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heathen poets. Too much antiquity hath made thee mad, Ned, or rather, too much deviltry hath made thee a quiz.”
“ He don't quiz me,” said Daniel, with a compression of his lips that said "I know too much." “I don't know 'bout carnations and deities, or old poets, and I reckon I don't believe iniquity ever made Mr. Ned Locus mad, but what I know I know. Sam Biles is my wife's cousin's aunt's sister's brotherin-law, and he's been a sealer. Sam knows. Seals is nothen but nigger mermaids, as Silas said last night, or night afore. Sam told me he see 'em often together, and the mermaids licked 'em and kicked 'em 'bout jist as they was amind to. They caught one one day, but she played the devil among the sailors, and the captain chucked her overboard.—Shaa! why Jim Smith see a mermaid once down to Gilgoa inlet, riden a sea-horse-don't you b’lieve it—ask Jim.”
“Ah! Daniel, Daniel," said Ned, “they're a set of unbelievers-don't try to persuade them."
“ Shut up. Shut up, boys. Change the subject. Here; will you smoke ?” said Raynor, producing some short stub pipes, and an old segar box stuffed with tobacco.
It has always been our rule that " when we are at Rome, we must do as the Romans do.” So, it is to be recorded, that we committed, or rather submitted to, that sin. We smoked.
Puff. “What luck on the whole"-puff—“boys"-puffpuff-“this fall?"--puff-puff-puff- ; and so on. We will not smoke thee, reader. We got fairly into conversation, now, and different speakers sustained the dialogue, half a dozen speaking at once, sometimes, so that I cannot put down a tithe of what was said. Middlen, sir, middlen.
We've got some.
We come 'cross a good school of drums this afternoon. How is times down to York ?"
“ O, so so.
There's nothing new or strange. People are fighting, as usual, about politics, like fools, and calling each other names, which, if rightly applied, ought to be ropes to hang them. Is the bass fishing good, this season ?”
“ Moderate, moderate. How does the old general stand his hand ?”
“ Bravely, bravely. They've tried to make him out a tyrant, usurper, cut-throat, fool, and every thing else that is stupid, and base ; but it's no use.' Do
many coot ?" “ Coots is scace. I see a smart bunch, jest at sundown, up into Poor-man's harbor. Do you think the Jackson men will get it next ’lection ?”
“No doubt ; no doubt; not the least doubt. The farmers of the north, and west, are men of sense and spirit, and there's no mistake about the farmers of Queens, and Suffolk, as you yourself well know. But they are doing their d- - -dest in New-York. They are trying to buy the Irish, and have made such golden overtures to our leading paper as will require uncommon virtue to resist. You must remember to go and vote, boys, for the old man. Every vote counts. He's the hero of New Orleans, you know-protector of beauty and booty-can you ever forget the time when—"
“ You don't catch me voten, I reckon," interrupted long John, bending his crane-like neck, so as to bring his head at right angles with his body. “I never voted but onest, and that was last fall, and I reckon I did a smart deal o'harm then. Mr. Locus fetched me up. It rained a little, and he ris an umberell over my head, as we sot in the wagon, and I an't got over that, neither. Now I expect that umberell must have given me a kind o' chill, or somethen, for I an't been right ever sence.”
" It wa’n't the umberell,” cried out one of the group ; "it was on 'count o' your voten the wrong ticket, to 'blige Mr. Locus—that's the how—and it made you feel bad—and you knowed it."
What, John! What, John! are you serious ?" continued I. “ Do you really intend to sacrifice your inestimable right of suffrage? The right for which your fathers fought, and bled, and died ? Reflect. Consider. It is the glorious privilege, as well as the religious duty of every freeman, to go to the ballot box. Liberty, the liberty of an American citizen"
“Stop it. Stop it,” roared out Ned Lucus. “No politics, Cypress. What's the use ? You'll only set me a-going, and I can talk as fast you, and we'll like enough get angry.”
“ We may as well let it alone,” said the quiet Oliver. “There are no converts to be made in Suffolk, not even if Daniel Webster was to come and talk to it. We'll beat thee next fall even if he should."
It will readily be perceived that at the date of this dialogue, I was what is called at 'Tammany Hall, a consistent democrat.” Ned has always thought it a pity. But he does not on that account, shut me out from his heart, and treat me as if he thought I wore a caput supinum, as some mad zealots have, in the rage of their disappointment, sometimes ferociously advised him to do. Ned and Oliver both belonged to the party that thought the constitution was in danger, and that the country was doomed to utter ruin, unless the dynasty of a certain very respectable financial institution was perpetuated.
“ I'll bet you the expenses of the trip, on that,” replied Ned to Oliver's vaunt.
"I never bet, Neddy. It's against our rules. But it's got to be done. Don't get mad. It's no use.” And then he wound up with his everlasting saw about the boiling of pork,
Vol I.- 9
“D—n your easy impudence. We'll have five thousand majority in the city alone."
“ Order! order !" cried Raynor. “Gentlemen, have the goodness to come to order, for a song from Venus Raynor, Esquire,-one of his own composing—that song, Venus, you made about the people that were drowned down to Oyster pond point."
The usual apologies and excuses were soon disposed of, and then Venus opened his mouth and sang a most pathetic ditty, to which we all listened with sincere delight, for it was sung
with the pathos, tenderness, and grace of nature. enraptured with it, and, next day, got Venus to go to the lighthouse and write it out for me. The following is a copy verbatim et literatim ;
“Come all ye Good people of evry degree
0 Oyster-pond tremble at that awful stroke
on monday the 12th of december so cold
their anchors being cast thir ships tore away
But mark their hard fortune it is mournful indeed
A number of men in their halth and their prime
the sorrowaful tidings was caried straitway
the widows are bereaved in sorrow to mourn
Also a young damsel a making great mourn
Alas all their lamentings are all but in vain
their bodies when found were all conveyed home
“ Bravo !"_" Well sung, Venus ;"_" Encore !"_"That's a damnation nice song ;”—and several other critical eulogiums where wreathed around the head of the beach troubadour.