Chapter 8

"'You observe,' I says, 'that he has the leadin' qualifications of all and comes a heap cheaper than most. He is swivel mounted; that is, the torso, so to speak, is pinioned onto the legs, so that the upper part of the body can revolve. This enables him to rotate freely without bustin' his pants, the vest bein' unconnected with the trousers.

"'Now, you stand this here, whom we will call John Henry, at the door of the church as the congregation enters, havin' previously wound him up, and there he stays, turning around and givin' the glad hand and cheery smile, and so doth his unchangin' power display as the unwearied sun from day to day, as the feller says. Nobody neglected, all pleased. You remember the last pastor wasn't sociable enough, and there was considerable complaint because he didn't hike right down after the benediction and jolly the flock as they passed out. We'll have a wire run the length of the meetin' house, with a gentle slant from the pulpit to the front door, and as soon as meetin's over, up goes John Henry and slides down to the front exit, and there he stands, gyratin' and handin' out pleasant greeting to all,--merry Christmas and happy New Year to beat the band.

"'Now as for preachin',' I continued, 'you see all you have to do is to raise up the coat-tails and insert a record on the phonograph concealed here in the back of the chest, with a speakin' tube runnin' up to the mouth. John Henry bein' a regular minister, he can get the Homiletic Review at a dollar and a half a year; we can subscribe for that, get the up-to-datest sermons by the most distinguished divines, get some gent that's afflicted with elocution to say 'em into a record, and on Sunday our friend and pastor here will reel 'em off fine. You press the button--he does the rest, as the feller says.'

"'How about callin' on the members?' inquires Andy Robinson.

"'Easy,' says I. 'Hire a buggy of Brother Jinks here, who keeps a livery stable, at one dollar per P.M. Get a nigger to chauffeur the pastor at fifty cents per same. There you are. Let the boy be provided with an assortment of records to suit the people--pleasant and sad, consolatory and gay, encouragin' or reprovin', and so forth. The coon drives up, puts in a cartridge, sets the pastor in the door, and when the family gets through with him they sets him out again.

"'There are, say about three hundred callin' days in the year. He can easy make fifteen calls a day on an average--equals four thousand five hundred calls a year, at $450. Of course, there's the records, but they won't cost over $50 at the outside--you can shave 'em off and use 'em over again, you know.'

"'But there's the personality of the pastor,' somebody speaks up. 'It's that which attracts folks and fills the pews.'

"'Personality shucks!' says I. 'Haven't we had personality enough? For every man it attracts it repels two. Your last preacher was one of the best fellers that ever struck this town. He was a plum brick, and had lots o' horse sense, to boot. He could preach, too, like a house afire. But you kicked him out because he wasn't sociable enough. You're askin' an impossibility. No man can be a student and get up the rattlin' sermons he did, and put in his time trottin' around callin' on the sisters.

"'Now, let's apply business sense to this problem. That's the way I run my store. Find out what the people want and give it to 'em, is my motto. Now, people ain't comin' to church unless there's somethin' to draw 'em. We've tried preachin', and it won't draw. They say they want sociability, so let's give it to 'em strong. They want attention paid to 'em. You turn my friend here loose in the community, and he'll make each and every man, woman and child think they're it in less'n a month. If anybody gets disgruntled, you sic John Henry here on 'em, and you'll have 'em come right back a-runnin', and payin' their pew rent in advance.

"'Then,' I continued, 'that ain't all. There's another idea I propose, to go along with the pastor, as a sort of side line. That's tradin' stamps. Simple, ain't it? Wonder why you never thought of it yourselves, don't you? That's the way with all bright ideas. People drink soda water all their lives, and along comes a genius and hears the fizz, and goes and invents a Westinghouse brake. Same as Newton and the apple, and Columbus and the egg.

"'All you have to do is to give tradin' stamps for attendance, and your church fills right up, and John Henry keeps 'em happy. Stamps can be redeemed at any store. So many stamps gets, say a parlor lamp or a masterpiece of Italian art in a gilt frame; so many more draws a steam cooker or an oil stove; so many more and you have a bicycle or a hair mattress or a what-not; and so on up to where a hat full of 'em gets an automobile.

"'I tell you when a family has a what-not in their eye they ain't goin' to let a little rain keep 'em home from church. If they're all really too sick to go they'll hire a substitute. And I opine these here stamps will have a powerful alleviatin' effect on Sunday-sickness.

"'And then,' I went on, waxin' eloquent, and leanin' the pastor against the wall, so I could put one hand in my coat and gesture with the other and make it more impressive,--'and then,' I says, 'just think of them other churches. We won't do a thing to 'em. That Baptist preacher thinks he's a wizz because he makes six hundred calls a year. You just wait till the nigger gets to haulin' John Henry here around town and loadin' him up with rapid-fire conversations. That Baptist gent will look like thirty cents, that's what he'll look like. He'll think he's Rojessvinsky and the Japanese fleet's after him. And the Campbellites think they done it when they got their new pastor, with a voice like a Bull o' Bashan comin' down hill. Just wait till we load a few of them extra-sized records with megaphone attachment into our pastor, and gear him up to two hundred and fifty words a minute, and then where, oh, where is Mister Campbellite, as the feller says.

"'Besides, brethren, this pastor, havin' no family, won't need his back fence fixed; in fact, he won't need the parsonage; we can rent it, and the proceeds will go toward operatin' expenses.

"'What we need to do,' I says in conclusion, 'is to get in line, get up to date, give the people what they want. We have no way of judgin' the future but by the past, as the feller says. We know they ain't no human bein' can measure up to our requirements, so let's take a fall out of science, and have enterprise and business sense.'"

J.P. Wamsley reached for a match.

"Did they accept your offer?" asked his companion. "I am anxious to know how your plan worked. It has many points in its favor, I confess."

"No," replied J.P. Wamsley, as he meditatively puffed his cigar and seemed to be lovingly reviewing the past. "No, they didn't. I'm kind o' sorry, too. I'd like to have seen the thing tried myself. But," he added, with a slow and solemn wink, "they passed a unanimous resolution callin' back the old pastor at an increased salary."

"I should say, then, that your invention was a success."

"Well, I didn't lose out on it, anyhow. I've got John Henry rigged up with a new bunch of whiskers, and posin' in my show-window as Dewitt, signin' the peace treaty, in an elegant suit of all-wool at $11.50."

THE BOHEMIANS OF BOSTON

BY GELETT BURGESS

The "Orchids" were as tough a crowd As Boston anywhere allowed; It was a club of wicked men-- The oldest, twelve, the youngest, ten; They drank their soda colored green, They talked of "Art," and "Philistine," They wore buff "wescoats," and their hair It used to make the waiters stare! They were so shockingly behaved And Boston thought them _so_ depraved, Policemen, stationed at the door, Would raid them every hour or more! They used to smoke (!) and laugh out loud (!) They were a very devilish crowd! They formed a Cult, far subtler, brainier, Than ordinary Anglomania, For all as Jacobites were reckoned, And gaily toasted Charles the Second! (What would the Bonnie Charlie say, If he could see that crowd to-day?) Fitz-Willieboy McFlubadub Was Regent of the Orchids' Club; A wild Bohemian was he, And spent his money fast and free. He thought no more of spending dimes On some debauch of pickled limes, Than you would think of spending nickels To buy a pint of German pickles! The Boston maiden passed him by With sidelong glances of her eye, She dared not speak (he _was_ so wild), Yet worshipped this Lotharian child. Fitz-Willieboy was so _blase_, He burned a _Transcript_ up one day! The Orchids fashioned all their style On Flubadub's infernal guile. That awful Boston oath was his-- _He_ used to 'jaculate, "Gee Whiz!" He showed them that immoral haunt, The dirty Chinese Restaurant; And there they'd find him, even when It got to be as late as ten! He ate chopped _suey_ (with a fork) You should have heard the villain talk Of one _reporter_ that he knew (!) An artist, and an actor, too!!! The Orchids went from bad to worse, Made epigrams--attempted verse! Boston was horrified and shocked To hear the way those Orchids mocked; For they made fun of Boston ways, And called good men Provincial Jays! The end must come to such a story, Gone is the wicked Orchids' glory; The room was raided by police, One night, for breaches of the Peace (There had been laughter, long and loud, In Boston this is not allowed), And there, the sergeant of the squad Found awful evidence--my God!-- Fitz-Willieboy McFlubadub, The Regent of the Orchids' Club, Had written on the window-sill, This shocking outrage--"Beacon H--ll!"

A LETTER FROM HOME[4]

_From the Princess Boo-Lally, at Gumbo Goo, South Sea Islands, to Her Brother, Prince Umbobo, a Sophomore at Yale._

BY WALLACE IRWIN

"It is spring, my dear Umbobo, On the isle of Gumbo Goo, And your father, King Korobo, And your mother long for you.

"We had missionaries Monday, Much the finest of the year-- Our old cook came back last Sunday, And the stews she makes are _dear_.

"I've the _loveliest_ string of knuckles Which dear Father gave to me, And a pair of shin-bone buckles Which I _so_ wish you could see.

"You remember Mr. Booloo? He is coming over soon With some friends from Unatulu-- We all hope they'll call at noon.

"Mr. Booloo's rather slender, But we'll fix him up with sage, And I think he'll be quite tender For a fellow of his age.

"Genevieve O-loola's marriage Was arranged so _very_ queer-- Have you read 'The Bishop's Carriage'? Don't you think it's just _too dear_?

"I am hoping next vacation I may visit you a while. In this out-of-way location It's _so_ hard to know the style.

"Will you try and match the sample I enclose--be sure it's green. Get three yards--that will be ample. Velvet, mind, not velveteen.

"Gentle mother worries badly, And she thinks it is a shame That a man like Dr. Hadley Lets you play that football game.

"For the way they hurt each other Seems so barbarously rude-- No, you've not been raised, dear brother, To do anything so crude.

"And those horrid meals at college-- Not what you're accustomed to. It is hard, this quest for knowledge, But be brave. "Your sister, Boo."

"P.S.-- "If it's not too great a bother And a mental overtax, Would you send your poor old father, C.O.D., a battle-axe?"

[Footnote 4: From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1905, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]

THE COURTIN'

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

God makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all glisten.

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in-- There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted The old queen's-arm that Gran'ther Young Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur; A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'; None couldn't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-- All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple; The side she breshed felt full o' sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice bed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_! She seemed to 've gut a new soul For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A-raspin' on the scraper-- All ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle; His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder.

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'--" "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals act so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust, Then stood a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.

Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin', Tell mother see how metters stood, An' gin 'em both her blessin'.

Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

THE TOWER OF LONDON

BY ARTEMUS WARD

Mr. Punch, _My Dear Sir_:--I skurcely need inform you that your excellent Tower is very pop'lar with pe'ple from the agricultooral districks, and it was chiefly them class which I found waitin at the gates the other mornin.

I saw at once that the Tower was established on a firm basis. In the entire history of firm basisis I don't find a basis more firmer than this one.

"You have no Tower in America?" said a man in the crowd, who had somehow detected my denomination.

"Alars! no," I anserd; "we boste of our enterprise and improovements, and yit we are devoid of a Tower. America oh my onhappy country! thou hast not got no Tower! It's a sweet Boon."

The gates was opened after a while, and we all purchist tickets, and went into a waitin-room.

"My frens," said a pale-faced little man, in black close, "this is a sad day."

"Inasmuch as to how?" I said.

"I mean it is sad to think that so many peple have been killed within these gloomy walls. My frens, let us drop a tear!"

"No," I said, "you must excuse me. Others may drop one if they feel like it; but as for me, I decline. The early managers of this institootion were a bad lot, and their crimes were trooly orful; but I can't sob for those who died four or five hundred years ago. If they was my own relations I couldn't. It's absurd to shed sobs over things which occurd during the rain of Henry the Three. Let us be cheerful," I continnered. "Look at the festiv Warders, in their red flannil jackets. They are cheerful, and why should it not be thusly with us?"

A Warder now took us in charge, and showed us the Trater's Gate, the armers, and things. The Trater's Gate is wide enuff to admit about twenty traters abrest, I should jedge; but beyond this, I couldn't see that it was superior to gates in gen'ral.

Traters, I will here remark, are a onfornit class of peple. If they wasn't, they wouldn't be traters. They conspire to bust up a country--they fail, and they're traters. They bust her, and they become statesmen and heroes.

Take the case of Gloster, afterward Old Dick the Three, who may be seen at the Tower on horseback, in a heavy tin overcoat--take Mr. Gloster's case. Mr. G. was a conspirator of the basist dye, and if he'd failed, he would have been hung on a sour apple tree. But Mr. G. succeeded, and became great. He was slewed by Col. Richmond, but he lives in history, and his equestrian figger may be seen daily for a sixpence, in conjunction with other em'nent persons, and no extra charge for the Warder's able and bootiful lectur.

There's one king in this room who is mounted onto a foaming steed, his right hand graspin a barber's pole. I didn't learn his name.

The room where the daggers and pistils and other weppins is kept is interestin. Among this collection of choice cuttlery I notist the bow and arrer which those hot-heded old chaps used to conduct battles with. It is quite like the bow and arrer used at this day by certain tribes of American Injuns, and they shoot 'em off with such a excellent precision that I almost sigh'd to be an Injun when I was in the Rocky Mountain regin. They are a pleasant lot them Injuns. Mr. Cooper and Dr. Catlin have told us of the red man's wonerful eloquence, and I found it so. Our party was stopt on the plains of Utah by a band of Shoshones, whose chief said:

"Brothers! the pale-face is welcome. Brothers! the sun is sinking in the west, and Wa-na-bucky-she will soon cease speakin. Brothers! the poor red man belongs to a race which is fast becomin extink."

He then whooped in a shrill manner, stole all our blankets and whisky, and fled to the primeval forest to conceal his emotions.

I will remark here, while on the subjeck of Injuns, that they are in the main a very shaky set, with even less sense than the Fenians, and when I hear philanthropists be-wailin the fack that every year "carries the noble red man nearer the settin sun," I simply have to say I'm glad of it, tho' it is rough on the settin sun. They call you by the sweet name of Brother one minit, and the next they scalp you with their Thomas-hawks. But I wander. Let us return to the Tower.

At one end of the room where the weppins is kept, is a wax figger of Queen Elizabeth, mounted on a fiery stuffed hoss, whose glass eye flashes with pride, and whose red morocker nostril dilates hawtily, as if conscious of the royal burden he bears. I have associated Elizabeth with the Spanish Armady. She's mixed up with it at the Surrey Theater, where _Troo to the Core_ is bein acted, and in which a full bally core is introjooced on board the Spanish Admiral's ship, giving the audiens the idee that he intends openin a moosic-hall in Plymouth the moment he conkers that town. But a very interesting drammer is _Troo to the Core_, notwithstandin the eccentric conduct of the Spanish Admiral; and very nice it is in Queen Elizabeth to make Martin Truegold a baronet.

The Warder shows us some instrooments of tortur, such as thumbscrews, throat-collars, etc., statin that these was conkered from the Spanish Armady, and addin what a crooil peple the Spaniards was in them days--which elissited from a bright-eyed little girl of about twelve summers the remark that she tho't it _was_ rich to talk about the crooilty of the Spaniards usin thumbscrews, when he was in a Tower where so many poor peple's heads had been cut off. This made the Warder stammer and turn red.

I was so pleased with the little girl's brightness that I could have kissed the dear child, and I would if she'd been six years older.

I think my companions intended makin a day of it, for they all had sandwiches, sassiges, etc. The sad-lookin man, who had wanted us to drop a tear afore we started to go round, fling'd such quantities of sassige into his mouth that I expected to see him choke hisself to death; he said to me, in the Beauchamp Tower, where the poor prisoners writ their onhappy names on the cold walls, "This is a sad sight."

"It is indeed," I anserd. "You're black in the face. You shouldn't eat sassige in public without some rehearsals beforehand. You manage it orkwardly."

"No," he said, "I mean this sad room."

Indeed, he was quite right. Tho' so long ago all these drefful things happened, I was very glad to git away from this gloomy room, and go where the rich and sparklin Crown Jewils is kept. I was so pleased with the Queen's Crown, that it occurd to me what a agree'ble surprise it would be to send a sim'lar one home to my wife; and I asked the Warder what was the vally of a good, well-constructed Crown like that. He told me, but on cypherin up with a pencil the amount of funs I have in the Jint Stock Bank, I conclooded I'd send her a genteel silver watch instid.

And so I left the Tower. It is a solid and commandin edifis, but I deny that it is cheerful. I bid it adoo without a pang.

I was droven to my hotel by the most melancholly driver of a four-wheeler that I ever saw. He heaved a deep sigh as I gave him two shillings.

"I'll give you six d.'s more," I said, "if it hurts you so."

"It isn't that," he said, with a hart-rendin groan, "it's only a way I have. My mind's upset to-day. I at one time tho't I'd drive you into the Thames. I've been readin all the daily papers to try and understand about Governor Eyre, and my mind is totterin. It's really wonderful I didn't drive you into the Thames."

I asked the onhappy man what his number was, so I could redily find him in case I should want him agin, and bad him good-by. And then I tho't what a frollicsome day I'd made of it.

Respectably, etc. ARTEMUS WARD.

--_Punch_, 1866.

SCIENCE AND NATURAL HISTORY

MR. PUNCH, _My Dear Sir_:--I was a little disapinted at not receivin a invitation to jine in the meetins of the Social Science Congress....

I prepared an Essy on Animals to read before the Social Science meetins. It is a subjeck I may troothfully say I have successfully wrastled with. I tackled it when only nineteen years old. At that tender age I writ a Essy for a lit'ry Institoot entitled, "Is Cats to be trusted?" Of the merits of that Essy it doesn't becum me to speak, but I may be excoos'd for mentionin that the Institoot parsed a resolution that "whether we look upon the length of this Essy, or the manner in which it is written, we feel that we will not express any opinion of it, and we hope it will be read in other towns."