I spoze it ached jest like anybody’s tooth, and I presoom he wuz hard to git along with, and talked rough, jest as any ordinary man duz, durin’ its worst twinges.
I presoom he sed “Dum it!” repeatedly before he made up his mind to have it out.
I jedge him by Josiah, and I spoze that is a good way to jedge men.
Yes, I spoze you ketch any one man and study him clost, and you have a good idee of the hull male race.
And then there wuz a lock of hair, took right from his scalp, so I spoze. Oh, what burnin’ thoughts and plans and ambitions once permeated the spot on which that grew!
My emotions wuz a perfect sight as I looked at it.
And we see clothes and relicks of every other great man, it seems to me, that ever lived—Lord Nelson, Henry of Navarre, etc., etc., etc.
And we see figgers—lookin’ jest as nateral as if they could walk up and shake hands with you, if they wuz a-mind to—of Shakespeare and Macaulay and Scott and Byron, Calvin and Knox and Luther, Lincoln’s homely, good face, and Grant, Henry Ward Beecher, etc., etc., etc.
I wouldn’t give a cent to see all the figgers of criminals and murderers, but Martin thought it advisable to walk through it, so he could say he’d been there, I spoze.
And there wuz one thing among everything else that gin me more than seventy emotions, and that wuz the very axe, the very old guillotine that cut off the heads of twenty-two thousand folks durin’ the Rain of Terror in Paris.