“Yes,” says Cornelius Cork, in the same fault-findin’ tone: “it’s awful false, not a mite of truth in it.”
“A perfect lie,” says Shakespeare Bobbet.
“The tone is too low down,” says the Editor of the Auger again, in a complainin’ way.
“Low down again as it ort to be,” says old Bobbet.
I declare for’t, I jest locked arms with Josiah and hurried him off, and never stopped till we got clear into Austria. But on the way there, I says, “How mad it makes me, Josiah Allen, to see anybody find fault and sneer at things they can’t understand.”
“Well,” says Josiah mildly, “you know they have got a reputation to keep up, and they are bound to do it. Why, they say if anybody haint dressed up a mite, if you see ’em a lookin’ at handsome pictures, or statutes, or anything of that sort, with a cold and wooden look to their faces, and turning their noses up, and finding fault, you may know they are somebody.” “I s’pose” says Josiah, “the ‘Creation Searchers’ can’t be outdone in it; I s’pose they put on as hauty and superior-silly-ous looks as anybody ever did, that haint had no more practice than they have.”
Josiah will make a slip sometimes, and says I, “you mean super-silly, Josiah.”
“Well, I knew there was a silly to it. They say,” says Josiah, “that runnin’ things down is always safe; _that_ never hurts anybody’s reputation. The pint is, they say, in not bein’ pleased with anything, or if you be, to conceal it, look perfectly wooden, and not show your feelins a mite; that is the pint they say.”
Says I, “The pint is, some folks always did make natteral fools of themselves, and always will I s’pose.”
“Well,” says Josiah, “there must be _sunthin’_ in it, Samantha, or there wouldn’t be such a lot a gittin’ up a reputation for wisdom in that way.”
I couldn’t deny it without lyin’, and so bein’ in Austria, as I said, I commenced lookin’ round me. Comin’ right out of the United States I couldn’t help thinkin’ that Austria had a meller, rich look, sunthin’ like Autumn in the fall of the year, while the United States looked considerable like Summer. The picture that arrested my attention first and foremost in Austria was, “Venice paying homage to Caterina Cornaro.” It was a noble big picture, as big as one hull side of our house a most. I looked at that picture very admirinly and so did Josiah. We see a Emperor on a bust, and other interestin’ statutes; we give a glance at a sleepin’ Nymph—she was as handsome as a doll, but I thought then and I think still, that if Nymphs would put on store clothes, they would look better, and feel as well again.