FullReads

The American “Ole Bull,” young Howard, one of the most scientific crucifiers of the violin we ever heard, gave us a call t’other day, and not only discoursed heavenly music upon his instrument, but gave us the “nub” of a few jokes worth dishing up in our peculiar style. Howard spent last winter in a tour over the State of Maine and Canada. During this cool excursion, he got way up among the wood -choppers and log -men of the Aroostook and Penobscot country. These wood-chopping and log-rolling gentry, according to all accounts, must be a jolly, free-and-easy, hard-toiling and hardy race. The “folks” up about there live in very primitive style; their camps and houses are very useful, but not much addicted to the “ornamental.” Howard had a very long, tedious and perilous tramp, on foot, during a part of his peregrinations, and coming at last upon the settlement of the log-men, he laid up several days, to recuperate. In the largest log building of the several in the neighborhood, Howard lodged; the weather was intensely cold–house crowded, and wood and game plenty. After a hard day’s toil, in snow and water, these log-men felt very much inclined, to sleep. A huge fire was usually left upon the hearth, after the “tea things” were put away, Howard gave them a choon or two, and then the woodmen lumbered up a rude set of steps–into a capacious loft overhead, and there, amid the old quilts, robes, skins and straw, enjoyed their sound and refreshing sleep–with a slight drawback.

Among these men of the woods, was a hard old nut, called and known among them as– Old Tantabolus! He was a wiry and hardy old rooster; though his frosty poll spoke of the many, many years he had “been around,” his body was yet firm and his perceptions yet clear. The old man was a grand spinner of yarns; he had been all around creation, and various other places not set down in the maps. He had been a soldier and sailor: been blown up and shot down: had had all the various ills flesh was heir to: suffered from shipwreck and indigestion: witnessed the frowns and smiles of fortune–especially the frowns; in short, according to old man Tantabolus’s own account of himself, he had seen more ups and downs, and made more narrow and wonderful escapes, than Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver both together–with Baron Trenck into the bargain!

For the first season, the old man and his narrations, being fresh and novel, he was quite a lion among the woodmen, but now that the novelty had worn off, and they’d got used to his long yarns, they voted him “an old bore!” The old fellow smoked a tremendous pipe, with tobacco strong enough to give a Spaniard the “yaller fever.” He would eat his supper, light his pipe–sit down by the fire, and spin yarns, as long as a listener remained, and longer. In short, Old Tantabolus would spin them all to bed, and then make their heads spin, with the clouds of baccy smoke with which he’d fill the ranche.

Going to bed, at length, on a bunk in a corner, the old chap would wheeze and snore for an hour or two, and then turning out again, between daybreak and midnight, Old Tantabolus would pile on a cord or two of fresh wood–raise a roaring fire–make the ranche hot enough to roast an ox, then treat all hands to another stifling with his old calumet, and nigger-head tobacco! Then would commence a–