The Drum Beat/Number 10/My Experience of the Great Fair
MY EXPERIENCE OF THE GREAT FAIR.
VIII.
After some delay, severa! letters were handed to me; and I cheerfully paid to the blooming clerk the sum of twenty-five cents for each of them. I wished to open and peruse them at once; but Susan was fierce for Knickerbocker Hall. I settled the question with eloquent severity. "My dear, when the Historian of the Future shall dip his pen in the sunlight, and write upon the western sky the names of those great men who have preferred the spiritual to the material, you will see, high above all, and blazing from pole to pole, the words, 'Augustus Watts! This is a favorite idea of mine, and remarkably like many of the perorations of the great orator, Mr. Wendell Phillips. He always makes a black-board of the western sky; and has already written upon it, with the aid of the sunlight, the names of G. Washington, Kossuth, Garibaldi, Toussaint, Wm. Lloyd Garrison, Gen. Fremont, John Brown, and, (for all I know,) his "ten little Indian boys.' The originality of my conception consists in this: that what I have once written on the western sky I don't go and rub out, the next time I make a speech.
Susan is sensitive to eloquence, and she collapsed at once into resignation, while I proceeded to examine my mail. Two or three were from critics, or discontented contributors to the Drum Beat. They either complained because their contributions were rejected, or because the Drum Beat had spoilt them in the printing, or because my articles did not please them. Many of these criticisms did not concern me at all. I do not edit the paper. But I promise these correspondents that I will, in a subsequent article, after consulting with the Editor, the Printer, the Printer's Fiend, and the Carrier, answer in full all the questions they have raised. I will also explain why the story of my experiences is not more philosophical, why it is not poetical, how old I am, and what is my relationship to Watts' Sacred Songs. As for the fault which has been found with my articles, I shall show, if I think it worth while, that they are absolutely faultless, like the Universe and the Farmington Afghan.
None of these letters seemed to me to be worth the high postage. I can be criticised by my friends any day, gratis; why should I pay a quarter to be carped at in common with the distinguished Editor? It was with pleasure, therefore, that I took up a dainty little note, that was evidently a lady's, and probably most refined and charming. I opened;—it was poetry. The first lines ran:
Go, with that firm, undaunted brow," &c., &c,
This was evidently intended for somebody else, and directed to me by mistake. I have been and faced the foe; and it isn't pleasant.
The next was an insulting epistle, which no gentleman could read without a blush. I am afraid it was intended for me; but I know of at least fifty persons who might have written it; and, as I cannot kick them all, I must put up with the outrage. I print the whole letter, indignantly calling to it Mrs. Duffin's attention:
Dear Sir: If you're an honest feller, you will return my silk umbrella; and I, quite loth to be outdone, will send you back your cotton one. Now, do not feel displeased, my friend; umbrellas ten I keep to lend; and, had you taken all the ten, I would not ask them back again. But this one, it must be confessed, I value more than all the rest. 'Tis one I borrowed on a visit some years ago, and hence I prize it. I'll thank you, sir, to give this letter a speedy answer.
Yours, etc., .
Further comment is unnecessary,—as I remarked after reading Conybeare's Notes on the Acts of the Apostles.
What was my disappointment, on opening the next letter, to find it one of my hundred. When I wrote it, I thought it would be well worth a quarter of a dollar to the unknown recipient. But to have a Valentine, which I had addressed to a lady, carelessly directed to a gentleman, and that gentleman myself, was indeed trying. I groaned, and so will the Public, when it has read the following
VALENTINE.
Streaking with gray my youthful hair
This year, as everybody knows.
No whiskered lover dare propose;
Each swain with patience must await
The voice of Woman and of Fate.
Alae for me, unlucky wight!
I fell in love on Christmas night,
And, ere I could declare my passion,
The Leap Year came and changed the fashion!
So now I wait from week to week:—
I must not, and she will not speak!
Fair lady! with this prayer I stop:—
If thou art she, oh! quickly pop!
There are fine things in this little bagatelle. Indeed any one save the author might be glad to get it. It is infinitely superior to a Valentine addressed to my wife, which I found among my letters, and of which a couple of stanzas will be all-sufficient:
Each little bird is choosin'
Now his mate;
And their example
All men of courage ample
Imitate.
'Tis very pleasant, very!
Month of joy!
Sweet palpitation
Now agitates the nation,
Man and boy!
This is impertinent trash. There is very little modern poetry that I can bear, except my own. In this regard, I am the worthy successor of Edgar A. Poe.
Augustus Watts.