We know little of Honore de Balzac, and perhaps care less for Victor Hugo.M.Claes's grand search for the Absolute doesn't thrill us in the least; and Jean Valjean, gloomily picking his way through the sewers of Paris, with the spooney young man of the name of Marius upon his back, awakens no interest in our breasts.I say Jean Valjean picked his way gloomily, and I repeat it.No man, under these circumstances, could have skipped gayly.But this literary business, as the gentleman who married his colored chambermaid aptly observed, "is simply a matter of taste."The store--I must not forget the store.It is an object of great interest to me.I usually encounter there, on sunny afternoons, an old Revolutionary soldier.You may possibly have read about "Another Revolutionary Soldier gone," but this is one who hasn't gone, and, moreover, one who doesn't manifest the slightest intention of going.He distinctly remembers Washington, of course;they all do; but what I wish to call special attention to, is the fact that this Revolutionary soldier is one hundred years old, that his eyes are so good that he can read fine print without spectacles--he never used them, by the way--and his mind is perfectly clear.
He is a little shaky in one of his legs, but otherwise he is as active as most men of forty-five, and his general health is excellent.He uses no tobacco, but for the last twenty years he has drunk one glass of liquor every day--no more, no less.He says he must have his tod.I had begun to have lurking suspicions about this Revolutionary soldier business, but here is an original Jacobs.
But because a man can drink a glass of liquor a day, and live to be a hundred years old, my young readers must not infer that by drinking two glasses of liquor a day a man can live to be two hundred."Which, I meanter say, it doesn't foller," as Joseph Gargery might observe.
This store, in which may constantly be found calico and nails, and fish, and tobacco in kegs, and snuff in bladders, is a venerable establishment.As long ago as 1814 it was an institution.The county troops, on their way to the defence of Portland, then menaced by British ships-of-war, were drawn up in front of this very store, and treated at the town's expense.Citizens will tell you how the clergyman refused to pray for the troops, because he considered the war an unholy one; and how a somewhat eccentric person, of dissolute habits, volunteered his services, stating that he once had an uncle who was a deacon, and he thought he could make a tolerable prayer, although it was rather out of his line; and how he prayed so long and absurdly that the Colonel ordered him under arrest, but that even while soldiers stood over him with gleaming bayonets, the reckless being sang a preposterous song about his grandmother's spotted calf, with its Ri-fol-lol-tiddery-i-do; after which he howled dismally.
And speaking of the store, reminds me of a little story.The author of "several successful comedies" has been among us, and the store was anxious to know who the stranger was.And therefore the store asked him.
"What do you follow, sir?" respectfully inquired the tradesman.
"I occasionally write for the stage, sir.""Oh!" returned the tradesman, in a confused manner.
"He means," said an honest villager, with a desire to help the puzzled tradesman out, "he means that he writes the handbills for the stage drivers!"I believe that story is new, although perhaps it is not of an uproariously mirthful character; but one hears stories at the store that are old enough, goodness knows--stories which, no doubt, diverted Methuselah in the sunny days of his giddy and thoughtless boyhood.
There is an exciting scene at the store occasionally.Yesterday an athletic peasant, in a state of beer, smashed in a counter and emptied two tubs of butter on the floor.His father--a white-haired old man, who was a little boy when the Revolutionary war closed, but who doesn't remember Washington MUCH, came round in the evening and settled for the damages."My son," he said, "has considerable originality." I will mention that this same son once told me that he could lick me with one arm tied behind him, and I was so thoroughly satisfied he could, that I told him he needn't mind going for a rope.
Sometimes I go a-visiting to a farmhouse, on which occasions the parlor is opened.The windows have been close-shut ever since the last visitor was there, and there is a dingy smell that I struggle as calmly as possible with, until I am led to the banquet of steaming hot biscuit and custard pie.If they would only let me sit in the dear old-fashioned kitchen, or on the door-stone--if they knew how dismally the new black furniture looked--but, never mind, Iam not a reformer.No, I should rather think not.
Gloomy enough, this living on a farm, you perhaps say, in which case you are wrong.I can't exactly say that I pant to be an agriculturist, but I do know that in the main it is an independent, calmly happy sort of life.I can see how the prosperous farmer can go joyously a-field with the rise of the sun, and how his heart may swell with pride over bounteous harvests and sleek oxen.And it must be rather jolly for him on winter evenings to sit before the bright kitchen fire and watch his rosy boys and girls as they study out the charades in the weekly paper, and gradually find out why my first is something that grows in a garden, and my second is a fish.
On the green hillside over yonder there is a quivering of snowy drapery, and bright hair is flashing in the morning sunlight.It is recess, and the Seminary girls are running in the tall grass.
A goodly seminary to look at outside, certainly, although I am pained to learn, as I do on unprejudiced authority, that Mrs.
Higgins, the Principal, is a tyrant, who seeks to crush the girls and trample upon them; but my sorrow is somewhat assuaged by learning that Skimmerhorn, the pianist, is perfectly splendid.
