The Rhode Island Republican

HUMOR.

From the Dutchess Observer.

EXTRACT FROM JONATHAN'S MEMORANDUM OF A TOUR TO SEE YORK STATE.

Monday, August 1815. Twenty-one years old to day, huzza! Haying and harvest done, mounted old Dobbin, with my Sunday cloths on, and a ten dollar bill in my pocket, going to see York State. Never was out of Connecticut in my life. Took cousin Ichabod in my route, and got my dinner for nothing. Crossed the line just before night—don't see but the York State folks are civil enough—wonder if they know how to read! Saw a School-house, thought they had none here. Stopped at a tavern and put up—good supper and good lodging—don't see but that the folks live as well here as they do in Connecticut.

Tuesday morning. Five and six pence to pay—wonder how they can count York money—plaguey unhandy. Mounted Dobbin and jogged on—met a quaker and enquired the road to Poughkeepsie—appeared civil and clever enough—wonder what they used to hang 'em for. Good land—guess they might raise great pumpkins and onions here. Turnpike gate—got a bottle of beer of the woman—pretty good beer, wonder if they made it. Men making brick; queer things to mix mortar with—wonder what they call 'em.

Got into Poughkeepsie about noon—houses thick as spatter—never saw a city before in my life—went to a tavern and put old Dobbin up to hay—got some dinner and then walked out to see the wonderments of the place. Folks looked as fine as if they were going to meeting—wonder if they have meetings here—guess they do—see some steeples. Queer bonnets the ladies wear—pull 'em down over their faces, as though they were going to the gallows, or had sore eyes—have all the back-side of their heads naked—stick their hair full of combs—mistook the back side of a lady's head, with one of these Tip up bonnets on, for her face—though she looked at me as though I was a lawyer, or a doctor, or some great thing—made her what cousin Ichabod calls a quarter faced bow, before I found my mistake! Man drunk, eight York State fashion. Wonder what the gentlemen wear boots for this hot weather; guess their stockings are dirty, or else haven't got any—boot tassels good things to keep off flies—fly brushes I call 'em. Ladies wear their hair comb'd t'other way; all on the top of their head, braided and twisted and squirmed round and round, like as I've seen sister Molly wind up a bed cord to boil in a kettle to kill the bugs; wonder what they call it—wouldn't Cupid's nest be a good name? (Mem. To ask cousin Ichabod when I get home)—curl their foretops over their eyes—call it a beau catcher—take a good many to catch me, I guess—look like a spaniel.—Went back to the tavern and ordered Dobbin four quarts of oats—ostler a clever fellow, told me all about the customs and fashions and wonderments of the place—couldn't guess, till they told me, what made the ladies walk so mighty strait and plumb—says they wear Corselets, or Corsetts, or something; I've forgot the name.— "What the deuce is that?" says I—"Why, 'tis a kind of a board," says he, "that they wear"—Well, I'll be swamp'd if that don't beat all—never heard of such a thing before—should love to see'em pull flax all day with their Cossetts on—guess they'd ache before night, faith. By which of the seven senses do you know that? says I—shouldn't know it if they wore fifty Cossetts. "O, that's easy enough," says he; "can tell 'em clear across the street." Wonder why some of the ladies wear their gowns so short—queer fashion—jack boots would hardly reach 'em—heard a young buck say he didn't care a d—n how high they carried the fashion—guess they'd look comical if they carried it much higher, faith.—Promised, when I left home, to get sister Molly a new bonnet; went into a milliner's shop, and told the woman I wanted a bonnet for my sister Molly, of the newest fashion, "Yes sir," says she. "I have some right from York, of the first quality and latest fashion; here's one, sir, that I presume will suit your sister exactly." Looked at the bonnet—just like her old last year's one. Aye, aye, ma'am, you needn't think to pack me off with your old duds and trumpery: don't catch old birds with chaff; left the shop, sha'n't go there again. Toy shop—brim full of notions; bought ninepence worth—no, a shilling; darn that York money. Went to the tavern and got supper—men playing checkers and drinking grog: York State exactly; old Connecticut best yet—went to bed.

Wednesday morning. Fine breakfast—nothing wanting but a little pumpkin pie to top off with—queer coffee pot—watered Dobbin—ostler's excellent reason why the gentlemen wear open jackets on Monday, and close buttoned on Saturday—'cause their ruffles get