But we do not succeed in completing our trip through the Union this day. Our country cousin brings us to a stoppage by his absurd conduct.
MISTAKEN
HOSPITALITY.One exhibitor offered him half a pound of mince meat: he devoured it. A Connecticut woman presented him with a small cheese, her own manufacture: it followed the footsteps of the meat. In Massachusetts he received a package of corn starch: he put it serenely where he kept his cheese. We looked upon him in amaze, but said nothing. A New York merchant handed him a small cake of transparent shaving soap. “My golly!” he remarked, “this beats a lunch route,” and he swallowed it whole. A New Jersey farmer offered him a string of dried apples: they went the way of his preceding receipts. A Pennsylvania matron begged him to try a draught of her buttermilk: he complied, and we saw him swell visibly before our eyes. Two ounces of Virginia Baking Powder was the next tribute: he winced a little at this, but—down it went. We tried to stop him, but too late—he just chewed a small stick of South Carolina stove polish, and then the baking powder accomplished its fatal mission. He mentioned that he did not feel very well. We expressed surprise and sympathy. He said he felt worse, and then he tried to smile, but alas, the apples lay heavy on his soul—he couldn’t. He asked if it wasn’t time to go home—he said it was a splendid show, but he thought he’d seen enough of it.
“Come home,” said he, “its dinner time.”
“Why,” we replied, “you’re not hungry, are you?”
He didn’t answer; he turned a reproachful glance upon us. We were now in Georgia, and a colored man held out to him a sweet potato pudding. Savagely he turned upon that negro, his eyes rolled wildly, he labored under intense emotions, mingled emotions of cheese, soap, and baking powder, he uttered one long despairing yell and sank down upon the floor. A crowd gathered about him in a second; two or three officials pushed their way through the assemblage and grabbed hold of him. “The first case,” they cried triumphantly; “carry him to the Hospital.” They bore our poor cousin to the
Grand International Hospital,
east of the Main Building, and we followed in tears.
A Turkish physician ran to meet us as we approached the structure. The Turks believe in radical cures—this one wanted to smother our relative between two feather beds. We objected. Two Chinese doctors stopped us at the doorway. One wanted our cousin to swallow three green lizards, the other recommended the immediate extraction of all his front teeth. An Indian medicine man here commenced dancing around us, yelling at the top of his voice, and banging an old tambourine with the shin-bone of an ass.
This was nothing! When we entered the building the international surgeons came down upon us like—like—like “a wolf on the fold.” This was the first case, and they were spoiling for a job. Our cousin looked in their eager and varied faces, he gazed upon the assortment of cutlery flashing around him—his lip quivered—he closed his eyes—and fainted. In less than two seconds that
Unfortunate Countryman