SCALPING AS A FINE ART.
WITH all our admitted progress, it is curious to notice how little the old heart of the world has really changed. There appears to be planted deep down in most men a strong desire to help themselves with as little ceremony as possible to whatever they come across that may be either useful or agreeable to them. The old Spartans were the most absurdly candid of peoples. They acknowledged this great and unappeasable craving of humanity, and did all in their power to cultivate it. The unhappy races and tribes upon whom European civilization has not yet dawned, exhibit, whenever they have a chance, a similar infantile artlessness. We of course manage these little matters with more skill and address. We do not organize raids to "lift" the cattle of a too prosperous neighbor, or destroy his house and property. We go to work in a much more quiet, respectable and progressive manner—we file against him a bill of ejectment. We do not, except in the case of persons who have never been able to realize the fact of the glorious character of the century in which we live, take to the highway and compel travelers to deliver up their watches. The simpler method is to obtain from the Legislature a franchise for a toll-gate. We do not filch from the person with whom we may be brought in contact, a toothbrush, or make a descent upon his best shirt. We simply fail, and file a bill in bankruptcy. It is true that we call things by much more genteel and progressive names, but it is the same old practice of taking possession of whatever we want or fancy, which has been going on from time immemorial.
This is more especially true in the case of the daring adventurer who proposes to himself travel in other lands. To determine on locomotion is to reduce yourself to the condition of the philanthropic roast pig, which, with knife and fork stuck in the most inviting part, ran about soliciting customers. When I land in New York I am beset with an admiring crowd of the most demonstrative friends, anxiously solicitous for the honor of transferring me to any point that I may desire. At this I am not at all surprised. In fact, it was the very thing that I expected. Civilized communities do not now send forth their most distinguished citizens to receive the stranger. The hack-driver has appropriated that function to himself, and the hack-driver is a bird of prey the world over. He is of no country or race, yet the same almost everywhere. Looking around, I select the one who was the least noisy in his demonstrations. As I survey his placid countenance and mild demeanor, visions of a wife and six interesting children in the fifth story of some tenement house, earnestly looking in a crowd out of the only window belonging to them for the return of the bread-winner, obtrude themselves. I say to myself, "Ah, here, at last, is an honest hackman, who in the midst of universal corruption is laboring to support a large family by honest dealing and correct conduct." I engage him without further parley. He shows with a glance that he is thankful for the confidence that I reposed in him. He collects my baggage with the greatest care, and at one time was on the point of challenging the wretched porter to mortal combat who, with the malevolence that belongs to his tribe, balances my Saratoga on his shoulder in such a dexterous manner that he brings it to the ground on one corner with force
