volumes will not fail to observe that there is a certain spirit of similarity that pervades all American humour; that, for example, at times sly and sarcastic, it is as fond of exposing a presumed simplicity or ignorance, as it is of dressing up an act of cleverness utterly regardless of principle—that it is almost always rude and semi-barbarous; and that, in the narrative line, it is especially prone to the exaggerated and the false. The popularity of the renowned Davy Crockett appears, for example, to be solely connected with Munchausen kind of exploits, couched in American dialect, and adapted to American habits and experiences. There is also a great deal of repetition in these humorous stories; the same joke is often made to tell several times—as we find, for example, the surreptitious kisses of lovers, made by the half-sleepy dame up-stairs, to undergo, in different stories, a variety of strange and humorous applications. If any one wants, however, to study or to make himself familiar with what American humour is, he cannot do better than consult these truly-characteristic and amusing pages. "My First and Last Speech in the General Court" is an irreproachable sketch, capitally told. The "Widow Rugby's Husband," on the contrary, is a Yankee trait of expediency, regardless of principle, scarcely redeemed by its humour.
Bar (bear) stories are, as may be imagined, particularly numerous, and constitute the great topic of the backwoodsman. "The Big Bear of Arkansas," by T. B. Thorpe, seems to be the most renowned; but the most amusing is, we think, Colonel Crockett's account of his falling down a hollow tree, head foremost, and being drawn out by a bear, holding fast to the stump of his tail with his teeth—an operation that cured him of the toothache. For a bear-story of the true Munchausen character, we need only refer to the feats of Mik-hoo-tah, who, having broken his leg in a bear encounter, gives battle, when well again, to an old grisly bear, and kills him with his bran-new wooden leg, detached for that purpose from the stump, and used as a weapon of bar-destruction.
Here is a brief specimen of American humour, entitled "Yankee Homespun:"
"When I lived in Maine," said Uncle Ezra, helped to break up a new piece of ground; we got the wood off in the winter, and early in the spring we begun ploughing on't. It was so consarned rocky, that we had to get forty yoke of oxen to one plough—we did, faith—and I held that plough more'n a week; I thought I should die. It e'en a'most killed me, I vow. Why, one day I was hold'n, and the plough hit a stump, which measured just nine feet and a half through it—hard and sound white oak. The plough split it, and I was going straight through the stump, when I happened to think it might snap together again, so I threw my feet out, and had no sooner done this than it snapped together, taking a smart hold of the seat of my pantaloons. Of course I was tight, but I held on to the plough-handles; and though the teamsters did all they could, that team of eighty oxen could not tear my pantaloons, nor cause me to let go my grip. At last, though, after letting the cattle breathe, they gave another strong pull altogether, and the old stump came out about the quickest; it had monstrous long roots, too, let me tell you. My wife made the cloth for them pantaloons, and I haven't worn any other kind since."
The only reply made to this was:
"I should have thought it would have come hard upon your suspenders,"
"Powerful hard."
Stories of rustic courtship are very numerous, and highly national:
