A Humorist’s Courtship.

The venerable Phocion Howard, who probably knows more about Illinois and her people than any other human being does, claims to have been the discoverer of Robert J. Burdette, the humorist whose reputation is now world-wide. Col. Howard was editor of a small paper at Peoria when he became acquainted with Burdette. The latter was then a very young man, and he enjoyed the name of being as wild and as harum-scarum a fellow as ever woke up a sleepy community. But Col. Howard saw something more than the mere mischief in the boy; and, calling him into the office one day, he gave him a long talk, and wound up by asking him to go to work on the paper. This was Burdette’s start in literary work. On one of the bluffs back of Peoria lived an old justice of the peace,—sturdy and grim,—who had a bright and pretty daughter. With this daughter, Burdette fell in love; and great was his rapture when he learned, in time, that his affection was reciprocated by the young lady. But the sturdy squire guarded his daughter with an austere and jealous eye, and vast was his rage when he beheld the young reporter swinging on the front-gate at least three evenings per week. The squire saw no good in the boy; and at last he declared in good round terms that the boy must keep away from that particular 171house on the bluff, else perchance the coroner might be called to sit on the mangled remains of a promising journalist that had been cut off in the flower of his youth. This pronunciamento, which would seem to have been emphasized by the important fact that the choleric squire kept a gun swung up on his cottage-wall, and well filled with formidable slugs—this pronunciamento, we say, inspired in the bosoms of the daughter and her lover the most grievous emotions; and it was not long ere they mutually declared that an heroic step must be taken toward abating the poignant anguish which the squire’s harsh declaration imposed. Therefore the two met one afternoon, and, proceeding unostentatiously to another justice of the peace, were married in less time than you could say a paternoster. This, however, they recognized as only the beginning of the struggle by which the Gordian knot was to be untied or cut; but Burdette’s ingenuity and valor were equal to the rest of the task. He stepped into the post-office, and said to one of his friends there employed, “Charlie, I want to go hunting this afternoon: will you lend me your gun?”

“Certainly,” replied his friend; and he handed out as fine a double-barrelled breech-loader as ever you clapped eyes on.

“Is it loaded?” inquired Burdette.

“Yes,” said the friend.

“What kind of shot?” asked Burdette.

172“Duck-shot,” replied the friend.

“Well, I guess that’ll do,” said Burdette. “I’ll stop in as I go down the street, and get some more ammunition of the same kind.”

So, with the gun on his shoulder, and a smile on his face, Burdette rejoined his bride on the street outside. Arm in arm the two toiled up the bluff toward the testy old squire’s residence, Burdette stopping every now and then to see whether his battery was in working-order. It was well-nigh dusk when the truant couple marched into the bride’s home. The testy squire sat in his favorite rocking-chair, grimly reading an evening paper. You can perhaps imagine his amazement when, upon looking up, he beheld Burdette boldly intrude into his presence with the object of his affection on one arm, and a double-barrelled gun on one shoulder.

But, with all his testiness, it was to the squire’s credit that he possessed a fair share of that always admirable and frequently serviceable quality called discretion. This quality asserted itself at this critical moment. Instead of exploding the volcanic fires which had been pent up in his paternal bosom, he calmly laid down his evening paper, scrutinized the twain before him, and in an unruffled tone remarked, “Well?”

All will agree that this was the shrewdest thing the testy squire could have done under the circumstances; for it is universally admitted by authorities 173on rhetorical tactics, that the simple word “well,” when uttered with the proper inflection and at the proper moment, serves as an invincible and incomprehensible skirmish-line. But the happy bridegroom was on this occasion fully equal to the task of meeting the testy squire’s rhetorical skirmish-line—all of which goes to prove that a shotgun in the hand is worth ten thousand “wells” in rhetoric.

“Carrie and I have been getting married,” said Burdette, looking the squire straight in the eyes; “and now I want to know what you are going to do about it?”

If the squire’s calmness but a moment before had been admirable, it was now phenomenal. The announcement of his daughter’s marriage did not seem to even ruffle his temper. He put his paper aside quietly, and glanced out of the window musingly; and he put his tongue in his cheek, and appeared to be absorbed in thought.

“You’d better go down and help your mother get supper, Carrie,” said the squire at last; “and as for you, Robert, sit down, and make yourself at home. I want to get better acquainted with you if you’re my son-in-law.”

So much for the courtship and marriage of our most popular humorist. Of the happy wedded life that succeeded, we all have heard. The girl became a devoted wife; and it is not hard for those who have felt the ennobling influence of woman’s love 174to believe Mr. Burdette when he says that the little woman whom he called wife—whose spiritual beauty we all admired—with whose physical sufferings we all sympathized, and whose death we all deplored—we believe Mr. Burdette when he says that she was indeed the best and sweetest inspiration in his life and of his work.