in all country hotels) that we have to do.

The furniture of the room consisted of the articles usually found in a _boudoir_ of this kind, to wit: a straight-backed sofa, much worn; the inevitable and horrid straw carpeting; that old Satanic piano, that never was in tune; an antique and rheumatic table, and three wheezy old chairs. The only present attempts at ornament were two in number. The first was a large engraving of the Presidents of the United States, which had formerly done duty in the bar-room, where the villagers were wont to gaze upon it in an awe-struck manner, being impressed with a vague idea that it was CHRISTY'S Minstrels. The second was a living statue, none other than ANN BRUMMET waiting for JEFFRY MAULBOY.

"Half-past three, and not come yet," said she. "Look out, JEFFRY MAULBOY, for if you _do_ go back on me"--

She paused, for she saw a man coming towards the house.

"Well, if that ain't ARCHIBALD BLINKSOP," she added, "I'm regularly sold. What can _he_ want _here_?"

Yes, it was ARCHIBALD sure enough, biting his finger-nails and breathing very short, while he cast furtive glances at the windows.

He went slowly up the steps and into the entry just as Mrs. BACKUP, the landlady of the House, came out of her sitting-room.

Now, Mrs. BACKUP was one of your eminently respectable females, who are always loaded to the muzzle with Beautiful Moral Essays, which they try to cram down everybody's throat, but never practise themselves. She formerly kept a boarding-house in the city, where, at table regularly after soup, she would regale those present with long dissertations on the shocking immorality of the present day, varying the monotony, perhaps, by allusions to the boarders who had just left. "Mr. SIMPSON was a pleasant-spoken young man as I want to see, and as good as the bank, but I'm afraid he _was_ agettin' dissipated;" or, "Mr. FIELDING was quiet and mannerly, and never found fault with his vittles, but he had _one_ DREAD_ful_ habit;" and then she would sigh heavily. And when little Miss PINKHAM, who occupied the second floor back (and who, being a schoolma'am, was naturally debarred from the other sex), indulged in the smallest possible flirtation with the good-looking young man opposite, Mrs. BACKUP'S sharp eye not only saw her, but Mrs. BACKUP'S sharp tongue took occasion to berate her severely on a Sunday morning (for then the boarders are all in), at the top of the first landing (for then the boarders could all hear her). "I _am_ saprised, Miss PINKHAM. Why, when I see that young man asittin' at his winder, and a blowin' beans. Yes, a blowin' beans, Miss PINKHAM, through a horrible tin pop-gun at _your'n_, and a winkin' vicious, and you a enjoyin' on it, Miss PINKHAM, I sot down; yes, I sot right down, and I shuddered. 'Sich doin's in _my_ house,' says I, 'I am totilly congealed.'" When all the time, mind you, the virtuous Mrs. BACKUP was a woman who would bear any amount of watching, having already caused three husbands to frantically emigrate to parts unknown.

Seeing that ARCHIBALD hesitated, she said:--

"Well, young man, what's wanted?"

"I--I--want to see ANN BRUMMET," said ARCHIBALD.

"Oh, you _do_, do you?" rejoined Mrs. BACKUP, regally; "and _who_, may I ask, is ANN BRUMMET?"

"A young lady that I was--a--to meet here," replied ARCHIBALD, timidly.

Mrs. BACKUP immediately organized a virtuous tableau, and glared at him majestically.

"A young lady you was to _meet_ here. _In_-deed. And do you think, young man, that _my_ house is a place where young chaps can go a-roystorin' and a-gallivinatin' about, and a meetin' young women?"

"But I don't want to go oysterin'," said ARCHIBALD, "and I don't know how to galvinate. I only want to tell her something."

"Oh, to _tell_ her something, is it? Well, I'd have _no_ objections, young man, if you _said_ she was your wife. _Then_ you'd have a right, but not now, for my cha-_rac_ter is precious to me, young man."

"But she ain't my wife," said ARCHIBALD; "I only--kind of know her, you see."

"Drat the man," said Mrs. BACKUP to herself; "he's a born fool that can't take a hint like that. TEDDY!" she cried to a seedy-looking, pimply man, who was sucking a forlorn-looking pipe on the back-door step, "you're wanted." She whispered a few words in his ear, and went up-stairs.

TEDDY MCSLUSH was the General Utility man of the Half-Way House. Born down East, of an Irish father and Scotch mother, he was eminently calculated to live by his wits. His natural talents were numerous and sparkling. He could tell more lies without notes than any man in the State, or make a beautiful prayer, all in the way of business. When a runaway couple were married at the Half-Way House, he would not only give the bride away in a voice broken by emotion, but he would bless the bridegroom with tears in his eyes, and he would do all this at the lowest market price. And every Sunday he dressed in a black suit and sung in the choir, and patted the little children on the head, and was generally respected.

He approached ARCHIBALD, and poked him in the ribs, facetiously.

"Ah!" he ejaculated; "and it's a cryin' shame, so it is, that a fine lad like yerself should be took with sich a complaint. It's modeshty what ails ye, man. And wasn't it Mester JOHN SHAKESPEER himself, him as writ the illegant versis, Lord luv his ashis, as says to me only jist afore his breath soured on him, 'TEDDY,' says he, wid much feelin', 'TEDDY, modeshty is a fine thing in a woman,' says he, 'but it's death to a man. Promise me now,' says he, 'for I feel as this clay is a coolin' fast--promise me, TEDDY, as you'll never hev nothink to do with it--no, not never, my boy.' I promised him, and Hevins knows as I've kep' my word. But, Lord alive, I'm a keepin' you all the time from yer own dear wife, as is a dyin' to see you--and a sweet dear it is."

He ushered ARCHIBALD into the Ladies' Parlor, closed the door, and applied his ear to the key-hole, with an air of the most respectful attention.

According to TEDDY'S way of thinking, ANN was not hankering for ARCHIBALD'S society.

"What do you want _here_?" said she, sharply.

"Oh, don't speak cross to me, Miss BRUMMET," said he, looking timidly around. Then he put his finger on his lip, and shook his head energetically.

"I know all about it, you see," said he; "JEFF told me. Oh my! wasn't I struck up, though? But I'll never tell. _He_ couldn't come, you see. His mother sent for him, and--"

"You lie," she broke in fiercely; "it's a put up job between you two. But it won't do; do you _hear_? It _won't do_."

"Oh, don't look at me _that_ way," said ARCHIBALD, backing toward the door; "I want to go home."

"I'd like to see you go home," she replied, placing her back against the door. "You must think I'm a fool, to let you off as easy as that. You've got to sit up with me this evening, anyhow."

"But what would folks say?" stammered ARCHIBALD. "Oh, think of my reputation, Miss BRUMMET, and let me go."

"Your reputation!" she sneered. "Humbug! Men don't have any reputation, except when they steal a woman's. Come," she added, in a more conciliatory tone, "we'll have some supper, and then we'll have a game of euchre."

"Euchre! Oh, don't ask me to play euchre," said he; "I'm so mixed up, Miss BRUMMET, I couldn't tell the King of Ten-spots from the Ace of Jacks. Oh, won't BELINDA grab hold of my hair when she hears of this!"

"Yes, she'll pull it till she makes her ARCHIE-_bald_," said ANN, laughing.

ARCHIBALD sat down, and looked at her in a supplicating manner.

"I'll do anything you say," said he, "if you please won't get off any more puns. It's awful. I knew a fellow once who had it chronic. He doubled every word that he could lay his tongue to. When he was going to a party, he'd take the dictionary and pick out a lot of words that could be twisted, and set 'em down and study on 'em, so he could be ready with a lot of puns, and when he got 'em off folks would laugh, but all the time they'd wish he'd died young. And that's the way he'd go on. He finally drove his mother into a consumption, and at her funeral, instead of taking on as he ought to, he only just looked at the body, and said, 'Well, that's the worst _coffin-fit_ the old lady ever had.' And then he turned round and began to get off puns on the mourners. Wasn't it dreadful?--But what's that?"

Somebody was knocking at the door.

"What's wanted?" said ANN.

"It's your minister as has come, mum," said TEDDY, from the outside. "What word shall I give him?"

"Tell him I shan't want him," said ANN.

In a few minutes TEDDY came back.

"He says, mum, as he won't go without marryin' somebody, or a gittin' his pay anyway, for it's a nice buryin' job as he's lost by comin'."

"But," said ANN, "I can't--" She hesitated, and seemed to form a sudden resolution. "Tell him," she continued, "tell him--"

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

BIOGRAPHICAL.

There was an agriculturist, philosopher, and editor, Who thought the world his debtor and himself, of course, its creditor; A man he was of wonderful vitup'rative fertility, Though seeming an embodiment of mildness and docility, This ancient agriculturist, philosopher, and editor.

The clothes he wore were shocking to the citizen æsthetical, Assuredly they would not pass in circles which were critical, So venerable were they, and so distant from propriety, So utterly unsuited to respectable society, Which numbers in its membership some citizens æsthetical.

He kept a model farm for every sort of wild experiment. Which was to all the neighborhood a source of constant worriment; For every one who passed that way pretended to be eager to Discover pumpkin vines that ran across the fields a league or two, So queer was the effect of each preposterous experiment.

He had a dreadful passion, which was not at all professional, For going for an office, either local or congressional. But though often nominated, yet the people wouldn't ratify, Because they thought, quite properly, it would be wrong to gratify The all-consuming passion that was not at all professional.

Among the many hobbies which he cantered on incessantly Was one he called Protection, and he rode it quite unpleasantly; For if any one dissented from his notions injudiciously, He went for him immediately, ferociously and viciously, Did this absurd equestrian who cantered on incessantly.

With which remarks the author of this brief, veracious history Concludes his observations on the incarnated mystery Known as an agriculturist, philosopher, and editor, Who thought the world his debtor, and himself, of course, its creditor, And who will surely figure on the oddest page in history.

* * * * *

THE FITTEST PLACE FOR A "PRESERVER" OF THE PEACE. A "Jam" on Broadway.

* * * * *

DR. HELMBOLD TO J.G. BENNETT, Jr. "Boo-shoo! fly."

* * * * *

* * * * *

WORDS AND THEIR USES.

Nothing, except counting your stamps, can be more pleasant and exciting than tracing out the origin of words by the aid of a second-hand dictionary. It's the next funniest thing to grubbing after stumps in a ten-acre lot. Dentists make capital philologists--: they are so much accustomed to digging for roots. It's rather dull work to shovel around in the Anglo-Saxon stratum, but, as soon as you strike the Sanscrit, then you're off, and if you don't find big nuggets, it's because--well, it's because there are none there. Sometimes you dig down to about the time when NOAH went on his little sailing excursion, and strike what seems to be a first-class sockdolager of root, but what is the use? Unfortunately the philology business is overdone; it's chock full of first-class broken down pedagogues and unsuccessful ink-slingers, and, as soon as you offer a curious specimen in the way of roots, they write a book to prove that the root don't exist, or, if it does, that it should not.

However, there is an advantage in knowing the roots of words, and the use to which they were put in former years. Everybody, you know, is very anxious to read CHAUCER and SPENSER. Now, after you have studied this subject about forty-two years, you will be able to read CHAUCER with the aid of an old English dictionary and an Anglo-Saxon grammar.

Many so-called philologists, who have preceded me, have ignorantly derived words from improper sources. Thus, the compound word, shoofly, has been traced by some to the Irish word _shoe_, meaning a hoof-covering, and the French word _fly_, meaning an insect, when it is apparent to even the casual observer that it comes from the Guinea word _shoo_, meaning get out, and the English word _fly_, meaning a tripe destroyer. I propose, therefore, to show you the origin of a few words, in order that you may use them properly, and in order that you may subscribe freely for my book on this subject, which will shortly be placed before an admiring public.

_Theatres_. When the players were servants of the king, they were compelled to be proficient in reading, riting, rithmetic, rhyming, riddling, reciting, rehearsing, and romping. These accomplishments were grouped together and called _the 8 r's_, which name naturally enough was soon applied to the play-houses. This example shows how simple the whole subject is, and how easily the philology business could he run by a child six years of age.

_Country_. The origin of this word is, to say the least, odd. City people were accustomed to visit the rural districts at about the time when rye was ripe, and they were generally amused by the farmer's pereginations around his rye. Farmers always count rye-stacks in the morning, in order to discover whether any of them have been lifted during the night. When, upon their return to the City, the visitors were asked where they had been, they facetiously replied, "To count rye." This soon became a favorite expression; the "e" was dropped for euphony, and the rural districts were called country.

_Spittoon_.--This word comes from the Greek word _spit_, meaning to slobber, and the Scotch word, _tune_, meaning the noise made by the bag-pipes. As the saliva struck the receptacle it made a noise delightful to the ears of the smoker, and resembling the note of the national instrument of Scotland. Hence the receptacle was called the spittoon.

_Politics_.--Quack philologists, who evidently were insane, have gone back to the classics for the root of this word, when it is well known that immediately after the termination of the Revolution, when the Government of this country was about to be settled, the word came into existence. A woman, called POLLY, kept a corner grocery in New York, and all the fellows who wanted offices were accustomed to go to POLLY'S for their beer, because she trusted. Here they usually divulged their ideas of the manner in which the Government machine should be run. When asked why they went to that store, they always answered, "POLLY ticks." Outsiders, when asked what was going on in POLLY's store, always answered with a wise look, "POLLY ticks." The words soon spread, and talking about the Government was facetiously called POLLY ticks. The expression was finally used in earnest, and, by euphoric changes, reached its present shape.

_Cheese-it_.--This compound word has by some silly person been traced to the Saxon _cyse_, meaning condensed cow, and the Celtic _it_, meaning it. Now every way-faring man, even though _non compos mentis_, knows that when he is invited to come in and cut a cheese, come in and take a drop of whiskey is meant. This word, then, is derived from the Sanscrit _cheese_, meaning drop, and the English _it_, meaning whatever you may happen to be saying, and the whole expression may be properly translated "drop that yarn."

I might go on straight through the Dictionary, but I refrain, desiring only to show you what a light and entertaining subject philology is, and what quantities of fun you can get out of it on winter evenings.

If any one should desire to pursue this subject further, let him go through CHAUCER, SPENSER, SHAKSPEARE, and MILTON with a fine-tooth comb and a pair of spectacles, looking for roots, and then try my book on "Words and their Uses." He had better not attack the latter work on an empty stomach. An empty head will be more appropriate.

* * * * *

The Mendicant Mission.

Two fresh rumors about that unfortunate English Mission are afloat. One is that it has been tendered to the Hon. HENRY T. BLOW; the other is that the--well, no, not exactly Hon.--DAN. SICKLES is to be transferred from Madrid to the Court of St. JAMES. 'Tis much the same thing. If BLOW is appointed, it's BLOW; and if SICKLES is appointed, it's Blow, too.

* * * * *

Military Intelligence.

The Fifth Regiment N.G.S.N.Y., composed altogether of Germans, have adopted the Prussian helmet with a spike on top. This is appropriate, as most Germans are linguists, and like to "spike the French."

* * * * *

Where to Commence the Civil Service Reform.

In our Hotels and Restaurants.

* * * * *

THE PLAYS AND SHOWS.

Regarding me thoughtfully for a moment, MARGARET asks, "What is an 'old comedy?'"

I say to her, "An old comedy is to the comedy of to-day, precisely what an old beau, padded, painted, simpering with false teeth, and leering with rhumy eyes, is to a handsome, gallant young fellow, such as Mr. LESTER WALLACK impersonates in _Ours_ or _School_."

To which she replies, "What are roomy eyes, dear?" (Being her fourth cousin by marriage, I am a sort of maiden aunt to her,--whence this respectful familiarity.) "Eyes in which there is room for the honest glances that never show themselves?'"

I sternly remark that "nice girls never pun."

"Yes," she replies; "punning, like beer and other vices, is the peculiar prerogative of men, I suppose. But you need not be afraid. I read PUNCHINELLO sometimes, and it is a terrible warning to people who are tempted to pun. I could give you frightful instances of the appalling depth to which the men who make puns in PUNCHINELLO occasionally sink."

I hastily close the discussion by inviting her to come to WALLACK'S and see an old comedy. So we find ourselves on the following evening in the only theatre in the country where that rather important adjunct of a theatre--a company--is to be found,

There are quantities of elegant dresses in the house,--the ladies having an idea that an old comedy is one of those things which every fashionable person ought to see. There are also numbers of nice young men, who, being the burning and shining lights of fashionable society (after their day's work behind the counter is ended), come to be bored by the old comedy, with a heroism which proves how immeasurably superior to the influences of tape and calico are their youthful souls. By the by, it is one of the unavoidable _désagréments_ of New York society that the wearer of the elegant dress is often conscious that her partner in the waltz knows precisely how many yards of material compose her skirt, and exactly how much it cost per yard, for the excellent reason that he himself measured it with his professional yard-stick, and cut it with his private scissors. This, however, is a subject that belongs not to old comedy, but to the extremely modern comedy of New York society. The two resemble each other only so far as they are fashionable and dull.