The American Union Speaker

by John D. Philbrick

CCCLXXVII.

THE MISER.

LOVEGOLD—JAMES.

Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you
above an hour.
James. Whom do you want, sir,—your coachman or your
cook? for I am both one and t' other.
Love. I want my cook.
James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you
have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses
were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an
instant. [ Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as a
cook.] Now sir, I am ready for your commands.
Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.
James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half-year;
a dinner, indeed, now and then; but, for a supper, I'm
almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.
Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide
a good supper.
James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir.
Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you
say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my
servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money.
James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table?
love. About eight or ten; but I will have supper dressed
but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough
for ten.
James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the
other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a fillet
of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may
be had for about a guinea—
Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment for
my lord mayor and the court of aldermen?
James. Then a ragout—
Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people
you dog?
James. Then pray, sir, what will you have?
Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs:
let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet pudding;
some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small lean
breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There;
that's plenty and variety.
James. O, dear—
Love. Plenty and variety.
James. But, sir, you must have some poultry.
Love. No; I'll have none.
James. Indeed, sir, you should.
Love. Well, then,—kill the old hen, for she has done laying.
James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed,
people say enough of you already.
Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray?
James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry.
Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the
world says of me.
James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a
jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account.
One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to
find an excuse to pay them no wages.
Love. Poh! poh!
James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing
your own oats from your own horses.
Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any.
James. In a word, you are the bye-word everywhere; and
you are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy,
scraping, old—
Love. Get along, you impudent villain!
James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry.
Love. Get out, you dog! you—
Fielding.

CCCLXXVIII.

THE LETTER.

SQUIRE EGAN AND HIS NEW IRISH SERVANT, ANDY.
Squire. Well, Andy, you went to the postoffice, as I
ordered you?
Andy. Yis, sir.
Squire. Well, what did you find?
Andy. A most impertinent fellow indade, sir.
Squire. How so?
Andy Says I, as decent like as a gentleman, "I want a letther,
sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for?" said the
posth-masther, as ye call him. "I want a letter, sir, if you
plase," said I "And whom do you want it for?" said he
again. "And what 's that to you?" said I.
Squire. You blockhead, what did he say to that?
Andy. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell what
leather to give me, unless I told him the direction.
Squire. Well, you told him then, did you?
Andy. "The directions I got," said I "was to get a leather
here,—that 's the directions." "Who gave you the directions?"
says he. "The masther" said I. "And who 's your
masther?" said he. "What consarn is that of yours?" said I.
Squire. Did he break your head, then?
Andy. No sir. "Why you stupid rascal," said he, "if you
don't tell me his name, how can I give you his leather?" "You
could give it, if you liked," said I; "only you are fond of axing
impudent questions, because you think I'm simple." "Get out
o' this!" said he. "Your masther must be as great a goose as
yourself, to send such a missenger."
Squire. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy?
Andy. "Bad luck to your impudence!" said I. "Is it Squire
Egan you dare say goose to?" "O Squire Egan's your masther?"
said he. "Yes," says I; "Have you anything to say
agin it?"
Squire. You got the letter, then, did you?
Andy. "Here 's a leather for the squire," says he. "You
are to pay me eleven pence posthage." "What 'ud I pay 'levenpence
for?" said I "For posthage," said he. "Did n't I see
you give that gentlewoman a leather for four-pence, this blessed
minit?" said I; "and a bigger letther than this? Do you think
I 'm a fool?" says I? "Here 's a four-pence for you, and give
me the letther."
Squire. I wonder he did n't break your skull, and let some
light into it.
Andy. "Go along, you stupid thafe!" says he, because I
would n't let him chate your honor.
Square. Well, well; give me the letter.
Andy. I have n't it, sir. He would n't give it to me, sir.
Squire. Who would n't give it to you?
Andy. That old chate beyant in the town.
Square. Did n't you pay what he asked?
Andy. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he
was selling them before my face for four-pence a-piece?
Squire. Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you.
Andy. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him about
the leather; he swore he would.
Squire. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less than
an hour. [Exit]
Andy. O, that the like of me should be murthered for defending
the charrackter of my masther! It's not I'll go to dale
with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let the
leather rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him!
Anonymous.

CCCLXXIX.

THE FRENCHMAN'S LESSON.

Frenchman. Ha! my friend! I have met one very
strange name in my lesson. Vat you call H-o-u-g-h,—eh?
Tutor. "Huff."
Fr. Très bien, "huff;" and snuff you spell s-n-o-u-p-h?
Tut. Oh! no, no! "Snuff" is spelled s-n-u-f-f. In fact,
words in o-u-g-h are a little irregular.
Fr. Ah, very good!—'t is beautiful language! H-o-u-g-h
is "huff." I will remember; and of course, c-o-u-g-h is "cuff."
I have a bad "cuff,"—eh?
Tut. No, that is wrong; we say "kauff,"—not "cuff"
Fr. "Kauff," eh? "Huff," and "kauff;" and, pardonnez-moi,
how you call d-o-u-g-h—"duff,"—eh? is it "duff?"
Tut. No, not "duff."
Fr. Not "duff!" Ah oui; I understand, it is "dauff,"
—eh?
Tut. No; d-o-u-g-h spells "doe."
Fr. "Doe!" It 's ver' fine! Wonderful language! It is
"doe;" and t-o-u-g-h is "toe," certainement. My beefsteak is
very "toe."
Tut. Oh! no, no! You should say "tuff."
Fr. "Tuff!" And the thing the farmer uses, how you
call him, p-l-o-u-g-h,—"pluff," is it? Ha! you smile. I see
that I am wrong; it must be "plaff." No? then it is "ploe,"
like "doe?" It is one beautiful language! ver' fine! "ploe!"
Tut. You are still wrong, my friend; it is "plow."
Fr. "Plow!" Wonderful language! I shall understand
ver' soon. "Plow" "doe" "kauff;" and one more r-o-u-g-h
—what you call General Taylor,—"Rauff and Ready?"
No? then "Row and Ready?"
Tut. No; r-o-u-g-h spells "ruff."
Fr. "Ruff," ha? Let me not forget. R-o-u-g-h is "ruff,"
and b-o-u-g-h is "buff,"—ha?
Tut. No; "bow."
Fr. Ah! 't is ver' simple! Wonderful language! But I
have had vat you call e-n-o-u-g-h,—ha? Vat you call him?—Ha! ha! ha!
Anonymous.