They want
to have the mirror held up to them.
I know they feel sore here about the picture my mirror gives them, and
it's natural they should, especially comin' from a Yankee; and they
call me a great bragger. But that's nothin' new; doctors do the same
when a feller cures a poor wretch they have squeezed like a sponge,
ruinated, and given up as past hope. They sing out Quack. But I don't
care; I have a right to brag nationally and individually, and I'd be
no good if I didn't take my own part. Now, though I say it that
shouldn't say it, for I ain't afraid to speak out, the sketches I send
you are from life; I paint things as you will find them and know them
to be. I'll take a bet of a hundred dollars, ten people out of twelve
in this country will recognise Jerry Boudrot's house who have never
entered it, but who have seen others exactly like it, and will say, "I
know who is meant by Jerry and his daughter and wife; I have often
been there; it is at Clare or Arichat or Pumnico, or some such place
or another."
Is that braggin'? Not a bit; it's only the naked fact. To my mind
there is no vally in a sketch if it ain't true to nature. We needn't
go searching about for strange people or strange things; life is full
of them. There is queerer things happening every day than an author
can imagine for the life of him. It takes a great many odd people to
make a world, that's a fact.
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