The Newberry Herald

From Artemus Ward's New Volume.
Horace Greeley's Ride to Placerville.
When Horace Greeley was in California, ovation awaited him at every town. He had written powerful leaders in the Tribune in favor of the Pacific railroad, which had greatly endeared him to the citizens of the Golden State, and therefore they made much of him when he went to see them.
At one town the enthusiastic populace tore his celebrated white coat to pieces, and carried the pieces home to remember him by.
The citizens of Placerville prepared to fete the great journalist, and an extra coach, with extra relays of horses was chartered of the California Stage Company, to carry him from Folsom to Placerville—distance forty miles.
The extra was in some way delayed, and did not leave Folsom until in the afternoon. Mr. Greeley was to be feted at seven o'clock that evening by the citizens of Placerville, and it was altogether necessary that he should be there by that hour. So the stage company said to Henry Monk, the driver of the extra, "Henry, this great man must be there by seven to-night." And Henry answered, "The great man shall be there."
The roads were in an awful state, and during the first few miles out of Folsom, slow progress was made.
"Sir," said Mr. Greeley, "are you aware that I must be at Placerville at seven o'clock to-night?"
"I've got my orders," laconically replied Henry Monk.
Still the coach dragged slowly forward.
"Sir," said Mr. Greeley, "this is not a trifling matter. I must be there at seven!"
Again came the answer, "I've got my orders!"
But the speed was not increased, and Mr. Greeley chafed away another half hour, when, as he was again about to remonstrate with the driver, the horses started into a furious run, and all sorts of encouraging yells filled the air from the throat of Henry Monk.
"That is right, my good fellow!" cried Mr. Greeley. "I'll give you ten dollars when you get to Placerville. Now we are going!"
They were indeed, at a terrible speed.
Crack, crack! went the whip, and again that voice split the air. "Git up! Hi! yi! G'long! Yip-yip!"
And on they tore over stones and ruts, up hill and down, at a rate of speed never before achieved by stage horses.
Mr. Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end of the coach to the other like an India rubber ball, managed to get his head out of the window, when he said:
"Do-n't-on't you-u-u think we-e-e shall get there by seven if we do-on't-on't-on't go so fast?"
"I've got my orders!" That was all Henry Monk said. And on tore the coach.
It was becoming serious. Already the journalist was extremely sore from the terrible jolting, and again his head "might have been seen" at the window.
"Sir," he said; "I don't care—if we don't get there at seven!"
"I've got my orders!"
Fresh horses. Forward again, faster than before. Over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowly escaped turning a somersault.
"See here!" shrieked Mr. Greeley, "I don't care if we don't get there at all!"
"I've got my orders! I work for the California Stage Company, I do. That's what I work for. They said, get this man through by 'seven,' and this man's goin' through. You bet! G'long! Whooep!"
Another frightful jerk, and Mr. Greeley's bald head suddenly found its way through the roof of the coach amidst the crash of small timbers and the ripping of strong canvas.
"Stop, you maniac!" he roared.
Again answered Henry Monk. "I've got my orders! Keep your seat, Horace!"
At Mud Spring, a village a few miles from Placerville, they met a large delegation of the citizens of Placerville, who had come out to meet the celebrated editor, and escort him to town. There was a military company, a brass band, and a six horse wagon load of beautiful girls in milk white dresses, representing all the States in the Union. It was nearly dark now, but the delegation was amply provided with torches, and bonfires blazed all along the road to Placerville.
The citizens met the coach in the outskirts of Mud Springs, and Mr. Monk reined in his foam-covered steeds.
"Is Mr. Greeley on board?" asked the chairman of the committee.
"He was a few miles back," said Mr. Monk. "Yes," he added, after looking down through the hole which the fearful jolting and the head of Mr. G. had made in the coach roof, "yes, I can see him.—He is there."
"Mr. Greeley," said the chairman of the committee, presenting himself at the window of the coach, "Mr. Greeley, we have come most cordially to welcome you, sir—why, God bless me, sir you are bleeding at the nose.
"I've got my orders," cried Mr. Monk. "My orders is as follows: 'Git him there by seven.' It was a quarter of seven. Stand out of the way."
"But, sir," exclaimed the committee-man, seizing the off leader by the reins, "Mr. Monk, we are come to escort him into town. Look at the procession, sir, and at the brass band. and the people and the young women, sir."
"I've got my orders!" screamed Mr. Monk. My orders don't say nothin' about no brass bands and young women. My orders says git him there by seven! Let go the lines! Clear the way there.—Whoo-ep! Keep your seat Horace!—And the coach dashed wildly through the procession, upsetting a portion of the brass band and violently grazing the wagon which contained the beautiful young women in white.
Years hence grey haired men, who were little boys in this procession, will tell their grandchildren how this stage tore through Mud Springs, and how Horace Greeley's bald head ever and anon showed itself like a wild apparition, above the coach roof.
Mr. Monk was on time. There is a tradition that Mr. Greeley was very indignant for a while; then he laughed, and finally presented Mr. Monk with a bran new suit of clothes.
Mr. Monk himself is still in the employ of the California Stage Company, and is rather fond of relating a story that has made him famous all over the Pacific coast, but he says he yields to no man in his admiration for Horace Greeley.