III.
“Your work among New England cities,” I said, on his return visit to Brooklyn, “should impress upon you the grim quaintness of the story Mr. Emery Storrs told you concerning the annual festival called the ‘General Muster.’”
“Yes; a queer story, was it not? And, no doubt, characteristic of some of the more remote little towns.”
This is the story:—
The militia muster, once a year, is a celebration peculiar more particularly to New England. It is called the “General Muster.” Each little town comes in with its quota of militia; the bands as numerous as the troops. They make a holiday of it. One afternoon an old couple on the hill-side of the little town go out to catch a glimpse of the festivities. They are old and alone, managing to drag a mere subsistence out of the sour soil. Their children have gone West,—a son here, a daughter there. They are content to spend the winter of their days in the old, hard nest where they have reared their young; old folks, so old!—parchment faces, bony hands. They totter to the town, and rest on the way in the cemetery, or church-yard, and look at the graves as such grizzly veterans will. One of the militia fellows, going home,—he had got fuddled rather earlier than usual,—sees them. “Hello!” he shouts. “Go right back, right back, my friends; this is not the general resurrection, it is the general muster!”
“By the way,” said Irving, “did I tell you of the amusing incident that occurred at Philadelphia? It was on the last night of the first visit. We were playing ‘The Belle’s Stratagem.’ You know how difficult it is sometimes to keep the wings clear of people,—goodness knows who they are! Well, my way was continually blocked by a strange-looking crowd. I remonstrated with them once, and they moved; but they were back again. The cue for my entrance during the mad scene was at hand, as I said to these fellows, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ ‘Baggage!’ exclaimed two of them, both in a breath. I did not know what the deuce baggage meant; whether the reply was a piece of information or a piece of impertinence; so I thought I would astonish them a little. Getting my cue on the instant, I stepped back a yard or two, and dashed in among them, yelling my entrance line, ‘Bring me a pickled elephant!’ They scattered right and left, and fell over each other; but before they had time to defend themselves from what they evidently thought was a furious attack I was on the stage.”
IV.
I have referred to the “theatre parties” of ladies and gentlemen who travelled many miles by railway to be present at the Irving performances. Several invitations to visit distant cities were also given, with guarantees of financial profit. Among these the most interesting and complimentary was a requisition from Kansas City, which is worth printing. I append it, with Irving’s reply:—
Warwick Club, Kansas City, Mo., Jan. 4, 1884.