Jonathan receives an Invitation to a Fancy Ball—Dilemma about the Dress—Choice of a Character, &c.

Dear Par:

I du think this ere trade of writing is about the darndest bisness that a feller ever took to. The minit a man begins tu git his name up here in York, the way the gals du haul him over the coals is a sin to Crocket, as they say down here. They talk about the Yankees having a nack of cheating people out of their eye teeth. By gracious! if the York folks don't know how to hold up ther end of the yoke at that trade, I'm a coot, that's all. They may take my grinders and welcome, but I'll be darn'd if I give up my Christian name, without making an all-fired rumpus about it. I can't go down Cherry-street now without somebody's stopping me to find out who writes my letters, jest as if I didn't write 'em myself. Some on 'em seem to think it's a Portland chap, an allfired smart critter, that come from down East, and that's been a writing a capital history of the war down on the territory that haint got no boundary; and people keep a coming to the Express office every once in a while, to find out if Major Jack Downing don't write 'em and sign my name. I should like to ketch him at it once! Let him or any other chap put my name to any thing that I don't write, and if I don't lick him within an inch of his life, then he may steal my name and welcome.

Now, jest to git the York people out of the etarnal twitter that they're in to find out who writes my letters, I've made up my mind to tell 'em here, in one of my letters; and if I don't tell 'em the truth, I hope I may be hung and choked to death, so there!

In the first place, I aint intimate with Major Jack Downing, and never sot eyes on him in my life, till t'other night at "the Grand Fancy Ball," as they call it. He's a smart chap, but I'll be darned if he ever writ a word of one of my letters in his life,—and more than all that, he don't know me from Adam; no more does the Portland chap, or any of the rest on 'em,—and I du think it's allfired hard, if I can't have the credit of writing letters on my own hook, and nobody's else. Now these two chaps are prime fellers, and old hands at the bisness; but I never tried my hand at writing a letter in my hull life, till I sent the fust one to the Express—and that I put my name tu as large as life. Neither the Portland Major Jack Downing, nor the New York Major Jack Downing, nor our Sam, nor nobody else, has a finger in my dish; but all the letters that has my name and picter to 'em are writ by me.

That's my card! as they say at the theatre,—and now I hope the Yorkers wont pester me any more, to know who I am.

Arter going to the Park Theatre t'other night, I begun to feel sort of dissatisfied with the carryings on in this place, and I eenamost made up my mind to come back to Weathersfield and stick to the old business for life. Somehow I couldn't git them naked legs and arms, and so on, of Marm-sel Celeste out of my head,—and I couldn't help feeling awful streaked when I thought of them in the day-light. Sich sights aint fit for any thing but candle-light, and then a feller must be half corned before he can see them without feeling ashamed of all womankind.

I du think, when a chap begins to have a bad opinion of the wimmin folks, it's a sign that there is something out of the way in his own heart; but it comes tough to keep a feller's heart in the right place, while sich sweet, purty, indecent critters as that Celeste, are a kicking up their heels and flinging all sorts of queer ideas into his mind. Arter seeing her flurish her white short gown, without petticoat, afore all them folks, I begun to hate the gals like pison; it seemed to me as if they warn't made for men's wives, or tu be mothers and sister's. It was a hull week afore I could make up my mind to go out of my office, and the sight of a furbelow raly made me sick. I began to rale out agin all the feminine gender like all natur.

Wal, one morning I got up, and sat down by the stove, with my legs stretched out, and my hands fingering the loose coppers in my trousers' pocket, when Cousin John come in, looking as tickled as a puppy dog.

"See here, Jonathan," sez he, "I've got an invitation, for you to go to a fancy ball to-night, clear up town, so I've come to see what you'll wear, and all about it."

"Wal," sez I, kinder melancholy, "I've got eenamost tired of sich things; it raly don't seem to agree with me frolicking so much, but I suppose I may as well go."

"Wal," sez cousin, "what do you mean to wear?"

"What du I mean tu wear?" sez I, "why, my new clothes sartinly: I ruther guess all the shine haint worn off from them yit, by a great sight."

"Yes," sez he, "but you must go in character to this ball."

"Look a here, cousin," sez I, a rilin up a leetle, "I don't know as you've ever seen me go to any place that was out of character yit, so you needn't say that."

John, he colored up and larfed a leetle, and sez he, "Don't git wrothy, Jonathan—I didn't mean nothing, but the fact is, it will be best for you to dress in something a leetle different to your common clothes. Supposing you dress like a Turk?"

"What! like one of them chaps that keep a hull caravan of wives shut up in their housen?" sez I. "I'm much obligated to you for the idee—but I'd a leetle ruther not. I'd jest as lives go to sleep and dream I was a gad fly in a black hornet's nest."

"Wal," sez he, "supposin you let me dress you up like an Injun—how would you like that? I'll dress Mary up like a squaw, and you can walk in together."

"Why," sez I, sort of puzzled to find out what he was at, "I'd ruther be an Injun any day than be one of them tarnal Turky fellers; but what will the folks think of us if we come fixed out so? I should feel as streaked as a piece of ribbongrass, I'm sartin."

"Oh, never mind that, they'll be glad to have you come like an Injun; you don't know what a sight of folks are a going. There'll be Kings and Queens, nuns, Scotch ladies, Englishmen, and women born two hundred years ago, and all sorts of people."

"Gracious gaully how you talk!" sez I, all in amaze, for he seemed as arnest as an ox team.—"Why, they haint sent invites over the water, have they?"

"You'll see," sez John, a larfin a leetle easy, and rubbing his hands. "But I want a favor,—wont you lend me them old clothes of yours to go in?"

"What, old blue, with the shiney buttons, and the pepper and salt trousers!" sez I. "Wal now, I'd jest as lives you had 'em as not? but raly if you want to slick up, hadn't you better take the new fix, it'll look a good deal more scrumptious?"

"No," sez he, "I want them that your picter was took in, they're jest the thing."

"They'll fit you to a notch," sez I. "The trousers may be a leetle too short, but I can get the gallus buttons sot on strong, and the pockets are nation handy."

"Do," sez he, "and I'll git your dress. Come up to our house, and, we'll all start together."

With that John he went away, and I sot down all in a flustration to try and make out what he wanted me to fix up like a born Injun for; but the more I tho't the more I got in a pucker about it, so I jest give it up, and stopped thinking about it as much as I could.

Your loving son,

Jonathan Slick.