[LETTER XIV.]
Advice to Jonathan from the Humstead—Jonathan's criticism on his Brother Sam's book—The ennui of Jonathan in good society—Jonathan's entree into a Milliner's Establishment, and sad mistake about a Side-saddle.
Dear Par:
It raly makes me feel bad to have you keep a writin so much advice to me. I du want to please you; and I don't think there ever is a time in the world when a chap can know enough to turn up his nose at his father's advice; but it's my ginuine opinion, that when you let a feller go away from hum, it's best to let him cut his own fodder.
You've gin me a first rate edecation for your parts, and you've also told me to be honest and industrious, but sharp as a razor. The truth is, you've sort of cultivated me, as you du our onion patches, but arter you've dug them up and put the seed in, and kept the weeds out till the ginuine roots get stuck purty deep and the tops shoot up kinder thrifty, haint you also found it to du best to leave 'em grow accordin to natur, with nothing but the night dew and rich arth and the warm sunshine to help 'em along; and don't they git ripe and run up to seed and down to root, and bring in the hard chink jest as well as if you kept diggin about 'em and trimmin 'em up from morning till night? If you keep the weeds out when they're young, and manure the arth well in the spring, there haint so much danger that the soil will grow barren all tu once, or that the weeds can spring up so quick as to choke a good tough onion. It ain't in natur, ask our minister if it is.
Now don't you be scared about me, if I du go to the theatre once in a while, or dress up like a darned coot of an Injun jest to see what etarnal ninny-hammers kings and queens and quality can make of themselves. I ain't in no danger, I can tell you. A feller that's got his eye teeth in his head can al'ers see enough to larf at in his sleeve, and to make him pity human natur without forgitting that he's a man, and that he was born to du good, and not spend his hull life in trying to cut a dash. Don't you nor marm worry about me—I may be a leetle green at fust, but I shall come out right side up with care, yit, you may be sartin on it.
I feel sort of wamblecropped to day, par, for I've jest been a reading our Sam's new book about the Great Western. I was up to cousin Beebe's when he brought it hum, and begun to read it to Mary. He hadn't read more than twenty pages afore cousin Mary made believe a headache, as women always du when they feel oneasy about anything, and she cut and run with about the reddest face I ever did see. I felt as streaked as a winter apple, and cousin John, sez he—
"Jonathan, if the folks off in Canada hadn't made Sam a judge, I'd stick to it that he wasn't a relation of mine; his book raly ain't fit to read afore the wimmen folks."
I wanted to stick up for Sam, but I'll be darn'd if I could see how to du it, for the book's an allfired smutty thing, and that's the fact; but I thought what consarned rough words the printers sometimes put in my letters to you, when I've writ something very different,—and so, think sez I, I'll put it off onto the printers and publishers; for I'll be choked if I don't believe they've made as much of a mistake in publishing the book as Sam did in writing it. So sez I,