The Complete Works of Artemus Ward, part 4 | Page 7

on the whole I think he is right.
The Chinese play is "continued," like a Ledger story, from night to night. It commences with the birth of the hero or heroine, which interesting event occurs publicly on the stage; and then follows him or her down to the grave, where it cheerfully ends.
Sometimes a Chinese play lasts six months. The play I am speaking of had been going on for about two months. The heroine had grown up into womanhood, and was on the point, as I inferred, of being married to a young Chinaman in spangled pantaloons and a long black tail. The bride's father comes in with his arms full of tea-chests, and bestows them, with his blessing, upon the happy couple. As this play is to run four months longer, however, and as my time is limited, I go away at the close of the second act, while the orchestra is performing an overture on gongs and one-stringed fiddles.
The door-keeper again says, "Ki hi-hi ki! Shoolah!" adding, this time however, "Chow-wow." I agree with him in regard to the ki hi and hi ki, but tell him I don't feel altogether certain about the chow-wow.
To Stockton from San Francisco.
Stockton is a beautiful town, that has ceased to think of becoming a very large place, and has quietly settled down into a state of serene prosperity. I have my boots repaired here by an artist who informs me that he studied in the penitentiary; and I visit the lunatic asylum, where I encounter a vivacious maniac who invites me to ride in a chariot drawn by eight lions and a rhinoceros.
John Phoenix was once stationed at Stockton, and put his mother aboard the San Francisco boat one morning with the sparkling remark, "Dear mother, be virtuous and you will be happy!"
. . . .
Forward to Sacramento--which is the capital of the State, and a very nice old town.
They had a flood here some years ago, during which several blocks of buildings sailed out of town and had never been heard from since. A Chinaman concluded to leave in a wash tub, and actually set sail in one of those fragile barks. A drowning man hailed him piteously, thus: "Throw me a rope, oh throw me a rope!" To which the Chinaman excitedly cried, "No have got--how can do?" and went on, on with the howling current. He was never seen more; but a few weeks after his tail was found by some Sabbath-school children in the north part of the State.
. . . .
I go to the mountain towns. The sensational mining days are over, but I find the people jolly and hospitable nevertheless.
At Nevada I am called upon, shortly after my arrival, by an athletic scarlet-faced man, who politely says his name is Blaze.
"I have a little bill against you, sir," he observes.
"A bill--what for?"
"For drinks."
"Drinks?"
"Yes, sir--at my bar, I keep the well known and highly respected coffee-house down the street."
"But, my dear sir, there is a mistake--I never drank at your bar in my life."
"I know it, sir. That isn't the point. The point is this: I pay out money for good liquors, and it is people's own fault if they don't drink them. There are the liquors--do as you please about drinking them, BUT YOU MUST PAY FOR THEM! Isn't that fair?"
His enormous body (which Puck wouldn't put a girdle around for forty dollars) shook gleefully while I read this eminently original bill.
Years ago Mr. Blaze was an agent of the California Stage Company. There was a formidable and well-organized opposition to the California Stage Company at that time, and Mr. Blaze rendered them such signal service in his capacity of agent that they were very sorry when he tendered his resignation.
"You are some sixteen hundred dollars behind in your accounts, Mr. Blaze," said the President, "but in view of your faithful and efficient services we shall throw off eight hundred dollars off that amount."
Mr. Blaze seemed touched by this generosity. A tear stood in his eye and his bosom throbbed audibly.
"You WILL throw off eight hundred dollars--you WILL?" he at last cried, seizing the President's hand and pressing it passionately to his lips.
"I will," returned the President.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Blaze, "I'm a gentleman, I AM, you bet! And I won't allow no Stage Company to surpass me in politeness. I'LL THROW OFF THE OTHER EIGHT HUNDRED, AND WE'LL CALL IT SQUARE! No gratitude, sir--no thanks; it is my duty."
. . . .
I get back to San Francisco in a few weeks, and am to start home Overland from here.
The distance from Sacramento to Atchison, Kansas, by the Overland stage route, is 2200 miles, but you can happily accomplish a part of the journey by railroad. The Pacific Railroad id completed twelve miles to Folsom,